The Eye-Opener

It all starts with a bowl of soup.

I’ve spent the better part of the last three or four years being bitter. I’ve been bitter about work, bitter about life, and bitter about myself. I’m not sure where this bitterness has come from.

I have my theories. Thousands upon thousands of hours of dealing with drunks is a likely source. Thousands upon thousands of hours of being, not necessarily smarter than, but, certainly, significantly more aware of everything around me than the vast majority of my co-workers and supervisors is another factor. Constant frustration can certainly wear on you. Who knew?

I’ve been given the gift, maybe the curse, of a very acute power of observation. When I bitch to my mom about the things I see at work, she sees it in me. When I talk to my best friends about my frustrations with the public, they see it in me.

But what do I really have to be bitter about? I make good money doing a job that I’m good at and that most people actually have a generous respect for. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you try talking to people in a mostly genial manner for nine hours a day, five days a week? But remember, the people you already know want to be treated like you’ve never met them before and the people you don’t know want to be treated like you’ve been friends for years. Every time you see them. Every week. Every day. Go ahead, give it a try.

I pay my bills, I put some money into savings, and, to a certain extent, I have the freedom to do whatever I want with the rest of my time.

Maybe my bitterness comes from the tediousness. Tenacity? Tenaciousness. Tedinacitiousness? Whatever. I’ve been doing this a long time. And as much as the bar business changes from day to day, in a sick, inversely-exponential kind of way, it stays the same. Yes, I see new faces every day. But at the same time, I clean the same bottles, I make the same drinks, I shake the same hands, I pour the same beer for the same regular like I have four days a week for the last year just to have him tell me that today was the day he was going to try something new but that it’s MY fault that I didn’t wait ask him what he wanted to drink before I poured it, and I deal with the same people who ask for their drinks with “light ice” because they somehow think their drink will be stronger if they get it like that.

Here’s a quick lesson in physics and displacement: Fill one glass full of ice and fill a similar glass halfway with ice. Pour one and a half ounces of rum into both glasses. Now, without adding anything else, you get to fill both glasses the rest of the way with coke. Just by looking at both glasses, which one would you choose? Good. I didn’t graduate college and I can figure that one out. Go tell all your friends.

So there’s this bitterness. It’s quite possible that it exists because I can’t control what other people do and, apparently, I really need to. Strike that. I don’t NEED to. I feel this urge to because I see how things can be done in a good way, the appropriate way, in a bar, but nobody else seems to think that way. Again, it’s the power of observation.

I don’t want to be bitter. I was unemployed (under-employed, to be completely truthful) for five months. That was awful. I was getting unemployment benefits. That was awful. That was bitter. I could be forced to have a job cleaning urinals at the local biker bar. That would be even more awful. Like I said before, I make good money at a good job that I’m really, really good at. So why is there this bitterness?

Before I move on, I’d like to get back to that bowl of soup. Wait, much like Willy Wonka, I have to go back before I can move forward. So I’d better move along.

I used to be cheerful. Like, all the time cheerful. I’d smile and laugh and nothing could bother me. I went through a phase where I literally was saying to my mom, as she ranted about something in her life, “Let it go.” Over and over and over again, I said it to her: “Let it go.” Somewhere along the way, I stopped being able to let it go.

When I worked downtown, I would take the same route to work every day. And every day I saw the same homeless lady with her dog on the same corner. I thought to myself, more than once, “I could do something for them.” I was thinking that more for the dog’s sake than the woman’s. I had this grand plan of getting a few cans of dog food for the dog and a few cans of ravioli for the woman, then delivering them and wishing her and the dog my best. But it never happened. To this day, I still think about them and wish that I’d done something. I couldn’t let it go.

I’d become bitter. Why should I spend my hard-earned money on something for a beggar? I worked hard for my money. It’s MY money.

Yes, it is my money. But I have a lot of it. I have more than a lot of people could hope for. And yes, I have a tendency to spend my expendable income rather frivolously. And yes, it’s my right to do with it what I please.

But why couldn’t I do something for someone like that woman? Why couldn’t I take ten bucks a week and deliver some canned and ready to eat, albeit cold, ravioli to a homeless person? Why not?

And now I’ll get back to the soup.

Two nights ago an older homeless gentleman came in and sat in the middle of my mostly empty bar. How did I know he was homeless? Well, his missing teeth, scraggily clothes, and general lack of good hygiene were three sure signs. I eyed him suspiciously as I approached him, as I’d removed homeless guys from my bar and seen homeless guys removed from bars in which I frequent, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.

He calmly and quietly asked if he could have a glass of water, as he was waiting to meet someone. I obliged, as he didn’t seem to be much of a trouble maker, although I did doubt his assertion that he was meeting another person. He sat there for about fifteen minutes and drank his water and watched the game that was on tv. I went to ask him if he would like some more water when he leaned over a little and humbly asked me if we needed any kitchen help that night. I told him I was sorry, but that we were fully staffed for the evening. He thanked me and started to gather himself together to leave. I abruptly told him to wait and he got this worried look in his face. I smiled and said it was nothing bad, just that I wanted him to wait.

And that’s when the cheerful, non-bitter Kevin in me came out. I went in the back and poured a bowl of soup into a to-go container. That night we happened to be serving New England clam chowder with a garnish of bacon. If you know me, then you know my love for bacon. I put extra bacon in his soup.

I went out to the front and gave him his soup and wished him the best, just like I wish I’d done for that homeless woman and her dog. He didn’t ask for anything else. He didn’t say he’d be back. He didn’t try and bless me with God’s love. He simply said thank you and walked out the door. And for the simplicity of his gratitude, I will be eternally grateful.

It made me realize this: I have no reason to be bitter. I have a good life that I get to enjoy the way I want to.

And I want to say that I didn’t write this for me. Well, maybe a little, I did. But I didn’t write this to receive praise from you. I wrote this FOR you.

Don’t forget what makes you happy. Don’t forget the people that make you happy. Don’t be bitter about the things you can’t control. Laugh about them, instead. Give what you can, if you want. But things could be worse and there’s really no reason to be miserable in our good fortune.

I liked that the “old Kevin” came out for a little bit. I hope that homeless man comes back. I’d like to know his name. I’d like to buy him another bowl of soup. But mostly, and a little selfishly, I like what he brought out in me, and I’d like to see that again.

