Being the part time blogger that I am, I at times feel compelled to exercise a little reconnaissance and check out the trends of other blogs, or just randomly find an interesting one. The returns thus far have been disappointing and I’m left to wonder what a stranger would think of my blog should they suffer the distinct misfortune of stumbling upon it. Most of the other sites I’ve seen on blogspot by clicking the “next blog” icon appear to me as hopelessly uninteresting, disturbingly weird, and just plain sad.
I would hope that initial impressions of my own work do not come off so negatively, but that might be asking too much. I am aware that only a very specific demographic is likely to be amused by the politically, socially, and spiritually incorrect writing that fills my posts. Let’s just assume that some 45 year old conservative mom will probably not find humor in intermittent comedy.
On the other hand, there seems to be a lot of middle aged moms delighting themselves by creating posts of their “angel” children. Excuse me if I’m wrong, but this trend seems to me a bit out of place. When I by chance fall upon a blog covered with photos of young children being thrown together like it’s some kind of twisted shrine I can’t help but ask myself who the fuck else besides this misguided mother would spend time on this. The only conclusion I came to was sick and deranged pedophilic creatures scrounging the internet for anything they can get their hands on. Maybe it’s an initial reaction that finds its origins in paying too much attention to Fox 5 News, but either way I can’t understand why these people would just carelessly throw photographs of their most loved ones up on some public site. Make a photo album or something, because believe me no on cares that little Johnny has finally started third grade and that dear Jennifer said her first words today.
Perhaps, if the emphasis were placed on the funny missteps of childhood I would be more interested, but until I start seeing some tales of 5 year old Pete accidentally pouring the fishbowl and accompanying fish into the pool because he saw Free Willy, I doubt any of these attention craving mothers will rouse my interest. Every mother thinks her child is an angel. Keep it to yourself and family because only one mother was right about that, and that’s mine.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Flighted Frustration
I was bailing. I was scared. I was unprepared. I was on the nonstop flight to South America in seat 26 B next to the bearded welter weight with thick rimmed glasses and greasy curly hair surrounding a shiny bald top. To the other side of me was a portly woman with a disposition of feigned nobility and importance. The energetic and exaggerated hand gestures along with her tendency to laugh at her own amusements assured me of this. Her stiff brown hair seemed sprayed in place much like the orange tan of her face. I had been sober for nearly 14 hours and trapped between these two characters of America I knew it had been a mistake to stop drinking. How long would it take the stewardess or flight attendant or which ever was the correct terminology to reach me? I needed one of those petite bottles of liquor they served; actually better make that a double. This was a long flight, but if I chugged two of them I might get myself just fucked up enough to harmlessly pass out without the horrific thoughts of my dear friends on either side of me.
I panicked imagining their backgrounds and lives fretting to a nervous degree about the fact that these were people that might have actually reproduced or worse, had people that validated and encouraged them. Who were these insolent strangers anyways? Why were they on my plane, interfering with my trip of spiritual freedom and existential pursuit. Their negative auras were sure to affect my own in such close proximity and I was already aware of the volatile nature of my current state. I was lodged between an untimely graduation from college and a looming full time job so near on the horizon I might as well have been on the edge of the earth myself. Graduation had beckoned way too early and I dreaded the loss of my lifestyle.
Now I was here stuck between insurance agent Lionel and housewife extraordinaire Claire. Between them was Hades and I was firmly slouched in my seat there. I uncomfortably shifted in my position and unwittingly made physical contact with dear Claire when I recklessly threw my arm towards the arm rest dividing our space. When it felt the soft pudginess of her cholesterol deposits I immediately realized I had strayed too far. I ripped my arm back in uncontrolled shock. Thank god she was too absorbed in the god forsaken aerial presentation of Garfield to notice my horrified reaction. How the fuck could anyone with a fully functional brain born before the year 2000 find anything remotely entertaining in this frighteningly appalling trash parading as cinema?
