It's Halloween! Everyone knows this is the one holiday that replicates Valentine's Day, only instead of boyfriends getting the bare skin treatment from their girlfriends, EVERYONE gets to observe massive amounts of cleavage and leggage on this most holy day. That's all I really need to say on the subject. I look forward to going out tonight and finding out just how low we can go. Tonight I'm going to what's known here as The Electric Cowboy, which is just one of a chain of EC's in the dirty south.
I've never been there before, but I think Halloween will ease the swallowing of a this reality-altering redneck pill.
And for the fiction fans... here's the beginning of a little story.
I enter a room with no windows, a door behind me and a door to my right. As I see him, I approach, stopping at the center of a small oval rug. The rug gradients red, from where it is closest to him, to a dirt-stained white, toward the entrance. Even without movement, the floor moans. In some places, I can see dusty air venting through the fault lines of ancient wood.
Lazarus sits before me in a tan and brown armchair. The chair is a threadbare fossil from the 1980's. The armrests are worn down to the wood under Lazarus' elbows. A tiny light fixture hangs from the ceiling and shines on his hat, just inches above. The rim of his austral bush hat casts a shadow that falls all the way to his thighs. His dungaree knees shone and under them sat a pair of motionless shitkickers.
"You're late," he croaked. The huge brim slowly tilted upward, but still concealed his face in darkness. As my eyes adjusted I could see a tinted yellow underbite and a stubbled chin. I tried to think of an answer. I tested the grit of my own chin, rubbing it between my thumb and fingers--only to find it feeling feminine and pointless. Suddenly everything about me became pointless. Brick after brick, the temple I had built of my body demolished. Like a black hole, the relevance of facial hair was sucked into this man's mouth-- hurdling forward, leaving me naked and useless.
I tried to remember the words of my teacher, but it was as though I was deep in a dream and my body had sent word to my mind that it had stopped functioning. Air. I need air, I thought. For all my will to break free, I was frozen. I surged into myself, devoting everything to simply breaking away from this. Finally, my arm snapped and I spun away, hitting the wall and sliding down to the floor.
Lazarus stood up and I scrambled to find his face-- but the light evaded him. He moved so that only his knees and the top of his hat were visible-- and the stony row of teeth that sat atop a sunken lip. I tried to remember the words of my teacher, but they would not come. They were there, in front of my mind, but the darkness of the room ate them all away. I was useless to move. My eyes darted back and forth between the two bright blue knees and the top of his obscene hat. Boldness. They fear the bold. Fear begets hate and courage begets love. My mind ran away from all the correct things and I found that I, laying there in the corner of the wall, could only think about sex. The soft skin of a young woman. The inviting eyes of a wanton, the lactic breasts of a venusian woman. Images of lust formed a nickelodeon in my head. Boldness. The word came again and again until it was all I could picture.
I reached up against the wall and felt for something to grab on. Nothing. I looked down at my legs and summoned them. Up, damnit! Move!
The room went pitch for a moment and I found myself looking at Lazarus in his decrepit chair, with his hat on his lap. I was standing in the center of the rug, at ease. His face revealed itself under the light, which seemed liquid in the way it revived.
"Lazarus..." I said.
"Don't be late again. Or there will be hell to pay," he said, brandishing his smile. Only then did I recognize him. Sags of skin tentacled from his chin to his chest. His cheeks drooped so that under his eyes were cheshire moons of red, wet flesh. He was hideous. Wires of white hair flew from his scalp. His ears covered more than half the side of his head, and his lips were white. He was disgusting. He was the oldest human being on earth.
tbc..
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
rules.
rule number 1.
never trust people who say, "It's all good."
In fact, knock them out as quickly as humanly possible.
rule number 2.
if a woman says, "I'm not from around here."
Tell her to go back home.
rule number 3.
if a dude dresses up as the devil on Halloween, but acts a fool... knock him out. It's the devil. Nobody cares.
rule number 4.
never.... ever... EVER let someone tell you what you think. The people that put words in our mouths are called lawyers. Only then can someone speak for you. No exceptions.
rule number 5.
IF you see the cops laughing right before you get pulled aside, you are fucked. if you see them frowning, you are fucked. As a matter of fact, if the cops pull you aside... you're fucked. The only exception to this rule is if you know the cop because you both went to the same high school and you let him cheat off your test during senior year final exams in order for him to get his diploma.
That is all.
