NOTE: I wrote this post almost exactly a year ago, on May 30th 2007, about a strange occurrence after a late night spent crashing in the library. Apparently I blocked it out of my mind and forgot to publish it.
am i still dreaming?
i wake up to the sound of a male's voice in my immediate vicinity. i jolt up and look around. someone, a middle-eastern looking man with a bit of an accent, apologizes to me for waking me up. i had been restless, anyway, and had no business sleeping still, so i tell him not to worry about it. he comes and sits down in the blue chair next to me and introduces himself.
it was only 10 minutes ago, but i barely remember what he said. i think he started talking about the weather..."with this crazy weather, how are you adjusting to the changes?" seriously? then what's your name again? oh, morgen? is that russian? are you russian? i'm russian, i'm hassian (sp?). yeah, that makes a lot of fucking sense. "so you are scandinavian, then? i want to go to scandanavia. well, do you know what they say?" (i will tell you what they say:) "where there's a will there's a way!" good job at your american english you dumb fuck. anyway, political science is your major? oh, wow, WOWEEEE, you might wanna volunteer with my organization (creeping out young democrats of america?) ok...i'll give him a fake email. maybe i'll spell my name with an "a" just to rub it in. not sure what i'm rubbing in, exactly, which reminds me...
he asks, "as an american citizen, what is the most important thing to keep in mind in voting?" you know, weather and citizenship, my two favorite things to talk about before I've brushed my teeth in the morning. I'm about to answer "solidarity" as I reach for my eye drops in my bag, but he notices that I am about to do something and says "that's ok, I'll wait. That's what friends are for." o-k...
i return to my upright and sketched out position as he proceeds to start patting me on my shoulder about something or other. i grabbed my phone to text Cedar and complain to her that something weird was happening to me. he noticed my phone and commented enthusiastically about how new it looked. i was about ready to give up on placating him and walking away when he started to reach for my phone and instead POKED MY BOOB. NOT EVEN KIDDING. and i know i have massive knockers but my phone was like a foot and a half away from them, NOT IN THE WAY. those breasts are saved for a SELECT FEW INDIVIDUALS...well...and NOT CREEPY MEN EARLY MORNINGS IN THE LIBRARY.
that's it. i'm officially over this interaction. "sorry, i, uhh, i have to go work on something, right NOW, sorry..."
"goodbye! good luck!" he replies.
right now i'm hiding in the darkest corner of the computer commons, and it occurs to me that i should probably go tell somebody all of this, but i don't want this creep to find me again.
and for those who don't know, this is the second instance of creepyness this month. Hannah blogged about the first one, on my behalf, since I hardly ever get on here.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
We're Back
Despite the blizzards of bullshit and gale-force insanity that comprise the foundation of McMurdo Station in Antarctica, I made it off the Ice (mind you, without getting fired) as of Feb 8, and here's the proof to show it. Of course, if you depended on my blog to keep you posted on my state of well-being, I'm sorry you thought I spent the last for months dead, or in quarantine, or lacking a computer, or with both of my arms amputated (these are the only things that contribute to my physical state of affairs).
What extenuating circumstances must have fallen exactly into place in such a way that I am actually writing on my blog while traveling in a foreign country where I have to pay up the asshole for internet time and catch up on four months of virtual inactivity? The extenuating kind, indeed.
WET BLANKETS
To disembark the Air Force C-17 was to enter a new type of existence in a new type of Zealand. I can't speak for any other part of the country, as I have spent the last few days exclusively in Christchurch, but this place is pretty wild. The sky turns a weird dark color at night. Little creatures make horrible alarm clock-like noises while being pushed around in strollers by humans with almost debilitating speech impediments; those humans are often accompanied by some sort of mutant pet penguin by their side on a leash. Gasoline and french fries are no longer the only smells I have the privilege of enjoying; yesterday I even smelled rain.
I spent the first two nights in a relatively swanky $80 hotel but quickly moved to a hostel that was more my style. It's not the cheapest, at $27 per night for a four-person dorm room, but it's right in the City Centre and, more importantly, it was the first alternative I saw when my lazy ass walked out the door with my backpacks in tow. Despite the presence of strangers and the cacophony ringing from the street, the first night was tolerable enough and I had no regrets about my choice.
Last night I went with a fellow Mac-Town Galley friend to greet some of our friends who had just arrived on a C-17 from the Ice. It was a rainy evening and I was reminded to be thankful that I got to see stars when I stepped off the plane, but no sooner had I gotten back to the hostel had I forgotten about the rain and was getting my things packed up to switch gears first thing in the morning. I was the only one in my room, so maybe I'd sleep better.
