Monthly Archives: July 2009

Move over rohypnol…

This, my friends – Is a game changer. I have uncovered the new front line in sexual aggressor/naive college student relations. It’s called…. Mike’s Harder Lemonade.

Now… mind you. All of us remember 2002. Mike’s delicious candy flavored liquor bottles hit the scene like blue-dot heroin or that guy Darryl’s super skunk home grown hydroponic he grew in his shower that one time. Young people of both genders were drawn to it’s seemingly limitless soda pop flavored, endless good times. Our bodies young enough to process all that sugar into hours of playful public near fornication in the form of night clubs, house parties, or all night karaoke binges, but we must face facts. Lo though long was the life and good were the spoils of the reign of King Hard Lemon – We are looking at the end of our decade folks: Women have simply started learning to keep track of how many Mike’s they drink and the world of combative debauchery is poorer for it. The last few years we have been fading, as understanding of the amount of calories in Mike’s Hard Lemonade leads this battle’s party seekers instead to simple watery lagers and American Spirit cigarettes.

Leave it to the old masters themselves to reinvent the game so completely.

With it’s 8% ABV, Mike’s Harder Lemonade is nearly twice as potent as the original Mike’s, with yet more horrifying chemical additives to cover up the booze flavor, meaning that the liver gives up EARLIER, leading to longer lasting grind sessions before friends come bail them out or accidental phone number reveals which you can turn into ill advised booty call after booty call.

But that’s not all. No, that is not enough for Mike. The Mike. The Mike understands that it’s not just about pumping up the volume, it’s also deception, because Mike’s Harder Lemonade comes in a four pack… of sixteen ounce cans. Who can do the math on that? That’s right, if your questionably-competent-to-agree-ass-to-tap of the evening chooses to drink all four cans of your magic pixie drink? She has consumed SIXTY FOUR OUNCES of malt liquor. Half a gallon. Nearly twenty FIVE percent more volume than she would have consumed had you opted for the twelve ounce bottles. And need I remind you that this is 8% abv? Whereas all SIX of the original recipe Mike’s Hard Lemonade translates to roughly 4 shots of Bacardi 151, drinking four of the Harder is equal to nearly seven.

I don’t need to tell this crowd the tactical difference that three shots of Barcardi 151 can make on whether or not you get to touch the butthole, and this lets us get there without EVER having to touch the top shelf at the club. Hell you don’t have to touch any shelf, except the shitty beer shelf in the “bad decisions start here” section at your local Chevron.

The King is dead, people….

Long live the King.

And the living’s easy…

Jarvitron: Haha, yeah, life is fucking busy right now. A good kind of busy though, the kind where you have some orgasms and spend too much on booze.
HR : Ha! Funny man. Where I come from it’s called “summertime”.

The summer has picked up momentum, and while I am loathe to admit it, I find myself thinking more often of the Sublime song “Summertime”. And this time not because of the timeless tale of infidelity and frustration, but because of the attitude. The easy paced song, the sense of knowing that life is becoming incredibly complicated, but something about the sun and the heat and the long, long evenings has allowed you to get past it. The other shoe is waiting to drop but, right now – the texture of life is incredibly pleasant.

When it is warm, I crave activity. Summertime in Arizona is overwhelmingly hot. Each trip to the store is an ordeal. Exercise is torture. And in this week of heat, I have been indulging. Overindulging, really, in activity. And thing things I have learned, the goodness that comes with the sweat, the realigning crunch-and-crackle of joints long ignored, the soreness in your meat; the lessons that these things teach are… almost overwhelming. Once the physical body is tired, the heat having dehydrated you, energy reserves drained, endorphins exhausted – you reach for new understanding. And maybe sometimes, you find yourself in your back yard, shirtless, dazzled by the sunshine, soaked with sweat, and suddenly: It’s all so clear. It’s math all the way down. You can track the flow of events to a common cause, you begin to contemplate the very nature of reality. And then it strikes, the physical ache and the fuzzy head and the blurred vision all clear at once. And you see the light for the first time. You see your life. Life is the space between birth and death, time is as subjective as beauty or justice, math is the language of nature, and physical exertion, even physical punishment, is as critical to mental development as reading, writing, and arithmetic.