Oh-- oh... one more thing. I am giving the world 5... count them.... 5 more chances to provide me with a person that lives up to their word. Failure to comply will result in total annihilation. No exceptions.
Furthermore... the word of the day is "Worthy". Think about it. Tell me what it means to you. It's a strong, historical, spiritual and Anglican word. Make it happen.
never trust people who say, "It's all good."
In fact, knock them out as quickly as humanly possible.
rule number 2.
if a woman says, "I'm not from around here."
Tell her to go back home.
rule number 3.
if a dude dresses up as the devil on Halloween, but acts a fool... knock him out. It's the devil. Nobody cares.
rule number 4.
never.... ever... EVER let someone tell you what you think. The people that put words in our mouths are called lawyers. Only then can someone speak for you. No exceptions.
rule number 5.
IF you see the cops laughing right before you get pulled aside, you are fucked. if you see them frowning, you are fucked. As a matter of fact, if the cops pull you aside... you're fucked. The only exception to this rule is if you know the cop because you both went to the same high school and you let him cheat off your test during senior year final exams in order for him to get his diploma.
That is all.
Oh-- oh... one more thing. I am giving the world 5... count them.... 5 more chances to provide me with a person that lives up to their word. Failure to comply will result in total annihilation. No exceptions.
Furthermore... the word of the day is "Worthy". Think about it. Tell me what it means to you. It's a strong, historical, spiritual and Anglican word. Make it happen.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
My God.
Instead of writing some kind of predetermined narrative, I'm just going to spit a few gems out there.
One of my best friends, who offered to buy my drinks tonight, since I was utterly broke, actually walked up to me at the bar as I was talking to afuckalicious beautiful woman and said, "Here. (handing me $7) This is your food money."
I've discovered that I can nail anyone from any distance (within reason) with a penny. I was taking requests at a dollar per to bean the person of their choice with a very well thrown coin. The only problem, though, was convincing the angry dude with the pony tail and bright green shirt (easy target) that I had nothing to do with the ensuing laughter after his pelt in the forehead with an Abe Lincoln roundy.
My sister is the coolest roommate I've ever had. Tonight, on my way home, I called her back at 2:30 AM (thinking she wouldn't answer, because she was originally calling about the electricity being shut off.... not that I would know anything about that) only to find that she had a "couple" (I.E., FIVE) people over, and that one of them was getting a tattoo. She was calling me to warn me, and to tell me not to make any sudden/loud noises when I walked in. As it happens, Sulu, whose real name is Scott (as in Scotty from Star Trek), whose last name I won't offer for his own sake, was doing a badass tattoo in my dining room.
Now, I am actually a photographer, even though I'm trying to be ambiguous about my occupation/identity. And seeing this in my living room stirred up some artistic obligation on my part. So I went into the mode. If you know who I really am, you'll look at my other blog and see the photos that ensued.
One of my best friends, who offered to buy my drinks tonight, since I was utterly broke, actually walked up to me at the bar as I was talking to a
I've discovered that I can nail anyone from any distance (within reason) with a penny. I was taking requests at a dollar per to bean the person of their choice with a very well thrown coin. The only problem, though, was convincing the angry dude with the pony tail and bright green shirt (easy target) that I had nothing to do with the ensuing laughter after his pelt in the forehead with an Abe Lincoln roundy.
My sister is the coolest roommate I've ever had. Tonight, on my way home, I called her back at 2:30 AM (thinking she wouldn't answer, because she was originally calling about the electricity being shut off.... not that I would know anything about that) only to find that she had a "couple" (I.E., FIVE) people over, and that one of them was getting a tattoo. She was calling me to warn me, and to tell me not to make any sudden/loud noises when I walked in. As it happens, Sulu, whose real name is Scott (as in Scotty from Star Trek), whose last name I won't offer for his own sake, was doing a badass tattoo in my dining room.
Now, I am actually a photographer, even though I'm trying to be ambiguous about my occupation/identity. And seeing this in my living room stirred up some artistic obligation on my part. So I went into the mode. If you know who I really am, you'll look at my other blog and see the photos that ensued.
Labels:
awesome roommates,
etc.,
funny bar story,
tattoos,
tequila
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
To my millions of readers:
Don't feel bad about not commenting on that last post. It was actually a challenge from a friend of mine to see if I could write about lighting.
I noticed on the myspace main page that Will Smith has a new movie coming out. "I Am Legend" starring Will Smith.... and only him. Before you get too excited, this movie is actually just another last-man-on-earth-because-everyone-else-has-been-killed-by-a-genetically-engineered-virus-flick.
