there's always nothing much to say

thanks j dot mascis. thanks for everything. like puppies and spring time, and that annoying little kid across the street who says only the letter d. but he owns that letter.

since i haven't posted in a bit, here's the news in brief.

chapter one.

i still hate everyone. everyone.

chapter two.

after not hearing from my fabulous family in nearly two [blissful] months, dear old drunken mom checked in yesterday. only now, with the aid of my little orphan annie decoder ring, a box of cracker jacks, and some mind-expanding nail polish remover fumes, am i beginning to suss out what the hell she was mumbling and drooling about in an oddly high-pitched voice.

the first few letters spelled out genius dad's most-recent brilliant idea: painting their house. for those who don't know, the genius is not in the best of shape or health, and shouldn't be anywhere near activities more strenuous than having a poo. and for those who don't know of my parents' incredible sense of style, their house is a study in bland. every wall, inside and out, is the same shade of beige. no, mum, there aren't any hints of green or blue or yellow in them there walls, they's all beige, kind of like your personality. yeah, so, the genius picked the hottest day of the year (so far), rented himself a cherry picker, and bought all the battleship gray paint in the state of new hampshire. in the immortal words of the gap band, the genius got down on it, and painted the house the loveliest shade of gray. interesting note: dad hates gray. apparently, in the heat, he lost 20 lbs and 13 of his remaining 42 brain cells. go dad!

the next couple of letters are debatable, but i'm leaning toward the suggestion that mum is less than thrilled about her 50-somethingth birthday (i'm such a great son that i can't remember which anniversary of her luminous birth it will be), which will occur on friday. hey, if you're in the area, pop your head into that bbq place in bitchin slummerville, i'm sure you'll witness a real hootenanny. we'll be that group who's staring at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, hell, at anything but each other, and we won't be speaking. fun, fun, fun. ugh.

chapter three.

the end.

porn chops and special sauce

i understand why the it department has to lock down administrator rights and software downloading capabilities, but please, for once, can't they ease up on the flash player? seriously, how the hell am i supposed to watch high-quality porn at work without the flash version 8 upgrade?

*****

the third through fourth of july proved much too strong for the end of my 15-year binge drinking.

tuesday night, our hood closed itself to the public for a block party that featured some stellar burgers and spicy italian chicken sausages obtained from the local whole paycheck food store. these were ever so lovingly chased with how many??? of harpoon's summertime offering (a light yet rich ale with hints of lemon and oh so yummy drunkenness).

after chow, we headed to the lil beach at the bottom of our street, chairs in hand (somehow i forgot beers for the walk), to watch the town waste who knows how much money on the fantastic fire works display. as i sat with my feet in the sand and my head in my lap, ocean waves rolling gently toward me, i could think only how fabulous it is living by the ocean, especially on a perfect summer night. i also thought of the relatively long and interesting road i took to get to that spot in the sand, and how i could not have got there without the kindness, guidance, and kicks in the ass from the many people i'd met along the way.

after the fire works finale, we headed home, and i had a beer in salute of all those who've put up with my shit over the years. cheers mates.

after almost not waking up wednesday and trying rather feebly to sweat out the booze with a long bike ride through the coastal 'burbs, we found ourselves in some strange company (friends of my cousin) and some not so strange company (many, many drinky poos). i'm still unsure as to how or where i went to sleep last night, but i remember mrs. fondleberries and i belting journey lyrics at the tops of our lungs (while driving home???), a random phone call to a guy at roof deck party in boston (he sang journey along with us over the cellular airwaves, it was beautiful), and something mrs. fondleberries said that has to do with pastel colors and circular objects; i'm told i can never repeat it.

bloggerdom and springer spaniels

every now and again, i fancy myself a famous white rapper accepting an mtv music award: "first of alls, i gots to praise jesus for giving me the strengths and wills to being here, now, with the power." then, i realize that i'm hammered. again. yay me!

in current events, mrs. fondleberries and i are off to martha's vineyard (the vineyard, as it's referred to up here) for a week of honeymoon/relaxation/anything but work. we've got the old mini cooper sled stuffed with beach chairs, blankets, and sunscreen---not that we'll actually get to the beach, given it rains, heavily, on us every time we're there. [insert new favorite retarded phrase here: it's all good, yo.] i'm hoping to catch a glimpse of a kennedy in its natural state, drunk and/or raping and killing local girls.

episode 1

so i've decided that my posts will be of the diary variety from now forward. what the hell, it's the internets and only a few of you freaks out there really know who i am.

be warned:

1. posts will likely be typed using only lowercase letters and very poor grammar.