You know when you're asleep, yet mildly aware of something strange going on? You subconsciously question whether or not it's worth waking up for, justify or explain it in some way, and settle back into a more acquiescent form of slumber. So when I heard the unmistakable pitter-pat of heavy rain drops around me, that's exactly what I did. After all, the windows were open and it could have been raining quite heavily outside. Plus, I was sleeping, so fuck the rain.
Finally, through what I suppose was a combination of a soaking-wet sleeping bag and a faucet on my face, I managed to wake up and realize that I was the victim of a very leaky roof. Water had been pouring out of the swollen Victorian ceiling onto the bunk above me, but that mattress was no match for the bulk of water it was up against. I muttered a "fucking shit" or two, rolled out of bed, and took a look around. Water was cascading through my "shelter," if you will, in 9 places or so, covering the floor in dark patches where small lakes were beginning to form in the perma-carpet. Outside it was totally pouring. My sleeping bag was completely wet on the outside, and pretty much wet on the inside. Upon investigation, I found that the other two bunks were situated in a corner of the room that happened to not be saturated, so I climbed into my damp sleeping bag again, not bothering to change into drier clothes, and attempted to sleep. Sleep I did not. Instead, I contemplated the likelihood of the roof caving in above my head. It seemed pretty likely considering the amount of water that was leaking through. Thus I began to pass the time imagining what I would say to the hostel receptionist as I checked out of the building.
-Receptionist: Checking out?
-Me: Yes, but I was wondering if I might trouble you for a place to hang my sleeping bag to dry. I'll return for it later this afternoon.
-Receptionist: Of course. But, dare I ask why, oh, why is your sleeping bag wet?
-Me: Ahhh, yes, the soggy sleeping bag. So glad you asked. As I decided to snuggle into my sleeping bag last night, as opposed to the vermin-infested bedding that you provided me, I had no idea that I'd be up against a typhoon in my quarters. Never mind; my only concern is that you investigate the security of your ceilings. Perhaps in New Zealand you are not up to speed on these issues. As water infiltrates a warm, enclosed area, mold can grow and rot away the materials on which it grows, namely, the roof. Eventually, the area will be unable to withstand constant inundation and will collapse, ruining an otherwise content traveler's night. It sounds like an egregious violation of good standards of hospitality, does it not?
-Receptionist: If you mumble I can't understand you. You said you had a problem with your sleeping bag? Perhaps you should look into getting a new one. As for the room, it seems you didn't notice the signs that stated that we were currently in the process of remodeling the hostel, which may cause some inconvenience.
-Me: Very well; it was my mistake for assuming that our definitions of "shelter" were congruous. If it's not too much of a damper, may I also store my bags here for the morning? Or is it going to rain in the storage closet, too?
I snapped out of my ludicrous daydream and was inspired to vent my frustrations in blog-form. I hopped out of bed and it was 5:30; what else was I going to do? Shower, pack my things, collect water in various spots around my room, make some food, blog. It only costs a dollar every 10 minutes. Holy shit, this is kind of expensive. I need to cut this story short. Moral of the story?
Fuck the more expensive hostel...unless the cheaper ones are even worse. Sleeping in a cold room in a wet sleeping bag is kind of like sleeping outside. Internet is expensive. If I can trick myself into getting up early in the morning, perhaps by pouring water on myself, maybe I will end up documenting my experiences more. Of course, I might spend so much money doing it that I won't have a place to sleep at all. But that would give me plenty to blog about.
Cheers.
What extenuating circumstances must have fallen exactly into place in such a way that I am actually writing on my blog while traveling in a foreign country where I have to pay up the asshole for internet time and catch up on four months of virtual inactivity? The extenuating kind, indeed.
WET BLANKETS
To disembark the Air Force C-17 was to enter a new type of existence in a new type of Zealand. I can't speak for any other part of the country, as I have spent the last few days exclusively in Christchurch, but this place is pretty wild. The sky turns a weird dark color at night. Little creatures make horrible alarm clock-like noises while being pushed around in strollers by humans with almost debilitating speech impediments; those humans are often accompanied by some sort of mutant pet penguin by their side on a leash. Gasoline and french fries are no longer the only smells I have the privilege of enjoying; yesterday I even smelled rain.
