Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Dog Person

Is it weird to anyone else that my cat rips the eyes off of all her toys? Yeah, she literally rips them off. I noticed it first with Squirrel Toy, and then last night with Furry Mouse Replica Toy. Am I in a bad Stephen King story, or is this a natural feline instinct? I'm a dog person, for crap's sake, from a long line of dog people. Literal dog people. Of the Western Andes region of Ursa Minor. This explains why I'm so agile and rad. My ancestors would've shat themselves raw if they knew that I kept the company of Zoe, not to mention that Swedish/Korean midget dominatrix I've got tied up in the closet.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Bridge Troll

Work was done, money was made, and it'll all be spent by tomorrow...
There's nothing like finishing up with a long day at two in the a.m., plopping your ass on the couch, cracking a beer, drinking it, and absorbing silence. Well, silence and the beer. Aside from my lunatic cat running frantic laps throughout the apartment, I have no roommate to deal with, no sign at all of upstairs neighbors banging to deal with, no nothing. My stereo is even off, which is rare. It's been a while since I've been able to sit with the windows open at this time of night and appreciate the void of sound that accompanies it, save for the occasional car cruising down East Wash and a few lonely crickets playing their fiddles. Ah, solitude.
A woman actually banged repeatedly on her almost empty pint of beer tonight to get my attention. Which was new. It was like what you do at a wedding to get the bride and groom to smooch, but I didn't get to kiss anyone. And it was loud. I could hear it all the way in the kitchen, which was where I was when this crazy urinal cake of a woman decided I needed to be summoned. I've been snapped at and obnoxiously hailed in all kinds of ways by all kinds of yuppie idiots, but this was a first. Thanks, bridge-troll-looking lady. Thanks a bunch.
Quote of the Day:
"There the fuck is Damon!" -- Rob, on being asked where the fuck was Damon? (OK, this quote was actually from like a week ago, but I just thought of it, and it made me chuckle)
Actual Quote of the Day:
"Ow, the water here is really fricking hard!" -- Taco, on being pelted in the face with an ice cube
Joke of the Day:
A Catholic Priest and a Jewish Rabbi are sitting together on a park bench. After a bit, a little boy comes walking by, and the priest says to the rabbi, "We should screw that kid." To which the rabbi responded, "Out of what?"
Alright, that's enough. Bye.

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Ligers. Seriously, you guys. Ligers.

Um, can we please talk about this? Please? There are actually such things as ligers. I shit you not. Unfortunately, they are not really bred for skills in magic, just for being totally the biggest frickin' cats on the face of the planet. Yesss!

Train Tracks

The night was meant for walking, and I strapped on my shoes. Spent the better part of an hour sitting at the Monona Terrace, feeling insignificant while underneath the expansive starscape and next to the lake. Sometimes it is comforting to feel part of something infinite. Your problems don't seem so big anymore, and it gets to where you almost feel as though you can laugh at their insignificance. I stuck up a conversation with a girl named Sabrina, don't really remember how. "We are all each other's guardian angels," I read somewhere, and I think she was one of mine. I can't get into it. Ask me about it some other time, when my brain is less full of quandaries. We said our goodbyes, and onwards I walked, further into the dark throat of night. I began along the train tracks heading east, but the uneven terrain caused my focus to be on my feet rather than my surroundings, so I opted for the bike path. Good news: large dirt hills are still as cool to climb now as they were when I was eight. It is equally still satisfying to hurl dirt clumps from the top of said hills, and watch with glee as they disintegrate against the walls of nearby buildings. I continued like this for a while, stopping here and there, content to walk, listen to music, and be alone. I felt like I had the world to myself. I was able to sing, and not feel like that crazy dude wandering around town shouting Kanye songs at the top of his cigarette-encrusted lungs. Clear thought ensued, mini-revelations might have been had. I almost stopped for a beer at the Brass Ring, but decided against it, figuring it'd just fuzz up whatever clarity I might've just gained, however brief it might've been. Ah, fleeting tranquility. It was nice while it lasted.

Saturday, May 14, 2005


Graduation weekend, and here I am, still not graduated. So it is.

A man walks into the bar today, completely oblivious to the slew of black robes and proud parents, sits down, orders a Bud Lite, and cordially strikes up a conversation with me. It is apparent that this man, who introduces himself affectionately as "Bogey," has been drinking for a considerable period of time prior to meeting me at 11:30 am. It is also apparent that this man's nickname is quite appropriate. A bogey in golf, for those of you who don't know, is one over par, and this guy is way over par. And I'm not talkin' drinks. I immediately think: Charles Bukowski. For four (4) reasons. One, he began sucking back vodka/grapefruits at 6 am (because he's "an early riser") at Bennet's On The Park. Never been to Bennet's? Think greasy eggs and sloppy '70s porn. "Smut and Eggs," as they say. Boy is it a shithole. I may or may not have been to this place one time with my friend "Phil," and the owner of this place may or may not've been wearing this thing on his head that looked like a giant penis, and my other friend "Molly" may or may not have stolen said penis hat in a brilliant heist. Well, she actually just asked to try it on and never gave it back. But you know. The creme de la creme hang out there, let me tell you. While I have admittedly been there once or twice after accidentally staying up all night, the place is full of people who actually get up to go there and start drinking/watch disgusting people have sex on many little television screens. Had I not been half in the bag on these occasions, I'm sure this would be a lot less hilarious and a lot more depressing. The place is a scream, regardless of how you choose to look at it. Two, (now we're back to Bogey), he was reading Portrait of the Artist. He carries it around with him always. This is awesome, I think. I don't know many people who've gotten through that book, besides myself and 1/3 of my senior year English class. And yet this guy loves it! He'd talk your ear off about any other of a million topics also. Why is it that the smartest people always seem to be degenerates? Perhaps it's because they see this stink pile for what it is, and just don't give a shit. But I guess knowledge is a relative thing. Three, the guy is a frickin' mail carrier in Palatine, IL! I mean, come on! Four, he hit on anything with two breasts and teeth. And I mean anything. And he wasn't picky about the teeth thing.
Anyhow, the guy was a pleasure, and he ended up keeping me company all day, providing some much-needed levity from the preposterously-demanding onslaught of Coastie parents that bombarded me with outrageous requests without leaving anything for my troubles. And you wonder where those JAP girls get it from? Holy Christ. I almost stabbed a Jewish mother today, right through her gaudy alligator/rhinocerous-looking broach. Don't ask. There's only so much a man can take before resorting to grisly murder.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