2. posts will likely read as though i'm a 14 year-old girl (which i just might be, i'm awaiting csi crime lab results and digestion of the ham sandwich i just had for lunch).

3. i live a very boring and utterly suburban life.

4. i have cats that will probably be posted about quite often.

5. there isn't a number 5.

episode 1.

as shown below in the horribly accurate picture of my sausage and peppers fingers, i got married. the event occurred last saturday (in salem, ma, for those who might give a shit), and was a decent time, thanks in no small part to the open bar and the many folks who felt compelled to ensure that i always had a full glass of wine. it was, however, a tad anti-climactic, given the now mrs. fondleberries and i have been together for a coo's age (which, quentin tarintino (spelling?) tells me, is 12 years).

we planned to do this thing about 10 years ago, but for various reasons never got around to it. the mrs. had even bought a dress, we got rings, scouted locations, etc. alas, nothing. however, since we bought a house a couple of years ago and we're not getting any younger (and i'm certainly incapable of dating or being sought after by anything but a cheesesteak and a sixer of beer), we figured what the hell, and jumped in feet first (i'm not a good swimmer, and yes, i held my nose).

so, we spent the last year planning for what i lovingly referred to as the first real step toward divorce. we selected a nice little library venue for the ceremony and a restuarant we both like for the reception. that's where our paths diverged.

the mrs. took up dieting and twice-weekly trips to the gym (personal trainer and all, fancy), while i took up beer and wine, by the truck load. i watched her health and wellness increase, and tone develop in her itty-bitty muscles; she watched (in horror?) my stomach "muffin top" over my now size 34 jeans (i should really be wearing a 36, but fuck that). i chewed my finger nails to nubs, she had manicures.

the days rapidly ticked by. before i could lick the cheese wiz off the plate, i'd become the fattest bastard i've ever been, and was standing in an empty room, wearing a tux with a pink vest and tie tucked neatly inside it, and being photographed from all possible angles (to get my good side, i dunno). being completely absorbed by holy shit i'm a fat fuck (and oh, by the way, i'm getting married) thoughts, i paid little attention as folks began filling the room. i think i said hello to some and hugged others, it's all a bit unclear. but i had a good excuse for being aloof: i was, after all, a fat guy in a tux.

mrs. fondleberries, on the other hand, looked great.

at some point a guy in a robe pronounced us married, and the mrs. planted a wet one on me (that's hot). thereafter, i vaguely remember, in no particular order: the sounds of clapping and shoes clicking on stairs, more photographs, being creeped out by my mother grabbing my hand, more kissing, thinking that a little kid was likely to get sick from pressing his face against one of the restaurant windows, dancing, drinking, more drinking, some nice words said by my brother, more drinking, eating, cake, more dancing, and that i had finally understood what it meant to be loved.

when i awoke the next morning with a headache, i knew that although things would be different, nothing had really changed, and that i am very lucky to have mrs. fondleberries by my side.

the glowing red star at the edge of the universe (part 1)

"the hardest part is always the title," jim quipped and dropped a half-smoked cigarette from his nicotine-stained fingers. he watched it fall for almost too long, as though hoping an infernal blaze would be the consequent result of his careless act. the glowing orange-red-amber tip spun end over end, and the butt hit the floor with cosmic force, scattering hot embers and cold ash like the debris of exploded stars across a galaxy.

he was tired from sleeping only four hours in the last few days, while working to meet another ridiculous deadline for another ridiculous client. "fuckers," he though aloud; "the lot of them." his normal, if they can be called normal, sleeping habits weren't much different from those he'd had when under the stress of a deadline, but he felt nostalgic for un-deadline sleep now.

he removed his gaze from the floor and scanned the room. it was well lighted, clean, small. furniture was sparse: his working desk and chair in the corner by the only window; a leather recliner in the opposite corner; the couch sprawled across the back wall; a set of bookshelves, stuffed with books and loose papers, opposite the couch.

seeing now her figure, he remembered that jamie had been sitting on the couch. she sat with one leg dangled over the arm, the other tucked so awkwardly under her ass, jim thought, that she must be comfortable or in the throws of some depraved fettishist act. he thought fleetingly what it would be like to have her. then the deadline swarmed over him: he slouched. "shit."

