Friday, March 11, 20:03: 2 drinks from 6am to 17:30pm, from half a pint of bombay sapphire. Then went out and got another bottle. Had two drinks between 17:30 and 20:05.
Friday, March 11, 20:05: Still 2 drinks left in second Bombay bottle, but feel I may need to get more to last me and keep me from desire. Debating ordering in (which means ordering 2 bottles to match delivery requirements) or walking over.
Friday, March 11, 20:06: Going with delivery. My end goal is to be able to master the rate of consumption such as to not be self-destructive, so this makes sense. Walking over may have made more sense had I been less sober (in terms of clearing the mind and so on), but given that I feel pretty secure, I'm going with delivery of two more pints of gin.
Friday, March 11, 20:12: Decided against delivery of two bottles. Walking out to buy one pint of gin.
Friday, March 11, 20:24: Returned with a bottle of gin. Placed in freezer. Old bottle still has a drink or two in it. Will report further, hopefully.
Saturday, March 12 07:20 Functioning nominally. Have run of out of drinks. Must wait 3 fucking hours for any semblance of alchohol. Thought I lived in the center of the fucking world, and not fuller house.
Saturday, March 12 11:32 It's funny how moods change. Now I can do with or without a drink. I still want one. I could walk out and get one. But it's not very compelling.
Saturday, March 12 11:41 Going to walk out bearing a very grumpy face, for laffs
Saturday, March 12 12:00 I made probably the most basic comparisons with the world of The Division during my walk. I really wished that I had trotted my phone along as well, in order to show friends some of the differences in terms of nuance between the Division and walking out into Chelsea. There was a particular spot of vomit which I feel was not entirely covered by the game. I also managed to tag a notice sheet on an elevator that was gloating about adding 'bike stands' in the basement of the building (?). I basically said "PUT FIOS too".
Saturday, March 12 12:03 It took me 3 minutes to express the above
Saturday, March 12 12:08 While enjoying only a sip of gin, I am musing about the disconnection I feel with handheld devices such as phones. A part of my brain is trying to convince the other that it may be time to stop dawdling and fucking play the Division already. I'm still wearing shoes--why am I wearing shoes in my house? I'm--I'm still wearing long trousers. Why?
Saturday, March 12 12:08: I admit this has now become a 'format' for me, and I'm kind of adding special flavors. I promise this is just a spell, and later logs will be in earnest.
Saturday, March 12, 2016
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Wow, you have made a whole art out of this, haven't you? Your whole 'accuracy'.
Se7en Years Later <-- Okay, Seven. Conceit.
.
A resource was lost to the world. It had just simply disappeared.
"What do you mean, 'simply disappeared'?" asked Roger. Roger was an older type of gentleman with a respectable beard and what we would call an 'earned' coat of arms. If you went right by him, you'd be okay. But if you didn't--"Like Bilbo Baggin's or wot?"
"Yeah, just disappeared, Roger."
"At least say 'vanished'."
"But it did not vanish. Vanish implies some type of indication of malevolence or some unseen hand. This resource, it was there, bright as a light, and then it just disappeared."
"I'm sorry that I'm not as intrigued as you are about how magical this disappearance was. You, also, are soon to be 'disappeared', as you put it," said Roger. "Unless you give me more valuable information."
"Roger that," and here was where I broke a sweat, because I had not been lying. And then I, too simply disappeared.
It is a real mental toll to wake up into a new reality just like that. Because one minute you're really focused on something, and the people around you have become important. Some of them know all about music. Some know all of the movies out there. A special friend knows all of the best TV shows too. Which one was I this time?
"You're the one that can just disappear," said a dude next to me. "Not vanish, but really disappear."
The content was still negotiating, so I took a moment to sit back and enjoy a small fruit. It was a sour little thing, with promising circles of sweetness. "Looks like we're in the same boat, buddy," I snapped.
"No, we aren't," said the Ninja. "You're heading into the worst place ever. Because you're drunk."
