Tuesday, February 24, 2004
I just had a horrible revelation. I will be spending the next two years in strange towns wondering when I'll get some poontang next. That isn't a happy thought for me. Exampli gratis, I was just sitting in a bar after Tom left thinking about how much I wanted a piece and then, as a filter, I began trying to picture all the females in the bar having sex. Needless to say, it wasn't a pretty picture. Christ on a bike blowing bubbles, I need some QT with my wife.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Wow! Boredom at it's best.
Since the most interesting thing to happen today was my touch-up trim, I offer the following. Enjoy.
Ode to a Hotel Bar
Pretensious wine decisions to be made
Traveling salesmen trying to get laid
Inebriated old women clucking
Intoxicated boomer women chuckling
Another terrorist/airport reference
Some one joking on our sentence
Then the booze flows again
And the stories, anew, begin
On comes the DJ's beats
He is spinning some old treat
The young crowd starts to grooze
Neither of them to the dance floor move
In the mix the DJ looms
The ageless skating rink tune
As I try not to shoot the duck
People move to the dance floor and their moves suck
Look, it's the older crowd
They seem to be so proud
They're shaking their booties and trying to be cool
To a song that lost it's appeal when I was still in school
Why is this so fun and yet makes my frown
When the young 'uns and the old 'uns try to break it down?
Because the generation gap only goes so far
And one can't help but have fun in such a hotel bar.
Ode to a Hotel Bar
Pretensious wine decisions to be made
Traveling salesmen trying to get laid
Inebriated old women clucking
Intoxicated boomer women chuckling
Another terrorist/airport reference
Some one joking on our sentence
Then the booze flows again
And the stories, anew, begin
On comes the DJ's beats
He is spinning some old treat
The young crowd starts to grooze
Neither of them to the dance floor move
In the mix the DJ looms
The ageless skating rink tune
As I try not to shoot the duck
People move to the dance floor and their moves suck
Look, it's the older crowd
They seem to be so proud
They're shaking their booties and trying to be cool
To a song that lost it's appeal when I was still in school
Why is this so fun and yet makes my frown
When the young 'uns and the old 'uns try to break it down?
Because the generation gap only goes so far
And one can't help but have fun in such a hotel bar.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
In hindsight, I wonder just how apt the name of the bar was considering the story we wrote there. Hmm . . .
Holy crap I love this town
I have just spent the better part of a day hanging out here in DC and I have to say I love it. I must cut straight to the fun. As my friends and I were . . . Damn. There is just so much to tell, I don't know where to begin. Okay. I'll just tell you the highlites chronologically and let you pull your favorite parts from it.
Location 1 - Skydome, Doubletree, Crystal City, Arlington, VA. Why the hell do old people (and by old I mean older than myself) fell the obligation to dance to crappy music no less than three years old and when really good, modern music comes on the system they vacate the dance floor like it's got the AIDS? On another note, who knew a rotating bar only fifteen floors up could be so cool? Last comment: hotel bars rock much ass.
Location 2 - Yellow Cab, Somewhere between Skydome and Asylum: Yes, Tom is right, the Washington Monument does kinda look like a whitebread KKK statue. It has a pointy top and a face. If you look at it just right that is.
Location 3 - Asylum, Washington, DC: The three of us compose the following story, each taking however much space on a pocket notebook we felt we needed and letting the association and imaginations run wild . . .
It was any normal day, nice and sunny and a great 70 degrees. Just the type of day that makes a person want to take a walk with Latrell Sprewell down the streets of Inwood. "Where the fuck is that Jeter bitch," he asks, forgetting that Jeter doesn't even play basketball. All of a sudden Latrell finds himself stricken with a robot arm that shoots green lazers from the elbow. After an unfortunate "accident" involving a motorcycle and an elderly stockbroker with a limp who is into buttfucking movies, Latrell decides that he must devote his life to Greenpeace. Initiantion, however, was more involved than he thought. He was a man of the streets, but what these tree hugging hippies put him through, even his pyrotechnic cousin (give name Shathead) couldn't handle. This would prove to be the turning point in his life: should he start the hoops or blast these long-haired, soap ignorant new wave hooker anime girls? Led by Mariah Carey, these so-called women were enough to turn him off both hoops and dolphins forever. "God, what should I do," Latrell often found himself saying loudly, to himself, on the subway. Eventually the cops became suspicious of this panting half-man, half-cyborg and his troop of hooker girls. Suddenly one day, Constable Anthony came into the tubeway and shouted down to Latrell, "Hey boy, is that a reefer?" and it seemed to echo forever, like when you're in a really long tunnel and you yell something dumb down it to hear what the echo sounds like. Latrell threw down the offending bud and took off running, cutting through the subway doors with his lazer arm, trying to find a route of escape. He found himself inexplicably on the Upper East Side...of PARIS. "What the fuck?" said Latrell. "i'm not supposed to be here."
