Friday, February 17, 2006

one more before the weekend

I didn’t think I was going to get to post anything today, but I have some time so here you go.

The clock on the bank of this little town I drive through everyday displays the temperature. This morning it read 1 degree. That cold no matter how you look it at, but it’s not really the temperature itself that hurts, it’s the damn wind that kills you. I’ve been able to handle the cold weather and the snow, but I cannot fucking stand the wind. Last weekend in Kansas as my producing buddy and I were driving around town looking for stuff to shoot, I was not able to wear gloves because it would fuck with me operating the camera. I already have short, sausage like fingers anyway that make the delicate work of operating the camera difficult enough. The wind was causing me havoc on my hands all fucking day. Iowa is so damn flat that there is nothing to really stop the wind from blowing. It really does cut through you, man. It’s far and away the worst part about living here thus far.

Then there is some sweet to balance out the sour. I was headed east on Interstate 80 and the sun was making its way up. The wind had kicked up big clouds of snow that seem to float in the air and linger for a while. The sun was hitting these little clouds in such a way that it was reflecting the orange and red light. It was gorgeous.

This has been a bad week as far as work is concerned. I have a bad attitude about being here that I need to shake and I need to shake it pretty damn quick because a hell of a lot is riding on my success at this shit hole so now is not the time to be fucking around and acting the baby because I don’t like it here.

Be that as it may, there is some shit that goes on at this place that drives me fucking crazy. As I mentioned before, I’ve worked for this company for a couple of years. I transferred to Iowa from Phoenix where I was doing pretty much the exact same job. In Phoenix there were many teams in the same building as I was doing the same thing. In Iowa there is one team. In Phoenix my team would look at the other teams and watch their lame ass attempts at team cohesion and unity and ruthlessly make fun at their various games and cheers and spirit boosters that just looked fucking gay squared. I’m sure anyone who has worked in an office knows what I’m talking about. There was just no fucking way the team I was on in Phoenix would participate in any of that corporate team work bullshit. The fact that we were consistently a top performing team allowed us the luxury of being so dismissive about such idiocy. Well, here in Iowa they fucking love this kind of up with people let’s all clap our hands and do a company cheer and act like a fourth grade Special Ed class. I hate to be the asshole who pees in the punchbowl, but this shit makes me fucking mental. I just cannot stand it and I find it impossible to participate at all. I just find it lame and meaningless and it gives me a headache.

So, this month is a critical one for the office in Des Moines. They are short on their numbers and need to have a killer month in order to finish up the quarter on budget. Basically, and I’m intentionally trying to be as vague as possible without disclosing too much about what I do and who I do it for, each person here has to come in with at least seven for us to make budget. We need to do seven or up. Seven Up. In case you still are not getting it, earlier this month when we were having a bull session as to what the fuck we’re going to do to make it through the month, my manager, who all things considered is actually one of the only good things about this place, pulled out a box of Seven Up and passed one out to everybody. I was embarrassed for him that he was reduced to such theatrical bullshit, but I was the only one. Everyone else was eating it up with a fucking spoon. The cans of Seven Up have been sitting on top of everyone’s cubicle. Yesterday, someone in the office was the first to get to that magical number. What did we do to celebrate? Well, silly, we popped her can of Seven Up, poured everyone a round, and gave a toast. I wish I was kidding.

This is just one example, but this kind of crap goes on daily here. It could be worse. The other day at my Wife’s job, her team had to come up with a cheer and perform it in front of all the other teams. Adult professionals really had to stand in front of everyone and perform a fucking cheer.

Anyway, fuck that jazz. It’s Friday and I’m flying back home to see my Family. There's reason to be happy. My sister in law is supposed to be hooking me up with a sedative for the flight. Hopefully it will be powerful enough to pretty much knock me right the fuck out. Ideally, I’d like to settle in my seat, turn on my DVD player, get ready to watch my movie, and then pass out waking up around the time we’re pulling into the gate in Phoenix.