I spent the first two nights in a relatively swanky $80 hotel but quickly moved to a hostel that was more my style. It's not the cheapest, at $27 per night for a four-person dorm room, but it's right in the City Centre and, more importantly, it was the first alternative I saw when my lazy ass walked out the door with my backpacks in tow. Despite the presence of strangers and the cacophony ringing from the street, the first night was tolerable enough and I had no regrets about my choice.
Last night I went with a fellow Mac-Town Galley friend to greet some of our friends who had just arrived on a C-17 from the Ice. It was a rainy evening and I was reminded to be thankful that I got to see stars when I stepped off the plane, but no sooner had I gotten back to the hostel had I forgotten about the rain and was getting my things packed up to switch gears first thing in the morning. I was the only one in my room, so maybe I'd sleep better.
You know when you're asleep, yet mildly aware of something strange going on? You subconsciously question whether or not it's worth waking up for, justify or explain it in some way, and settle back into a more acquiescent form of slumber. So when I heard the unmistakable pitter-pat of heavy rain drops around me, that's exactly what I did. After all, the windows were open and it could have been raining quite heavily outside. Plus, I was sleeping, so fuck the rain.
Finally, through what I suppose was a combination of a soaking-wet sleeping bag and a faucet on my face, I managed to wake up and realize that I was the victim of a very leaky roof. Water had been pouring out of the swollen Victorian ceiling onto the bunk above me, but that mattress was no match for the bulk of water it was up against. I muttered a "fucking shit" or two, rolled out of bed, and took a look around. Water was cascading through my "shelter," if you will, in 9 places or so, covering the floor in dark patches where small lakes were beginning to form in the perma-carpet. Outside it was totally pouring. My sleeping bag was completely wet on the outside, and pretty much wet on the inside. Upon investigation, I found that the other two bunks were situated in a corner of the room that happened to not be saturated, so I climbed into my damp sleeping bag again, not bothering to change into drier clothes, and attempted to sleep. Sleep I did not. Instead, I contemplated the likelihood of the roof caving in above my head. It seemed pretty likely considering the amount of water that was leaking through. Thus I began to pass the time imagining what I would say to the hostel receptionist as I checked out of the building.
-Receptionist: Checking out?
-Me: Yes, but I was wondering if I might trouble you for a place to hang my sleeping bag to dry. I'll return for it later this afternoon.
-Receptionist: Of course. But, dare I ask why, oh, why is your sleeping bag wet?
-Me: Ahhh, yes, the soggy sleeping bag. So glad you asked. As I decided to snuggle into my sleeping bag last night, as opposed to the vermin-infested bedding that you provided me, I had no idea that I'd be up against a typhoon in my quarters. Never mind; my only concern is that you investigate the security of your ceilings. Perhaps in New Zealand you are not up to speed on these issues. As water infiltrates a warm, enclosed area, mold can grow and rot away the materials on which it grows, namely, the roof. Eventually, the area will be unable to withstand constant inundation and will collapse, ruining an otherwise content traveler's night. It sounds like an egregious violation of good standards of hospitality, does it not?
-Receptionist: If you mumble I can't understand you. You said you had a problem with your sleeping bag? Perhaps you should look into getting a new one. As for the room, it seems you didn't notice the signs that stated that we were currently in the process of remodeling the hostel, which may cause some inconvenience.
-Me: Very well; it was my mistake for assuming that our definitions of "shelter" were congruous. If it's not too much of a damper, may I also store my bags here for the morning? Or is it going to rain in the storage closet, too?
I snapped out of my ludicrous daydream and was inspired to vent my frustrations in blog-form. I hopped out of bed and it was 5:30; what else was I going to do? Shower, pack my things, collect water in various spots around my room, make some food, blog. It only costs a dollar every 10 minutes. Holy shit, this is kind of expensive. I need to cut this story short. Moral of the story?
Fuck the more expensive hostel...unless the cheaper ones are even worse. Sleeping in a cold room in a wet sleeping bag is kind of like sleeping outside. Internet is expensive. If I can trick myself into getting up early in the morning, perhaps by pouring water on myself, maybe I will end up documenting my experiences more. Of course, I might spend so much money doing it that I won't have a place to sleep at all. But that would give me plenty to blog about.
Cheers.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Southern Comfort
What's up, enormously immense and sizable base of MyrdalKombat fans? Just wanted to let it be known that I am in McMurdo Station in Antarctica, washing dishes in support of the U.S. Antarctic Program, working for NANA Services for Raytheon Polar Services for the National Science Foundation, and doing a lot of scrubbing/mopping/wiping in between my stretch breaks. As such, Cedar and I started a new blog, so check it out: dryice.wordpress.com. Maybe if you are lucky, you'll find that Cedar is a much more frequent blog-poster than I am. I'll be back in March, though, so I can get back to my obsessive habit of of writing blog entries.
