don't know about luck, but I know the lack of it

i've let myself go. don't think i'm not aware of it.

i eat too much. i exercise too little. i haven't shaved in months. i smoke. i veg out.

and i sleep. a lot.

i should disgusted with myself. sadly, i really wasn't until just recently – thanks to the kindness of strangers. here's what happened:

i'm sitting in the living room, working on my laptop, when i decide that the smell from the trash in the kitchen is finally close to overwhelming. i grab the two black hefty bags from the kitchen floor, and make my way downstairs and out to the dumpster.

we used to dump our trash in a dumpster that was parked on the sidewalk just to the right of our building's front door. with the opening of a music venue right next door, the dumpster was moved about one-hundred yards back behind our building, out of sight. unknown to the residents of our building, the music venue took control of said dumpster, and built a large padlocked protective wooden fence around it.

unable to offload our trash, i trudge back around the front of our building, still schlepping the two bags. at the intersection out front, i weigh my options. do i head all the way to the dumpster behind the old adcenter building? do i toss the bags into the back of a passing pickup? maybe i could sneak the bags into morton's dumpster.

as i stood there making up my mind, a number of employees from the offices nearby come up and stand next to me waiting to cross the street. an older man in a suit takes a look at me, looks back at one of the women with him, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a five-dollar bill, handing it to me with a smile.

"what's this for?" i ask.

"you look like you need it," he responds, still smiling. the confused look on my face threw him off a little, and the smile faded.

a little embarrassed, i look down and notice i'm wearing two different shoes. i've also got on my torn construction jeans, and a tshirt that was part of my escaped inmate halloween costume. to top it off, i hadn't showered yet. i couldn't help but let out a big laugh.

"thanks buddy, but i live right there," i said, pointing to my building. "i'm just taking out the trash."

in retrospect i probably should've taken his money. i also probably shouldn't have offered to suck him off for an extra twenty.

ooh, i'll be the one who'll break my heart

goodbye blue monday: a playlist

march 24, 2008

1. liam finn - second chance
   
2. mgmt - kids
3. the maccabees - toothpaste kisses
   
4. swell season - the moon
   
5. the new pornographers - my rights versus yours
   
6. mgmt - time to pretend
   
7. gnarls barkley - blind mary
   
8. peter bjorn and john - up against the wall
   
9. shinichi osawa - star guitar
   
10. j.u.s.t.i.c.e. - genesis

we were fated to pretend

the good, the bad, and the shitty

great: it's technically the weekend, since there's no speaker tomorrow.

greater: the first pennylane pilgrimage starts in 10 minutes.

less great: there's a chevelle show at toad's place tonight, and already there's a shitload of d's walking around outside my apt... and parking in the parking deck.

even worse: it smells like someone set off a shit explosion in our apt building.

always for you

st. cosby's weekend.
brooklyn, ny.

with special guests: pabst blue ribbon, bloody marys, the upright citizens brigade (in particular: amy poehler, matt besser, seth meyer, brian stack and jack mcbrayer), chinese food, the dram shop, guinness stout, patrick's 5 hour tri-borough adventure, the nypd, sin-ass-sploSHUN, the eagles are real awesome players, sorry!, scrabble, borders' no-bucket-of-beer policy, smirnoff vodka, the brooklyn burger bar, and, most importantly, that retarded throw-up kid.

[click photo to enlarge]

karma police

what can be accomplished in twenty-four hours? more than you might think.

createathon has come and gone. twenty-four hours of brainstorming, strategizing, concepting, writing lines, shooting footage, logging, capturing, editing, 7-11ing, and presenting.

twenty-four hours straight, with no sleep. just a lot of coffee... and a sad attempt at a 3:00 a.m. dance party in the computer lab.

it's hard to participate in an event like this without feeling something – besides exhaustion. it's hard not to take something home with you afterwards.

what was my takeaway from this experience? it became abundantly clear that i'm a bad person. i'm too full of pride. i'm pathetically selfish. i'm self-centered. i do things because of what i'll get out of them. i'm a user. i hurt people. and i write off people that have hurt me.