That’s pretty much all I have. I’ll talk to you when I get back.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

ramblings of a douche

Today is the first storm I’ve had to deal with. Up until now there have been a few isolated meteorological hiccups that brought a sugary wonderland, but this is a full on fucking balls out storm. It normally takes me about an hour and a half to drive into work every morning. Today it too an additional hour. There were a few narly wrecks on the side of the road, and Stern was especially good this morning so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Now that I’ve finally made it into work I have a good ten hours to bug the fuck out about the drive back home. The storm is supposed to worsen as the day goes on and the very last fucking thing I need is to be stuck in Des Moines for the night. My wife kept telling me that I should have an emergency bag with me in the car with a change of clothes and personal shit and some gear that might save my fat ass if I’m ever stranded somewhere in a storm. Did I listen to her? Rhetorical question. She’s my wife. Of course I didn’t listen to her. I did what most husbands do when their wives are chattering in their ears: I nodded my head like a fucking retard and threw in a “Uh huh” and a “Yeah” and a “Sure” once in a while to make her think I was listening. Now I should be up to my ass in snow by the end of the day and faced with a hundred and twenty mile trek back to my room in the basement. Fuck.

I have some experience driving in weather like this, but I’m far from a seasoned pro. A few years ago we bought a car in Iowa and I was going to drive it back to California. I was in graduate school at the time. It was Christmas time and my Dad was going on and on about the need to be careful out there on the road. He would want to go over my route again and again and again. My Dad has traveled the country a lot in his life and he has a fucking savant’s memory for every highway and byway in every fucking state in the union. One thing he would not shut up about is ice on the road. “You don’t have to worry about snow too much. It’s the ice on the road that’s dangerous.” He just would not fucking shut up about it.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. All right. I get it, Dad. Ice is bad. Be careful around ice. I’m not a fucking idiot. I know I haven’t lived in this shit, but I’ve driven in bad weather before. I think I’ll be okay.

And so I’m driving back and everything is going well. I’m coming out of Gallup and I am being chased by a gorgeous sunrise that is lighting up the clouds in these wonder gradients of reds and oranges and purples. You simply do not see the beginnings and endings of the sun quite like that anywhere I’ve ever been. There’s a light snowfall all around the freeway and the small caravan of morning drivers are going a little slower than normal. I’m in the inside lane passing cars and not really paying that much attention to what I’m doing.

All of a sudden I see the red of brake lights. I look up and the car in front of me is stopping. I over react and hit my brakes a little harder than I should. It’s at this point I notice I’m driving on a thin sheet of ice.

This is what I remember flashing through my mind:

Brakes, stop, fuck, ice, shit, spin, screwed, fuck, pussy, death, how the fuck could I be so stupid?, how the hell am I going to tell my wife that I’ve already wrecked our brand new car?

The car spun right across the outside lane and I was swiftly put into a small ditch off the side of the road. My heart was in my throat and I might have shit my pants if only for the fact that my asshole squeezed up tight as a drum. I just sat there trying to catch my breath. I tried to put the luck I had just experienced out of my mind. The luck that no one was in the outside lane at that time, the luck that I only spun and didn’t start going end over end, luck that the car didn’t have a scratch on it, luck that I didn’t have to make the call to both my Dad and wife (I’m not sure which would have been worse) After a few minutes, I simply back up onto the freeway, put the car into drive, and carried on down the road.

There are some corporate bigwigs in town this week. One is already here, and the other should be walking into the office straight from a plane ride from Denver any second now. What this means is that we now have to wear shirts and ties and dance like a bunch of fucking monkeys for a couple of district whores and put on this little fucking charade about how things work here in Iowa. When this second cunt comes into the office, we have to line up like we’re apart of some kind of Southern fucking dance or some such shit and meet her. [Do you realize cunt is not recognized by Microsoft’s dictionary? It’s simply the greatest word in the English language and it’s not even recognized as a word!] The woman that is already here sat in with me on a phone call. While the call was by no means exceptional, I thought it went all right. The woman then takes me back into her makeshift office and for thirty minutes we talk about how I fucked it up. It wasn’t so much what she was saying, because she did have some valid points, it was the manner in which she conveying my ineptness to me. She was a little patronizing and arrogant. Now condescension and arrogance is something one comes to expect from a certain breed of superior, but I found myself sitting in that office with my arms crossed nodding my head and pretending as if I was taking it all in from this cadunt and this dreadful feeling started to slowly creep up on me.

