Hey folks.
Check out the ol' sidebar action. It's as close to neon pink and green as I could make it. For those of you who don't know, my favorite pair of shoes are black, white, and neon pink and green; hence the font color change. Yeah, I'm so 90s that when VH1's "I love the 90s" come on I scream, "Fucking Posers! You don't know shit...", and begin to cry hysterically because they just don't, (and never will), understand the 90s like I do.
I get all teary just thinking about it. Corporate pricks.
Poopy pants attitude aside, I added some links to your right, (That'a way --->). Sorry for the distinct lack of Mid-western street art and culture representation. I'll put more up when I can find it. By the way, does anyone know where I can find some local street art and culture stuff? It seems to be that all the hippies that made this area cool have grown up, had kids, and have been voting irresponsibly for the last 20-odd years. I'm not talking the, "I'm so depressed because I hate my dad, and life is a total crummy sham that the fascist-capitalist-scum are enforcing upon us", kind of stuff. I mean pop art! Because it is so much better.
I speak sarcasm. Fluently.
I'll add more Crappola when I find it. Speaking of emo-kids and fascists, check out this quote.
"Fascism will come to America in the guise of National Security."
- Jim Garrison, District Attorney of Orleans Parish, La., 1967
Creepy, huh. I keep it like that. Cupcake out.
So, it was the g/f's, (should that be capitalized for reasons more legitimate than brownie points?), birthday this weekend. We headed down to Chicago, being that it is the destination city of choice in the Mid-west. Living where I do has it's perks and all, (ready access to cheap alcohol, 'hills' to which I could escape to post-felony, and even a local university to provide me with a false sense of security in that most of the world is sane, respectable, and just as liberal as I am), but running around the ol' college town is starting to get pretty lamecore. I must admit that I heard that somewhere, 'lamecore'. What a good word to describe the exact opposite of 'hardcore'; meaning cool.
For obvious reasons, mainly the ones manifested in my girlfriend, young drunken co-eds do not have the appeal that they once had when I visited Madison in the mid-90s. Then again, at that time I was 16 and anything with tits and a pulse was fair game for my boner-driven infatuations. So I must also admit that I, like fine wines, have matured somewhat, cultivating class and an appreciation for women that extends beyond their outward physical appearance and attributes. Speaking of, have I mentioned that if you are nice to them, and 'appreciate' them on a deeper level, that they let you see them naked? If someone would have just told me that when I was sixteen!...I would have died from Gono-herpa-syphal-AIDS by now. That said, it is now my firm belief that I should be thankful for my tapered wisdom and women's abilities to shirk a horny boy from their presence with European engineering-like precision. But I digress.
The g/f and I headed down to Chicago for the evening to celebrate the day of her birthing. After nearly four years of relationship, we've never really had the chance to 'go big' for a birthday so we took advantage of a little overage mistake by the Wisconsin Department of Revenue and I blew my over-inflated tax-return on a weekend trip to Chicago! After all, 'finders-keepers' and 'you can't give back what you don't have!', right?
In all of our years of togetherness we have been unfairly accused of nearly sprinting towards a little white picket fence and 2.63 children in the 'burbs, but never has the g/f been assaulted with as many unfounded accusations of my intent to wed than when she announced to her new co-workers at the monkey-testing-lab that I had made reservations at a fancy-pants restaurant at the top of the Hancock tower. I can just see it now, "He's totally going to propose!", squeals the fat never-to-be-married pig from accounting. What is it about hopeless unmarried women that leave them to senselessly dream of marriage for other young women? Don't they know what marriage does to men; like making them old and fat?! Don't get me wrong, I'm not a complete ass, I have been telling the g/f for a long time now that she's the best girlfriend I've ever had, and I mean it. In fact, I'm so sure of this that I've told her repeatedly that she's got a good lead in the race to be my forever girlfriend. Pretty ballsy statement, I know, but she's a good girl and puts out pretty regularly.
Anyhow, piggy was dead wrong. Ha! I had no intention of proposing to the g/f. I just wanted to take her out for a nice night out on the town, and show her a good time. It's her friggin' birthday for Christ's sake, can't a guy just be a gentlemen for one night without all sorts of ruthless and false acumen? Besides, does anybody understand what kind of naked a guy gets to see when he drops approximately one metric assload of cash on dinner, drinks, and a sweet hotel room? Let me remind you, that's some serious naked.
So dinner on top of the Hancock building was pretty nice. The old jazz duders to our left looked properly loaded, and I am pretty sure that one of the them stoned out of his fucking mind. That makes for happy musicians which makes for good music and a lovely bourbon-soaked night. Outside of the fact that it was the foggiest night in the history of foggy nights in Chicago, virtually negating the view that I was paying a hundred dollars a head to see, the meal was pretty good. The g/f and I had a great time getting half-cocked on wine and scotch before dinner, and it was pretty smooth sailing aboard the S.S. Inebriation from there.
