I've been out of college for 2 months.
I fucking hate this shit.
Please forgive that my return to blogging is a rawdog shitdamn of a bitchfest. But I live with my fucking PARENTS. In a room I never decorated, but merely has a few scattered pictures and collages of me and then a really sweet claire murray rug. For reference please stop by www.clairemurray.com
Does anyone know how to make that a link? without the whole copy paste process.
I just totally lost all my passion about writing this post. I'm going to go to sleep. I have court tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
And I WILL be signing autographs in Case Center.
Yes yes my adoring fans and subscribers to the Skidmore Scope, that is yours truly in a full page picture buying books. And no, I didn't buy those books, and yes in fact I did steal some of them. I only took the 2 I needed most and left the rest at the desk and said, "I'll be back when I have money."
Wow, right now my washing machine is rocking back and forth so hard I think it's going to pull itself from the wall. It's banging so loud I can't hear any of the music coming from the next room. This merits investigation.
Upon taking one step into the kitchen...the washing machine stopped moving at all. One step. Almost as if...on cue...
Sniff. Sniff. I smell a conspiracy. I'm going to unplug the refrigerator now.
I have my meeting with my Probation Officer tomorrow. She sounds kind of like a hard ass. Rob on the other hand is teaching his probation officer how to play guitar. God dammit. Oh Christine M. Pusateri, I wish that you are a wonderful person who feels compelled to take pity on me. Or that you're really bitter and grizzled and you don't want to deal with me at all. Either one of those two things would be wonderful. As long as you call me a kid in a way that doesn't imply that I should be punished more than I already have been.
Bokay, now I have to write Pat Oles and email. Well Pat, so we meet again on the field of batter.
mm. pancakes.
Wow, right now my washing machine is rocking back and forth so hard I think it's going to pull itself from the wall. It's banging so loud I can't hear any of the music coming from the next room. This merits investigation.
Upon taking one step into the kitchen...the washing machine stopped moving at all. One step. Almost as if...on cue...
Sniff. Sniff. I smell a conspiracy. I'm going to unplug the refrigerator now.
I have my meeting with my Probation Officer tomorrow. She sounds kind of like a hard ass. Rob on the other hand is teaching his probation officer how to play guitar. God dammit. Oh Christine M. Pusateri, I wish that you are a wonderful person who feels compelled to take pity on me. Or that you're really bitter and grizzled and you don't want to deal with me at all. Either one of those two things would be wonderful. As long as you call me a kid in a way that doesn't imply that I should be punished more than I already have been.
Bokay, now I have to write Pat Oles and email. Well Pat, so we meet again on the field of batter.
mm. pancakes.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Why is it that Pumpkin is actually considered a 'yummy' flavor, when actual pumpkins probably taste like ass?
Since when does buying a half pound of weed make me a bad person. Since when is it an "awful thing." HELLO? Doesn't anyone remember the seventies for chrissake? COME ON! Everybody and their mother smoked pot until the eighties (when I might add they either got old or switched to coke), there's nothing that wrong with them. Sure they may suffer from an unfortunate sense of world harmony or potentially dillusional liberalism, but heck most old occasional pot smokers have done pretty well for themselves, leading by and large mild mannered suburban lives with wine! On the other hand, what happens to no-necked, dipshit frat boys and their beer pong team? They inherit/work their way up to owning a lovely used car dealership in bumblefuck connecticut or virginia, get a belly and marry their college girlfriend. Hey douchebag, how often do you have to buy pants? Oh, 3 times a year? Awesome, how's your wife's black eye? Oh she fell down the stairs? Bet you're glad you never smoked pot, that liver disease must be awesome. It goes well with the ulcers. Anyway happy bald spot, hope the mall shop/ chain store you're middle management at turns a good profit this year, maybe you'll be honored with some meaningless distinction involving a gold version of whatever product you sell. Fuck-all.
Look for me on your streetcorner though, and please forget all about this and drop a sacagawea in my burger king cup. I promise I won't piss on your yard. You've got beautiful kids.
It looks more and more like I'm moving to New York City. To some small studio on Manhattan (I hope) and transferring to NYU (I hope). I'm interning with Foreman at the Ontological (sweet!). This whole thing sounds so delightfully romantic that I just can't seem to come to grips with the really really (like don't lick it or you're gonna lose some skin) cold reality of new york. It's like I don't remember living out of my ciggarette case with enough change every day to buy a taco. Doing nothing but eating hard rolls fried in butter, not having to eat more than once a day cause I never got out of bed. Not being able to find a job cause I was too scared to go above 14th St. On the upside I won't have to live with some backwoods retard aspiring HR manager, what kind of sick fuck do you have to be to want to go into Human Resources. That's not exactly an exciting and thrilling field full of challenges you can really take home with you. I learned a lot about people who drink bud light (for the taste) that summer. On the downside I won't be living with a huge jocky lookin guy who goes to princeton and studies finance. I won't be able to have very intelligent conversations with him about the markets and how best to manage money in the long term. And he won't be smoking me up all the time with the fucking danks. Haze, Rhino, Jackalope you name it. God that was an all around mediocre time.
Bah.
I wonder how to get cooler templates for blogger like the one brendon has.
commonlymisspelled.blogspot.com
I'm going to go looking for one
Look for me on your streetcorner though, and please forget all about this and drop a sacagawea in my burger king cup. I promise I won't piss on your yard. You've got beautiful kids.