But there's one twist. First, it doesn't happen in suburbia, as was the case in Dawn of the Dead. It it doesn't happen in London, like 28 days/weeks later. It's actually in NYC. It's no wonder to me why NYC is the assumed target of an international attack on the United States. Every blockbuster world-ending movie Hollywood produces has NYC earmarked for devastation. Isn't this getting a little old?
Godzilla (released in 2000), The Day After Tomorrow, Deep Impact, 1-18-08 (set to be released on Jan 18, '08), and just about every other movie in which a cataclysmic disaster occurs. Why does Hollywood shit on NYC so much?
Well, now the Big Apple can have the last laugh as the flames of hell kick the shit out of San Boobjob Valley. No, that's actually not how I feel.
I am a little upset that Bush is expected to visit the area tomorrow-- isn't disaster supposed to occur after he arrives? In a weird way, I think Bush is going there just to take notes. "Oh yes, I like what you've done here, Satan... heh heh heh heh."
It also pisses me off that all the folks who have evacuated are being federally pampered while New Orleaners are still living in shitholes and drinking their own urine. What the fuck is wrong with you, George Bush? Get a clue, you daft son of a bitch.
That's enough until I get upset again. Won't be long.
I noticed on the myspace main page that Will Smith has a new movie coming out. "I Am Legend" starring Will Smith.... and only him. Before you get too excited, this movie is actually just another last-man-on-earth-because-everyone-else-has-been-killed-by-a-genetically-engineered-virus-flick.
But there's one twist. First, it doesn't happen in suburbia, as was the case in Dawn of the Dead. It it doesn't happen in London, like 28 days/weeks later. It's actually in NYC. It's no wonder to me why NYC is the assumed target of an international attack on the United States. Every blockbuster world-ending movie Hollywood produces has NYC earmarked for devastation. Isn't this getting a little old?
Godzilla (released in 2000), The Day After Tomorrow, Deep Impact, 1-18-08 (set to be released on Jan 18, '08), and just about every other movie in which a cataclysmic disaster occurs. Why does Hollywood shit on NYC so much?
Well, now the Big Apple can have the last laugh as the flames of hell kick the shit out of San Boobjob Valley. No, that's actually not how I feel.
I am a little upset that Bush is expected to visit the area tomorrow-- isn't disaster supposed to occur after he arrives? In a weird way, I think Bush is going there just to take notes. "Oh yes, I like what you've done here, Satan... heh heh heh heh."
It also pisses me off that all the folks who have evacuated are being federally pampered while New Orleaners are still living in shitholes and drinking their own urine. What the fuck is wrong with you, George Bush? Get a clue, you daft son of a bitch.
That's enough until I get upset again. Won't be long.
Labels:
george bush,
new movies,
new orleans,
total destruction,
wildfires
Monday, October 22, 2007
alternative lighting
Today I'd like to discuss alternative lighting. I will share a few examples of how specific light sources create a mood that can alter (hence the alternative) what would have been a neutral scenario. In the photography world, the closest anyone can come to a neutral light source is that projected by the sun on a cloudy day. The clouds act as an atmospheric diffuser. I'm not talking about cartoony Super Mario Bros. clouds, but ethereal blanket of almost-precipitation.
This produces an even glow of low-contrast, low-shadow illumination. It's almost dull.
Now that we've defined neutral light, let's continue.
In offices, the lights are bright and redundant-- usually florescent fixtures of patchwork among the plaster ceiling tiles. This is intended to keep an alert, undramatic, atmosphere in order to create highly efficient employees out of the plebes working in it.
In diners and restaraunts, it varies greatly. The idea is always to make the floor as invisible as possible, distracting you from the mess left by crummy eaters. The tables are lit with muted fixtures and almost always, lights pointed at the walls are the only things revealing the room's dimensions.
In bars, the light almost always hang from the ceiling, are low-wattage, and offer only puddles and pools of light. In any case, the less light, the better. The bar is always the best-lit area, next to the stage. All that is offered otherwise are bright spots that sharply turn a dark corner into a triangle of brightness, with swirls of smoke ghosting in and out of its path, and sprays of dust flickering at a pace other than reality. If there are pool tables, notice that the lights are arranged in the same proportion as the table. Typically 3 lights encased in a 1 x 3 ft rectangular vase. Rarely does this bright box extend past the edges of the table itself.