Me:
What the fuck am I doing here? I’m listening to this idiot pontificate about some meaningless bullshit that I could give a fuck about. I should perhaps give a fuck about it because it is my job. But I don’t. I couldn’t care less. What the fuck am I doing in this office? How did I get here? What mistakes I have I made in my life that have brought me to this point? What the fuck am I doing with my life? This is my life. As far as I know I only get this one. And I’m spending my time in this tiny little office listening to the ramblings of this bitch with a gigantic fucking whitehead in the corner of her nose tell me what a bungling fuck up I am at my job. Didn’t she see that whitehead while she was getting ready this morning? It’s pulsating. I think it’s staring at me. I want to pop that motherfucker. GET ME OUT OF THIS FUCKING ROOM!

That little meeting has put me into a tremendous funk. I had a similar feeling Saturday night in Kansas. We had played a little cards and decided to go up to the Legion for some beers. I doubt it would have been possible to find a more depressing bar. I watched two incredibly drunk retards (they were literally retarded; that isn’t a joke) sing karaoke. At one point the juke box started playing “Needles and Pins” and one of the resident alcoholics got up from his bar stool, walked to the dance floor, and began to dance around by himself. I had stepped into a David Lynch movie. It was around this time when I thought to myself, “What the fuck am I doing here?” I should be home with my wife and son and my Mother and Father and my Sister. I should be around my family, not at this fucking bar drinking dollar draws watching the retard Donnie and Marie Show.

I’m rambling and there really isn’t a punch line to all this.

Here’s the silver lining: tomorrow I am flying back to Phoenix to see everyone and I cannot wait. Whatever apprehension I have about driving in this snowy shitty weather is compounded ten fold when it comes to getting on an airplane. I’ll save that whole fucking rap for another day, but to say that I am not the best of air passengers is a world class fucking understatement. I can’t wait to get on that plane tomorrow. I can’t wait to be in the air, traveling back to my family. I’m going to take some Valium and down a few cocktails before the flight. I’m going to turn on my portable DVD player and watch a documentary on The Romones. I’m going to try and forget that I am thirty thousand feet above the earth and think forward to kissing my Wife and holding my son and laughing with my family.

Have a great weekend, and I’ll see everyone on the flipside.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

hot chocolate

You sometimes find reasons to smile in the most unexpected places.

I was at the local Honda dealership getting my oil changed and was in the customer service lobby when I spotted a hot chocolate machine. The machines whirled and hissed and the frothy chocolate mix filled my tiny cup. Usually, hot chocolate from one of these machines is scalding hot. This was not. It was hot, but not burn the skin from your fucking lip hot. It was amazing. One of the best cups of hot chocolate I’ve ever had.

I used to get teased from some guys I hung out with for a short time in high school that I was able to pin point the best fill in the blank I ever had. This isn’t only the case with food products. It could be the best anything, but of course being a fat fuck who likes his food I have an autistic’s memory for places I’ve eaten.

Wife: Good God! What are you doing?

My face is covered with chocolate and strawberry sauce, crushed peanuts stuck to my chin, my shirt looks like a modern art masterpiece from the shit I’ve managed to miss from shoveling heaping spoonfuls of soft serve into my gaping hole. I’m licking the plastic lid from a Dairy Queen banana split as I look at her.

Me: Huh?
Wife: You look like you’re making love to that banana split.
Me: It’s good.
Wife: If you ate me even close to how you’re going at that ice cream maybe we wouldn’t have any of our troubles in the bedroom.
Me: Maybe if you didn’t stink like a whorehouse at low tide I might be able to stand it down there for longer than a second and a half before having to come up for air.
Wife: Maybe if you didn’t have those issues with your Mommy you could keep your dick hard long enough to at least put it in without blowing your load.
Me: At least I didn’t suck cock for beer for free beer when I was in high school.
Wife: No, you did it for free, fag!

And so it goes.


It's getting cold outside. The word is that there is a hell of a storm coming. A nice cup of hot chocolate while you're waiting for a your car to be done: it sometimes is the small things that make the day.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

poop

Am I the only one with this sick compulsion to take a look at what I just shit while I’m on the john? I can’t help myself. I have to see what just went on back there. My asshole is not a good indicator as to what just happened. I can sit there was twenty minutes grunting and groaning, sweating like a bastard, about to give myself a stroke trying to squeeze this monster out of me, then look back and see something barely the size of a fucking acorn lying there. Conversely, it can feel as if I’ve barely done anything and I look back and am staring face to face with a goddamn monster.

