"That's the way it began,We were hand in hand, Glenn Miller's Band was better than before. We yelled and screamed for more. And the chorus tune, Made us dance across the room, It ended all too soon" Little River Band from "Reminiscing"
The nurse and I were having an Alternate Reality kind of morning as we sat around, taking the meds slowly, and talking about the good old days. See, thought this here bloggy is only about two months old, the nurse has been with me since birth: day one. From my epidural high as I squeezed my way out of SuperMom's Play Doh Fun Factory of Life to yesterday's horrible day at HellJob, she has always been there. So, as we verbally danced through the years three names came to reign supreme. Don, Wayne and Atomic.
I will get to more tales of Wayne and Atomic, but today I want to introduce you all to Don, fuck that Donnie. Say hello to the nice people would ya? You fine folks, my fans and friends get special guests who stop by from time to time when I write about them, and I'm hoping today is no different. Donnie will be available for questions in the lobby after the show.
Donnie and I met in high school through another mutual friend, Stevie. But Stevie didn't have the razor wit that Donnie, Wayne and I shared, so he ended up being the constant butt of jokes both practical and verbal. In Donnie, though, I found one of my "other" brothers, Wayne and Atomic both qualify under this auspicious title. See, I basically lived at Donnie's. His parents were my second parents, his Pop was my only real father figure and I called him Pop. Donnie's mom I called Cherie for that is her name and I already had SuperMom at home, so no need for the Mom tag, but surrogate mother she most definitely was.
Donnie's house was the scene of many a shenanigan. Whether it be pulling the tacked down carpet up in the middle of the night or wakes that somehow felt more like parties, times were rarely dull. We would inflict upon his mother movies like The Wall, Tommy, Clockwork Orange, or Blue Velvet while she smoked and drank incredible amounts of coffee, I'm amazed she ever slept. And she has this laugh, a cackling howl that if you were the recipient of, heaven help you. It was wicked. Funny, but wicked.
We built a weight room, we swam, we drank copious amounts of booze and beer all under the watchful eye, she only has one, of Cherie. And when Pop was home we minded his business which he was never allowed to talk about due to security clearance issues, at least that's what he told us, probably just didn't want to talk to a bunch of drunk teenagers about his day at the office, and really, could you blame him? But Pop would let me mow the lawn of a pack of Pall Mall Non Filters, crushingly harsh smokes to take in my youth, but hey smokes were smokes. For all the good stuff and the bad, they were my family.
Even when the truth of my origins became known, I lied for years about where I was from, they scolded but loved me just the same. I introduced, kind of, Donnie to his wife. I learned much about how a family works. I grew up as the third, well fourth if you count James, child of the Harris family and I am forever grateful to them for allowing me in.
Donnie will now field any questions you may have about himself? Me in high school? The shenanigans that I don't dare mention? Whatever.
Dixie Cup of Love: My brother Don.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Squirt Some
"And please remember that I never lied, And please remember, how I felt inside now honey. You gotta make it your own way, But you'll be alright now sugar, You'll feel better tomorrow, Come the morning light now baby" Guns 'N Roses from "Don't Cry"
As the nurse came in with a decorative Flintstones Dixie cup full of meds cut in the shape of Betty Rubble, the most edible of the cast, I couldn't help but notice her eyes were swollen and red. As I have stated before the nurses pain in one of my great sources of amusement, the others being children running into closed sliding glass doors and the movies of Pauly Shore, it true, it's sad, but it's true. In order for the effect to fully envelope my being I have to know the cause of her anguish. Symptoms are great, but the impetuous really pumps my nads. After asking what was the matter the nurse informed me that sometimes she just cries so that she knows she's alive. She needs to feel something and in the absence of anything else, she clings to grief. Holy Hell, what a gyp. Crying for no reason, totally senseless.
