A Friend In Need...

When my life fell to shit around me, and I was too lost in the questioning why, the one guy who was really there to help me pick up the pieces and figure out where their new place would be was Jay (not his real name). Two or three times a week, Jay was 'round my tiny cell-block apartment, helping me hang pictures, taking my mind off of things, telling me to quit overthinking shit, and when he noticed I was drinking my evenings away, offering other solutions.

There was no kidding one evening where Jay brought over his acoustic bass, a bunch of sketch pads and pens and pencils, a big CD binder full of his movies, and I can't even tell you what all else to keep me occupied for a time without the added enhancer of alcohol.

A few months later, while I was alone, and feeling low, I watched Reign Over Me. An amazing movie, Adam Sandler's best ever. Something clicked in me in the course of the movie, and I realized that Jay was my Don Cheadle. The guy who was always there to stop me from being self destructive.

And because I am at the point in my life, O my beloved non-existent reader (only because Google says you are, mind you) where I say what I mean without worrying too much about how it will be taken, I tell Jay, "You are my Don Cheadle."

And because his is, in fact, my Don Cheadle, he knows what I am talking about.

There's been a few situations, as you can imagine, where reminding him in public that he is my Don Cheadle might come across as gay. And I feel bad. Cause the dude is just making sure I am ok, and shouldn't be thought of as homosexual as a result. He's just my best friend. (Which brings up a topic to be addressed in a post for another time, O my beloveds.)

So I see an advertisement for the latest Iron Man movie, and I get reminded that Don Cheadle plays Robert Downey Jr's sidekick.

So I tell him, as we walk down the beach, that I have a new meaning for Don Cheadle:  Iron Man's sidekick (not, btw, that Jay is a sidekick by any means, and also I am so fucking far removed from anything remotely resembling a superhero that the idea is completely absurd!), and fuck me gently with a chainsaw if Jay doesn't turn to me and casually say:

"I'm Ok with the Reign Over Me Don Cheadle reference."

I pray that all of you who stumble across this bit of shit tangled in the world wide web are as lucky with your friends as I am.

Thanks for playing along,

Darth Sardonic

PS-I want all my exes to quit fucking telling me how proud of me they are.  You know who's proud of me? Me!! That's fucking who's proud. You guys are just hangers on! Maybe someday I will see myself clear to explain what has happened and where all this vitriol comes from, but don't hold your breath O my droogs and only friends.

happy new year's

warning: yes, i am drunk.

a few little things to remind me of my evening:

did i invite s over and then subject her to all kinds of silliness and finally send her out the door with a bagful of porn? indeed. without a doubt. am i sorry? nope, cause seems like she had a good time, and she sure as shit wasn't complaining about the porn.

did a few of us play football (soccer) in the back yard in our underwear? yes. do we have pics? better ask my wife, i am not sure. could i feel my feet afterwords? nope. was it fun? yes.

beverages: tom collins, made with the cheap shit until it ran out, and then with the bombay that s brought as a house gift, and the maker's mark that g and m brought.

possibly, i will update this, and clarify, when i sober up. but don't bet on it.

hahahaha.

happy new year's to all and sundry, and thanks for being there for me.

darth sardonic

A lonely liver suspended in liquid

thank you, one and all, for the comments, and i am glad the confession i dropped on all of you without warning or preface has helped, and hope it continues to do so.

it may be a bit irresponsible, then, to follow a serious post about suicide with a humorous post about being a sot, but i never really pretended to be responsible.

it is funny that the three times i can remember being the most tore up all seemed related to having a good time and drinking and then, quite suddenly, discovering just how much i had had to drink.

time 1): we went to a bonfire. because we were going to be outside and wanted to keep what we were lugging to a minimum, my wife took my fifth of kahlua, which was maybe a quarter-full still, and added at least that much more vodka (probably even more than that), and cream to the top. a giant white russian. because (again) we were outside, i just drank it straight from the bottle. sitting, laughing, talking, drinking. of a sudden, i look down at my bottle, and there is but a small scum of alcohol adhering to the bottom. oh my god, i think, i am wasted. and i was. my wife had to help me walk up to the house later when i had to pee because the damn ground wouldn't quit shifting. before noticing the emptiness of my bottle, i was toasty, within ten minutes of realizing how much i had to drink, i was blitzed.

