Like everyone and their brother, I have, for the foreseeable future anyway, moved to:
It isn’t going well so far, but at least I figured out how to put up a picture of Markie Post in various stages of undress.
It’s been 2 long, blogless weeks, and…wow, the instant, the INSTANT, I started this blog, a shit rocketed into my colon, and my bladder became bloated with urine. Back in a sec…okay! Well, detailing every happening of the past couple weeks, however scant and lifeless, would likely be impossible, so I’m not even going to attempt it. The past weekend we went to visit friends Erin and Bill on account of the fact that it was Erin’s birthday and we hadn’t had the opportunity to commiserate much with their tot, Liam. He runs around a lot and says many things that are occasionally coherent. I found him to be quite entertaining and a worthwhile companion, for several reasons.
1) He does not seem to find toys to be especially intriguing, and spent most of the time playing with a plastic stick that came off one of those shiny supermarket birthday balloons, as well as with the ice at the bottom of a soda cooler. This would seem to indicate an interest in creating fun rather than having fun imposed upon him. Provided the public school system does not sap him of his every creative inclination, he will be an interesting fellow prone to making things. On top of that, it will not be necessary for his parents and loved ones to spend much money on toys, although they probably will anyway, since it’s purportedly fun to buy things for children.
2) He, correctly, thinks it is funny to repeatedly dump napkins on his father’s head.
3) He is already very polite at a young age. A credit to his upbringing in part, but also to him. By design, children don’t seem predisposed to cordial pleasantries, but he rarely seems to require much, if any, prodding to say please or thank you.
4) He isn’t very rugged so he can playfully punch you till the cows come home and you won’t feel a thing.
5) He actually seems to enjoy sleeping.
6) He, again correctly, thinks it is amusing to empty his parents wallets/pocketbooks and hide their various credit and identification cards around the house. We borrowed the Doughty’s copy of “Wonderfalls” on DVD, and were not surprised to find what appears to be Erin’s health benefits ID card tucked inside.
7) He seems fascinated with musical instruments, and can already, with help, play “Born in the USA” on guitar. Hopefully he’ll have the lyrics memorized soon, once a suitably kid-friendly replacement for the line “go and kill the yellow man” can be agreed upon. Or maybe we could just tell him that the yellow man is actually Bert. But that, though not racist, presents more problems. A difficult song. No wonder Reagan got confused.
8. Like any kid, if you do something funny, like pick him up and point his ass at his parent’s DVD collection and pretend that he’s farting explosively all over it, he will insist that you do it again, and again, and again. Which is no problem the first few times, but then it gets boring and trialsome for my deadened adult brain. At some point you have to stop, and at that point the apparently terrible and ill-bred children that I’ve had the misfortune of enduring either resort to crying or physical violence by way of protest. Liam simply finds something else to do. That’s cool.
So yeah, not all kids suck! I mean, who knows, in a few years he could be knifing kids on the playground for their Teddy Grahams, but for now, I’m impressed.
Last night Jon Emack and his girlfriend Drea invited us to a dinner at Pat’s Pizza, which we accepted and enjoyed. Apparently Tuesday night is Free Shit Night at Pat’s Pizza. The chicken zingers were buy one get one free, and you get free breadsticks if you buy a pizza, which of course we all did. Two pizzas, two things of breadsticks, a thing of zingers, three beers and a coffee for a little over 20 bucks, not counting tip. Can’t beat that with a stick. It was very good, one of the better Pat’s experiences in recent memory. I’m not as into Pat’s as some people I know, but last night it became clear why everyone wants to have Pat’s luscious, pizza-flavored children. I still have four tiny pieces of jalapeno and sweet sausage pizza waiting for me for lunch today and working is impossible as a result. After this, we went back to Jon’s apartment, where I got to taste Jagermeister for the first time. It tastes like Good N Plentys. Then The Food came home from visiting with his mom, and was in an uncharacteristically calm and approachable mood. Not that The Food typically growls and throws daggers and rocks at us when we visit, but he can be a bit too cool for school, in a way that is simultaneously funny and a little intimidating. But last night he spent an hour engagingly showing us the ins and outs of his new Xbox 360, a thing I now want very, very badly. It was an enjoyable end to an otherwise standard workday.
Lots of Thanksgiving rigamarole to attend to this week. That’ll be fine. Eating and awkward conversation for all. Then I have to go buy a bunch of crap for people or they’ll think I don’t love them. On the plus side, “Scrooged” will probably be on TV at some point.