There is a myth that real men don't cry. That's hogwash. Anyone who says that I am any less of a man because, yes, the end of E.T. The Extra Terrestrial is touching and emotional, well they can kiss my whole ass. Sometimes tears flow at the strangest times. For instance, I didn't cry when my grandparents died, not for any of them, but I did when my uncle passed away. It wasn't about carrying for any one person more than the other, it just hit me in a different way. And that's what I'm getting at today, the unexpected tears.
The last movie that made me cry, totally snuck up on me. I was sitting at home, an yes, I was a lot of high. I think it was the numb maker cocktail of weed and Ambien. Yes, it's hard to stay awake, but it's also so relaxing that you really do find it difficult to move your limbs without a great deal of thought. It's the perfect "space" to be in while watching cinema. So, with my concentration completely transfixed on the film showing in 53" of colorful splendor, I never saw it coming.
To understand how this wonderful flick got to me, you need some important background information. I used to write these letters, still have them in the boxes and boxes of scribblings that I've kept, these letters were to my daughter, Megan. Now, don't freak out like a character on a soap opera that just found out that they have an evil twin, well all do, but I don't have a daughter, not yet. Always thought if I had to have a kid, if by some cosmic accident I was chosen to be someones father, then I wanted it to be a girl. A son would be fine, but a daughter, a Daddy's Little Girl, that's something that I always thought I could be worthy of. Now that you know that we can get back to our regularly scheduled blog, without further interruptions.
As I watched the film, zoned out of my mind on downers, I wasn't paying attention to the details. The over all grasp of the movie was getting through, bit I missed the smallest of details and it caused the water works like chopping onions. For those of you who haven't seen the Paul Haggis movie "Crash" I don't want to ruin a beautiful moment. If you have seen it, you will understand that the daughter of the Latino man was the impetuous of my tear duct betrayal. I'm not afraid to admit it because, a real man can cry, and those that tell you otherwise are lying to you and themselves.
Any movies make you cry?
Dixie Cup of Love: I wrote this because my sister asked me to explain to my nephew that it was all right to cry, that he didn't have to be a tough guy all the time.
PS - A quick favor. Ms. Judi Sunshine, whom most of you love and adore as much as I, needs to get a few more subscribers to her blog to achieve a great personal goal. I don't know what it is, as it was personal. But if you haven't subscribed to her site, please take a moment to do so. The blog you save could be your own. Judi's Blog.
As the nurse came in with a decorative Flintstones Dixie cup full of meds cut in the shape of Betty Rubble, the most edible of the cast, I couldn't help but notice her eyes were swollen and red. As I have stated before the nurses pain in one of my great sources of amusement, the others being children running into closed sliding glass doors and the movies of Pauly Shore, it true, it's sad, but it's true. In order for the effect to fully envelope my being I have to know the cause of her anguish. Symptoms are great, but the impetuous really pumps my nads. After asking what was the matter the nurse informed me that sometimes she just cries so that she knows she's alive. She needs to feel something and in the absence of anything else, she clings to grief. Holy Hell, what a gyp. Crying for no reason, totally senseless.
There is a myth that real men don't cry. That's hogwash. Anyone who says that I am any less of a man because, yes, the end of E.T. The Extra Terrestrial is touching and emotional, well they can kiss my whole ass. Sometimes tears flow at the strangest times. For instance, I didn't cry when my grandparents died, not for any of them, but I did when my uncle passed away. It wasn't about carrying for any one person more than the other, it just hit me in a different way. And that's what I'm getting at today, the unexpected tears.
The last movie that made me cry, totally snuck up on me. I was sitting at home, an yes, I was a lot of high. I think it was the numb maker cocktail of weed and Ambien. Yes, it's hard to stay awake, but it's also so relaxing that you really do find it difficult to move your limbs without a great deal of thought. It's the perfect "space" to be in while watching cinema. So, with my concentration completely transfixed on the film showing in 53" of colorful splendor, I never saw it coming.