The bathrooms here at work are pretty damn good as far as work bathrooms go. They are on the small side (one urinal, a regular stall, and a handicapped stall), but they are tiled and clean and smell like a tropical melody. There is one problem, and it’s a big one. The shitter in the handicapped stall is in the wrong place. Let me see if I can explain this to you. The handicapped stall is naturally fairly large. For some fucking reason, the fucktard designer thought it would be a good idea to put the toilet right against the divider next to the first stall. Why you wouldn’t put it on the other side away from the first stall where there is all that room is beyond me. It seems like the obvious thing to do. No. Let’s not do that. Let’s fuck with these people and put the crapper right next to the other crapper thereby defaulting the best reason to use the damn thing to begin with. I mean, really, there are no handicapped people using this stall anyway. Let’s be honest, some fucker in a wheel chair might rolls his ass in to use the bathroom at some point, but the fact is that the majority of the people using this stall are not handicapped.

Anyway, it’s a small price to pay for a nice place to take a shit at work. My old office was barely a step above taking a dump at the bus terminal. I actually look forward to shitting at the office, whereas before I would hold onto my shit like it was fucking gold. I would have to be on the verge of shitting my pants before I would dare attempt to drop my panties for the waste pit that was those bathrooms. I don’t mean shitting my pants in some kind of metaphorical sense. I would literally be teetering on the edge of making a poopy in my slacks, so much so that I would have to do the Frankenstein and pray to Jehovah that I made it in time as I tried to find a bathroom that had a stall that didn’t have piss and left over shit and fucking print outs of ESPN’s website sprinkled about or the damn Borowitz Report. When it smells like a fucking sewer, the first thing I want to do is sit down with some reading material and spend some time. You must really hate your fucking job to want to spend an extra second in that bathroom rather than go back to your desk and work.

Monday, February 13, 2006

weekend's shoot

This weekend was nothing like I expected, but it ended up being pretty good overall.

The drive up to Kansas was a little rough. It’s always hard when you are wanting to make good time and traveling a route you never have before. The trip always feels longer than it should. Just south of Des Moines I ran headlong into a hell of a snow storm. The wind was brutal, and these fat snow flakes were pounding into my car. It was difficult to see more than twenty feet ahead of me. Luckily it only lasted for a half an hour.

Saturday in Kansas was one cold motherfucker.

Of course, it had to be cold. The movie gods would have it no other way. My movie partner and I spent most of the morning and early afternoon driving around Burlington and shooting various things. It’s an interesting town. My initial reaction to it was only reinforced as the day wore on. The town is small, around 3,000 people, and the housing consists mainly of trailers and older houses in various stages of disrepair. Once in a while you’ll come across and new, fairly large house and it contrasts heavily with the rest of the area. These houses become even more ostentatious than they normally would be. The town itself has not aged gracefully. The irony is that its decay is our good fortune. The town has a lot of character. Someone could spend an entire weekend roaming around town taking pictures of it. There’s always something interesting to look at. There are corners, an alleyways, and home that are just so damn interesting. Each place encases countless stories. These stories haunt these environments, they linger around. Since I was working the camera I couldn’t wear gloves and my hands started to numb after about fifteen minutes. Even though we were a crew of two, we received stares and questions from the yokels as to what we were doing.

We didn’t get to the guy’s house, our subject for the weekend, until mid-afternoon. He didn’t mind the camera at all and immediately started talking and riffing and going with the interview as natural as can be. He and my partner have been close friends for a long time and they share a hell of a lot of history together, so that relationship really helped with his openness and ease with the camera. Even with the few limited hours we were with him, you can easily see that there is a pretty attractive story to be told. If we were to just skim the surface of this thing, we would have a forty five minute to hour documentary that would be akin to a MTV “True Life” kind of thing. What would be incredibly exciting is if we were to cut a little deeper and come up with something infinitely more compelling about a subject that most people wouldn’t think twice about. The fact that the subject is demolition derbys is beside the point. The movie is only about that in the abstract. It should really be about a culture. I really do believe that this movie has a potential to be something really great. The question is how far are we willing to go? What are we willing to do for the movie?

