Have you seen my stapler?

Not writing has been the best decision I’ve made in a long time. After getting laid off a while back and trudging through job listings on mediabistro or craigslist or wherever, I realized that in 2007 I’d left one job that was just a job (bartending) for another job that was just a job (copywriting) under the assumption that I was making “moves” for that nebulous thing many of us like to refer to as a career.

The whole idea of a career is pretty brand new for us humans. And even though they can make countless movies about mid-life epiphanies where you dismantle your cubicle and arson up your entire office because none of it makes any sense and all of it’s pointless, the message still seems to get lost that every single job you have will suck. Because we’re not made for it and deep down our souls are screaming at us to stop working for a paycheck just so we can buy more stuff and be a little more comfortable in our designer jeans or floppy combat boots or mustache or whatever the thing to do is. Unless you actually like what you’re doing.

I’m about in the middle. I’m back behind the bar on occasion and I’ve realized that I actually like it and would have no problem running the place. I’ve had a couple ideas kicking around upstairs but I’m only at the stage to start exploring them little by little, instead of making any big leaps. But realization number one: it’s okay to be back at the bar. And it’s also awesome.

All of this is to say, I’m ok where I’m at and it took a long ass time to get here. It’s tough though, since everything around us is telling us to go nuts and keep fighting for those swanky jobs so you can tell people you have a swanky job. Not that I was ever in the running for any kind of swanky job. Especially when I refuse to learn any sort of html or graphic design or pretty much anything you’re gonna need to know how to do on a computer in order to get a well-paying job.

It’s funny when people ask me, “So, what else do you do?” Right now? Nothing. But thanks for insulting me in a round about way. Our own personal timelines have nothing to do with the tracks that most of us are on. And it’s almost painfully difficult to extract yourself from that and start trying to follow that road that you can just barely see in the distance of your own mind. And it’s kind of funny that I had nothing to do with extracting myself from the day-to-day of the ol’ day job. Go figure.

In the meantime, you can all come by High Horse Saloon on Havemeyer and Hope and ask me what else I do. Happy 2012, jerks!

 

I’ll break the glass, I’ll break it downnn

Possibly just as good as the actual tattoo is this little photo the wife snapped as Dave was putting it on. Ouch-Town, USA. Thanks again, Dave Wallin, you are a scholar and a gentleman and a jerk.

Said it’s in my, in my heart

It’s funny in car commercials when the car drives through a construction site, sparks flying, mud sloshing around in slow motion, because you can’t just drive through a construction site. Somebody must’ve invented the car-through-the-construction-site shot and I bet that person never got any credit. It’s entirely possible that the individual actually is celebrated in the annals of car commercial history, though it’d be my guess that it was the work of a copywriter or two that tossed it into some script for Chevy or Ford at the last minute after having revised it thirty-seven times just to see what would happen. And they went for it. And now so does every commercial with a truck, or Jeep, or brakes or bumper cameras or flat screens or whatever they put in cars now. And I bet that copywriter is still alive , wishing he could’ve achieved the kind of status attained by the guy who thought to use the karaoke-that-goes-s0-terribly-and-uncomfortably-wrong-that-it’s-endearing scene in RomComs.

Anyway, there’s some decent TV in expensive Mexican hotels.

So, back from Mexico, back from the wedding, back from living a weird reality with a bunch of short haircuts from the Dress Barn corporate event –– which was happening at the hotel the first week we were there. Some incredible specimens parading around the premises..

Lots of upright, brown lizards shuffling around the pool, wrapped up in Lycra and Spandex, or whatever Dress Barn swimsuits are made of, asking for mojitos and cervezas at ten in the morning. Me, I stuck with pina coladas at ten in the morning. And throughout the day. Not sure how that happened, but I drank more pina coladas in a five or six day period than I’ve ever had –– and probably will ever have –– in my entire life.

I sped through The Goliath Bone the first day we were there, one of the two Mickey Spillane novels published posthumously by his buddy and fellow writer Max Allan Collins (who also wrote Road to Perdition.) It was decent enough but didn’t feel like a true Mike Hammer novel. I’m sure Jehova’s Witnesses or the Internet or 9/11 can be blamed for that.  Anyway, the book was good. Then I read Love, Lucy, Lucille Ball’s autobiography that her daughter found, also published posthumously and really, really great. It’s a cheap paperback and really fun and interesting. I’d get a Lucille Ball tattoo if the wife would let me. Spent countless mornings watching I Love Lucy reruns… Read Bossypants because I tried to start Teju Cole’s Open City (which my friend had given me back in New York before he left for London) and couldn’t get through it. So I picked it up again. And put it down again.

I kept stopping after a couple pages, mostly because it didn’t interest me and I resented the writer, but also because my mind kept wandering back to Chichen-Itza.