To understand how this wonderful flick got to me, you need some important background information. I used to write these letters, still have them in the boxes and boxes of scribblings that I've kept, these letters were to my daughter, Megan. Now, don't freak out like a character on a soap opera that just found out that they have an evil twin, well all do, but I don't have a daughter, not yet. Always thought if I had to have a kid, if by some cosmic accident I was chosen to be someones father, then I wanted it to be a girl. A son would be fine, but a daughter, a Daddy's Little Girl, that's something that I always thought I could be worthy of. Now that you know that we can get back to our regularly scheduled blog, without further interruptions.
As I watched the film, zoned out of my mind on downers, I wasn't paying attention to the details. The over all grasp of the movie was getting through, bit I missed the smallest of details and it caused the water works like chopping onions. For those of you who haven't seen the Paul Haggis movie "Crash" I don't want to ruin a beautiful moment. If you have seen it, you will understand that the daughter of the Latino man was the impetuous of my tear duct betrayal. I'm not afraid to admit it because, a real man can cry, and those that tell you otherwise are lying to you and themselves.
Any movies make you cry?
Dixie Cup of Love: I wrote this because my sister asked me to explain to my nephew that it was all right to cry, that he didn't have to be a tough guy all the time.
PS - A quick favor. Ms. Judi Sunshine, whom most of you love and adore as much as I, needs to get a few more subscribers to her blog to achieve a great personal goal. I don't know what it is, as it was personal. But if you haven't subscribed to her site, please take a moment to do so. The blog you save could be your own. Judi's Blog.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Taking Summer Back
"So let's board the dogs lock the door. We'll roll down Interstate 94. Be the best week of our lives I can tell. We'll take our dream vacation in the Dells" The Gear Daddies from "Dream Vacation"
The nurse informed me that it was time for her annual getaway week. This always made me uneasy, as I was never sure if she would ever come back, and of course I had no idea how I would get my meds while she was gone. It's not like she deserved a break or anything, how hard can dealing with yours truly be? I'm strapped down eighty percent of the time and I ask for a sponge bath every other day. It's not like I'm some Naomi Campbell of a patient, throwing cell phones, ranting about tofu, and generally being a spoiled bitch. I'm a tethered down patient in an Asylum for the love of Pete. Why does she even get vacations, she's imaginary?
We've all played the "Where would you go for a vacation if you could go anywhere game?". It's fun to think about ourselves in exotic locales, smoking worldly strands of marijuana or sipping shots off the belly of a locale prostitute. Wait, maybe that's just how I envision my vacation. I don't have the kids that I need to make happy. Disney World is not on my radar screen. That is, unless they built a Disney World Amsterdam, in which case I'm certainly gonna enjoy the shit out of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. Maybe spend the day at Goofy's Bakery eating pot brownies and giving passing children the bird. Stoned to the bone I just might figure out what the appeal is of "It's A Small World", cause sober that is just a boring, mind numbing ten minutes.
I'd like to go to Italy, zip around Rome on a Vespa, pointing and saying "Ciao" to the locals. That would be a trip all about food and finding an Italian hooker with baby seal sized brown eyes. Sure, I'd want to take in the sights, maybe get high and visit the Vatican, cause that would be the only way to do it. But alas, this would require finding weed in a foreign land that isn't as friendly to the Glaucoma set as The Netherlands. You know, I'm sure there are museums and plenty of old stuff, not just talking hookers here, in Amsterdam. Ciao Italy. I hardly missed you.
What about the land down under? Australia seems appealing. I've heard that the women there are quite the free spirited batch. Not that I am saying that all Aussie women are whores, not at all, I just read that it's the easiest place in the world to get laid. But you know, the problem with Australia is, it's at the other end of the world. The plane ride if like four days long, that's no way to start a vacation. Sure, getting piloted with an Aborigine sounds like a hoot, all that fire, dancing and digereedo playing. But you know, Scott can blow that bamboo and he's not quite four days away. Nope, Australia is off the itinerary.
So where does that leave my vacation planning? How about some place right here in the old U.S. of A.? Now, just gotta pick a destination. Let's see. Florida, too humid. Washington, too much rain. New York, too New York-ey. North Dakota, why the hell would anyone vacation in North Dakota? Hawaii, interesting thought, but now that I'm east coast it's a hella plane ride, might was well go to... Amsterdam.
