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  • Too Long For Twitter or the Book of Face, So...

    It looks like after months and months of inactivity, I'm a blogger again. Sorry about that, chief. Turns out I enjoyed having someone to overshare my goofy stories and crackpot theories to in my inimitable Chatty Cathy way. And, while I'm grateful to the Universe for providing that temporarily, she's Gone. So y'all get to suffer. Turns out guys don't have a support group.


    Last night, to break the monotony of dreaming of folks from the past, distant and not enough, and of ridiculous share prices for stocks I long, ache, pine and emo to buy I was subjected to something kinda sorta offbeat. Kinda sorta like I. Sadly, of late I've spent more time stranded on the shores of Awake than in the blessed streams of Sleepytime.


    To preface, of late I've been attempting to cut back on the, you know, thinking during my waking hours. Turns out smart folk (bear with me, it's my blog and I'll claim whatever I like about myself, usually negatory) tend to overthink things and get in their own way. If you've perused my 2 most recent posts, you'll see a glaring example of how this is so.


    But I digress. I do that. Sue me. Another. Song of the day: ABBA - If It Wasn't For The Nights.


    Last night I was enjoying the ususal montage of cancelled TV show characters, women with whom things didn't quite work out (I'm single, can you believe that shit?), and scenes of fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada when the scene changed. For, because it's me, the worse. Worst, even. Suddenly I was sitting on a couch, watching film noir, eating pop tarts (the lone saving grace of this particular clip) and talking writing with Will Ferrell. Now, those of y'all who've stumbled upon my not drunk enough-type ramblings before will know exactly how I feel about this particular actor. And Michael Cera, but that's another tale. Suffice to say, not a fan. Don't see the appeal.


    So, what would good ol' Dr. Fraud say about this one?


    My subconscious is obviously out to fuck me up. Little does it know I'm likely to fuck me up worse. Anyhoo, it's so ON. Picture the junkyard scene from Superman III or damn near any scenes from Scanners. Fisticuffs , telekinesis and whatnot. Maybe the no-win scenario of the Kobyashi Maru. Whatever.


    Wishes of safety to those affected by Isaac.


    Hopes that Kenley Jansen's heart issues aren't especially serious.


    Peace, love and all the rest of it, y'all. Be good and be safe this long weekend. Or at least safe.

  • 1 + 1 = Blow Me

    So, after babbling like a brook last night, in my little Chatty Cathy way; it turns out that after 2 or 3 minutes of intense soul searching whilst taking a dump (I'm pretty sure that's how most ideas are actually contrived, but everything's about spin control now) this evening came my epiphany. My Eureka!, nay Gadzooks, even! moment:

    When every fibre of one's being is geared toward the pursuit of the ONS, one should expect it to end badly when one (points at self, screaming j'accuse!) decides midstream to switch to attempting to convert the target to an FWB.

    Especially given the fact that a) one's entire self of self is based upon ONS game, since I obviously have a limited attention span, and very little interest in playing charades for more than one night; 2) the lay was a foregone conclusion and c) one does not adapt well to change, so whyever would one initiate said change unless one was an inveterate fuckup? To, you know, sugar coat it to protect my feelings, woah woah woah feelings.

    One is only truly self sufficient when he is his own cockblock. So now I have closure. And back to the drawing board I go. Continue about your business. I know, I'm like a train wreck, ain't it cool?


  • It Wouldn't Be All Gentlemanly To Leave It Dragging On the Ground Behind Me

    And shit. And yet...like Marley's fucking ghost, I just can't shake the fucking thing. Sigh. Time to face it, I'm a good guy. And no, I still don't use spell check. Boys that look like me don't have to, whether or not we can actually operate the fucking thing. PS, I can't. It's such a good thing I'm pretty. Consider yoursleves warned. And this is all stream of 'consciousness', I always work with out a net. Simply how I roll.

    But not a nice one. Neither an orbiter nor her girlfriend be. Good ol' Will I Am Shakespeare hit the nail on the head with that one.


    So, let's cut to the chase, shall we? After all, it's been damn near this many months since I've had the time to post or, really (not that I actually do here or anything, but it's my party and I'll primal scream if I want to, fucking SUE me) anything to say. During which time, I've undergone 2 major life changes. What can I say? I'm a chameleon. And (Song of the Day: Everclear -) Everything to Everyone is the goal.

    Since last September: I've been to Vegas 7 times ish

    - I've been to Seattle twice

    - I've been to Los Angeles, Santa Monica and Anaheim

    - I've been to Palm Springs and San Diego

    - I've been to Phoenix

    - I've been to Sacramento

    - I've been to Houston

    - I've turned an escort into a moneymaker at the slot machines, serves her right for not pointing out which other girls were in the union; next time I get her to help me pick off drunk tourists

    - I've had cocaine discovered on my iPhone by a cute TSA agent who wouldn't let me watch the porn DVD she was deciding whether or not to confiscate with her

    - I've seen the ocean for the first time at age 39, same with Disneyland and, like with an escort, saying it's your first time doesn't get you a discount on entry

    - I've seen my first TV show taping, NBA, NFL and MLB games

    - I've seen Duran Duran, Bush, Filter, Neon Trees, Chevelle, Rod Stewart, Morrissey, John Mellencamp, Journey, The Eagles, Cowboy Junkies, Kelly Clarkson, Matt Nathanson, Night Ranger, Foreigner, and The Village People perform live

    - turned 40, still look 28

    - been welcomed to my home airport as though I were a tourist

    - and I shared a moment with Misty Stone, no really; you'd be surprised how friendly and approachable attractive celebrities can be

    - still haven't heard back from the pseudo-wife or gotten that divorce, though; a quick glance at the ever-popular tea leaves tells me that's not especially likely...and why is it that when I tell someone I have a funny awkward story (the only type I weave), she immediately asks if I got married in Vegas again?