--TheKevin--

The Genius of David Foster Wallace

I am not an envious person. When I come across someone doing something extraordinary--a football player throwing a perfectly-placed spiral 50 yards downfield, a comic book artist whose artwork moves something deep and reptilian within me--I may think to myself, "It would be cool to be able to do that." But I almost never feel this thought in the tiny little hematocyte-spewing depths of my bones; sure, it would be cool to be able to do those things, but it's not a powerful desire.
This is not the case with the work of David Foster Wallace. I truly wish I could write like DFW. He was, quite simply, an unparalleled genius. We throw that word around these days, and it's pretty well devalued at this point, but I mean it in the literal sense. He was a man with a profound intellect, as well as an ultimately fatal sense of the human condition (borne, if you ask me, out of the curse/gift that is depression). He made a habit of explaining the ebb and flow of life in an extraordinary way, in a way that seemed both profoundly revelatory and, once you'd read his take on it, exceedingly obvious. He was a master wordsmith.
I'm finishing up his book, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, which is a collection of essays and arguments. I'm currently reading the titular essay, about a 7-day cruise he took at the behest of the magazine Harper's (this is a perfect example of what I meant in the last paragraph about being a genius; he got paid to go on a luxury cruise because just his take on the entire affair would be fascinating enough to justify the expense--he was that good). 
About 35 pages into the essay, I ran across a section that--to my mind--is one of the greatest things ever written. It's not flashy. It's not pretentious. It's not even particularly deep, in the "what does it all mean" sense. It's simply quintessential DFW; effortlessly witty, penetrating, and, somehow, gloriously innocent. I've copied it below so that you may experience DFW in all his glory.
I hope you enjoy it.

"Celebrity's fiendish brochure does not lie or exaggerate, however, in the luxury department. I now confront the journalistic problem of not being sure how many examples I need to list in order to communicate the atmosphere of sybaritic and nearly insanity-producing pampering on board the m.v. Nadir.

How about for just one example Saturday 11 March, right after sailing but before the North Sea weather hits, when I want to go out to Deck 10's port rail for some introductory vista-gazing and thus decide I need some zinc oxide for my peel-prone nose. My zinc oxide's still in my big duffel bag, which at that point is piled with all of Deck 10's other luggage in the little area between the 10-Fore elevator and the 10-Fore staircase while little men in cadet-blue Celebrity jumpsuits, porters—-entirely Lebanese, this squad seems to be—-are cross-checking the luggage tags with the Nadir's passenger list Lot #s and organizing the luggage and taking it all up the Port and Starboard halls to people's cabins.

And but so I come out and spot my duffel among the luggage, and I start to grab and haul it out of the towering pile of leather and nylon, with the idea that I can just whisk the bag back to Cabin 1009 myself and root through it and find my good old ZnO; and one of the porters sees me starting to grab the bag, and he dumps all four of the massive pieces of luggage he's staggering with and leaps to intercept me. At first I'm afraid he thinks I'm some kind of baggage thief and wants to see my claim check or something. But it turns out that what he wants is my duffel: he wants to carry it to 1009 for me. And I, who am about half again this poor little herniated guy's size (as is the duffel bag itself), protest politely, trying to be considerate, saying Don't Fret, Not a Big Deal, Just Need My Good Old ZnO. I indicate to the porter that I can see they have some sort of incredibly organized ordinal luggage-dispersal system under way here and that I don’t mean to disrupt it or make him carry a Lot #7 bag before a Lot #2 bag or anything, and no I’ll just get the big old heavy weatherstained sucker out of here myself and give the little guy that much less work to do.

And then now a very strange argument indeed ensues, me v. the Lebanese porter, because it turns out I am putting this guy, who barely speaks English, in a terrible kind of sedulous-service double-bind, a paradox of pampering: viz. the The-Passenger's-Always-Right-versus-Never-Let-A-Passenger-Carry-His-Own-Bag paradox. Clueless at the time about what this poor little Lebanese man is going through, I wave off both his high-pitched protests and his agonized expression as mere servile courtesy, and I extract the duffel and lug it up the hall to 1009 and slather the old beak with ZnO and go outside to watch Florida recede cinematically a la F. Conroy.

     Only later did I understand what I'd done. Only later did I learn that that little Lebanese Deck 10 porter had his head just about chewed off by the (also Lebanese) Deck 10 Head Porter, who’d had his own head chewed off by the Austrian Chief Steward, who received confirmed reports that a Deck 10 passenger had been seen carrying his own bag up the Port hallway of Deck 10 and now demanded rolling Lebanese heads for this clear indication of porterly dereliction, and had reported (the Austrian Chief Steward did) the incident (as is apparently SOP) to an officer in the Guest Relations Dept., a Greek officer with Revo shades and a walkie-talkie and officerial epaulets so complex I never did figure out what his rank was; and this high-ranking Greek guy actually came around to 1009 after Saturday's supper to apologize on behalf of practically the entire Chandris shipping line and to assure me that ragged-necked Lebanese heads were even at that moment rolling down various corridors in piacular recompense for my having had to carry my own bag. And even though this Greek officer's English was in lots of ways better than mine, it took me no less than ten minutes to express my own horror and to claim responsibility and to detail the double bind I'd put the porter in—-brandishing at relevant moments the actual tube of ZnO that had caused the whole snafu—-ten or more minutes before I could get enough of a promise from the Greek officer that various chewed-off heads would be reattached and employee records unbesmirched to feel comfortable enough to allow the officer to leave; and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-fraught and filled almost a whole Mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psychoskeletal outline."




--Gryffindork (all rights belonging to Harper's, DFW's estate, whatevs)

Ode To Halle's Funbags

This is a poem inspired by a question in last night's Geeks Who Drink pub quiz about the movies Halle Berry has shown her ta-tas in. I wrote this for the accompanying blog.

Are you black or are you white?

Who gives a crap? Your breasts are tight.

Firm and supple, oh my Lord;

I think I might go overboard.

Wanking can be fun and all,

But not when it makes your wang all raw.

Thankfully the way to see

Your boobies, which have enchanted me

Is watching movies, bad trips like acid

That always make my knob grow flaccid.


--Gryffindork

Fictional Flotsam: The Walk*

* For those of you who can read and listen to music at the same time, I suggest using this link for added effect.

“That was a lovely walk we had this afternoon,” Mary Yangherkin said. She rested her open book on her lap and shifted position in the loveseat just enough to face her husband, Woody.

He blinked absently and turned toward her, pushing his glasses until they rested firmly on the bridge of his nose. He set his book down in a motion nearly identical to hers. The lamp on the end table beside the loveseat backlit her, bringing flyaway strands of her graying hair into stark and shadowy relief. Mary wore a faint half-smile, a faraway look in her unfocused eyes. She looked towards him but not at him, her head cocked slightly to the right. She saw through him—him and everything else.

