Ode to Friday

Sing to me, Friday, of quitting time and amiable tenders of the bar
And of the harefooted approach of last call.
Most cherished day, most coveted diurnal course.
Thou has cleft my liver in twain.
And yet my rubicund gaze, in dipsomaniac lust, seeks your indolent heralds
Ere Monday night has whispered its melancholy farewell and slipped its feathered fetters.
Saturday's hangover, your o'ershadowed and vengeful sister, the impetus for the toil t'ward Sunday's indispositions.
You Fucking Bastard.



Y'know them brown things. They come through the walls and stick wires in your head? It's okay, I ignore them.

...and Small Change got rained on with his own .38.

Then, there's this.

Your Inner Child Is Angry

You're not an angry person. But when you don't get your way, watch out. Like a very manipulative kid, you will get what you want. Even if it takes a little kicking and screaming.

How Is Your Inner Child?

Summer in Academia

Jesus Christ on a motorbike and Mary in a sidecar, I am so fucking bored.

Currently, I'm sitting in my office, listening to music, reading blogs, (I've been to every blog I link to, and some I don't, and some I should). I'm actually wondering if I can get away with just reading my book for the rest of the afternoon.

THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING GOING ON IN THIS PLACE. And there is nothing work-related I can do. Everyone from whom I'm waiting for information, dates, instructions, input...ANYTHING...is either on vacation, or waiting for information from others...who are probably on vacation.

Consequently, I have a few things I SHOULD be doing, but none of them are things that I CAN do. My files are in order and up to date, my office is spotless and organized, and I haven't received a work-related question or e-mail in 3 days.

Also? I'm actually, GOD HELP ME, looking forward to going to Costco tonight after work. People, that is boredom.

Here's some good reading, though. I've been amusing myself going through the archives here:

Maine

Today's post is frightening, funny and true. I don't know why, but I find a blog by a guy in Virginia, who is named after my home state, pretty entertaining.

Okay, that killed a couple of minutes. When can I heat up my burrito?

DO NOT CALL ME.

I hate the telephone. It's not just a weak little 'prefer not to use it' or reluctance kind of thing. Oh, no. This is a deep, physical, nasty, violent, borderline psychotic hatred. The sound of a telephone ringing gets right into my fillings, and sends my entire psyche into a state of sweaty, panicky, violent distress.

When I was single and living alone... oh, bliss. I had entire weekends where I would turn the ringer off, turn the volume on the answering machine down, and have complete, hermitlike, blissful SILENCE. I'm not a complete recluse, though. I would periodically check for the blinking light on the answering machine, in case there was a message from someone at the Tir Na Nog, wanting to know if I could come out for a pint (or two dozen). The occasional 30 second invitation like that, and emergencies, was pretty much all I wanted to own the phone for.

Seriously? 48 hours, without having to speak to another human being? Is there a greater peace? I don't think so.

Even today, I own a cell phone, but it is actually never on, except for a 15-minute window on a Friday afternoons. Well, that's just in case someone wants to grab me between the time I leave work, and the time I get on the bus to go home, and invite me out for a post-work cocktail before leaving the Square.

When I MUST be on the telephone, it's physically painful. First, having the thing pressed to my ear, while the sound of a human voice drills DIRECTLY into my ear canal, is just awful. And the idea that whoever is at the other end is yammering at me and expects answers and affirmation that I'm listening? Jesus Christ. There's a reason I have three e-mail accounts that I use every single day. If you want me, e-mail me. I'll answer in minutes flat!

So yesterday, knowing I had at least 4 telephone calls to make, to such varying places as the credit card company, to the Ford dealership about my truck (twice, God help me!), to Sears (so someone can come and fix my elliptical machine - on hold for 10 minutes, I thought I would DIE), and to call in a prescription?

People: I HAD TO TAKE THE ENTIRE DAY OFF. Seriously. Just to work up the energy, think about what I was going to say, dial the numbers, then wait...while it rings at the other end and some STRANGER picks up and I have to actually TALK to someone, ask for assistance, whatever.

The horror...the horror.