Your body is a cage for your soul and sometimes you must glory at what it can do.

The Room – A Film Review

@willradik purports, in his review of the film, that The Room was written by a schizophrenic adolescent, but I think the truth may be… anthropological. I believe that what we experience in this excruciating 99 minute picture, is modern life as seen through the eyes of a throwback. I purport that it is the biography of a caveman. Take, as evidence, this photograph of Tommy Wiseau: main character, writer, director, and executive producer of the film.

Gaze into his craggy face. Listen to his muddled voice. Realize that he does not actually understand all of the words he is saying. This is not a bad movie, it’s not a farce, it’s a documentary. A deep dive into the ocean of confusion that an unfrozen caveman might feel plunged into daily life in modern San Francisco.

Watch the film, and think about it. Who else would be so unclear on the uses of a sporting ball that they would put not one but FOUR scenes on a small roof top that are predicated on the idea that someone would just go up there with a football… to simply chill out? And listen to Tommy Wiseau’s voice. It’s not suited for language, it’s a yowl, not unlike that of a wild beast. It would be best served baying at the moon. The apparent randomness of the movie’s every day world, where children wander in and out of your home dozens of times a day, attempting to interrupt your coital aggressions, where strangers show up and drink bottled water with you, then hang around for 40 minutes of exposition.

I believe we may have found him. We may have found a true Man From Earth. But… he doesn’t bring us the teachings of Buddha or the love of Christ. His journey has brought him no peace. It has only brought him confusion, and pain.

On being alone

A year ago, I felt so alone I thought I was going to shatter. My asexual life partner and best friend had stopped contributing to my life in any positive way, and suddenly I was left without anyone to talk to about my biggest problem. I tried a coworker, I tried some friends. But they didn’t understand me, they didn’t have a decade of history with me to know exactly what I mean. It was horrible, it was like… losing everything. I could see how I had constructed all of my life around a central lie, that I could live for someone else, that I could turn off my brain, and let my work ethic power someone else’s construct. When that was taken from me, I spent night after night, alone with my thoughts, realizing how long it had been since I worked on myself.

Alone is good. From time to time. Dan Savage drops this perfectly formed ball of wisdom in the middle of a “fat girls need love too, and if you can just hold out you’ll get it” speech: “We will all be alone for stretches of our lives, and we have to make sure that the way our single lives are built makes us happy.”

Alone is when I write. Alone is when I masturbate. Alone is when I plumb the depths of my head. It’s when I do my math. It’s when I hatch my plans. Alone is when I’m watching movies. Alone is when I’m reading. There’s a lot of good that comes from alone. I was alone when I first realized I wanted to write. I was alone when the first song ever moved me to tears. Alone is when you get your best drinking done. Nobody else to set the pace, just you and your drink. And you’re not trying to impress anybody either. If someone else is there, you’re gonna have to have that inevitable conversation. Yes, this is a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew, vermouth and cheap brandy. No, it doesn’t taste good. Yes, it’s probably a little early to be drinking like this. No, it seriously doesn’t taste good. Because, god damn it, there’s a fucking Eek the Cat marathon on and I’ll be mother fucked if I’m going to miss out on the Eekpocalypse Now episode just to go to the store and buy proper booze and mixers. You’re not the boss of me and no I did not knock that over when I was drunk, I knocked THAT over when I dropped the vermouth, and you can see it’s gone now, so that was a long time ago, thank you very much. Blah blah blah… You can see how annoying this gets. When you’re alone it’s just “More brandy or less brandy… more brandy or less brandy. ELKLIIIIIGHT EEELLLLKLIIIIIGHT!!!!” then you knock some shit over and lie about it to yourself. But you’re drunk so you believe it, in this horrible way. Then you think about the nature of humanity for a while. Maybe you prove scientific theories by running through logic games with yourself. Maybe sometimes you cry. But for the most part you just finish your cartoons and then suddenly you wake up at 2am feeling oily, rested, slightly nauseous, and vaguely embarrassed, just like every other day, only you have a five hour head start.