time 2): an big going away party. i started off with buttery nipples (two or three, not really sure), and then my buddy passed me a bottle and said "here, check this out." i took the bottle, and looked at the label. it was printed in a foreign language. i sniffed the contents and got a beautifully subtle hint of just the right amount of anise. i love anise. gulp! mmmmmmmm. gulp! "that is good." i say, and go to pass the bottle back. my mate says, "hold on to it, i am going to go get some food." i sit, holding the bottle, and a man i didn't know walks up, says, "where did you get that bottle?" i point at my pal and say, "he picked it up in turkey." off the other gentleman goes to talk to my friend. five minutes later, my buddy calls me over. turns out, the gentleman is from turkey, and the alcohol in question, yenni reki, is the kind of thing they might have with equal parts water over ice at a large banquet type meal. i ask him, "so how much of this might you have in a week?" "a week? we might have a drink like that once a month!" oh my god, i have just consumed two months' worth of this stuff in five minutes. no sooner do i think this than a warm feeling starts at my toes and creeps its way upwards until i am all warm and fuzzy and standing there with the dippiest smile plastered all over my chevy chase, and i am three sheets to the wind. when my wife got my home, i insisted on running around naked and trying to call all my friends, who were smart enough not to answer their phones, and finally settled for emailing a good friend. the next morning when i read her reply, i reread my original email. it really is a wonder she could read it at all. i actually spelled "then" thj3n, and that is just the one i remember.

time 3): the situation that i alluded to in my vegas post. everyone else was drinking vodka, which had given me a pretty hefty headache the night before, so i was drinking whiskey. we're talking, laughing, having a good time, and for some reason i really can't remember, i felt compelled to sho them how much they had been drinking. i said loudly, "well, look! i mean, you guys have about wiped out a fifth of smirnoff and i have--" i hold up my bottle of seagrams 7, and suddenly notice that i have only slightly more whiskey (which only i have been drinking) than they have vodka (which three people have been drinking), and my jaw drops and my eyes pop. ten minutes later, i am in the bathroom.

it should also be noted here, that my wife has the magic ability to make me feel drunk. i tend to act sillier than i should for the amount of alcohol i have consumed. i have a drink or two and act like i have had five and have a good time. my wife cocks her head, and gives me that look, to which i reply, "i am not drunk." then she will do the point, and if she does the point and i see it, i am drunk. i could've had a damn shirley temple and if i see my wife do the point it's the same as if i have consumed all the alcohol in the house. my vision blurs, my words get slurred, i stumble and weave, and i will for fucking sure be hungover the next day. not sure how she does it, but it is a nifty trick.

ok, my kids are beginning to make thinking, let alone writing, virtually impossible, so i will leave you with that.

darth sardonic

Wanted to scream for them but had to stand in silence

my kids are currently watching the mst3k version of godzilla vs. megalon. they love it! which is great, cause as a kid i watched the rubbery dinosaur and his HO-scale-japan-destroying counterparts faithfully. when i got older, i watched mst3k faithfully, and would laugh extra-hard when they made fun of a movie i had seen on saturday's sci-fi theater. and when i stumbled out of bed this morning, my kids actually stopped the video games to ask me for the "mosser/wobot" movie.

friday night me, s, and t went to the l&m tavern. it is actually called the firehouse now (it burned down some years ago, and they rebuilt), but it will always be the l&m to us. my cold was still in play, though getting better, and we ordered up dinner and gin n tonics and laughed and did the kind of bantering that high-school mates with over 20 years of history behind us do.

brooke's eyes are real. they are ridiculously blue. and i have never wanted to just stare intently into her baby b's to figure it out, but while she was taking t's order, i managed to sherlock holmes, and there are no contacts.

as for her boobs, the jury is still out. t "brushed" them with his chest when they were trying to get past each other in a tight space between tables, and informed us they were "pretty firm". they are, also, (not that i really noticed, mind you, but i have been told...) err, umm, rather large for her frame. must do more research...

