I am going to drop some brain diarrhea here. Bare with me. Or don't.
For those who do not know, I fancy myself as a story Teller. A story Teller who is in the process of teaching himself how to write. In my life, I have gathered a little collection of situations and happenings, both of-my-hand and as an idle witness. I really enjoy telling, embellishing on, and putting my own spin on these events. Crafting them into the way I interpret or interpreted them when they were experienced. I see words as my favorite medium to transfer ideas from my head to the functioning world. Better than paint, better than elephant dung, better than fired clay. I like to slap words together to represent concepts I find relevant, and wrap the mess into a story blanket to make it less preachy.
I do this to get the crap out of my head.
And if anyone else enjoys it, then that is just more Bailey’s in my coffee. Friggin’ sweet.
But telling stories is very different from writing, which requires a high level of technical skill. A story can be accidentally funny, or anecdotally interesting… but if written correctly, can be a brilliant piece with almost immeasurable depth and limitless interpretation (think: The Old Man and the Sea, or… The Stranger). A well-written story has a life of its own, far beyond the source event(s) or the intent of the writer. The trinkety story beneath the writing becomes as multi-faceted as it is in the mind of the Teller.
Yes, that sounds cheesy as fuck, but you must admit, it really is an interest goal for a simple story teller to set his mind to: words as art. Shit… that’s crazy talk!
Yup.
In an attempt to work toward my goal (actually writing something, instead of just outlining plots, only to get distracted, and then blogging about –yet- another drunken escapade out here on the interweb instead), I intend to try and put whatever creative juju I have into whole-assed writing. If I am to ever learn how to write, I imagine it will require every remaining mental resource at my disposal.
That is to say, that whatever I post here in the coming months will more than likely be pieces of things I am working on. Stories which I feel warrant being written. So, if you only come here to bathe in bad grammar and tales of drunken idiocy, feel free to delete me from your favorites, or remove my link from your page. Bygones.
That’s right. This blog might be turning into the same ol’ writer hack bullshit that you see out here in blogworld. If you are like me, then you hate the stink of it all.
“Hi! Welcome to Shanda’s Magical Writing Blog! OMG I luuuurve writing! LMFAOFODEEEFEI!!! When I get bigger, I am going to write like Sex and The City!”
I support anyone looking to express themselves. Everyone has an itch to scratch, a Black Beauty that they're searching for. But if I simply dwell in hackery (OMFG NO!), then I promise to shoot "the writing horse" before it pisses me off with its inceasant limping.
I already have a job and shit. No need to cram a square peg in a circle hole.
Again, I cannot stress this enough: I’m not claiming to be a writer. Yet. I’m a story Teller. A Teller who wishes to polish it up a bit, and do what every human being on this planet (worth their salt) should be doing: make an effort to transform his life experiences into something meaningful (even if he fails).
And I will be practicing. Here. And I will welcome any and all critique, unless you’re a dick, in which case I will ignore you like I ignore the whimpers of my battered liver.
Word. Words. Worded Words. sWords.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Monday, January 10, 2005
Maybe I will Never Learn.... Right.
It is strange how little things seem to change, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that a substantial and deeply needed adjustment demands to be made. Especially when it comes to keeping primal behavior in check… while floating the Great River Booze. I’m not talking about controlling one’s sexual urges, although that is a legitimate problem for most (I believe I am beyond that mumbo-jumbo at this juncture in my life), I am referring to good ole fashioned idiocy, ill-founded decisions, and knee-jerk directions which almost always leave everyone around you yelling awkward brilliance at you such as:
1) For the last time, put that down. Yes, it is seriously ON FIRE.
2) For the last time, take a step back. Yes, that is a river, and it is a long drop.
3) No, I do not want to arm wrestle you. Or that chick. Or the cab driver.
4) No, you cannot pee here.
5) No, you cannot smoke that here.
6) WHERE did you get these pills?
7) How did you end up with two different shoes on?
8) Whose pants ARE those?
9) Dude, I don’t know you. You spit when you talk, and that’s nasty.
10) GET UP. You’re going to be hit by a car.
Friday was an interesting dive into such idiocy. While I’m never proud of what I do when I’ve given up all ideas of reason, I can never really fault myself either. This is what I do from time to time, and the frequency of occurrence is (thankfully?) decreasing (slowly).
So here are some questions I am currently asking myself:
1) Which came first, the craziness or the liquor?