It looks more and more like I'm moving to New York City. To some small studio on Manhattan (I hope) and transferring to NYU (I hope). I'm interning with Foreman at the Ontological (sweet!). This whole thing sounds so delightfully romantic that I just can't seem to come to grips with the really really (like don't lick it or you're gonna lose some skin) cold reality of new york. It's like I don't remember living out of my ciggarette case with enough change every day to buy a taco. Doing nothing but eating hard rolls fried in butter, not having to eat more than once a day cause I never got out of bed. Not being able to find a job cause I was too scared to go above 14th St. On the upside I won't have to live with some backwoods retard aspiring HR manager, what kind of sick fuck do you have to be to want to go into Human Resources. That's not exactly an exciting and thrilling field full of challenges you can really take home with you. I learned a lot about people who drink bud light (for the taste) that summer. On the downside I won't be living with a huge jocky lookin guy who goes to princeton and studies finance. I won't be able to have very intelligent conversations with him about the markets and how best to manage money in the long term. And he won't be smoking me up all the time with the fucking danks. Haze, Rhino, Jackalope you name it. God that was an all around mediocre time.
Bah.
I wonder how to get cooler templates for blogger like the one brendon has.
commonlymisspelled.blogspot.com
I'm going to go looking for one
Saturday, October 15, 2005
So if I love Fiona Apple's new album, can I never wear work boots?
Blog Blog BLOG!
15 letters and a petition for the abrogation of my suspension. "It really speaks to your character." Thanks, Pat. No, seriously, the student body speaks out against the administration with a testament to my integrity, commitment to reform and contributions to Skidmore and from this you glean that I'm "A really great guy." A really great guy. huh. A really great guy, I guess I'll chew on that for a while, just to stop me immediately vomiting bile and my disgust for academic bureaucracy all over your institutional oak desk and hideous button-down. Vertical stripes are slimming Pat, but not THAT slimming.
It really didn't help that when I pointed out that suspending me not only won't stop kids from smoking, but it will encourage them to lie in front of the Integrity Board, he agreed and then responded "Sometimes being honest gets you in more trouble, but that speaks highly of your integrity."
S'cuse me while I roll my jaw up off the floor. Honesty should never get you in the most trouble. The most trouble should be for lying. He then pointed out that it speaks to how the school is responding that they didn't dismiss me. Yah. Ok, whatever you say Pat. Dismissal was probably never going to happen. Bah, well that's my diatribe about idiotic, dogmatic and indifferent "reformative policy."
I'd like to thank the thesaurus for telling me that rescindition isn't a word and that abrogate would be exactly what I'm looking for.
And so, without further ado:
A LIST OF THINGS TO DO FOR THE BORED AND DISENFRANCHISED!!
1. Blog.
2. Drink
3. Read and mope and then mope and read
4. Download widgets for your new operating system on your new computer that allow you to control all, see all, know all, and play asteroids.
5. Drink more and violate your probation by doing so. The latter only applies if you are actually on probation.
6. Move to another city and start a new life, thereby cutting all ties with your previous school.
7. (Mutually exclusive with #6) Take a 4 month mind vacation. Buy a new Xbox and play the shit out of all video games. Potentially become so good that you don't need to go back to school because you are winning so many fucking Halo and Perfect Dark tournaments. Fuck yeah. Your fucking name is known all over the web, you are a living legend. Women will sleep with you because of your outstanding hand eye coordination. The downside is, due to the time spent inside becoming a god of video games, you cannot go outside on sunny days, the UV rays are too stong and even a minimal exposure will burn you enough to get sun poisoning. But then you go back to school and finish your degree after the suspension is over.
8. Continue to drink until you have a transcendental experience.
9. Write letters to Sir John Gielgud about the plight of the artist in the 21st century, touching on America's move toward the xenophobic christian right and how that relates to a world artistic community.
10. Recieve an answer to your letters, in which Sir John tells you about some of his personal experience on the set of Elizabeth, specifically how hot Cate Blanchett was and how she used to walk around the set half naked all the time until it was time to put on the corset. He wanted to tax that ass for days, but found it rather difficult when he knocked on her trailer door and, much to his chagrin, Geoffrey Rush opened the door. Blanchett boffing Rush? Apparently the set of Elizabeth was as steamy as the movie itself...Which you don't really remember because you saw it on an airplane.
11. You arrange to meet Gielgud himself. You grab a grilled muffin and a cup of joe from the deli on the corner of Broome and Prince in Soho. While you're walking and talking about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes (Sir John thinks he's totally a flamer too) you wonder to yourself why Gielgud hasn't engaged you in any serious kind of esoteric conversation about art. When you try to engage him about the work of Liz LeCompte, he laughs and steers the conversation to Nick and Jessica and it's it so funny all these celebrity couples. A discussion of the scarcity of good gallery space suddenly turns to Jessica Alba and her sweet ass. A attempted dialogue about how difficult it is to get published, turns into a monologue as Sir John begins to sing Gold Digger. Something is wrong here. Sensing an opportunity, you slyly refer to him as John and not SIR John. There is no reaction. Nothing not even a flicker of acknowledgement. This is not Sir John Gielgud. No man who is knighted ever forgets that he is a Knight! You throw your coffee at the phony Gielgud and he reels back, plastic dripping from his face. The mask melted away, a very confused Chris Klein is doubled over before you. "You're that guy from American Pie, you really suck!" you exclaim.
" I was in the United States of Leland, it was an independent film with Don Cheadle, I'm a legitimate actor." He squeals.