I said nothing, but I pulled a small blade from a secret pocket.
"No, wait," said the Ninja immediately. "Because you are a drunk."
"I'm learning to sip slowly," I told him. I knew the guy didn't give a shit about me--he was off on some fantastic mission, and I was (as he knew) going to the worst place ever. But it was nice to speak frankly with someone, for a change. It was just nice to feel similar to another person, and not have to worry all the time about 'appearances', as is the parlance.
And I really was making an improvement with the drinking. Gone were the days of gulping entire distilleries in one evening. It had been easier to do that in the beginning, you see. Your reality shifted so easily, and suddenly you were living in the roaring 20s as a telephone operator. You got shit-faced enough that you could cruise through these 'troubles' that you were visiting with great ease, and it was always a positive thing. You were always working to make things better.
Usually you have to overcome some kind of hate dilemma or insecurity. I had been quite stout of heart, so I was very cavalier about it. They even started calling me 'Ace' (this is an inside Red Dwarf joke). I suppose I was tempting reality every time I smirked inwardly about how I could 'live this person's life with my eyes closed'.
Yet, despite my frivolousness, I was extremely careful. I would always make sure that whatever I did was understood, and that even if I happened to disappear, the returning to the stream of consciousness would be in the best possible situation. I liked to think of myself as the ultimate set-up for good feelings.
So, that's what happened after I disappeared. I saw a drink and immediately drank it.
"What the fuck," rumbles a bellow from an angry man, who had come from the stage, barging directly into me. "We hadn't even started recording yet!"
"I'm sorry, man," I waved him off. "Guess I was really excited about this holy matrimony," I smiled at the...group. This was my style. Overwhelming charm. But this group--it was kind of weird. Nobody was smiling. Nobody was happy. Was I at a funeral?
"Who died, guys?" I rolled my eyes. "This guy again?" I was searching for that nexus wherein you become part of the group, or at least you appear to be part of the group. But nobody in the audience would meet my eye. It was like nobody gave a shit about me. I began to wonder why the hell I had appeared in this place, if I was that insignificant.
Then the angry man slapped me hard, in the face. "It ain't complicated, putz. You just sit down and listen, yeah, you hear the click, and that's the tape recorder, ok?" he said.
"Oh. Okay ... ? Then what?" I winked. "Something good?" I was hoping this was some kind of out-of-bounds bachelor party or something.
"You are in the First Seat. It was *all* depending on you. You were to hear the click, then you drink the koolaid," said the man.
.
A resource was lost to the world. It had just simply disappeared.
"What do you mean, 'simply disappeared'?" asked Roger. Roger was an older type of gentleman with a respectable beard and what we would call an 'earned' coat of arms. If you went right by him, you'd be okay. But if you didn't--"Like Bilbo Baggin's or wot?"
"Yeah, just disappeared, Roger."
"At least say 'vanished'."
"But it did not vanish. Vanish implies some type of indication of malevolence or some unseen hand. This resource, it was there, bright as a light, and then it just disappeared."
"I'm sorry that I'm not as intrigued as you are about how magical this disappearance was. You, also, are soon to be 'disappeared', as you put it," said Roger. "Unless you give me more valuable information."
"Roger that," and here was where I broke a sweat, because I had not been lying. And then I, too simply disappeared.
It is a real mental toll to wake up into a new reality just like that. Because one minute you're really focused on something, and the people around you have become important. Some of them know all about music. Some know all of the movies out there. A special friend knows all of the best TV shows too. Which one was I this time?
"You're the one that can just disappear," said a dude next to me. "Not vanish, but really disappear."
The content was still negotiating, so I took a moment to sit back and enjoy a small fruit. It was a sour little thing, with promising circles of sweetness. "Looks like we're in the same boat, buddy," I snapped.
"No, we aren't," said the Ninja. "You're heading into the worst place ever. Because you're drunk."
