May the Schwartz be with you

Note to self: There's always time for lubrication.
She Wore An: Itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow-polka dot bikini.
Music: House of Pain - Jump Around
Mood: Yes. I.  Did.

Could not sleep last night.  Ordinarily, that would be annoying, even troubling.  Not last night.  I grabbed a book, made a martini and sipped and read until about four.  Woke up slightly tired four hours later, but feeling like a champion.  Oh.  Not some syrupy chick-tini.  Vodka Martini.  Although, the "Bond, James Bond"-ness of the experience was marred somewhat by our lack of olives.  I substituted a pickle instead, way more phallic.

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We here at Aperture Science wish you a lovely die.  Day.  Did I say die?  How completely non-Freudian of me.

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Surface tension affects mayonnaise emulsion.

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That door is still there.  What has been seen cannot be unseen.

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There are a bunch of chairs moving in the room next to mine.  It sounds oddly like a lightsaber battle and now I am thoroughly distracted.  Vmmmm.  Vmmmm.  Voo, twang, kirsch, kirsch, vum, kwash, I am your father, Nooooo that's impossible!  Messy bitch you are.  Choo-choo, choo-choo, WAAAAAAOWW.

*    *    *

I think my fluids prof is losing heart as lecture attendance drops off.  It's just the middle of the term, man, not your fault!  I want to give him a hug.

*    *    *

Suddenly, I want a fish taco.  All innuendo aside, that would be awesome.

I'm on the hunt, I'm after you.

Mood:   Phernerminal

Music:   Reel Big Fish - hungry like the wolf

Hair:   In my eyes like a highland steer.

Note to self:   Sex with blow-up doll not as good as advertised.

Productivity:   Is a smurf.

All the lights were green; I'm actually wearing a sock over my entire left foot (kind of a big deal, boy-I-tell-you-what); a cute girl in class laughed a little too much at a joke that didn't deserve it and then smiled at me, if she's actually older than The Lion King, maybe I'll pursue.  Simba.... *smear*.  

*    *    *

After classes in this room spread out over five years, minus two consecutive years of medical hiatus, I have just now noticed that there is a door tucked behind the screen for the overhead/projector.  Five.  Years.  In my defence, it is only this year that I have begun sitting immediately opposite the screen, as opposed to middle-rear of the room, and there is usually a media cart occupying the space directly in front of the screen, obscuring my vision.

*    *    *

Engagement rings are like "dibs."

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Christ evenly distributed on a platter of crackers, my thermodynamics professor is funny today.  He's cracked five or six actual, chuckle-worthy, jokes.  And then he moved our midterm back two weeks.   He's doped up or dying or something.

*    *    *

Jack's sundae shack, you want nuts with that?

Just... wow.

A friend of mine who runs a home for troubled teenage girls just rainchecked me on supper plans because she needed to rush back to the house to take care of a crisis.

Naturally, being a bit of an ass, I replied, "They'd better be knife fighting over cheez whiz, but okay. THIS TIME."

To which she responded, "You're actually closer than you'd think. More like pistol whipping with a BB gun over bagels and shampoo."

Me: "Christnuggets. That's just as ludicrous as what I proposed. Have fun with that."

Her: "I love my job. Endless entertainment."

Butt out, baby.

Just had an interesting conversation with my roommate about smoking coming full circle - from cool to uncool (even disgusting) to kind of cool again.  I'm not sure how widespread that attitude is, but in our little city, it definitely seems to be happening.  I think that, here, it's because of a legislation that passed some time ago, banning smoking in any public building.

 Now that it's not in your face all of the time, literally, the acquired dislike that my contemporaries found concerning smoking has not been picked up by the new breed.  Such is my surmise.

Before the ban, when you went out for a night of drinking, to say nothing of being in a restaurant, you came back saturated, inundated, permeated, perforated with essence of smoke and sweat.  The clothes that you wore last night could not in any way be considered being worn again.  They were disgusting, they reeked.  There was a palpable aura of filth to them.  When you stepped into the shower, the moment the water hit your hair, you had to pray your stomach would handle the smell, because fuck. I mean, fuck.

When the ban was upcoming, people bitched.  People moaned, whined, cried, wailed and railed against the "injustice" of it all.  Even I thought it was needless establishment meddling.  Bar owners thought it would destroy their business.  Personally, I wondered how Bingo halls would survive, since, having worked several bingos in high school while raising money for our football team, I learned that a Bingo hall was secondhand smoke.  You went to a Bingo hall to sit, and smoke, and maybe, maybe win some money.  Mostly the first two.