"Oh I know, I saw that one too and I fucking want the 2 hours of my life back. That was awful, like really awful. How can you even pretend to be John Gielgud? What would make you do that?"
"I just- I just wanted someone to like me." Klein whimpers.
"Why would anyone ever like you. You suck."
"I was in This Is Our Youth on the West End."
"You should probably get yourself to a hospital. That's starting to look bad." You say, noticing the growing blisters all over Klein's high cheekbones. You begin to walk away, but he grabs at your wrist pulling you back.
"Wait! I just want to know one thing before you go. How did you know it wasn't Gielgud?"
"Why don't you go ask Ian McKellan...now get away from me." You respond, and turn away.
"Wait," Klein stammers, grabbing again at your arm "One more thing, just one more. How was I in We Were Soldiers? You know, with Mel Gibson?"
Catching a glint of metal out of the corner of your eye, you grab a rusty pipe from a pile of junk next to you on the street. You bring it to bear across Klein's left eye, which drops him immediately to the pavement, he doesn't move, doesn't breathe.
"Never saw it." You say as you turn and walk back to the subway. Lucky thing it it's trash day, you hate to litter.
15 letters and a petition for the abrogation of my suspension. "It really speaks to your character." Thanks, Pat. No, seriously, the student body speaks out against the administration with a testament to my integrity, commitment to reform and contributions to Skidmore and from this you glean that I'm "A really great guy." A really great guy. huh. A really great guy, I guess I'll chew on that for a while, just to stop me immediately vomiting bile and my disgust for academic bureaucracy all over your institutional oak desk and hideous button-down. Vertical stripes are slimming Pat, but not THAT slimming.
It really didn't help that when I pointed out that suspending me not only won't stop kids from smoking, but it will encourage them to lie in front of the Integrity Board, he agreed and then responded "Sometimes being honest gets you in more trouble, but that speaks highly of your integrity."
S'cuse me while I roll my jaw up off the floor. Honesty should never get you in the most trouble. The most trouble should be for lying. He then pointed out that it speaks to how the school is responding that they didn't dismiss me. Yah. Ok, whatever you say Pat. Dismissal was probably never going to happen. Bah, well that's my diatribe about idiotic, dogmatic and indifferent "reformative policy."
I'd like to thank the thesaurus for telling me that rescindition isn't a word and that abrogate would be exactly what I'm looking for.
And so, without further ado:
A LIST OF THINGS TO DO FOR THE BORED AND DISENFRANCHISED!!
1. Blog.
2. Drink
3. Read and mope and then mope and read
4. Download widgets for your new operating system on your new computer that allow you to control all, see all, know all, and play asteroids.
5. Drink more and violate your probation by doing so. The latter only applies if you are actually on probation.
6. Move to another city and start a new life, thereby cutting all ties with your previous school.
7. (Mutually exclusive with #6) Take a 4 month mind vacation. Buy a new Xbox and play the shit out of all video games. Potentially become so good that you don't need to go back to school because you are winning so many fucking Halo and Perfect Dark tournaments. Fuck yeah. Your fucking name is known all over the web, you are a living legend. Women will sleep with you because of your outstanding hand eye coordination. The downside is, due to the time spent inside becoming a god of video games, you cannot go outside on sunny days, the UV rays are too stong and even a minimal exposure will burn you enough to get sun poisoning. But then you go back to school and finish your degree after the suspension is over.
8. Continue to drink until you have a transcendental experience.
9. Write letters to Sir John Gielgud about the plight of the artist in the 21st century, touching on America's move toward the xenophobic christian right and how that relates to a world artistic community.
10. Recieve an answer to your letters, in which Sir John tells you about some of his personal experience on the set of Elizabeth, specifically how hot Cate Blanchett was and how she used to walk around the set half naked all the time until it was time to put on the corset. He wanted to tax that ass for days, but found it rather difficult when he knocked on her trailer door and, much to his chagrin, Geoffrey Rush opened the door. Blanchett boffing Rush? Apparently the set of Elizabeth was as steamy as the movie itself...Which you don't really remember because you saw it on an airplane.
11. You arrange to meet Gielgud himself. You grab a grilled muffin and a cup of joe from the deli on the corner of Broome and Prince in Soho. While you're walking and talking about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes (Sir John thinks he's totally a flamer too) you wonder to yourself why Gielgud hasn't engaged you in any serious kind of esoteric conversation about art. When you try to engage him about the work of Liz LeCompte, he laughs and steers the conversation to Nick and Jessica and it's it so funny all these celebrity couples. A discussion of the scarcity of good gallery space suddenly turns to Jessica Alba and her sweet ass. A attempted dialogue about how difficult it is to get published, turns into a monologue as Sir John begins to sing Gold Digger. Something is wrong here. Sensing an opportunity, you slyly refer to him as John and not SIR John. There is no reaction. Nothing not even a flicker of acknowledgement. This is not Sir John Gielgud. No man who is knighted ever forgets that he is a Knight! You throw your coffee at the phony Gielgud and he reels back, plastic dripping from his face. The mask melted away, a very confused Chris Klein is doubled over before you. "You're that guy from American Pie, you really suck!" you exclaim.
" I was in the United States of Leland, it was an independent film with Don Cheadle, I'm a legitimate actor." He squeals.
"Oh I know, I saw that one too and I fucking want the 2 hours of my life back. That was awful, like really awful. How can you even pretend to be John Gielgud? What would make you do that?"
"I just- I just wanted someone to like me." Klein whimpers.
