Writing about yourself is actually very easy, unless you plan to be honest about yourself, in which case, it kind of sucks the big one. I don’t think it’s too difficult to write about the life you’re living because it’s kind of obvious unless you have a “malignant secret” dwelling in that pesky id of yours. But writing about how you got to this spot can be trying. It’s a good thing I have all this extra time to work on it because my only job prospects at the moment are winning the lottery and Charlie Sheen’s Tiger Blood Intern position. Both have about the same chance of coming to fruition which is just fine by me. Though to be Charlie Sheen’s Social Media Intern AND have $50 million in the bank would be pretty sweet. It will be sometime before I can open the door to my penthouse wearing my boxers and drinking champagne straight from the bottle, so until then I will knuckle down and concentrate on writing out the ridiculous stories that have made up my life so far, then try to find someway to make them all work as a cohesive narrative. For the next little while I be walking the street with my inner self trying to figure out the route that brought us thus far.
If Charlie calls, I’ll take it in my office.
Read this entry only if you don’t mind a few laughs (and a couple cringes) at the expense of your precious childhood memories. The following is a transcript of the drunk “Tweets” I sent while watching The Wizard of Oz about 2 o’clock this morning.
Bedtime movie: I was thinking “Third Man”, “Touch of Evil”. Went with “Wizard of Oz” but it’s taped over “Hells Angels on Wheels”, still manly.
“Over the Rainbow” even straight guys can appreciate this as one of the best songs ever. Okay, ‘some’ straight guys. #garlandsadish
Just looking at that hat Miss Gulch is wearing… She might be a witch but with a hat like that you know she’s an evil cunt.
How do we know Wizard of Oz wasn’t made recently? A hustler like “Professor Marvel” would have whored her out instead of sending her home.
Never underestimate my ability to ruin every childhood memory you might have.
Wow colour! Munchin suicide watch starts now.
Ding Dong… Certainly the cheeriest song about homicide ever written.
I’m glad I’m drunk and not high, otherwise the stunted ballerinas of the Lullaby League would be fucking with my head.
Glinda’s high as a Kansas tornado… Smiling away… The trailer park prom dress. Pure valium. That’s probably where Judy got her habit.
The Scarecrow explains BC politics: taking directions from a guy with no brain and a stick up his ass.
Another clue that the Wizard of Oz is fiction? No good looking young woman who left Kansas would be in that big of a hurry to get back.
Yes Dorothy! Lube me up! A man without a heart wants to be oiled up by a teenage runaway. Go figure.
Don’t go with her Tin Man! She’s just going to sell you for scrap to buy valium!
You wonder why Judy Garland got in so much trouble later in life when she considers two utter fuck ups she just met as the best friends she’s ever had.
Okay, not a hanging munchin but a bird. More’s the pity.
Ah the good old days, when cowards attacked little dogs and girls in gingham dresses instead of shooting up their high schools.
Poppy field makes them fall asleep and “snow” wakes them up? I don’t have to ruin this one. It kind of speaks for itself.
Scarecrow’s day at the spa looks like a TSA pat down.
Afghan peasants can shoot down a Soviet gunship but the people of Emerald City can’t take out a bitch and her broom? Surrender Dorot…BOOM!
Wikileaks reports the Wizard thinks Dorothy is a whiny little cunt.
The Wizard looks like a Star Trek alien on stage at a KISS concert.
I suspect the flying monkeys are just a flash back to the poppy field.
Okay, I’ll admit it; it’s been over 30 years since the first time I saw this movie and the flying monkeys still scare the shit out of me.
*Note to palace guard: the guy at the FRONT does a head count to make sure the guys at the BACK should actually be there.
“Hurry! Please hurry! The hourglass is almost empty!” We’ll be right there! Have to change out of our disguises first!
Looks like the wicked witch was actually Wiccan. Give her a bath and she dies.
It’s amazing how quickly her loyal storm troopers turned on her. Looks like Nuremburg. Bastards, hang ’em all!
If you pause the movie and look closely at the piece of paper the Wizard hands the Scarecrow, it’s actually George W. Bush’s Yale diploma.
If Dorothy had got in that balloon, the FBI would have found her head in a freezer in Oklahoma 10 years later.
That scene would have been better if they had munchins hanging off the balloon like the GI’s and the Playboy helicopter in Apocalypse Now.
Valium-whacked bitch, if you told me 3 days ago I could’ve clicked my heels and gone home, I would’ve believed you. Thanks for the heads up.
Okay, movie’s over. Just in case you missed the sarcasm fest, I’m posting it all on my blog when I wake up. Twizzard of Oz.#culturethug
So… the Great Turkey Fuck-Fest is over for another year and I seem to really be into napping. I managed to avoid the obligatory change to my Facebook status telling the world what I’m thankful for because, of the 830 people who do their damndest to ignore my inane little posts, the vast majority of them know that simply being alive is good enough for me at the moment.
In the past few weeks, I have been to more non-pub/house parties than I have in several years. One of them was even a dinner party… at a real restaurant and everything. It felt good. I do realize that I am thankful for friends and family, not that it was ever in real doubt, just kind of popped in to my head a little stronger than usual.
Chasing my cock too often leads to chasing my heart. When it doesn’t, the end result is often the same. Go figure.
I’m just starting to wonder if my calendar age can continue to be so completely at odds with my ability to refuse to grow up that one day I might just implode. Thing is, I don’t like 38 year old stuff. I don’t want a mortgage. I want to use my Blackberry to take pictures of hot club girls instead of sending spreadsheets or whatever it is responsible people do with their Blackberries.
I don’t mind waking up on the floor of recording studios and strange couches. Getting cock-blocked by moms is a bit tiring after a while, but I still can’t help but smile when I’m told (by a third party quoting a cutie way below my age bracket) that “even though [I’m] older, [I’m] still really cool and fucking hot.” Jesus man! Who doesn’t want to hear that? (She managed to arrive in her own bed unbesmirched, I might add.)
Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Sometimes it creates a gap, like a ferry sailing in the wrong direction, that causes you to feel the swim is too far, too hard, to get back to solid ground beneath your well worn Converse.
A dear friend of mine is having troubles with “the guy she likes” and I’m not being patronizing. Over a year ago, chatting on Facebook at two in the morning, she asked me what is was like to be in love. How the hell do I answer that? I could tell her, because I most certainly know. But should I?
It was her and her feelings of being a little more lost, a little more alone, than feels comfortable that really got me thinking tonight.
I think it’s time to go to more parties. Playing King of the Castle is only fun when that castle actually represents a kingdom, not “a pile of shit” as was lovingly pointed out by a concerned friend.
So here’s to those friends: the weak, the strong, the subtle, the loud.
Love you all.