I forget what the point was there but being Eek the Cat is still pretty great, so much of it is on Youtube too.

But the next time you are alone. Notice it. Embrace it. Feel out the corners inside your skull. Maybe you’ll learn something about yourself.

What retarded dreams may come…

I’ve had a lot of really strange, stupid, and/or disturbing dreams in my time, but this morning…

Well, I woke up. I got out of bed and I felt pretty good. And I was doing some stretches, and getting ready for my day. When I noticed I could touch my feet. I stopped. Straightened up, and did it again. At that moment, I knew… this was a dream. So in the dream, just before I woke up, I bent down, impossibly far… and put my big toe in my mouth.


Continued from Marblecake

The door to the house is neatly crossed corner to corner with yellow police tape, those five words “Police Line – Do Not Cross” explaining in no uncertain terms “this is where civilization failed”. The door is closed and locked, and the puddle of antifreeze out front is the only clue to what happened. Breaking into a crime scene isn’t a new thing for me, but I don’t like it. Besides the fact that if I get caught Ben may actually shoot me next time he sees me, a crime scene at the home of a guy I’m looking for is rarely good news. It means the guy I’m looking for is in jail, on the run from the cops, or in the morgue. All three of these things make it hard for me to get back to drinking beers in the park.

I decide against going in the front door. It’s too open, somebody is bound to see me, and I’m not particularly good at jimmying locks, so it’s gonna take some time. A sliding door around back, maybe. I listen quietly at the fence for the telltale sounds of a dog. Either Ricky wasn’t a canine lover, or there’s a perfectly trained attack dog waiting to jack me as soon as I get into the yard. I give a glance around, make sure nobody is looking, and vault the short fence into the back yard.

Somebody was a little housekeeper out here. The plants look neat as a pin, all the flowers in neat rows, the trees trimmed, the grass is green and thick as carpet. The fence is narrow pickets painted white, immaculate. The fully-made bed that’s under the tree in the corner is even immaculate looking, except for the few leaves that have fallen down onto the comforter.

Why can’t shit ever be normal?

Nobody with a dog has ever had a yard this nice looking. Nobody who was not batshit insane has ever had a bed on the ground under their tree. Thankfully the police tape PROBABLY means I’m not gonna walk in on a methed out drug mule scraping off his skin and trying to find some fingernail scissors to go trim the yard again, but I pull out my little pistol just in case.

I quietly, carefully step toward the door, the pistol held low. I’m staring through the sliding door, trying to figure out how hard it’s going to be to get inside. No bar in the door. I look over to see if there’s an alarm or anything. I don’t see anything. I don’t see any cameras, there’s no bars on the windows. This isn’t like any distribution hub I’ve ever seen, so apparently Ricky really lives here. I turn an eye back toward that crazy ass bed, in the yard, and imagine the black-and-white man in the pictures coming at me with a soldering iron and a beard of foamed spittle. I steel myself against it, and grab the door handle, to see how hard the lock is going to be to break.

As the door unexpectedly slides, effortlessly back, the hairs rise on the back of my neck. We’re there now, this is disturbing a crime scene. Even with Ben doing everything he can, if I get caught here, I’m going away for a while. No more beers in the park. No more breakfast for dinner. Adrenaline dumps and every nerve is on fire. I step forward onto the carpet, and before I can even get my body into the door, three sharp clacks sound off. I drop to the ground, pointing the gun right, left, right, and trying to figure out what I missed. What have I missed?

No noise. No voices. Nothing. The house is still. A warm, fetid smell roils out of the house, and I start to gag on the smell, backing out quickly to the patio, I kick something with my heel.

I sigh, and reach down to retrieve the tin magazine which fell from my pistol, and shove it hard and fast back up into the gun, smacking it with the butt of my hand angrily. I really should buy a good gun someday.

I breathe the now sweet-seeming air of the back yard, and turn back toward the screen door. I set my jaw, brace myself, and walk into the hot wet smell of something which has suffered long in the misery of decomposition.