I said nothing, but I pulled a small blade from a secret pocket.
"No, wait," said the Ninja immediately. "Because you are a drunk."
"I'm learning to sip slowly," I told him. I knew the guy didn't give a shit about me--he was off on some fantastic mission, and I was (as he knew) going to the worst place ever. But it was nice to speak frankly with someone, for a change. It was just nice to feel similar to another person, and not have to worry all the time about 'appearances', as is the parlance.
And I really was making an improvement with the drinking. Gone were the days of gulping entire distilleries in one evening. It had been easier to do that in the beginning, you see. Your reality shifted so easily, and suddenly you were living in the roaring 20s as a telephone operator. You got shit-faced enough that you could cruise through these 'troubles' that you were visiting with great ease, and it was always a positive thing. You were always working to make things better.
Usually you have to overcome some kind of hate dilemma or insecurity. I had been quite stout of heart, so I was very cavalier about it. They even started calling me 'Ace' (this is an inside Red Dwarf joke). I suppose I was tempting reality every time I smirked inwardly about how I could 'live this person's life with my eyes closed'.
Yet, despite my frivolousness, I was extremely careful. I would always make sure that whatever I did was understood, and that even if I happened to disappear, the returning to the stream of consciousness would be in the best possible situation. I liked to think of myself as the ultimate set-up for good feelings.
So, that's what happened after I disappeared. I saw a drink and immediately drank it.
"What the fuck," rumbles a bellow from an angry man, who had come from the stage, barging directly into me. "We hadn't even started recording yet!"
"I'm sorry, man," I waved him off. "Guess I was really excited about this holy matrimony," I smiled at the...group. This was my style. Overwhelming charm. But this group--it was kind of weird. Nobody was smiling. Nobody was happy. Was I at a funeral?
"Who died, guys?" I rolled my eyes. "This guy again?" I was searching for that nexus wherein you become part of the group, or at least you appear to be part of the group. But nobody in the audience would meet my eye. It was like nobody gave a shit about me. I began to wonder why the hell I had appeared in this place, if I was that insignificant.
Then the angry man slapped me hard, in the face. "It ain't complicated, putz. You just sit down and listen, yeah, you hear the click, and that's the tape recorder, ok?" he said.
"Oh. Okay ... ? Then what?" I winked. "Something good?" I was hoping this was some kind of out-of-bounds bachelor party or something.
"You are in the First Seat. It was *all* depending on you. You were to hear the click, then you drink the koolaid," said the man.
Friday, February 12, 2016
manners in an eco-sphere ripe with aliens
There's a problem with me as I get older,
especially if I'm traveling within public transports,
where I've suddenly become in synchronization with
the slowness of it.
Why, only yesterday I had filed into the slow-lane,
emerging from the subway on 28th St, when there was a kerfuffle.
A man to my left, who had chosen to 'run past traffic',
was facing denial of progress by the natural barrage of people
who sought to go *down* the stairs.
Because during peak times, stairs in public areas are typically
gorged with two-way traffic. People on one side going up,
people on the other side going down.
This speed monster had assumed he could be faster than everyone else by overtaking the people going up, and was now being denied progress by, basically, the traffic going down.
Then he bumped into me, and tried to create a 'third lane' in the middle.
I put on my best Michael Douglas in "Falling Down" and refused his creation of a third lane in my surroundings, as we moved up.
He *quietly* (quietly!) persisted to imagine some kind of non-existent third dimension in this stairwell.
Finally, I had to physically *use my hand* and *move* this crazy person back, and said loudly, "Come on man, get the fuck in line!"
I was really pissed that I had to resort to physical action like that.
So I added, "Where the fuck are you going, anyway, your mother dying fast or something?" Loudly.
It was as I kept walking up that I finally heard this son of a bitch's squeaky whiny fucking voice yell back from somewhere down the stairwell: "Fuck you, you asshole, how dare you! My mom died three years ago, okay?"