Still up in the air about what to do concerning the blogging. Have done very perfunctory examinations of Blogspot, WordPress, and Multiple, none of which are terribly tripping my trigger, as they say. Maybe I should just stick it out here. I think typing things into a different site would result in different things altogether. It isn’t clear. Others, including Mrs. Wife, have jumped ship to WordPress. There’s always that LiveJournal thing, but I am afraid of that. Don’t you have to be into My Chemical Romance to use that site? Is that even still a band that exists? I don’t know anything.
The indecision concerning blogcation has brought on days of skimpier blogging. Nothing really is happening to merit dictation, but then happening was never really the point of The Very Good Blog of a Handsome Man, nee The Legend of Bloggy Creek. That marks the first time I’ve mentioned the title of the blog in the blog itself. It doesn’t feel good. Last night was a dark and stormy night, to quote Snoopy. Scary to drive home in. Unpleasant to regard out of a window. McDonald’s was had, and The Paul Lynde Halloween Special was watched, courtesy, finally, of Netflix. We’d suffered a Very Long Wait to experience this DVD, and it ultimately was not quite worth it. A Short Wait, maybe. The special itself featured far too much K.I.S.S., who were the musical guests. I’ve never liked K.I.S.S. , not even, it turns out, within the context of a Paul Lynde variety show. They suck shit, and that’s about it for that. A very unenthused Tim Conway and a typically loony Florence…shit, I forget her name, and I don’t feel like looking on imdb. The mother from Brady Bunch…anyway, she sang a horrible rendition of some song I forgot. And the special features were bad even by special features standards. There was a function where you could scroll through what promised to be hilarious Paul Lynde quotes, and they ended up being things like “My stepfather didn’t approve of my career choice” and “Success in Hollywood requires a lot of perserverance.” Oh, my sides. The fact that these matter-of-fact statements were labelled as priceless Lynde bon mots was somehow funnier than looking a list of genuinely amusing quips would have been. I don’t know, maybe it’s time to start watching things that are actually good. I doubt it, though.
Now that I have things to do at work, I find myself wasting more time rather than less on the internet. Half the time I’m not even looking at anything. Just checking and rechecking sites for updates and messages. At home, my favorite show is now bowling. I get into it. It generates palpable suspense.
This isn’t so much a blog as a request for input: I very much enjoy doing this blog thing, but A) this site seems pretty buggy lately, probably due to the B) big overhaul the Yahoo people keep talking about, which I suspect, based on nothing much more than my own fear of change, will ruin the site, and C) I just kind of want a change of scenery.
In short, I’m thinking of moving my blog elsewhere, probably within the next couple weeks. Now I might completely change my mind and stay right here, who knows, but of late I feel like moving would be good. So my plea to you is: what’s a good, relatively non-buggy site for blogging purposes? I don’t know which sites are good/user-friendly/fun to use. Any suggestions?
I did nothing yesterday and will likely do nothing today.
The 24-hr horrorthon, somewhat predictably, did not proceed as planned. Not particularly caring to patronize Blockbuster or Movie Gallery, we went to Movies America in the mall to look for horrahs. They didn’t have much. We stuck to the VHS section, since it’s 8 for $20, which still isn’t that great a price but it’s doable, and we figured, wrongly it turned out, that there would be a greater variety of “interesting” horror movies on tape. Interesting yes, horror no. This being Maine and all, the horror tapes had been pretty much completely snapped up. After some fruitless scanning, we just decided to get a bunch of weird movies. I picked most of them out, since I’m generous that way.
Here they are, in the order they spring to mind:
FREEBIE AND THE BEAN – A seemingly forgotten 1974 buddy cop movie, the buddy cops in question being James Caan and Alan Arkin. The goofy title and goofier artwork, to say nothing of the delightful notion of James Caan and Alan Arkin comedically bickering and shooting at people, sealed this purchase. Further research later revealed that the film has a devoted following, got largely terrible reviews, is a favorite of Quentin Tarantino’s, and will likely never get a DVD release due to its rampant racism. Also, it was later made into a TV series starring Hector Elizondo.