{we interrupt this program so that no. 2 can spend five minutes pleading and wheedling at no. 1 to get his binkie, when i know damn good and well that no. 2's binkie is probably in his bedroom. but no. 2 would rather spend all this time saying, "plaese (yes, the misspelling is intentional, that is how he says it, a cross between "please" and "place"), plaaaeeeese, plaaaaeeeeeeese, PLAAAAAEEEEEEEEESE." over and over like some fucking whiney-voiced oliver twist crack-addict begging his pimp not to hit him again. it goes without saying that when no. 2 does this, it drives me beyond crazy.

i tell him to go find his own. it is in his bedroom, right where he left it. he continues with the pleeding plaeses until i see red, jump up, pull him by his arm into the bedroom, stern voice on full alert the entire time, and find his binkie for him while he cries like i am hitting him in the head repeatedly with a baseball bat.

when he does this plaese wheedle thing, i am unable to concentrate. since this is a rather largish post covering several days of happenings, drastic measures were called for.

that is all. now back to your regularly-scheduled program.}

as the night wore on, karaoke ensued, and s, t, and i were forced to nearly shout to be heard, and this, combined with the already sandpapery condition caused me to sound like the love child of harvey fierstein and gilbert godfried as it goes through puberty.

saturday, i needed to clean. and clean. and clean. then shower. and nap. then people showed up for my little do. i received presents of tangueray (my friends know me oh, so well, o my beloved bemused non-existant readers), and happily drank and talked and basically had a rather toned-down little fiestita. i did not run around the back yard in my boxers. just wasn't the right mood. (and my new non-existant readers, which is damn near all of you, will have absolutely no idea what i am talking about. suffice to say, the right group of people + the right atmosphere x a drink or two = darth suggesting a boxer run, which is usually seconded by one or two of my more exhibitionistic friends, resulting in a few of my tipsy friends running around the backyard in their respective underwear.)

a&m showed up for a little while, though m looked completely strung-out. he reacted badly to the anaesthesia, resulting in vomiting, followed by reacting badly to the morphine, resulting in vomiting, and then reacted badly to the percocet, resulting in, yep, you guessed it, vomiting. as a result, he was taking tylenol and toughing through the pain, and gimping around pretty poorly. i will mention here, though, that m is a crazy fucking rugby player who took a knee to the eye and wanted them to send him back in with his eyebrow hanging open like a side of beef at the slaughterhouse.

a good time was had by all.

the next morning, i awoke with no voice. one nostril was completely plugged, not with boogers, but with swollen nasal tissue, and my throat was paved in freshly-laid hot tar and gravel. my cold in its death throes, putting up one last-ditch attempt at making me miserable.

and it worked.

i tidied from the party (my friends are not the kind to make a large mess and not help clean), and rested. the kids thought that daddy sans voice = not having to listen, until no. 1 was trying to outtalk me as i was softly lecturing him, and pissed me off, and i stripped my throat out outyelling him, causing him to cry, and resulting in both of them being a little easier to be around for the day, though i did have to repeat the "yelling-till-i-spit-up-blood" manoeuvre on no. 2 a little later on, resulting in him crying, followed by better behavior.

today, the majority of the cold is gone. i still have lingering snot and junk in my throat, and i sound a bit like dirty harry.

so you have to ask yourself, do you feel lucky, punk, huh? do ya?

darth sardonic

p.s. sparx, i am so pleased to be linked at all that you could link me under "boring twat what whines too much about his life despite how good he's got it" and it would make absolutely no difference whatsoever. dj kirby, i left a comment, but don't know if you have seen it, "some people are just small, hard peas" is a line from a codiene song, pea, and i guess you could use it as long as you gave proper credit, though i am not sure how that would work, copyright laws-wise.

saturday fezzle

i am always amazed that as a race we survive past the age of five. humans are clearly the exception to the survival of the fittest rule.

i am further amazed that people who live in one of the wettest areas of the united states are scared to drive in the rain, and clearly don't have any notion how to do it safely.

and if kids were dry-clean only, i would need a second mortgage to afford my laundry bill.

i needed to get a certain amount of grocery shopping done today. bleary-eyed and only half-awake, i got dressed, and somehow convinced the kids to accompany me to the the store, after which, i had decided, in my brilliance, i would take them with me to a local used bookstore to trade in a largish box of books i no longer wanted for items i did want.

overall, at the grocery store, we did well. we only needed a couple of things (kitty litter being the utmost: i had only just run out a day or two before, but apparently we own two felines who crank out enough piss n shit for eight), which, of course, got expanded by a few more ("we need coogies, daddy!"), and constant reminders to "pay attention" and "listen to daddy and do what he says" combined with threats of losing videogames had the desired effect of maintaining obedience.