-Morgen
-Morgen
Thursday, July 19, 2007
beer, onion rings, and insight...
...you can get it all at Kate's. I love that place, in no small part because they have the best happy hour of all time: half off their whole menu, which means the only rip-off is getting a $4 burger when you could have gotten a $4 burger with bacon, cheese, pickles, guacamole, a fried egg, a lawnmower...you get it. Not to mention the fact that they have free pool, awesome (-ly attractive) bartenders (of the male and female variety) who will only check your ID the first time they meet you, and a consistent supply of toilet paper in the female restrooms.
So today I went there after work to do some GRE studying. Never mind how weird of an experience it is to drink by yourself in a bar, let alone do something intellectual (like 8th grade math, say). But my fat GRE manual doesn't look so bad when the only distractions are creepy old men and Fox Sports Net, so I was plugging along for a good hour or so before I noticed an attractive but weathered 30-something-year-old woman (she looked like a Karen) and her golfer-type friend-boy as they walked in and took a seat at the table in front of me. I was immediately intrigued by this couple because their dynamic, though not at first decipherable, was definitely off.
I initially assumed they were on a first date, and it's always fun to sit next to one of those (Almost as fun as it is to be on one? No, that's totally wrong. See below.). It quickly became obvious, though, that they were co-workers. Perhaps they had some sort of romantic interests (I would like to think they were recovering after an awkward one-night stand), but the noteworthy aspect of this relationship was the woman. And my initial response, upon hearing her speak, was: "Oh, god, vomit, may I never, ever be like her." That sentiment only intensified.
She had auburn hair, a pretty face, and dark, leathery skin, perhaps the result of heavy tanning since age 18. Her voice was sharp and obnoxious, and her tone was confident but defensive. The whole time, she complained about the office and her coworkers. They don't respect her. She works her ass off, and believe me, she could give a fuck about what they think of her, those dick-slaps (hmm-kay...?), but if those assholes wanna keep hiring a bunch of idiots and not recognize her awesomeness, well, they'll be sorry. Every once in a while, her date would try to add to the conversation with a comment (pursuant to the subject and opinion that she was already discussing, of course), but mostly all I heard was "blah fucking assholes blah, whine motherfuckers whine whine whine..." And I have no idea how many times the phrase "man, that lady sucks" came out of my mouth.
I know it seems like I am criticizing this woman, and maybe I am. But hear me out: I at least recognize the faults in doing so. I am still young, and I have the world to live for. I'm not stuck in some bullshit job that only makes me want to complain and wonder why I'm not appreciated for my abilities and hard work. I don't need to worry about losing my youthfulness, being desperate, validating my life while there is still time, etc. So maybe I'm not in a position to judge this woman. Maybe that's exactly how I'll be when I'm 34.
And that's where this becomes an issue of immediate concern. I'm a complainer. When I'm in a bad mood, I tend to think my situation sucks because of the other people that are in it. So the question becomes, how does one avoid turning into such loathsome character as my new friend Karen?
I've never let my apprehensions keep me from changing my situation. I've lived in Georgia, Minnesota, Maryland, Washington, Ecuador, and Mexico, and the only place that I didn't choose to live in was the place I was born. I'm moving to Antarctica in 2 months, and I think I'll switch scenes once I get back to the states. So here's my advice to Karen, future me, and anyone else who doesn't want to make others want to throw up (or throw a beer bottle at them) during an otherwise delightful happy hour experience:
If you don't like your situation, complain a lot and drink even more. And if you are still complaining in a year, CHANGE IT.
MOVE.
Do something new. Why not? What is there to lose? Perhaps your current social circle. But aren't they the very ones that are bringing you down? And even if you refuse to admit that, aren't they caught in the same traps that you are? Won't they be still here if something goes wrong and you decide to come back?
So today I went there after work to do some GRE studying. Never mind how weird of an experience it is to drink by yourself in a bar, let alone do something intellectual (like 8th grade math, say). But my fat GRE manual doesn't look so bad when the only distractions are creepy old men and Fox Sports Net, so I was plugging along for a good hour or so before I noticed an attractive but weathered 30-something-year-old woman (she looked like a Karen) and her golfer-type friend-boy as they walked in and took a seat at the table in front of me. I was immediately intrigued by this couple because their dynamic, though not at first decipherable, was definitely off.