After dinner we boarded the death-rocket, (they called it the elevator), down to sea level and I hobbled my broke-assed leg to a waiting cab. For those of you who haven't ever been to Chicago, it is steadily turning into a haven for lost post-college douschebags. Aside from date-rape, these guys spend a strong majority of their time searching for bad fashion sense from douschebag meccas such as Miami and Los Angeles, (the not ghetto parts), which they use to impress the streetwalkers of Chicago. If I never see another twenty-something asshole desperately trying to fondle fake tits and bad nose-jobs I'll die a happy man. What I am trying to say is that we went to a jazz club which was conveniently located in the basement of another club, this 'other club' - the above ground one - had the following entrance requirements: One collared shirt, complete with Fleur-de-Lis/Paisley/Skull detail; one pair of machine distressed wash-of-the-month semi-premium denim; one inexpertly executed faux-hawk, doused with egregious amounts of hair-lubricant; and one pair of over-priced designer knock-off shoes (color optional). Needless to say, I was more than ready to mail-bomb the place at the drop of a hat. But the jazz set was pretty good.
The hotel was pretty nice, and the two-person jacuzzi tub was totally necessary. All in all, birthdays such as the g/f's are indeed harder to pass up than it was for that asshole brother from 'The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe' to turn down Turkish Delight and not sell out his flesh and blood. If you don't get the reference you should try reading something more than a shit-stained Reader's Digest. I now conclude this post for lack of motivation.
Creep out.
For obvious reasons, mainly the ones manifested in my girlfriend, young drunken co-eds do not have the appeal that they once had when I visited Madison in the mid-90s. Then again, at that time I was 16 and anything with tits and a pulse was fair game for my boner-driven infatuations. So I must also admit that I, like fine wines, have matured somewhat, cultivating class and an appreciation for women that extends beyond their outward physical appearance and attributes. Speaking of, have I mentioned that if you are nice to them, and 'appreciate' them on a deeper level, that they let you see them naked? If someone would have just told me that when I was sixteen!...I would have died from Gono-herpa-syphal-AIDS by now. That said, it is now my firm belief that I should be thankful for my tapered wisdom and women's abilities to shirk a horny boy from their presence with European engineering-like precision. But I digress.
The g/f and I headed down to Chicago for the evening to celebrate the day of her birthing. After nearly four years of relationship, we've never really had the chance to 'go big' for a birthday so we took advantage of a little overage mistake by the Wisconsin Department of Revenue and I blew my over-inflated tax-return on a weekend trip to Chicago! After all, 'finders-keepers' and 'you can't give back what you don't have!', right?
In all of our years of togetherness we have been unfairly accused of nearly sprinting towards a little white picket fence and 2.63 children in the 'burbs, but never has the g/f been assaulted with as many unfounded accusations of my intent to wed than when she announced to her new co-workers at the monkey-testing-lab that I had made reservations at a fancy-pants restaurant at the top of the Hancock tower. I can just see it now, "He's totally going to propose!", squeals the fat never-to-be-married pig from accounting. What is it about hopeless unmarried women that leave them to senselessly dream of marriage for other young women? Don't they know what marriage does to men; like making them old and fat?! Don't get me wrong, I'm not a complete ass, I have been telling the g/f for a long time now that she's the best girlfriend I've ever had, and I mean it. In fact, I'm so sure of this that I've told her repeatedly that she's got a good lead in the race to be my forever girlfriend. Pretty ballsy statement, I know, but she's a good girl and puts out pretty regularly.
Anyhow, piggy was dead wrong. Ha! I had no intention of proposing to the g/f. I just wanted to take her out for a nice night out on the town, and show her a good time. It's her friggin' birthday for Christ's sake, can't a guy just be a gentlemen for one night without all sorts of ruthless and false acumen? Besides, does anybody understand what kind of naked a guy gets to see when he drops approximately one metric assload of cash on dinner, drinks, and a sweet hotel room? Let me remind you, that's some serious naked.
So dinner on top of the Hancock building was pretty nice. The old jazz duders to our left looked properly loaded, and I am pretty sure that one of the them stoned out of his fucking mind. That makes for happy musicians which makes for good music and a lovely bourbon-soaked night. Outside of the fact that it was the foggiest night in the history of foggy nights in Chicago, virtually negating the view that I was paying a hundred dollars a head to see, the meal was pretty good. The g/f and I had a great time getting half-cocked on wine and scotch before dinner, and it was pretty smooth sailing aboard the S.S. Inebriation from there.