2) What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy” anyhow?
3) What the hell difference would it make if I answered 1 and 2?
My left knee is all fucked up. And I blame Friday night. Rather, I blame the combination of me + Friday night + mixed booze + Red Bull + latent frustration with the point of it all. But really, losing some of the functionality of my weakest of legs is a small price to pay considering: the high value risked in exchange for a good time.
It started simple enough, at Deville, for happy hour. No waves there, just some standard Mandarin & Tonics to ease my way out of the week. Good conversation, good crowd, and Vance & Carol brought pizza. By eight o’clock, the initial group of a dozen had whittled down to two. Me and Alan. I don’t get to hang with Alan that much, as our schedules never really mesh with convenience, so this was a rare opportunity to hang out and catch up. Alan is one of those really rare individuals who knows what he wants, keeps that list reasonable, and he quietly achieves those goals, never seeking approval for his successes or achievements. He is his own motivation. So, he’s a guy to learn some real life lessons from. Maybe he has discovered some sort of shortcut to the discovery of Meaning, and all we needed to do was discuss it… But we decided to drink instead.
Don’t judge, hater.
An hour later, we’re on our way to Foundation to kick it with Mare, Jen, and Brandon. Three more Mandarin & tonics later, I’m arguing with Jen about the merits of “Rock Out With Your Cock Out” as a catch-phrase. I hate the damn thing because it makes no sense to me. Plus, it was on Britney Spears’ husband’s mesh-back trucker hat. I get the idea that someone just wanted to rhyme Rock with Cock, and that stupid-ass phrase was the answer they came up with: the new Flasher motto. Fuck that pointless saying, and fuck those hats too. I lump that Von Dutch nonsense in there as well (damn, they make a killing selling those shitty hats to dumb-fuck hipsters and L.A. socialites, destroying my sense of decency in the world).
We staggered out of Foundation and ended up at Red Fez. That’s where the Red Bull reared its ugly-ass liquid-cocaine head. I wanted one vodka-Red Bull, just to get the blood flowing. I had been drinking for five hours straight at that point, and wanted to last at least four more. Well, one turned into three. Which turned into me harassing the guest DJ with questions about the whereabouts of the resident DJ, pestering some stupid chicken-heads for a hit off their hookah (they rent hookahs there, Moroccan theme and all), and talking incessantly to anyone in earshot (including while at the urinals, which is strictly forbidden by the Guy Code). Alan jumped on the Red Bull train, and we and the ladies steam-rolled our way to Oslo for yet: more drinks and grooves.
A word to those who enjoy fighting at the club: you aren’t gangsta, and neither are your dumb-ass friends. This isn’t Good Fellas, and you aren’t Fitty Cent. The 90-pound ladies need to mind their business (don’t start any shit, because you CANNOT back it up, and your poor boyfriend will be stuck with medical bills, all because you are an idiot with a big mouth) and the men need to be gentlemen (don’t touch on anyone else’s lady or destroy everyone else’s good time by being a macho, gotta-prove-somethin’-to-my-daddy dick head because get this: no one gives a shit). That’s how the civilized world works. If you don’t like it, move to Haiti. I hope you choke on your own broken teeth. Asshole.
So while I was swaying to the beat on the dance floor at Oslo, minding my own, keeping myself out of trouble, a goddamn fight breaks out OVER my head. It reminded me of Houston in that the two fellows were Asian, skinny, and apparently more interested in pre-gunfire posturing rather than trading punches. My drunk ass was stuck between the two, hand on each chest, determined to keep them from hating each other. I have no idea why I cared, or why I ever care, but I did (do). I HATE fights at clubs. I go there for a good time, and it really pisses me off when knuckleheads don’t know how to act. Not that staggering around, burning people with carelessly gestured cigarettes, and sleeping in bathroom stalls is acceptable behavior… but I see that behavior as more of an annoyance than a true threat, and therefore less egregious a violation of club protocol.
Alan and Mare were completely against me standing in the middle of a fight on the dance floor, and I remember them repeatedly tugging at me, trying to pull me to the periphery. I did my best to stand my ground, as these two groups continued to talk shit to one another, over my head. Other strangers were getting involved. There was a growing contingency of whiteys, jumping in on one Asian dude’s side, which continues to confound me (they just yelled incoherently about “kicking some fucking ass”, over and over, and over and over and over… I was afraid I would get lumped into their camp).