Woody loved that look. It meant that she was casting her mind back, reliving their walk as fully as human memory allowed. He’d seen the look a thousand times—more—and knew that it meant that she was happy. She always said, “any moment lived in happiness is worth reliving.”

He called the look her McFly Look. The name didn’t really fit, she unfailingly protested, because Marty McFly had been trying to get Back to the Future and she was trying to revisit the past, but Woody always waved off the criticism. It didn’t matter which way you went; time travel was time travel, and that made it her McFly look.

“It was,” Woody said, smiling. He took Mary’s hand and squeezed it, then leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. Mary returned to the present and smiled. They picked their books up, settled themselves comfortably once again, and went back to reading.

They’d ventured out into the cold winter afternoon on a whim, heading into the woods behind their property. The forest was quiet, muffled by the previous night’s snow. That still, pristine world was theirs and theirs alone, an intimate secret just for them.

Woody loved venturing into unmarred snow; he sometimes felt that it erased all the footsteps that had come before his, allowing him the opportunity to be the First, allowing him to Discover that small section of the world. It was a behavior Woody had first displayed as a boy. He’d trek off into the snow on his own, discovering new lands, battling goblins and frost imps. It was as if the snow-white world before him was a blank canvas, his imagination the brush and paint. He’d continued this habit until he’d had kids of his own. Giving it up had been hard for Woody, but he felt it necessary; his kids had deserved their own blank canvas.

But the kids were gone now, busy with the Real World, and so this frozen world belonged to him. To him and his wife. His partner. His Mary.

Mary, for her part, marveled at this side of him and reveled in it. Woody was by no means a stoic man, but seeing this side of him made it child’s play to imagine what he had been like in the naïve days of his youth. This never failed to elicit a smile from her.

On this particular jaunt they’d walked for perhaps fifteen minutes when they’d happened across a buck. Busy rubbing it’s antlers on a tree, it had failed to hear them approach. It froze upon realizing its mistake, muscles tensed, sizing them up. It stared at them, and they at it, for what felt like an eternity, until, with a twitch of its ears and a cloud of breath, it bounded off, zig-zagging through the trees. They’d headed back to the house after that, giddy with their good luck, as snow began to fall again in earnest and the sky grew dark.

Now they sat together in front of the fireplace, reading, a light blanket thrown over their laps. They sat together but apart, seated next to each other while simultaneously in their own private worlds. Their time together was demarcated only by the tick of the clock on the mantle and the crackling of the fire, their time apart by the events in the stories that had enveloped them.

Duke Ellington’s “Prelude To a Kiss” broke suddenly into the silence. Woody found his bookmark and inserted it into his book. He set it on the end table, and picked up his phone, turning off the customized alarm. He stretched enthusiastically, removed his side of the blanket from the top of his lap and stood up. He stretched again for good measure.
"8 o'clock already?" asked Mary.
"Mm-hmmm," replied Woody.

“I love you,” Mary said. She looked up at him with a smile, her book momentarily opened upon her lap once more.

“And I love you,” Woody replied. He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. “Now I’m off for a wank.”

Mary leaned into the kiss. “Have fun,” she said, and playfully swatted his backside as he walked away.

The End

--Gryffindork

A Month of Hot Air: The Life & Times of Gryffindork

This is an excerpt from a little project I'm working on (tentatively titled "A Year of Hot Air: The Life & Times of Gryffindork). It's either a fascinating look at one man and his view of the world around him (as described through Facebook status updates), or a bit of mindless self-indulgence. You make the call.

June 3^rd, 2010

—Listening to Barry White; I'm getting the inexplicable urge to take off my underwear and throw it onto a stage. Weird.

June 4^th, 2010

—Rush has already been married 3 times?! <sarcasm>I'm so shocked that no one's been able to stick with him!</sarcasm>

In other news, the world's most patient and forgiving woman has been discovered; she is both blind and deaf.

June 6^th, 2010

—I’ve got a new nickname for my girlfriend: Sonic the Bedhog.

—BREAKING NEWS: A new oil spill has occurred off of the East Coast. Sources say that the cast of Jersey Shore actually entered the water, decimating populations of local flora and fauna with a deadly runoff of hair and skin products. When reached for comment, the cast replied "Blah blah douchey mcdoucherton. Why in the world are we relevant?"*

*Quote is inexact due to the rare dialect of douchebag that they speak.

June 11^th, 2010

—Vampires with pointy laterals make me want to punch someone in the face. Canines! Canines are the pointy teeth!!! >:(

—If I ever get so old or jaded that the soundtrack to Willy Wonka DOESN'T make the kid in me retarded with joy, please shoot me squarely between the eyes.

June 12^th, 2010

—I’m setting booty traps.

June 14^th, 2010

—I’m considering two drastically different jobs: carpentry and teaching. I just asked myself, "What would Jesus do?" Of course, I need to get my ass in gear if I'm going to start a new religion by 34...

—Writing in all caps while online is the equivalent of walking around with a helmet on in real life.

June 18^th, 2010

—So I'm looking through the TV listings and get excited to watch a show I've never heard of. Unfortunately, Wife Swap is TOTALLY different than I was expecting it to be...

June 19^th, 2010

—I’m going to name my first born Vuvuzela.

June 20^th, 2010

—Spent all day (and I mean ALL day) at the Renaissance Festival with my buddies. It was my first Ren Fest, and I must say that it was fun. Nothing like mixing drinking with throwing sharp objects (hatchets, throwing stars and knives, oh my!), meat on sticks, and tons of cleavage everywhere (I'm assuming it's ok to look at it, since it's so prominently displayed).

June 22^nd, 2010

—Dirty joke time:  What's the difference between peanut butter and jam?

You can't peanut butter your dick up someone's ass.

June 30^th, 2010

—‎"I've, like, been totally misrepresented," says Kesha. "I mean, just because I act like a drunken whore, sing songs that make me sound like an alcoholic wench, and dress like a schizophrenic bag lady, it doesn't mean that I really AM those things. I just can't understand why people don't see through all the information I've given them and see the REAL me." Kesha paused to vomit into a potted plant, asked her waiter for another Jack and Coke, and smacked his ass as he walked away. "I just don't understand the public's perception of me," she sniffed.

Fictional Flotsam: The Nightjar*

This is an excerpt of something I've got brewing in me noggin'. Who knows if it'll ever be finished, but hey, at least I'm happy with this much of it. I'm going to try to write some more today. We'll see how it goes...
As always, I'm happy to hear some constructive criticism.

