Archive for November, 2007

Pointless Friday

It’s not the first time I have written a post and deleted it, and it probably won’t be the last.

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What’s up with Giuliani? What a bitch. I hate him.

I’ll be the first person to say that I’m voting for Hillary. Here’s what’s weird: I feel like this election is a middle school student council vote, and that Hillary is a shoe-in, because all the 6th graders are voting for her. The 6th grade is a lock, it was something about those bake-sale cookies. Fucking 6th graders.

My boss was going on about Ayaan Hirsi Ali, and I said it seemed like self-aggrandizing to me a little bit. He was congratulating himself for “supporting a good cause,” by donating some money each month to her, so she can keep her security detail. She blasts Islamic culture for suppressing women, genital mutilation, the whole nine yards. Something to me doesn’t sit right with me about this lady, and I can’t put my finger on it. I will not be contributing to her security detail this month, but that doesn’t mean I support her assassination.

Am I a socialist? No. Do I think everyone can fend for themselves? No. Where my two conflicting ideas meet is called reality.

Writing, for me, is like taking a shit. I don’t think about it and it smells bad, but when it’s coming out, it feels really good. My legion of faithful weirdos, thank you for flushing the toilet.

And then…

What happened to Calvin? I mean, we all know Bill Watterson quit or whatever, but what happened to Calvin? Did he grow up? Did he become his dad? I remember being 5 years old and reading Calvin, and thinking that in 1 year, I would be as old as my mischievous hero. It’s very interesting to think about looking UP to Calvin, and wishing you were as old as he was. Hobbes is great too, obviously, and I don’t believe in favorites in this particular instance.

The Beatles, on the other hand, present an easy case of favorites, for all citizens of the world. You can like whichever one you want, and you can build a pretty good case around it with the amount of materials and shit out there. There’s something for everyone. I like that about the Beatles.

I haven’t watched a snap of football all season long. I don’t feel like I’m missing anything, either. I guess that makes me less of a man, but I have other things that compensate. Like

Tomorrow, I take the dreaded CFA test. Will I pass? No. Will I have fun? No. Will I spend my Saturday surrounded by competitive wannabe accountants and bankers, all wracking brains to pick A B C or D? Yes. Will I probably race through the math parts, because I don’t know any of the formulas? Yes.

Probability of passing the CFA test on the first try, with 15-20% study efforts? I’d guess in the high 30% range, maybe a little higher.

Probability of passing the CFA Level 1 test during my lifetime? 51%

Can I live with those odds? Yes

Do I believe in fate? Yes and no. That’s an easy one.

Is Jesus the son of god, sent by god himself to save our souls, by dying (as a sacrifice) in our place? If I had to gamble my money on this statement (or my soul, as some might believe), I would gamble……..no.

However, the strict nature of the question is what I have trouble with. I believe in god, but I also think that god is something totally beyond the grasp of the human intellect, let alone “imagination.” I believe that some people are in fact touched by god, but I also think that could mean they have different hardwiring in their brain, which allows for a different understanding of reality. Like being stoned all the time, but not knowing it, because you’ve never been not-stoned. It’s deep, don’t worry about it. Jesus was probably Jesus, but he just might have been a little…..crazy?

Something I notice and laugh about the tide of anti-Bush propaganda is the fact that more than half the people voted for him in the first place. Twice. So shut up, idiots. Instead of bitching about it, just get yourself ready to vote this time.

I think Hillary is a part of the same machine as GWB, but that she will surround herself by people working in a more favorable direction. I mean, come on, she’s gonig to inherit his office. Don’t you think that she has been there before? Of course she’s a fucking shady power-hungry she-monster. But that’s who I want to be my President! I don’t want a pussy-footing green-monster like Kucinich, or Ron Paul for that matter. I love Ron Paul’s ideas, but in the end, it’s like my socialism/independence thing from earlier. Where your ideals hit the street is called reality, and that reality, my little friends, is called Hillary Clinton.

Similarly, I believe in a lot of the stuff Romney says about federalism, blablablabla, and I think he’s got an amazing track record as a businessman and a politician. But I can’t support someone who won’t call torture “torture.” Back to my earlier thoughts about anti-Bush people, the “torture bandwagoners” are amusing to me as well.

I am very anti-Israel in some ways, but not anti-Semitic at all. I just don’t think it’s right or fair to drop cluster bombs on grape farmers, no matter who they support. It’s not right. It’s not right to fire rockets, either.