Well, I guess picking a destination for the week that you are allotted for personal time from a dead end, soul crushing, slave waged job is harder than I thought. Am I the only one that thinks that we should get some kind of summer vacation package? Not all of us can take off June through Sept., I'd be willing to take Dec through Feb, doesn't matter that much too me, it would just be a great way to increase productivity, happy working environments, and vacations wouldn't have to be crammed into a seven day window, which would put Australia back on the board.
Where would you go on Vacation? What's the best one you've been on? Family vacation horror stories always welcome.
Dixie Cup of Love: Dutch Hookers and Bakers.
The nurse informed me that it was time for her annual getaway week. This always made me uneasy, as I was never sure if she would ever come back, and of course I had no idea how I would get my meds while she was gone. It's not like she deserved a break or anything, how hard can dealing with yours truly be? I'm strapped down eighty percent of the time and I ask for a sponge bath every other day. It's not like I'm some Naomi Campbell of a patient, throwing cell phones, ranting about tofu, and generally being a spoiled bitch. I'm a tethered down patient in an Asylum for the love of Pete. Why does she even get vacations, she's imaginary?
We've all played the "Where would you go for a vacation if you could go anywhere game?". It's fun to think about ourselves in exotic locales, smoking worldly strands of marijuana or sipping shots off the belly of a locale prostitute. Wait, maybe that's just how I envision my vacation. I don't have the kids that I need to make happy. Disney World is not on my radar screen. That is, unless they built a Disney World Amsterdam, in which case I'm certainly gonna enjoy the shit out of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. Maybe spend the day at Goofy's Bakery eating pot brownies and giving passing children the bird. Stoned to the bone I just might figure out what the appeal is of "It's A Small World", cause sober that is just a boring, mind numbing ten minutes.
I'd like to go to Italy, zip around Rome on a Vespa, pointing and saying "Ciao" to the locals. That would be a trip all about food and finding an Italian hooker with baby seal sized brown eyes. Sure, I'd want to take in the sights, maybe get high and visit the Vatican, cause that would be the only way to do it. But alas, this would require finding weed in a foreign land that isn't as friendly to the Glaucoma set as The Netherlands. You know, I'm sure there are museums and plenty of old stuff, not just talking hookers here, in Amsterdam. Ciao Italy. I hardly missed you.
What about the land down under? Australia seems appealing. I've heard that the women there are quite the free spirited batch. Not that I am saying that all Aussie women are whores, not at all, I just read that it's the easiest place in the world to get laid. But you know, the problem with Australia is, it's at the other end of the world. The plane ride if like four days long, that's no way to start a vacation. Sure, getting piloted with an Aborigine sounds like a hoot, all that fire, dancing and digereedo playing. But you know, Scott can blow that bamboo and he's not quite four days away. Nope, Australia is off the itinerary.
So where does that leave my vacation planning? How about some place right here in the old U.S. of A.? Now, just gotta pick a destination. Let's see. Florida, too humid. Washington, too much rain. New York, too New York-ey. North Dakota, why the hell would anyone vacation in North Dakota? Hawaii, interesting thought, but now that I'm east coast it's a hella plane ride, might was well go to... Amsterdam.
Well, I guess picking a destination for the week that you are allotted for personal time from a dead end, soul crushing, slave waged job is harder than I thought. Am I the only one that thinks that we should get some kind of summer vacation package? Not all of us can take off June through Sept., I'd be willing to take Dec through Feb, doesn't matter that much too me, it would just be a great way to increase productivity, happy working environments, and vacations wouldn't have to be crammed into a seven day window, which would put Australia back on the board.
Where would you go on Vacation? What's the best one you've been on? Family vacation horror stories always welcome.