the truth is, i'm afraid no amount of volunteering can undo any of these faults.

your body was the map, i was lost in there

today's sad conversation

my cousin john: i had a dream i was hanging out with the jonas brothers last night.
me: oh really?
john: yea. they're in richmond tonight.
me: are they???
john: yes, right now. it started at 7, at the coliseum.
me: [expletive deleted] that noise.
john: i'd never heard any of their songs... until now. i'm listening to one.
me: you [expletive]. i don't know you anymore.
john: don't hate.
me: oh, i will hate. i will hate crime your ass.
john: this is really bad. this isn't even funny to pretend to like.
me: i know you'll start to like it and then listen to it constantly [like he did with meatloaf and britney spears and kenny rogers].
john: perhaps. i was listening to the scorps earlier.
me: i pray you didn't just refer to the scorpions as "the scorps."
john: come on, man. the scorps. i've been calling them that for a while.
me: i hate you.

weekend

–noun

1.	the end of a week, esp. the period of time between friday evening and monday morning

see also:
pineapple
guitar hero
tuffy
fake mustaches
mcquila
pictionary
21st birthday girls
lulu
assistanbasea
danger doom
marvin
bags of dogshit
arrested development
couch naps
stood up
the bank job
getting drunkdialed
new boxers
asshole neighbors/landlords
the grey album
liz's sweet sixteen
dave treston
eb's beautifully painted nails
oatmeal cookies (without raisins)
eagle vs shark
an empty apartment

respect the triangle, bitches

check out the brancenter opening at ihaveanidea.org.

grammar is easy

1. you're (yŏŏr; yər when unstressed)
contraction of you are.
ex. "you're a rotten bastard."

2. your (yʊər, yɔr, yoʊr; unstressed yər) –pronoun
a form of the possessive case of you used as an attributive adjective.
ex. "your balls are showing."

sex without love

fastidious in our approach, we were
unaware of our impending doom.
counting steps towards an unseen
kingdom bathed in gold.

years ahead of our time.
or are we late?
unenlightened, we trudge on.

stealing is wrong

"suspect each moment, for it is a thief, tiptoeing away with more than it brings."

- john updike

i am in the twilight of my youth

i used to sit in our garage and watch my father work diligently on those little carvings. he'd scratch away at the surface of the wood with his knife, and as each sliver cut away, falling effortlessly to the floor, a form would begin to take shape.

a solid block soon became a tucked wing, filled with tiny detailed feathers. each duck was more lifelike than the previous.

often i would stare at the row of wooden birds sitting atop a bookcase in our guest bedroom, and imagine them blinking their eyes, then taking flight in a great rush of feathers flapping over my head.

sometime around my middle school years my father completely stopped carving decoys. work kept him busy. as did routine upkeep on our house.

his woodworking tools blended in with the rest of the garage - on a shelf above our camping equipment, to the right of old cans of paint. eventually i forgot they existed.

years later, in a freezing duck blind, i watched a wounded drake mallard take its final breaths at my feet. its mouth opened and closed, but no noise escaped. i should've felt something for this bird. i should've felt sorry for taking its life. i didn't.

the only thing that came to mind was how much i missed sitting on that old paint-stained stool watching dad carve.

get me away from here, i'm dying

rockville lies thirteen miles southeast of gauthier county. thirteen miles of rolling pastures, oil wells, and grazing cattle.

right in the middle of this spanse stands the coolidge house, vacant now for a number of years.

the first time i stepped inside, as a frightened eleven-year-old, my mind raced. ghosts hid behind each door, around every corner, silently brushing past me in the dark.

standing in that plot today, watching the final supports tumble under the force of the bulldozer's push, my mind races. i imagine the spirits of the house flicking into the air, rising above the crumbled ruins. a ghostly smoke, ascending skyward.

shattered fingers: day 15

playing rugby with fractured fingers, though taped up, may seem like a dumb idea.

it is.

dear chicago