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Yesterdaaaay, this one tiiiiime, Liz told us about a friend of hers who said she was planning on flying out to visit her in New York. Had she not been full of shit, she'd be flying into town today sometime, according to her admission. Liz was sooooo upseeeeet.

So, apparently I can cook. And apparently I can cook well. Either that, or those who ate my spaghetti last night were Just Trying To Be Nice when they were heaping praise upon me. In fact, it seems like every time I make a meal for the household, I'm bombarded with compliments; I really don't know how to handle this with style and grace. What's my secret? Take a bunch of shit and lump it together. Boil the noodles, take a jar of plain sauce, cut up a lil' onion, clove of garlic, small jar of olives, throw some spicy in the mix, bring to a simmer. Lump it all together. I'm thinking of making some Baked Ziti tonight or tomorrow. Yes, I underSTAND there are up to three different kinds of cheese in this meal. I'm making it anyway and, dammit, I'm gonna eat some!

We went to a bar last night, four of us did; me and Liz and Donald and Emily, but I have no idea what the place was called. The Black ... Man's Cock. No, but it was The Black Something. We WENT there because Liz said they had $1.00 drink specials from 10pm to midnight (well drinks, etc.). I wasn't gonna go, because I was still at home in my pajama bottoms with everyone else at 10:30 in the P.M., but they talked me into it. Bottom line: the only reason NOT to go - in my estimation - would've been because I wanted to get a good night's sleep so I could feel refreshed at work the next day. Ergo, I went, because I hate this God-damned job and I wouldn't feel right about myself if I chose Job Performance over Funtimes Performance.

The Black Something had plenty of homosexuals there. The Black Something also had NO $1.00 drink specials. They had $6.00 drink regulars. The Black Something had a DJ. The Black Something ... had one functioning toilet.

I'd like to think I wasn't That Guy (though, ironically, I WAS wearing my "That Guy" T-shirt, because I made a conscious effort to NOT get all gussied up for this bar as I transferred my legs from pajama bottoms to jeans). You know, That Guy who goes to a prominently homosexual place of late night enjoyment and looks all awkward and uncomfortable because he's surrounded by homosexuals. In truth, I don't feel awkward or uncomfortable around homosexuals at ALL. Just bars in general when there are $6.00 drink regulars, DJs, and one functioning toilet.

I had AH screwdriver; it was in a glass smaller than the regular Magic Bullet cup. I've tasted more vodka in a short stack of pancakes than I did in that so-called alcoholic beverage. The four of us sat around for a bit, surveying the lay of the land, playing with the balloons they had everywhere. But, the girls were there for dancing. I reluctantly trudged along.

The first DJ was okay; I managed to break a sweat. But, when you teabag a thimble full of orange juice and call it a screwdriver, you're not getting Steven A. Taylor at his most Twinkle-Toed. There were no booty dances; there was very little life whatsoever out of these 30-Long legs. Then, when they switched DJs and she started playing technoed-out versions of AC/DC and Bon Jovi - crippling the originals, which I COULD'VE gotten behind - I had to take a step to the side of the dancefloor and bow out, never really to return. Multiple times Emily and Liz tried to coax me back out there, but then the DJ threw Joan Jett on and it was all over.

I went outside for a freezing-cold breather - mostly because I got tired of the crappy music and the homosexuals repeatedly spilling their drinks on me while twirling on the dance floor (I felt like I was at fucking Sea World in there) - and soon after the others followed. It was nearly 1:30am and they wanted to go home anyway. Thanks to our impeccable luck, the L-Train stopped running about 8 stations west of where we needed to go; which meant we had to get on a shuttle bus that makes the stops in lieu. We didn't get home until nearly 2:30am; it was a painful go getting up at 6:45 this morning.

Highlights? Well, in spite of the overwhelming majority, there WERE heterosexual women in attendance. Of course, this is New York City, so REALLY all you can do is assume there were women. One such case of gender ambiguity happened to have an afro the size of - I shit you not - one of those medicine balls they used to have in gym classes. I'm almost positive it was a wig, but regardless it was pretty impressive. Also, I think I saw the shortest non-midget in existence. From the couch, I tried to size her up by comparing her to my size 11 shoes; she appeared to be about 4'5 to 4'8 max. Electric Six WAS played one time while I was there, but alas it wasn't "Gay Bar". I still don't know why that song hasn't shot up to number 1 on the singles charts, but I would've liked to have seen the reaction from those of the homosexual community. And, of course, who could forget the fact that I led us onto the wrong subway train, causing us to take a taxi for a $5.00 fare.

Today's gonna hurt; I'm foregoing the green tea in favor of much stronger coffee-related substance.
 