he reached at the floor and grabbed the filtered end of the still-burning butt. he lifted it furiously to his lips. he breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. he felt every chemical-filled fiber of the smoke coursing through his body. the skin on his arms and neck raised. he held in the smoke until it choked off the last bits of air in his lungs; he pursed his lips and spit the smoke into the air. jamie winced. "why do you still smoke," she stated rather than asked. clinging to the warm tingling sensation in his body, he closed his eyes tighter and chose to not acknowledge her.

he walked back to the desk, sat again, and pushed the cigarette carefully into the corner of his mouth. the swirling smoke stung his eyes. he pulled his chair closer to the desk and leaned forward toward the black antiqued smith-corona typewriter (how pretentious) that sat, waiting anxiously for the calloused massaging of jim's fingers on its keys. he reeled a leaf of paper forward and returned the carriage. he tapped a few of the keys, trying to string the letters and words together in his head before hammering them onto the page. he noted the empty bottle of white out now tipped on its side and rolling back and forth on the desk like a fish out of water gasping for air, wanting to be filled again with the goopy white heaven that lay in a cracked, dried pool underneath it.

jim pulled his hands into fists and smashed them against the keys. jamie flinched, but said nothing. "she laughs at this, my impotence," jim thought. "it's only a title," he thought. He raced through the card catalogue of words in his head. "all i need is a title. a title. give me the fucking title!"

File under it's news to me and other useless thoughts

I'm the kind of guy who focuses too much effort on [useless] details. Consequently, I miss much big picture stuff. I like to believe that I am always aware of all things around me, alas this is not the case. Take, for example, my last post.

It has been brought to my attention by those of you who left comments and some who haven't that the post was a tad depressing. While typing, I didn't feel any sadness, nor was I striving to evoke such emotion in readers or elicit sympathy. I simply thought of a few words that, in my small brain, seemed to fit together and tell a bit of a story.

In other news, I've got a new job (week three is well underway). It's the same job I just left with better salary. I still get to write "may cause gas with oily discharge," which is still disgusting and funny (ok, ok, I don't feel badly for folks with this condition, in fact, I'd love to meet someone with such gas, invite them out for fried clams and milkshakes, and watch them squirm from trying to hold it in). The work space is nice and the window in my office is faced toward a wildlife sanctuary, but I don't think I'll find zen anytime soon. The commute sucks, but what commute that ends up at, well, work doesn't (hooker, movie star, band member (not marching), and bar fly don't count). Nice thing is that I get to work from home a couple of days each week. Like today. Although, I must admit that I've done about 10 minutes of work today compared with the two hours of surfing the net for porn and another two hours spent scraping and priming a section of trim above our back door that was ravaged by the winter weather.

In yet other news, the tree in our front yard that we thought was a cherry tree turns out to be a flowering crabapple tree, and it's dying from fire blight.
This is the latest home-owner's bummer we're faced with. Once again, there's no landlord to call to have things fixed and/or replaced. No, I have to have three different companies come out: one to cut down the tree and hall it away, one to grind out the stump (there's porn in there somewhere, I'm sure), and the third to deliver a new tree. We're thinking of putting in either a yoshino cherry tree or a mount fuji cherry tree. Exciting, I know.

Recently, our dishwasher died, we replaced it with a lovely fridgedaire stainless number. Also, the future Mrs. Fondleberries, fell in the shower and got herself some fabulous bruises on legs and arms (I've been telling folks that I beat my old lady, which makes me laugh).

Lastly, I'm told there are now 17 days until I'm married.

Once

I once was young and had a lifetime ahead of me. Everywhere I could see, I was told, there would be doors through which my future lay. I had time to make choices. I had time to do nothing at all, or everything I could. I had little experience and less knowledge, but I thought that I knew it all and was willing to say so to anyone who would listen.

I once was cool and hip and thin.

I once had hair. Long, flowing hair.

I once had only myself to worry about or care for.

It seems that at once all of these things changed.

I am now middle-aged. Most of my hair has decided to part from me. I've gone up at least two waist sizes. I still belt Smiths lyrics while driving, which, I'm told, makes me less than cool (and likely a bit gay). I have a house and bills and a job. And I'll be married in less than a month.

Back in Black

Or back in the States(?), and wearing pink, whichever comes first.

I'm working on the trip review post, but guarantee it will suck (almost as much as I do).

