i snuck in your bedroom to steal some change for booze...

it occurs to me, as i reread yesterday's (yawn!) post that i seem to have survived quite a number of blogs. people just seem to quit writing. out of my pals, only mother hoodlum and lola were writing when i started. everyone seems to have lost interest or moved on to other things.

here's the deal though, i need need need to write. if i didn't have this, i would have a notebook or some other pen/paper form of capturing the goings-on in my cabeza. (actually, i still do have numerous "diaries" despite this easy-to-use grain of sand on the beaches of the world wide web.)

my time at the inner circle of pizza joint hell is drawing to a close. two more weeks, and i am all but marking each day off on the calendar.

i may have invented my own drink. i had some friends research whether they could find a recipe for anything like this: i like the tom collins, and liked the gibson idea, so i combined them. make a gibson (1&1/2 oz. of gin, 1 oz. dry vermouth, twist of lime, cocktail onion) and add tom collins mix. yummeeeeeeeee. i call it a tom gibson. can't for the life of me imagine that no one has already thought of (and patented) this idea, but not as far as my friends can see. by all means, if you know different, send me a comment. (looks in comment box, hears crickets chirping, wind blowing, and sees layer upon layer of dust and cobwebs.)

some time ago, when i was playing with the band in our basement, and we were playing the song we simply referred to as "the angry song" (it should come as no surprise that is was a simple, yet extremely noisy punk song) wherein i would ofttimes punch (yes, punch) my bass strings for an even greater cacophany of sound, usually, it should be noted, with the fleshy and resilient heel of my hand, i made a grave miscalculation and punched the strings instead with my actual fist, and split the joint of my middle finger, bleeding quite a bit and no doubt smashing tendons and ligaments and growth plates and things of that nature within. i believe i probably uttered filth and foulness in at least two languages, followed by continuing to play for many more minutes (there are still blood stains on parts of my bass--of course, i am a bit slack about cleaning and polishing the poor thing.)

recently, i was playing the same bass, in front of the computer (recording) and somehow or other wracked this same knuckle upon the corner of the desk.

it lit me up like a firecracker.

i did the same lip-biting-hopping-bent-over-(why is it we bend over at the waist when injured, regardless of what part of us is experiencing pain?)-holding-my-hand-as-if-it-is-attempting-to-seccede dance i did on that night some time ago, and i am sure i repeated the same incantation involving much use of "fuck" and "cunt" and "joda" and "puta".

this would, in and of itself, be a mildly amusing story, except that a day later, i knocked a front door and managed to use this exact same finger joint. stoicly, though coated in a thin layer of perspiration, i managed to do the dance and incantation on the inside, lest the owner of the home open the door to discover their pizza delivery guy in the midst of groveling, crying, and cursing, until i could abscond to the semiprivacy of my car, where i observed a rusty-brown stain spreading under the skin of my middle finger.

lots of motrin and babying, and it is ok as long as i don't bump it on anything, but god damn! am i hard on my body.

paw.

darth sardonic