Then, as sudden as it seemed to start, it dissipated. One of the two left, as did his crew, and we continued dancing as if nothing had happened. Details are a bit hazy, so I am not sure what broke the thing up. Did the gorilla-bouncers show up? The cops (I’ve seen a couple of “take-downs” in there before)? Or did everyone finally focus in on the ridiculous Caucasian guy, flailing about in the middle of dance floor exclaiming “guys, guys, seriously, this is Austin! We don’t fight here!” It certainly isn’t a boast, but I really do fantasize that they all looked at me and said to themselves “damn, look this piece of work right here. Shouldn’t he be beggin’ for change out front or something? Wait a minute, what am I angry about? Whatever, I’m outta this bitch. Peace.”
My right arm has some good bruises on it. Nice, deep purple ones with brownish-grey lining. I’m not sure if those were misguided punches thrown my direction, or my friends’ man-handling of me to get me off the dance floor… whatever.
Last Call hit, and we were booted out onto the street. There was no way in hell we were going home any time soon (I like to keep hanging around downtown after getting piss-drunk, because it is genius. Pure genius). (No, it isn’t) So Alan and I decide to hit up Katz’s for some grub. We get all the way there, only to decide that we did not want to wait in line for a table. Too much Red Bull running through the system makes a person anxious and irritable. A little booze makes you an idiot. The combination may prove lethal if applied to two guys waiting in a long-ass line for half-rate food.
So I peed on the building instead, and then we left.
We headed back toward the dirty section of 6th street for a Best-Wurst Bratwurst (lovely). Halfway there, the Red Bull and my tendency toward idiocy huddled together and came up with a brilliant plan to expend some of this unnecessary energy…
A foot race. Down the crowded streets of 6th, oozing with all the obnoxious fraternity monkeys and G-Unit rejects: all flammable with booze. Absolutely brilliant.
We set our feet on a pavement line, just before Colorado, called the mark, and took off running a full-on race. Like a couple of fifth-graders. I swear, I thought I was flying. My feet could barely keep up with body as my dress shoes slipped and skidded their way over puddles of urine, around trash cans, hurdling curbs and the sleeping homeless. Alan was WAY ahead of me until we hit Congress, where he slowed down for traffic. We did not have the green. And that is where brass-balled lunacy will help you make the call that will bring home the trophy. Into traffic I went, at full speed, dodging drunk drivers like a Frogger pro. I kept hauling ass until I hit Brazos, jumping over/through what felt like an almost endless gauntlet of drunken frat-boys’ attempts to trip, punch, and knock me down. Why they gotta hate on drunken sprinter? I mean, shit.
When I finally came to a stop on the corner where the Best-Wurst goods are peddled, I did so on my left leg. Not good. When I stopped, all the force of my momentum was transferred to my left knee, and it popped. Audibly. Fuckmenuts, my knee is now shot.
But I got a damn good Best-Wurst out of the deal. I even let them put all that nasty condiment shit on there. De-fucking-licious. The knee will mend anyhow.
But that isn’t the point. The three questions still loom, demanding as ever, as I hobble about at work today, dragging my left foot as if it were cleft.
Which came first: craziness or liquor? Well, I guess it is safe to say that I’ve always been a bit insane. Last Friday is hardly evidence of that, but it might be rated as indicative. The liquor simply greases the gears of the machine. Once I have no more need for the machine, I will abandon the fuel. That’s my best guess.
What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy”? None. After writing this, I don’t believe I do “get crazy”. My reactions to things are perfectly sane, and relatively tame. Crazy is when you go to a 6pm happy hour at Bennigan’s, and twelve hours later you find yourself tossing salads to “work” your way out of a prison in central Mexico. All I do is moon people, start foot races, and pee in a sink every now and again (don’t hate, don’t knock it ‘till you tried it, and don’t wash your hands at the Denny’s near St. Johns and IH35 – trust me on this one).
So, answering 1 and 2 really has not helped me get anywhere. Damnit. So much for introspection.
Damn you Best-Wurst!
1) For the last time, put that down. Yes, it is seriously ON FIRE.
2) For the last time, take a step back. Yes, that is a river, and it is a long drop.
3) No, I do not want to arm wrestle you. Or that chick. Or the cab driver.
4) No, you cannot pee here.
5) No, you cannot smoke that here.
6) WHERE did you get these pills?
7) How did you end up with two different shoes on?
8) Whose pants ARE those?