Notice also that the lights become brighter as you delve further within the bar. It is darkest near the door (imagine why?) yet the back wall is showered with striplights that show bourgeois (yes I just said bourgeois, stfu) art donated to the bar by indebted tab holders.
Finally, I think of the bedroom. There's never a way to describe the average bedroom's light, since it depends on an array of factors that range from income to preference. Some people are lamp lovers, others enjoy the installed lighting attached to a fan that all-too-often wobbles squeakily on its highest setting. And even still, there are those that appreciate a simple desk light and a small lamp on the night stand.
If I had a choice, I would light my room the same way as a restaurant. I would want only the dimensions of the room revealed, and possibly flex-tube lighting that lines the molding where the walls meet the floor.
Please, comment and let me know what you envision the perfect lighting situation for a bedroom would be.
This produces an even glow of low-contrast, low-shadow illumination. It's almost dull.
Now that we've defined neutral light, let's continue.
In offices, the lights are bright and redundant-- usually florescent fixtures of patchwork among the plaster ceiling tiles. This is intended to keep an alert, undramatic, atmosphere in order to create highly efficient employees out of the plebes working in it.
In diners and restaraunts, it varies greatly. The idea is always to make the floor as invisible as possible, distracting you from the mess left by crummy eaters. The tables are lit with muted fixtures and almost always, lights pointed at the walls are the only things revealing the room's dimensions.
In bars, the light almost always hang from the ceiling, are low-wattage, and offer only puddles and pools of light. In any case, the less light, the better. The bar is always the best-lit area, next to the stage. All that is offered otherwise are bright spots that sharply turn a dark corner into a triangle of brightness, with swirls of smoke ghosting in and out of its path, and sprays of dust flickering at a pace other than reality. If there are pool tables, notice that the lights are arranged in the same proportion as the table. Typically 3 lights encased in a 1 x 3 ft rectangular vase. Rarely does this bright box extend past the edges of the table itself.
Notice also that the lights become brighter as you delve further within the bar. It is darkest near the door (imagine why?) yet the back wall is showered with striplights that show bourgeois (yes I just said bourgeois, stfu) art donated to the bar by indebted tab holders.
Finally, I think of the bedroom. There's never a way to describe the average bedroom's light, since it depends on an array of factors that range from income to preference. Some people are lamp lovers, others enjoy the installed lighting attached to a fan that all-too-often wobbles squeakily on its highest setting. And even still, there are those that appreciate a simple desk light and a small lamp on the night stand.
If I had a choice, I would light my room the same way as a restaurant. I would want only the dimensions of the room revealed, and possibly flex-tube lighting that lines the molding where the walls meet the floor.
Please, comment and let me know what you envision the perfect lighting situation for a bedroom would be.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Moment(s) of Truth(s)
First, I'd like to share with you a kind letter I wrote to my sister, placed atop of box full of my ruined clothing. It goes a little something like this:
A,
Not trying to be a huge A-hole or anything, but seriously, these are all the clothes in my room that your cat(s) either pooped or peed all over. Most of them were inside the box already. Some were on the floor.
Every time I come home, I am greeted by the fresh scent of grade-A cat shit/piss.
I know I am not a scholar in the art of cleanliness, but this is at least 1/2 the clothing I planned to wear this winter.
Do with these items what you will: wash, trash, burn or construct inefficient wind kites. They are very much more yours than mine now.
-W
Secondly,
I just witness what is possibly the most grotesque display of drunkenness in my life. Crater, Beandip and Tenicious D, otherwise known as TD (who is a female) were being driven home by yours truly. The entire way home, I had learned that Mitts, TD's boyfriend, had gone AWOL earlier in the evening. Keep in mind that I got off work at roughly midnight, CST. That allowed me to arrive at roughly half-past, leaving me approximately an hour and some to get soused and hang out. In that time, apparently Mitts went to fetch his dog fromsome random guy's a friend of our's house down the road.
Long story short, everybody (and by everybody, I mean anyone who isn't me) lost track of Matt. TD and Beandip went looking for him, found him, and was promptly shoved off with a very quaint "Fuck you, fuck everybody" from Mr. AWOL, a.k.a., Mitts.
I, being my chivalrous self, offered everyone a ride. (And by everyone, I meant anyone who isn't Mitts.)