CHU CHU AND THE PHILLY FLASH – Alan Arkin again, this time paired with Carol Burnett, of all people. It was hard to tell what the movie was about going by the box alone, but Alan Arkin was wearing a filthy trenchcoat and pretending to throw a baseball, and Carol Burnett has fruit on her head, so plot schmot. Wacky Alan Arkin couplings were the name of the game. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. This is another critically reviled cult favorite that doesn’t seem on its way to DVD anytime soon.
ROMANTIC COMEDY – This was the one movie that Annie picked out. In hindsight I should have let her select more, but there was confusion and mild bickering, and an awkward encounter with a well-intentioned store employee, and it’s just not a store you wanna hang out in for very long, although we were in there for what felt like forever. Cut us some slack, it was our first horrorthon attempt. Anyway, judging by the box, this is about Mary Steenburgen yelling at Dudley Moore while he dithers and gestures defensively. It look pretty promising, I have to say.
THE LAST DRAGON – A 1985 kung fu/comedy/urban musical about a kid named Bruce Leroy (seriously) who has to fight a guy named Sho Nuff (again, seriously) in order to rescue Vanity. Also starring El Debarge. How I avoided seeing this in its original era is beyond me, but I’ve always been curious about the film, and I now own it on an outmoded format! Yay!
THE EXECUTIONER – I’ve read many reviews of this apparently amazingly awful Mafia-themed 70’s actioner in various books devoted to poor cinema of the past, so I was super excited to see it languishing on the shelves, and in a giant porny-sized case besides.
RAW FORCE – I don’t know what the deal is with this, but the box had all kinds of crazy shit going on. A blue guy with a sword, and a cage full of naked ladies, and a snake or something. Count me in!
SOMETHING SPECIAL – An 80’s movie about a girl who wishes that she was a boy, then magically grows a dick. I remember being extremely curious about this film in youth. The cover shows a cartoon drawing of a girl, pulling at the waistband of her pajamas and staring at you in frazzled consternation. If you ever did any renting at little video stores in the 80’s, you undoubtedly came across it once or twice.
C.H.O.M.P.S. – A late-70’s kids movie about a robotic dog, co-starring Valerie Bertanelli. Judging by critical response, it’s not very good, but come on, it’s a late-70’s kids movie about a robotic dog, co-starring Valerie Bertanelli!
So that’s what we had to work with. Nothing terribly frightening, at least not in the traditional sense, but plenty of flavorful intrigue nonetheless. We then went to noted beverage outlet Spenser Gifts to buy some off-putting ghetto-themed energy drinks, originally intending to load up solely on tiny cans of Lil Jon endorsed CRUNK! but decided to also integrate something called Pimp Juice into the rotation. After a quick dinner at Happy China Buffet, we went home and went to bed in fairly short order, as I recall.
Saturday morning rolls around, and Annie wasn’t feeling terribly well, so I incorporated the purchase of over-the-counter medicine into my morning errands. Before setting out, we decided to start the day with one of our energy drinks. I tried the Pimp Juice while Annie cracked open a CRUNK!. The Pimp Juice was something of a surprise. First of all, it wasn’t carbonated, which is practically unheard of when it comes to these things. Also: it was actually pretty damn good. Smooth and sassy, just like its occupational namesake, shockingly green-hued but pleasantly apple-tinged. The kick wasn’t anything special, but I felt something or other, and I’m practically immune to these things by this point anyway. I smelled and took a sip of Annie’s CRUNK!. I realize I might be going out on a limb here by giving L’il Jon the benefit of the doubt, but I can’t imagine his goal was to create a drink that both smells like and produces a distinct aftertaste of vomit. That more than anything probably resulted in Annie’s subsequent puke session. All very disappointing, as we’d been wondering about CRUNK! for the past couple years, having read and joked about it but never having encountered the opportunity to try any until now. So if you’re ever in a situation where your only drink options are Pimp Juice and CRUNK!, by all means opt for the Pimp Juice.
Nursing a mild PJ buzz, I proceeded to the post office and mailed the title of ownership from the Tercel to the Veazies, as well as a couple of books that had been requested of me via Bookmooch, a site I initially regretted joining but now find rather fun. From there, I got some gas, as the needle was on E, then since I was in the neighborhood I went to the IGA for a change to get some supplies, which included some on-sale cheddar jack Cheezits, a frozen pizza, some Ben and Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream, and a full quart of Monster energy drink, in a humongous sight gag of a can that I couldn’t resist. Then, as we’re unhealthy fat pigs, I also procured some McDonald’s. Upon returning home to find a now apparently more-or-less fine Annie, we slammed the McDondon’s down our necks and fired up the “Watcher in the Woods” DVD.