"Why would anyone ever like you. You suck."
"I was in This Is Our Youth on the West End."
"You should probably get yourself to a hospital. That's starting to look bad." You say, noticing the growing blisters all over Klein's high cheekbones. You begin to walk away, but he grabs at your wrist pulling you back.
"Wait! I just want to know one thing before you go. How did you know it wasn't Gielgud?"
"Why don't you go ask Ian McKellan...now get away from me." You respond, and turn away.
"Wait," Klein stammers, grabbing again at your arm "One more thing, just one more. How was I in We Were Soldiers? You know, with Mel Gibson?"
Catching a glint of metal out of the corner of your eye, you grab a rusty pipe from a pile of junk next to you on the street. You bring it to bear across Klein's left eye, which drops him immediately to the pavement, he doesn't move, doesn't breathe.
"Never saw it." You say as you turn and walk back to the subway. Lucky thing it it's trash day, you hate to litter.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Things Shaped Like A Boot: Italy, A Boot, Skidmore's Drug Policy
BItch! So I found out last week that I got kicked out. But I appealed, and I will fight! I will not go silently into the night (or whatever Bill Pullman says in ID4)! But I had my meeting with Pat "Nice Guy, Good Smile" Oles yesterday, and oooh boy. Here's a little bit of the conversation
Pat: The problem in this of course is that when a parent or a member of the Saratoga community comes to me and says "this kid got caught with a half pound of weed and you didn't suspend him, how can you say Skidmore is hard on drugs?" What would you say to that if you were in my position? I mean how could you, how would you justify that to them?
Me: Uh.
Pat: Because I am going to be having those conversations and it's just that this is an example to the whole school and to the whole community.
Me: Um.
Pat: Because if I don't suspend you everybody who gets caught with 3 joints and a hookah is gonna point to you and say look at last year's big shot, you didn't suspend him. You know you're a prominent figure on campus, and so I can't exactly have you walking around getting away with this. What kind of message does that send?
Me: Well...
Pat: But I will consider this because there is a lot to think about here both your side and mine so I'll render a decision by friday at 11.
Me: ...I guess what I want to say is that... oh, oh sorry yeah ok that um...yeah that sounds fine...ok... great....
I'm a grade A idiot. I don't really have a good feeling about this. So people of New York City, prepare for my arrival!!
Also, for anyone who hasn't seen this. It's funny, like actually funny not gross funny or stupid funny.
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/videos/shining.html
I hope that shows up as a link. I had a story to tell in this post that I thought would make a good post. But now I can't remember. boo. I have come to realize I need an awesome pseudonym. Like Accidentally Disastrous, but that's spoken for. Dammit. Coincidentally Catastrophic? Eh. I said Kemosabe in an earlier post. But upon trying to remember where that comes from, it's from the Lone Ranger. I thought that series was stupid. Granted, I come from the age of Ninja Turtles so a stupid guy in a stupid stupid mask riding a stupid horse and being racist all over the Wild West has little appeal. I had a giant rat for a sensei people. Now that's drama, that's action. My villans didn't rob banks, or if they did, they did it with blades all over their forearms. Blades! All over their forearms! What if you crossed your arms Shredder? Just by accident cause you were trying to look badass cause you forgot that you already do cause you have blades on your forearms. Ah, but I digress. So I think that Kemosabe is stupid BUT, Kenzie could get away with it with a slight alteration. Chemosavy? eh? Yeah, you get it? Cause it's like, well nevermind.
I'm breaking out. I haven't broken out like this.....ever. I have the nastiest patch of disgusting zits on the side of my face. Ugh. It's like I'm being dragged forcibly through puberty. Again. But this time they're determined to get me. Sons of bitches.
Profound Wank.
Pat: The problem in this of course is that when a parent or a member of the Saratoga community comes to me and says "this kid got caught with a half pound of weed and you didn't suspend him, how can you say Skidmore is hard on drugs?" What would you say to that if you were in my position? I mean how could you, how would you justify that to them?
Me: Uh.
Pat: Because I am going to be having those conversations and it's just that this is an example to the whole school and to the whole community.
Me: Um.
Pat: Because if I don't suspend you everybody who gets caught with 3 joints and a hookah is gonna point to you and say look at last year's big shot, you didn't suspend him. You know you're a prominent figure on campus, and so I can't exactly have you walking around getting away with this. What kind of message does that send?
Me: Well...
Pat: But I will consider this because there is a lot to think about here both your side and mine so I'll render a decision by friday at 11.
Me: ...I guess what I want to say is that... oh, oh sorry yeah ok that um...yeah that sounds fine...ok... great....
I'm a grade A idiot. I don't really have a good feeling about this. So people of New York City, prepare for my arrival!!
Also, for anyone who hasn't seen this. It's funny, like actually funny not gross funny or stupid funny.
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/videos/shining.html
I hope that shows up as a link. I had a story to tell in this post that I thought would make a good post. But now I can't remember. boo. I have come to realize I need an awesome pseudonym. Like Accidentally Disastrous, but that's spoken for. Dammit. Coincidentally Catastrophic? Eh. I said Kemosabe in an earlier post. But upon trying to remember where that comes from, it's from the Lone Ranger. I thought that series was stupid. Granted, I come from the age of Ninja Turtles so a stupid guy in a stupid stupid mask riding a stupid horse and being racist all over the Wild West has little appeal. I had a giant rat for a sensei people. Now that's drama, that's action. My villans didn't rob banks, or if they did, they did it with blades all over their forearms. Blades! All over their forearms! What if you crossed your arms Shredder? Just by accident cause you were trying to look badass cause you forgot that you already do cause you have blades on your forearms. Ah, but I digress. So I think that Kemosabe is stupid BUT, Kenzie could get away with it with a slight alteration. Chemosavy? eh? Yeah, you get it? Cause it's like, well nevermind.
