Turkey Day

Apologies for the lack of posts lately. Between work and Nano I haven't had a lot of time or the will write too much. Putting down 2,000 words a night for a novel can pretty well exhaust the creative energies if you know what I mean. Speaking of the novel, things are going really well. I actually like my book, which is odd since I tend to hate everything I create. It's actually come very easily and I feel like I'll at least come out of this thing a better writer. I think it's taken awhile for me to find my voice but I'm getting there. Look for the book in your local book stores sometime early next summer.


Switching gears. Something frightening happend to me last night that's happend before, recently in the last couple of months, but that I thought I had left behind after halloween. I got another fucked up magic hat no. 9. I know, this is getting ridiculous. What's happening to one of my favorite beers? The first messed up magic hat was purchased at Kirby's during a lovely authentic chinese dinner with a few of my closest friends. The bottle seemed normal and unassuming. There were no outward signs of the trouble brewed within. I put the bottle to my lips and took a swig and my mouth immediately filled with so many bubbles I struggled to swallow. At first, I thought it was me and that my siliva had somehow become chemically reactive with beer, making the consumption of alcohol all but impossible. I almost pissed myself as the weight of that consequense would have been unbearable. I took another swig and the same thing happend. I held the beer out toward my friend and asked him to try it. He did and came to the same conclusion. I was relieve to no end that it was the beer and not myself. I don't know what happend to that beer but it had turned to seltzer water at some point in its creation. I kindly asked Linda for another bottle and she obliged, as she loves us. Then, last night, I reach into the basement refrigerator to get another bottle from the case of magic hat I had bought last weekend. I pull out the bottle, grab the bottle opener and quickly move to open the beer. When the bottle opener touched the bottle cap, the bottle cap sluffed off the bottle and dropped to the floor. I stood in utter amazement. There's no way I'm that strong. I hadn't worked out in weeks. I gently took a sip of the beer, making sure I didn't crush the bottle in my hand accidently. Totally flat. Apparently, the cap had never been properly secured, leaving me weak and one beer down. I pour the flat beer down the kitchen sink and threw the bottle and cap away. How depressing. I should write Magic Hat a letter, telling them of the injustices that have befallen me at the hand of their beer. Maybe they'd give me a free keg.


So I'm 25, right? Shouldn't I be in the prime of my athletic life? Shouldn't my body be filled out, strong, flexible and full of life? I feel like I'm 80. Every day I wake up and something else hurts besides my head. Here's a list of my current ailments:

1) Sprained MCL in my right knee. This one's not too bad. I did it while playing soccer two fridays ago after a happy hour at which I consumed way to many beers. Drunken soccer can be fun, but not when it's actually a competative game. The fact that the field was muddy didn't help anything and it was all I could do to stay on my feet. I didn't even know I had done anything to my knee that night but I couldn't walk the next morning. I'm still not sure exactly how I did it. It's getting better but it needs to be fully healed before football starts in two weeks.

2) I broke a blood vessel in my head from the same soccer game. I was throwing myself around a little too much. I had forgotten how much these things hurt. It's almost two weeks and I can still feel it.

3) My left elbow aches. I'm right handed. I don't use my left hand for anything. This one makes no sense and the only thing I can think of is that I broke it back in middle school skateboarding down a grass hill and maybe the change in the weather got to it. It's never done the change in the weather thing before though, so I don't know.

4) My upper right pectoral seems to be damages, inflamed, maybe missing. It's just a sore spot that's making moving my right arm and breathing slightly painful. It just showed up yesterday. I haven't worked out in the month of November. This makes no sense.

It's painfully apparent that my body hates me, but I can't figure out why. The only body part that has a legitamate gripe would be the liver and it's not even complaining. Or at least I haven't turned yellow yet. I shouldn't be dealing with random injures like this. If this is me now, what's it going to be like at 40? or 60? I'm not even going to go farther than that as I'm not sure I want to live that long. It gives me even greater respect for those individuals who are fortunate enough to play professional sports. I'm suprised they can even get out of bed in the morning without assistance.


Alright, I'm out, but I just wanted to say happy thanksgiving to everyone out there in internet land. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year simply because it's all about eating without the hassle and expense of buying gifts. I like getting gifts and giving gifts, but the thought of going to the mall makes me want to puck my guts up. Easter is a close second but thanksgiving beats it on quality of food and thanksgiving's lack of religious affiliation. Good luck with the tryptophan induced comas, everyone. As a thanksgiving present, anyone who reads this, please leave a comment. I get so few. I promise I'll post more often after Nano is over in December.

Cereal Killer

I'm not a doctor. I can't perscribe myself drugs I don't need. Why the fuck are there commerials on TV for perscription drugs?

I'll preface with this: There are some things that should be self diagnosed. Most of these things involve penis. I'm fine with the self diagnoses of ED. Viagra, Enzyte, Cialis you're in the clear. Self diagnosis on this type of thing is the only way to go. The doctor can't take a small hammer and strike your dick in the center of the shaft and expect it to get hard like some reaction test with your knee. You're only going to find this one out when you're standing in front of an attractive naked woman and you can't get it up or your erection is the size of an inch worm. I guess they could do a test at the doctor's office if they could get a good looking woman to be naked all day. However, the one draw back would be that myself and a hundred thousand other men would make oppointments every day.

My problem is with the Lunesta's and Lipitor's of the world. I'm sure you're wonderful drugs that save peoples live and all, but do we really need to see a commerical about you? I can't get you without a doctor's perscription and if I needed you, don't you think the doctor would have prescribed you? Seriously, I understand that WebMD exists but do I have to self diagnose everything? Christ, what do I have a general practitioner and insurance for? I obviously need a pre-radiation immunity booster and somethign to lower my bad cholesterol and increase the good, though I have no idea what my cholesterol count actually is. If doctors didn't make bank, they'd be asking us to take our own blood samples and perform our own open heart surgeries.