As previously mentioned, I have a long and unpleasant history with this 1980 Disney ghost story. On an infrequent special Movie Day at school in fourth grade, our teachers decided it’d be a great idea to show us this. I remembered watching the whole thing without really reacting (also shown: “The Boatniks”, which in hindsight was probably even more frightening but I don’t remember a frame of it), but once I got home and bedtime rolled around, my imagination took over, and I proceeded to cry and not sleep nightly for approximately the next three months. I made frequent pleas and demands to sleep with my parents, most of which were begrudgingly, and later outright disgustedly, granted. The deal with the movie is there’s this family (none of whom can act) who’ve purchased and moved into a creepy old house, and the teenage daughter (played by Lynn Holly Johnson of “Ice Castles” and Olympic skating fame, whom I found to be quite cute in spite of her shrill delivery) keeps running afoul of scariness, most often in the form of a blindfolded young girl who keeps appearing in mirrors.
I was absolutely terrified of the blindfolded mirror ghost girl, and I couldn’t tell you why, then or now, other than it’s vaguely eerie. I even remember this one time, in the middle of the bright sunlit afternoon, that my dad, who was discussing my increasingly frustrating phobia with Mum, merely spoke the phrase “It’s just a girl with a blindfold on” and I screamed and ran to my room. So I was revisiting the film with some genuine dis
comfort, though I did kind of want some closure. This came pretty quickly, as the film is ridiculous (though still, somehow, sort of freaky in spite of its ineptitude), and the acting is not good, and that girl with the blindfold, though I still wouldn’t want to encounter her in my bathroom mirror, really isn’t very scary after all. A few clicks around the IMdB, however, attest to the film’s affect on kids (well, innocent 80’s-era kids anyway), as there are pages of firsthand accounts detailing how much this stupid thing fucked kids up back then. I wonder what it is that scared us all so bad. It could probably be studied. I really don’t like the movie at all, but I’m probably going to have to buy it.
Once that was over with, we tried to watch an old horror movie called “White Zombie” that we DVR’d off TCM. We were not paying attention almost immediately, so we gave up and retired to the bedroom, where the VCR is, to get started on our new stack. Randomly selecting “The Last Dragon”, we settled in and were rather well entertained. Not a four-star effort, by any means, but it was arguably everything that an urban martials arts musical comedy needs to be. We then decided to integrate the weird VHS tapes we’d purchased at Edge Video 3 or 4 months ago that we still haven’t gotten around to watching, so next up was a 1980 made-for-TV comedy called “For the Love of It” which starred many, many familiar faces, including Pat Morita, Adrian Zmed, Don Rickles, Norman Fell, and Washington from “Welcome Back Kotter”, just to name a handful. I kinda hazed out midway, and started working on my Videoport articles, but Annie seemed to enjoy it.
If I’m not mistaken, we watched “Chu Chu and the Philly Flash” next. In a nutshell, this is about a former pitcher for the Phillies, now homeless and disgraced, who along with a down-and-out dance instructor/Carmen Miranda impersonator discovers a briefcase full of important Soviet documents, and nutsy madcap hijinks ensue. It started out bad, then got pretty funny, and even oddly touching. Hot dogs are mentioned a lot. I’m ultimately happy to own it. It, too, had quite a few famous people in it, including Jack Warden, Danny Glover, Ruth Buzzi, and Danny Aiello.
About this time I decided to crack open my quart of Monster, which I got about 2/3 of the way through before my esophagus rebelliously pinched itself shut. We watched another one from the Edge Video pile, an early-80’s National Lampoon slasher spoof called “Class Reunion”. Despite being written by John Hughes, it wasn’t very funny or good, although it did feature a shocking joke about a vampire expressing excitement at the prospect of administering cunnilingus to a menstruating woman, a concept that, I confess, hadn’t previously occurred to me. I wonder if it ever occurred to Bram Stoker.