I'm breaking out. I haven't broken out like this.....ever. I have the nastiest patch of disgusting zits on the side of my face. Ugh. It's like I'm being dragged forcibly through puberty. Again. But this time they're determined to get me. Sons of bitches.
Profound Wank.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Someday I'll Be A Memory.
It's going to be soon. I can feel it coming to a head. Someday soon, like within a few months, I will be only a memory to everyone I know at Skidmore. I got the boot, and my one shot, the only chance I've got to stop this from happening and to keep me having a college degree is in 2 days.
Oh my god, I just farted and it smells so bad. God, I hope lizzie can't smell that shit. I didnt' actually shit, that was like 2 years ago, please.
So, I was just enlightened to a bit of the jewish culture. Apparently between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is when God judges everyone. Gulp. It's not that I'm nervous, it's just that I'm freaking the fuck out. I can usually tell when I'm about to shit a horseshoe, and I'm feeling a little constipated. It's like this warmth in the middle of my chest. Normally I would think it's a heart attack but I can tell that its not. It's like a growing warmth, but it's a hollow warmth, so it's not warming me. Its actually just pushing outwards on the inside of my body. I think it's stress related. I think I'm freaking out. I'm not really, I'm actually calm and collected and I really understand what's going on right now. It's just that everything is taking so long. Every hour and day drips down into a puddle on the floor making it a little closer to the shark infested pool that I have to dive into on wednesday.
Wednesday, why does it have to be Wednesday.
I can't actually type that word without it reading Wed-Nes-Day in my head. Wednesday. Wednesday. Dammit that's annoying.
I wish I could write about something better. Like, I don't know, kittens. I mean I could, but I don't have any new ground breaking research. Lena? Any ground breaking research about kittens? Kittens and pox? Kenz? Kittens and Benzene? Lena? Is what I just said incorrect? I'm sure you'll tell me. Brendo- I ignored your call tonight, I'm sorry. I was playing video games. I was being chased by the Dahaka! It was scary. I will call you tomorrow. Carter- you suck wang. heh. wang. update your blog. Just because I haven't doesn't mean this war is over. I'm just a guerilla. Relatedly (is that a word), to anyone else: If you know how to make my face look like Che Guevara on that t-shirt image, it would be much appreciated. We're making "free jamie" t-shirts.
So. Yeah.
Oh my god, I just farted and it smells so bad. God, I hope lizzie can't smell that shit. I didnt' actually shit, that was like 2 years ago, please.
So, I was just enlightened to a bit of the jewish culture. Apparently between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is when God judges everyone. Gulp. It's not that I'm nervous, it's just that I'm freaking the fuck out. I can usually tell when I'm about to shit a horseshoe, and I'm feeling a little constipated. It's like this warmth in the middle of my chest. Normally I would think it's a heart attack but I can tell that its not. It's like a growing warmth, but it's a hollow warmth, so it's not warming me. Its actually just pushing outwards on the inside of my body. I think it's stress related. I think I'm freaking out. I'm not really, I'm actually calm and collected and I really understand what's going on right now. It's just that everything is taking so long. Every hour and day drips down into a puddle on the floor making it a little closer to the shark infested pool that I have to dive into on wednesday.
Wednesday, why does it have to be Wednesday.
I can't actually type that word without it reading Wed-Nes-Day in my head. Wednesday. Wednesday. Dammit that's annoying.
I wish I could write about something better. Like, I don't know, kittens. I mean I could, but I don't have any new ground breaking research. Lena? Any ground breaking research about kittens? Kittens and pox? Kenz? Kittens and Benzene? Lena? Is what I just said incorrect? I'm sure you'll tell me. Brendo- I ignored your call tonight, I'm sorry. I was playing video games. I was being chased by the Dahaka! It was scary. I will call you tomorrow. Carter- you suck wang. heh. wang. update your blog. Just because I haven't doesn't mean this war is over. I'm just a guerilla. Relatedly (is that a word), to anyone else: If you know how to make my face look like Che Guevara on that t-shirt image, it would be much appreciated. We're making "free jamie" t-shirts.
So. Yeah.
Monday, October 03, 2005
I gave a bunch of head to a guy named T-Bone.
Ah. The internet has returned. The sweet smell of procrastination and unproductivity mixed with BO as I sit in front of my computer without showering. In the time since my internet has left me, I have been up and I have been DOWN. Oh sweet blogger audience, let me recount to you the past month of my life.
I moved out, moved in, missed a cable appt, auditioned for a show, went to jail, auditioned for a movie, went to rehearsal, did improv and cooked a lovely dinner of chicken marsala and roasted asparagus.
huh.
one of these things is not like the others.
Everything is ok. I have to do my homework now. My return to blogging is really mundane, but I just don't have time.
Kemosabe Out.
I moved out, moved in, missed a cable appt, auditioned for a show, went to jail, auditioned for a movie, went to rehearsal, did improv and cooked a lovely dinner of chicken marsala and roasted asparagus.
huh.
one of these things is not like the others.
Everything is ok. I have to do my homework now. My return to blogging is really mundane, but I just don't have time.