The place was incredible. The hotel, in comparison, was kind of one big, gaping, white shame on the beach. It was great, but that’s what they all were, that’s the economy, that’s what’s off that strip of the 307 highway. Big, sprawling, all-inclusive resorts where you can live like an asshole for a couple weeks, or a month if you’re Canadian or Australian or English. I just wanted to go back to Chichen-Itza, stare at the ball court, which was ten times the size I’d imagined, and hear stories about Quetzalcoatl and the jaguar gods that escort you around after you die. Obviously, this is a gross oversimplification. More on this later…

Anyway, back to reality. I did finally pick up The Hero with a Thousand Faces, which I started reading yesterday. Glad I started with The Power of Myth, it made for a good introduction. I eventually did get through Open City, I think it just took me a minute to switch paces, mentally. It was a nice book, the guy is thoughtful in the way I feel like I used to be. Maybe that’s why I kept putting it down when I first started reading.

Don’t eat the pan

Well, found some old books of mine and went through and salvaged what I thought worth salvaging. Funny enough, it’s mostly drawings and not much writing. Go figure. Not much of a writer and even less of an artist. The best thing is definitely the note my grandma left on what was probably a pan of brownies in the fridge. No idea when that’s from, at least five or six years ago. Most of this stuff is pretty old! And I was obviously buying a fair share of tattoo magazines there for a minute.

Dreaming in America

I’m always ambivalent about posting tattoos online, but at this point, I’ve already put up the first phase a few months ago, so I figured what the hell, I might as well post the finished product.

Also, like most tattooers who have a specific style, Mr. B. H. Robinson is often imitated and always imitated poorly. So if part of the worry is someone trying to make a bad copy (inevitable, no matter who you are), I’m pretty comfortable that the ripped off version wouldn’t even come close. Go ahead, put a bunch of gray in there, see what happens..

There’s a skull under there, too, but it was a tough shot to get with the shine on the shin due to the light. The few of you that check this thing, I know you are familiar with his work, but if you’re not, give Bailey’s blog a look here. Can’t wait to add to this guy. Thank you again, Bailey.

I don’t wanna be buried

Pet Sematary is on AMC at the moment.

I’ve been pretty terrible at updating this thing. Found a bunch of fun stuff from some old journals of mine, so I’ll probably ‘em scanned at some point and you can make fun of my little drawings.

Gettin’ hitched in 3 weeks, suckers!

Hurly burly

Completely forgot about the new Mastodon album! Out today, I think. Hopefully get it before work!

 

Hahahaa also, why are Mastodon shirts always so good?

To-do list for Saturdays

1. Drive to Philly for this with a buddy.

2. Arrive and get second wind.

3. Eat catfish po boy and drink Abita for lunch.

4. Remark how weird it is that the wife is in NOLA and you’re sitting in a NOLA-themed bar.

5. Walk to event, talk shit on various subjects

6. Remark on aggressive paatdown and “No moshing” sign.

7. Make simultaneous dad noises as you sit down after buying the first $7 beer of the day.

8. Don’t feel all that bad about spending $7 a beer at the “punk rock show.”

9. Get a proverbial slap in the face from 7 Seconds.

10. Note that the crowd may be the only decent and positive crowd left on the east coast.

11. Catch roughly your sixth second wind of the day.

12. See Suicide Machines and basically ride a wave of teenage euphoria for rest of day.

13. Sweat off all beers consumed thus far for next 4 minutes.

14. Fuck it, buy some merch. Remember aforementioned wave.

15. Feel bad for the first time that the wife couldn’t come.

16. Quickly remember she is currently livin’ it up in New Orleans.

17. Remark how X basically destroyed everyone else so far, save TSMs.

18. Have awesome and hilarious time during Descendents set.

19. Remember the pudgy Adicts-clad kid who really wanted to talk about motorcycles and how he was “overtaken” by a small gang of Pagans that said he was all right and bought him a shot of tequila after he told them in shouts and stomps that he could never be in any MC because he’s not good at taking directions and would stomp any motherfucker. And how it looked like he would attempt a makeout at any moment.

20. Trudge back to car.

21. Talk shit on aging frat boys in douchey bar on the corner.

22. Eat at all night diner around the corner.

23. Catch another wind.

24. Order cheeseburger deluxe and drink some coffees.

25. Say “mugmugmug” (in your head) when you drink your coffee.

26. Talk about how much your body hurt before the show even started anyway. *Reference aforementioned synchronized dad noises made at the start of the event.

27. Listen to Dismemberment Plan, Built to Spill and Ben Nichols on drive home.

28. Fart the whole time.

29. Do not attempt to do the math on the $7 beers.

30. Talk shit on Williamsburg.

31. Park, check mail and carry up more wedding RSVPs.

32. Receive picture message of wife “backing that thang up” in NOLA.

33. Resist going to bed around 3.

Real youuu

This album was so important to me (wow,) more than ten years ago and it kinda came outta nowhere that apparently it still is! Such a good show, more on it later. And stoked to check out the 2005 album that apparently kinda kills. For now..

Sioux City, Sarsparilla?

My stupid bearded face can now be found at High Horse Saloon on Havemeyer and Hope, most days ’til 10. If you ask me for a cocktail list or fresh squeezed lemonade, I’ll throw you right out the front door.

Photo by Sarah Law! Who was in shooting for a project I don’t know the website of. (Of which I don’t know the website, whatever.) But it’s a great project where they record on an old acetate recorder and make records and film it.

I am taking this time ’til the wedding to work at the bar, make some cash, drink some beers and listen to what the what is trying to tell me. Come hang out, I promise I won’t talk about the universe.