The Nightjar floated steadily through the mountain valley, its deck awash in moonlight. The ship’s white, domed sail caught the light, giving it the appearance of a miniature half moon hovering just above the airship. The deck, quiet and nearly empty this early in the morning, was shared only by Otoro on the foredeck and another aeromancer in the pilot seat, which was backlit by the soft light emanating through the windows of the Captain’s cabin.

            Otoro stood at the bow for a moment, hands gripping the rail and eyes closed, and allowed the brisk mountain air to flow over his wiry frame. It ruffled his brown beard and clothing. Many would have found the cold uncomfortable, but he enjoyed the feeling; it reminded him that he was alive. He inhaled deeply and could distinguish, very faintly, the smell of the Forest that lay ahead. He smiled. He lived for these moments, standing alone in the moonlight, the only sound that of the wind blowing by his ears, punctuated by an occasional flap of the sail.

            Otoro opened his eyes, lifted his looking glass and scanned the far end of the valley. He’d made the voyage so many times that he knew precisely where they were and how long it would be until they reached their destination. He could be asleep in his modest cabin, enjoying the deep sleep of one whose world consists of little more than a reflexive routine, but this was how things were done. Being First Mate did not allow him the luxury of ignoring the rules. If anything, it meant that he must follow them to the letter. He believed in leading by example, for how could he expect the crew to act properly if he didn’t do so himself?

He finally spotted what he knew was already there. Just at the edge of sight, at the back of the valley, was a large, dark mass floating in the sky, its crown dappled with faint, flickering lights. Otoro gave a pleased grunt, collapsed the looking glass and strode aft.

            “Continue on this heading,” he told the pilot, Ganda, as he approached the pilot’s seat situated under the sails. “We’ll arrive in two hours, with the dawn. Then you can take some rest.”

            “Aye, sir. Though I’m more interested in grub than sleep. Piloting awakens a fierce hunger inside me,” replied Ganda in a deep, weather-beaten baritone. “Besides, I sleep better on a full belly.”

            “Then it’s clear that you sleep well most nights,” Otoro said with a chuckle as he passed Ganda and slapped the pilot on his broad back.

Ganda uttered a sharp bark of laughter in response. “That I do,” he said as he patted his large belly. He adjusted himself in the chair, attempting to find a more comfortable position for the last leg of the journey, chuckling softly to himself.

            Otoro stopped at the door to the Captain’s cabin and knocked, three quick taps.

            “Enter!”

            Otoro opened the door and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and strode toward the pool of light in the far right corner, which contained Captain Rouen at his desk.

            “Another two hours then, Otoro?” asked the Captain.

            “Yes, sir. I can just see the lights of the Inn from here,” said Otoro.

            “Excellent.” Rouen laced his fingers together and stretched his muscular arms, cracking his knuckles loudly. “Make sure to give Ganda a few extra rands when you pay him. He did well to get us through the passes unscathed. It’s always dangerous up here at this time of year, but I can’t recall the last time I experienced winds like last night’s.”

            “Nor I,” said Otoro.

            “If Driftwood wasn’t so damn lucrative I’d say ‘Damn it all’ and avoid the Ring Range altogether,” said Rouen. “Mountain flying is risky business.”

            “You’ll pardon me if I don’t buy that, sir,” said Otoro with a wry smile. “You say that every time we’re up here, but I think you enjoy the risk.”

            Captain Rouen grinned roguishly. “Aye, maybe I do at that. Certainly keeps you on your toes, eh?”

            “Without a doubt,” said Otoro. He hesitated, his smile fading. “Sir, about Hana…”

            Rouen sighed. “What’s he done now?” he asked.

            “It’s not what he’s done, so much as what he hasn’t done,” replied Otoro. “I ordered him to clear the debris from that rockslide off of the aft deck, but he refused. He insists that such menial tasks are beneath a warrior such as himself. I ordered him to his bunk, and he obeyed, but grudgingly. He’s getting out of control.”

             “I hadn’t realized that accosting the old and defenseless made one a warrior. How times change.” Captain Rouen shook his head. “I’d have never let him set foot on the Nightjar if Sendra hadn’t taken ill. Next time I’ll take the proper time to find a replacement, and to hell with being late.” He scratched at his black beard in annoyance. “I’ll talk to him. He’ll do as he’s told if he wants to leave these mountains with the rest of us. Of course, if he doesn’t tread lightly around Filth he may end up getting punted off the Forest.”

            “Ah, don’t tempt me with such wonderful visions,” said Otoro, his smile returning. “I think I’d give my last rand to see that.” His brown eyes crinkled in delight.

            “You may get to see it for free. You know Filth; he doesn’t suffer fools for long,” said the Captain with a laugh. “In fact, why not start a pool? Five rands says Filth has him begging for mercy within five hours.”

            Otoro laughed heartily, his body shaking with mirth. “It’s a bet. I reckon it’ll be no more than two.” And, still chuckling, he turned for the door.

            “One last thing,” Captain Rouen called after him. “Tell Ganda that I’ll dock the ship. I could use the fresh air, and a little aeromancy before breakfast never hurts.”

            “Aye, sir. I’m sure Ganda would agree with that.” Otoro left the cabin, closing the door soundlessly and headed back to the pilot’s chair to relay the message.


--Gryffindork


*Copyright Gryffindork; I'll fucking destroy you if you ever steal any of my shit.

