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Disasters are exciting, I'm sorry to admit. Remember last summer when Florida was getting pounded by hurricanes? Every single day I'd sit in my little newsroom in Georgia, checking the predicted paths, hoping they would crush Savannah to pieces ... only so that I could ignore the evacuation orders, strap myself on to the roof of my apartment building, and watch the chaos first-hand. I insisted to my friends that we should throw a huge Hurricane Party in anticipation of the disaster ... but the party never happened, and neither did the hurricanes -- not in Savannah, anyway. Well, (and I don't want to seem too dark about this: I don't actually want anything truly BAD to happen), now that I live within 15 minutes from this place, I have a new kind of disaster to "worry" about ...   Oh ... this was the article on CNN.com yesterday that inspired me to go take these pictures.  Things to do at 3:14 a.m. on a Saturday Night: 1) Contemplate drunk calling everyone you know 2) Blast The Cure's 10:15 Saturday Night 3) Finish a bag of stale tortilla chips 4) Write a ridiculously sappy blog post, and then delete it 5) Wonder if you should have really told the boss EVERYTHING tonight 6) Read every away message 4 times 7) Check if you won powerball, and then rip your ticket into 100 pieces, submitting to the fact that you will never be rich, never be able to afford the truck you want, but realize, hey, wouldn't it be nice to watch Under Siege with Steven Seagal, and then realize, oh crap you don't have that movie but you really should because it's just so damn deliciously crappy! Shit.  My trashcan is getting pretty full of these things ...  "I DO NOT want to be in your head in the morning." A coworker said this to me yesterday after we got into my car at lunchtime and almost went deaf from the radio I had forgotten to turn down when I pulled into work that morning. And ya know ... he's right. I don't want to be in my head in the morning either. It could very well be my most insane mental state of the day -- even if I am half-asleep at the time. I think I just can't stand the routine. Every morning. Wake up. Shower. Raid the closet. Eat cereal. Brush the teeth. Drive to work. Even on the days that I hit the snooze button ... everything that follows is always the same. I just want like a cow to show up in my bathtub one of these days. Or like ... an airplane to crash into my apartment ... maybe even a homeless guy hiding under my bed ... things that, if I were still living in Georgia, would have seemed reasonably normal. But, for the love of God, just don't make me wake up any earlier. One of my latest ad creations ... Would you open this email if had the subject 'get ready'? Would you click on it if you opened it and found this? And if so, what would you click on?  I'll have some stats for you in the next few days, if you're interested. Imagine running a 50 yard dash. You're winning. Now you're a few feet behind. Now you're winning again. Only a few yards to go! Almost there! Wait ... you're losing. You're losing. Race is over. You're two feet back, but you lost. And you never really had a chance in the first place. Now imagine taking the feeling of that entire race and extending it over a few weeks, and that's basically what I've been feeling lately. Sounds sad ... but really it's just the frustration of wanting something so badly, but never being able to get it. Not sad. Just so, so frustrating. Want to hear a really juicy story? Then you've come to the wrong place. I got nothing right now. This calls for ... the boring details of my life! This week marks the end of three months since I started my new job, which seems impossible to me, but apparently my calendar doesn't lie. I'm fairly comfortable with the people I work with, and slowly they are realizing that I am total spaz and that they're just going to have to deal with it. The maintenance guy came to my apartment the other day to fix a drainage problem in my bathtub. This has improved my overall quality of life and sanity by at least 45%. There is nothing I hate more than standing in 5 inches of filthy water at the end of every single shower. My social life sucks. I go out with my coworkers about once a week, and occasionally I check out some local bands on the weekend by myself ... but the friend-base isn't really exploding right now, and I don't imagine it will any time soon. This weekend I'll be going to Boston for my ex-girlfriend's graduation. It will be nice to get away for a couple days ... but the 16-hour round trip will surely crush my soul. I was reminded last weekend of the amazing feeling of being able to have a conversation with someone--and to know exactly what that person is thinking--without really saying anything at all. That's what makes siblings so great. My daily routine: Go to work. Come home. Blast the stereo while I make dinner. Go to the gym. Come home, read blogs, go to bed. It's all very sexy, isn't it? Yes, I think it is, Johnny. I think it is. Tortilla chips are awesome. So is Ramen. And turkey burgers. Good night. 12:18 AM  My 11-year-old nephew introduced this site to me yesterday ...  Click to select an episode.  "Silverfish eat a wide variety of foods, including glue, wallpaper paste, bookbindings, paper, photographs, starch in clothing, cotton, linen, rayon fabrics, wheat flour, cereals, dried meats, leather and even dead insects. Silverfish often live in damp, cool places such as basements and laundry rooms. Sometimes, they are found in a bathtub, sink or washbasin, unable to climb out.Silverfish females may lay over 100 eggs during a lifetime. Eggs are laid singly or two to three at a time in small groups, hatching in three to six weeks. Young silverfish and firebrats resemble adults except being smaller, white and take on the adult color in four to six weeks. Adults may live two to eight years. Silverfish, depending on the species, may reach maturity in three to twenty-four months. These insects normally hitchhike into the home in food, furniture, old books, papers and old starched clothing." Adventures in Other People's Misfortunes Episode 65 She was running on the treadmill. Probably 7 mph. Her CD player fell out of the holder and on to the machine, smashing into about 20 pieces. She was so flustered she stopped dead in her tracks, but forgot to turn off the treadmill. It shot her backwards, off the machine, into the wall behind her, and she fell forward, her face skidding against the running conveyor. It was a truly frightening episode, hilarious only when writing about it days later. About seven years ago, my girlfriend used the aol screenname Bludrozes, inspired by a song by Tori Amos. She stopped using it about six years ago. Needless to say, it was a bit disconcerting to see it come online all of sudden yesterday ... and ever more disconcerting to see the profile:  1:12 AM I have a real journal. Occasionally, I'll scribble in there if I feel like writing something a bit more meaningful than the drivel that you find here.A few months back, though, I created a little reminder for myself. Any time a journal entry begins with a star, it means ... well ... you get the idea ...  I realized tonight, around midnight as I was watching the drummer of Screamin Daisies in Harrisburg, that I should give similar disclaimers for my Munchies. So, from now on, anytime I post intoxicated at all, I will begin (or end) with a star, like the one at the beginning of this post. That should, at least, explain my seeming insanity from time to time. My friend and I have a little wager going. We are betting on which one of us will be the first to go on two consecutive dates with one person. But here's the sad part. Since neither one of us sees the possibility of this happening to us any time soon, we are betting on each other. If my friend gets two dates first, which I think will happen, she gives me a CD. If I go on two dates, I lose. Makes perfect sense to me.  Saturday night ... I had spread out on top of the pool table. The couch diving and hot tub gossip had seemed to come to an abrubt halt and suddenly they were watching "A Girl Next Door." I writhed around a bit. 8 ball corner pocket. Miss. 6 ball, side pocket. Miss. My beer was getting warm and I wondered if it could possibly be the last in a 13 marathon of Miller Lite and Corona. Is this really the end, I thought. And it was. I crawled off the table and climbed the steps. And more steps. And more. Stumbled into my bedroom. Fell onto the blankets with the light on. When I woke, someone one was running out the door, and I knew it was too late. About an hour had passed. I sat up. Squirmed out. Struggled to find the bathroom light swtich. And there it was, markered dark on to my forehead, aimed upward like a canon ... Cock. And balls. Okay, I'm better now. Speaking of alcoholism, I had a revelation recently. Hotel California, by the Eagles. Some say it's a song about a haunted hotel. Others say it's about joining a cult. But I realized recently that the song is clearly about alcoholism. I have searched cyberspace far and wide to find a similar analysis, but have found none. Still, I am extremely confident of this discovery and I invite you to reach the same conclusion: On a dark desert highway And don't forget the prize words from AA: Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. Here it is sitting in front of me. I've blown off the dust and stared at it for days, hesitant to touch it, anxious to trust it. This button. This hypothetical switch. This decision. The letters along the side are fading off; it's been so long. c-o-u-r-t. Sounds so old-fashioned. Out of style. But that's how much time has passed. Turn it on. Keep it off. Hurry up. Slow down. I. Just. Don't. Know. But I know I can't concentrate. Can't control it. Won't be able to stop it. And that's the worst kind. Set yourself up for pain and let it fall. Hard. Because that's how it works, only I'm the only one saying it. And even that will work against me. Chill out. Be confident. Take it easy. Simple to say, difficult to do. What's my age again? And suddenly lyrics have meaning. If I had the power to stop this feeling I would crush it and kill it right now only to save myself from the disaster rushing in. Only to breathe. You stupid, stupid sap. 5 reasons why I should never own a time machine, brought to you by humbling sobriety ... -For every 10 seconds in the present, I would spend 10 days in the past. -No matter how many times I would try something different, my seventh grade crush would probably never like me. -Once I hit 1993, I might never come back. -Way too many people to punch in the face. -If a dinosaur eats me, my future's totally fucked, man. |
Late night snacks. Bite-sized ramblings. Old-fashioned eats, served fresh daily. Open 24-7.  Other blogs Fireballs and Tsunami JeffreyDavis.net Mismatched Parentheses NimbleSixpence One Tortured Soul Palpably Inadequate Picnic, Lightning Pony Legs, Temporarily Supernouveau Wander Lust In my DVD player Archives June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 Other stuff Homestarrunner One Slime DeepDiscountDVD Olde English Sketch Comedy Live Music Archive Copy Army Copywriting Service Love & Radio This One Time Email me mmjunior / at / hotmail   
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