Dixie Cup of Love: Dutch Hookers and Bakers.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Hanging My Hat
"Somewhere round mile marker 112, Papa started hummin the funk, I gotta jones in my bones before we know, We were singing this melody. Stop the car pulled out the guitar, Halfway to New Orleans." Marc Broussard from "Home"
Being locked in the Asylum for as long as i have, and trust me it's been an eternity, I have found ways to make the most of my surroundings. I've come to think of my nurse as something like family. Granted, it would be an enabler/addict relationship. She supplies the drugs and I need them to remain docile amongst you so-called "normals". Whatever our relationship is, the nurse makes my time in personal hell feel like home. And thinking of this got me intrigued about the idea of what home means to me.
I've traveled around, seen some country, but I always ended my journey where they began. Home. Now you can imagine that as great as SuperMom was at juggling three brats, two jobs, and a social life, we did tend to more about like gypsies in a traveling show. The only home that she has ever owned in the one that we currently live in. So, home was never a particular place, more of a feeling. It was where I felt comfortable as Oprah at a buffet. When my dreams were sweeter than Miley Cyrus on lithium. Where the food always tasted like I'd just smoked a bowl.
When I was in Minnesota it was friends like Jeff, Travis, Angie, and of course Cari that made it feel like home. It was the way they welcomed me into their lives. The opened their blessed Norwegian hearts to me like Brian Wilson opened my ears to music. Like Kevin Smith opened my mind to the snap of dialogue. They were accepting and non-judgmental in a way that only people who spend months covered in Jack Frost's dropping, eating hot dish, could be.
When I went to Michigan, though there was the same amount of crappy weather, it never felt like home. There was nothing in that dirty depressing p[lace that would ever make me want to come back. Sorry Michiganites, or Michigonians, or whatever it is you call yourselves, Detroit ruined the whole state for me. Much the way that the Packers ruined the entire state of Wisconsin. But hey that's only 2 out of 50 states that are on the black list. And of the remaining states that I have not visited only one has the potential to be added, not saying which one.
Even though SuperMom, my sister, and my niece and nephews are here, the Slow still doesn't feel like home. LA does because for the last five years my friends there made it feel like no other place on Earth. It's the first time in my life that family isn't enough to make me feel secure. There's something about home that makes you feel invincible. Think about it. Do you ever feel safer than when you get inside the walls of home? Whether it be the house you live in, your parents, or the state where your friends are.
Will this place ever feel like home? Sure it will. Once I get my friends here, my smoker set up, a round of movie bomb, and a bottle of rum. Until them I guess I'll just click my heels together when I miss everyone back home, worked for Dorothy, and we've had plenty of tornadoes.
What make you feel at home?
Dixie Cup of Love: Darling Niki for the idea.
Being locked in the Asylum for as long as i have, and trust me it's been an eternity, I have found ways to make the most of my surroundings. I've come to think of my nurse as something like family. Granted, it would be an enabler/addict relationship. She supplies the drugs and I need them to remain docile amongst you so-called "normals". Whatever our relationship is, the nurse makes my time in personal hell feel like home. And thinking of this got me intrigued about the idea of what home means to me.
I've traveled around, seen some country, but I always ended my journey where they began. Home. Now you can imagine that as great as SuperMom was at juggling three brats, two jobs, and a social life, we did tend to more about like gypsies in a traveling show. The only home that she has ever owned in the one that we currently live in. So, home was never a particular place, more of a feeling. It was where I felt comfortable as Oprah at a buffet. When my dreams were sweeter than Miley Cyrus on lithium. Where the food always tasted like I'd just smoked a bowl.
When I was in Minnesota it was friends like Jeff, Travis, Angie, and of course Cari that made it feel like home. It was the way they welcomed me into their lives. The opened their blessed Norwegian hearts to me like Brian Wilson opened my ears to music. Like Kevin Smith opened my mind to the snap of dialogue. They were accepting and non-judgmental in a way that only people who spend months covered in Jack Frost's dropping, eating hot dish, could be.