until we were outside and i was laden-down by a 35-pound bucket of kitty litter, and no. 1 decided it would be a good idea to run into traffic without holding my hand or even bothering to look or heed my shouted warnings. he was narrowly missed by a van (that was, to avoid being overly melodramatic, coming to a full stop near their almost-encounter anyhow), and even this, combined with gasps of surprise from the onlookers, and my bellowings, was not enough to wake him up to the sheer magnitude of his utter stupidity at this maneuver. having my fists bunched up in the collar of his coat while my eyes were inches from his and i was using the stern voice magnified by five (and i hope i had bad coffee breath, too) also seemed to do little to sink it home for him, which enraged me more.

threats of loss of games illicited repeated "i'm sorries", to which i could only reiterate that sorry would do him a fat lot of good if he were in the er instead of getting into the car, and that it is hard to play video games when you can't use your arms. (i try not to be, but i can be quite fantastical and melodramatic in the scenarios that play in my head sometimes.)

since it is western washington, it is raining. combine that with the drivers who are unable to actually drive in the rain, and the trip from the grocery store to the bookstore was fraught with danger (well, i was still very shaken from the whole kid vs. van incident, and further angered by no. 1 still being blase about the whole thing), but we managed to arrive unscathed though nearly rear-ending a lady who clearly didn't know which lane she wanted to be in and thought coming to a complete stop in the middle of a major thoroughfare to decide might be a good idea.

into the store, and it quickly became clear this would've been a better trip sans kids. i dropped off my box of books at the counter where they would decide how much they were going to offer me (which would be a fraction of what i thought they ought to offer me), and peruse the cd's and books while they took their time coming to that conclusion.

now, o beloved non-existant readers, i had, in my head (which has not been the most reliable source lately), a rather longish list of cd's and books and such that i wanted. but the noise of my two sons battling each other for the title of "most disruptive and destructive in a book store" drove most of what i was looking for right out of my grey matter, which, i imagine, looks a little like swiss cheese from overexposure to my children, lack of sleep, and overindulgence in the imbibing of spirits.

while trying to remember what exactly it was i was hoping to find here, my buds a & m texted me saying they were going to the store and did i need anything?

to which i texted back, nah.

"stop poking me, no. 2. i gonna smack you!"

"nooooo."

u sure?

"no, no. 2, don' pay wif dat."

"leeb me 'lone. owwwww."

maybe some gin?

i did remember to look for a few cd's i had wanted (that they didn't have) and a few william burroughs books i needed (that they didn't have) and anything by bukowski (that they didn't have), all while playing human tug-o-war rope between two increasingly rowdy kids, who finally drove their father to the breaking point:

"owww, you're hurting my arm!"

"let gowa meee!"

(whispered harshly through clenched teeth:) "i am going to hurt more than your arms if you two don't stop messing around right now! ("messing around" being said with the same inflection that i would say "fucking about" when i am really pissed) and i am sick of reminding you to listen to me and do as i say, to no avail, so you can kiss the games goodbye, for today. if you continue as you are, you can kiss 'em goodbye for tomorrow as well."

"noooo, i need my games!" (says the junky)

"well," say i, all cold-hearted carved marble, "you shoulda thought about that when i told you before to behave and listen to what i was saying, instead of deciding a wrestling match in the comic books section would be a good idea. it is, sad to say, way too late now."

i locked my face and heart against the wails and pleadings that followed, dragging my spawn around by their arms. i find one book, out of the entire store, that i am interested in. i spend much time wandering aimlessly.

finally, they call me back to the desk, offer me the pittance they think my large stack of books is worth, and i am so fucking eager to get out of anywhere with other people around that i take it and run.

my future world dictators are completely rude to another young fella who wanted to be their friend whilst waiting in line to cash in my chit and pay for my book, and i am forced to stand between them as mine tell him to "shush" loudly, and try and tell him how to live his life, and he looks like his feelings are hurt, and his father chuckles good-naturedly.

on the way home, i discover that my stomach has eaten itself and is tugging on my spinal cord to drag the brain down to be the main course in a feeding frenzy, so i decide we better eat. the whole drive, i battle in my head: "sit down meal with the possibility of more disastrous behavior from my little hellions, or drive through, which leaves me the choices of grease, deep-fat-fried, or gutbomb?"