Suddenly he hears the beautiful melody of "Drop It Like It's Hot". After diggin' the vibes for a brief moment, he grabs his satellite phone from his pocket to see that Shathead is trowing him a ring. "Look, bi-ot-izi-itch, we shootin' hoops or what?" said Shathead. "Listen," replied Latrell, "I've kinda got a situation here." He found himself relaying the story, as he understood it, to his cousin. After the unpelasant denial of a b-ball game, he hung up the pholne and realized a chihuahua was staring suspiciously at him. As Latrell continued to walk, he heard a voice. It was coming from the alleyway where Serge Gainsbourg once lived. He peered down it and saw RAVER BUGS.
"Holy shit," he said, "What the fuck was in that weed?" It was at that moment in which Latrell realized that he should be fighting crime. Then the author made an obscure literary reference to something by Virginia Woolfe. Something about rural farms in the Phillipines. What in the fuck, now everybody's confused. Except Latrell. Latrell and his robot arm. They be on a mission. A mission to the Phillipines. He must go, but first he had to collect all the glowing francs on the neighboring streets. As his Pac-Manesque adventure began, his lazer arm started to vibrate. Latrell willed his panic into a more controlled part of his mind and took a look. After only a few minutes, he realized he had accidentally activated his "Love Machine Mode".
What does this do, the reader might ask. I'll tell you. I'll tell you good, son. It creates the most horrible thing known to man. An unstoppable evil. No one can survive it. What is it??
MONKEY.
ROBOT.
KNIFE.
FITE
Guess where each of us started and ended and I'll give you a prize. No, Tom and his girl aren't allowed to participate.
Three other notes: 1) Tom's hunny is FUCKING SMOKING. She just might be the hottest shit I've seen here. He done a good job and I hope they stay together. B) The above story is also supplied here (without my edits). This is where they (tom and his squeeze) post. III) I wish I had a midget too, right now, so that I wouldn't have to keep getting up to refill my glasses.
Location 1 - Skydome, Doubletree, Crystal City, Arlington, VA. Why the hell do old people (and by old I mean older than myself) fell the obligation to dance to crappy music no less than three years old and when really good, modern music comes on the system they vacate the dance floor like it's got the AIDS? On another note, who knew a rotating bar only fifteen floors up could be so cool? Last comment: hotel bars rock much ass.
Location 2 - Yellow Cab, Somewhere between Skydome and Asylum: Yes, Tom is right, the Washington Monument does kinda look like a whitebread KKK statue. It has a pointy top and a face. If you look at it just right that is.
Location 3 - Asylum, Washington, DC: The three of us compose the following story, each taking however much space on a pocket notebook we felt we needed and letting the association and imaginations run wild . . .
It was any normal day, nice and sunny and a great 70 degrees. Just the type of day that makes a person want to take a walk with Latrell Sprewell down the streets of Inwood. "Where the fuck is that Jeter bitch," he asks, forgetting that Jeter doesn't even play basketball. All of a sudden Latrell finds himself stricken with a robot arm that shoots green lazers from the elbow. After an unfortunate "accident" involving a motorcycle and an elderly stockbroker with a limp who is into buttfucking movies, Latrell decides that he must devote his life to Greenpeace. Initiantion, however, was more involved than he thought. He was a man of the streets, but what these tree hugging hippies put him through, even his pyrotechnic cousin (give name Shathead) couldn't handle. This would prove to be the turning point in his life: should he start the hoops or blast these long-haired, soap ignorant new wave hooker anime girls? Led by Mariah Carey, these so-called women were enough to turn him off both hoops and dolphins forever. "God, what should I do," Latrell often found himself saying loudly, to himself, on the subway. Eventually the cops became suspicious of this panting half-man, half-cyborg and his troop of hooker girls. Suddenly one day, Constable Anthony came into the tubeway and shouted down to Latrell, "Hey boy, is that a reefer?" and it seemed to echo forever, like when you're in a really long tunnel and you yell something dumb down it to hear what the echo sounds like. Latrell threw down the offending bud and took off running, cutting through the subway doors with his lazer arm, trying to find a route of escape. He found himself inexplicably on the Upper East Side...of PARIS. "What the fuck?" said Latrell. "i'm not supposed to be here."