Avadis (please check spelling)

Before I forget:
Quote of the Day:
"Have you ever met Avadis? No? Well, Avadis is three things:
  1. A great pianist.
  2. Really angry.
  3. Always looking for a job."


Thursday, May 05, 2005

So, I went to middle school with this kid we called Yoshi. To this day, I'm not sure why we called him Yoshi, other than that time coincided perfectly with the introduction of that little dinosaur lizard thing in "Super Mario World." His real name is Josh. He was the guy who, on fill-in-the-blank tests, would write Jean Claude Van Damme in as the guy who penned the Declaration of Independence. A weird dude, to say the least. We used to get into all sorts of trouble together: stealing candy, sneaking into movies, all that "really rebellious" stuff you do as a kid in your early teens. Anyway, I was thinking about him today, for the first time in years probably, because he was really hyper-active. I mean, really hyper-active. From time to time, he'd have these fits in class where he couldn't stop laughing: it was kind of tragic in a super hilarious way. We'd live for these episodes because he'd disrupt class so badly that all teaching would come to an immediate halt, and we'd have to wait sometimes for half the period for him to calm down. He used to have to carry around this little rectangle thing that looked kind of like something you'd scrub your dirty dishes with, and when he started to freak out, he'd rub this magical object on his arm, thus somehow assuaging the impending incident. It worked like a charm. Usually. One day in eighth grade, he just stopped coming to school--vanished like some giggling banshee. I heard that he was committed, but I prefer to believe that he was devoured by lions.
The point being, I think I need one of those mystical calmer-downer-dish-scrubber strips for my new cat. Have I mentioned that she gets easily over-stimulated? It's a good thing she's a cute little booger, or else she'd be in the lake.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005


I just got done listening to an obsenely tone-deaf fat guy singing Led Zeppelin covers at Open Mic Night at Cheeseburger in Paradise. It's a lame Jimmy Buffett place right by where I work, brightly adorned in the finest of corporate cheesery (pun most definitely intended) with parrots, palm fronds, pastel colors, and other vaguely Floridian-themed garbage. If there is a Hell, that's where I'd be (should it come to that), paying $7 for weak drinks, and listening to "The Captain" butcher "The Battle of Evermore" like it was a retarded calf.
There's no question in my mind that I'll be back there next week, however, as I have been for the past three weeks now. I'm a glutton for punishment, and "The Captain" is too hilarious to pass up. Really. I mean, he calls himself "The Captain" for crap's sake. And his sole instrument is a mandolin (or quite possibly a ukelele) that looks as though it was bought at the bargain bin at a KB Toys. I wish he was my grandpa. Oh wait, no I don't.
How to Behave Yourself in Public, Tip #305:
Under NO circumstances is it ever, ever acceptable to clip your nails while seated in a restaurant and leave the remnants on the dang table. EVER. Seriously. If you're that bored, you need a new boyfriend. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Blonde Green Shirt Girl.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Black Spotted Lady Bug Toy

Well, I think stasis has been restored. There was no snow today, which is good considering it's MAY, for frick's sake, and the dust has settled following another go at the Mifflin St. Block Party. This is the first year in five that I have partaken in sobriety on this day of days, instead of diving head first into the revelry. I had to work. But I was OK with that. Despite not being directly involved in the mass destruction of millions of collective brain cells in the compact, four block radius, I did get my fair share of the spillover on State Street while dredged in at Hawk's. I felt as though I was in a bad George Romero remake. The zombie hoard was thick, drunk, and thirsty. Very thirsty. Strong drink was all that could keep them at bay, and I was happy to throw at them whatever spirits I was able. Some were menacing 28 Days Later zombies, while many of the others did the slow shuffle of the early movies. Either way there was vomiting.
Needless to say, I then had no choice to become a blathering idiot myself, seeing as it was my only night last week to make due on a night out. Birthdays were celebrated, times were had. The group was reduced to middle schoolers somewhere in the course of the evening. I'm not going to get into it.
Oh, and I got a cat. It just seemed to make sense. Long story. Got her yesterday from the Humane Society. Her name's Zoe. She's black and was bred for her skills in magic and sweet ninja abilities. She's a lot healthier-looking than old, tattered Cruiser (God rest her little soul), although she has a propensity for acquiring much filmy gunk in her right eye, as well as becoming "easily over-stimulated." So basically I've gone from one cat with acute Down Syndrome to one who needs periodic time-outs in the corner when she gets too hyper. Awesome.
Right now, she's perched on top of the T.V., eying up her mortal enemy, Black Spotted Lady Bug Toy. She hates that fucking bug.
Cosmo Quote of the Day:
"Time to give Bozo the Clown and Howdy Doody the Chair for raping America's children. You hear me, don't you?" -- on (innocently) being asked what time it was