If you need me, I'm on e-mail. With the exception of my dear old dad, who doesn't use e-mail, and therefore only hears from me on holidays and birthdays (not that I don't love the guy, it's the damn PHONE I hate) no one else has any excuse. I'm availble, 24 hours a day, just TYPE it, so I can READ it.

Because I don't wanna HEAR it.

What I'm...

Staring at this open blogger 'create post' box all day. All my work was done at 1pm, and anything else I hoped to get done required that someone else do something, which they didn't do. So, while waiting for someone else to do their job so that I could do mine, here's what I'm....

Listening to:


(That's Laika & the Cosmonauts, should the picture be too small to read.)










Reading:


(That's The Horned Man, by James Lasdun, should the picture not be clear enough to read. S'good!)








Wearing:



(These'd be the motorcycle boots I got NEW on ebay for $20. Chyeah! Fucking rock...AGAIN!)








Craving:




(That's a black & tan, should there be any doubt. See? My resolution to be good this week lasted until Friday. Well, it lasted until Wednesday, really, but I only had two.)








Right, that's it for today from this tired wabbit.

I'd forgotten about this...

That's all I've got today. Thanks to YOUTUBE, the bored and uninspired blogger's go-to-guy.

Better now

Whew! I feel much better.

I went out for lunch, had a couple of beers, and watched a few innings of baseball.

The Red Sox won.

And...this is the best part: SOMEBODY FOUND THIS BLOG BY GOOGLING YERSINA PESTIS.

I. FUCKING. WIN.

Breaking news.

Wow, the human race is truly screwed, I must say.

Been reading a lot about all that's wrong with the world today, besides the whole Israel/Hezbollah thing, and the goddamn mess in Iraq , etc. What can I say, but that I am now completely depressed, and in need of the mental floss that only alcohol can provide. Between global warming, pollution, violence, hatred, homelessness, intolerance, stupidity...reality TV, Foxwoods commercials and flip-flops, we may well be done for. I don't usually do a whole lot of political stuff here, and I'm not going to start doing any self-righteous political posting and posturing. Also, with all that I'm reading, and hearing and absorbing, it'd be too much to ask for me to be coherent and complete on any ONE topic. They're ALL pissing me off today.

But before somebody drops a house on me, I just have to say some VERY RANDOM things:

*Dubya, what the FUCK are you doing? Seriously. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?

*Really? We need fucking NASCAR when we should be decreasing our dependence on foreign oil, and the environment is about to smack us down like the destructive cretins we are? REALLY?

*Ann Coulter is a miserable, evil, lying cunt, with a face like a cat's arse. ("Come'n get me Ann. Oh, it's ON, bitch.")

*On a happy note: Rush Limbaugh is too useless, stupid, and irrelevant now to even address here. But I have to say, "Nice job making such stupid decisions in your life that no one gives a shit about you or your opinions anymore, Lardass. Cheers and thanks, from someone who always knew you were a dishonest, evil, smug, shit-for-brains, gasbag."

I SAID Random things, didn't I?

Hoddenufffoawya?

Well...THIS sucks.

96 degrees farenheit and humid. Humid like a jockstrap.

I am ill.

Fuck global warming. Fuck it where it hurts.

One of those weekendshhhhhh.....

Step 1: Go visit some high school friends for a ballgame and piss-up in a town that has more - and more affordable - microbrews than the rest of the country combined.

Step 2: Drink said micros, mixing in a healthy dose of the standards; lite lager, Bass Ale, Geary's, etc., and keep going even after everyone else has switched to water. Eat very little.

Step 3: Go to bed at 2am, wake up at 9, jump on the road to get home before last night's excesses come back in a very colorful, explosive, messy way.

Step 4: Spend Sunday fighting waves of nausea and a blinding headache, unable to leave your air-conditioned bedroom, repeating the phrase, "There's gonna be some goddamn LIFESTYLE changes 'round here, man. That's all I'm saying."

Yeah, there's gonna be some lifestyle changes. At LEAST from now until Friday. This Friday. If I'm really good.

Maybe...

Maybe the real reason we haven't seen any pictures of Suri Cruise is because she looks like this:

Maybe.