Nothing against the drugs themselves, but their commericials are killing me softly.

He's All That

I feel bad even making this comparison because it's stupid but I thought it up last night. It is kind of relevant and somewhat describes how I feel. That's a rousing endorsement isn't it? Anyway, I couldn’t help but draw comparisons between me doing this writing thing, the novel not the blog, and the movie "She's all that" starring none other than your favorite, Freddie Prince Jr. Of course, I'm playing the part of Freddie, or should I say, Zach Siler. You know, the good looking jock turned sensitive art school dude. On more than one occasion I've been told I look like Freddie, actually. I was never sure if that was a compliment or not, but they were my friends; they wouldn't say anything insulting to me, would they? Truthfully, I think it's just the white boy with dark hair that throws people off. I personally don't think I look anything like Freddie, but you can't argue with the masses. As for the sensitivity part of the story, you can for forget about that. I know I don't have it in me. You can also throw out the chasing after a girl theme, as I've chased, caught and am now running away (just kidding lady flash). This really is a sweet analogy isn't it? The story line I want to concentrate on is the jock guy being thrown into the art world. I don't think my situation is quite as extreme as Zach’s; he looked like deer in headlight on the stage at the theatrical performance. "Gotta keep it up Zach...Can't let it drop...Never...Let...It...Drop, sometimes you've gotta let it drop". Damn, that was profound! Shit, bitch, put that in your pipe and smoke it!

I've always done something artistic; guitar, piano, trumpet (never played in marching band in case you were wondering, nothing against the marching band kids), I've always been able to draw well but have no creative sense, I even was the lead role in the fifth grade play about Christopher Columbus (Jimmy, if you're out there, call my agent again and see if he's heard anything about those call backs. Did he tell them I was LEAD in the elementary school play? Damn!). This whole semi-serious public writing thing has me a little uneasy. Couldn't tell you why, I just feel out of my element. Just like Zach, I'm pushing back the proverbial borders of the comfort zone. It's something I haven't done in a long time. To be honest, I don't think I've truly done any pushing, not just stretching or poking but actual deformation and expansion, since I stepped on stage in the gymnasium of the local Catholic Church with three of my friend for first concert of our high school band career.

It feels good to get back to pushing though and I know that as disconcerting as this whole process is, it'll be worth it in the end. Instead of getting the girl, I'll get piece of mind, which lasts longer. Come on, you all know that as soon as they got to college, she dumped his ass and shacked up some senior who had a house off campus and access to copious amounts of pot and mushrooms.

Just to throw this in there, I'm much better at soccer than Zach or Freddie and welcome a one on one challenge from either of them anytime.

Lunchtime Blues

I had an epiphany today. Although disheartening, I’ve come to grip with the fact that the most important decision I make on a daily basis is, "Where am I going for lunch?" I always thought in my calculated, self-important, emotional life I would have bigger issues to tackle. But, as the veil of self-denial has lifted, I see that I do not.

Simplistic and unassuming in its delivery, no other question has such a profound impact on my life. The riposte to the query constructs the framework for rest of my day. If I stuff my face with a nefarious amount of Chipotle burritos, how can I expect myself to get anything done after the clock strikes 1:00pm? Should I try to eat healthy, stay at the office and consume a bowl of cereal? Or should I gorge at the trough of the Green Turtle, scarfing down a fat laden, calorie dripping, artery clogging chili cheese burger with a couple 22oz. frosty mugs of brew to take care of the liver while we're at it? If I go the later route, what is the level of depression I'll feel when, after heading home and planning to workout, I get distracted and forget? Will I climb into bed and remember the broken promise I made to myself earlier, causing a chain reaction of curses and self-deprecated name calling before passing out. And finally, when am I going to eat dinner or do I want dinner at all?

Thirty minute conversations at work are many times, exclusively dedicated to the pursuit of an antiphon to the lunch question. Group decisions can be complicated when deciding on the most insignificant issue. If the issue carries the weight of everyone’s day, subscribing to a consensus is often unattainable and ofttimes requires the group to split into smaller groups. The element of share experience intertwined in the existential meshing of the lunch question comforts the soul but does little to ease the troubles of the mind. What great feats could we accomplish with the collective wasted time of a nation? Would we have cured cancer, aids and the common cold if we didn’t have to ponder over lunch?

Ok, its lunchtime and I have no idea where I want to eat.

NaNoWriYO!

Things are going well with the writing project. Better than I expected at least. Well, except for last night because I got too drunk to write properly. Message boarding on nano was hilarious, though. A little alcohol, good for the creativity. Too much alcohol, the brain turns to mush and the fingers loss all dexterity.

I can't write anything today because I have soccer after work and then I'm going to out to celebrate, hopefully, a friend passing the bar exam. I'm going to have to do some serious writing over the weekend to make up for it. I want to be at 12k by sunday night, which will double my total. It's weird to think that I get pissed because I can't write one day. It's amazing how important this has gotten to me after only three days. If I'm lucky, nano will keep its strangle hold on my priorities and I'll actually be able finish something for once.

Alright friends, I need some help with my book and only you can provide it. It will require commenting though, unless you see me and then you can just tell me, so I'm doubting this is going to work:

If you were a bar tender and I walked into your bar, what would be your first impression of me?

If I get any responses I'll tell you why I ask. Apologies to anyone who reads this who's never met me. I'll come up with a question for you later.

Have a good weekend everyone.