In spite of the mammoth amount of caffiene I’d consumed over the course of the day, I found it hard to make it all the way through “Class Reunion” without conking out. It was around 11 PM by this point. I used to routinely stay up past 2 or 3 AM back in olden times, but these days I start wanting unconsciousness far sooner. Without crystal meth getting involved, I don’t think my remaining awake for 24 hours, for any purpose, is going to ever be possible again. I’m just going to have to accept that. Annie watched some of a Picket Fences DVD while I slept. But then after a couple hours I jolted awake, finished my articles, and ended up playing Yahtzee on the computer till about 5 in the morning. So maybe it’s more that my patience for lying around watching bad TV has decreased, which is probably a positive thing. So all told, we pretty much roundly failed at the whole 24-hour horrorthon thing this time around, but hey, there’s AL-waaaays to-MO-rrowwww for dreeeeeeams to come truuuuue.
Sunday we loafed around, recuperating from the caffiene intake, made some crockpot minestrone, bought some liquid plumber for the clogged tub, and watched some bowling on TV, which has somehow become one of my favorite things to watch. I find it to be rather suspenseful, even. I am not an exciting man. I am not an exciting man. I am not an exciting man. It can’t be said enough times. Now I’m back at work, writing the world’s longest blog and eagerly anticipating a lunch of PB & J, Cheezits, and chocolate cake. A damn fine lunch, if you ask me. To quote a sadly nonexistent lame “Weird” Al parody of a legally contested Michael Bolton Song, lunch is a wonderful thing, and I believe it’s time that I go eat the hell out of it. I’ll see ya next time.
I have no idea why, as it was never explained to me, and I don’t tend to ask questions in a work environment, but the payroll department, where I am still a-temp-temp-tempin’ away, had to go to a semi-luxuriant buffet yesterday, held at a weird technical college that teaches both electronics and cuisine. It cost seven dollars. The entire experience had the potential to be mind-boggling, but the food ended up being pretty fancily good. I can now say that I have had rice croquettes, and enjoyed them. Looking back, those were really the only entree that anyone (particularly someone who gets all their food from McDonald’s) would think of as hoity-toity. The other stuff was sweet & sour meatballs (yum), chicken wings (yum), bbq ribs (yum!), ziti with butternut squash sauce (no thanks), and pumpkin soup (maybe if YOU give ME seven bucks). All very tasty and well-prepared as far as my unsophisticated palate could tell. There were many awkward, pimply young people standing around wearing chef hats, and it was fun to ask them questions about the vats of food they were morosely standing behind. After the quite good dinner, there was a table laden with dainty desserts, and, upon requesting descriptions of the unfamiliar treats from the sullen redheaded youngster manning the area, was given a mumbly crash course in which confections “probably” had apples in them, and which ones he “didn’t think” had apples in them. I took a cheesecake that probably had apples in it. He was right. There were apples. That’s one heck of a school they got there.
That was really the big event of the day. Finished a couple of pretty short comics-type books, which is seemingly the only kind of thing I read these days. They’re so much more immediately compelling than regular old word-books. I intelligently left the headlights on, an oversight that I miraculously discovered by looking out the window for no good reason. Somehow, the car still managed to start, which thank God, since otherwise I would have had to implore a neighbor to give us a jump, and what could be worse than talking to neighbors? Maybe being pooper-raped with a screwdriver by neighbors, but that’s about it.
Lately I have been frantically performing a very poor and horribly offensive impersonation of an excited stereotypical Asian man on my way to work in a thus far successful effort to keep myself from falling asleep at the wheel. We’ve been getting up earlier lately, as I’ve been late to work pretty steadily of late, and it turns out my boss actually IS noticing things like this. She just waits till it happens like 8 times in a row and then makes a little snarky comment about it while signing my timecard. What happened to the tyrannical bosses of yore? I actually hate that kind of boss, but at least they let you know where you stand in short order. Man, working for people just doesn’t work. Anyway, the Asian man thing is pretty bad, but unfortunately I enjoy it, and look forward to the morning drive, when I can say things like “Me rike plitty Amellican women” to unheeding pedestrians. It’s better, and cheaper, than coffee, though I still buy and drink that as well, which typically makes the Asian man impersonation twice as energetic/bad. Wouldn’t it be great to be roommates with 3 Asian men? You’d be so happy all the time!