The entire fucking way back to Mitt and TD's house (which is actually rented by Crater as well) TD is kicking and screaming in the back seat to be let out on the street, dog in tow, to go look for Mitts herself. We are pleading with her to please please just shut the fuck up. We finally arrive to Mitt's, and I promise TD that I'll go look for him myself if she'll just take the dog inside and go to sleep. In the back of my mind, I'm wondering if the dog hasn't died from the shock of seeing a 105 lb girl going apeshit in the back of a Honda Accord.
As it turns out, Mitts is inside, wondering where the fuck his girlfriend has been all this time. He comes out in nothing but boxers and proceeds to tell all of us to fuck off, except for TD, who needs to get "her whore ass in the house." We were just (I like to use italics. Get over it.) about to leave when he actually grabs her and throws her inside. Oh. Hell. No.
She's crying. She comes stomping out, I imagine, thinking there will be a quick apology underway. There isn't. Mitts shoves her again, and I inch closer. He tells her to choose between going home with us "again" (I have no idea where that came from) or coming into the house, and adds that if Beandip or myself don't leave, he's going to club us to death. He makes an about-face and goes inside, slamming the door-- leaving TD in a heap of tears on the steps. I stand, confused, appalled, but more than anything, disgusted. I'd never seen Mitts like this, but it wasn't above me to let him get away with it. So into the house I went. I pulled him out of bed and asked "Are you fucking serious?"
That leads to him edging me closer and closer to the door until we were back out on his front porch again. There, Beandip said something that made Mitts go nutshit on him. That's when I jumped in. Mitt's pit bull is thrashing the shit out of my leg and hips as I'm pulling Mitts off Beandip-- continuing to bite and claw at me until Mitts has been thrown into the house.
After that, Beandip was breaking down. TD was hyperventilating and I was keeping my eyes open for Mitts to come out with a baseball bat. I finally convinced Beandip to leave, since we were the object of Mitts' anger, and not TD-- even though he had manhandled her. I had to make an executive decision and I don't see any other way I could have done it. I asked TD outright, "Do you feel safe here?" But she wouldn't answer. I honestly think our prolonged presence would have made everything much worse.
So that's how it was. In the aftermath, I am kind of proud of myself for just walking into his house and standing up to him, then ripping him off Beandip when he did go nuts. Though I'm surprised he didn't make a jump at me. Beandip has no natural defenses, so maybe he just wanted an easy beat-up. If that's the case, I'm sad for him.
Beandip feels horrible that we left TD there, but I don't. I remember very easily her wailing in the back of my car. It is just as much her instigating the madness as it was him being mad in the first place. (And by mad, I mean lost-his-goddayum mind) I wish there was a better way to have handled the situation, but I think by us leaving, we made the best decision possible under the circumstances.
And as a epilogue, never again would I ever put my faith in Crater to make the right choice. He is a sack of shit that didn't do anything to help at any point. In fact, it was as though he tried to make everything worse. The only thing I can credit him for was not getting involved. Still, though, he didn't have to just sit there and talk shit, and then not take responsibility for it. He basically fueled the fire and then ran to high ground. Or in this case, lower ground.
When I wake up, I'm going to nurse my dog-attack wounds and hopefully get to work on time.
Yea.
A,
Not trying to be a huge A-hole or anything, but seriously, these are all the clothes in my room that your cat(s) either pooped or peed all over. Most of them were inside the box already. Some were on the floor.
Every time I come home, I am greeted by the fresh scent of grade-A cat shit/piss.
I know I am not a scholar in the art of cleanliness, but this is at least 1/2 the clothing I planned to wear this winter.
Do with these items what you will: wash, trash, burn or construct inefficient wind kites. They are very much more yours than mine now.
-W
Secondly,
I just witness what is possibly the most grotesque display of drunkenness in my life. Crater, Beandip and Tenicious D, otherwise known as TD (who is a female) were being driven home by yours truly. The entire way home, I had learned that Mitts, TD's boyfriend, had gone AWOL earlier in the evening. Keep in mind that I got off work at roughly midnight, CST. That allowed me to arrive at roughly half-past, leaving me approximately an hour and some to get soused and hang out. In that time, apparently Mitts went to fetch his dog from
Long story short, everybody (and by everybody, I mean anyone who isn't me) lost track of Matt. TD and Beandip went looking for him, found him, and was promptly shoved off with a very quaint "Fuck you, fuck everybody" from Mr. AWOL, a.k.a., Mitts.
I, being my chivalrous self, offered everyone a ride. (And by everyone, I meant anyone who isn't Mitts.)
