Friday, March 11, 2005

Having trouble with comments?

Has anyone tried to comment which resulted in little more than errors galore? I've been getting all kinds of crazy errors while trying to comment on other people's blogs. Email me if you're having trouble here: or, at any one of my other email addresses you may have. We take all kinds 'round here.

Goddamn janky-ass comments 'functionality'.


Hapless Romantic.

So we had our one year anniversary last night. Totally slipped my mind. If she had not remembered, it would have been completely forgotten. Harsh? Yes. Honest? Absolutely. I have never been good with dates. Or names. Or reasons behind bruises. Or parking tickets.

Hell, go ahead and lump: district voting, dentist appointments, dry cleaning, leaf blowing, and getting my goddamn licenses renewed into that bursting pile of forgotten-ness as well. Life is like that. Some remember, some don’t. What can you do, right?

I have had ‘issues’ with remembering small detailed mumbo-jumbo my entire life. I always seem to forget those intimate pieces of situations and people which are really important to them. And this tends to come across as assholish. As if I meant to crap all over them and their delicate sensibilities. But I have never, to the best of my memory, forgotten anything on purpose. That would be considered malicious. I prefer to see myself as either a) incapable (preferred) or b) negligent (not so preferred).

The fact that I tend to forget things about people and situations I have deep feelings for, pushes me toward believing that it is all a question of capability. How much blame can you honestly put on a man who does not hear you calling his name, if he is clinically deaf? Telling him that he has ears, and that they *should* work does not a workable solution provide (my international econ professor used to refer to sentences like that as ‘convoluted Craig’ sentences. He was kind of a dick. He was cool as shit). Now many of my friends have either given up on me and my memory (consider me a complete ass and failure, because I forgot to call them on their mother’s birthday or some such nonsense), or they have grown to accept it – ignore it – and focus on my more impressive qualities. Qualities such as:

I cannot breakdance, but I try.
I am really pale.
I have the foot-speed of January molasses.
I can spel beter then a too year old parot.
I parallel park like a bitch in heat.
My one-arm push-ups resemble a man sleeping on the ground.
I cook a mean and nutritious bowl of cereal (with or without spoon)
I can make up really ridiculous similes and metaphors.
I like to tell big lies about being good at things which I have no knowledge of.

I mean, with all that impressiveness, it is easy to overlook the fact that we may have met thirteen times (two of those times may have involved gifts between us) and I still do not remember your name. Seriously, have you seen how pale I am! Wow!

So my lady made us the most wonderful dinner. It was this meal that she totally invented the previous day. In her mind. Somewhere in there, she thought that mangos, mid-sized shrimp, mango chutney (with chili powder), and green peppers should be marinated together – simmered in a shallow sauce pan until the shrimp buckled – and served over rice… would taste like heaven. And she was completely on the mark. It was, by far, the best meal I have had in many months (sorry Mom, and sorry anyone else who I may have forgotten about who made me dinner recently. You understand, what with the shitty memory and all, right? Thanks so much).

I had been so pathetic and sickly for so many days that I felt a burst of energy yesterday evening. A burst of energy so refined, and so profound, that it manifested in old-folks behavior. Which I LOVED. Dearly.

We danced to Al Green in my closet-sized living room (she is trying to teach me dance properly. I prefer rump-shakin’, if given an option, and I think she wants to expand my dancing horizons immensely). We ate her delicious meal and talked about art (her art, mainly, which is brilliant). Then we watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Jim Carey… acted like a close relative of mine in that movie). Then we napped (call it what you like). Then we played Scrabble (she’s a mad-ass Scrabble-dabbler). Then it was almost two in the morning. Craig passed out.

Just like old folks!

I am so glad ONE of us in this couple remembers these things. Because I would honestly hate to miss out. Wait, what am I talking about here? Damnit.

Just like old folks.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Midnight Enemas Really Suck. Seriously.

And if that is the name of some chord-chomping band from Topeka, Kansas, or some shit... well, they probably suck too.

I haven’t really been in the mood to write recently. And that is rather disappointing to me, since I really enjoy penning my thoughts. The process fascinates me. And the fact that anyone would bother to read it is even beyond that.

Hold up. That was obnoxiously masturbatory writing right there. What do you expect? It’s been a while since I have posted here, so my finger might be of the trigger persuasion. Bygones.

I've been gone, so let me throw out a couple of updates for those who like to pretend to know me (or for those who actually DO know me):

My shadow moved me to sweats on Monday when I thought someone at my work had discovered my blog. Lucky for me, the last entry was the one where I listed all the things I do to entertain myself while at work. All my unacceptable clandestine interests. Oh, and me taking laxatives on the job, just to ‘spice shit up’ in cube-land (hence the removal of that specific post, as it would have hit too close to home for some around these here office parts). But, alas, and to my better fortune, it was me. I saw my own self on my visit log, and it just so happened that I had come through my own blog to click my favorite links (to your right, toward the bottom) during my morning water. What a twat I am. My digital shadow made me piss myself, and delete one of my most ridiculous posts. Ah, such is life.

You may have noticed that I typed that I drank my “morning water” in the previous paragraph. You read correct. Craig has had no Coffee (save for one cup on Sunday, but it was Oaxacan coffee, and it had to be downed) since last Friday. Almost one whole goddamn week. Killing me over here. Killing me.