I initially assumed they were on a first date, and it's always fun to sit next to one of those (Almost as fun as it is to be on one? No, that's totally wrong. See below.). It quickly became obvious, though, that they were co-workers. Perhaps they had some sort of romantic interests (I would like to think they were recovering after an awkward one-night stand), but the noteworthy aspect of this relationship was the woman. And my initial response, upon hearing her speak, was: "Oh, god, vomit, may I never, ever be like her." That sentiment only intensified.
She had auburn hair, a pretty face, and dark, leathery skin, perhaps the result of heavy tanning since age 18. Her voice was sharp and obnoxious, and her tone was confident but defensive. The whole time, she complained about the office and her coworkers. They don't respect her. She works her ass off, and believe me, she could give a fuck about what they think of her, those dick-slaps (hmm-kay...?), but if those assholes wanna keep hiring a bunch of idiots and not recognize her awesomeness, well, they'll be sorry. Every once in a while, her date would try to add to the conversation with a comment (pursuant to the subject and opinion that she was already discussing, of course), but mostly all I heard was "blah fucking assholes blah, whine motherfuckers whine whine whine..." And I have no idea how many times the phrase "man, that lady sucks" came out of my mouth.
I know it seems like I am criticizing this woman, and maybe I am. But hear me out: I at least recognize the faults in doing so. I am still young, and I have the world to live for. I'm not stuck in some bullshit job that only makes me want to complain and wonder why I'm not appreciated for my abilities and hard work. I don't need to worry about losing my youthfulness, being desperate, validating my life while there is still time, etc. So maybe I'm not in a position to judge this woman. Maybe that's exactly how I'll be when I'm 34.
And that's where this becomes an issue of immediate concern. I'm a complainer. When I'm in a bad mood, I tend to think my situation sucks because of the other people that are in it. So the question becomes, how does one avoid turning into such loathsome character as my new friend Karen?
I've never let my apprehensions keep me from changing my situation. I've lived in Georgia, Minnesota, Maryland, Washington, Ecuador, and Mexico, and the only place that I didn't choose to live in was the place I was born. I'm moving to Antarctica in 2 months, and I think I'll switch scenes once I get back to the states. So here's my advice to Karen, future me, and anyone else who doesn't want to make others want to throw up (or throw a beer bottle at them) during an otherwise delightful happy hour experience:
If you don't like your situation, complain a lot and drink even more. And if you are still complaining in a year, CHANGE IT.
MOVE.
Do something new. Why not? What is there to lose? Perhaps your current social circle. But aren't they the very ones that are bringing you down? And even if you refuse to admit that, aren't they caught in the same traps that you are? Won't they be still here if something goes wrong and you decide to come back?
Sure, it's easy for me to say that, given my current situation as a recent college grad. Maybe I'll read this again when I'm 34 and laugh at the simplicity of my youthful worldview. But I have to believe that all of the other bullshit that is making Karen's life miserable is just a mask for the fact that it's always easy to change your life, as long as you're confident in your abilities (Jesus, people need to stop looking to others for self-confidence), not afraid of standing on shaky ground every once in a while, aren't addicted to meth, and don't owe your next 100 paychecks to your credit card. After all, if you're miserable, you're making everyone else miserable, from the idiots at your office to the college student you never noticed at Kate's. Did I mention I love that place?
Monday, February 19, 2007
we are the D
The place: Paramount Theatre, Seattle. The date: February 16, 2007. Marie and I had woken up at the crack of 9am to make sure we got GA tickets to rock our socks off at the Tenacious D concert, and that's exactly what we did.I wouldn't say the concert was life changing, as earthquakes or magic mushrooms might be, but that doesn't mean it didn't change my life. The surgeon general of rock clearly hasn't been to a Tenacious D concert lately; experiencing the D is actually equal to more like 34 or 35 orgasms...at a time...in a row.
Stefan and Ben came with us, but we lost them almost immediately after entering the building and didn't see them until the concert was over. Marie and I blazed our way to the front of the floor so that we were only a few feet from the railing (no moral dilemma there, as we were obviously the two greatest and best D fans in the house and deserved a spot at the front). We looked around and realized that we were surrounded by man boobs, but no complaints. After all, KG and KB are a couple of big guys, and I'd still let them double team me faster than mind bullets travel through space and time.