 
Why are there still no accounts of what the FUCK was going on with that 41 year old man who kidnapped that boy for over four years? Apparently, this Michael Devlin guy owned a pizza restaurant or something, which means he HAD to have left his house on a regular basis. What did he do, tie the kid up every day? Lock him in a soundproof room? Why did it take over four years before he kidnapped the kid a friend? The prosecuters are looking into pressing further charges - which means Sexual Misconduct With A Minor - but for some reason I just don't think that's the case. OK, that's a little naive of me to believe, but what if it were true? What if this guy wasn't a pervert, he just wanted to have children but was too ugly for any woman? Yeah, that'd be boring; but what IF he was this 41 year old man who had the mindset of someone in his early teenage years? Then, it's like he's kidnapping someone for HIMSELF to be friends with. And, let's just say for the sake of argument that he didn't tie the kid up every day for four years, that he didn't lock him in a soundproof room. Maybe he did at first, but then grew to gain the boy's trust. That would mean that the kid LIKED living with Michael Devlin. It could've been a veritable Michael Jackson scenario minus the inappropriate touching and girlish mannerisms. It's all tragically fascinating, but I bet the real answers to these questions aren't very satisfying at all. If Devlin turns out to be just another pedderass, I'm going to roll my eyes in boredom.

Did you hear about the mother who went on this radio contest to win her children a Nintendo Wii? Man, I KNEW these things were bad news! "Hold Your Wee For A Wii" was the contest's name, and in it the participant (out of 18) who drank the most water without going to the bathroom would win the game console. She died of water poisoning. She died of water poisoning AND she didn't get a fucking Nintendo Wii (she came in 2nd)! I was reading, and apparently the thing is, if you consume too much water, your body can't make enough sodium and the water gets into your blood stream causing your brain to swell among other things. Hence why she was getting headaches during the contest. I know Nintendo had nothing to do with this, but I'm thinking a quality lawyer could hold them implicit, by making these things so damned rare and expensive. Nintendo should just mail the family a Wii with a note saying, "We know your mom's dead, but don't blame us; if only your family made more money, you could've purchased one of these without the aid of a stupid radio stunt." And then the family goes to use it and it's defective ... good times. Yeah, and so the radio station went on a rampage, firing all the people involved. What's the lesson in all this? Don't buy your kids video games! Make them get off their asses and DO something with their childhoods!

Has anybody even fucking heard of this so-called Doomsday Clock they're talking about now? What is this shit? Some arbitrary fucking man-controlled piece of plaster that's supposed to represent the end of the world? Midnight. And recently we've moved "two minutes" closer to this meaningless time. Now it's 11:55. You want to hear some bullshit? This thing was created after WWII and started out at 11:53; it got as close to midnight as 11:58 in 1953 before MIRACULOUSLY retreating backwards all the way to 11:43 in 1991. What does all of this mean for humanity? Well, make sure that weather stripping is sealed and go on about your lives. Look, I appreciate the intent by scientists and scholars to point out how fucked up our world is, what with all the nuclear capabilities we've got, not to mention all the warring sections of the world putting a cramp in our style, but fuck man, we're not infants. All this symbolic clock represents is what you think of the majority of human beings; ergo, this news is met with an overwhelming sense of indifference. You know who cares about the Doomsday Clock? Suicidal teenagers and wine-drinking sophisticates with nothing better to do than throw dinner parties and Democratic Fundraisers. Big fucking deal, call me when the clock fucking strikes midnight.

Discussions Around The Dinner Table


Do you know the difference between a Hipster and a Yuppie? To put it simply, I WORK with yuppies, I live with a hipster. Liz being said hipster. I'm not a hipster myself, even though I hold to a strong moral credo when it comes to my music and by rejecting the latest fashion trends in clothing. The difference between a hipster and whatever the hell I am is the fact that hipsters still DO try to project a sense of style, image, and personality. For the sake of explanation, let's set up as a given that both Hipsters and Yuppies come from families who make comfortable livings. Likewise, both groups have ambitions geared towards success financially and within their careers. Here are the major differences - as I and a concensus collective of my roommates saw them last night - Yuppies come equipped with a similar level of wealth as that of Hipsters, but they choose to make themselves appear as if they're wealthier than their counterparts; while Hipsters choose to make themselves appear less well-to-do than they actually are. Yuppies dress in such a fashion as to provide the image of being trendy, but it's a bland Kenneth Cole type of trendy; whereas, Hipsters will shop with a more underground look in mind, hitting up thrift stores and Buffalo Exchange. Yuppies, as well, are generally associated with 1980s culture, young professionals looking to buy up condos, move out of the suburbs, and frequent classy, martini-drinking cocktail parties. Doesn't mean that Yuppie culture doesn't still exist today, but it's become a little murkier with the advent of the modern-day Hipster.

