Saturday, July 07, 2001

A bad review of my weblog. Whoa. That sucks, dude.

Now, I could go off and say that Brent has no leg to stand on becasue on HIS weblog the entry today is a spam some guy from Bacardi sent me in 1998. He is, after all, the webmaster of the weblog review and did say some nice things in spite of the low rating (which I don't care about. 1.5 1.5. Can't get much lower. I don't care about it. 1.5)

It is immature to mention that Brent misspelled "definitely." For you see, he is right. My weblog is banal and pointless, particularly lately. It is self-pitying, self-serving, grim and often turgid. It uses needlessly large words and too many at that. I would avoid it myself if it wasn't about me and I didn't have to write the damned thing.

So why the fuck am I here typing this thing, then, after this epiphany?

Well, the truth is, I've been pulishing mediocre material on the internet for a long, long time. I've filled up fifty megabytes with bad poetry and drunken, pointless observation about the world around.

I am obsessed with journaling in the public eye.

I am addicted. There. I said it.

I have no idea why. I cannot fully disclose anything, cannot write an essay or really do anything interesting. All I can really do is discuss whatever's happening in my day, just as I would with co-workers, friends or family. For God's sake, it's communication, not entertainment. But it's dull, slow going most of the time. Most small talk is. Getting reviewed on it is not exactly breakfast in bed.

I know that I occasionally do cool things and can write witty little shit when pressed. I've never been called dull (until now).

A great cartoon in the New Yorker shows this artist in front of some hideous, huge painting and saying "I think it's brilliant, but I think all my work is brilliant."

this ain't brilliant.


Fuckin' 1.5 Shit.

Blogger, too, was down today. Alon with MSN and my ISP and mailserver. WEIRD.

So, so... what's up? Well, my friend Ron gave me (more or less) his son's drumset. It's a CB700 male kit with traditional tom sizes, a nice bass pedal and bent-up hihat. No snare or hihat cymbals, but I should be able to beg or borrow these from my drummer friends. I miss playing the drums, the sheer abandon of laying down a beat. I miss jamming with my pals, too.
This is one nice thing about the wife being out of town. The only nice thing, actually.

My creativity has really tanked lately. Please forgive the swill.

Thursday, July 05, 2001

My DSL is up, down and up again. It seems the ISP I use is fond of doing reconfigurations on the fly which often leaves me hanging. Sucks, especially when I'm as behind as I am. I'm remotely configuring a shopping cart and right in the middle it dies. This post probably will too.

I'm way sadder today than I've been in quite a while.

Wednesday, July 04, 2001

I am listening to Live365. Frank Sinatra singing with the Dorsey orchestra. Sweet, sweet voice from such a skinny, mean little fuck. The girls would shriek for him, absolutely scream at the top of their lungs. Dad says that the funny thing was that they were looking at each other.

Last night was full of philosophical drunken conversation which seemed very profound at the time but has since vanished into a vague haze. Ah, well. Such is alcohol. Oddly, I feel quite good today. Can't explain THAT one, seeing as I drank and smoked enough last night for five or six fellows. I seem to pour liquor into people when they come over. It's obvious that although I do not drink often (perhaps once a week), my capacity continues to expand as though I was a habitual user. Alcoholism runs fat and wide through both sides of my family and thusly stands as a warning. However, I am unaware of the drastic personality change that is usually the hallmark of a problem drinker. Of course I am not exactly a fit judge, and I am well aware of the easy lying which comes with alcoholism. I would not wish my youth on anyone; in fact, the Adult Children of Alcoholics syndrome so recently popularized has done much to bring to light the considerable trauma of growing up with a drunk parent.

Adult children, though. Can't say as I like that, accurate though it be.

And I have work to do this 4th of July. Better get on it.


You know, I am now aware of why I wasn't single longer. It would've fucking killed me.

Any semblance of a regular life is gone. I went out to see Nina Simone, the "High Priestess of Soul," with a few friends. She had a white, white band that wouldn't have known a groove if it had latched onto their collective ass. It diminished it a bit, but she's a legend and now I can say I saw her. Like a merit badge, maybe.