The entire fucking way back to Mitt and TD's house (which is actually rented by Crater as well) TD is kicking and screaming in the back seat to be let out on the street, dog in tow, to go look for Mitts herself. We are pleading with her to please please just shut the fuck up. We finally arrive to Mitt's, and I promise TD that I'll go look for him myself if she'll just take the dog inside and go to sleep. In the back of my mind, I'm wondering if the dog hasn't died from the shock of seeing a 105 lb girl going apeshit in the back of a Honda Accord.
As it turns out, Mitts is inside, wondering where the fuck his girlfriend has been all this time. He comes out in nothing but boxers and proceeds to tell all of us to fuck off, except for TD, who needs to get "her whore ass in the house." We were just (I like to use italics. Get over it.) about to leave when he actually grabs her and throws her inside. Oh. Hell. No.
She's crying. She comes stomping out, I imagine, thinking there will be a quick apology underway. There isn't. Mitts shoves her again, and I inch closer. He tells her to choose between going home with us "again" (I have no idea where that came from) or coming into the house, and adds that if Beandip or myself don't leave, he's going to club us to death. He makes an about-face and goes inside, slamming the door-- leaving TD in a heap of tears on the steps. I stand, confused, appalled, but more than anything, disgusted. I'd never seen Mitts like this, but it wasn't above me to let him get away with it. So into the house I went. I pulled him out of bed and asked "Are you fucking serious?"
That leads to him edging me closer and closer to the door until we were back out on his front porch again. There, Beandip said something that made Mitts go nutshit on him. That's when I jumped in. Mitt's pit bull is thrashing the shit out of my leg and hips as I'm pulling Mitts off Beandip-- continuing to bite and claw at me until Mitts has been thrown into the house.
After that, Beandip was breaking down. TD was hyperventilating and I was keeping my eyes open for Mitts to come out with a baseball bat. I finally convinced Beandip to leave, since we were the object of Mitts' anger, and not TD-- even though he had manhandled her. I had to make an executive decision and I don't see any other way I could have done it. I asked TD outright, "Do you feel safe here?" But she wouldn't answer. I honestly think our prolonged presence would have made everything much worse.
So that's how it was. In the aftermath, I am kind of proud of myself for just walking into his house and standing up to him, then ripping him off Beandip when he did go nuts. Though I'm surprised he didn't make a jump at me. Beandip has no natural defenses, so maybe he just wanted an easy beat-up. If that's the case, I'm sad for him.
Beandip feels horrible that we left TD there, but I don't. I remember very easily her wailing in the back of my car. It is just as much her instigating the madness as it was him being mad in the first place. (And by mad, I mean lost-his-goddayum mind) I wish there was a better way to have handled the situation, but I think by us leaving, we made the best decision possible under the circumstances.
And as a epilogue, never again would I ever put my faith in Crater to make the right choice. He is a sack of shit that didn't do anything to help at any point. In fact, it was as though he tried to make everything worse. The only thing I can credit him for was not getting involved. Still, though, he didn't have to just sit there and talk shit, and then not take responsibility for it. He basically fueled the fire and then ran to high ground. Or in this case, lower ground.
When I wake up, I'm going to nurse my dog-attack wounds and hopefully get to work on time.
Yea.
Labels:
beandip,
cat stink,
crater,
domestic violence,
drunk people,
letters,
mitts,
pit bulls,
td
Friday, October 19, 2007
Being Deaf
The tired adage: "write what you know" comes in handy tonight.
There are some truths in my life that have yet to fail. Among those are:
I have heard a lot of people say, "Oh I can't hear anything out of this ear," which proves just a few things. First of all, yea... you probably can't hear anything out of either ear because it's a bar and everything is loud. (For the record, everything I ever talk about will have occur in a bar, unless otherwise noted.) Two, it's amazing the number of people that have hearing loss. In fact, it's still not certain to auditory and oral pathologists just how much people are supposed to be hearing. Many people lose hearing without knowing it, and simply adjust. And third, you're an idiot if you lost your hearing from listening to an iPod at full throttle. You deserve a slap in the mouth for whining about it, moron.
Which brings me to another point--- not exactly related to anything I've just said, but here it is. Has anyone noticed the trend of people holding their cell phones just 4-6" away from their face, and speaking to their friend on speakerphone? Give me a fucking break. It's bad enough that I have to hear half of a very inappropriate conversation, but to air out the whole thing? What are you, fucking retarded? Turn off the speaker and lift the phone all the way up to your ear. Better yet, just try to swallow thegoddamn darn thing.