As I finished the stairs, I said loudly back, "Well obviously she didn't teach you any manners before she went."
especially if I'm traveling within public transports,
where I've suddenly become in synchronization with
the slowness of it.
Why, only yesterday I had filed into the slow-lane,
emerging from the subway on 28th St, when there was a kerfuffle.
A man to my left, who had chosen to 'run past traffic',
was facing denial of progress by the natural barrage of people
who sought to go *down* the stairs.
Because during peak times, stairs in public areas are typically
gorged with two-way traffic. People on one side going up,
people on the other side going down.
This speed monster had assumed he could be faster than everyone else by overtaking the people going up, and was now being denied progress by, basically, the traffic going down.
Then he bumped into me, and tried to create a 'third lane' in the middle.
I put on my best Michael Douglas in "Falling Down" and refused his creation of a third lane in my surroundings, as we moved up.
He *quietly* (quietly!) persisted to imagine some kind of non-existent third dimension in this stairwell.
Finally, I had to physically *use my hand* and *move* this crazy person back, and said loudly, "Come on man, get the fuck in line!"
I was really pissed that I had to resort to physical action like that.
So I added, "Where the fuck are you going, anyway, your mother dying fast or something?" Loudly.
It was as I kept walking up that I finally heard this son of a bitch's squeaky whiny fucking voice yell back from somewhere down the stairwell: "Fuck you, you asshole, how dare you! My mom died three years ago, okay?"
As I finished the stairs, I said loudly back, "Well obviously she didn't teach you any manners before she went."
Saturday, January 23, 2016
I Don't Know Where Jamie Is Now, Part 1
"Before even starting," it was said, with much rubbing of hands and an infrequent tremor to the head, "I want to apologize for the way--" and the publican was instructed almost callously by a shivering finger that strobed among the amber of the fireplace to pour another "--that our conversation will sort of be, well," and now turning and looking outward, with those horrible large black eyes, "just kind of talking heads."
Sam, who was wearing a brown calfskin jacket and a tan cowboy hat, immediately placed his whiskey upon the table with a few sips to spare and turned to acknowledge that now, words had indeed been spoken. He had been waiting, he knew it was going to happen, and it happened, and those words had come out. And now he indicated that they were being listened to. Sam had kind of, stubble, and appeared as though he may be a smoker. One may have easily mistaken him for the sheriff of the village, had this place not been a small, well kept secret in the Village, in Manhattan.
"I," this was very nervous, "I really don't know where Jamie is now."
"Oh. Jamie, huh? That's what you're calling her?"
"Jamie," with a nod, "but a guy, not a girl."
"Oh Jamie, that guy. Yeah. Yeah, he's missing?"
"Pretty sure I have an address for his exact location physically. I know he's probably in his apartment, probably surfing the Web, or probably watching TV shows or something on his computer."
"Something, yeah. That's where people tend to be, on Saturday afternoons in this city. It's not like he may lost somewhere in some museum or gallivanting away in Central Park."
"There are those," and another indication for another drink, "but no. I know he's at home." Turned again, those horrible large eyes upon Sam again. "But you see, I don't know what he must be thinking! His mental state of being. His outlook on life."
"It troubles you, doesn't it?" said Sam, lowering the brim of his hat over his eyes and entertaining the idea of one of his remaining sips. "There's something--something has happened in Jamie's life to the point of leaving you extremely concerned about the affairs of this other person's--Jamie's--life."
"Two things, to be accurate."
Sam, who was wearing a brown calfskin jacket and a tan cowboy hat, immediately placed his whiskey upon the table with a few sips to spare and turned to acknowledge that now, words had indeed been spoken. He had been waiting, he knew it was going to happen, and it happened, and those words had come out. And now he indicated that they were being listened to. Sam had kind of, stubble, and appeared as though he may be a smoker. One may have easily mistaken him for the sheriff of the village, had this place not been a small, well kept secret in the Village, in Manhattan.