Fictional Flotsam

Hey you, with the cotton-candy hair and salamander eyes. I saw you looking at me from across the bar. You don’t remember? You undressed me with your eyes. I actually feel quite violated right now. Violated and alive. I feel like I need a cigarette after what you did to me. No thanks, I don’t smoke. How long have you been fantasizing about that? Just since you walked into the room or did it start when we met in your dreams last night? Gosh, you must be tired. From running through my mind all day. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist once we finally met. I know you can’t get over my rugged five o’clock shadow; the way it tickles your thighs when I . . . well, you know. And you! You look quite breathtaking, in your black stretch workout pants and zip-up sweatshirt. Is that a Nike hat? Mmm, I like girls in hats. And that aroma. Is that . . . could it possibly the new Chanel? No? Perspiration. Ooohh, I like the sound of that. That sounds sexy! I’ll have to buy a bottle of that for my girlfriend. I mean my EX-girlfriend. Yeah, we were serious for a while, but it just didn’t work out. I’m sure you know how that goes. You find someone and it’s fun for a minute or two, but it’s tough to spend that much time with someone that is just so inferior. I don’t want to be mean, but it just got tiresome talking to her and her not knowing what I mean about anything. Not like you and me, the connection we have. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. You’re special, I can tell. Me? I’m a skydiving instructor. Does that excite you? Hurtling towards the earth at a hundred miles per hour, not knowing if your parachute will open, wondering what the last thoughts will be going through your mind if you happen to die. I’m excited right now, just thinking about it. Oops, sorry, I didn’t realize I so close. I was on a skydiving tour once, traveling across the southland, and I met a woman who said that she thought she was going to die and the last thing going through her mind was chocolate syrup. Weird, I know. Do you like chocolate syrup? I do. I bet I can teach you to like it even more, if you know what I’m saying. Yeah, I know I’m forward, but what can you do? Especially with the chemistry we have. I was thinking about your sweatshirt again. Yeah, and how great it would look hanging from my ceiling fan. Shhhh. Sh-sh-sh-shhhhh. Don’t say anything. You know, my mom used to tell me that if I was patient I’d find the right girl. She’s going to be so excited when she meets you. I can tell by the tear in your eye you’re excited too. No, please, keep your money. Your drinks are on me. Please, I won’t take “no” for answer. I’m glad to be able to do it. Oh, oh, you’re leaving. Okay, well, another time, then. Believe me, I’ll be looking forward to the next time we meet. Next week? Same bat-time? Same bat-channel? Batman. The tv show. Nevermind. Au revoir, my sweet. Auf wiedersehen, my chicken dumpling. So long, my angel . . . sigh.

Hi there, pretty eyes, with your . . . pretty eyes and pumpernickel ears . . .

--TheKevin--

Bitching About People At The Bar.....An Oldie, But a Goodie

Originally posted on Facebook, July 21, 2010.

There were a bunch of fucking weirdos out and about tonight, and apparently they ALL made their way into my bar.

Weirdo #1: Before I even clocked in, I had a server tell me about a lady that asked if we could remove the light over her table, because it was too bright. She didn't ask about dimming the light, she didn't ask about turning the light off. No, she just went straight for the removal of the light. Who does that? Yeah, because THAT'S the simplest option.

Weirdo #2: The lady breast-feeding her baby AT THE TABLE. I get it, it's natural and beautiful and blah, blah, blah. But there has to be some common courtesy there, right? Fine. If you're gonna breast-feed in public, then don't mind me when I "honor" the beauty of your actions by staring. Or asking for a sip.

Weirdo #2, part deux: The same lady drinking multiple glasses of wine. No, I'm sure your infant will enjoy the cabernet as much as you did.

Weirdo #3: The lady who stepped in a puddle OUTSIDE the restaurant and then asked our hostess if there was anything we could do about it. Yes ma'am, let me go outside and make Mother Nature stop the rain. Better yet, I'll go tell that mean ol' puddle that what it did was unacceptable and it should apologize. Better YET, I'll go back in time and make sure that puddle doesn't jump out from behind that bush and get under your foot. Because I'm sure it wasn't in the same spot the whole time you were walking down the street.

Weirdo #4: The girl who asked me to make her a shot...."Something sweet and something sexy; something AMAZING." Yeah, let me go put some Ryan Reynolds in a shot glass. Trust me, sweetie, if I had orgasm in a bottle, I wouldn't be wasting it on you.

Sincerely,
The Kevin

It Burns (Tik Tok Parody)

I've posted this elsewhere, but not all of you have seen it, so I figured I'd post it here for your viewing pleasure. 


I admit, I was late on the whole Kesha thing, as I ignored her for as long as possible. But then I finally watched her video for "Tik Tok," and I gotta tell ya, I was appalled because 1). She's disgusting. b). Little girls are walking around singing this crap and *shudder* looking up to her. 4). It's the worst kind of crappy pop. I am not a lyricist, a poet, or even remotely musically inclined (although I love music), but her video was so abhorent to me that I had to form some sort of response. This video is it.


Keep in mind that this took me about 2-3 hours from the time I started writing to the time I finished recording this, so if you're hoping for perfection you'll be sorely disappointed. I posted the lyrics below the video so that you could read along and actually understand the couple of parts that I flubbed the delivery on.


Maybe someday I'll do a more polished version...



Lyrics:
Wake up in the mornin' and I turn on the tube
Then I turn to MTV to try and get in the groove
I see this skanky chick crawlin' up out the bath
I can't believe my eyes, just shake my head and laugh


I'm talking this girl's a train wreck (wreck)
Got hickeys on her neck (neck)
Has lost all self-respect (ect)


I tell ya I start to avert my eyes (eyes)
But what I don't realize (ize)
My bathroom holds a surpriiiiiise


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


Had not a care in the world till I saw this chick
Now I got some milky discharge comin' out my dick
What do you have to do to earn that kind of funk?
Bet her coochie smells like old meat that's been left in the trunk


Im talking serious E. coli (I)
Feel sorry for the guy (guy)
Who next unzips her fly (fly)


I bet it knocks him on his ass (ass)
Like skanky sarin gas (gas)
Be better if he passed (passed)


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


(Girl) you gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance


We've never met
Yet here I sit
Hoping I
Don't have herpes


(Girl) You gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance


We've never met
You piece of shit
You piece of shit


Now I can't ethically get my freak on


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)

A Straight Guy Weighs In On Glee

           Glee has become quite a phenomenon, entirely without my help. Despite hearing rave reviews from my (mostly female) friends and family, I completely ignored the first season, as well as the beginning of the second. This changed, however, when I heard Glee was doing a Rocky Horror episode. While it would be an overstatement to say that I’m a huge fan of Rocky Horror, one could say that I appreciate (most of) its eccentric charm.

            My change of heart regarding Glee was heartily encouraged by my girlfriend, who had watched and enjoyed the first season. What the hell, right? She made an effort to watch last year’s hockey playoffs and ended up really enjoying herself, so I figured this episode would give me the best chance to partake of something that she enjoyed with minimal psychological harm. Thus, much to Kristina’s delight, I parked my ass on the couch on the Tuesday before Halloween to check the episode out.

Full disclosure before I tell you what I thought: I’m a fairly progressive guy, so I’ve got no problem with homosexuality, and believe that the majority of gender stereotypes are a load of tripe. I’m also a depressive, so you could say that I’m in touch with my feelings; I may not enjoy crying, but I’m not going to feel ashamed for doing it, and I get teary-eyed on a fairly regular basis when something heart-wrenching happens in a film or TV show. But I don’t sob. Sobbing is for pussies.