Documentaries are a son of a bitch, man. There is no money is making these fucking things. You are basically working for the passion you have as a filmmaker with your subject. Even though docs are becoming more and more popular in recent years, you are really just doing it for the love of your story. Do we have it? And by we I mean myself, and my producing partners. Also, I mean our subjects, because it really all hinges on them. How much are they willing to let us in? How much are they willing to show? How far are they willing to go? One thing that has always bothered me about the possibility of making a documentary is that so much of it comes down to luck. And I’m not talking about the historical kind of documentary like the Ken Burns variety where it’s really all about research and the like to come up with something good. I’m talking more of the direct cinema kind of documentary in the vein of the Maysles and SALESMAN. These movies really pivot on not only finding the right subject, but finding the right subject at the right time. They sometimes take patience. Patience means time. Time means money. Money is something that is hard to come by for documentarians.

But the kernel is there. A movie is born. It's up to fate what will happen to us and the project. Right now I’m content with paying for everything out of my pocket, while at the same time I’m going to be looking for some kind of financing for the project. It’s way too early to tell which way this is going to go, but while we are figuring out I’m content to move forward with the hope that something extraordinary will come from it.

On a purely technical note: Good Lord, I am rusty with the camera! Like all technical skills, working the camera to make good images only comes through countless hours of practice, and it’s been a couple of years since I’ve fucked around with the camera at all. Damn, did it show! If this movie is going to look somewhat professional and not like I just slapped the camera onto my dick and whirled the fucking thing around I’m going to have to get a hell of a lot better at working with it.

Along these lines, I had so much damn fun just walking around the town and shooting various odds and ends we found interesting. It took this project to get me off my fat ass and out there shooting, but it doesn’t have to be that way. I could be shooting everyday, all the time. Why not? If it’s so much damn fun, and it is, why do I need some “project” to motivate me to shoot? And the thing is, I was extremely fucking motivated. I wrote early that I couldn’t think of anything else these past weeks. While a slight exaggeration, it’s pretty close to the truth. It was cold and shitty this weekend, sure, but I was out there doing it, man. I was getting images. It was exhilarating. It was creative. It was fun. There was meaning behind it. It should be this way regardless of if there is a project going on. I own the fucking equipment. There’s nothing stopping me but my own laziness, which is admittedly an incredible mountain to climb. It was so obvious that I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner. I should be out there with my damn camera shooting.

Will I? Ah, that’s the question.

Once more, there’s hope.

Friday, February 10, 2006

niggaz censored and a final tidbit for the weekend

I caught of little bit of the Grammys the other night and saw Kanye West perform with Ray Charles. So the lyrics of the song are: “Now I aint sayin she a gold digger but she aint messin wit no broke niggaz.” (The spelling reflects what’s on the song sheet) On the show, the “niggaz” part of the song was censored out. I couldn’t really tell if Kanye didn’t say it, or if he did and the sound was dropped for that word. Regardless, it wasn’t in the show and was therefore censored out of it. Obviously the one doing the censoring is CBS. Kayne West surely doesn’t have a problem performing it the way he wrote it.

So here’s my open ended question: CBS censored it because I’m sure they believe the word is offensive. While it’s true that non brothers and sisters can be offended by the word, CBS is primarily being sensitive to that demographic. Okay, now follow this with me: Kanye West’s is main audience is black people. Of course other people are buying his albums, but his culture, his voice, his point of view, his chief consumers are the black community.

Kanye West makes his music (primarily mind you) for a black audience. He uses the word niggaz. He performs on the Grammys. He’s censored from saying the word niggaz because it might be offensive to a black audience, which is the same demographic that he is singing to in the first place.


Does that make sense to anybody? Discuss amongst yourselves and get back to me with a consensus.

In the latest issue of MovieMaker magazine there is an article on the top ten movie making cities in the country. Des Moines was nowhere on the list. No city anywhere near Iowa was anywhere on that list. However, the first runner up city was Phoenix.

Yeah. This moving to Iowa is a great career move.

sweet and sour hope

It snowed here in Des Moines and the area is powered white. It's quite beautiful, although driving through the slush and the shit in my Honda Civic is going to get old pretty damn quick. I'm still at that point where the snow and the cold is a novelty and not something I have to endure.