Craig has also not been drinking booze all week. For those who know Craig, they know that this is an impressive and rare feat. I enjoy a good drink. This is elementary to me. I know how others view this kind of activity: contempt, irritation, sadness, desperation, desire, an overwhelming feeling that only the gods could possibly drink that much-that often, etc… And I don’t dispute anyone’s right to their own opinion. But I really don’t think I drink all that much. So when I am denied it entirely, I tend to lose my shit. So I’ve been losing my shit for the past (almost) week. Losing. My. Shit.

Speaking of losing my shit. My ass is broken, apparently. The Doctors have no clue what the hell is going on down there, but it is safe to say that the equipment is just all kinds of busted at the moment. Kinda like the engine light came on. There’s just no clear indication of what the actual problem is. All there is, currently, is an indicator that some kind of problem exists.

So there’s that.

Which ties everything all up together real nice. The laxatives experiment? Not so much an experiment as it was ‘man, what the hell is wrong with my goddamn ass? Maybe these’ll help me drop a bomb at work!” kind of thing. Baboom! Yeah!.... no. Nothin’. Which almost lead to the emergency room. Avoiding the ER meant enduring some rather horrific situations which, believe it or not, I will not go into detail here. If you see me, ask, and I’ll probably give you a minute-by-minute. But for me to avoid posting it here, you have to know that it MUST be beyond unpleasant. I am crass. My sensibilities are not measured in terms of delicacy but rather in terms of public nuisance. Suffice to say, it was all pretty fucked up, but interesting in terms of life-experience.

And that is what lead me to the good doctor, who recommended some simple non-solutions. Which pushed me to my favorite source of all things medical: my Mammasita. She recommended all kinds of crazy-ass chemical elixirs, and we finally settled on Magnesium Citrate. If you have never done Mag-citrate (as it is called in the health industry, they’re all into ghetto-fying product names), then you are one lucky fucker. But your days are numbered, so you better enjoy them while you can. Most will tell you that it is the taste that really makes this stuff so nasty. I don’t know about all that. It tastes like red bull and vomit. So if you’ve ever been there before, and you know have, then it will be more disturbingly familiar than disgusting. So the flavor is not pleasing, but it is not as putrid as most health professionals play it out to be. But the results… sweet jesus. No fucking around with that stuff. BAM! It beat my stomach like a truck-stop call-girl. SMACK! It slapped my bladder around like a thirteen year-old’s pud. I mean, it actually burns. Like a goddamn chemical burn. What. The. Fuck?

Moving on. So magnesium has the property of pulling water. So it literally leeches your body of all water. From your eyes. From your elbow joints. From your toes. From your fucking knee caps. My lips feel chapped as a result. All powdery feeling.

That means that I am not allowed to drink dehydrates of any sort. And since I only drink liquor, beer, coffee, and a-lot of water… my options have sadly become limited to: a shit-load (bucket-load?) of water (approximately twice as much as I usually drink. Fuck.). Every day. I have to pee every 45 seconds. And it still smells like Magnesium Citrate. This is awesome on such a tremendously large scale that I believe I am failing, quite miserably, at properly projecting how kick-ass it really is.

Best part? Oh, the BEST part?

The doctor has no idea what my problem is. It might be psychosomatic. It might be overwhelming gas. It might be IBS (which would rock like goddamn granite!). Or it could be that a very immature hippo wandered into my bedroom one night and crawled up my ass to live. A hippo who apparently can thrive on copious amounts of magnesium citrate and Raisin Bran. Fucking hippo.

So that’s why there has not been much on here recently. Been at the doctor, or out of commission, destroyed by complete lack of sleep. I hope the week has treated you well, and that you never have to give yourself something truly disturbing. Like the execution of a home enema kit, bought from a 24 hour Randall’s at 3am, to help quell the army of alien mutants, violently rebelling in your colon, taking mad punches at nearby vital organs. I mean, for random instance. A totally random scenario right there.

Not that I would even know what the hell that is. Goddamn it feels good to be alive… WHOO-HOO!

Monday, March 07, 2005


Yes. This is a big ol’ blanket email, begging for something or other. Yes, you can feel free to delete it. Yes, you can feel free to molotov cocktail my ride.


Nix that last one. I need it to get to work tomorrow.

I have a slight favor to ask… I have a friend (as many people do, even lowly folk such as myself), who has just recently moved to Chicago for a job. So he’s new to that scene. And even though I have never been there myself, I have heard that it kicks MUCH ass. And if I moved there, I would probably appreciate a friendly guide. Someone to have lunch with. Borrow large sums of unreturned money. That kind of thing.

But this is not ME we’re talking about here. This is John-John (‘in the know’) or John Nguyen (‘out the know’).

So do you know any peeps in Chicago that would be willing to show John-John around? Really, I would be doing them a favor by introducing them to the badassedness that is: John-John. Trust me. J-J is good people. Your friends are good people. They could all be good people together. Learning about Chicago.


So let me know if you have some connections, who know where the interesting spots are. The down bars. The best coffee shops. The hipster locales. The hip-hop bars where security maliciously sprays mace, indiscriminately into large, over-crowded rooms. He especially likes those places.

Shout out to a brutha! By email, comment, whatever.