Kemosabe Out.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Like Having a Gun To My Head....Well, not really anything like that.
Holy Industrial Soaps Batman!
I slipped really badly at work today on a puddle of water and soap that spilled out of my mop bucket.
Mop Bucket. Say that a few times to yourself. It's delightful. Don't forget to annunciate now. Diction is key.
UGH, Carter is making me post this nonsense blog post. So with nothing to say, no stories of Shrimp Shackdom with which to regale you, my loving audience, I will speculate.
And speculate he did, for about 10 minutes, to no avail.
There's a bug in the bed. Holy Fuck. It was just in my hair. Holy fucking... oh shit where did it go. UhhHHHHH. I hate this. This was worse than the battic. Ah, the battic. Let me tell you a story.
For a little over a month, I squatted in my Lena and Lucas' house. Living in the attic and not paying rent. The deal was that I pack it up, which I did (but not as much as lucas) and that I coexist peacefully with the bat that lived in the attic.
Funny story, the bat didn't agree. I spent the next month living in complete fear of getting into bed at night. I would creep up the stairs and go to my room. it was dark and there was only one bare bulb in the room, which I would turn on once I got into the room. I covered it eventually with a lampshade which cast the most sinister orange-red glow everywhere. Then I would freak out when I turned around and saw an enormous poster of Peter Pan leering at me. I can't find a picture of this poster but it was about 6'x'5' and had Peter Pan with a candle light shadow and a little grin on his face. ugh i can' t really even think about it now. That shit freaked me out. So after jumping like a strung out Cap'n Hook at the sight of Pan, I would move to the bed to try and get it. I say try because on occasion it would take me many attempts. Imagine for yourself. You're crawling into bed. And the covers are at the bottom of the bed. So you sit at the top and proceed to put your legs under the covers at the bottom of the bed. All rumpled up. Dark. Can't see what's under it. Feeling around with your feet. Could be a BAT! OH MY GOD GO GET OUT OH OHSHIT OH ok.. no bat. I can sleep tonight.
Now imagine going through that, every night. At one point I threw "good ol' Peter" down the fucking stairs.. served him right.
This story has a happy ending. The bat and I eventually became friends. He would come downstairs and fly around the house during parties. Which, by the way, was awesome. A room full of drunk kids don't really expect, dare I say know how to deal with a bat flying at face level in circles through the dining room. Endless fun. Soon we learned how, through the use of brooms and my limited experience as a lacrosse goalie, how to get him back in the battic. Where he and I would peacefully sleep next door to each other. Waiting to hear which one would masturbate first.
And that kids, is the story of the battic.
And now, this bear wants to know a few things. And you'd better have some answers. Oh yes, you better.
I slipped really badly at work today on a puddle of water and soap that spilled out of my mop bucket.
Mop Bucket. Say that a few times to yourself. It's delightful. Don't forget to annunciate now. Diction is key.
UGH, Carter is making me post this nonsense blog post. So with nothing to say, no stories of Shrimp Shackdom with which to regale you, my loving audience, I will speculate.
And speculate he did, for about 10 minutes, to no avail.
There's a bug in the bed. Holy Fuck. It was just in my hair. Holy fucking... oh shit where did it go. UhhHHHHH. I hate this. This was worse than the battic. Ah, the battic. Let me tell you a story.
For a little over a month, I squatted in my Lena and Lucas' house. Living in the attic and not paying rent. The deal was that I pack it up, which I did (but not as much as lucas) and that I coexist peacefully with the bat that lived in the attic.
Funny story, the bat didn't agree. I spent the next month living in complete fear of getting into bed at night. I would creep up the stairs and go to my room. it was dark and there was only one bare bulb in the room, which I would turn on once I got into the room. I covered it eventually with a lampshade which cast the most sinister orange-red glow everywhere. Then I would freak out when I turned around and saw an enormous poster of Peter Pan leering at me. I can't find a picture of this poster but it was about 6'x'5' and had Peter Pan with a candle light shadow and a little grin on his face. ugh i can' t really even think about it now. That shit freaked me out. So after jumping like a strung out Cap'n Hook at the sight of Pan, I would move to the bed to try and get it. I say try because on occasion it would take me many attempts. Imagine for yourself. You're crawling into bed. And the covers are at the bottom of the bed. So you sit at the top and proceed to put your legs under the covers at the bottom of the bed. All rumpled up. Dark. Can't see what's under it. Feeling around with your feet. Could be a BAT! OH MY GOD GO GET OUT OH OHSHIT OH ok.. no bat. I can sleep tonight.
Now imagine going through that, every night. At one point I threw "good ol' Peter" down the fucking stairs.. served him right.
This story has a happy ending. The bat and I eventually became friends. He would come downstairs and fly around the house during parties. Which, by the way, was awesome. A room full of drunk kids don't really expect, dare I say know how to deal with a bat flying at face level in circles through the dining room. Endless fun. Soon we learned how, through the use of brooms and my limited experience as a lacrosse goalie, how to get him back in the battic. Where he and I would peacefully sleep next door to each other. Waiting to hear which one would masturbate first.
And that kids, is the story of the battic.
And now, this bear wants to know a few things. And you'd better have some answers. Oh yes, you better.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Givin' The Peeps What They Want. Shrimpa-limp Shacky.