In the interim, here's a bit of conversation I recently had with a work colleague (WC, not the closet, Jesus, pull your head out of your ass):

Lord F: I would very much like to visit France at some point.

WC: France isn't a country, it's a restaurant.

and so it goes

it's odd to type, but i have a hero.

i had a hero.

my hero died this week.

i'm older, but not wiser. and he's dead.

my hero wrote. a lot.

he wrote:

"Listen:
When I was a younger man---two wives ago, 250,000 cigarettes ago, 3,000 quarts of booze ago . . .
When I was a much younger man, I began to collect material for a book to be called The Day the World Ended."

and so it goes.

Bringing Suck Back

Hidey ho, bloggeroos.

I haven't posted here in a while because:

1. Sinus infection. This is my second such infection since January. I'm starting to finally question my "immune" system: the dirty bastard is getting me into all kinds of trouble. The head-pounding pressure had disallowed seeing and typing as well as breathing.

2. Work. My fabulously boring job has decided to unfuck itself momentarily, which has put me into a world of shit trying to clean up the dribble on the mattress, so, no bloggy there.

3. Detoxification. By far, coming off the sauce is the least fun I've had in some time. The shakes have kept my sausage and peppers fingers from settling down to blog.

4. Commuting. I spend at least 2 hours each day in my car driving to and/or from work. I don't mind so much as the music is good and I'm certain to spill most of my latte thanks to the incredibly unmaintained roadways in and around Boston. Alas, commuting leaves little time for blogging.

5. Douching. Or should I say, "sucking". Either way, it's got nothing to do with cleaning or a good time, rather it merely sums up my normal activities of daily living.

What will I do about all of this non-posting? Probably nothing.

Afraid of the dark

The mechanical clicking of the front door latch being opened forcefully penetrated the wildly random violence of Efram's latest dream. Storm waves crashed against the rock below his naked feet. He couldn't discern how many shouting voices were behind him. An image of his mother, lying in a casket, dressed in flowing white robes, her eyes pinned shut, pushed the gray-black clouds apart. He turned to face the voices. He tried to scream as he saw only the long, black steel of the gun barrel pointed at his chest. Falling to his knees, he covered his face with his trembling hands and begged through choked tears, "Please, don't kill me. Please. Not now. Not yet."

He awoke.

He lay, shivering, in the bed. His stark-white t-shirt, dampened from sweat, stuck to his chest. His ears quickly filled with the pounding sound of the blood coursing with seeming contempt through his body with each tachycardic heart beat. He tried to focus a gaze on the ceiling light. The stinging in his eyes and the now-running tears trying feebly to coat the dryness forced a fuzzy memory: garbled words of televised salesmen; the hard seam of the leather couch pushing into the side of his crooked head; waking to the blackness of a cold, quiet room, hardened drool on his chin; stumbling through the hallway, grasping at the walls to steady himself; removing all but his t-shirt and underwear to a pile on the floor by the bed; tearing the covers over himself. He closed his eyes slowly, watching what few and now swirling shapes he could just make out disappear into the darkness of his thoughts.

At once, he remembered the sound that woke him. His eyes opened. His face flushed. His chest clenched. His stomach dropped. He stole the bed sheet into his tightly clenched fists.

I am afraid, he thought.

Ruth lay next to him in the dark, unaware of his quiet, frightened stare. He thought to reach over, to touch her, to wake her so that she would share his fear. He, instead, turned away from her and lay on his side. His heart beating faster and faster.

What will I do; what should I do, he thought.

He did not move.

He became acutely aware of any sound in the house: a creaking floor board outside the bedroom door; the yawn of the cat in another room; the whirring of the refrigerator motor; the ignition of the furnace; air blowing through the wall vent; Ruth's slow, heavy breathing beside him.

The deep sound of her breaths whisked him away into thoughts he'd hoped were forgotten. Here was their first kiss. Here were all of the late night talks and long walks by the beach. Here was the argument over leaving too big a tip for that shitty waiter. Here were countless silences while watching films or playing records. Here were the drunkenly strewn shards of the wedding china after which of the countless, nameless times enough was enough. Here again was the moment he had known that she no longer loved or needed him. Here, now, alone by her side, afraid of the dark, were as many tears and pangs of his heart that he could conjure. He closed his eyes with as great a force as he could bring himself to raise, and he tried to cry. He managed only a dry gasp.

With a slow, silent movement, he left the bed.