Bored, sober, and out of options I resigned myself to perusing the Continental airlines magazine expecting nothing more then a couple of mildly interesting photographs. Despite the abhorrent movie selection, Continental did surprise me with a most likely unheralded gem. As I thumbed through the Continental magazine placed in the sleeve in front of every seat I settled on a small piece about Cancun drinking hubs, as much a product of itching alcoholism as my former time visiting that foreign city. I’ve never imagined some marketing fueled magazine mass-produced for tired travelers looking for something to put them asleep as a source for fine-tuned and highly entertaining writing. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself entranced by the delectable piece by Chris Barnett (name confirmation pending) about Yucatan drink specialties.
After streaking through this I imagined it to be a rare fortune of a good writer in a shoddy magazine. To put my theory to the test I flipped back to a previous article and to my now overwhelming surprise found it as engaging as my first discovery. Thus, I must tip my metaphorical cap to these underappreciated literary engineers capable of turning a magazine long advertisement into an unexpected pleasurable experience. Now if only the irritated flight attendant with an inability to communicate with speakers of espanol would lighten her mood.
By some unheeded miracle I reached nearly the fifth hour of flight alive and breathing. The long haired infant continued to laugh playfully every time I smile at him. His brown eyes lit up as he giggled on his mother’s lap. This little kid thankfully distracted my attention from the brutal stench fuming off good ol’ Lionel. My guess is it was a mixture of some odious cologne and untamed body odor. Either way, it was at times hard to breath.
Thankfully I felt the plane descending and that warm, crackly voice on the overhead in fluid Spanish and broken English told me we were approaching our destination, Lima. I could hardly wait to escape from this stale air and lamentable company. Myself, still a snob entrenched in bitter judgments and pretension just looking for some Spanish conversation and Peruvian Pisco.
I panicked imagining their backgrounds and lives fretting to a nervous degree about the fact that these were people that might have actually reproduced or worse, had people that validated and encouraged them. Who were these insolent strangers anyways? Why were they on my plane, interfering with my trip of spiritual freedom and existential pursuit. Their negative auras were sure to affect my own in such close proximity and I was already aware of the volatile nature of my current state. I was lodged between an untimely graduation from college and a looming full time job so near on the horizon I might as well have been on the edge of the earth myself. Graduation had beckoned way too early and I dreaded the loss of my lifestyle.
Now I was here stuck between insurance agent Lionel and housewife extraordinaire Claire. Between them was Hades and I was firmly slouched in my seat there. I uncomfortably shifted in my position and unwittingly made physical contact with dear Claire when I recklessly threw my arm towards the arm rest dividing our space. When it felt the soft pudginess of her cholesterol deposits I immediately realized I had strayed too far. I ripped my arm back in uncontrolled shock. Thank god she was too absorbed in the god forsaken aerial presentation of Garfield to notice my horrified reaction. How the fuck could anyone with a fully functional brain born before the year 2000 find anything remotely entertaining in this frighteningly appalling trash parading as cinema?
Bored, sober, and out of options I resigned myself to perusing the Continental airlines magazine expecting nothing more then a couple of mildly interesting photographs. Despite the abhorrent movie selection, Continental did surprise me with a most likely unheralded gem. As I thumbed through the Continental magazine placed in the sleeve in front of every seat I settled on a small piece about Cancun drinking hubs, as much a product of itching alcoholism as my former time visiting that foreign city. I’ve never imagined some marketing fueled magazine mass-produced for tired travelers looking for something to put them asleep as a source for fine-tuned and highly entertaining writing. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself entranced by the delectable piece by Chris Barnett (name confirmation pending) about Yucatan drink specialties.
After streaking through this I imagined it to be a rare fortune of a good writer in a shoddy magazine. To put my theory to the test I flipped back to a previous article and to my now overwhelming surprise found it as engaging as my first discovery. Thus, I must tip my metaphorical cap to these underappreciated literary engineers capable of turning a magazine long advertisement into an unexpected pleasurable experience. Now if only the irritated flight attendant with an inability to communicate with speakers of espanol would lighten her mood.
