"I've been reading your blog and I guess you're right about guys and girls being friends," she says as she instinctively tugs at her white Nike track jacket.
"It's really not a rule, it's just something I've noticed," I nervously confessed, realizing my inflammatory writing style. I stumbled around my mind for the words to describe my theory in greater detail, coping with the caffeine employed to mute my hangover.
Showing posts with label blogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogs. Show all posts
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Sincerest Apologies
Approximately a week ago a reader challenged me to broaden the depth of this awful blog. She cited reasons such as, "Your blog reads like blah blah blah sex," or "dimension," and claimed it was predictable. I was beginning to wonder if anyone else was actually reading, because I was having similar thoughts as the reader. I was worried that I was becoming a caricature of myself with immature little dick and fart jokes. So I gave it a break, and I'm just not happy with the end result. I'm sick of my pathetic commentary on current events, sports, and NYC. It just didn't fit me. I will be resuming the previous path, because the new me was just completely mind-numbingly awful.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Facebook Dilemma
I am one of the 17 people scattered throughout the U.S. that doesn't have a Facebook or MySpace account. Part of me hates what these "social-networking" sites have replaced - meaningful communications and relations with people in the flesh. I understand the merits of such a tool, especially when keeping in touch with friends that are slaves to lines of longitude between them. I abhor this site for many reasons, much too many to list here in this insignificant blog.
That being said, I'm also aware that I'm a walking contradiction, but chief among the reasons for abstaining is the notion that some things are better left off of the intertubes. I know what you're thinking: Wait. What? You idiot you have a blog. That's true. But the blog, while incriminating, doesn't have my face and name tagged all over other people's half-naked pictures. I'm not taking the holier-than-thou approach here, because I can't recount all the infantile antics I've participated in whilst inebriated. However, I have no desire to become a MySpace or Facebook celebrity because of the digitized megapixels portraying me naked and straddling a porcelain throne at 5:16AM.
The only thing that makes me even consider opening a faceless account, is so people know I exist (and to pimp the Scriptural Apothecary). Facebook and MySpace have become a tool for people to do a background check on new acquaintances. It raises red flags in their minds when they find out I don't participate. I can understand that it's a bit strange and that I should just stop being me and create some stupid profile, but the stubborn Irish in me won't let me budge from my moral stance. I could picture in my mind's eye, as I typed the keys to fill out my bare-bones profile, my mother questioning, "If everyone jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you do it?" What can I say? I've always been a sucker for D.A.R.E. scare tactics.
That being said, I'm also aware that I'm a walking contradiction, but chief among the reasons for abstaining is the notion that some things are better left off of the intertubes. I know what you're thinking: Wait. What? You idiot you have a blog. That's true. But the blog, while incriminating, doesn't have my face and name tagged all over other people's half-naked pictures. I'm not taking the holier-than-thou approach here, because I can't recount all the infantile antics I've participated in whilst inebriated. However, I have no desire to become a MySpace or Facebook celebrity because of the digitized megapixels portraying me naked and straddling a porcelain throne at 5:16AM.
The only thing that makes me even consider opening a faceless account, is so people know I exist (and to pimp the Scriptural Apothecary). Facebook and MySpace have become a tool for people to do a background check on new acquaintances. It raises red flags in their minds when they find out I don't participate. I can understand that it's a bit strange and that I should just stop being me and create some stupid profile, but the stubborn Irish in me won't let me budge from my moral stance. I could picture in my mind's eye, as I typed the keys to fill out my bare-bones profile, my mother questioning, "If everyone jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you do it?" What can I say? I've always been a sucker for D.A.R.E. scare tactics.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Ryan's Daughter
"I like the blog."
"Thanks for reading it."
I settle into my beer at the bar at approximately 3:20AM and wax philosophical with Catherine. She takes offense to the way I portray UES women in the blog, and is still flabbergasted that I'd take the time to read Skinny Bitch. On cue an UES girl, wearing a strapless dress, tugs on her sagging fabric to re-establish the appropriate cleavage and orders another drink. The vapid girl with the obligatory tattoo on the inside of her wrist (probably related to Kabbalah) begs, "Gary, I'll have another drink." She looks to Kate as Gary fixes her poison, "I don't really care. My Dad pays my credit card bill." Catherine looks at me and rolls her eyes and commences laughing. In a desperate attempt to prove that my sweeping generalizations don't hold water, Catherine explains that she's really smart - besides she graduated from UPenn. I just continued to verbally spar with Catherine until last call. I got the impression that Catherine fully understood that it would only be a matter of time until the ink dries on another post.