Suddenly he hears the beautiful melody of "Drop It Like It's Hot". After diggin' the vibes for a brief moment, he grabs his satellite phone from his pocket to see that Shathead is trowing him a ring. "Look, bi-ot-izi-itch, we shootin' hoops or what?" said Shathead. "Listen," replied Latrell, "I've kinda got a situation here." He found himself relaying the story, as he understood it, to his cousin. After the unpelasant denial of a b-ball game, he hung up the pholne and realized a chihuahua was staring suspiciously at him. As Latrell continued to walk, he heard a voice. It was coming from the alleyway where Serge Gainsbourg once lived. He peered down it and saw RAVER BUGS.
"Holy shit," he said, "What the fuck was in that weed?" It was at that moment in which Latrell realized that he should be fighting crime. Then the author made an obscure literary reference to something by Virginia Woolfe. Something about rural farms in the Phillipines. What in the fuck, now everybody's confused. Except Latrell. Latrell and his robot arm. They be on a mission. A mission to the Phillipines. He must go, but first he had to collect all the glowing francs on the neighboring streets. As his Pac-Manesque adventure began, his lazer arm started to vibrate. Latrell willed his panic into a more controlled part of his mind and took a look. After only a few minutes, he realized he had accidentally activated his "Love Machine Mode".
What does this do, the reader might ask. I'll tell you. I'll tell you good, son. It creates the most horrible thing known to man. An unstoppable evil. No one can survive it. What is it??
MONKEY.
ROBOT.
KNIFE.
FITE
Guess where each of us started and ended and I'll give you a prize. No, Tom and his girl aren't allowed to participate.
Three other notes: 1) Tom's hunny is FUCKING SMOKING. She just might be the hottest shit I've seen here. He done a good job and I hope they stay together. B) The above story is also supplied here (without my edits). This is where they (tom and his squeeze) post. III) I wish I had a midget too, right now, so that I wouldn't have to keep getting up to refill my glasses.
Friday, February 20, 2004
I'm dying. My nose started to bleed for no reason earlier. Also, on occasion I could smell something like potpourri and there wasn't any around. Aren't those signs of brain cancer or a tumor?
Thursday, February 19, 2004
What's happenin' Jive-turkeys?
Well, two nights in DC and with the exception of a raging hangover, a sore jaw, and the usual home strife, it hasn't been so bad. As a matter of fact, I think this is the most fun I've had since Atlanta. I got to ride a subway for the first time in my life and I didn't get mugged or lost (except on the way back but that wasn't my fault, more later).
Here's the fo'-one-one: I got into town and immediately got in touch with one of my school friends who works up here. Went went to this little dive somewhere for dinner and beer. We had a great time smoking cigarettes (which we smoked too many of), drinking beer (which we drank too much of), discussing anything from "Futurama" to hexadecimal math to korean finger counting and much in between. After good conversation and mediocre beer (beer as cheap as PBR but tastes much better) we realized we had to sprint to the subway station because we were going to miss the last train. Well, I was talking with my friend and he told which train to get on and I did. But it was going the wrong way, so I missed the last train going my way so I had to roam aimlessly around a strange town (I've been told one of the most dangerous towns in the country) until I stumbled on a cab that was supposed to pick some one else up. He didn't. I took me instead. I offered him a 100% tip so he said screw the other guy.
Tomorrow, if I feel better I'm going to go see the monuments. I like this place. See Marci, I can too enjoy a place that doesn't have pork rinds.
