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  • Notes from the Underworld

    To paraphrase some Dostoyevsky for y'all. And no, he ain't that hockey player. I may not have had the time to pick up a book in WAY too long, but I have occasionally done so.

    Newspapers, however, I reserve for those chilly nights when I'm sleeping in the park. With the other, you know, dregs of humanity.


    In honor of a recent comment hereabouts: Have you heard about the new Pirates of the Caribbean flick?

    It's ARRRRRRRRR Rated.

    Groan. Y'all should catch the evening show. It's a smidge better.

    Who'm I bullshitting? Nope. It's not.


    Note to Self: NEVER do blow at the Chateau Marmont.

    You'd think young Hollywood would learn that this can only end badly. Fortunately or un, they likely never will.


    Speaking of dead careers, it turns out that Vanilla Ice is still alive. I know, I was concerned, too. Is it just me that finds it kinda sad that his only recent record is of the police variety. Something about a recent arrest.

    Yep, it probably is.

    And who knew that pushing your wife can be construed (it's called a vocabulary) as abuse? Man, I Wish I'd have know that sooner. Oh well, live and learn.


    I recently heard a cover of Train in Vain. As a lounge song. Nope, NO idea who perpetrated this particular crime against humanity. I did, however, feel violated in a way that will likely never go away, no matter how many showers I take.

    To briefly, you know, summarize: said song left me feeling like I'd been on the wrong end of a back alley gang rape. And not in a good way, either.

    On the other paw, Fall Out Boy's live cover of Beat It kinda kicks ass.

    And I firmly fall in the camp of Pete Wentz can do better than Ashlee Simpson. On the plus side, maybe if he produces her next disc, it won't suck quite as hard.

    Although I like to think that SHE does. Again, spring, thoughts of romance and all the rest of it.


    For the first time in many a moon, I ventured out to the bar last night.

    My club game is non-existent. But knowing there's a problem is the first step. I did, however, manage to be all sociable and shit up until the point we venue shifted from pub to nightclub. Vibing and everything.

    I should've made better use of the 3 attractive womenfolks I had with me. Both in terms of social proof and practice. Not to mention on the over compensating for recently being kicked to the curb in both my professional and personal life.

    I did, however, learn a great deal about: a) the psychology of women and 2) exactly how weak the competition hereabouts in fact is. Invaluable.

    As was the realization that I still kinda hate the clubs. But that's where the womenfolks are and if you can succeed there, daygame's a breeze. This first trip was just for immersion, refamiliarization and observation. Next we work on approaching. Although that's where I have to put my pivot, Denise, to better use.

    It was, however, instructive to watch my companions work AFC's for drinks. Yeah, I know, but there apparently still ARE guys that try to buy women's attention with shiny baubles and such. I, on the other hand, get the womenfolks to mule reasonably priced cigarettes across the border for me.


    It's awfully difficult to have to overcome the fact that one's pops was likely an AFC and everything your moms ever told you about women was wrong. Just trust me on this. I really need to land me a good wing again. Especially one that can teach me.

    Although I'ma do my bestest to make better usage of the three singletons I was out with last night. Get some feedback and shit.


    Well, Casino Royale's on Movie Central, and I'm out. Enjoy your weekend, y'all.

  • Alone

    I hope y'all never feel it as much as I do tonight. No particular reason, this is one of them times when my free floating anxiety (which has left me pretty much to my own devices of late) simply remains that. There are times, not so much now, although more frequently of late, when...

    Fuck, I don't even know how to say it. Let's just say that sometimes my rooms scream of alone.

    Yeah, I know, I pop up once in a spell and blather on about some nonsensical pop culture something or other and it amuses me; possibly one or two others. Like a clown and shit.

    But that's not me. I've always been the guy what you see walking off into the distance at the end of the movie. Beaten and bruised by whatever. Noone and nothing touches him. Whether it's done or said to or by him makes no difference.

    I got a phone call from California tonight. Not knowing anyone in Cali, I assumed salesfolk and screened. Turns out it was a pal whose flight home from Singapore had been delayed in San Francisco. After I listened to the message, I felt badly. What if this was the last chance I'll ever have to have spoken to her again?

    I'm still pretty shaken up by Charlton Heston's death.

    So, I'm watching Reign Over Me tonight (Adam Sandler really DOES have range; you know, when he's not playing Happy Gilmore (a classic, by the way) over and over again and then once more for good measure), and I'm misting up because I know exactly how his character feels.

    No, I've never had anyone close to me die, tragically or not so much (although I've used the recently dead fiancee opener a time or 2, but who hasn't, really?), and I've never really let anyone close enough to see the kind of things I'm babbling about now. Let them in close enough to matter.

    But I still know that a Broken heart is a literal activity, not just a metaphor.

    I'll admit, a lot of this is because I've recently undergone a great deal of (I fear) change in my day to day. I've been forced out of the company I've wasted the last 17 years of my life toiling for. Yes, I've found a better place, Somewhere I Belong (to drop some Linkin Park on y'all), but still.

    And I've recently lost the best part of me. This week, it's in Jamaica.

    She is.

    Because of all that I'm not. All I can never be. All that I managed to pretend I was for the past 13 months.

    Yes, a lot of it was convenience. Yes, I probably took her a little bit for granted. But that doesn't mean I didn't care for her.

    I still do. But...

    A week in girl time is an eternity.

    She'll forget me, the way I wish I could forget me. Although she WILL still be my smoke mule on her way home. Dude, practicality comes first over everything else.

    And yes, I'll go out and bang half the phone book on principal. All the while pining away for my lovely neighbor, as that's simply how I roll.

    But I'll always wonder.

    And I'll always know.

    And on nights like tonight, when the demons come...


    She'll always feel like home.