Nonculture

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.

 I need to stop opening the page (drunk) and writing posts about (drunk) boring shit.  I should write interesting shit about winning the lottery.  Thoughts about winning the lottery are always interesting.  I could use this Coltrane (Mr. Syms) and this red wine/scotch/beer/white wine buzz to pontificate about the world’s problems maybe.  But this may be more than a buzz and pontificating would be more inane than the regular shit.  I could light up my last cigar and stink the fuck out of my place, finish this white then try to stomach some scotch without ice.  But, strangely, that doesn’t sound like a good idea.  Yep, it’s drinking while on call again time.  I’m just going to finish the white.  I’m a company man.

I will say up front that if I win the lottery I’m buying a condo in Europe and starting a publishing house.  And that would be it, except for all the drunken stripper parties, but that goes without saying I figure.  With my free time, I’d sit in my cliché studio flat in Paris or Munich, or whatever, and write and drink, soaking in the cliché and fucking loving it.  At least until the French started to bug me, then I’d come back to the states until I was reminded of how stupid Americans are.  Then I’d go back overseas, and so on.

Is that too much to ask?  I mean, I know there are starving kids and shit, but come on Karma, just hook it up already.

To come completely out of left field here, I’m looking forward to a retrospective on GWB2.  I need validation that the embarrassment I’ve suffered as an American and my impulse to cringe when I hear his voice or see his face is something that I am not alone in.  Seriously, people voted for him, twice?  Is it abnormal to still be stupefied by this?  On the eve of the first election, when GW gave his acceptance speech after pickpocketing the election from Gore, I turned to my girlfriend at the time and said, “There goes our foreign policy.”  No shit, I called it and I wish at that time Vegas had a board running for his (dis)accomplishments.  I’d be a motherfucking millionaire and wouldn’t even need to buy these lottery tickets.  My girlfriend at the time just looked at the screen and nodded, because she was bi-polar and totally doped up.  So she probably can’t verify my claim to fame, but she was a sweet gal anyway.

I really need to refer back to the first line of this post and follow my own advice.  This shit is completely inane.