 But that first night back from pubs, clubs and bars, no one complained.  Our hangovers were so less, and we smelled so much better, that the "inconvenience" of having to go outside to smoke paled by comparison.  All of my smoker friends agreed.  They also found that being limited to a small area outside while smoking made them a lot of new friends.

Bars lost no business.  In fact, business picked up.

The only thing I regretted about the smoking ban was the closure of a really cool little cigar bar some friends had introduced me to, only months before.  We'd made the decision to cultivate properly adult, properly refined vices.  Scotch, cigars, port, all that shit.  And so, they took me to this twenty-by-twenty, one room bar in one of the hotels here in town.  We dressed up a little, and enjoyed the hell out of ourselves.  But this was an enclosed room with amazing ventilation, built for the express purpose of enjoying a cigar.  And sadly, it had to close.  No loophole could be built into a legislation that banned smoking indoors, or everyone would take advantage of it.

I still think cigarettes are unappealing, though.  In fact, that's one of my personal dating rules - no smokers.  I don't like the smell, I don't like the taste in someone's mouth, and the money could be better wasted, if not better spent.

The Rules: Installment #1

Let us now discuss The Rules.

The Rules are not a system to pick up women. The Rules are not a system to pick up men. The Rules are simply what a referee would use when assigning penalties in the game of love. This is the first installment, more to follow as I think of them.

In no particular order:

Asking out someone at their job:

It shall be considered bad form for a man to ask any woman in a service industry job for her phone number. It is her job to be charming and friendly, the odds are not in your favour, son.

If said woman is interested in you, it shall hereby be the accepted practice for her to write her phone number on your receipt or a business card, preferably with a little heart somewhere. If you are married or have a girlfriend and this happens, it shall be accepted practice for you to feel a little flattered, not to call, and keep it to your fucking self. Your wife or girlfriend will not be impressed that the cute waitress gave you her number.

The corollary is true concerning women asking out male employees: go right ahead, it doesn't happen as often to us. Men shouldn't randomly hand out their phone numbers, like asking out your waitress, the number usually comes across as creepy. If you're the kind of guy that she's going to be hoping for a number from, you're probably not the kind of guy who needs this advice, gnome sayne?

This definitely also applies to receptionists.

The End of Date kiss:

Men, if she hasn't laughed at a joke all night; has been texting the whole time; or pulled her hand away when you tried to hold it - don't move in for the kiss, dumbass. She's not interested and you'll look like a tool. And not a manly tool, like a pneumatic torque wrench, no, you'll look more like an eggcup. Who needs an egg cup, really?

Ladies. The date was fun, but it's just not there for you? It shall henceforth be the policy to offer a preemptive handshake. Men are often bad at picking up subtle clues, woman are often bad at giving subtle clues, no matter what either gender thinks of their respective skills. The handshake will be the accepted way to end the date without drawing out the awkward kiss attempt.

Further, if you do not like to kiss on the first date, but wish to see someone again, be clear about both things.

How to handle an unwanted suitor:

Let's be honest, this mostly applies for women, although I've had to deal with this a time or two myself.

Be blunt, and be blunt soon.

If someone is asking you out and you feel no attraction to them whatsoever (to say nothing of revulsion, which is also completely relevant here), most people will try to let them down easy, so as to avoid bruising feelings. Most of the time, this will be enough. A second attempt by the same suitor must be crushed decisively.

You read that right: crushed.

Any repeated attempt must be answered in a clear, concise and brutally honest manner. Do not waver, do not let them down easy, and do not, under any circumstances, offer excuses for specific evenings or events or end your explanation with the words, "right now." Either of these infractions will leave your pursuer with some fucking hope, keeping them coming back for more.

You are not "being mean." You are saving yourself untold amounts of annoyance and avoiding a potentially major scene down the road.

Back to school, back to school, to prove to dad I'm not a fool

It's 8:36am, and I am back on campus for my first day of classes. I am happy about this. I have been waking up with no obligations beyond my medical requirements for the last four months. It feels surprisingly good to have goals again. Of course, I still have to fulfill said medical obligations, but now I have school to distract me instead of nothing.

My first class isn't even until ten, I just carpooled in with my roommate using my newly acquired gibble pass. Sorry, my handicapped parking permit. Two more months of crutches, so I deserve the fucker. Gibble. Gibble gibble gibble. Gibble.

I am in the library, and I was the first one here by a long shot. It's freaking quiet. I 'm excited for class, but a little bit scared about today's lecturers. One of them is very ESL, and one of them has his own equation in the textbook and is slightly soul-destroying. Also, combover.

An aside:
As I was standing in the kitchen this morning, (well, more tripodding, what with the aluminum legs and all) my roommate walked in holding a cereal bowl, and he looked so unhappy. Granola clusters + balkan yogurt = sad face, apparently.