I transferred here from Phoenix. This is a job I'm not very fond of, but I've come out here, in theory, for the betterment of my family. Although, for the time being my family is still in Phoenix trying to sell the house, so I'm out here alone. Around the time I had put in the application for this transfer, I also happened to send my resume for a position at the Joslyn musuem in Omaha. That position was offered to me about the time the transfer was, but since this current company I'm transferring with offers a little more money it seemed prudent to stick with it. The people on the museum said they would keep my resume on file, but this is generally some bullshit they tell everyone and I don't think anyone really expects a call any time soon.

Fast forward: I move out here, I'm living with my sister in law and her family, I'm driving an hour anminutes mintues to work, I'm working at a job that I don't really like, there is a hell of a lot at stake for me to succeed here.

Then out of nowhere I get the phone call. It's the museum and an audio visual position has opened up. The hours were great, the money was right, and it would move me back towards the western part of the fucking state where I actually like a bit and would much rather live. I sent in what more they needed from me. I was told that an interview would be soon. All I had to do now was wait.

But I did something else as well, something I shouldn't have.

I had hope.

Hope can be a very dangerous thing. Already my mind was easily wrapping itself around the idea of me working at the museum. I was more than qualified. I had made a strong enough impression the first time that they had actually called me back. It seemed like a slam dunk. In my mind I had already quit, and I was having a hard time doing anything productive at the office. I was already envisioning what life would be like. I would have a new job for a museumgious musuem. I would be working in a field that I went to school for. I would finally be getting paid doing something I love to do and have done essentially for free for a decade. I would be living in an area I like. Our family goals would be met. I would be happier. I would not have to work at this job ever again.

I waited for the interview. I was going to get a call. A couple of days go by. I'm getting a little jittery. I call the HR the musuem. The call is coming. I relax a little. Finally, the call does come.

It seems as if the cocksucker who had the job a year ago had decided to come back.

And that motherfucker hope is yanked away. I've just been kicked in the balls. I'll have to work at this job. I'll have to live near Des Moines. There is still a hell of a lot at stake for me succeeding here.

I literally felt sick to my stomach. I sat in my office not really knowing what to do. I didn't feel like being here: not this office, not this city, not with my sister in law, not in this fucking state. I didn't want any of it anymore.

But I'm still here. This morning I found the town where I'm staying blanketed in snow. Driving out to the interstate was a little slow going, but I cranked up Stern and did my best to make it through.

One golden note for the weekend: I'm headed to Kansas to begin what could be a new film project. A friend of mine proposed the idea and this weekend will consist of doing some test footage to see if we have anything or not. It's the first time I've shot anything in two and half years and I'm all of nerves and excitement. I've hardly been able to think of anything else.

And there it is once again.

I have hope.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

i'm international

A new review for the last movie I made has popped up on a British horror movie website here.

It's fairly positive, but once again they've referred to the dialogue as "what appears to be ad-libbed." I guess it's a bit of a compliment that people think that the movie has a lot of improvisation or ad-libbed dialogue, but the truth is that there actually was a very tightly written screenplay. Hardly anything in the movie is either improved or ad-libbed. The bigger man would just be happy that his movie's being seen and enjoyed. The bigger man would want his writting to go unnoticed. While I strive to be the bigger man, I'm more of the short, fat, douche bag who needs constant recognition and validation type man. I actually worked pretty fucking hard on the script that has that dialogue in it. All I'm saying is that it would be nice to have someone write a review that acknowledged that the flick has some pretty fucking good dialogue in it. In fact, it's so fucking good that it sounds as if it's just off the cuff everyday kind of speech. Finally, there's a writer out there that doesn't give us this lame ass standard Hollywood movie bullshit kind of dialogue. There's someone who actually writes like people speak. Will someone please for the love of God give this writer the best slutty blowjob possible for his good work?

Is this too much to ask for?

el dorado

I’m currently working in Des Moines (hopefully for not much longer) and as I’m driving around the town getting used to its layout, it’s clear that the city was designed by either a retard or a Mormon (the difference between the two is negligible). There isn’t a rhyme or reason to anything. And you need a fucking sexton in order to read a map of this place. It looks as if someone vomited a hefty spaghetti dinner onto the table, and everyone said, “Perfect! Let’s build our roads to look like that!” There’s no way to make this more complicated. You can come around a slight bend in the road, and no shit they street is something different. A road will dead end only to be picked up again on the other side of some fucker’s farm. If you’re at an intersection, you can turn right and go down 64th Street, or turn left and travel down 27th Street. Huh? You try to get directions from Map Quest and the response is like, “Fuck it, man. You’re on your own.”

