Whiskey is the drink of the Gods.
Just thought I'd throw that out there...
Friday, April 28, 2006
Writing and Drinking
If you have writer's block, then you ain't drinkin enough.
Whiskey is the drink of the Gods.
Just thought I'd throw that out there...
Whiskey is the drink of the Gods.
Just thought I'd throw that out there...
Irish
You wouldn’t think it by looking at me, but I actually am Irish. My mother is part Irish, and her mother is descended from the Lynch clan of County Galway. Of course, my dark hair, dark eyes, and lack of height might scream Italy as opposed to Erin, but either way, the facts remain. I’ve always dug having Irish blood in me.
When I was young, my grandmother and I would go into the city for St. Patty’s Day and watch the parade, and eat at an Irish bar that served corned beef and cabbage along with Irish soda bread. These were, of course, long before my drinking would make St. Patty’s Day into a different kind of holiday. Either way, I remember all the stories and all the things I heard on those trips from her. There is a green line that the city paints down Fifth Avenue every year to mark the route of the parade; sometimes, on the nights before, the bastard Protestants would come and paint orange over the line (orange being the color of the North). We would visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and she would mention the old Catholic tradition of hanging the dead Cardinal’s hats from the towering ceiling, and they would fall when the Cardinal reached Heaven (ironically, none of them seem to fall, so I figure I’m screwed when I die). Once, way back in the history of New York, the Protestants tried to burn down the old St. Patrick’s Cathedral- an army of Irishmen protected it, with the bishop at the front, and threatened publicly to burn New York City to the ground if that Church was touched by a Protestant hand.
Being as I was a Civil War buff when I was a kid, my favorite story was about the Fighting 69th of New York. They were part of the famed "Irish Brigade", a brigade recruited from amongst all the Irish immigrants of New York City, and led onto the dreary fields of battle by an Irish nationalist named Thomas Meagher. They made the bravest charges of the war, charges that only an Irishmen would make. I stood on the fields at Antietam with my grandmother once, the same fields that these brave sons of Erin once charged valiantly, and were butchered valiantly, all in the name of freedom. The Fighting 69th is still a regiment in the US Army, and, though they are far from being all Irish now, they lead off the St. Patrick's Day Parade in New York City every year. They still march under the Green flag adorned only with a Harp and a Gaelic blessing, and are always referred to as "Mrs. Meagher's Own".
In reality, I'm no more Irish than I am Polish or Italian, but the influence is certainly strongest from the Irish side. I never knew my Polish side, and my Italian side, unlike most Italians, never really cared that they were Italian. They never had peppers hanging from the rearview mirror, and I didn't know that Columbus Day was actually considered an Italian holiday until I saw it on the Sopranos. I always liked being Italian, and I will always consider Rocky a hero of mine, but it's just not that ingrained in me.
It's kind of humorous, especially because I look so dark and my last name is certainly not Irish, so when folks see the Celtic cross that's tattooed on my back, it really throws them for a loop.
"So, wait, you're...Irish? What's your last name again? Wow! You look so Italian!"
I could see this, of course; eyes that are as dark as a Michelob bottle, and they only look darker because of the thick black eyebrows that hover over them (my girlfriend says they look like caterpillars. I told her I'd break up with her if she ever said it again). My hair is actually brown, but when I gel it, it looks black also. Throw in some sun-tanned forearms that one who's had a few too many whiskeys could call "olive" and a whole lot of hair, and BAM. They don't get more Italian looking. Picture any Italian boxer you've ever seen. Yea, I look like him.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a damn good looking fella, I just look ethnic, I guess you could say. But I've really no interest in Italian history, none at all. No, it's the Irish history, the Irish music, the Irish writers and poets and playrights, those are the ones that I dig. I go home drunk and try to read Yeats, and see if he makes any sense when I'm inebriated, being as he makes so little when I'm not. I'll read Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, and marvel that the struggle that Stephen Dedalus has with Catholicism is the same struggle that the Stephen living in New Jersey has right now; proof that the more things change, the more they don't. I read Roddy Doyle's novels, and see characters that reflect me more than I thought they would. There will always be something mythical to me about the "terrible beauty" that was the Easter Rising of 1916, and the strength and honor that those men showed on that cold day. And there will always be something noble about the IRA, no matter how bad they get.