When I went to Michigan, though there was the same amount of crappy weather, it never felt like home. There was nothing in that dirty depressing p[lace that would ever make me want to come back. Sorry Michiganites, or Michigonians, or whatever it is you call yourselves, Detroit ruined the whole state for me. Much the way that the Packers ruined the entire state of Wisconsin. But hey that's only 2 out of 50 states that are on the black list. And of the remaining states that I have not visited only one has the potential to be added, not saying which one.
Even though SuperMom, my sister, and my niece and nephews are here, the Slow still doesn't feel like home. LA does because for the last five years my friends there made it feel like no other place on Earth. It's the first time in my life that family isn't enough to make me feel secure. There's something about home that makes you feel invincible. Think about it. Do you ever feel safer than when you get inside the walls of home? Whether it be the house you live in, your parents, or the state where your friends are.
Will this place ever feel like home? Sure it will. Once I get my friends here, my smoker set up, a round of movie bomb, and a bottle of rum. Until them I guess I'll just click my heels together when I miss everyone back home, worked for Dorothy, and we've had plenty of tornadoes.
What make you feel at home?
Dixie Cup of Love: Darling Niki for the idea.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
The Complete Idiot
"Welcome to a new kind of tension. All across the alien nation. Where everything isn't meant to be okay. Television dreams of tomorrow. We're not the ones who're meant to follow. For that's enough to argue." Green Day from "American Idiot"
The nurse was reading a book entitled "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Nursing in An Imaginary Asylum" and I realized that these books have gotten out of control. First of all, I didn't even know that the nurse could read above a fourth grade level. But the fact that there was a book that so was specific to the nurse and her role in my life was astounding to me. And it got me thinking about other idiot guides that I think the world is ready for and some that really exist.
There are things that an idiots guide are useful for. A Complete Idiot's Guide to HTML can come in handy. The Idiot's Guide to Self Esteem isn't. If you're self esteem is so far in the porcelain altar that you feel the need to read a book that begins by calling you an idiot, thereby lowering your self esteem, you need bigger more professional help than that book can offer you. If you buy an idiots guide to being funny, you're not, get over it, move on, take up scrapbooking. There's an idiot's guide for that to help you get started.
If you are currently reading the Complete Idiots Guide to Breaking Bad Habits, the first habit you need to break is buying worthless books. You can't quit smoking because a book tells you to, you just have to set down the smokes. I can't, I love smoking, but I know that I won't buy a Complete Idiot's Guide to Cancer because I know that I got the cancer because I was a complete idiot. Did you know there's a Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Time. This book should be one page long. Reader, buy a watch, get more shit done. The End. Do you think your time is being well spend reading that book? Do you think the 17 bucks you shelled out for it is listed as a great expense in the Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Finances?
I will admit that I have a few of these books. Why? Because I was feeling like an incomplete idiot and thought that I could gain some knowledge from them. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Writing told me to write. Insightful, no? I would never have been able to figure that one out on my own. I do not, however, own the Complete Idiot's Guide to Fly Fishing because I find the title to be oxymoronic. There are no Complete Idiot's Guides on my bookshelf that tackle Jesus, The Bible, The Book of Revalations, Jewish Myth and Mysticism, Understanding Mormanism, or Kabbalah, yet they are all available. Screw you Scientologists, you're not covered.
But there's a few books that I'm not sure if they exist, but they should. I'd like to read the Complete Idiot's Guide to Masturbation. If you can't figure out how to please yourself, you should be able to buy a book that teaches you. I'd like to read the Complete Idiot's Guide to Understanding Women. And I hope that it's written by a dude that has never been married, had kids, and still lives in his mothers basement, cause he would know as much as anyone else. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Being A Celebutante could actually teach you how to use millions of dollars to be thought of world wide as a whore. Where's the Complete Idiot's Guide to Becoming a Whore? What a read that would be, huh?
Now, that this blog is done, I feel like a complete idiot. Maybe I'll write a book.
What Idiot's Guide would you like to read?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Complete Idiot's Guide to Drugs.