"I," this was very nervous, "I really don't know where Jamie is now."
"Oh. Jamie, huh? That's what you're calling her?"
"Jamie," with a nod, "but a guy, not a girl."
"Oh Jamie, that guy. Yeah. Yeah, he's missing?"
"Pretty sure I have an address for his exact location physically. I know he's probably in his apartment, probably surfing the Web, or probably watching TV shows or something on his computer."
"Something, yeah. That's where people tend to be, on Saturday afternoons in this city. It's not like he may lost somewhere in some museum or gallivanting away in Central Park."
"There are those," and another indication for another drink, "but no. I know he's at home." Turned again, those horrible large eyes upon Sam again. "But you see, I don't know what he must be thinking! His mental state of being. His outlook on life."
"It troubles you, doesn't it?" said Sam, lowering the brim of his hat over his eyes and entertaining the idea of one of his remaining sips. "There's something--something has happened in Jamie's life to the point of leaving you extremely concerned about the affairs of this other person's--Jamie's--life."
"Two things, to be accurate."
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
When Jaymes's Forgetabble Friend Finally Called About The Job In Central Park
"Did I say 'job'. Ooo dear, I meant a little jog. Why don't we have a jog. In Central Park?"
"I'd be happy to jog in Central Park," I responded, "and I hope I get killed by a very rapid bicycler!"
"Don't instill fear about Central Park, you fool!"
"I just want to be dragged and straggled into it again, like a piece of mutton over and under a bicycle wheel, again and again. It seems like the whole thing has been discovered. There's no real ghost places."
"Why does your life revolve around ghosts?"
"Why does your stupid city have blue laws?"
"That's not an answer!"
And this, so far, has not been literature, but some kind of vapid dialog. Feeling that his pencil had become blunt from illustrating sweet nothings, he quickly retracted and put away, revealing in the act several other writing implements beneath his coat.
"There's no blue laws," said someone, from Yelp.com.
"Because this is the communal bloody kind of reliability you need when you've been hurt by the blue! Misinfor-fucking-mation."
With this less sophisticated chit-chattery, in progress, I slowly went to a coffee shop, namely Starbucks whereupon I ordered my very big iced latte (just like in Italy), and gave my name as Ivan. Yes. Brown. Ivan. Well, I didn't want anyone to call me a Vagina, so.
IT WAS THE SLOWEST FUCKING STARBUCKS IN THE UNIVERSE OMG!
Seriously, the opening song from Roseanne began to play in my head, and 30 minutes later, only John Goodman had been introduced.
"Latte for Ivan," said someone very poshly, and I said thank you and ran out.
Finally I went to buy my gin, and I seriously wondered how I could have misjudged so terribly as to walk into that Starbucks. I sipped my coffee angrily, muttering about how it should freeze the fuck up in New York and stop being so bloody hot all the time. But I didn't want to tell Bill Murray that he was too warm.
"I'd be happy to jog in Central Park," I responded, "and I hope I get killed by a very rapid bicycler!"
"Don't instill fear about Central Park, you fool!"
"I just want to be dragged and straggled into it again, like a piece of mutton over and under a bicycle wheel, again and again. It seems like the whole thing has been discovered. There's no real ghost places."
"Why does your life revolve around ghosts?"
"Why does your stupid city have blue laws?"
"That's not an answer!"
And this, so far, has not been literature, but some kind of vapid dialog. Feeling that his pencil had become blunt from illustrating sweet nothings, he quickly retracted and put away, revealing in the act several other writing implements beneath his coat.
"There's no blue laws," said someone, from Yelp.com.
"Because this is the communal bloody kind of reliability you need when you've been hurt by the blue! Misinfor-fucking-mation."
With this less sophisticated chit-chattery, in progress, I slowly went to a coffee shop, namely Starbucks whereupon I ordered my very big iced latte (just like in Italy), and gave my name as Ivan. Yes. Brown. Ivan. Well, I didn't want anyone to call me a Vagina, so.