More to follow. Hell, probably more to follow today. I'm overstimulated.

I Know How You Wasted Your Time This Summer

Oh me oh my oh me oh stuff.

First, I must apologize for the lack of updates this summer. Frankly, I've lacked inspiration in all but the barest forms. Being stuck on the couch with no forward progress in any medical conditions, let alone monetary ones, will do that to you. To write, what I really need is an obscure combination of overstimulation and severe boredom; to whit, what is found during school. I need caffeine, esoterics and the screaming need for an outlet. Catastrophic indolence is no recipe for originality.

This summer, I have played many video games. I have seen many movies. I have read many books. What I have not done is worked or really challenged myself, because the new drugs and the new treatments and my fucking foot have been enough of an obstacle all by their lonesome.

What I have garnered is essentially a series of reviews. 3D-dot game heroes is amazing. Scott Pilgrim in all of its forms is worth your time. The Expendables is so terrible that I would honestly rather watch New Moon again over it (there's a girl, okay?). In exchange for her reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, I have agreed to suffer the egregious slings and arrows of the Twlight quote-unquote saga. It's crap in a hat, but worth it to expose someone who would have otherwise never touched the works of Douglas Adams to his inspiring brilliance. The man knows how to turn a phrase. Stephanie Meyers, on the other hand, reads so poorly that it impinges upon the freedom of the mind and the ephemeral nature of the soul to consume it. The very fact that she is now wealthy beyond all need by nature of what passes for her talent is a thing that chafes my very existence.

Back to the reviews, though:

- Ip Man is an entertaining romp through wing chun.

- The Star Wars prequels are still pretty, and still shitty.

- The first season of Fringe is spellbinding.

- True Blood is better than The Vampire Diaries, but that's not saying much; HBO/showtime's penchant for tits and ass mitigates much sub-par writing.

- Futurama is excellent in all of its forms; the new season being no exception.

- The Rockband Network has added much needed popular songs to the genre; the music nerds who choose the tunes need to face the fact that they're forcing people to kareoke obscure music, and that that makes it harder to introduce new people to the game. Seriously, one popular song for every great-but-unheard-of song. What are you, "differently abled"? Anywho, Rockband is still Rockband. Can't wait for v3.0 Keytar? Yes, please.

- DeathSpank is literally nothing but hack and slash fetch quests tied together by amazing dialogue and yet is completely worth your time.

- Earthworm Jim HD doesn't quite play like the SNES version of the game, but is close enough for crotch-based appreciation.

- Heroman is fun, yet.. still anime, which means that it bears little resemblance to North American culture, let alone reality. I still like it. It's no Cowboy Bebop, but hell, what is?

Oh hey, books!

- Hood is a great take on Robin Hood; much better than the new Russel Crowe flick.

- Battle Royale will leave you enraptured (which is worthy of awe, for a translation).

- Crooked Little Vein, like all Warren Ellis material, is perverted and dirty, disgusting yet facinating, full of cynically worthwhile appraisals of government and culture, and utterly spellbinding.

- Jesus or the Non-Religious is spiritually affirming, yet at the same time reassuring to the rational minded that not all dedicated Christians have their cranial space lodged up the nearest fecal-oriented orifice.

- Pygmy takes getting used to, but entertains on many levels, as does Rant, Snuff, Survivor and, of course, Fight Club. I like Chuck Pahlaniuk. His brand of dark-yet-informative lights my fire.

- Hitler's Scientists is dry, yet full of cool tidbits about the science of the 3rd reich.

- Shi Long Pang is an amazing webcomic, and the 1st hardcover volume is well worth your money.

- The NSFW crowd should check out Oglaf.com.

There is literally too much music to properly discuss. I must utterly recommend everything by Vampire Weekend. Just go, you'll thank me.

Twilight really is crap in a hat, though. I mean, I get the appeal: the books are written for any woman who has ever felt like an outcast, or at least not entirely accepted, for any reason whatsoever - and then several of the HOTTEST PEOPLE EVER fall head heels over for you, waiting for you to make a choice. The fact that Bella, the main character, is utterly unlikeable, coupled with the obviously high-school-abusive-relationship-you-put-up-with-because-you-don't-know-any-better nature of her romance with the male lead is irrelevant in the face of the fact that all the pretty people love her whiny ass because she is literally crack for their senses. Frankly, it fails on every level except consistent, lengthy narrative; which has led me to read shittier stuff. It is terrible, though.

Menh, I've been bored for four months in many ways, despite the company I've had and the work done on my motorcycle. School and tea/coffee will prompt many more updates. Stay Tuned.

Just Hook it to my Veins!

Hello little fishies.