I’m stopping now before I delete this one too. Peace, bitches.

Apathy

When you just don’t give a shit anymore…

apathy.jpg

Bears

radiohead_bear_blue.jpg

Who else here has a radiohead tattoo?

(real quote)

Restraint, I Don’t Have Any

Ah, the wondrous blog, this great window into the depths of Stoneyville. Why am I here, after all? After all this time, still doing my same bullshitstems.

Some distance is growing between the last “real posts” and today, which is a good thing, I think. As we grow up and older, it’s good to take a break to see just how far you have actually come since the last time you checked. I think that’s what’s going on here.

A new balance must be struck, and I am not afraid of finding it. Please check the last post, where Dank video-ed himself taking a dump, as evidence of my willingness to “go there,” if you will.

I’ve also been thinking about words, and about what I’m really doing with my life. I’m reading The Dark Towers, which I mentioned briefly. It’s amazing, despite Stephen King’s “unartistic” style. It’s an amazing story, which doesn’t need fancy words to dress it up or dilute it more. The story is right there, living, so why do you need to use gay words and smart phrasing to get your point across? You don’t.

I’ve painted two canvases in 2 weekends, back to back. I am proud of my painting much more than my stupid gay words and blog, because I get too emotional and messy with my words, and take it into too many directions. With painting, it’s just color, and it seems to be easier to get across what you’re trying to say, without dragging out your terrible insecurities and hangups in the process. In the end, I really don’t want to stew in my shit-stew that I brewed, and when I write, that’s what I do. When I paint, I go there, to the place in my head or whatever, bring it out, and then it’s there, done, finito. It says Hi to me when I look at it, without reminding me of the pain and stuff, even though other people look at it and might see the pain and messed up-ness. For example, after I gave my mom a painting for her birthday, my dad told me I should go see a psychiatrist because I am clearly fragmented and schizo. Perhaps I am, but I’d rather spend that hour painting instead of whining that it’s hard for me to stay organized because I took too much drugs and let go of the merry-go-round when it was going way too fast.

Anyway, dear blog-readers, you legion of faithfulness and support, how you’ve boosted me so when my spirits are low. So many days, I would come to work in such a hole, and just vent all my confusion and energy into a Frontpage document, and then post it up for the world to see, to comment on. I’m a needy little bitch!

The first time I went to the Drawing Room, before I even went home, I went in there bitching and moaning because I had a shitty day, and just felt shitty. This guy there Bill or whatever, he told me to “Shut the fuck up” with my gay whining.

“Don’t ever come to your neighborhood bar and cry about your job.” I never did after that, after my first solo after-work bar mission, he set me straight, and it was all good. Another thing he said to me really sticks out, when I was running my mouth, probably 3 Jack and Coke’s deep, just running my mouth about bullshit.

He said something to the effect of how inexperienced I was, and what a little deuschebag I was acting like. I was like What the hell are you talking about Geezer, when am I going to magically “be a man,” as he said, and turn a corner into Wonderful Manhood. And he said, “You will grow up when you understand what Restraint means.” And he didn’t mean Restraint as in don’t smoke the whole eighth the same day you get it. He meant Restraint in that I knew when to listen and when to talk. To know when you have said your share, and it’s time to do something else instead of running your fucking mouth off for no reason. To not blurt out each ridiculous thought that pops into my head the second it pops into my head.

I guess that’s what I’m doing now, showing some Stoney Restraint up in this gay blog. Is it working? No. I’m still a little bitch! You just don’t hear as much about it I guess, because I’m taking it out on the canvas.

Oh well. After all that, I still didn’t tell you what I started out to tell you, which is “What up, Blog-Homies?”

My blog is dead, my homies have abandoned the good cause, and for what? No worries, though, my own Dark Tower is still driving me to nowhere, and I won’t give up on it. No sir, I won’t give up.

Dank Taking a Shit

No, seriously.

+1,000k views in less than 2 months. It’s the money shot!

Still Crazy After All These Years, Just not Gay Like Paul Simon

Writing stories, deleting, despairing into nothing. I just wrote a blog post, and then said, DOINK! Delete.

Last night, I heisted a car from a lady’s ex-boyfriend. It was her car, under her name, and all this other stuff, and he wouldn’t give it back to her or talk to her. She is a friend, so we went to his work, and I jacked his car. I can’t begin to imagine leaving work to find out your car is gone, and then finding out it was your ex just reclaiming her property, via a Stoney Navy Seal.