I, for one, don't really give a shit.

Have a lovely weekend, everyone.

I've been GOOSED...

Grey Goose, to be more exact. Last night. MLB All-Star Game.

Genius here decided to drink quality vodka instead of beer. "It's too hot for beer," says I. "A nice Voddy and tonic will give me an appetite, so I'll eat enough dinner, and they say quality vodka won't cause a hangover, the way cheap vodka will and it's a weeknight, and I don't want to be hungover at work."

Good thinking. Unless you drink 7 pints of it.

Shitpissfuckcuntwank.

My eyebrows hurt.

The Revenge of the Muu Muu

Okay, I have this co-worker. She's a year or two younger than I am, and she's NOT overweight or anything, though she is tall and, shall we say, pretty solid...but she wears Muu Muu's. I don't get it. Maybe her problem is low self-esteem, and an image of herself that's fatter, older, more matronly than she is...but what would make a woman in her late 30's want to dress like Mrs. Roper?

Admittedly, I don't dress very fashionably. My "uniform," as I like to call it, is pretty much the same every day. Jeans (slightly tapered, or straight-leg, no flares, please), black (or other dark color) t-shirt, black boots or Converse Chuck Taylors. Not very original, I know. It's a 'look' I adopted in the 80's, and found too comfortable to give up. Styles have changed around me, and I stick to my guns...as long as there's someone out there listening to the Ramones, I'm at least on the map.

The point? Yeah, I'm stuck in the 80's. I think it's puzzling, and more than a little sad that she's stuck in HER 80's. I guess that's all I'm saying.

Here's your sign...

Here's a question that comes to me every morning, as I try to find something decent to watch while I work out. I check in on the Today Show pretty frequently; usually it's the third stop, after I've checked in at VH1-Classics and VH1 and found that yes, indeed, they still suck.

My question is this: Who are these fucking no-zoners who are lined up outside the NBC studio at 7 o'clock in the morning, in all weathers, jumping up and down, screaming into the camera, making arses of themselves?

A secondary question is this: If you go to New York City on your vacation, with all there is to do there, why...WHY IN THE NAME OF FUCK...would you put that on your agenda?

Okay, so you're in NYC on your vacation from your miserable existence in some bass-ackwards middle American city or town, your idea of a good time is to jump up and down like a moron so Al Roker notices you, and you actually manage to GET UP out of bed, bright eyed and enthusiastic, in time to get down to the studio and make an ass of yourself on television - clearly...CLEARLY you did not utilize New York City to its potential the night before. You should be just going to bed.

Losers.

Lame

Are you fucking kidding me?

Of all the lame-ass, no-talent, D-List celebrities out there we could have tapped for Boston's 4th of July at the Hatch Shell, we couldn't do any better than DR. who-the-fuck-is-he-anyway-PHIL and his even less talented, what-the-fuck-does-she-even-have-to-do-with-anything-wife?

Are you telling me we couldn't even scrounge up a Ben Affleck or Matt Damon level celebrity for what is supposed to be the biggest and best 4th of July celebration in the country? We couldn't get what's-his-name, that macro-cephalic John Malkovich? He's been wandering around Cambridge lately, hasn't he? AT least he LIVES here. Even Paul Michael Glaser is from Newton. Jesus. You're telling me they couldn't even have asked someone who actually has, oh, I don't know, something to do with Boston?

Dr. Phil, I ask you. Pffft.

The fireworks were nice, no complaints there. Steve Tyler? Not a huge fan in the first place, though I do think he's hilarious, so even if he didn't sound great with the Boston Pops behind him, it was at least ...interesting. And...and this can't be overstressed...HE HAS SOME CONNECTION WITH THE BOSTON AREA.

Though so does Bob Lobel, and watching him before the evening kicked off was like watching...I don't know, something embarrassing, that you can't prevent, and can't look away from. He needs to write out his sentences before he turns on his mic. Anyone else notice he needs a road map to find his way out of a thought?

And don't even get me fucking STARTED on that awful a-capella crap. Just hand me my flask and shut the fuck up.