Standing in the hallway, he looked left, then right. As though it were for the last time, he turned and looked back at the gently moving mound of covers surrounding Ruth's sleeping body in their bed. He hoped he would smile and think warm, loving thoughts of cherished memories; he instead turned back toward the stairs and began the slow descent.

In the living room, he took up a tumbler of scotch, and sat by the window in the antique rocker they found on a whim during a day trip along the coast. He pushed his heels at the floor and the chair rocked back, as far as it could; he felt the strain of his calf muscles as he held the position. He sipped slowly from the glass, feeling the steady burn of the alcohol coating his mouth, throat, stomach.

As he sat alone, he repeated silently: I just want to die; please kill me; please.

It's like that and that's the way it is

Isn't Run DMC just the coolest?

Now that I've got the 14-year old girl from 1985 out of my head and onto the breakdancing cardboard, I can get right down to it.

Every now and again, I like to repost comments I made on someone else's blog here. For me, the fun part is that the comments are read out of context, as well they should be. And it gives the very few of you who read my blog, but not the random blogs I read and comment on, the opportunity to see how fabulous I really am. With comments.

Here's one I left recently:

for ed, it was the very beginning of a late-winter saturday. he'd stepped out of his apartment, sure he'd double and tripple and even four times checked that he'd locked the door, put his wallet in the back left-side pocket of his carefully and fashionably torn jeans, and that he'd grabbed his wool cap from the coat rack.

he stood in the hallway, running through this checklist in his head (door . . . wallet . . . hat . . .). hearing tomwaits, his cat, faintly and furiously scratching at the bottom of the door, he looked down. one paw, sometimes both, made itself small enough to fit through the space between the door and floor. ed wondered if tomwaits wished for his quick return, or to run out with him into the mysterious world outside the apartment. was tomwaits on the other side of the door wondering if would it be a world of sunshine and mousing; or of laying snuggled against ed's chest in a field of long, soft grass; tomwaits didn't and soon realized he wouldn't know, and stomped away from the door.

ed boarded the elevator and pulled the wool cap low over his brow.

outside his building, he tried and failed to get a cab. he looked up at the sky around him, then down at his feet. were this mere months and 12 steps earlier, he'd have had the comfort of a cool, perspiring metal flask pressing almost osmotically against his chest through the inner pocket of his jacket. now, however, he was alone. he looked back up at the sky and pushed a finger over his brow and under the edge of the wool cap. he feigned a smile and walked toward the metro, mustering more and more strength with each step.

the train pulled into the station so quickly, the rush of air as it went past nearly knocked him over. his eyes were glazed over. he seemed unphased. he boarded the metro and sat by the door. again he pushed a finger over his brow and up under the edge of his cap. he stared down at his feet, remembering the steps. the steps. he looked up and right, pointing a finger at the woman sitting next to him.

extensions, he thought.

************************************************************************************

Meanwhile, back at my own blog . . .

Every now and again in my head, I hear conversations between Latin people living in Brooklyn. I'm guessing that I'm not the only one with such thoughts.

The last version drove a chopped, red hoopty with chromed out rims and twice pipes right out my left ear in the form of three separate, one-sided rants:

1. "Like, oh my god, he was all, like, 'yeah, so, what are you gonna do about it,' all gang-banga, and shit. So, I says, 'I'm gonna kick your fucking ass, guapo, if you don't quit it. Right. Fucking. Now.'"

two. "Churlindo was so pissed off when I says to him, I says, 'yo! you couldn't give it to yourself hard: you're not a man, you're just a little Puerto Rican bitch'."

3. "Uh-uh, oh no he di-int!"

Superawesomefantasitcawesomeness and Hair

When I launched this blog way back on that freezing cold night before heading out for drinks and drag reviews in late 2006, my intent was that it be the tin foil wrapping on the rabbit ear antennae that might just bring a bit of clarity to the snow-filled screen of the tv in the dingy, green shag-carpeted and plywood-paneled living room in my head. (Hey, I'm a run-on sentence. Yay me!) The idea was to make a happy little place for me to poop out tid bits of the insanity and inanity that comprise my life. Openly. Anonymously. And perhaps even somewhat truthfully.

But it would appear that now it's become, quite simply, a steaming pile of virtual poop. So, I'm taking this post to re-invent my blog.