This weekend may herald a 24-hour horror movie marathon. This always seems like a good idea to look forward to whenever I’m at work, but once I get home, I just want to eat some chips then go to bed. Annie has strongarmed me into getting “The Watcher in the Woods” from Netflix, the movie which caused me to get no sleep whatsoever for the entire summer of 1985. I’m actually frightened to rewatch it, but that will evidently be taking place this weekend. It should be interesting to note how it affects me now. I watch enough nasty movies that I’m relatively immune to most attempts to shock or frighten, but something about this movie really got to me, immediately and intensely. Should be an interesting weekend if we go the distance, not to mentioned track down 10-12 horror movies. I got a couple oldies from TCM, but my patience for oldness is slim. Horror movies should come from the ’70s, with some ’80s trickling in. Movie rental outlets, particularly the mom n’ pops that I favor and that usually carry the weirder horror stuff, are a real rarity these days, and I haven’t the gas money or desire to go to Videoport. I have a feeling we’ll be relying on Edge Video, or possibly Movies America at the mall. I really wish that place would both redecorate and lower its prices on VHS a couple bucks.
The original plan was to secure a scary energy drink, intended primarily for weightlifters, called REDLINE, in order to help us stay awake for a long time. Between us, Annie and I have ingested enough caffiene that we’d be less likely to be as horrifically affected as most of the trolls posting horror stories on energy drink website forums (yes, I read energy drink website forums), but why risk cardiac arrest for, say, “Puppet Master Vs. Demonic Toys”? Also, you have to go to GNC, the Radio Shack of health stores, to get it. I can’t shake the curiosity, and to be honest if I’m ever in a situation where buying the drink is easy, I see myself doing it, but for now, we’ll seek other avenues of forcing ourselves not to sleep. I know for a fact that Spenser Gifts stocks “Crunk!”, which is L’il Jon’s contribution to the world of energy drinks, so most likely we’ll give that a try. Street cred/diabetes, here we come! YEAH!
We have purchased a car, and we both feel conflicted. Our old car was, quite clearly, dying an ugly death even as we rode in it, but it felt as though something could be done. Quite some time ago, back in Jay, the dickfucks at V.I.P. gave us an unearthly estimate as to how much it would cost to get the old girl back in fighting, or at least inspectable, shape. The far awesomer Veazie boys were able to do some affordable work on her, and for awhile things went well, but then the car started making ticking noises whenever we turned right, and not long after that the noises showed up when we turned left as well. Then the T-Rex noises started blasting from the exhaust. On our way to the Veazies for estimate rather than fixing purposes, a melange of metallic clinks and clunks overlaid themselves over the already unbearable symphony of broken. Not good, any of it. The Veazies took one look under the car and all but puked. The tires were unfit for tree swings, let alone a vehicle, and the axles were on their way to outright snapping off. The less said about the exhaust the better. All kinds of other little things weren’t working and hadn’t for some time. In the end, from the sound of it, buying a used, seemingly fully functional car would be cheaper than getting our old one fixed, so that’s what we had to do. It isn’t a luxury automobile, but it doesn’t seem to have any glaring problems, other than an annoying squeaking noise when we go over bumps. It feels like we’ve had a cat or dog put to sleep, though. Seems silly to feel genuine emotion over a car, but there you go. The old Tercel put in a lot of hard time for us. It got us across the country, both ways, without any major problems. It got me to work during last year’s horrible blizzard, up a ice rink of a hill and over not-at-all plowed roads. It will be genuinely missed, and I don’t think we initially realized just how much.
Goodbye, 1994 Toyota Tercel.
Oh my God, some asshole in here is asking anyone if they remember Paul Lynde and his puppet Madame! Nobody remembers Paul Lynde, and that dumb fucking son of a bitch is mixing him up with Wayland Flowers!!!! Why the fuck don’t these stupid bitches know who Paul Lynde is, and where in the name of Jesus Christ’s dank asshole did this retarded cocksucking piece of fetid coyote shit get the idea that Paul Lynde and Wayland Flowers are the same guy?!!??! And he’s talking about it with total authority! This is making me so mad I could shit teeth. I’m going to start going back to church again so I can pray that he gets in a car accident!
Idiocy! I’m way too irate to feel any sorrow about the Tercel now.
I, much like Jim, as he indicates on his blog, am on the fence as to whether or not I should attempt to participate in this year’s NaNoWriMo. I succeeded in 2005 (it helped considerably that I was unemployed), though it certainly didn’t result in a cohesive or at all readable/publishable work. In 2006 I got about 400 words in and swiftly and thoroughly shat the bed, flooding the sheets with a foul stew of bloody stool that smelled richly of cowardice and half-digested double cheeseburgers. This year, I dunno. I tried to write something last night, to pass the time, and the impotent rage was immediate, and inevitably directed at my wife, who is guilty of nothing save caring for a an immature, whiny chicken. That would be myself. We do not own an actual immature, whiny hen. Though we should get one.