    Maybe I really AM my Google results. And please stop Nancy Drewing them, ladies. Yes, you. Her, too.


    I'm not sure whether I was running from or to, but I finally have a career that I love which provides me with time and finances. I've been busy. But then, and I totally blame Suze Orman (not really, she's kind of my new hero, as she knows both money and pussy - choose your role models well, kiddies), as I read one of her books (I ain't a criminal, I can read, bitch) on the plane home from Vegas in April and realized that even though I had a seemingly bottomless travel fund (thank you, Air Miles) I had nary a fucking clue (me? really? what are the odds of that?) as to where it had originated or how to maintain/grow it.

    Fuck and I swore I'd cut to the chase. Again, sue me. I ramble, I meander, but eventually arrive at some sort of point. Ish.

    And then I discovered Jim Cramer and Warren Buffett. I had a new passion. I put away the pickup books and the travel guides and began devouring investing tomes. Since the end of April, I'm proud to say, I'm now pretty sure where every penny I'm worth is at. Every time some chode buys a girl flowers or a dumpy and/or sad girl buys a Dairy Queen Blizzard, I make money. And an angel may or may not get her wings.

    Let's just say I have an addictive personality. Some people golf, I make life changing decisions at the turn of a whim or phrase. The drop of a hat, even. I'm my favorite cliche.

    And all was well. Golden, even. The past was buried at sea. Since I'd finally been there and all.

    So I'm being as responsible-like as someone such as I can possibly be, even though going through extreme travel withdrawal.


    And then I met someone. I'm single, can you believe that shit?

    We have a great deal in common. For reals, not just my ability to adapt my 'personality' to match whoever else's to accomplish whatever nefarious pursuit I might dream up in my pretty little head at any given moment.

    Although she was the first person (until y'all) I ever told about the time my parents lost me (I'm still on the fence as to whether or not it was accidental) in Woolco (since bought out by Wal Mart - the folks must've fucking known and figured they could lose me for sure - smart) when I was a child. It's a good thing I was drunk, or I'd be wrestling even more demons than I currently am. Strike one. Never open up.

    I did everything right (apparently I retained some of the knowledge the Community has provided over the past few years). I teased constantly. I was busy, trying to make enough money to buy Compton (still in the works) when it goes bankrupt. My e-mail and text game remains tight, despite no real effort. Although I can still type really fast. Sometimes accurately, too. Yay, me! I cared least, it was on.

    I went to her place for our first meeting. Turns out I'm still, in my own little Captain Caveman (those who know know and the rest of you can look it up) way, a good kisser. From which all good things flow. Do your own math on that one, I'm from the Barbie (math is HARD!) school. Anyway, long story somewhat less so, as this is funny/awkward, not a lay report (a gentleman never tells, nor doth I), she was DTF. But, because I'm a complete fucking dunderhead (and, of course, knew it all along but, being the complete fuckup what I fucking am) I treated her with respect and promised I wouldn't have sex with her on the first meeting. But whatever else happened happened.

    This is the part where if it were a movie (and Denzel would play me, dude is fucking AWESOME), you'd be covering your eyes and feeling sorry for the hapless chump. Points at self. That's perfectly understandable, I know I did. However, in my self-defence, I'm 6'6'', she's 5'5'' and thin and our first kiss (I don't wait for that awkward moment at the end of the night, surprisingly enough) was when I B minused her on the Hug Test and then picked her up off the ground so we were almost the same height. And I totally kiss with my eyes open. Again, fucking sue me. Or send hate mail. Maybe she will.

    So things are going exactly how I want them to. But then I get greedy and think FWB over ONS and don't close. And haven't heard from her since. Of course. Because I'm obviously beta, having (in her mind) ignored or failed to understand the green light. Or I got her buying temperature up and then when she went out with her girlfriends afterwards someone more advanced took full advantage of the work I'd put in. You're welcome.

    Anyhoo, I'm bored now, so the takeaways are thus: I like her, me I'm still on the fence about

    - when someone is DTF, regardless no, ESPECIALLY if you want to see them again, always close

    - I have, yet again, been in a Mexican Standoff with myself over this one the past few days and yes it totally feels like coming home

    - I'm completely fucking (it's called a vocabulary, I have a liberal arts background and I've been up way too long today) baffled by the fact that the tried and true texts have failed to elicit a response, I may have to (only break the glass on this one as a last resort) go honesty...I'm not really sure how or even if I can flip the script back to where it belongs on this one

    - being a, in the words of Ralph Tresvant, Stone Cold Gentleman is really not something you want to try at home (see I told you'd I kinda sorta tie things in a neat little bow at the end), which is why I do these stupid things for both my readers

    And yes, I know that ship has sailed, but I'm the patron saint of lost causes. Thanks for listening. And thank you to the muse for putting in an appearance so I could occupy my time with something other than smoking and wanting to break shit.