That's right bitches, it's Buggery 2.0, and it's fucking on! Yeeeeaaaaawwwww! There'll be more buggery than Sean Connery's slurring cock has ever seen. There'll be more Fondling than Michael Jackson at a day care center. There's going to be more fucking Lord than Jesus fuck me right in the metal plate in my head Christ himself. Oh yeah! There's going to be so much superawesomefantasticawesomeness you'll think you got skull fucked and died, then fell into a bed of yummy tropical fruit-flavored skittles.

Actually, no, there won't be any of that. I'm not reinventing anything. Because I simply couldn't give a flying fat fuck. And to do so would cut clinically significantly into drinky drinky time, and there will certainly be none of that. So, fuck all that.

Hey, if a retard fell off the short bus, will I still like cake?

The Sunday Post

It is another winter Sunday just north of Boston. The sun is shining brightly in the clear blue sky. Salt and snow have stained the streets. And the wind is blowing our back gate open and shut rather violently. Its latch is missing, you see, thanks to the future Mrs. Fondleberries who, one night a couple of weeks ago in a moment that can only be described as cute, let the gate slam shut. Slam! With a whimper, as though the wind were knocked out of it, the latch popped off. Since I'm a bit fat and lazy these days, I haven't yet fixed it. I'm sure that I'll get to it by mid summer.

* * * *

I was awakened this fine morning at about 5 AM by a revelry of yelping, screeching, hissing, and fighting composed and orchestrated by several neighborhood cats. Apparently these buggers had the night before decided as a collective feline unit that it was high-time they were in heat, and by morning needed to tear the living shit out of each other's fleshy loins and pump warm yummy goodness into each other until filled with soon to be kitties. Kitties are sweet. What made this barrage of noise even more special was the fabulous hammer-to-anvil pounding of my usual Sunday morning hang over that was, lucky for me, echoing through my still booze-laden head.

* * * *

When I was a kid, my father, whom I'll call "Drill Sergent Dad (DSD)", used to wake me every morning at zero-530. The DSD would kick open the door to my bedroom, stand over my comatose corpse for how ever long he stood there (which is a story for a different post), and he'd shout the military revelry tune repeatedly until he could see the whites of my eyes; eyes encrusted with morning sleep.



"Get up, kid, he'd bark, "and wipe the snot out of your eyes. Ready yourself in fifteen."

Readying meant that I had exactly 15 minutes to perform what the DSD called the three S's (shit, shave, and shower), then dress in gym shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers. Once ready, I'd meet him in the kitchen to "mess", then we'd head out to the local Junior High School track for a run.

The track was a quarter mile around and close to 20 yards wide. Tiny purple pebbles comprised its surface. The DSD had decided that we would run one mile. Four turns around the track. Four was neat and tidy. We didn't run for speed, or necessarily for distance, or even to share each other's company. This was conditioning. We ran in stride. Our feet hit the pebbles simultaneously. Left, right, left, right. I envisioned that the only thoughts the DSD had during the runs were of military cadences: I don't know but I've been told, Eskimo pussy is mighty cold, and the like. He never spoke during the runs, though.

Once the mile was up, we'd walk off the track and onto a nearby field to stretch and get in some push ups and sit ups. Counting the repetitions would be the only conversation. We got in however many push ups and sit ups we could before I'd have to be off for school and he for work.

This ritual, which I referred to as my morning fuck you, began shortly after my 13th birthday and lasted until I left for college several years later.

* * * *

As I lay in the guest room bed this morning, sweating booze and staring at the ceiling, I tried to come to grips with the fact that getting more sleep was not an option. Once I had accepted that fact, I got out of bed, wiped the snot from my eyes, and stumbled to the bathroom to have a piss. I was happy to see that I was wearing pajamas. I wasn't sure if I had made the transition from real clothes to bed clothes before passing out on the couch last night.

Standing in the can with one hand pressed flat against the wall and the other holding myself up, I felt oddly a touch horny. It must have been the not being able to think of much other than all that fine feline fucking going on outside.

I finished my piss and meandered to the sink to wash my hands. I splashed a bit of water on my face and put my hands on the edge of the sink to brace myself. I lifted my head and looked into the mirror. Water dripped off the end of my nose. It was a slow-motion moment. In my head, I heard a slow blues riff being played on a tinny piano. There was a stinging feeling in my half-closed, bloodshot eyes. I blew water off my lips, wiped my nose on my sleeve, and lowered my head. I wondered how I'd got so far from the DSD and my morning fuck you.