"Thanks for reading it."
I settle into my beer at the bar at approximately 3:20AM and wax philosophical with Catherine. She takes offense to the way I portray UES women in the blog, and is still flabbergasted that I'd take the time to read Skinny Bitch. On cue an UES girl, wearing a strapless dress, tugs on her sagging fabric to re-establish the appropriate cleavage and orders another drink. The vapid girl with the obligatory tattoo on the inside of her wrist (probably related to Kabbalah) begs, "Gary, I'll have another drink." She looks to Kate as Gary fixes her poison, "I don't really care. My Dad pays my credit card bill." Catherine looks at me and rolls her eyes and commences laughing. In a desperate attempt to prove that my sweeping generalizations don't hold water, Catherine explains that she's really smart - besides she graduated from UPenn. I just continued to verbally spar with Catherine until last call. I got the impression that Catherine fully understood that it would only be a matter of time until the ink dries on another post.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Scribblings & Pints
How did I get here?
I can recall a time when the day's most difficult task was trying to color within the lines, and one day Mrs. Cavanaugh, my portly kindergarten teacher who coincidentally wanted to "leave me back a year" due to my coloring follies, sat the entire lot of us in a circle and told us we could be anything we wanted. She went around the circle and my classmates had legitimate answers, like a princess, a fireman, a police officer, a lawyer, or a doctor. One ambitious little teacher's pet responded, "I want to be an astronaut." All I could think of at the time was being paid to spit. A spitter. She was appalled, but the others laughed their grotesque little faces off. I soon learned how to count change and read a clock.
As my education progressed, so did my aspirations. By first grade I told my parents I was going to do the right thing for society and be a police officer. My parents lovingly steered me toward something else that didn't involve risking my life in the name of a pension. I could see them mouthing the letters l-a-w-y-e-r and d-o-c-t-o-r, as I proclaimed I would settle for being a fireman. They were less than thrilled, and if I recall that night I was forced to drink an extra glass of milk, a.k.a. arsenic at that age.
By third grade I had it figured out. I was going to be a professional basketball player. "Dad, I want to be like Magic Johnson," I said. "You mean Larry Bird," he corrected. He was silently hoping I had said Patrick Ewing. In his estimate I would have been ambitious to want to emulate a man that was rumored to have to tape his trouser snake to his leg with duct tape. I gave that dream up when it became apparent that there weren't any 5'9" Lebanese men in the NBA, which describes what my dad is.
In fifth grade I knew I was destined to be a drummer (see Flams & Paradiddles post). The phase slowly burned out when I realized I wasn't really that talented, but suffered through years of school band.
Then thirteen punched me in the face with braces and acne. Welcome to adolescence you cocky little bastard. I was at a crossroads in my life in terms of career paths. My parents had completely given up hope. They couldn't reach me, so they just begged me to do well in school. I ignored them and everything and focused on a movie that melted my face and planted a seed, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I couldn't really comprehend what the hell was going on in the movie, but the imagery was unparalleled. Directly after the viewing, I connected to AOL with the dial-up modem and looked up the movie to find that it was based on the Hunter S. Thompson book. I had to read it. I would later re-read the book three more times at various stages of my high school and college life.
This was my calling. I was destined to be a correspondent. The job would just be an excuse for me to go on the most mind-bending, drug-induced benders that God had ever seen. It was a lay-up and a physical challenge to endure such a strict drug regiment. I would convince some idiot to pay me to write something completely unimportant and slightly appealing. My lens would be influenced by LSD, various pills, weed, and liquor in an attempt to explore and describe some of the best and worst trips that only the most devoted addicts had ever experienced.
All of my friends were applying to colleges and I had no idea what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go, which forced my parents to pray daily to St. Jude that their second son would be found. I went to school in Boston and decided (like all true morons) to major in finance and accounting. My parents were so happy. I was in school, out of their hair, and doing well. I did well enough so they wouldn't question what I was doing in my leisure time, which was smoking trees regularly with my friends. Graduation reared its ugly head in May and reality set in. I would be working on Wall St. and not following in any rogue author's footsteps.
All of this brings us to the present. My drug of choice is strictly alcohol, mainly beer and red wine. The closest to a Thompson-esque demonstration is when I show up to work wreaking like a gin mill. It is highly frowned upon when my boss sees me sweating and chugging alternating gulps of lemon-lime Gatorade and coffee loaded with milk and sugar. Sometimes I get to live out my dreams and go out to lunch with some guys from work, easing my nerves with a Brooklyn Lager, and return to churn out some more irrelevant financial reports that nobody reads. Enter this blog you unlucky, devoted few. I can't thank you enough for indulging in this useless banter.