The nurse was reading a book entitled "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Nursing in An Imaginary Asylum" and I realized that these books have gotten out of control. First of all, I didn't even know that the nurse could read above a fourth grade level. But the fact that there was a book that so was specific to the nurse and her role in my life was astounding to me. And it got me thinking about other idiot guides that I think the world is ready for and some that really exist.
There are things that an idiots guide are useful for. A Complete Idiot's Guide to HTML can come in handy. The Idiot's Guide to Self Esteem isn't. If you're self esteem is so far in the porcelain altar that you feel the need to read a book that begins by calling you an idiot, thereby lowering your self esteem, you need bigger more professional help than that book can offer you. If you buy an idiots guide to being funny, you're not, get over it, move on, take up scrapbooking. There's an idiot's guide for that to help you get started.
If you are currently reading the Complete Idiots Guide to Breaking Bad Habits, the first habit you need to break is buying worthless books. You can't quit smoking because a book tells you to, you just have to set down the smokes. I can't, I love smoking, but I know that I won't buy a Complete Idiot's Guide to Cancer because I know that I got the cancer because I was a complete idiot. Did you know there's a Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Time. This book should be one page long. Reader, buy a watch, get more shit done. The End. Do you think your time is being well spend reading that book? Do you think the 17 bucks you shelled out for it is listed as a great expense in the Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Finances?
I will admit that I have a few of these books. Why? Because I was feeling like an incomplete idiot and thought that I could gain some knowledge from them. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Writing told me to write. Insightful, no? I would never have been able to figure that one out on my own. I do not, however, own the Complete Idiot's Guide to Fly Fishing because I find the title to be oxymoronic. There are no Complete Idiot's Guides on my bookshelf that tackle Jesus, The Bible, The Book of Revalations, Jewish Myth and Mysticism, Understanding Mormanism, or Kabbalah, yet they are all available. Screw you Scientologists, you're not covered.
But there's a few books that I'm not sure if they exist, but they should. I'd like to read the Complete Idiot's Guide to Masturbation. If you can't figure out how to please yourself, you should be able to buy a book that teaches you. I'd like to read the Complete Idiot's Guide to Understanding Women. And I hope that it's written by a dude that has never been married, had kids, and still lives in his mothers basement, cause he would know as much as anyone else. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Being A Celebutante could actually teach you how to use millions of dollars to be thought of world wide as a whore. Where's the Complete Idiot's Guide to Becoming a Whore? What a read that would be, huh?
Now, that this blog is done, I feel like a complete idiot. Maybe I'll write a book.
What Idiot's Guide would you like to read?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Complete Idiot's Guide to Drugs.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Even Paul McCartney Had Wings
"Take time for your pleasure, And laugh with love. Take the hand of another, And sing for the wings of a dove" Madness from "Wings of a Dove"
When the nurse came in to administer my dose of happiness inducers she could still smell the beer that was seeping out of every pore of my body. The look of disappointment on her face told me that she was sad that I chose to over consume, but I gotta tell you, it was just what the doctor ordered. The week has zapped the life out of me and I nearly passed on my evening out due to exhaustion, but I'm no quitter. I showered, donned my bowling shirt, scented up, and set out with a mission to introduce myself to anyone and everyone.
I arrived at the bar to find my beloved Bree behind the bar and my usual chair at the end of that bar was unoccupied. Lucky me. As I was a little light on funds, since I haven't gotten paid from HellJob yet, I decided on beer instead of rum. Bree decided that she would charge me for a pitcher, but she would tap my beers one at a time to avoid warming. What a doll.
It was race night in North Carolina which meant that my evening would be revolve around conversations about a sport that I really have nothing to say about. So, already my mission was facing some obstacles, but I was determined. Sitting next to me was a wonderfully drunk couple, April and Ron. They were great about answering my race related questions, being a good couple of single serving friends. Bree checked on me from time to time, filling my beer as it got low. I love her more and more every time I go in there.