Anyway, I was out with Brian and Demian and some other old friends. After exhausting our resouces at the martini bar, we came back over here and kept drinking. Mescal, bourbon, all of it. Plus, we crushed up and snorted herbal diet pills. Not bad. Kind of gingery. I pointed out that most people leave such stories behind in their teens. i pointed out that this new experience would make a great story. I did not, however, point out that we will most likely not share these somewhat pathetic stories.

Maybe it is best, because what might otherwise be construed as a folly of youth can be more accurately (and soberly) reconstructed as a self-destructive buzzquest with the ultimate aim of further alcohol consumption. The pearls of wisdom prevail and we keep silent.

At the very least, though, I enhanced Brian's reputation as a crazy motherfucker with this nonsense.

But the result is that it is now 3:12 AM and I am drunk, drunk, with a pounding headache, dry cigarette mouth and racing heart. The dreadful practicalities assert themselves.

I wish my woman was here. The travel company says that the safari got off without a problem, so I guess the missing health certificate was no big deal.

Let me just get through the next fifteen days without too much trouble. Please, please.


Please.

Tuesday, July 03, 2001

Morning. I am really fuzzy today. Something about waking up to a trashed, empty house with beer bottles all over the place that makes one wish for a maid.

Ah, well. Maybe I'll write more later.
P.S.

The Blogger spellcheck is mighty cool. Not seen anything like it. Could be the beginning of pay dictionaries for us all.

Ah, poker. I believe it is a mistake to read about big-stakes games and then play with your friends.. A big mistake. As the book I was so recently reading said, "The fella who invented poker was smart, but the guy who invented the chip was a goddamned genius. It's not money. It's not food money, rent money, money for your kids. It's not real. Sure you're down fifteen grand, twenty grand. It's the game that counts. Getting back in.
Kinda like watching Bogart smoke. Reading Hemingway about being drunk.

The only thing that I got from this book was this rule: the winner of poker is reckoned by the amount he walks out with. But with gamblers, they never walk out. There's always someone who will bluff you, call your courage to match an unknown variable. You pony up when you believe you are ahead and still lose. You bet the whole shithouse on a longshot and still win

I suppose it is classed as personal philosophy.

.

Monday, July 02, 2001

Just heard from the wonderful woman. Haley hasn’t slept since Saturday night and has been trying to guide her dazed sibs around London town. Why? Because BJ has forgotten his health certificate. This is worse than forgetting your passport when it comes to Africa. He may have difficulty getting into Nairobi. I’ll keep you informed.

Anyway, it seems Haley was trying to get everyone onto the right train to go to a hospital for reimmunization (trouble, because BJ has been taking larium for malaria and has adversely reacted to it) and was confused by the tube system. Understandable… London is a huge fucking city. They got on the wrong train and were lost very soon. They managed to hail a taxi and Haley talked to the driver while her brother and sister fell asleep. Her sister woke up grouchy and began bitching about Haley’s incompetence.

Maybe she’ll be eaten by a lion or something. The short, miserable life of Francis Macomber.


Anyway, we could only talk for five minutes because she had to board. Apparently London has been stripped of its charming phone booths. No doubt they are all in McMansions in the states.

Sunny. Hot. Sticky.

This is shit, I tell you.

Shit.

Well, I have discovered it. The flight to London got it early, so I think she must have gotten on the much earlier flight to Nairobi and had no time to call me. That's about all I can figure... otherwise she's in London right now at about five in the evening and isn't calling for some other reason.

The main difference in this phone-waiting game is that I am not wondering if I have said or done something which has blown it (which usually I had). Paige is going through this right now and boy, do I feel for her.

But I wish, I wish, I wish the phone would RING!!!
It is odd but I have found myself sitting by the phone, carrying the phone and looking at the phone like a smitten teenager (or myself a bit more than a year ago). There is a window of time in which Haley can call from London that started at 2am and ends in an hour. I am resigning myself to not hearing from her until the fourteenth. I am really sad about this as I am totally pining fpr her. Slept like shit, etc etc. Got up this morning and let the cat out and found the mastiff lying in front of the cat box chomping away like it was popcorn. Dear sweet Jesus, give me strength!

I, smart man that I am, have arranged for a host of activities to fill my empty, miserable life this week. Poker tonight on the patio (which needs to be mowed, weeded and furnished with cheap plastic table and chairs), Nina Simone tomorrow (!) and then the Glorious 4th with Olivia and perhaps my brother. And then, who knows?