I must apologize for my absence. And maybe for my last couple of entries. I've been sick, you see. The motivation just wasn't there while I wasn't well. But now I've got the words in me. They wiggle. It feels neat.

Moo hoo ha ha.

I have been reading entirely too many graphic novels. At first I really liked it, then I was worried that they were making me stupid, and now I think I've come full circle. I'm stupid and I like it.

I'm on crutches. There was a complication that in no way has given me a cool story. Mostly I get to look sad and say, in my best hangdog-defeated expression, "It's not a cool story. I had a cut on my foot. It got infected. That's it." Because people ask what happened to you when you crutch by them. They also ask what happened to you when you have a devilishly stylish medical grade blue stretchy thing on your foot instead of a cast. The stylish stretchy blue thing goes over the bandage. It keeps me clean. Pure. We wouldn't want to be unclean. Impure. IMPURE.

Crutches. Right. Still on those, after roughly a month's time. That's not changing any time soon. The cut was on the sole of the foot, see. And then the heel became crusty bits. Crusty bits are bad. There was a neat thing called a shunt in my arm. Well, I called it a shunt. Shunt, shunt, shunt, shunty-shunt, shunt. Try it. Fun.

Shunty-McShuntShunt was in my arm-bits for the express purpose of delivering antibiotic goodies from the nice nurse people. That was an interesting experience. I could feel the juices spreading out through my blood pipes. It was handy during the unseasonable ambient thermal energy, since the goodies had to be kept in the re-fridge-er-ate-TOR, right next the mustard and the leftover pork. No, not bacon. I've never, ever, ever, had leftover bacon. What is wrong with you? Okay, one time, but I had specifically cooked more than I needed so that there would be bacon later when I was drunk. Alcohol and furious, spattering grease are best left uncombined. Praise my foresight. PRAISE IT.

Back to the goodies. The goodies were chilled. I was supposed to let them warm up, but it was much nicer to shoot up some vein-centric A/C.

Wish me luck, fish sticks. I'm going to cram my headspace into the modern literary sensation known as Twilight. I do this to properly understand a pop-culture phenomenon, not because I am sympathetic to the struggle of one pampered middle-class girl to choose between necrophilia and bestiality. I am also not an adolescent human with ovaries. I distinctly lack ovaries.

See you soon.

GET IN DE CHOPPA

I've been reading the Vertigo Comics series DMZ, which is about a photojournalist who is documenting the effects of a modern American civil war on Manhattan Island. The Island is caught in the middle of a stand off between the two factions fighting the war, and still has a population of about a half-million people. There is a protracted and uneasy cease-fire in place, that is broken occasionally. It's been like this for years. The city has changed. I felt like writing like I was a resident there, so I did. Here it is:

Staccato bursts of automatic weapon fire echoes faint and hollow in the distance. I barely look up from my salad. What? You're surprised? After ten years of this shit, you stop perking up to listen to every conversation held with chattering M16s. They never have anything worthwhile to say, just hate with a direction.

This war is whatever it is, and the people who are still on Manhattan Island and still passing for some sort of sane, we live our lives as best as we can. I like my life better like this, actually. I've always hated the illusion of the nine-to-five and here, it no longer exists. Oh, sure, on the days the war is happening, you learn how much humanity there is packed around you by the smell of people shitting their pants; but mostly, the war is in different neighbourhoods and so is the smell of shit. My days are spent tending my gardens and trading for what I need. My nights are spent with people, making and taking in our own culture. With half a million people still on the island, believe me, we have our own culture.

Music, art, fashion, writing, it's all here. Me? I'm a writer. Pre-war, I'd been struggling with a terminal case of writer's block. But now? The zest I feel for life, the gift that each day feels like? The words come easily. Even better, is the way that no one is trying to make any money with anything. We're all just putting our best work out there for people to appreciate and maybe argue with a little. Pure, it's pure.

I know this can't last forever. I know that at any time, decisions beyond my control may send bombs and bullets into my life. I know that people are hurt and dying here every day. I know that there is a black market supplied by thieves and protected by violence. I know all of this, but I tell you that I am more alive that I have ever been, here and now.

Another Suffering Bastard, Please, Bartender.

It is a beautiful, sunny and warm Saturday afternoon.

I am laid up, somewhat, and am sitting in a big easy chair with my foot up, as per my doctors' instructions. There was an incident with some Staph A bacteria and I now have an IV in my arm that I periodically pump antibiotics through.

Sitting here, I can hear several children playing outside, and I noticed something interesting. When kids are shouting over each other, trying to get their interpretation of the rules of a game heard, they sound just like drunk people. They sound like hammered adults, stammering and repeating themselves and getting louder and louder until the group acknowledges their input.

The idea that kids are tiny drunk people amuses me mightily.