I try to explain to people that my "Irishness" is something that I carry more in my mind than anywhere else, kind of like the Cherokee carried the Cherokee Nation; there were no borders, but every one of them felt it in their heart, and in their soul. I didn't need my tattoo to explain to others that I'm Irish, maybe I needed to say it to myself. Those good looking Italian genes sure aren't going away, and neither is my Polish last name. Maybe it reaffirms to myself that I'm actually Irish, and that my great- great- great grandfather did come here during the Great Famine, whether or not I have his hallowed last name, or look like him. It's a comfort to know that my great-grandfather was in the trenches in World War I, fighting for his county, and sending letters back to the Irish section of Jersey City, even though he died long before I was born. When it comes down to it, my grandmother handed down all of this to me, the only one who cared about history enough to be impressed by the old letters and the roster sheets of the 14th Coastal Artillery. And maybe that all is worth more than a last name or some freckles.
When I was young, my grandmother and I would go into the city for St. Patty’s Day and watch the parade, and eat at an Irish bar that served corned beef and cabbage along with Irish soda bread. These were, of course, long before my drinking would make St. Patty’s Day into a different kind of holiday. Either way, I remember all the stories and all the things I heard on those trips from her. There is a green line that the city paints down Fifth Avenue every year to mark the route of the parade; sometimes, on the nights before, the bastard Protestants would come and paint orange over the line (orange being the color of the North). We would visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and she would mention the old Catholic tradition of hanging the dead Cardinal’s hats from the towering ceiling, and they would fall when the Cardinal reached Heaven (ironically, none of them seem to fall, so I figure I’m screwed when I die). Once, way back in the history of New York, the Protestants tried to burn down the old St. Patrick’s Cathedral- an army of Irishmen protected it, with the bishop at the front, and threatened publicly to burn New York City to the ground if that Church was touched by a Protestant hand.
Being as I was a Civil War buff when I was a kid, my favorite story was about the Fighting 69th of New York. They were part of the famed "Irish Brigade", a brigade recruited from amongst all the Irish immigrants of New York City, and led onto the dreary fields of battle by an Irish nationalist named Thomas Meagher. They made the bravest charges of the war, charges that only an Irishmen would make. I stood on the fields at Antietam with my grandmother once, the same fields that these brave sons of Erin once charged valiantly, and were butchered valiantly, all in the name of freedom. The Fighting 69th is still a regiment in the US Army, and, though they are far from being all Irish now, they lead off the St. Patrick's Day Parade in New York City every year. They still march under the Green flag adorned only with a Harp and a Gaelic blessing, and are always referred to as "Mrs. Meagher's Own".
In reality, I'm no more Irish than I am Polish or Italian, but the influence is certainly strongest from the Irish side. I never knew my Polish side, and my Italian side, unlike most Italians, never really cared that they were Italian. They never had peppers hanging from the rearview mirror, and I didn't know that Columbus Day was actually considered an Italian holiday until I saw it on the Sopranos. I always liked being Italian, and I will always consider Rocky a hero of mine, but it's just not that ingrained in me.
It's kind of humorous, especially because I look so dark and my last name is certainly not Irish, so when folks see the Celtic cross that's tattooed on my back, it really throws them for a loop.
"So, wait, you're...Irish? What's your last name again? Wow! You look so Italian!"
I could see this, of course; eyes that are as dark as a Michelob bottle, and they only look darker because of the thick black eyebrows that hover over them (my girlfriend says they look like caterpillars. I told her I'd break up with her if she ever said it again). My hair is actually brown, but when I gel it, it looks black also. Throw in some sun-tanned forearms that one who's had a few too many whiskeys could call "olive" and a whole lot of hair, and BAM. They don't get more Italian looking. Picture any Italian boxer you've ever seen. Yea, I look like him.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a damn good looking fella, I just look ethnic, I guess you could say. But I've really no interest in Italian history, none at all. No, it's the Irish history, the Irish music, the Irish writers and poets and playrights, those are the ones that I dig. I go home drunk and try to read Yeats, and see if he makes any sense when I'm inebriated, being as he makes so little when I'm not. I'll read Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, and marvel that the struggle that Stephen Dedalus has with Catholicism is the same struggle that the Stephen living in New Jersey has right now; proof that the more things change, the more they don't. I read Roddy Doyle's novels, and see characters that reflect me more than I thought they would. There will always be something mythical to me about the "terrible beauty" that was the Easter Rising of 1916, and the strength and honor that those men showed on that cold day. And there will always be something noble about the IRA, no matter how bad they get.