To my surprise and delight, Neil Hamburger opened. He wore his typical get-up--a three piece suit, greasy hair, foggy glasses--and told his typical bad jokes, which were so random that I couldn't even ask myself "why didn't I think of that?" Unfortunately, I didn't really give a shit about Neil Hamburger and therefore wasn't paying all that much attention, but here are a few of the jokes I can remember:
-Did you hear that Kobe Bryant joined the mile high club? He raped a teenage girl in Denver.
-I suck? You're right. I suck the money right out of your wallet. They're paying me $25K to be here tonight!
-(in response to some booing:) What's that? You're voices are kind of muffled, you'll have to go spit all the cum out of your mouth if you want me to understand you.
-What did Santa give Paris Hilton for Christmas? He raped her!
-Why did Metallica get a hair cut? They couldn't get all the cum out.
Neil got us extremely riled up by pissing us off, telling us things like, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you...Tenacious D...'s curtain! Yes, folks, this curtain is made out of fine materials..." He then told us that he wouldn't get the hell off the stage and make way for the D until we humored him in his cranberries joke (Why didn't Courtney Love eat any CRAAANNNNberries at Christmas dinner? because she died of a heroin overdose before Christmas came around!). I have never screamed the word "cranberries" so loudly, so repetitively, and with so much passion as I did that night, and I can't imagine a situation that would compel me to do so again (which is too bad, so call me if you're into that). Neil Hamburger finally did get off the stage, but to our dismay, it still took another half hour before the D came on.
While the D was giving us all blue balls, we passed the time chatting it up with the folks around us (most of whom shared our Tenacious bond) and discussing which song they would open up with. I seemed to have remembered reading that Kielbasa was their traditional opener, and I was right. Holy shit, when Jables and Rage Kage stormed the stage and I heard that sweet melody, I just about lost it. They played most of the tunes from their two albums, sans Rock Your Socks (and I was definitely planning on taking off my socks and throwing them at the stage when they played that song, so maybe it's for the best). Double Team was a highlight, as well as Fuck Her Gently and Tribute (duh). From the new album, I particularly enjoyed Dude, I Totally Miss You and Beezleboss.
The show followed a "Pick of Destiny" theme, with the stage opening up to be Kyle's apartment and converting into hell. Lee came on the stage frequently, dressed as whatever he needed to be dressed as for that particular song. This includes the devil, the "metal," and (my personal favorite) a magic mushroom. The stage was also graced with the presence of the anti-christ (who also happened to be Jesus Christ...) on electric guitar, Charlie Chaplin on base ("Charlie Chaplin? What are you doing in hell?" "I'm gay."), and some other guy on the drums.
The concert was almost perfect. Sure, they could have played Jesus Ranch, but my impression is that they are a little cocky about that song so it's no surprise that they didn't. That's fine, I guess, since I'm sure that it would have turned everyone's brain into shit and they would have had to deal with some major liability concerns. My only complaint is that they didn't really interact with the crowd much. For example, if Jables says to Kage "I need to get something off my chest" and some unidentified girl from the crowd (eh-hem) yells out "A CLEVELAND STEAMER!!!" I'd say that warrants a little bit of ad-libbing. The show was awesome, of course, but I just get the impression that I would have seen the same awesome show if I had been in San Francisco, New Zealand, or in the basement of the Devil himself. Speaking of which, it would have blown my mind if Dave Grohl had dropped by for a cameo appearance as the Devil, but I acknowledge that might be asking a bit much.
I picked up a kickass D-shirt, which I wear basically every day (I shower in it, too, so no worries). And I was further inspired to do a karaoke rendition of Tribute with Marie. So now it's only a matter of time...be prepared to witness rock-squats of a caliber that only Jables Himself could surpass.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
christmas letters
at some point, people start thinking that their lives are important enough that they should send letters about them to all of their family and friends. they do so around the holidays, when they can wrap up the past year while making some condescending commentary about Jesus and shit. many comedians have already made wonderful observations about this strange tradition that we somehow accept in our society (for example, George Carlin has some insight on the matter). so instead of restating the obvious and cliche, i decided to express my thoughts by writing a Christmas letter of my own, which I posted on the HotBoxBlog. it's about all the folks living in the HotBox and the lives we have been leading since we moved here last fall, written from the fictional perspective of "Mama HotBox." Check it.
Friday, December 22, 2006
the angry codfish returns
the day before yesterday i got my lip re-pierced. now, for better or worse, i can do this again:
yeah, worse. but i do like having my lip ring back. maybe i'll post pics in 3 years when it's finally healed and not oozing blood.
yeah, worse. but i do like having my lip ring back. maybe i'll post pics in 3 years when it's finally healed and not oozing blood.
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