Anyway, back to being deaf. I wear hearing aids. Most people don't notice because of myhuge penis sparkling personality. People ask some pretty fcktrd questions, but the worst of them all is, "Do you have to wear those?"
"Does it bother you?"
"Well, no, I mean, can you hear without them?"
"No."
"Oh, so you have to wear them..."
And there I am, amazed at how long it took for him/her to arrive at that point all by his/herself. (I'll be honest, usually it's guys. Women are less stupid about this kind of thing.)
Continuing on. As a deaf person I have very few statements to make. I never use the deafness as an excuse -- because it's not a disability. It enables me to focus, and filter out bullshit. So, I am like you, only better.
I do have one thing to say though. If you have a physical handicap, then you had better make it your last excuse. It makes no sense to me for someone to say, "I couldn't do this as well as you because I am legally blind!" To them I say, time to start using echolocation, batty. Honestly, why shout out that you are incapable, and then expect for everyone else to allow you the same opportunities when the first thing they'll think of is, "they are incapable." Get over it, on top of it, and if you feel like it, give it a reach-around. Just don't bitch to me about it.
Okay, so next post, I promise I will have a somewhat coherent topic that won't meander into an endless rant. It was an accident, I swear.
There are some truths in my life that have yet to fail. Among those are:
- My palms and fingers get very hot when I'm bored.
- REM, Matchbox 20, and Green Day will always cheer me up.
- I am deaf.
I have heard a lot of people say, "Oh I can't hear anything out of this ear," which proves just a few things. First of all, yea... you probably can't hear anything out of either ear because it's a bar and everything is loud. (For the record, everything I ever talk about will have occur in a bar, unless otherwise noted.) Two, it's amazing the number of people that have hearing loss. In fact, it's still not certain to auditory and oral pathologists just how much people are supposed to be hearing. Many people lose hearing without knowing it, and simply adjust. And third, you're an idiot if you lost your hearing from listening to an iPod at full throttle. You deserve a slap in the mouth for whining about it, moron.
Which brings me to another point--- not exactly related to anything I've just said, but here it is. Has anyone noticed the trend of people holding their cell phones just 4-6" away from their face, and speaking to their friend on speakerphone? Give me a fucking break. It's bad enough that I have to hear half of a very inappropriate conversation, but to air out the whole thing? What are you, fucking retarded? Turn off the speaker and lift the phone all the way up to your ear. Better yet, just try to swallow the
Anyway, back to being deaf. I wear hearing aids. Most people don't notice because of my
"Does it bother you?"
"Well, no, I mean, can you hear without them?"
"No."
"Oh, so you have to wear them..."
And there I am, amazed at how long it took for him/her to arrive at that point all by his/herself. (I'll be honest, usually it's guys. Women are less stupid about this kind of thing.)
Continuing on. As a deaf person I have very few statements to make. I never use the deafness as an excuse -- because it's not a disability. It enables me to focus, and filter out bullshit. So, I am like you, only better.
I do have one thing to say though. If you have a physical handicap, then you had better make it your last excuse. It makes no sense to me for someone to say, "I couldn't do this as well as you because I am legally blind!" To them I say, time to start using echolocation, batty. Honestly, why shout out that you are incapable, and then expect for everyone else to allow you the same opportunities when the first thing they'll think of is, "they are incapable." Get over it, on top of it, and if you feel like it, give it a reach-around. Just don't bitch to me about it.
Okay, so next post, I promise I will have a somewhat coherent topic that won't meander into an endless rant. It was an accident, I swear.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Nobody Of Note
First entries are always the hardest. Where to start? What to say? One thing I've noticed is the disturbingly casual way that some people begin blogs. All things considered, these are records that could last forever... then again, the could be destroyed in a nuclear blast sometime next year. Let's hope not. Still, does immortality of these thoughts grant me to be dramatic with my intro? Of the 20 million or so bloggers out there, let's say 20% are forgotten after a week. That leaves 16 million. Even after that, another 20% die off in a month or so, when the boredom those blogs fight gives way to having a life. Now we're down to 12 mil. We can safely say that a third of the internet, at least, is devoted to ways to making your dick bigger. That leaves us with an unimpressive 5 million bloggers.