I haven't had coffee. I hope this loneliness wears off soon. Funny, I used to be quite accustomed to it but now I am at wits' end.



Sunday, July 01, 2001

Yes, Mr. lonely sap gets amped to see the little envelope in the top corner of my screen. Goddamned Microsoft Outlook and it's gimmicks. It permits every sort of spam and virus and then gives you options as to how, exactly, you wish to be informed that you can Grow Your Penis Up To 6"!!! or all about The KIT They Want BANNED In all 50 STATES. Why? Because these secrets were never intended to reach your eyes...

Newsweek published a cover about the Internet a few years ago where various scientists talked about how extensive surfing can lead to depression.

Doy!

For most people, extensive surfing of the Internet equates to extensive periods of idly masturbating in front of a smorgasbord of depravity the likes of which have been even undreamt since Caligula invented respectable bestiality. Is it depressing to see a newsgroup entirely devoted to thousands of low-res digital pictures of anonymous, ugly girlfriends lackdaisically twaddling for the camera? Is it depressing to be bombarded with endless pop-up windows touting Hot Asian Sluts and Gigantic Titties And Cumshots? Is it depressing to be turned on by this in spite of better judgment?

Survey says... fuck, yes!

Masturbation has always been a taboo subject with men. They giggle when it comes up and act as though they've done it once or twice. But I wonder how much impotence is the result of private moments with onself on the bathroom floor, in the shower ...or in front of the computer. Masturbation seems to perfect for many suspended adolescents because it requires little time and no commitment. Like nitrous oxide, the effect is intense and short-lived. And for many, it lessens the wolvish slavery to the Urges.

But it also is pathetic and lonely, despite what Dr. Ruth says. Now, now... calm down. Pathos is in the eye of the beholder, the public eye. Let's use a case in point: cigarettes. Smoking is evil, stinky, it kills, etc etc. But it is cool. Bogart was cool. Bette Davis was cool. Shit, when Sir Walter Raleigh strode into a clearing and saw an Indian jam a burning stick into his mouth and blow out smoke, what did Sir Walter say? He fucking said the sixteenth-century equivalent of "Cool!"

In movies when a chump turns cool, he smokes to show it.

But masturbation in the movies? Think Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I mean, the scene of Judge Rheinhold beating off in the bathroom to a Phoebe Cates fantasy may well have killed his career just as swiftly as co-starring with Jennifer Connelly. What did Judge do after Fast Times? Beverly Hills Cop? Lackey to Eddie Murphy. Spanking himself showed ol' Judge to be patheic, foolish and self-indulgent. Worse than the pirate hat. (As to the Jennifer Connelly thing, when you think about it, every actor who played opposite her had their career nosedive. Frank Whaley, the kid in Rocketeer, all of them! Check it out yourself!)

Is the Internet depressing? I ask you, O Internet!

Also, hey to Paige and Andrea. Thanks for posting comments! Glad you're here!

Am I cleaning? No no no! I am sitting IN FRONT OF THE FUCKING COMPUTER!!!

But at least I can't see the dirty house!

I seem to fucking swear a lot more when Haley's away. A whole motherfucking lot more.

Goddamned bachelor shit.

Whew. What a day. I said goodbye to the love of my life for 18 days. 18days with no contact at all.... Haley's in Tanzania away from all modern communications conveniences. It is very hard to be away from her. I have no wish to feel numb to her absense, but neither do I wish to feel miserable. I am a big, sappy baby. If we could only talk it would be better, but we can't so I'll stop my fucking whining.

I went with my brother (bless his soul) to the Spruce Goose museum in McMinnville. Zachy's father-in-law is in town and went along with us. The place kicked ass. I have to say I know a shitload about WWII aircraft. It all came flooding back to me in the worst know-it-all sort of way. I was fourteen again. Dear, dear Zach. He knew I'd be feeling awful and lonesome and wanting to do something and he invited me to come. I am lucky to have such a brother, folks. He is something else.

And the dogs are miserable, assuming (as dogs will) that Haley's vanishing is a punishment of sorts. Mr. P is really a bit too dense to figure it out, but poor damaged Treat is a mess. I must coax her back to health and sanity. Bonding time with a wounded Dachshund.

I am tired and lonely and sore. I think I will clean house, by god.