I try to explain to people that my "Irishness" is something that I carry more in my mind than anywhere else, kind of like the Cherokee carried the Cherokee Nation; there were no borders, but every one of them felt it in their heart, and in their soul. I didn't need my tattoo to explain to others that I'm Irish, maybe I needed to say it to myself. Those good looking Italian genes sure aren't going away, and neither is my Polish last name. Maybe it reaffirms to myself that I'm actually Irish, and that my great- great- great grandfather did come here during the Great Famine, whether or not I have his hallowed last name, or look like him. It's a comfort to know that my great-grandfather was in the trenches in World War I, fighting for his county, and sending letters back to the Irish section of Jersey City, even though he died long before I was born. When it comes down to it, my grandmother handed down all of this to me, the only one who cared about history enough to be impressed by the old letters and the roster sheets of the 14th Coastal Artillery. And maybe that all is worth more than a last name or some freckles.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
E! is the Devil
I've fucking had it with celebrities. I'm not exactly sure what draws people to these dolts; I don't know whether its' a lack of better things to do, or if they actually give a shit what happens to these people. Either way, it irritates the hell out of me.
Check out what's new on MSNBC.com.
"Ooops! Britney Pregnant Again?"
What I want to know is why there is a question mark after that statement. Are there folks that are surprised that white trash from Louisiana might get pregnant more than once? Fuck me, they'll get pregnant eight times, abort four of them, and keep number 1, 3, 6, and 8, and then give one to an adoption service. And why do I care?
I don't, and that's my point. Say what you want, but if Britney Spears gets cancer right now and dies tomorrow, the world isn't going to be missing out on anything special, except perhaps a future welfare case. She sure as shit doesn't provide anything to the music scene besides a nice ass, and even that's gone now. None of our lives are affected by her, and too many people pay attention to this crap and not nearly enough to the things that actually messes with out lives.
Pay too much attention to this:
Seriously folks, there's much more important things going on in the world than to wonder what Tom Cruise's fucking kid is named after (I hear it means "loose woman" in Kazakystani). There's a genocide going on in Darfur right now, and a great question of whether or not the United States should go in and try to wrong the rights. Iran is a step away from having nuclear capabilities, which would put the powder keg next to the fire as far as World War III is concerned. Several governments in South America have fallen to anti-American, working class revolutions in the past couple years, including the ones that supply us with a whole lot of oil. Of course, I bet most of America didn't know that; but if they were asked how long it was before Jennifer found out Brad was banging Angelina, well, I bet they'd know the answer to that one.
I'm not trying to sound like an asshole here, but this truly bothers me. It's not the people's fault, of course, it's the mass media who do nothing but talk about this drivel all day long. They will rant and rave about some dumb blonder who gets kidnapped in Aruba, or how Mexicans are ruining this country with their horrendous... wish to work! (the horror!) , but they let the real news fly by.They'll whine about how wrong it is that boys kissing boys, and what God must think about a country that lets boys kiss boys legally. Abortion is another thing like that- let's get the government to intrude on more people's personal lives! Because, you know, that's what the Founding Fathers would have wanted! Blah blah blah....
Of course, these were the same people that sought out 60 year old Vietnam Vets just to prove that John Kerry really wasn't all that great in Vietnam (although the same people who run the government are the ones who ducked out of the draft).
Either way, as people, it is still our responsibility to know what's going on in the world, because eventually, whether we like it or not, the world comes knocking on the door of the little cocoon we have set up...and sometimes, it's pretty goddamn loud.
"If you're not turned on to politics, politics will turn on you." - Ralph Nader
And you get this:
Check out what's new on MSNBC.com.
"Ooops! Britney Pregnant Again?"
What I want to know is why there is a question mark after that statement. Are there folks that are surprised that white trash from Louisiana might get pregnant more than once? Fuck me, they'll get pregnant eight times, abort four of them, and keep number 1, 3, 6, and 8, and then give one to an adoption service. And why do I care?