After dinner we boarded the death-rocket, (they called it the elevator), down to sea level and I hobbled my broke-assed leg to a waiting cab. For those of you who haven't ever been to Chicago, it is steadily turning into a haven for lost post-college douschebags. Aside from date-rape, these guys spend a strong majority of their time searching for bad fashion sense from douschebag meccas such as Miami and Los Angeles, (the not ghetto parts), which they use to impress the streetwalkers of Chicago. If I never see another twenty-something asshole desperately trying to fondle fake tits and bad nose-jobs I'll die a happy man. What I am trying to say is that we went to a jazz club which was conveniently located in the basement of another club, this 'other club' - the above ground one - had the following entrance requirements: One collared shirt, complete with Fleur-de-Lis/Paisley/Skull detail; one pair of machine distressed wash-of-the-month semi-premium denim; one inexpertly executed faux-hawk, doused with egregious amounts of hair-lubricant; and one pair of over-priced designer knock-off shoes (color optional). Needless to say, I was more than ready to mail-bomb the place at the drop of a hat. But the jazz set was pretty good.
The hotel was pretty nice, and the two-person jacuzzi tub was totally necessary. All in all, birthdays such as the g/f's are indeed harder to pass up than it was for that asshole brother from 'The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe' to turn down Turkish Delight and not sell out his flesh and blood. If you don't get the reference you should try reading something more than a shit-stained Reader's Digest. I now conclude this post for lack of motivation.
Creep out.
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Well Hello!
I am having some security issues these days, along with a mid- mid-life crisis. There is something about hitting a quarter centery that is rocking my little boat. I understand, you're saying to yourself...didn't he start writing this blog because he turned twenty-five and he felt that in some way narcissism was justified at this age. Like, I survived my teens and now I am totally qualified to explain to everyone out there why yellow mustard is totally inferior to any other sandwich topping, except when smearing it on McDonald's™ hamburgers, then it becomes the reason for ordering the sandwich in the first place.
I say this because in my efforts to write a blog that is worth reading I started to read other blogs that were actually worth reading. It's like when the people who write Reader's Digest started writing it. At first they read other credible, or at least entertaining magazines, and then tried to mimick what they saw. Speaking of Reader's digest...to any editor of said magazine, is it really that necessary to distinguish yourself from the other magazines by making your magazine so much smaller. If you were trying to make it easier to hold the magazine in one hand while reading it, you failed miserably. It's so small that when I hold the magazine open with one hand, in any conceivable position, I end up covering nearly half of the article with either my thumb or those other two fingers - you know, the ones at the other end of the hand. Just make the magazine regular sized and I will simply lay it out on my lap or a nearby table. This will keep the magazine from continually exploding like a deck of cards in my hand when I read it, consequently knocking my cup of coffee out of the other hand, which in turn scalds my testicles with burning hot liquid. What I'm trying to say is that I think that Reader's Digest magazine is a poorly executed publication and kind of a piece of shit.
Reader's Digest's stupidity aside, after studying so many other blogs I have decided that my writing ablilities pale in comparison to those of my contemporaries. This has led to my decision that I must now dedicate more of my blog-time to coordinationg the 'Links' section of my blog, making it more eye-catching and attractive to potential readers of blogs other than mine; i.e. everyone.
In other words, I concede my loss in the battle of talent. Go out you fine readers, enjoy someone else's blog. I go now to wallow in my self-pity.
PS. I've got some really funny shit stewing in the old 'Draft' bin...keep an eye out!
I am having some security issues these days, along with a mid- mid-life crisis. There is something about hitting a quarter centery that is rocking my little boat. I understand, you're saying to yourself...didn't he start writing this blog because he turned twenty-five and he felt that in some way narcissism was justified at this age. Like, I survived my teens and now I am totally qualified to explain to everyone out there why yellow mustard is totally inferior to any other sandwich topping, except when smearing it on McDonald's™ hamburgers, then it becomes the reason for ordering the sandwich in the first place.
I say this because in my efforts to write a blog that is worth reading I started to read other blogs that were actually worth reading. It's like when the people who write Reader's Digest started writing it. At first they read other credible, or at least entertaining magazines, and then tried to mimick what they saw. Speaking of Reader's digest...to any editor of said magazine, is it really that necessary to distinguish yourself from the other magazines by making your magazine so much smaller. If you were trying to make it easier to hold the magazine in one hand while reading it, you failed miserably. It's so small that when I hold the magazine open with one hand, in any conceivable position, I end up covering nearly half of the article with either my thumb or those other two fingers - you know, the ones at the other end of the hand. Just make the magazine regular sized and I will simply lay it out on my lap or a nearby table. This will keep the magazine from continually exploding like a deck of cards in my hand when I read it, consequently knocking my cup of coffee out of the other hand, which in turn scalds my testicles with burning hot liquid. What I'm trying to say is that I think that Reader's Digest magazine is a poorly executed publication and kind of a piece of shit.
Reader's Digest's stupidity aside, after studying so many other blogs I have decided that my writing ablilities pale in comparison to those of my contemporaries. This has led to my decision that I must now dedicate more of my blog-time to coordinationg the 'Links' section of my blog, making it more eye-catching and attractive to potential readers of blogs other than mine; i.e. everyone.
In other words, I concede my loss in the battle of talent. Go out you fine readers, enjoy someone else's blog. I go now to wallow in my self-pity.
PS. I've got some really funny shit stewing in the old 'Draft' bin...keep an eye out!
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