IT WAS THE SLOWEST FUCKING STARBUCKS IN THE UNIVERSE OMG!
Seriously, the opening song from Roseanne began to play in my head, and 30 minutes later, only John Goodman had been introduced.
"Latte for Ivan," said someone very poshly, and I said thank you and ran out.
Finally I went to buy my gin, and I seriously wondered how I could have misjudged so terribly as to walk into that Starbucks. I sipped my coffee angrily, muttering about how it should freeze the fuck up in New York and stop being so bloody hot all the time. But I didn't want to tell Bill Murray that he was too warm.
Monday, December 28, 2015
Summertime, Dec 2015
Summertime, and the living's easy.
This is my second week off work, you see.
Living the lark, trying to wash away bad habits.
.
Introducing new ones.
.
Just heard it's not summertime in Texas.
Most definitely!
(la la la)
.
Just heard there's tornadoes running around us!
.
This ten cent Sun
is getting hotter,
next time don't buy a solar system
just cos it's cheaper.
.
There is nothing evil about relaxing like a huge polar bear in the middle of a reggae verse, mon!
(heard much later in the warm night: fuck u it's ska)
Disclaimer: Mostly stolen from Sublime's song 'Summertime' on the album 'Sublime'. Badly.
This is my second week off work, you see.
Living the lark, trying to wash away bad habits.
.
Introducing new ones.
.
Just heard it's not summertime in Texas.
Most definitely!
(la la la)
.
Just heard there's tornadoes running around us!
.
This ten cent Sun
is getting hotter,
next time don't buy a solar system
just cos it's cheaper.
.
There is nothing evil about relaxing like a huge polar bear in the middle of a reggae verse, mon!
(heard much later in the warm night: fuck u it's ska)
Disclaimer: Mostly stolen from Sublime's song 'Summertime' on the album 'Sublime'. Badly.
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Modulators of Insanity: Pt. 1
It was as a child when I first began to realize that one lifetime may not be enough. This was a threatening feeling (especially as a child), and something that would take far longer to resolve (I would find) than is nominal.
It was...pretty Ridiculous. "Seriously dood, you don't need multiple lifetimes! Look around, empathize, you're set. You can attempt anyone else's life!"
I bought a very nice pen for myself. It used my own blood as fuel. That such a contraption may be exciting to someone out there amused me, and I put my expensive pen back in my bag, and pulled out my special wireless keyboard. Special wireless and ergonomic keyboard for writing effortlessly and without worry or stutter.
"You can attempt, of course. But you can't assume your attempts, and the things being attempted at, are the same thing."
"Things?"
"People, whatever."
The Ridiculous gave me a funny stare. Kinda stare that said "But you were just talking about empathy."
It discomforted me, and I had to open my bag and reach down to my blood pen. "You still there penny?"
"Are we inside of an aeroplane?" asked penny.
"No. We in a submarine."
"Christmas this year is not red, then."
"No. Submarines are blue."
It was...pretty Ridiculous. "Seriously dood, you don't need multiple lifetimes! Look around, empathize, you're set. You can attempt anyone else's life!"
I bought a very nice pen for myself. It used my own blood as fuel. That such a contraption may be exciting to someone out there amused me, and I put my expensive pen back in my bag, and pulled out my special wireless keyboard. Special wireless and ergonomic keyboard for writing effortlessly and without worry or stutter.
"You can attempt, of course. But you can't assume your attempts, and the things being attempted at, are the same thing."
"Things?"
"People, whatever."
The Ridiculous gave me a funny stare. Kinda stare that said "But you were just talking about empathy."
It discomforted me, and I had to open my bag and reach down to my blood pen. "You still there penny?"
"Are we inside of an aeroplane?" asked penny.
"No. We in a submarine."
"Christmas this year is not red, then."
"No. Submarines are blue."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)