I feel that we as a nation, as well as humanity in general, have become increasingly cynical and jaded, and, unfortunately, our entertainment reflects that. It’s gotten to the point where displays of “feminine” emotions (love, heartache, etc.) are immediately dismissed by most people as saccharine schmaltz. Personally, I feel our world would be a better place if people stopped regarding sentimentality as an entertainment evil. It has its place. Like in Remember the Titans. If you can watch that without getting misty-eyed, then you, you poor son of a bitch, have no soul.

That said, I’m not a big fan of musicals. Never seen The Sound of Music. Never seen Mary Poppins. Even Tim Burton and Johnny Depp couldn’t stop Sweeney Todd from making me wish I was in one of those pies, rather than alive and well and bored off my ass. There are exceptions, of course. As I stated before, I enjoy The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and I absolutely love Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory (except for “Cheer Up Charlie.” *snoooooore*). But, in general, it just feels weird to have people spontaneously breaking into song at random moments. Almost as weird as an entire crowd of people doing so, knowing all the words to the song and steps to the accompanying dance number, then immediately stopping and pretending that nothing odd had just happened. It’s unnatural, and it annoys me. But hey, I’m open-minded, so I’ll give pretty much anything an honest chance to entertain me. And that was exactly my attitude on that Tuesday night.

And you know what? I liked it. Not all of it, but most of it. I’ve watched every episode since, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself. It came as no surprise to me that I don’t like every musical number. Some are simply songs that I don’t like (generally the stuff that Rachel sings); others aren’t as good as the originals; others feel too much like those unnatural moments from musicals. But I enjoy music in general, and I’m not averse to excellent harmonization. In fact, as someone who loves doo-wop, I feel that harmonization is, largely, a lost art (or a marginalized art, anyway). So I’m cool with that aspect of the show.

But I have to be honest; I think the strength of the show lies not in its music, but in the characters. You could argue that the show is basically a cliché (misfits struggle to come to terms with their outcast status by finding joy in blah blah blah), and I wouldn’t disagree, but after millennia of myths, legends, and literature, almost every story is a cliché, ultimately. It’s how you treat the cliché that sets you apart (or doesn’t).

From what I’ve seen, each character is treated as a person, rather than a caricature. Yes, the hilariously named Coach Beiste is a manly woman, and they use that to comedic advantage, but they also show the underside of the issue when she finds out some of the students are using mental images of her in lingerie to “cool off” during make out sessions in order to escape the dreaded blue balls. The knowledge wounds her deeply, and this thread of the story acknowledges that, yes, there may be comedy to be mined from this character, but also reminds us that underneath that manly façade is a woman not unlike any other.

By the same token, Kurt is far from your stereotypical gay character. Yes, he often conforms to many of the stereotypes that often come to mind (his fashion sense, his effeminate voice and mannerisms), but the show delves deeper than that. It goes out of its way to suggest that yes, being gay is perfectly ok, but that doesn’t mean everyone is going to accept you. His ongoing problems with resident Neanderthal and in-denial-homosexual Karofsky is a disturbing view into the kind of harassment an “out” teenager is likely to experience. Nevertheless, Kurt is likely a welcome and potentially life-changing role model for young gays everywhere who are struggling with their situation. For that reason alone, this show gets serious respect from me.

In the end, I’ve come to enjoy the show for one reason: it’s funny. Sue’s manipulative attempts to screw with the heads of everyone within a thousand-meter radius, Brittany’s child-like naïveté, Puckerman’s delinquent tendencies…they all come together for at least one hearty belly-laugh per episode. One of my personal favorites: Brittany agreeing that she committed adultery because she thought that “adultery” meant being a dolt (a-dolt-ery—get it?). It still makes me giggle every time I think about it.

Yeah, I’m not always a fan of the drama (I think they’re working on achieving a love hexagon, which makes me sad—what a bunch of whores these kids are!), and yeah, some of the musical numbers turn me off, but the rest of the show is good enough to make me forgive it its faults. And while the show can be sentimental at times, it comes attached to a sincerity that I find refreshing. I’ve only seen five episodes (I don’t even know all the character’s names yet), but I’m liking what I’m seeing, and hope that, as long as it operates on the level that I’ve witnessed thus far, it has a long and prosperous run.

And now, a few lists, because people dig lists (at least, I do).

Favorite Characters

1. Sue Sylvester: I’ve loved Jane Lynch since I first saw Best In Show, and her portrayal of Sue is highly amusing. And while she may seem like evil incarnate at first glance, she always seems to do the right thing in the end. Ok, most of the time.

2. Brittany: What is there to say? She’s freakin’ adorable. She’s the Idiot With a Heart of Gold. Can’t get enough of her.

3. Coach Beiste: Maybe it’s because she was a focus of one of the first episodes I saw, but I really enjoy her. She’s masculinity and femininity rolled up into one package, and they do this fact justice without being trite.

4. Artie: I don’t know why. Just like the guy. Speaking as an overprotective brother-type, he seems like the kind of guy you wouldn’t mind dating your sister or daughter. And not just because his naughty bits might not work so well.

5. Puckerman: He hasn’t been featured much in the episodes I’ve seen, but I’ve seen enough to be intrigued.

Hottest Characters

1. Santana: Oh my stars and garters, I think I grow slightly retarded every time I see her. If I were a girl and she were a guy, I’d giggle and play with my hair every time she walked in the room. She’d be perfect if she gained about 10 or 20 pounds. P.S. This has nothing to do with how much I love my girlfriend. Which is a lot. Seriously.

2. Santana: See #1.

3. Santana: See #2.

4. Santana: See #3.

5. Quinn: You thought I was gonna say Santana, didn’t you? I’m not blind; Quinn’s delicious, too.

Characters I’d Most Like To See Get Kicked In the Neck

1-5. Rachel: Great googly moogly, she’s obnoxious! I’m assuming she has some redeeming qualities, but I have yet to witness them.


--Gryffindork

Geek Bowl V: A First-Timer's Perspective

As most of you know, I'm a quizmaster for Geeks Who Drink. Since I just earned this greatest of jobs last June, this was my first time experiencing the Super Bowl of geekiness, our annual Geek Bowl. I had heard rumblings of its greatness, however, and eagerly anticipated the new experience.

Never one to pass up the chance to make an ass of myself, I enthusiastically volunteered to be in this year's opening number when the chance arose. I initially auditioned for a part as one of the MCs, but there were far too many honkies trying to get their groove on, and my lack of seniority meant I was given a singing part instead. Other than moments in the shower, in the car, and around close friends that it's impossible to get embarrassed around (generally because they're too drunk or high to remember that crap anyway), I had never sung a word in my life. I was a bit nervous, to tell the truth, but when the hell else would I get a chance to sing on stage at the Fillmore? I threw myself into the task, memorizing the entire number in one mind-numbingly boring morning while working at the kennel I work at when I'm not busy being awesome.