To be honest, I had mixed feelings about it. On one hand, my man-law instincts told me not to betray a man of his car while he’s at work. On the other hand, it wasn’t his car, and he is a big fat fucking toolbox.

At any rate, I made it home safe, and was tired the rest of the day. Each day, I get to work around 5:10 AM. It sucks. I’m tired all the time. Worst.

Once we got home from the carjacking last night (it wasn’t a real car-jack, I had a key to the car, title and registration), I sat back and watched our friend go through her ex’s cell-phone, reading all his text messages. It was kinda rough on my insides, on a number of different levels. First of all, I felt like I was the one getting busted, that I was the one getting my phone spied on, even though I wasn’t. Definitely some sympathy going on there. And then, I also felt terrible that the lady was actually going through it. It’s like break up and get on with it, and I was just sitting there, Not Stoned, feeling sorry for the guy who just got his car jacked, and also feeling sorry for the lady who was looking at the phone. It just kind of hurt.

In the end, though, I got up this morning at that special hour, 4:20 AM, brushed my teeth and went to work. I imagine that dude without a car did something like the same, as did his pissed off ex, who spent the night at our place. They were basically married for over 5 years, and now the relationship has been reduced to stealing, spying and general gay shittiness. Last Christmas, they gave us their Christmas card, and I still have it in my car, in the center console. It’s kind of weird.

Anyway, I definitely feel like I learned a big lesson about how not to break up with your girl. Lady T and the lady kept asking me what I would do if that happened to me, and I kept coming back to the fact that nothing like that would ever happen to me. I wouldn’t be driving around my ex-girlfriend’s car, mooching off her payments and shit in the first place. In the end, we all pay for what we get, big time karma style.

The car-jack represents the 2nd time in my life when I have designed and/or implemented a secretive attack mission, with the sole intent of harm, retribution, or outright thievery. In this case, the car was not actually “stolen” in terms of the law, but his cell phone and digicam sure as hell were. The other time I stole some shit was when me, iiiDog and Suityourself robbed our arch-nemesis of a half-ounce of buds, and then did it again less than a week later.

I’m not sure which one I feel worse about it. When I stole that weed, I justified my actions by telling myself that he had stolen my weed, plenty of times before, by selling us short-ass bags and being a bitch. Even though he sold us short-ass weak bags all the time, I kept buying buds from him, and I knew it was going to be short each time. It was a classic arch-nemesis situation, as we fed off each other’s disrespect for each other, until me and Suit reached our breaking point, and we took him for all that he had. He was rich, so it’s not like I stole his lunch money or anything. I stole his weed, his power. I took his nuts, and he knew it, and he couldn’t prove it. Only after a year did we even tell Dank, that’s how big a secret it was, because the dude was in our extended crew.

As time passed, and our relationship did not dissolve, the Great Weed Robbery became a huge, unspoken valley of emotions between me and my prey. I know that he knew that I took his shit, and I know all his friends know I did, too. But still, our proximity and similar interests led us to the same rooms, to the same parties, year after year, and I still have a rock in my chest, from what I did then. Maybe I’ll tell him one day, and maybe I won’t. More than anything, I am embarrassed of my childish selfishness, but then I also put myself in that state of mind, and everything feels right as rain.

As for the dude with the car, I feel much differently. It just happened yesterday, so I don’t understand it yet.

I imagine as time passes, a hypocritical mix of self-righteousness and guilt will blend peacefully on the canvas of my raging emotions.

I am not a Mexican

Contrary to popular belief, I am not a Mexican. However, due to the high per capita Mexican/Latin population in my surrounding 500 sq miles, I have begun teaching myself Spanish at work, for 30 mins a day.

I just started 2 minutes ago. I’m on my second lesson from the BBC wesbite. It’s free. Let’s see if I can do it.

VIVA!

ps- I didn’t say “Hispanic” because that is a word that white people made up to call people who are from South America.

Update-  After 5 minutes of doing the BBC site, I quit. It was weak. I listened to Spanish talk radio for about 20 minutes, but it was too boring. Now I’m getting down with a music/morning talk show, which has a better mix. After a month of this, I bet I will be able to hold my own a lot easier down at burrito line.

I like Mexican music, always have.