I don't, and that's my point. Say what you want, but if Britney Spears gets cancer right now and dies tomorrow, the world isn't going to be missing out on anything special, except perhaps a future welfare case. She sure as shit doesn't provide anything to the music scene besides a nice ass, and even that's gone now. None of our lives are affected by her, and too many people pay attention to this crap and not nearly enough to the things that actually messes with out lives.
Pay too much attention to this:
Seriously folks, there's much more important things going on in the world than to wonder what Tom Cruise's fucking kid is named after (I hear it means "loose woman" in Kazakystani). There's a genocide going on in Darfur right now, and a great question of whether or not the United States should go in and try to wrong the rights. Iran is a step away from having nuclear capabilities, which would put the powder keg next to the fire as far as World War III is concerned. Several governments in South America have fallen to anti-American, working class revolutions in the past couple years, including the ones that supply us with a whole lot of oil. Of course, I bet most of America didn't know that; but if they were asked how long it was before Jennifer found out Brad was banging Angelina, well, I bet they'd know the answer to that one.
I'm not trying to sound like an asshole here, but this truly bothers me. It's not the people's fault, of course, it's the mass media who do nothing but talk about this drivel all day long. They will rant and rave about some dumb blonder who gets kidnapped in Aruba, or how Mexicans are ruining this country with their horrendous... wish to work! (the horror!) , but they let the real news fly by.They'll whine about how wrong it is that boys kissing boys, and what God must think about a country that lets boys kiss boys legally. Abortion is another thing like that- let's get the government to intrude on more people's personal lives! Because, you know, that's what the Founding Fathers would have wanted! Blah blah blah....
Of course, these were the same people that sought out 60 year old Vietnam Vets just to prove that John Kerry really wasn't all that great in Vietnam (although the same people who run the government are the ones who ducked out of the draft).
Either way, as people, it is still our responsibility to know what's going on in the world, because eventually, whether we like it or not, the world comes knocking on the door of the little cocoon we have set up...and sometimes, it's pretty goddamn loud.
"If you're not turned on to politics, politics will turn on you." - Ralph Nader
And you get this:
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Gas prices
Gas hit about $3 a gallon today. Bush claims that he's going to stop putting gas in the national reserve, and start a probe looking into oil companies. Sure you are.
First, I wonder why anyone, anywhere is surprised by this. The guy is an oilman. He supports Big Oil. Now that he is in office, Big Oil is taking home record profits. And by record, I mean fucking RECORD. Check this out-
"David Winston, a GOP pollster, said the size of the retirement package of former Exxon Mobil chief executive Lee R. Raymond has added to public outrage over rising gasoline prices. Winston said the multimillion-dollar package made people doubt oil companies' assertions that market forces and not their drive for profits stood behind the run-up in gasoline prices.
Raymond received $48.5 million in salary, bonus and incentive payments last year; he got a $98.5 million lump-sum retirement package in January, when he left the company; and he had accumulated by the end of 2005 $183 million in Exxon shares and unexercised stock options with a net worth of $69 million."
Are you kidding? Who the fuck gets a 400 million dollar retirement package?
What frustrates me the most is that the Republicans have managed to convince the working class that they stand up for them, and that it's us, the "East Coast Liberal Elite" who are out to stick it to them. I've got to hand it to them, they've created possibly the biggest myth since the McCarthy witch hunts. When it comes down to it, this country has made its bed, now it must lay in it.
We should make the gas prices higher in the states that voted Republican. Don't blame me, I'm from Jersey...we voted for Kerry.
First, I wonder why anyone, anywhere is surprised by this. The guy is an oilman. He supports Big Oil. Now that he is in office, Big Oil is taking home record profits. And by record, I mean fucking RECORD. Check this out-
"David Winston, a GOP pollster, said the size of the retirement package of former Exxon Mobil chief executive Lee R. Raymond has added to public outrage over rising gasoline prices. Winston said the multimillion-dollar package made people doubt oil companies' assertions that market forces and not their drive for profits stood behind the run-up in gasoline prices.
Raymond received $48.5 million in salary, bonus and incentive payments last year; he got a $98.5 million lump-sum retirement package in January, when he left the company; and he had accumulated by the end of 2005 $183 million in Exxon shares and unexercised stock options with a net worth of $69 million."
Are you kidding? Who the fuck gets a 400 million dollar retirement package?