My compatriots and I rehearsed off and on throughout the months of November, December, and January, and we had a great time doing so. I can't speak for anyone else, but I knew essentially none of my fellow quizmasters before rehearsals began (other than Kent, a regular at my quiz at the British Bulldog), so it was nice to rub elbows with my fellow geeks. I quickly learned to respect Jessica's Star Trek chops, as she corrected the lyrics about Jadzia Dax (not Jazdia Dax), and it became immediately apparent that Jeannette was four people's worth of fun rolled up into one, that Loki's mustache kicked ass, and that the universe revolves around Tavie.

Geeks Who Drink has been expanding steadily since I joined, and is now in 13 different states. While teams and quizmasters from every area weren't able to make it, we still had plenty of out-of-towners join us for the event, including quizmasters from Washington, Utah, New Mexico, and Texas. Many (all?) of them were in the opening number, which meant that rehearsal on Geek Bowl Eve was a whole new experience. In fact, the Texans had a couple of kick-ass dance numbers that they had clearly been working their butts off to perfect. I think it's safe to say that fun was had by all as we sang obscenities in the Unitarian Church we Coloradans had been rehearsing in for months.

The next day we all gathered at the Fillmore, waiting to get our dress rehearsal on. Unfortunately, the sound guys had smoked too much weed for breakfast (I assume), and we were forced to mill about for a couple of hours before getting the chance. This was cool, however, as this afforded us with further opportunities to get to know each other and for the smart people (read: not me) to leave and get some food. As the sound guys sobered up and everything came together, I learned my most important lesson of the day: it's a hell of a lot of fun having a live mic to play with.

Before we knew it, it was time to do our thing, and I gotta tell ya, it was a blast! I've never sung, acted or otherwise performed in front of people before (unless you count being a quizmaster or playing sports), and I can see how one could get to like it. It's exhilarating. Needless to say, the opening number was a big hit, in no small part due to Aaron Retka's lyrics and music.

Sadly, I was part of the data entry team, so I missed the majority of the actual quiz, but those of us in the scoring department had fun regardless, mostly because Sabra bought some seriously kick ass food (Sushi! Wings! Cheese! COOKIES!) for us to eat while locked away in the dungeon. Well, that and I brought my Firefly DVDs to watch when we had some spare moments. And I had the occasional opportunity to ascend into the auditorium for fresh air, where Jeanette and I serenaded the nearest teams with such classics as Bell Biv Devoe's "Poison" and Digital Underground's "Humpty Dance."

I missed out on the after party due to the fact that I had to work the next morning, but I can assure you that this will never happen again. I fully intend to hit the bar with my fellow QMs next year, and do my best to be a part of the reason that the hotel that houses our out-of-towners claims that we quizmasters are more riotous partiers than the Insane Clown Posse (this is not a joke; they actually said that).

Until then, I will satiate my desire for more Geek Bowl action with memories of this year's extravaganza. I hope to see you there next year!

For those of you who've been waiting to see my part in the opening number, the video is below. I'm the one in the beginning singing about Denver and Colorado, and doing the same at the end (in blue robes). And check out the official Geek Bowl V blog!

BEFORE YOU WATCH THE VIDEO: a little background info. Geeks Who Drink has a semi-friendly rivalry with Johnny Goodtimes, the owner of a not-as-good-as-Geeks trivia company from Philly. So when we sing about Philadelphia, we're referring to him. (He brings a team every year, and until this year, failed to place. Alas, he and the rest of Philly Ray Cyrus got 3rd this time around.)




--Gryffindork

Manswers

No, I'm not talking about the moronic show on Spike TV. I'm talking about the way a man answers any given question. I've noticed that when I ask my fiancée a question, I'm exceptionally lucky to get a straight answer. Hell, I'm lucky if I even get an answer to the question I asked. "What time is it?" I ask. "Not time to leave yet," she replies. This answer may relate to my question, but it doesn't answer it.

This drives me batshit.

I believe that this is a trait of the feminine gender in general, not of my fiancée specifically. You ladies simply think differently than men. Men are concerned with concrete details; women focus on feelings and the underlying meaning of things. Ask a man how his day was and he'll most likely say, "Fine," along with a short description of his day if he's feeling talkative. As in, "Went to the bank, grabbed some food while I was out, then spent the afternoon reading comics and looking at porn." I call these "manswers;" straightforward and to the point.

Ask this question of a woman, and you're likely to hear an in-depth description of the day's minutiae, complete with commentary on the way this made her feel at the time, how it makes her feel now, and her thoughts on the impending collapse of Egypt's government. This is why we don't ask you many questions, ladies. We've got shit to do.

As such, I am hereby suggesting the worldwide implementation of the "Manswer Rule." If a man asks you a question, then directly answer the question asked of you, and do him a favor by giving him the Cliff's Notes version of things. We want cold, hard facts, devoid of emotional bias. Feel free to go nuts with your ladyfriends, but spare the men in your life from drowning in a torrent of feelings and tangential information.

This make man feel icky on inside. Man no likey.

In addition, when a man gives you an answer, feel free to take it at face value. While men are indeed capable of guile, we are far less likely to be sneaky and manipulative than you ladies (this is not criticism, it's just a statement of fact--we do not, say, create elaborate verbal traps to test you and your feelings). Thus, odds are good that there is absolutely zero subtext in 75-90% of our manswers. I should also note that if there are two ways to take what we've said and one of them is offensive to you, I assure you that we meant it the other way. We don't like to fight nearly as much as you do.

All that said, relationships are a two-way street. There are going to be times when the discussion at hand warrants an in-depth look at thoughts and feelings. As torturous as this sounds, guys, it's as inevitable as your desire for mood-altering substances once one of these discussions has begun. When one of these talks (often referred to as "arguments") begins, it's best to bow to the inevitable and go with the flow. Much like prison rape, the harder you fight it the worse it'll be.

The trick for both men and women is finding a healthy balance between manswers and answers. The better we understand each other, the easier it is to avoid unnecessary conflict in our day to day relationships, whether it's between you and your significant other, you and your family, or between total strangers. Less daily conflict hopefully allows us to live happier, more fulfilling lives.

Or you can just do what Ted and Robin did on How I Met Your Mother and have sex every time you're about to fight. But that could make family reunions a touch awkward.