Of those 5 million, we can be sure that 1/5 of those who regularly update their blogs are under the age of 18. Sadly, this means that 1 million bloggers are beheading the foundation of thoughtful writing by pissing all over basic rules of grammar. No forum for thought has mutinied punctuation more efficiently than emoticon-mongering teenage internet users.
To the kids, I say with all my heart... fuck you.
Moving on.
Most of you that are reading this have been friends of mine for a long time. I can imagine a lot of close friends of mine skipping these first few entries-- as though they are waiting to take the advanced course. "E-mail me when you've got something I don't know about you," someone might say. To that, I reply, "Can anyone remember how useful it was to skip the first chapter of a book?"
I can imagine the kids digging this up in 30 or so years, looking puzzled and snickering, "What's a book?"
Even so, I can count up to the toes the number of people who've begun blogs and taught me something completely new about themselves in their first entry-- even after knowing them for years. It's interesting how the basics get skipped these days. Even in conversation. Everything you need to know about someone you meet at a bar is either tattooed to their lower back or plastered on t-shirts in bold lettering. I know, I know... I've worn shirts like that several times. My favorite is the one that says "Genius by birth/Slacker by choice". It's not entirely accurate. I've been known to work on occasion.
So the basics... out with them, you say? Fine, fine.
Name: Non-(Nobody Of Note)
Date of Birth: December 28
Origin: North Little Rock, Arkansas
Occupation: Non-(Nothing Of Note)
Marital Status: If I had a girlfriend, I'd be a 1-month blogger. Check back in 30 days.
Favorite Food: Meatloaf
Languages: English, a little Spanish, some sign language
Disabilities: Hard of Hearing since birth, Addicted to caffiene (it's a disease, dammit!)
Ideal Retirement: To be "that old guy." It involves a lawn chair, a shotgun, and a 3-legged dog.
Pet Peeve: When someone gimps a handshake, or extends their left hand. Seriously, people, is it too much fucking effort to shake with the right hand? Mount your cigarette, set down your beer and shake like someone who at least LOOKS like they give a fuck. I've half a mind to grab your smoldering camel light and extinguish it with your FACE.
I'm reminded of my late grandmother, who taught me the art of letter-writing. Always finish on a good note. I think this will suffice.
Of those 5 million, we can be sure that 1/5 of those who regularly update their blogs are under the age of 18. Sadly, this means that 1 million bloggers are beheading the foundation of thoughtful writing by pissing all over basic rules of grammar. No forum for thought has mutinied punctuation more efficiently than emoticon-mongering teenage internet users.
To the kids, I say with all my heart... fuck you.
Moving on.
Most of you that are reading this have been friends of mine for a long time. I can imagine a lot of close friends of mine skipping these first few entries-- as though they are waiting to take the advanced course. "E-mail me when you've got something I don't know about you," someone might say. To that, I reply, "Can anyone remember how useful it was to skip the first chapter of a book?"
I can imagine the kids digging this up in 30 or so years, looking puzzled and snickering, "What's a book?"
Even so, I can count up to the toes the number of people who've begun blogs and taught me something completely new about themselves in their first entry-- even after knowing them for years. It's interesting how the basics get skipped these days. Even in conversation. Everything you need to know about someone you meet at a bar is either tattooed to their lower back or plastered on t-shirts in bold lettering. I know, I know... I've worn shirts like that several times. My favorite is the one that says "Genius by birth/Slacker by choice". It's not entirely accurate. I've been known to work on occasion.
So the basics... out with them, you say? Fine, fine.
Name: Non-(Nobody Of Note)
Date of Birth: December 28
Origin: North Little Rock, Arkansas
Occupation: Non-(Nothing Of Note)
Marital Status: If I had a girlfriend, I'd be a 1-month blogger. Check back in 30 days.
Favorite Food: Meatloaf
Languages: English, a little Spanish, some sign language
Disabilities: Hard of Hearing since birth, Addicted to caffiene (it's a disease, dammit!)
Ideal Retirement: To be "that old guy." It involves a lawn chair, a shotgun, and a 3-legged dog.
Pet Peeve: When someone gimps a handshake, or extends their left hand. Seriously, people, is it too much fucking effort to shake with the right hand? Mount your cigarette, set down your beer and shake like someone who at least LOOKS like they give a fuck. I've half a mind to grab your smoldering camel light and extinguish it with your FACE.
I'm reminded of my late grandmother, who taught me the art of letter-writing. Always finish on a good note. I think this will suffice.
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nobody of note
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