Here's the fo'-one-one: I got into town and immediately got in touch with one of my school friends who works up here. Went went to this little dive somewhere for dinner and beer. We had a great time smoking cigarettes (which we smoked too many of), drinking beer (which we drank too much of), discussing anything from "Futurama" to hexadecimal math to korean finger counting and much in between. After good conversation and mediocre beer (beer as cheap as PBR but tastes much better) we realized we had to sprint to the subway station because we were going to miss the last train. Well, I was talking with my friend and he told which train to get on and I did. But it was going the wrong way, so I missed the last train going my way so I had to roam aimlessly around a strange town (I've been told one of the most dangerous towns in the country) until I stumbled on a cab that was supposed to pick some one else up. He didn't. I took me instead. I offered him a 100% tip so he said screw the other guy.
Tomorrow, if I feel better I'm going to go see the monuments. I like this place. See Marci, I can too enjoy a place that doesn't have pork rinds.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Action Packed!
I think my house is going to blow up. When I go out to the garage to smoke, I smell gas - and not the particulated feces kind. All the pilot lights are on so I'm taking that to mean that everything's okay and the smell is in my head. I hope my lighter doesn't wind up killing us.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
My personal ghost of Tom Joad
I hate everything today.
No, no one did anything to me and nothing particularly bad happened, it's just one on those days. I think my lifestyle has finally caught up with me and decided to give me a particularly heavy dose of stress and depression to make up for all the times I've managed to dodge it. I have about three times more money in bills than income, my wife insists (by way of inaction) that I do everything fucking thing, I don't have any time to see my son because of all this travelling, I have exactly zero (0) friends here, get to go out and have some fun approximately once every coming of Christ, my in-laws call every single day, my glasses are the wrong prescription, my insurance is in limbo because of some bearucratic bs but they'll sure as hell take the money out of my paycheck anyway, I've had a sinus infection for two weeks because I can't afford to go to the doctor (see previous), I can't drink anymore because one beer make me feel like crap the next morning, I don't have money for beer anyway, I'm supposed to go back to Georgia for a couple of weddings that I can't afford plane tickets for, if I have to read Dr. Seuss one more time I'll go nuts, my car needs to go to the doctor for a check-up, I owe the cell phone company over 700 bucks because the wife has to talk to her parents every other day, I deal with ever backward ass fuck in the country, and you know what really gets me? I'm not even supposed to be here today! (apologies to Kevin Smith)
Yeah, yeah, I know: Who cares? No one. But I have to tell somebody, and if you read all the way through that soliloquy, you would know that this is the only audience I have. All six of you. Of course there's more. I finally got my home office hooked up with a phone line so that I could use my desktop to get online (yes, I'm still stuck with dial-up but it's better than nothing) and my damn computer takes a dump. Now I have to find the funds to get a new one, reinstall all those programs, and find a way to salvage all that porn I had amassed . . . I mean work I had done . . . yeah. Jesus Christ on a bicycle, this move was supposed to make us better off, not knock us back. We moved away from all our family and friends for this?
Further apologies to Kevin Smith: You should shit or get off the pot. I know, I know. If you don't like your current station in life, change it. You better believe I would if I hadn't burned all our bridges. If we could get the assets together to move back down the the lower 48 I would be out the door. Don't get me wrong, I love Alaska. My friends would love Alaska. Hell, I would almost rather spend the money to move them up here instead of us down there . . . now if I could only figure out how to convince them to come. Speaking of friends would love Alaska: Marci, you know those guys that throw a "party" because the day ends in "y"? These people are like that. There is a two week party starting next weekend just because thirty some odd years ago the furriers used to come out of the mountains this time of the year to sell their kills. It has become some sort of extended "Brad's back in Atlanta again and we haven't seen him in two whole weeks so let's throw a party and invite everyone to our place so we can charge them five bucks for a hotdog" party. But I digress.
I don't know, I guess the stress of living on my own like a damn hermit is finally getting to me. If I can just hold to my sanity a little longer I know it'll get better. At least that's what I tell myself so I can sleep at night. Speaking of sleeping, I guess I better go do that.
Oh, one final note. I'm so tired of reading Dr. Seuss I decided to read my son some Mark Twain for a bed time story. I opened the book to one of my favorites, "The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calavaras County", and began to read. No later than two paragraphs the little stinker was out like a light.