Hipsters have been around since the 1950s. The Beat Generation, all of them Hipster Founding Fathers. The Hipster is the consummate Counter Culture Creature, rejecting anything and everything the mainstream has to offer. Of course, the Hipster is always evolving, because fashion trends tend to swing the Hipster's way once poseurs and wannabes start getting into the mix. When that happens, a full-scale revolt is in order, new Hipster trends arise from the ashes, rejecting wholeheartedly those previous Hipster traits like they would anything else that's been assimilated into the mainstream.

Yuppies don't counter a God-damned thing. Yuppies have been around since the birth of the Popularity Contest. All Yuppies want is the illusion that they're better than not only everyone else, but even their own Yuppie breathren. He who has the most toys, the best clothes, the most attractive mate, whose children attend the finest schools, who lives in the most ideal neighborhood to satisfy all of their Yuppie needs. It's all an act, but one the Yuppie lives with for so long that it becomes who they are.

Which comes back to me; what am I? Obviously, I'm not a Yuppie. Money never really interested me so much as having a good time. I'm no longer of the mindset that I want to have a ton of shit, but I do want to be able to afford a lifestyle that includes going out, having fun, meeting people, and eating the occasional meal at White Castle. Why I can't stand my co-workers here or any co-workers I've ever had (save 1 friend I made at Nordstrom) is because I've always worked in the Corporate Sector and I've been continually surrounded by Yuppies. They can't understand the concept of taking a day off without accruing the requisite amount of Paid Time Off (like the thought of NOT getting money for a day not worked is somehow archaic). They "have drinks" after work instead of "Going out and getting shitfaced." They pay mortgages instead of rent. They complain about wives who spend too much money. They wear work clothes with ties that match (generally, these shirts are of the White variety, the ties are of the bland variety).

But, I'm not a Hipster either. Because I don't GIVE a shit. I'm not dressing to make a statement other than, "I don't know DICK about fashion, and I don't care." And, in spite of what Liz said - herself a self-proclaimed Hipster - I still contend that there's an elitism among the Hipster community running strong. Hipsters are easily as judgmental as Yuppies when it comes to those who don't fit in with their Style Group. Granted, about music and other issues, I can be as unforgiving as they get, but I just don't have the energy to adapt myself to the Hipster label.

So, I don't know where that puts me. Vee Believe In Nossing. Maybe that's it; maybe I'm a Character Nihilist. I reject characteristics, I defy stereotypes. I reckon there has to be a more proper name for what I am, but I'll be damned if I'm rested enough to figure it out.

Another topic of conversation we charted last night - while looking for a Hipster bar to see them in action - dealt with the idea of Being Shy. By all admission, Liz and I share this trait, though in complete contrast in practice. She feels uncomfortable when new people are brought into her home by friends, citing it as an invasion of her private space and cutting into her comfort level. Apparently, this is a common reaction for at least the others in this discussion as well; people feel On Edge when strangers are in their home, feeling they have to present themselves as Host and the pressures that go along with that duty, etc. But, they can go out and meet new people in a neutral setting and feel totally at ease. I'm the exact opposite. I've been completely fine with my roommates' friends that they bring by the house. The way I figure it, if you're going to a place you've never been to before, meeting the people who live within, the pressure's more on the guest than it should be on me. I take the fact that I'm already in the place of utmost comfort and familiarity and use that to aid in my interaction with the people I'm meeting. It's just easier to be myself when I'm in my home.

Put into practice, we've had multiple guests stop by throughout my stay here, but we've only had one party. At that party, I was sociable, affable, talkative, all that. And, it has nothing to do with my intoxication level because I've been equally as sauced at other people's parties and been quiet as a lamb. It's because I was in a comfortable locale, and really, I LIKE being on when I'm around my shit. I like being able to talk about my posters or my music or my writing and being able to produce samples of said writing. For some reason, you get me alone in a bar, and all at once my mind has gone blank and I'm left a stuttering mule incapable of even describing the weather that day. When I'm in a neutral setting or at someone else's party, there's too much trial and error involved; and I hate cold-calling. Not only that, but you never know who you're going to get, and I hate wasting time. If I'm meeting friends of friends, I have to assume there's a sense of like-mindedness between the two; ergo, I should be able to find a common ground somewhere. In a bar, you get too volatile of a mix of people. Yet, when I'M the one hosting the party, people are compelled to talk to me because I live there. And, if I don't happen to enjoy someone who's in my home, I can go to my room and pick up any number of activities that will suffice in me ignoring he with whom I do not get along.

In short, since Donald has come to stay with us, we've become Fast Friendly Acquaintences. At the bar last night, the only other person I talked to besides those I brung was the bartender.