I’m an admitted idiot, but I can generally find my way around a place. For three weeks I’ve been having a crack addict’s craving for some Taco Bell. According to the official website, there’s supposed to be one less than two miles from where my office is. I have yet to find that fucking Taco Bell. The street it’s theoretically on, the street the map says it’s on does not exist. I think I’m going to have to find that hole in the hidden worm hole that’s been torn into the fabric of the city in order to get a damn burrito with no onions. Every day I go looking for that goddamn Taco Bell. I keep thinking I’m passing the road. I keep thinking there is something I’m missing. I can’t believe that a fast food joint that has never failed to give me a screaming dose of the hot and wet fire farts has become my El Dorado, but that pretty much sums up what my life has been like since coming to Iowa.

Monday, February 06, 2006

???

I created this blog a couple weeks ago and just haven’t really had anything to write about. I attempted a few half hearted posts only to delete them. I had a good 1,500 words written on three amazing public bathrooms I’ve found since being in Iowa to take a shit in, but after spending a better part of the day using my keen observational wit to wax hilariously about the profound importance of a public restroom (one bathroom has stalls the size of an apartment, smells like a tropical melody, and has a toilet large enough to make you feel like a gargoyle perched on a ledge), being the dumb fuck I am I managed to erase the whole fucking thing. Just as well. I mean, these bathrooms are nice (I actually plan my life around taking a shit in at least one of them daily), it’s not really worth a treatise.

The question I might try to answer is what the fuck am I doing in Iowa? I'm sure the writing here will be an attempt to answer this question, but quite frankly I’m not man enough to tackle this now. Since being in the state, I’ve taken to some serious binge drinking (I haven’t stopped the three weeks I’ve been here) and it’s becoming an almost nightly routine for my sister in law to find me naked in her front lawn curled into the fetal position sucking my thumb and crying. I say naked, but really I’m wearing a thick pair of wool socks. My feets have got to be warm. So, me: white (think fish belly white), chubby (that’s being nice), with a dick that under the best of circumstances used to elicit polite giggles and half apologies when the ladies that a look at it for the first time (Now I’m married and my wife has chosen to ignore my penis altogether). Add this with near freezing weather that makes my white skin red and a cock that sucks back up into my belly and all of a sudden I look like that fucking apple on the Fruit of the Looms commercial. It don’t necessarily add up to a sight you want to find on your front lawn. So far my sister in law and her family are putting up with me, but it’s only because I’ve thus far provided them with nightly entertainment.

Here’s one, and I wish this wasn’t a true story. Apparently (and I have to say that because most of this is a little foggy), old Philly boy had too much vodka and cranberry juice. I guess at some point I shit my pants, although at the time I was totally oblivious to this. It wasn’t long before my nephews were like, “Man, it smells like someone shit their pants.” And I’m like, “Jesus Christ, who did shit their pants! That’s bloody well fucking disgusting.” And this goes on for about an hour, and of course I’m getting real indignant, blaming everyone in the room (“Man, someone fucking stinks in this room! One of you little bratty ass sons of bitches better check your fucking drawers!”) About the time I’m getting up to get my fourteenth vodka cranberry one of the nephews screams, “There’s shit running down your leg!” I look down, and what do you know, I had made a boom boom in my pants. My nephews are rolling on the floor. Like no one’s ever shit themselves before. Sue me. What sucks it that nothing has gotten that fucking stain out of the rug. I’ve must have bought every goddamn kind of cleaner available in Iowa and nothing is touching that fucking poopy stain on the carpet. The only time it gets a little uncomfortable is when I catch my brother in law staring at the stain, and then he looks up and our eyes meet, and he has that gaze that’s saying, “How much longer until this fat fuck is out of my house?” It’s about this time when I pour myself another drink, go downstairs to my bedroom to masturbate into a tube sock and then pass out. I'm really loving my time here.

So here we go, our first post. I had originally started this new blog to be a kind of sorbet to cleanse the pallet of the last one. I’m living in a new state, with a new life, so why not begin a new blog? I would put behind me the juvenilia and idiocy that was the staple of that one and get past those childish things. And here we are, 730 words about shit, my little dick, drinking, and more shit. Well, I’m the same person. I haven’t changed a bit, so why give you any false impressions.