It's Just Words

As a self-proclaimed grammar Nazi, I'm usually acutely aware of the ways in which native English-speaking people mangle the English language. I find most errors rather funny at first, but I'm a scosh obsessive, so I feel the need to and do point out flaws and/or make corrections where and when I've not been invited to do so. Most people I know chalk this up to my being a dick. I'm ok with that.

My most recent crusade has been to right the great "then" vs. "than" wrong that so many of you are guilty of committing. The difference is rather simple.

Then should be used when referring to the chronological order of a set of events, as in

"I was reading your blog, then I realized that you were a shithead."

Then can also be used to define a condition, as in

"If you don't know the difference between then and than, then you should not be allowed to blog."

Than, on the other hand, should be used to make a comparison, as in

"Your use of the English language is worse than a retarded monkey's."

Now that I've cleared this up for you, if you insist on writing a phrase like, "I am older then Bob", you should have your pinky fingers removed and a dictionary thrown at your head, and if you think it's ok to use a phrase like, "If you can provide a full description, than you should know", then I'm not so sure you should be allowed to blog anymore.

Onward grammar soldiers to more fucked-upped grammatical mangling.

Today, Heather said, "Marky Mark and the Funchy Bunk." Apparently she was so excited by Mr. Mark's buffness (or something) that she botched the name of the band. What could she have been thinking? Was it, "mmmmm, he's funchy?" Or, "I'd love to get me some of that hot funchy bunk." Either way, it was hilarious to hear her say that. I'm going to refer to myself as funchy from now on. Maybe in conversation, I'll ask people, "hey, are you feeling funchy today?"

So, what are some of your favorite language fuck-ups?

The Soundtrack of Your Life

what is it that music does deep within us? what is it that makes us tap toe with the beat? why does music conjure memories of days thankfully long gone by or woefully forgotten?

sounds equal images equal memories equal emotions.

here's a partial listing of the tuesday night soundtrack as spun by superstar dj lord f (with partial commentary):

run dmc: rock box (hell yes)
3rd bass: words of wisdom (perhaps there is a theme being kicked off, tune in later)
de la soul: eye know (anyone who can rhyme over steely dan is ok in my book; steely dan, i smell w.s. burroughs, and he's dead. ewww.)
eric b and rakim: i know you got soul
special ed: i'm the magnificent (yes, mothertrucker, i am)
d nice: my name is d nice (actually, it's lord fondleberries. well, maybe it's not)
bdp: my philosophy (for heather's informizzle, d nice came up with bdp: it's all in the way he rhymes over that 8 0 8)
big daddy kane: warm it up cane (is that pornographic, because i hope it is)
the the: uncertain smile
pixies: dig for fire
billie holiday: they can't take that away from me
black rebel motorcycle club: ain't no easy way
the doors: l.a. woman (mister mojo rising)
led zepplin: communication breakdow (on purpose)
ll cool j: mamma said knock you out (don't call it a come back, bitches)
whodini: the freaks come out at night (who the hell has that in their record collection, that's right, suckas, lord f is in the house . . . lord f is in the house . . . when i said "lord" you say "f".)

and the finale:

tomoyasu hotei (aka the electic samurai): battle without honor or humanity (all a y'all silly suckas be knowin that one from the kill bill sountrack. me, i own the actual album. heck yes. i rock the house)

Billy Graham Killed My Dreams

I'd normally make this post under the ongoing list of reasons why I'm retarded, but I thought I'd put in a little more effort. I hope you like it, I really do. Well, not really. In fact, I don't like you. So leave my blog. Ok sweety?

So, I spent today online. What else is new: it's Saturday, I'm a loser, ergo ipso facto. Today's twist, and yet another example of my stupendous retardedness, is that I was online on not one but two computers. With the first, I was happily then frustratedly and finally pissed offedly in the online waiting room at redsox.com, waiting (tee hee) my turn to order green monster seat tickets. I'll get to that in a minute. With the second, I was avoiding work by blogging and searching for classic porn. That's right, I said work, on Saturday, which makes my Monday through Friday job that much more super great and awesomely incredibly fanfuckingtastic---you know, because I also have to do it on Saturday.

I booted the 'puter aruond 7 AM (Boston time, le bruce bruce, in case you were wondering). I grabbed my notes, sat down with a cup of coffee, and got crack-a-lackin. Then I remembered that why the fuck am I working on Saturday? So I got busy avoiding work. Before I knew it, hours had gone.