"you guys want pancakes?" (my kids are suckers for pancakes)

"yeah!"

so into the international house of pancakes, which, i have no doubt, is familiar to all my foriegn non-existant readers as well. it is, after all, the international house of pancakes. no doubt reformed bolsheviks enjoy a "passport breakfast" on red square, the bohemians eating crepes below the eiffel tower, punjabi's laying aside their nan in favor of french toast? has to be, right?

so my little mad scientists pick the "smiley-face" pancakes, and juices, and a rasher of bacon (which i actually have to remove from their grasp, because no. 1 will eat greasy bacon until he chunders it an hour or two later. i know, we've been there. on a road trip, no less), and then proceed to eat the whipped cream, chocolate chips, and maraschino cherries off the flapjacks without so much as breaking the surface of the griddle cakes, much to my chagrin. next time i will just ask them to bring two juices, a side of crispy, oily pork fat, and a large bowl of reddi-whip sprinkled with chocolate-flavored sugar gobs and do away completely with any attempt at healthy eating habits.

so back home, where i stick to my guns and make the kids play with toys or watch a movie while i begin my new book (read: fall asleep on the couch), until it is bedtime.

and now the monsters are asleep, and i think i am going to watch a movie and in general be an uninteresting slug, followed by going to bed early.

darth sardonic

and the stars align...

(wait, what the hell? align, sign. jesus, the english language is all kindsa twisted and silly. now, if something is in a row, we say it is in a line. so the verb of that ought to be aline, right? not aliGn, dammit. somewhere early on in the development of the english language, some dippy git ran through with just random letters tossing them into the middle of words. through would be another example of this. so would would. fuck's sake, this could take all day...)

it is amazing what a full night's (again, there it is) sleep will do for a family of rowdy punk boys. nos. 1 and 2 were much more cooperative and listened better, and actually got to play games for a bit, and didn't even fight (again) when it was time to turn them off and do something else.

and we did. we went outside to "wash the car" again, cause honestly, that was pretty damn (again) fun. i actually sorta worked on flower beds while (again) the sprogs blasted me and each other with the hose at close range. laughter (again) ensued and we all got soaking wet.

now, in the past, when i have been rested, i have had a tendency to not be as harsh or "stick-to-my-guns" as i am when exhausted. but not today. i was, no doubt (yeah, i aint even trying anymore, shit), much more pleasant than i have been, but i still made the kids listen to me on the important things, and they still lost some priveleges. by god and sonny jesus, i am gonna make this thing work if it kills all of us! it won't, but, you know, i like to be all melodramatic.

all is currently quiet from the bedroom as well, so i am thinking (and hoping) that tonight will be another like last, and we will be again pleasant and listen and chipper and whatnot.

now, i am going to clean a bit, and cook myself a steak (yes, a steak. yes, me cook. oh, stop your bloody snickering!), and have a nice salad (i mean it, knock the damn guffawing off!) and maybe watch rebel without a cause, have a drink or two, and toddle off early.

and now i am going to go off on a rant because the phone just rang and this is really starting to piss me off:

before my wife left, i stood in the kitchen as she answered the phone as "toll free" popped up on the caller id, and watched as she proceeded to tell the whorey sonsa bitches on the other side that she was not interested in what they had to offer, and that she had told this to at least two other syphilitic operators, and would they please take her number off of their list, as we would not ever be interested in their product, thank you. (a note here, she didn't call them names or insinuate that they were disease-riddled or any such thing. that is being added here by me. she was very polite but firm. however, if they could've seen her eyes they would've crawled under their desks as if a nuclear blast was imminent. woo, got shivers just thinking about the look, glad it wasn't aimed at me.)

now, after she has left, we still get regular calls from "toll free", which i tend to not answer. but a mere week after my wife left, i am in the shower, and i have just put the shampoo on my hands but not into my hair yet, when the phone rings. at this time, my wife wasn't on some sort of set schedule, and hence would call at strange times of the day. i quickly rinse my hands, bark my shin on the side of the tub, curse the tub, and the installer of the tub, and the creator of bathtubs, nearly turf it on the tile floor (cause my fucking wife is calling from fucking turkey or something, i don't have time to even grab a towel!), and then stand dripping and shivering as i see "toll free" on the caller id. i do not answer it. i do not answer it because the ensuing barrage of obscenities and filth and foul would misrepresent the person that i attempt to be.

now, "toll free" has called at least once a day, mon through fri, since.

today, i answered. "may i speak to wife sardonic?"