9) Dude, I don’t know you. You spit when you talk, and that’s nasty.
10) GET UP. You’re going to be hit by a car.
Friday was an interesting dive into such idiocy. While I’m never proud of what I do when I’ve given up all ideas of reason, I can never really fault myself either. This is what I do from time to time, and the frequency of occurrence is (thankfully?) decreasing (slowly).
So here are some questions I am currently asking myself:
1) Which came first, the craziness or the liquor?
2) What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy” anyhow?
3) What the hell difference would it make if I answered 1 and 2?
My left knee is all fucked up. And I blame Friday night. Rather, I blame the combination of me + Friday night + mixed booze + Red Bull + latent frustration with the point of it all. But really, losing some of the functionality of my weakest of legs is a small price to pay considering: the high value risked in exchange for a good time.
It started simple enough, at Deville, for happy hour. No waves there, just some standard Mandarin & Tonics to ease my way out of the week. Good conversation, good crowd, and Vance & Carol brought pizza. By eight o’clock, the initial group of a dozen had whittled down to two. Me and Alan. I don’t get to hang with Alan that much, as our schedules never really mesh with convenience, so this was a rare opportunity to hang out and catch up. Alan is one of those really rare individuals who knows what he wants, keeps that list reasonable, and he quietly achieves those goals, never seeking approval for his successes or achievements. He is his own motivation. So, he’s a guy to learn some real life lessons from. Maybe he has discovered some sort of shortcut to the discovery of Meaning, and all we needed to do was discuss it… But we decided to drink instead.
Don’t judge, hater.
An hour later, we’re on our way to Foundation to kick it with Mare, Jen, and Brandon. Three more Mandarin & tonics later, I’m arguing with Jen about the merits of “Rock Out With Your Cock Out” as a catch-phrase. I hate the damn thing because it makes no sense to me. Plus, it was on Britney Spears’ husband’s mesh-back trucker hat. I get the idea that someone just wanted to rhyme Rock with Cock, and that stupid-ass phrase was the answer they came up with: the new Flasher motto. Fuck that pointless saying, and fuck those hats too. I lump that Von Dutch nonsense in there as well (damn, they make a killing selling those shitty hats to dumb-fuck hipsters and L.A. socialites, destroying my sense of decency in the world).
We staggered out of Foundation and ended up at Red Fez. That’s where the Red Bull reared its ugly-ass liquid-cocaine head. I wanted one vodka-Red Bull, just to get the blood flowing. I had been drinking for five hours straight at that point, and wanted to last at least four more. Well, one turned into three. Which turned into me harassing the guest DJ with questions about the whereabouts of the resident DJ, pestering some stupid chicken-heads for a hit off their hookah (they rent hookahs there, Moroccan theme and all), and talking incessantly to anyone in earshot (including while at the urinals, which is strictly forbidden by the Guy Code). Alan jumped on the Red Bull train, and we and the ladies steam-rolled our way to Oslo for yet: more drinks and grooves.
A word to those who enjoy fighting at the club: you aren’t gangsta, and neither are your dumb-ass friends. This isn’t Good Fellas, and you aren’t Fitty Cent. The 90-pound ladies need to mind their business (don’t start any shit, because you CANNOT back it up, and your poor boyfriend will be stuck with medical bills, all because you are an idiot with a big mouth) and the men need to be gentlemen (don’t touch on anyone else’s lady or destroy everyone else’s good time by being a macho, gotta-prove-somethin’-to-my-daddy dick head because get this: no one gives a shit). That’s how the civilized world works. If you don’t like it, move to Haiti. I hope you choke on your own broken teeth. Asshole.
So while I was swaying to the beat on the dance floor at Oslo, minding my own, keeping myself out of trouble, a goddamn fight breaks out OVER my head. It reminded me of Houston in that the two fellows were Asian, skinny, and apparently more interested in pre-gunfire posturing rather than trading punches. My drunk ass was stuck between the two, hand on each chest, determined to keep them from hating each other. I have no idea why I cared, or why I ever care, but I did (do). I HATE fights at clubs. I go there for a good time, and it really pisses me off when knuckleheads don’t know how to act. Not that staggering around, burning people with carelessly gestured cigarettes, and sleeping in bathroom stalls is acceptable behavior… but I see that behavior as more of an annoyance than a true threat, and therefore less egregious a violation of club protocol.