Okay, one more note. I got to see, and I mean really see, the northern lights for the first time. That was definately a high point.
And yes, I'm aware that the title is an extremely stretched reference. It's for affect.
No, no one did anything to me and nothing particularly bad happened, it's just one on those days. I think my lifestyle has finally caught up with me and decided to give me a particularly heavy dose of stress and depression to make up for all the times I've managed to dodge it. I have about three times more money in bills than income, my wife insists (by way of inaction) that I do everything fucking thing, I don't have any time to see my son because of all this travelling, I have exactly zero (0) friends here, get to go out and have some fun approximately once every coming of Christ, my in-laws call every single day, my glasses are the wrong prescription, my insurance is in limbo because of some bearucratic bs but they'll sure as hell take the money out of my paycheck anyway, I've had a sinus infection for two weeks because I can't afford to go to the doctor (see previous), I can't drink anymore because one beer make me feel like crap the next morning, I don't have money for beer anyway, I'm supposed to go back to Georgia for a couple of weddings that I can't afford plane tickets for, if I have to read Dr. Seuss one more time I'll go nuts, my car needs to go to the doctor for a check-up, I owe the cell phone company over 700 bucks because the wife has to talk to her parents every other day, I deal with ever backward ass fuck in the country, and you know what really gets me? I'm not even supposed to be here today! (apologies to Kevin Smith)
Yeah, yeah, I know: Who cares? No one. But I have to tell somebody, and if you read all the way through that soliloquy, you would know that this is the only audience I have. All six of you. Of course there's more. I finally got my home office hooked up with a phone line so that I could use my desktop to get online (yes, I'm still stuck with dial-up but it's better than nothing) and my damn computer takes a dump. Now I have to find the funds to get a new one, reinstall all those programs, and find a way to salvage all that porn I had amassed . . . I mean work I had done . . . yeah. Jesus Christ on a bicycle, this move was supposed to make us better off, not knock us back. We moved away from all our family and friends for this?
Further apologies to Kevin Smith: You should shit or get off the pot. I know, I know. If you don't like your current station in life, change it. You better believe I would if I hadn't burned all our bridges. If we could get the assets together to move back down the the lower 48 I would be out the door. Don't get me wrong, I love Alaska. My friends would love Alaska. Hell, I would almost rather spend the money to move them up here instead of us down there . . . now if I could only figure out how to convince them to come. Speaking of friends would love Alaska: Marci, you know those guys that throw a "party" because the day ends in "y"? These people are like that. There is a two week party starting next weekend just because thirty some odd years ago the furriers used to come out of the mountains this time of the year to sell their kills. It has become some sort of extended "Brad's back in Atlanta again and we haven't seen him in two whole weeks so let's throw a party and invite everyone to our place so we can charge them five bucks for a hotdog" party. But I digress.
I don't know, I guess the stress of living on my own like a damn hermit is finally getting to me. If I can just hold to my sanity a little longer I know it'll get better. At least that's what I tell myself so I can sleep at night. Speaking of sleeping, I guess I better go do that.
Oh, one final note. I'm so tired of reading Dr. Seuss I decided to read my son some Mark Twain for a bed time story. I opened the book to one of my favorites, "The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calavaras County", and began to read. No later than two paragraphs the little stinker was out like a light.
Okay, one more note. I got to see, and I mean really see, the northern lights for the first time. That was definately a high point.
And yes, I'm aware that the title is an extremely stretched reference. It's for affect.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Well, I'm on the road again. In a matter of a week I will be DC bound (for a week), then I'm on to someother place for a week (maybe just home, who knows?) and then on to Tampa, FL. This will be the first place I go that I won't know anybody there. Some of the people in my office are going to the same city at the same time so maybe we'll hang out, but, like the people in my class when I was in ATL, they are all way older than me. Except the other intern. He's just a little older than me. Maybe we can find something to get into. This traveling stuff is starting to be for the birds. It gets real hecktic from here. I will have months when I will only be home for a couple of days. Ugh. Here we go.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
On the road again
Here's where I've been allowed to go. I've taken the liberty of adding my next two trips in since I'll be away starting monday and won't return until the 26th.
create your own visited states map
or write about it on the open travel guide
create your own visited states map
or write about it on the open travel guide