"she is not home."

"thank you."

a few hours later, again, same voice. "may i speak to wife sardonic?"

"sorry, she isn't going to be home for several months."

"thank you."

and just now, o my beloved, and surely enraged (as i am) non-existant readers, the same successful brain-donor just rang back and asked me yet afuckinggain if she could speak to my wife.

i took a painful deep breath, and calmy said, "wife sardonic is not going to be home until september at the earliest."

"thank you."

and now, my droogies and only friends, if "toll free" calls again, o the beautiful tapestry of the deepest, foulest, murkiest filth i shall weave for their listening pleasure. i will no doubt dredge up words they may never have even heard before, whilst explaining to them that they are harassing me and that i have been nothing if not civil to them up to that point, and ending with the number they should direct their next call to (my lawyer's) because i swear to all that is good and holy in this shited-up world that if they call me again after i unload on them, there will be harassment charges being filed.

darth needs a new drumset.

i did say i was going to have a drink or two, did i not?

thanks for playing along.

darth sardonic

no quise matar

no soy malo de naturaleza...

heh heh. such a stupid and random thing to begin my post with today. for some reason i remembered it this morning. i guess, you know, cause it is cinco de mayo and all.

backstory:

i was in a little town called rojas where everyone seemed to be related and where the dogs were all diseased or dying. my roommate and i were in our little apartment, just messing around, and i began to sing morrissey's "last of the famous international playboys" when out of the blue i translate the line "i did not want to kill, i am not naturally evil" on the fly and hey, presto, it fits exactly with the music.

we must've laughed for an hour, and for months to follow, we would sing, out of the blue, "no quise matar, no soy malo de naturaleza."

and since no one around here celebrates el 16 de septiembre or el 9 de julio, and since i'm unsure as to what goes into a cairapino, i am going to go with el cinco de mayo, and tequila shots.

so to you and yours, que les pase bien!

darth sardonic

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

i love carhartts, but hate gibsons

the drink, not the guitar. i love gibson guitars (i own a battered and much-loved sg special, the cheapest i could find. it is a wonderful guitar.), but not dry vermouth and gin. which is too bad, cause turns out i love cocktail onions, and this is the only drink i have found that uses 'em. but i love tom collinses. i need to try a harvey wallbanger. just cause. just cause the name is cool.

not everything i write is a gem. or if it were a gem, it would be a big hunk of blue or red plastic in the shape of some precious stone, and set in some cheap alloy treated to look like gold till that flakes off in sheets and it turns all greeny-brown.

thrift stores are cool. the coolest one ever is the one right here on base, that i visit at least once weekly to blow some of my hard-earned mosca on fun stuff that can only be found at thrift stores.

like the $3 leather chair.

my wife says i'm like norm on cheers: soon, i will go into the thrift store and everyone will call out "darth!!"

i wonder if norm drank gibsons or tom collinses? or maybe harvey wallbangers.

probably just beer, which i can tolerate even less than kids who break legs on $3 thrift store leather chairs.

but i like carhartts, which is handy, because the jeans outlet down by the spot where the little leg-breakers have therapy is having a going-out-of-business sale, on everything. levis, dickies, carhartts. or actually, it is handy they were having a sale since i like carhartts so much. that would probably be more correct.

so i purchased a pair of black carhartt double knee work pants (that i have been feening for since i myself manned a sales desk in the carhartt section of a sporting goods/workwear store in fairbanks, alaska, but never felt i could afford) for a fraction of what they would normally cost. but not, my wife was quick to point out, less than what i won't spend on a pair of new chucks since, as i say, "it's just too much to spend on a pair of all-stars!" followed by a tirade of when i could remember they were a fraction of what they cost now.

add to that the fact i own numerous pairs of chucks, and only one pair of carhartts.

i also have numerous pairs of dickies, so i didn't buy any more at the sale of the century at the jeans outlet that is near the therapy of kids who, without even meaning to, injure legs on outdated, and yet still cool pieces of uber cheap furniture where i tried in vain to enjoy a gibson.

the drink, not the guitar.

darth sardonic