Note: I realize that I conveniently overlooked the following professions: skimboarder, surfer, and skateboarder. Ohh, and actor.
I can recall a time when the day's most difficult task was trying to color within the lines, and one day Mrs. Cavanaugh, my portly kindergarten teacher who coincidentally wanted to "leave me back a year" due to my coloring follies, sat the entire lot of us in a circle and told us we could be anything we wanted. She went around the circle and my classmates had legitimate answers, like a princess, a fireman, a police officer, a lawyer, or a doctor. One ambitious little teacher's pet responded, "I want to be an astronaut." All I could think of at the time was being paid to spit. A spitter. She was appalled, but the others laughed their grotesque little faces off. I soon learned how to count change and read a clock.
As my education progressed, so did my aspirations. By first grade I told my parents I was going to do the right thing for society and be a police officer. My parents lovingly steered me toward something else that didn't involve risking my life in the name of a pension. I could see them mouthing the letters l-a-w-y-e-r and d-o-c-t-o-r, as I proclaimed I would settle for being a fireman. They were less than thrilled, and if I recall that night I was forced to drink an extra glass of milk, a.k.a. arsenic at that age.
By third grade I had it figured out. I was going to be a professional basketball player. "Dad, I want to be like Magic Johnson," I said. "You mean Larry Bird," he corrected. He was silently hoping I had said Patrick Ewing. In his estimate I would have been ambitious to want to emulate a man that was rumored to have to tape his trouser snake to his leg with duct tape. I gave that dream up when it became apparent that there weren't any 5'9" Lebanese men in the NBA, which describes what my dad is.
In fifth grade I knew I was destined to be a drummer (see Flams & Paradiddles post). The phase slowly burned out when I realized I wasn't really that talented, but suffered through years of school band.
Then thirteen punched me in the face with braces and acne. Welcome to adolescence you cocky little bastard. I was at a crossroads in my life in terms of career paths. My parents had completely given up hope. They couldn't reach me, so they just begged me to do well in school. I ignored them and everything and focused on a movie that melted my face and planted a seed, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I couldn't really comprehend what the hell was going on in the movie, but the imagery was unparalleled. Directly after the viewing, I connected to AOL with the dial-up modem and looked up the movie to find that it was based on the Hunter S. Thompson book. I had to read it. I would later re-read the book three more times at various stages of my high school and college life.
This was my calling. I was destined to be a correspondent. The job would just be an excuse for me to go on the most mind-bending, drug-induced benders that God had ever seen. It was a lay-up and a physical challenge to endure such a strict drug regiment. I would convince some idiot to pay me to write something completely unimportant and slightly appealing. My lens would be influenced by LSD, various pills, weed, and liquor in an attempt to explore and describe some of the best and worst trips that only the most devoted addicts had ever experienced.
All of my friends were applying to colleges and I had no idea what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go, which forced my parents to pray daily to St. Jude that their second son would be found. I went to school in Boston and decided (like all true morons) to major in finance and accounting. My parents were so happy. I was in school, out of their hair, and doing well. I did well enough so they wouldn't question what I was doing in my leisure time, which was smoking trees regularly with my friends. Graduation reared its ugly head in May and reality set in. I would be working on Wall St. and not following in any rogue author's footsteps.
All of this brings us to the present. My drug of choice is strictly alcohol, mainly beer and red wine. The closest to a Thompson-esque demonstration is when I show up to work wreaking like a gin mill. It is highly frowned upon when my boss sees me sweating and chugging alternating gulps of lemon-lime Gatorade and coffee loaded with milk and sugar. Sometimes I get to live out my dreams and go out to lunch with some guys from work, easing my nerves with a Brooklyn Lager, and return to churn out some more irrelevant financial reports that nobody reads. Enter this blog you unlucky, devoted few. I can't thank you enough for indulging in this useless banter.
Note: I realize that I conveniently overlooked the following professions: skimboarder, surfer, and skateboarder. Ohh, and actor.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
3.5 Years
I thought it could wait but I'm so pissed off right now. I had an entire blog to write, devoted to you. I've numbed the immeasurable regrets and thought of you in my mind with countless beers. I've covered myself in lovers to convince my body that you were nothing more than college, and now I'm past that. I had so much more to say, but like the memory of you, for the life of me I can't remember.
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