| RANDOM QUOTE | An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools.
-Ernest Hemingway | |
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| GURT BEEFROW |  | Category: Social
Monday, November 22nd, 2004 @ 10:13 pm
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 Saturday,
after some especially good vittles had at Magazine Street's one and
only Slim Goodies, we decided to retire to the house of SCandAL for a
night cap or twelve.
While walking along the red brick walk up to their door, I heard a
faint pop and a small squeal from Alison.
Something on the order of "not again, that's the third one!" came Scott's reply.
Utterly confused and wanting to know what the hell just happened, I gingerly inquired, "what the hell just happened?"
I was then treated to a brief
explanation about Alison's despicable habit of crushing poor, defenseless
snails that are haplessly sucking the mold off the brick walkway.
I know, disgusting, but I found it in my heart to forgive her, so
should you. After that we went inside and drank ourselves to the edge of
oblivion. Not smoking while getting drunk puts an odd edge on the
experience that I haven't quite gotten control of fully.
Hopefully it's just the physical withdrawal, which will fade with time.
Anyway, In a moderately unrelated story, I had tentative plans the next day to
have a little breakfast with Scott and Alison while the little missus
was out with one of her friends doing girly crap. While waiting
for the breakfast to get going, I was in the "garden", weeding my new
found pride and joy, my budding pumpkin patch, when lo, I discovered a
quite gargantuan interloper: a large snail was enjoying quite the
mildew buffet on the bricks encircling my beloved pumpkin patch.
While squatting there staring at this snail, I had one of those
epiphanies where, in the span of a single second, you crossreference
ten different loose ends in your head all at the same time and come up
with a single solution that solves a miriad of problems. As if you
formulated the theory of relativity as a by product of inventing a way
of turning water in to Wild Turkey with 29 cents worth of
equipment. Well, that's what it felt like at the time, but in
actuality it was more like this:
"Man, I could toally give that snail to Alison to help her atone for her horrible genocidal actions against all of snail-kind!"
The sheer genius of the situation was signed, sealed and delivered when
I needed to come up with a name for the little guy. A half wrong
remembered name from some movie that had been floating around in my
head all morning. You know, when you have this wispy half memory
that's basically a string of sounds floating around in your head
refusing to let you concrete the memory in your mind, much less let you
remember its origin? Yeah, that kind of memory. The kind
that drives you nuts for hours on end until you finally pin it
down. Instead of letting it bug me any longer, I would exorcise
this thought by externalizing it. Thus I christened this snail:
Gurt Beefrow
I went to affix a plaque to his new habitat, one that would boldly
proclaim the rightful name of the occupant, but the only plaque making
supplies I had at the time were masking tape and a sharpie, so it ended
up being much less bold than previously thought... the result can be seen in the image accompanying this post.
The unfortunate part of this is when SCandAL arrived to go to breakfast,
an uncomfortable turn of events had begun, and I had to decline on
breakfast and settle for just handing Gurt off to his new owners.
Godspeed Gurt Beefrow. Godspeed.
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| THE GOOG | | Category: Social
Thursday, September 30th, 2004 @ 09:38 am
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 I don't know what's going on, but I've noticed my interaction with a certain sect of society has increased lately. This is a group of people who, from heretoforth, will be reffered to as "The Googs".
The name is derived from the 15th century Welsh, in which one who believed... just kidding. It actually comes from Pete, who had a friend with a googley eyeball, so, in proper Pete peculiarity (alliteration!), he fashioned this gent a nickname out of thin air. From henceforth, this young lad would be known simply as the Goog.
Anyway, getting back on track, as of late, I've been encountering googs out the wazoo. Googs at work, googs working the counters at convenience stores, googs standing in line behind me at the supermarket, etc. The funny thing is, I've also been talking to alot of "eye contact avoiders." The kind of people who, when holding a conversation with you, will shift their line of sight down, and a little to the left. Now this bugs the shit out of me, but I get by.
The problem arises when I'm constantly being bombarded by conversations from both googs and eye-avoiders. The problem is as follows: A goog approaches me and initiates a conversation. I raise my eyes in the all too familiar "I am acknowleging the existence of this conversation" eye contact lock. Eeep! Not only is it a goog, but one of their eyes is making contact with mine, and one is shifted down and to the left!
Thus a problem develops: Is the eye contact eye the good eye, and the other is the goog? Or, are they an eye-contact-avoider, and their goog eye is the one looking at me while the perfectly healthy one is busy avoiding eye contact? My eyes start darting back and forth from the dead on eye to the suspected goog, searching for any sign of life in either so that I can lock on to the sentient eye. Of course, while doing this, I become fully aware that it looks like I'm totally checking out their goog, but what the fuck am I going to do, ask them which of their eyes is the fucked up one? I mean, I'm not a dick. Mostly.
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| BLOGS AND DALI | | Category: Social
Saturday, September 4th, 2004 @ 05:34 pm
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Well, the other day I happened to notice that one "Ms A" has started updating her blog again. I am acutally a pretty big fan of her writing style, for reasons unknown. Maybe it's because I want to have mad monkey butt sex with her, but who knows.
Anywho, while reading, she enlightened me to the existance of a blog by one Poppy Z. Brite, a New Orleans native who's authored a few books that I read in my incoragable teenage years. Being star-struck for me usually happens in this order: 1) Wow! this person is famous! This is so cool that I am getting this intimate look into thier day to day life! 2) (8 seconds later) Who gives a shit.
I once "met" Poppy Z Brite around 5 or 6 years ago. I have met in quotations because we weren't at a glitzy party, clinking our champagne glasses and discussing tawdry and lascivious tales of others in the public eye, like ourselves. No, I was working the graveyard shift at the Kinko's uptown (when it was still on Carrollton), and she came in around 3am to copy some comic book representation she did of a story where she was a kid and her mother brought her to a museum to see jewelry created by Salvidor Dali. I brought up the fact that I had read a few books by her and enjoyed them, then mentioned that I didn't expect her to be 3 fucking feet tall (exaggeration). Uncomfortable small talk insued for about a minute, then she left.
What she didn't know was that I secretly had made my own copy of the one page "graphic story", and after she left, blew it up to poster size and mounted it on a foam core board. It hung prestigeously in my room in my apartment uptown until I moved and threw it away for reasons unknown to me now. I wish I still had it, I'd email her a picture of me standing in front of it hanging on a wall behind me in my house and just sit there being giddy about the confusion it would bring her.
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| GENTLEMANLY | | Category: Social
Saturday, February 21st, 2004 @ 09:53 pm
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 As you can see pictured, I have procured a device that frees me from have to touch my gentlemanly lips to actual tobacco products.
Yes, tomorrow, I will be a well adorned gentlmen of leisure, as will all of my counterparts.
For those of you that don't know, we live in New Orleans, and this weekend is the grand thrust of Mardi Gras that happens right before the climax of Fat Tuesday. Thoth is the parade, Ian's is the house near the parade route, and gentleman of leisure is the dress. So wear a robe, put on some slippers. and make damn sure you have a moustache grown.
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