I work in 2 hours. I work 15 minutes away in nearby BALLSton Spa. There, I make shrimp. I put sauces into small containers with lids called...wait for it....liddles. Tartar, Cocktail, Chili, Honey Mustard. That's what I do all day. I sling shrimp. I push prawns. I - nevermind. There may be more alliterative pairings for selling seafood but I don't want to go into it. Turning tuna. *snicker* oh i gotta write that one down.
I work in 2 hours. Fuck. Dammit. I don't dislike my job, don't get me wrong. But fuckonyourface I don't want to go right now. I'm hungry. I don't want shrimp. I don't care that it's fresh. Fuck. I want an egg.
A Response to One "Carter": The blog war is indeed on. We have gone steel to steel, keyboard to keyboard. It seems as though you have emerged the victor. That could be because you know HTML. That could be because you have your own host. That could be because you can make a website in under 2 hours. That could be because you're funnier than I am. That could be because I spend too much time drunk. That could be because I spend way too much time drunk. I'm drunk right now. That could be because I have a problem and the first step towards recovery is admitting you have a problem. That could be because you have prettier fonts and now that I think of it, the ability to change and manipulate font at all. That could be because I'm typing in a little box that I could have made in Java class. Dammit blogger.
\But I will not be defeated so easily. Like any good fascist, ahem sorry, freedom fighter, I will hole myself up in a bunker. Like Hitler, Hussein or that Guy with the turban, I will disappear underground...MY MYSTERIOUSNESS WILL THRIVE!!
you cannot defeat me. I am a legend.
I work in 2 hours. Fuck. Dammit. I don't dislike my job, don't get me wrong. But fuckonyourface I don't want to go right now. I'm hungry. I don't want shrimp. I don't care that it's fresh. Fuck. I want an egg.
A Response to One "Carter": The blog war is indeed on. We have gone steel to steel, keyboard to keyboard. It seems as though you have emerged the victor. That could be because you know HTML. That could be because you have your own host. That could be because you can make a website in under 2 hours. That could be because you're funnier than I am. That could be because I spend too much time drunk. That could be because I spend way too much time drunk. I'm drunk right now. That could be because I have a problem and the first step towards recovery is admitting you have a problem. That could be because you have prettier fonts and now that I think of it, the ability to change and manipulate font at all. That could be because I'm typing in a little box that I could have made in Java class. Dammit blogger.
\But I will not be defeated so easily. Like any good fascist, ahem sorry, freedom fighter, I will hole myself up in a bunker. Like Hitler, Hussein or that Guy with the turban, I will disappear underground...MY MYSTERIOUSNESS WILL THRIVE!!
you cannot defeat me. I am a legend.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
What Happens If You Go Straight Through The Brush Instead Of Around It? or If I Leave My Shoes In The Woods In The Dark Will I Ever Find Them Again?
Alright. Alright All Right. shrimp shack.
tear tear tare.
It all began when I picked up about 11-13 heady friends of Shanks'. It was a motley crew to say the least and luckily I made Lucas drive his car behind me to accomodate the rest of the drunk roving band of hippies. They had all just seen some hippie band and now they needed hippie beer to go home to a hippie party. Among the cast of characters were Julia the rolling dready, Brian (Shanks' friend from Berkley), Joey (who I have no idea who he was but everyone kept talking about him), a group of people I will henceforth call the nameless headys and of course, my favorite, Mike. But we'll get to him in a minute.
So I pack my car full of a band of nameless hippies, half of whom I think were rolling, and enough beer to stock Cheers while all the main characters drink themselves to death and Frasier's like "Noooo my spin-off got canceled!". Dammit I just didn't like Cheers that much... but I digress. I leave Lucas to fend for himself. Point of Order: Lucas had been really reallllly funny all night. Like more so than I've ever seen him. Cracking jokes and laughing LOUDLY, doing practically the entire dance break from Thriller, so I was like wow Lucas is fun. Lucas was drunk Jamie, poor naive Jamie. Flash back to the present Lucas is standing in front of the Civic Center with about 8 screaming hippies and 3 cases of beer and open containers everywhere. *Bweep Bweep* The Cops roll up. The hippies at this point are still drinking on the street and screaming for Wheels. No one knows where Wheels is. No one I know knows who Wheels is. The police proceed to ask the hippies to take it off the street. The hippies comply to the best of their ability. They drop a 12 pack of beer into a storm drain and stumble into Lucas' car. Lucas meanwhile is trying his best to look sober. He doesn't have his license, he left it at the house because he didn't want to get caught drunk driving. The People v. Lucas' Sobriety, People's Exhibit A. I have no idea this is going on, I'm already back at the house. Lucas eventually makes it home. Wheels never showed.
It didn't all really begin when I picked up the hippies. We had had another party earlier that night with just a bunch of rando people who came over. Some of my ex-coworkers from Scallions Restaurant were there. One was a douche and Mackenzie and Lena made fun of the other one for being thin and asian. It was racist. It was funny. I felt awkward. A couple of our friends from a few years ago Jon Eick and Dibbes were up. So festivities were in full swing in this enormous decaying yellow victorian mansion. We threw some beer bottles around, cause we found out that being drunk and throwing glass bottles on a tile floor is just the right combination of risk, reward and tension to entertain not just those involved, but those watching as well. Beer Toss is, in fact, a spectator sport. The douchebag I worked with came into the room and said merely "This is so primitive." He is an idiot. He also told Mackenzie that she can "Work for him someday" in response to her telling him that she is getting her Ph.D. in Chemistry. Idiot. It was a good night. And just when we thought we were getting into the wee hours and it was time to go to bed, I called Shanks. I wanted to stay out late after working a reallly long day at the Shrimp Shack.