When the race ended the crowd vanished. As that particular bar closes at midnight, stupid Sunday booze laws, I decided to head up to a private club that gets to stay open. I was a little tipsy, but not drunk, my tab, $6.75. Bree got a 13 dollar tip. Yeah, I love her.
I arrived at the tavern in high spirits.As I walked in I was greeted by my Irish friend Kevin, it was his birthday so there was much to celebrate. It was with Kevin that I realized something interesting about myself.
For some reason my irrational fear of rejection has always kept me from simply just walking up to women and saying hello. However, as a wingman, the rejection factor is zero. The job of a good wingman in to help his partner close the deal. There are many tasks that may be involved, but the initial introduction is the most crucial. I introduced Kevin to Jill, whom I had never met before sidling up to her and saying "Have you met Kevin?" Granted I'm no Barney Stintson, but I got the two of them talking, excused myself and went back to the table of Kevin's celebration. His friend, and my new one, Mike looked at me and said "Where were you five months ago when I was single?" Apparently, a good wingman is hard to find in South Carolina.
I chatted up a woman named Brooke and after getting stiff armed by her I started talking to Crystal. Neither gal would end up fulfilling my aching need for physical contact, if you know what I mean, but it was still a good night out. I wanted to sleep in seeing is that I closed the bar, but my two year old nephew decided at eight that I needed to wake up for pancakes. If it would have been anyone else I would have hit them with a shoe, but for him I got up and had breakfast.
Why is meeting people so hard?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Wingmen
When the nurse came in to administer my dose of happiness inducers she could still smell the beer that was seeping out of every pore of my body. The look of disappointment on her face told me that she was sad that I chose to over consume, but I gotta tell you, it was just what the doctor ordered. The week has zapped the life out of me and I nearly passed on my evening out due to exhaustion, but I'm no quitter. I showered, donned my bowling shirt, scented up, and set out with a mission to introduce myself to anyone and everyone.
I arrived at the bar to find my beloved Bree behind the bar and my usual chair at the end of that bar was unoccupied. Lucky me. As I was a little light on funds, since I haven't gotten paid from HellJob yet, I decided on beer instead of rum. Bree decided that she would charge me for a pitcher, but she would tap my beers one at a time to avoid warming. What a doll.
It was race night in North Carolina which meant that my evening would be revolve around conversations about a sport that I really have nothing to say about. So, already my mission was facing some obstacles, but I was determined. Sitting next to me was a wonderfully drunk couple, April and Ron. They were great about answering my race related questions, being a good couple of single serving friends. Bree checked on me from time to time, filling my beer as it got low. I love her more and more every time I go in there.
When the race ended the crowd vanished. As that particular bar closes at midnight, stupid Sunday booze laws, I decided to head up to a private club that gets to stay open. I was a little tipsy, but not drunk, my tab, $6.75. Bree got a 13 dollar tip. Yeah, I love her.
I arrived at the tavern in high spirits.As I walked in I was greeted by my Irish friend Kevin, it was his birthday so there was much to celebrate. It was with Kevin that I realized something interesting about myself.
For some reason my irrational fear of rejection has always kept me from simply just walking up to women and saying hello. However, as a wingman, the rejection factor is zero. The job of a good wingman in to help his partner close the deal. There are many tasks that may be involved, but the initial introduction is the most crucial. I introduced Kevin to Jill, whom I had never met before sidling up to her and saying "Have you met Kevin?" Granted I'm no Barney Stintson, but I got the two of them talking, excused myself and went back to the table of Kevin's celebration. His friend, and my new one, Mike looked at me and said "Where were you five months ago when I was single?" Apparently, a good wingman is hard to find in South Carolina.
I chatted up a woman named Brooke and after getting stiff armed by her I started talking to Crystal. Neither gal would end up fulfilling my aching need for physical contact, if you know what I mean, but it was still a good night out. I wanted to sleep in seeing is that I closed the bar, but my two year old nephew decided at eight that I needed to wake up for pancakes. If it would have been anyone else I would have hit them with a shoe, but for him I got up and had breakfast.
Why is meeting people so hard?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Wingmen
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