Alan and Mare were completely against me standing in the middle of a fight on the dance floor, and I remember them repeatedly tugging at me, trying to pull me to the periphery. I did my best to stand my ground, as these two groups continued to talk shit to one another, over my head. Other strangers were getting involved. There was a growing contingency of whiteys, jumping in on one Asian dude’s side, which continues to confound me (they just yelled incoherently about “kicking some fucking ass”, over and over, and over and over and over… I was afraid I would get lumped into their camp).
Then, as sudden as it seemed to start, it dissipated. One of the two left, as did his crew, and we continued dancing as if nothing had happened. Details are a bit hazy, so I am not sure what broke the thing up. Did the gorilla-bouncers show up? The cops (I’ve seen a couple of “take-downs” in there before)? Or did everyone finally focus in on the ridiculous Caucasian guy, flailing about in the middle of dance floor exclaiming “guys, guys, seriously, this is Austin! We don’t fight here!” It certainly isn’t a boast, but I really do fantasize that they all looked at me and said to themselves “damn, look this piece of work right here. Shouldn’t he be beggin’ for change out front or something? Wait a minute, what am I angry about? Whatever, I’m outta this bitch. Peace.”
My right arm has some good bruises on it. Nice, deep purple ones with brownish-grey lining. I’m not sure if those were misguided punches thrown my direction, or my friends’ man-handling of me to get me off the dance floor… whatever.
Last Call hit, and we were booted out onto the street. There was no way in hell we were going home any time soon (I like to keep hanging around downtown after getting piss-drunk, because it is genius. Pure genius). (No, it isn’t) So Alan and I decide to hit up Katz’s for some grub. We get all the way there, only to decide that we did not want to wait in line for a table. Too much Red Bull running through the system makes a person anxious and irritable. A little booze makes you an idiot. The combination may prove lethal if applied to two guys waiting in a long-ass line for half-rate food.
So I peed on the building instead, and then we left.
We headed back toward the dirty section of 6th street for a Best-Wurst Bratwurst (lovely). Halfway there, the Red Bull and my tendency toward idiocy huddled together and came up with a brilliant plan to expend some of this unnecessary energy…
A foot race. Down the crowded streets of 6th, oozing with all the obnoxious fraternity monkeys and G-Unit rejects: all flammable with booze. Absolutely brilliant.
We set our feet on a pavement line, just before Colorado, called the mark, and took off running a full-on race. Like a couple of fifth-graders. I swear, I thought I was flying. My feet could barely keep up with body as my dress shoes slipped and skidded their way over puddles of urine, around trash cans, hurdling curbs and the sleeping homeless. Alan was WAY ahead of me until we hit Congress, where he slowed down for traffic. We did not have the green. And that is where brass-balled lunacy will help you make the call that will bring home the trophy. Into traffic I went, at full speed, dodging drunk drivers like a Frogger pro. I kept hauling ass until I hit Brazos, jumping over/through what felt like an almost endless gauntlet of drunken frat-boys’ attempts to trip, punch, and knock me down. Why they gotta hate on drunken sprinter? I mean, shit.
When I finally came to a stop on the corner where the Best-Wurst goods are peddled, I did so on my left leg. Not good. When I stopped, all the force of my momentum was transferred to my left knee, and it popped. Audibly. Fuckmenuts, my knee is now shot.
But I got a damn good Best-Wurst out of the deal. I even let them put all that nasty condiment shit on there. De-fucking-licious. The knee will mend anyhow.
But that isn’t the point. The three questions still loom, demanding as ever, as I hobble about at work today, dragging my left foot as if it were cleft.
Which came first: craziness or liquor? Well, I guess it is safe to say that I’ve always been a bit insane. Last Friday is hardly evidence of that, but it might be rated as indicative. The liquor simply greases the gears of the machine. Once I have no more need for the machine, I will abandon the fuel. That’s my best guess.
What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy”? None. After writing this, I don’t believe I do “get crazy”. My reactions to things are perfectly sane, and relatively tame. Crazy is when you go to a 6pm happy hour at Bennigan’s, and twelve hours later you find yourself tossing salads to “work” your way out of a prison in central Mexico. All I do is moon people, start foot races, and pee in a sink every now and again (don’t hate, don’t knock it ‘till you tried it, and don’t wash your hands at the Denny’s near St. Johns and IH35 – trust me on this one).
So, answering 1 and 2 really has not helped me get anywhere. Damnit. So much for introspection.
Damn you Best-Wurst!
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