--Gryffindork

Spoiler Alert!: The Best Commercial from the 2011 Super Bowl

I hate spoilers as much as the next person. But really, you should see this. Volkswagen has a commercial that is brilliant on so many levels.

Yes, it's "cutesy" in that the child wants to do something seen only in the movies. But we can all relate to that, can't we? Didn't we all grow up with that one true fantasy of what we could be? Of what we might possibly be?

The child continuously struggles with the force. Through constant disappointment, the child keeps trying, keeps hoping. And with failure after failure, "Darth" keeps trying.

Now watch the video, and try and tell me that you can't relate......



Amazing.

It is amazing, right?

We all grew up wanting to do this and do that; wanting to be this and be that. And for a lot of us, we ran into enough obstacles and/or were told "You can't do that" just enough, that we lost hope. And here we are, doing what we do. Maybe we love it. Maybe we don't. But we're doing it.

Sometimes we still run into people that tell us we can't do what we want to do, that we can't be what we want to be.

How much would you give, right now, for a dad with a remote to the car?

Sure, we all know a person can't start a car with "the force." But what if, for one moment, each of us had one person in our lives that would let us believe, that would help us believe, that anything is possible. Anything.

I'm sure a lot of us still yearn for the innocence of our youthful desires. To be a fireman. To be an astronaut. To be a football player. To be a teacher. An author. A scientist. Whatever it might be.

I feel like this commercial encourages all of us, not just the kids or the parents, to be what we want to be. To be who we want to be.

--TheKevin--

Takes and Tokes 2/4/11

Takes and Tokes is a new weekly feature here on Flotsam & Jestsam. This will be a look at what has happened during the week in pop-culture, online, in the world, and whatever else I feel like talking about. This first post will be an abbreviated one, but no less interesting, I guarantee you that.

I give to you a video. It's not just any video. It's wrestling. And at the start, it looks like any other low-budget wrestling match. But at the 13 second mark--yes, just 13 seconds in--it takes a turn for the weird. And then it goes downhill from there. So, without any further delay, here is this week's installment of....

WHAT WERE THEY SMOKING?



You're welcome.

--TheKevin--

The Depression Cycle: A Quick Synopsis

Depression is a strange beast. It can come around at any time and stay for however long it chooses. There are certain things one can do to try and combat it, but the impending return is always looming over our heads. That, of course, may seem like a self-fulfilling prophecy, but believe me, the last thing any of us want is to be on a down-swing at a most inopportune time. One of the most difficult things about predicting depression is that we never know what it might be that will trigger an episode.

I will use Friday, January 28 as a model for how quickly and violently the depression monster can strike.

9:30 am - Alarm goes off. There's lots to do today and it's going to be gorgeous out, so don't waste it.

11:00 am - Look at my clock and realize that I turned my alarm off and had gone back to sleep. Go back to sleep.

12:30 pm - Wake up. Get out of bed.

1 pm - Finally get dressed and leave the house.

1:30-2 pm - Put money in the bank. Be pleasantly surprised at the resulting balance. Pick up tax forms at the library.

2:15 pm - Go to Subway for a turkey sandwich. Actually order a buffalo chicken sandwich.

2:45-4 pm - Do taxes. Be happy that, after two years of owing hundreds of dollars, I'm getting money back from both Federal and State. Feeling really good about the day and myself.

4:30 pm - Sit around.

5:30 pm - Try to decide if I really want to go out by myself tonight.

5:45 pm - If I stay in my neighborhood, I can walk everywhere, but there's only three places I really like to go. Dink around on the internet.

6:00 pm - If I go downtown, I'll have to drive and pay for parking. But I know a lot more people downtown and there are more places to go. There will also be more opportunity to be ignored by girls. Dink around on the internet.

6:15 pm - Maybe I'll just go to dinner in my neighborhood and come home. But I have a tendency to get depressed when I'm not being social.

6:20 pm - I also have a tendency to get depressed when I go out, spend too much money, and still don't have the kind of "fun" night one might imagine you could have downtown on a Friday night.

6:25 pm - Dink around on the internet.

6:30 pm - I'm really not even that hungry.

7:00 pm - Starting to get hungry. Okay, I'll go out. Maybe I'll just go have a steak at Texas Roadhouse. That way, because it's so far away, I can just go and come back without feeling like I "went out."

7:10 pm - Decide to flip a coin to determine if I'll stay in the neighborhood or go downtown. Heads: Neighborhood, Tails: Downtown. It's heads. I decide to go downtown.

7:30 pm - Head to the bathroom to shower.

Now, this is the point in the story where things really took a turn for the worst. I won't bother with time-stamping it, I'll just go through it all:

-Look in the mirror and hate my goatee. Don't feel like trimming it properly, so I decide that I'll shave it off.
-Shower. Nice and refreshing. All bits and pieces and crevices thoroughly washed.
-End shower. Now that my hair is longer, I use gel in it to help tame the "frizz." But I hate putting on my shirt over my freshly finger-styled hair, so it now becomes a process: dry my torso, deodorize my pits, shirt on, then gel the hair, then shave.
-Screw up the process when, out of habit, I start immediately putting shaving cream on my face. But as any of you who have shaved your face know, the best shave is done on whiskers fresh out of the shower.
-Shave.
-Deodorize and put on shirt.
-Gel hair. Hate how it comes out. My hair is kind of in a "tweener" phase right now, not short enough to lay flat, not long enough to be curly. It's annoying.
-Wet hair.
-Gel hair. Still hate it.
-Decide that I'll just wear a hat. Besides, I look good in a hat. Be pissed at myself because of all the time and gel I just wasted.
-Realize that my chosen wardrobe for the night won't look good with a hat. I'll just wear a sweatshirt, I guess. Which really isn't any different than any other night.
-Realize that tonight, overall, probably won't be any different than any other night. It'll just be more crowded.
-Look in the mirror and realize how fat I've gotten. And I probably shouldn't have shaved off the goatee.

So now you have a glimpse into the mind of a depressive. And I know what some of you might be thinking: "Kevin, your life is never going to change unless you change it. Things will never get better unless you work to make them better."

Yes, I know all that. I spend most of my free time telling myself that. I've been trying to go back to the gym for over a year, now. I've been thinking about re-vamping my wardrobe, but I don't want to do that until I've lost weight. I've been thinking about cleaning my car and my room, but for what? No one is going to come over and stay the night until I lose some weight and get some new clothes and become more desirable. And I don't make it to the gym because I wake up late, then there isn't enough time before work, then I'm too tired after work. Can you see the vicious cycle? Anyone?

Anyone?

--TheKevin--