But today, I had a nice tall iced coffee, and I feel like I could do it. I feel the words, I feel the gumption. The keys feel good under my fingers, and the letters look good leaving the cursor. This feeling will not last, it will NOT last, but I’m happy that it’s at least capable of returning, and that last night’s little incident didn’t complete kill the hope, though it certainly felt as though it had at the time. I miss liking this, enjoying it for its own sake. It can come back, I think, but it will involve a lot of change to my routine, and like any uptight white guy worth his salt, I do not care for change, at least not its initial implementation stages. I will need to find out exactly what my current self needs to be able to write, or create something amusing in some form, be it musical or what have you. This type of work, since unfortunately work needs to be done, is, I believe at this time, the only type of work I could ever hope to be thoroughly satisfied by. Sadly, it is also the most difficult type of career to jumpstart or thereafter sustain. Also, being lazy and averse to talking to strangers = two unhelpful traits in this arena. I figure I can do something or I can loaf around and cry and complain about it for the rest of my life, and neither of those options are appealing. Only the part where something theoretically happens after I theoretically do something is at all of interest to me. Shit or get off the pot time, I guess, but it’s hard when your fondness for shit is rivaled only by your comfort on the pot.
One doesn’t need to go the NaNoNeeNaNooNoo route to get a book done, but it does make for a handy impetus, and the site is friendly and attractive. I feel like I might do it for the sole purpose of inconveniencing myself and pissing myself off. It’s as good a reason as any.
In closing, penis penis poop anus anus fart poop.
The Veazies, who smell, and are stupid, cannot get our shrieking rattletrap in until sometime late next week. Music to my ears that was not. They recommended that we bring the car to them this Saturday so they can give it a once-over to better prepare themselves for whatever they might need to do. My hope is that it’s something that can be fixed lickety-split, and they’ll patch it up on Saturday, but I’m not holding my breath. This is the first time we haven’t been able to bring the car to the Veazies within a 2-day period, which is not helpful, but at least that means they’re getting a lot of business. The Veazie on the phone sounded more surprised than I did while informing me they’re all booked up for the next week. They don’t really smell, at least not glaringly, and they’re not stupid, at least not about cars. I don’t care to jinx the situation any further. In the meantime, we’re taking the car to work and school and food and that’s it, staying off the interstate as much as possible since going faster = making louder terrible sounds.
After getting the bad news from the Veazies, we tickticktickVOOOOOOOOMed our way to the mall, where Annie endured an apparently uncomfortable Mastercuts experience that nonetheless resulted in a cute haircut. Sometimes I miss getting “professional” haircuts, but I think I’ll stick with Annie. Too much small talk involved with barbers and beauticians. I loitered in B. Dalton while she went through the hair ordeal. I like B. Dalton, and I’m both glad and surprised that it’s still around. Sometimes you don’t feel like wandering around an enormous store surrounded by chai-toting graduate students. I saw tons of things that I wanted to read, none of which I can presently recall. I am totally into books lately, especially the graphic novels. I want to read all of them. Comics: They’re not just for kids anymore! I finished “Epileptic” at work yesterday and am now embarking on “La Perdida”, which I’m hesitant about. Lacy is desperate to read it and has reserved it at the Bangor Public Library through interlibrary loan, so once I’m done, she’ll get it. It’s kind of exciting, knowing that someone I know will absolutely be the next person to get my library book. I want to go to the library today and get 400 more books. I am done with most of the ones I got last trip. I also finished “Walt and Skeezix”, which is a collection of “Gasoline Alley” strips. Very old and content cartoons from the ’20s. I was sad to be done with the huge book, but apparently there’s 30+ years of the strip currently in the process of being released, so yay and good.