By some unheeded miracle I reached nearly the fifth hour of flight alive and breathing. The long haired infant continued to laugh playfully every time I smile at him. His brown eyes lit up as he giggled on his mother’s lap. This little kid thankfully distracted my attention from the brutal stench fuming off good ol’ Lionel. My guess is it was a mixture of some odious cologne and untamed body odor. Either way, it was at times hard to breath.
Thankfully I felt the plane descending and that warm, crackly voice on the overhead in fluid Spanish and broken English told me we were approaching our destination, Lima. I could hardly wait to escape from this stale air and lamentable company. Myself, still a snob entrenched in bitter judgments and pretension just looking for some Spanish conversation and Peruvian Pisco.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Tales of College III: Lofted Excitement
The possibility of renting out a two story loft for the sole purpose of throwing a kickass party had never occurred to me when I arrived in late February my freshman year with stern instructions not to bring anything other then girls and $15 in cash. Fuck if I cared; I was gonna have unlimited booze and an entire New York City loft to enjoy it with the company of dozens of thrill seekers like myself.
Inside was teeming with people, some I knew, some I wanted to know, and others I would be avoiding whether I knew them or not. There was a full table entirely dedicated to an assortment of liquors and mixed drinks next to which rested two glorious kegs. NYU isn’t renowned for keggers and this was the first keg I had seen at a party there. Being the uninhibited beer drinker I was I turned my attention straight for them. Pumping the tap, I downed my first cup in a voracious chug and filled it up again.
Thank god most of the lights were out I thought, these people are going to look infinitely more attractive in the dark. With that, I chugged my second cup and was now on to number 3.
There were two girls at this party I had hooked up with before. One, named Christy, I refused to call by her name for the entirety of the night and instead, after devolving myself with drink, relentlessly called her Erika (I was insistent that she looked like an Erika). The other girl I had recently stopped hooking up with because of questionable acts which I felt risked both health and safety and my inability to keep pace with her insatiable lust.
An important note in this story, though I’m tempted to omit it, refers to my participation in a zealous, spiritual trial for lent. On my own accord and with complete disregard to health and sanity I decided to give up all types of sexual behavior both with partners and self arranged. The pent up sexual energy was overwhelming after the effects of alcohol reverted me to carnal instincts. Without my roommate’s help it is quite possible I could’ve made a multitude of ungodly mistakes in the name of desperation. Luckily for me, the only mistakes I made were minor and amusing. Just as I was seriously beginning to feel the loosening effects of the natty ice keg I was confronted by my first test.
She blindsided me as I carelessly turned to one of my friends, and instead was treated to her standing right there. “Heyyy Matt.” My immediate, alcohol driven instinct was to pull her into the bathroom and implore her to replay the countless acts of fellatio I had been privileged with previously.
Thankfully I only responded in kind, “Heyy there, haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“Well that was your choice” she reminded me as I had told her I couldn’t commit myself to her lustful desires with the same unabashed passion and complete disregard for other scholarly commitments as she had.
But I was drunk and in a flirtatious mood as orgasms were now only a fleeting memory and I was desperate for one. “Well I never said I made the right choice.” As I smiled at her I’m sure I personified that ubiquitous drunk asshole look.
“Haha, oh matt you know the reason I was obsessed with you right?” Where was she going with this?
“Um…cause I’m really funny?” That was honestly my best guess, I’ve never thought of myself as someone a girl could actually obsess over, let alone readily admit to it.
“Haha, well no. Honestly you were just the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. And I’ve kissed over like 40 guys.” Stop. What? A self respecting man would’ve been appalled that he had engaged in any form of physical interaction with a woman that unhesitatingly was able account for at least 40 guys she had previously hooked up with. However, a drunk bastard like myself would’ve celebrated enthusiastically at his triumph in the sacred art of lip linked tongue swapping.