It was about 11:00, and I remembered that, holy shit, I was supposed to hit redsox.com to get tickets for my cousin, brother, and me. The deal: one game, four tickets. On the green monster. Sweet baby Jesus, we were going to get what every sox fan would sell their mum for.

Naturally, the sheer excitment about possibly getting monster seats made me shit my pants and spray beer out of my nose. Dude, come on, this was a wicked pissah chance of a life time. Most folks, especially sox fans, understand the pure awesomeness of getting the chance to see a sox game while sitting high atop the famed left field wall. (Anyone who doesn't understand the magically scrupmtious yummy delicious sweetness of this kick-assedness can go fuck yourself.)

The happy madness began just before noon. It ended at six. Sans tickets.

I toggled between puters every 30 seconds, blogging on one and checking to see if I was refreshed into the ticket purchasing section of redsox.com on the other. Every 30 fucking seconds!

Yeah, so, six hours later and no tickets didn't piss me off, even a little? Oh, that's right, I was super fucking pissed. I was firstly pissed at the red sox for tricking me into believing that I actually had a shot at these seats. But who can blame me? My cousin got an e-mail from redsox.com stating some congratulatory bullshit about how he was chosen to be among the select few (apparently fucking million) to have the opportunity to get green monster seat tickets to a red sox home game. But he wasn't going to be around to collect the loot, so could I? Shit yes I would. I was then pissed because I fell for this shit, like an old Betty giving the last of her life savings to bring Jesus to Billy Graham.

Somewhere between seeing my dreams spiral down the toilet and not working on Saturday, I read a choose your own ending post over at Monkey boy Egan's, which I thought was fun. I'm copying that for this post.

Given that I've got a following of about 7 and they're all a touch retarded, I figured I'd help them with the choosing. Here goes. It's now the end of this post. Will you:

A. Go.

B. Fuck.

C. Yourself.

Hint: try all three, in order.

Saturday Morning Post

It's nine AM, Saturday morning in Boston. As sit at the dining room table typing this, Heather is still in bed asleep. I heart her. I probably don't tell her enough, but it's true. I believe she knows that I do.

The sun streams through the window. Snow is piled in random spots next to driveways, in the middle of the street. A thick coat of ice covers almost everything in sight. I'm hoping this cold spell will end soon. If for no other reason than I'd like to walk through the neighborhood without the snot in my nose freezing.

I'm not looking forward to charioting the old mini sled to Starbucks this morning, but I do need a fix. It's been an odd week. A few rants. More folks leaving my company: the company is moving to Lexington, MA, which sucks for the vast majority of us who commute either from the north or south shores.

Yesterday was my ex-boss' last day. She'd been my ex-boss since July 2005, when she dumped me off to my current boss. That made me feel special; the I'm wearing a helmet and drooling kind of special. My ex-boss hired me at this job. Now she's gone.

I can wait no more: I'm off for coffee.

Armistead Fondleberries' Tales of a City that Never Existed - The Slick Ricks

I've recently been e-mailing back and forth with a former college roommate.

Trevor and I haven't talked to each other for many years (the internet isn't just for porn anymore: that's right, baby, get your stalk on). We both have grown up (somewhat) and have had some interesting experiences during the hiatus. That's nice.

In one of my e-mails, I mentioned that I remembered once wearing a sweater of his and bursting into flames. Literally.

At the time, we both were known for using a bit of hairspray (he tells me now that some of the people we hung out with secretly referred to us as the slick Ricks. I don't know whether to accept this as a nod to our incredible rockabilly style, or to search out those friends and wish them a happy go fuck yourself. For the record, some of these friends were Wolf, Masturbation Dave, Lank, and Barefoot Dave---the latter name given to avoid any confusion among the Daves).

As the story goes, I had borrowed one of Trevor's sweaters for some reason or another before we headed out to a nearby pond to smoke with the very same friends. Standing in the requisite circle, we passed around the old peace pipe until the supply was gone. And we were gone. While in my spot, I held a lighter by my side, flicking it. On. Off. On. And poof. I burst into flames.

The next thing I knew, I had hit the dirt. Hard. Apparently the other slick Rick had tackled me to put out the fire. And save the sweater. It was a great sweater, albeit comprised almost entirely of hairspray.

It turns out that Trevor remembered the day I caught fire. He provided this detail: the sweater belonged to his friend Heather.