I didn't think at all about emerging from the forest at the edge of the property, covered from head to toe in mud, soaked to the waist, holding 3 cell phones, 2 wallets, 6 dollar bills and a pair of black monochrome Chucks. I didn't even know that it was morning .
to be continued....
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Hot or Not?
I am currently listed on Hot or Not dot com. For those of you who didn't know. That's right, I myself and I am a member of the elite. The top tier if you will. The cream de la cream. Well, time for me to go check up on my rating...I'm expecting great things.
I'm a 5.3. Fuck. Fuck shit dammit. I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS BULLSHIT. A 5.3. I'm hotter than 48% of the men on this site. fucknits I fuck fuck fuck i don;t deserve this shit. I'm the hottest thing since a bun in the oven. but not like the preggers kind, like an actual bun in an oven. 350 degrees baby burnin up! A 5.3, must be a glitch in the system. Or a bunch of jealous busted chicks voted for me over and over again. Stupid busted chicks. Jealous of my shining hotness. Look at those eyes. Sumptuous. I'm looking sincere, and off into the distance, almost surveying my future. It lays out on the landscape before me. A man with a plan. But the face is soft enough to be tender and severe enough to know that I can protect the woman (or man, Brendon cough) on my arm.
I am majesty. Not majestic, adjectives do me no justice.
So, I just was trying my best to sabotage people's scores on hot or not dot com, and in the midst of realizing how childish and trivial it is, but more how I'm probably not making much of a dent, I ran into this winner. This, lady and 2 gentlemen who read my blog, is The Guy I Lost To Really Badly
A 7.4.
No....words...
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Ziggy Stardust and the Moths Outside Our House.
I'm actually starting to think that David Bowie had no idea that Ziggy Stardust would be stuck in my head for the last 2 weeks straight. Without cease.
I wish I could actually play drums. Or Country music. I wish I could write and play country. I need a folklift. A little known elective surgery where one's folk-ness and down-home appeal are augmented though the addition of a pearl-snap sutured on for 6-8 weeks. I would go into greater detail but I think I was just recently demoted to nurse from Jamie Granite M.D. Assholes.
I don't know why I'm posting anything right now I have nothing to say. I'm so bored I'll rant online. Probably better this way... Lena can't make fun of me directly. She'll post a comment making fun of me as soon as she reads it, which gives me a couple of days. Thank goodness for that.
but where WERE the spiders?
try saying shrimp shack 5 times fast. SHRIMP SHACK SHRIMP SHACK SHIRPMA SHACK SHIRPMA SHCAK SHRIPM SHACK. dammit.
ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK!
blah.
I wish I could actually play drums. Or Country music. I wish I could write and play country. I need a folklift. A little known elective surgery where one's folk-ness and down-home appeal are augmented though the addition of a pearl-snap sutured on for 6-8 weeks. I would go into greater detail but I think I was just recently demoted to nurse from Jamie Granite M.D. Assholes.
I don't know why I'm posting anything right now I have nothing to say. I'm so bored I'll rant online. Probably better this way... Lena can't make fun of me directly. She'll post a comment making fun of me as soon as she reads it, which gives me a couple of days. Thank goodness for that.
but where WERE the spiders?
try saying shrimp shack 5 times fast. SHRIMP SHACK SHRIMP SHACK SHIRPMA SHACK SHIRPMA SHCAK SHRIPM SHACK. dammit.
ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK!
blah.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Fascists.
So, I was investigating this so called "profile" when I discovered that Blogger asks you a little question. Something capricious and carefree ideally, but the question I got most recently, was a little more serious.
It was as follows.
"Why is it the color blue always means raspberry flavored?"
And I was all like I know you didn't just ask me that. Because I am probably one of the few people who knows the truth about this whole sordid affair. So, I answered the question honestly, and I was CENSORED! max 150 characters MY ASS. THE MAN just doesn't want the truth of this mess to get out. Well well well, thanks to the unfathomable strength of my newly discovered "1-click publishing" I can now speak out against this which I have held inside me for so long.
THE TRUTH, MY FRIENDS ABOUT THE CONNECTION BETWEEN BLUE AND RASPBERRIES IS AS FOLLOWS:
It all started during Mao's Cultural Revolution. The color red became almost unanimous with Communism. Though most of the world did not know it, raspberries were a substantial part of China's GDP at that time, and accounted for nearly half of the exports coming out of China. After the cultural revolution however, few in the "West" wanted anything to do with those slanty-eyed communists and their damned color red. So, in an incredibly deft manuever of propaganda, Mao had the color of raspberries changed to blue, and laundered the origin of the raspberries in the extensive mess of international postage. That is how today, The American Public so readily eats up their Blue Razz refreshers from Stewarts, The Blue Raspberry blow pop and other such engines of communist spin. Blue is not the color of freedom friends. It is the color of deceit.
Just call me Shallow Larynx.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
I Should Not Have A Blog.
I shouldn't have a blog. I don't have anything to tell people. This is merely a vehicle for me to talk to bren bren and leeeens.
I have reconsidered my previous statement.
I can have a blog. Hell, anybody can have a blog. Not only can I have a blog, since no one will ever read this I can be prolific in my self importance! I can even use words like self important. I mean prolific. Here, just to prove that I am master of my own domain...I proudly present:
A Haiku
by me
whisper on the wind
a leaf falls into a bush
my futility
thank you. thanks. thanks you.
i'm a little choked up.
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