After hastily exiting the mall we went to The Olive Garden for a change. Olive Garden passes for a genuinely fancy restaurant in Bangor. Sometimes you just get a hankering for grated cheese and complimentary sticks of warm bread. It was good. The waitress was refreshingly unobtrusive and not awkward. Rather than asking “how does everything taste?”, she asked “How are the first bites?”, which is still weird, but Annie and I share a huge problem with servers asking how things taste. Something about that seems too forward. It really feels like a form of sexual abuse. They might as well ask “Can I lightly stroke your silken inner thighs?” or “How are your cocks and pussies and assholes feeling tonight?” as ask how things “taste”. Actually, I don’t want to tell the server how the food is. If I’m not actively complaining to them, they should assume that things are fine, and “taste” exactly how I’ve come to expect food from this restaurant to taste. Taste. YUCK. What a disgusting word. Anyway, the food was fine. I got a garlic chicken thing, Annie got an apricot chicken thing, and the take-home containers were both attractive and convenient to store. Smiles all around.
It’s nice to walk around a store looking at things after a dining, so we skulked around Target for a few, finding nothing quite worth taking home. I used to buy DVDs practically whenever I entered a store that offered them, but these days I don’t seem to want them. For one thing, I never end up watching the ones I buy, no matter how much I may enjoy them. They just take up space and attractively fill up a shelf, and give the significant others of visiting friends an enjoyable opportunity to scrutinize my taste while they wait for the conversation to come around to subjects that don’t involve people they’ve never met. Also, now that I’ve experienced HD, I don’t want regular DVD and I have to wait for either HD DVD or Blu-ray to establish a clear victory over the other, so I don’t end up betting on the wrong horse and filling my shelves with an instantly defunct technology. It sucks, I hate waiting for this to happen. I want to be able to waste wages on movies again. Wah.
Went home and tucked into “The Geese of Beaver Bog” while Annie did some incredibly uninteresting-looking homework and yakked with her sister on the phone. It’s a book about a guy who makes friends with some geese. I stopped a few pages in because I could tell it would be a good read-aloud book. Non fiction books about animals usually are. I became extremely tired around 10:46, right on schedule, and immediately fell asleep upon starting an episode of “Nighty Night” when Annie returned from her phone call.
I remembered my lunch today. Thanks, me.
The car is being a problem. For awhile now it’s been making a clicking noise whenever we make a turn. This noise has been steadily increasing in volume and frequency over the past couple months, and probably shouldn’t be ignored any longer than can be helped. Also, now the engine or something is getting louder, and from experience we know that if left untended this will quickly escalate as well. The Veazie Boys should be able to take care of it in a timely and cost-efficient manner once we’re finally able to get one of them on the phone. The Veazie Boys are our mechanics. They live in the woods, and are tiny little fellows who happen to be geniuses with automobiles. I like them because they don’t really try to talk to you or explain the problem. They just get in there and fix it, usually for not much $. They live in a giant pile of dirt with windows, and they can fashion auto parts out of sticks and garbage, so their overhead is minimal. Plus you can leave your car overnight with them for no extra charge if you have to. The only problem with them is their inconvenient locale (in scenic Bradford, ME) and the general Beans of Egypt Maine atmosphere of their establishment, both of which dissipate instantly when you look at your paltry bill. They also usually have cars for sale, that you can pay for in interest-free installments, probably with returnable cans if you were inclined. This may be a thing that we soon have to do, as our stalwart Toyota gradually continues to amass an intriguing roster of bad-seeming sounds. It’s a hero, that car, but 200,000 miles are not far on the odometer horizon. We’ll keep runnin’ her till dissassembles and ignites of her own accord, though, but a second beater would be handy to have around. Maybe something with a working radio/light/defroster.
Last night we finally got around to watching “Nighty Night”, a Britcom we got from Netflix a couple weeks ago but haven’t had time to watch. It’s horribly mean, but pretty funny. I can no longer stay up past 11 PM due to oldness so we only got through a couple episodes. Having cable TV makes it harder to get through our Netflixes with any haste.
We got up very poorly this morning, especially compared to yesterday. Also, I packed my lunch and left it on the kitchen counter. Luckily I have 47 nickels in my pocket that should garner me an unreasonably priced candy bar or paltry bag of chips. Remember when you used to be able to put a dollar into a vending machine and get not one but two items? Those were fine, fine days, those days. It’s too bad days are only good when they’re over and you’re comparing them to the new, even shittier days. It’s also too bad that I’m basing the shittiness of days on the qualities of vending machines. Why can’t I just look outside at the changing leaves and say “Aaaah, everything is wonderful”? Because colorful foliage doesn’t get me a little bag of Doritos and a Charleston Chew, that’s why.