Accordingly my first reaction in response confirmed my placement in the latter option as I bellowed out, “You’re damn right I’m the best kisser you’ve ever kissed! I’ll out kiss any guy at this whole fucking party!” The few questioning stares I got from this did not deter me in any way. She laughed at this then turned to walk away, probably to find number 50.
People had started dancing and jumping in the largest room of the loft as the music blared loudly. After stopping by to refill yet another cup of beer (I had stopped counting by that point) I went to find my roommates. They were cooped up by the bathroom area while my roommate’s ex complained about something and repeatedly asked to leave. I miscalled her friend Erika a couple more times and then my attention swung back to the large room.
Some guy had grabbed a microphone and started demanding that everyone shut up because the stripper had just arrived. Alright, I thought this will be some good ol’ fashion excitement. I jumped back into the fray, refilled my beer, and looked on waiting for the unclothed performer to step on stage. The guy with the mike kept blabbering something about everyone having to pay money if we wanted to see the stripper perform. I was almost up for it until I saw the wreck that emerged. This gothic looking fright was dressed in black leather and her pudgy stomach emerged from under her tight shirt. Her makeup job looked like it was performed by a seizuring pre-schooler, a tattered mess of light blotches and dark blotches. Even in my drunk stupor it was a scary sight. They wanted me to pay for this ragged hag?
There was an increasing murmur that soon developed into angry shouts demanding a hotter stripper and a refusal to pay. Then the damned fool with the microphone gave the crowd an ultimatum: either we pay or the stripper will not perform. It was at that moment I heard the funniest line at a party I’ve ever heard. As the crowd silenced thinking over his proposition one my good friends from our floor screamed out, “Then tell her to leave! She’s fucking ugly anyways!” After a split second of shock over the finely timed outburst everyone started hysterically laughing and yelling in agreement. It was wicked and cruel for the stripper that night. She left in a cloud of shame amid insolent and drunk college kids. Think Can’t Hardly Wait, when the big jock gets called a fag when everyone is watching and silent. It was something along those lines, but much much better. The only tarnish to this outrageous exclamation was the surely damaged self-esteem and feelings of the stripper, as if the removing your clothes for crowds of plastered college kids part wasn’t degrading enough.
After that, the mood of the party shifted and it was clear it had surpassed its climax. I downed a couple more cups of lukewarm beer and told myself it was time to leave before I had any more encounters with that girl Erika who kept insisting to me that her name was Christy. I also had a religious commitment to honor and my chances of completing this only waned as the night wore on. My friends and I left, staggering half-hazardly all the way back to our dorm; our first loft party was a resounding success in entertainment.
Inside was teeming with people, some I knew, some I wanted to know, and others I would be avoiding whether I knew them or not. There was a full table entirely dedicated to an assortment of liquors and mixed drinks next to which rested two glorious kegs. NYU isn’t renowned for keggers and this was the first keg I had seen at a party there. Being the uninhibited beer drinker I was I turned my attention straight for them. Pumping the tap, I downed my first cup in a voracious chug and filled it up again.
Thank god most of the lights were out I thought, these people are going to look infinitely more attractive in the dark. With that, I chugged my second cup and was now on to number 3.
There were two girls at this party I had hooked up with before. One, named Christy, I refused to call by her name for the entirety of the night and instead, after devolving myself with drink, relentlessly called her Erika (I was insistent that she looked like an Erika). The other girl I had recently stopped hooking up with because of questionable acts which I felt risked both health and safety and my inability to keep pace with her insatiable lust.
An important note in this story, though I’m tempted to omit it, refers to my participation in a zealous, spiritual trial for lent. On my own accord and with complete disregard to health and sanity I decided to give up all types of sexual behavior both with partners and self arranged. The pent up sexual energy was overwhelming after the effects of alcohol reverted me to carnal instincts. Without my roommate’s help it is quite possible I could’ve made a multitude of ungodly mistakes in the name of desperation. Luckily for me, the only mistakes I made were minor and amusing. Just as I was seriously beginning to feel the loosening effects of the natty ice keg I was confronted by my first test.
