Nonculture

500ml+ of rum imbibed…check!

Coherence…largely absent, error!

Alert, or something!

Like the crazy computer talk above, this blog has gone downhill over the past year, if that is possible.  This is mainly because I have moved to the suburbs, and has nothing to do with my disinterest in “blogging” with any kind of coherent mind.  Let me explain, and then likely ramble, because I’m only 40% coherent. But, I assure you, that should be plenty, just ignore what you know about percentages.  Also let me assure you that I am lying about that percentage.

In the suburbs, your house is 7 feet away from your neighbor’s house on either side.  Your back porch has a “lake view” obstructed by your asshole neighbor’s trees on one side, and the back porch of a house occupied by renters who don’t do shit but blast Latino techno (yes there is such a thing, as I have found out), play beer pong, and try to hit on girls that are dumber than your pets, and not necessarily much hotter.  If you are attracted to animals, I mean.  And if you are attracted to animals, always use peanut butter; it’s the safest way to get action.  But I digress.

On top of that, you have no real front yard except some trees and some grass for general pain in the ass maintenance purposes.  Making the front look nice makes people believe the inside and the rear are nice; like when fat girls have pretty faces.  The face has potential for at least a good blowjob, but when the clothes start coming off…well, y’know.  You keep going, and just don’t tell anybody.  But with houses that’s not a good idea.

Let me say at this here juncture, this is the last I have to say about houses, house maintenance, landscaping, and hopefully, fat girls.  No offense, fat girls. I’ve been there (meaning on a waterbed with you after too many – and the memories are interesting), and yes it is true that you will do absolutely anything, which is endearing to both my cock and my memories.  But, oh look, it’s late and I need to get home to my undisclosed location.  Yes, I’ll call you, promise!

4 Asbach colas, 2 captain/colas, 4 vodka orange, 1 scotch.  That is the roadmap from tonight.  So far.  Work’s been suckin’ blah blah, plus they’re talking about laying people off again, so why not…just, why not.  The fact that it’s Monday night is irrelevant.

I do have an untouched bottle of Bacardi left here by a friend, but I’m debating the rations of ice left and what they should be spent on.  Somehow, Bacardi never comes up in the top spot.  The scotch is top shelf, but I’m putting it on top of this sweet mixer, which is probably a mortal sin.  A proper mouthwash with it solves that, but it also nearly makes me gag.  The burn going down is excellent as usual, but the fucking taste in my mouth is as bad as the stale, smoky air trapped in this fucking cubbyhole in the apartment; and like work, it all truly makes me want to throw up.

I’m house hunting, which is unreal in itself.  I’m keeping my 13 year old bimmer on the road with electrical tape and brake fluid bottles every week, but it’s working.  Apparently there’s a loophole in the home buying system where they don’t care if you can get a car loan – fuck it, they’ll give you a house!  So, sure, I’m qualified, and looking.  My agent has so far sent me every house in the motherfucking ghetto, but to his credit, they’re fairly nice houses.  I think I’m going to go outside the box and get something in a decent neighborhood; if I have to lose the pool to do it, well, y’know.  Life is tough.

Shit, a fucking house.  I have trouble getting 300 dollar unsecured credit cards.  Say what now?  But, to be honest, I’ve rebuilt all of that bad 20’s anti-credit, and am now a responsible citizen.  Maybe they can smell it on me.  Or maybe they can smell the fact that my credit score has jumped over 100 points in two years.  Either way, they need to get their noses out of my ass.  Maybe they smell me giving up.

I’m semi-under the grid.  Being completely off the grid would be awesome, but outside of winning the lottery or walking down to the labor pool every day at 7am, I don’t see a way to pull it off.  The labor pool isn’t that bad; I did it for a while.  You walk down, sign up, and wait for a job to come up.  Sometimes you wait for an hour or two and you are shit out of luck, but if you do get called, chances are it’s some kind of new shitty job in some new area with some other shitty boss.  The variety isn’t all that bad.  The work, maybe, but like today being Monday, that’s irrelevant for this post. 

I’m sure that made sense somehow.

And pirates are what made this country great.  Well, at least the one to the left here has helped make it tolerable for me.  So, that’s worth something.

I’ve gone through and cleaned up previous posts so that they are now somewhat legible, and maybe even logical enough to be entertaining.  Depending on how wasted you are.  This is going back up for public view since I’ll be linking it from my other, new blog, The Literate Hypocrite (see blogroll to right).  It’s a site for drunken book reviews that make very little sense.  Because somebody’s got to do it.

So, with Captain Morgan in hand, we’re back online!  Oh, and I added my latest story, Downfall of Houlis, to celebrate all this online-ness, even though the story is still in its 4th draft and needs some work.  It’s your basic bar story, as usual.  Have to have the short story collection ready by October, so back to work. 

Happy 4th, mofos.

…than sober and clear.  Thanks City on Film.  I’m about 5 rum and cokes in and realizing that I’m probably not going to achieve getting drunk tonight.  It’s always a sad moment.  It must be the puking and shitting bout I had earlier this week.

 We stood out in the dirt that passes for a driveway and watched the rocket blast off from the Cape tonight.  It carried a military satellite that can detect plumes of smoke/exhaust from launched missles into orbit.  Dave L and I toasted to Reagan’s Star Wars getting back online and walked back up to the porch for refills while Maiden blasted from the computer.  Then we discussed installing gutters and other suburban type talk that just made me realize that when I buy a home, it’s just going to be a condo.  Life’s too short to spend time buying concrete for a driveway.

So, with a sober smoke detecting satellite in orbit and the decision to take on a home with the smallest amount of responsibility possible, we are online.