She blindsided me as I carelessly turned to one of my friends, and instead was treated to her standing right there. “Heyyy Matt.” My immediate, alcohol driven instinct was to pull her into the bathroom and implore her to replay the countless acts of fellatio I had been privileged with previously.
Thankfully I only responded in kind, “Heyy there, haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“Well that was your choice” she reminded me as I had told her I couldn’t commit myself to her lustful desires with the same unabashed passion and complete disregard for other scholarly commitments as she had.
But I was drunk and in a flirtatious mood as orgasms were now only a fleeting memory and I was desperate for one. “Well I never said I made the right choice.” As I smiled at her I’m sure I personified that ubiquitous drunk asshole look.
“Haha, oh matt you know the reason I was obsessed with you right?” Where was she going with this?
“Um…cause I’m really funny?” That was honestly my best guess, I’ve never thought of myself as someone a girl could actually obsess over, let alone readily admit to it.
“Haha, well no. Honestly you were just the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. And I’ve kissed over like 40 guys.” Stop. What? A self respecting man would’ve been appalled that he had engaged in any form of physical interaction with a woman that unhesitatingly was able account for at least 40 guys she had previously hooked up with. However, a drunk bastard like myself would’ve celebrated enthusiastically at his triumph in the sacred art of lip linked tongue swapping.
Accordingly my first reaction in response confirmed my placement in the latter option as I bellowed out, “You’re damn right I’m the best kisser you’ve ever kissed! I’ll out kiss any guy at this whole fucking party!” The few questioning stares I got from this did not deter me in any way. She laughed at this then turned to walk away, probably to find number 50.
People had started dancing and jumping in the largest room of the loft as the music blared loudly. After stopping by to refill yet another cup of beer (I had stopped counting by that point) I went to find my roommates. They were cooped up by the bathroom area while my roommate’s ex complained about something and repeatedly asked to leave. I miscalled her friend Erika a couple more times and then my attention swung back to the large room.
Some guy had grabbed a microphone and started demanding that everyone shut up because the stripper had just arrived. Alright, I thought this will be some good ol’ fashion excitement. I jumped back into the fray, refilled my beer, and looked on waiting for the unclothed performer to step on stage. The guy with the mike kept blabbering something about everyone having to pay money if we wanted to see the stripper perform. I was almost up for it until I saw the wreck that emerged. This gothic looking fright was dressed in black leather and her pudgy stomach emerged from under her tight shirt. Her makeup job looked like it was performed by a seizuring pre-schooler, a tattered mess of light blotches and dark blotches. Even in my drunk stupor it was a scary sight. They wanted me to pay for this ragged hag?
There was an increasing murmur that soon developed into angry shouts demanding a hotter stripper and a refusal to pay. Then the damned fool with the microphone gave the crowd an ultimatum: either we pay or the stripper will not perform. It was at that moment I heard the funniest line at a party I’ve ever heard. As the crowd silenced thinking over his proposition one my good friends from our floor screamed out, “Then tell her to leave! She’s fucking ugly anyways!” After a split second of shock over the finely timed outburst everyone started hysterically laughing and yelling in agreement. It was wicked and cruel for the stripper that night. She left in a cloud of shame amid insolent and drunk college kids. Think Can’t Hardly Wait, when the big jock gets called a fag when everyone is watching and silent. It was something along those lines, but much much better. The only tarnish to this outrageous exclamation was the surely damaged self-esteem and feelings of the stripper, as if the removing your clothes for crowds of plastered college kids part wasn’t degrading enough.
After that, the mood of the party shifted and it was clear it had surpassed its climax. I downed a couple more cups of lukewarm beer and told myself it was time to leave before I had any more encounters with that girl Erika who kept insisting to me that her name was Christy. I also had a religious commitment to honor and my chances of completing this only waned as the night wore on. My friends and I left, staggering half-hazardly all the way back to our dorm; our first loft party was a resounding success in entertainment.
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