What frustrates me the most is that the Republicans have managed to convince the working class that they stand up for them, and that it's us, the "East Coast Liberal Elite" who are out to stick it to them. I've got to hand it to them, they've created possibly the biggest myth since the McCarthy witch hunts. When it comes down to it, this country has made its bed, now it must lay in it.
We should make the gas prices higher in the states that voted Republican. Don't blame me, I'm from Jersey...we voted for Kerry.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Politically Incorrect...Forever.
I idolize Bill Maher. Depending on your political affiliation, this may endear me to you, or make you hate me immediately. I sat in the living room last night, watching his show “Real Time” on HBO, and just marveled at how icily cynical he can be, all the while backing it up with facts. I’ve known about him for years; I was once a 11 year old kid staying up every night until midnight to watch “Politically Incorrect” (until it got yanked off ABC for being a little too politically incorrect), and I’ve agreed with him every step of the way.
He used to claim that he was a libertarian back then; I liked this, because so did I. I was a young kid back then, and didn’t really know my ass from my elbow with politics although I followed them very closely (I was an oddball, I know). However, even in my middle school haze I realized that I hated the government, and didn’t think that they should have very much say over what I do. I never agreed with banning all drugs, mostly because of the inherent hypocrisy of the War on Drugs: you’re allowed to make money off of cigarettes and booze, which kill people, but not off coke and heroin, which also kill people. Apparently, some drugs are more moral than others, and selling death is better if it’s a tradition to sell death, as tobacco is. I also never really agreed with things like seatbelt laws, motorcycle helmet laws, abortion laws, or really any other kind of law that I felt was not in the American spirit of “freedom”. Murder, rape, theft; these were crimes that were punishable, sometimes by death if the crime was inhuman enough. I was never much for organized religion, as a group of people in a room, chanting, singing, and swearing that they were right about everything just seemed a little strange to me; it reminded me of the old movies where you see druids in the middle of the night standing around a fire, sacrificing things to appease their pagan gods.
For a little kid, I was incredibly skeptical of anything and everything. If you combine this with not only my political views, but the cynicism that seems to be an integral part of my personality, than you can understand why I looked at Maher as role model of sorts. He was interesting, callous, tough, funny, and all the while, you could tell that he was incredibly smart.
I stopped watching Politically Incorrect for a while in high school when I was going my personal dark ages. I’d turned away from books and learning and got into that high school mentality of being half –retarded and dopily apathetic. That wasn’t to last long though.
Eventually, I got back into politics, and when I did, it was with a bang. I realized that the government in the United States was fucked, and by fucked I mean “six-ways to Sunday, right up the ass” fucked, and that libertarians’ beliefs were partly to cause for this. What I thought had been a noble ideal of how America should be (kind of like I had thought of Republicans) had turned into the realization that everything they did actually took the power out of the hands of the people and put it right into the hands of rich CEOs and multinational corporations. I couldn’t call myself a Communist, although I read a lot about that at one time or another, and still can’t call myself a socialist, as I believe in private property and most tenets of free enterprise.
But when I came back to politics sometime around 2001, Bill Maher was still there, ranting and raving about all the things that pissed him off. And scarily enough, I still agreed with him. He seems now to have traded in his libertarian overcoat for a new vest made of liberalism in a classic sense, just as I have. I don’t classify myself as a Democrat, because I don’t believe everything they say, especially when they talk about gun control and the death penalty. Of course, if you talk to me for any amount of time, you can tell I’m certainly not a Republican, and I’m not in the “swing voter” section either. I know what I like, and I don’t have to agree with either party bout it.
Last night, Maher was literally yelling about the Democrats, and how they have become pussies in all senses of the word. They have given up talking about the environment, they have backed down to Bush in all kinds of ways, and they should be ashamed of themselves as a party. He said that he was ashamed that the Republicans have literally destroyed core issues in favor of one that only a retard could care about- boys kissing and immigrants coming over? That’s what we care about? Above helping the poor, saving the environment, and keeping the planet from falling apart?
Call me bleeding heart, but I’m not. I’m about as bleeding heart as Maher himself is, and if you’ve watched the show, you know that isn’t much. Someone with liberal views does not have to be soft, and does not have to be a career carpetbagging politician (read: Hillary Clinton). They can be tough, strong, and have varying viewpoints on many issues, all the while making sure that humanity is progressing forward, not falling backwards.
Maher is not a political lackey, or party faithful. He’s a freethinking man who doesn’t have to espouse a party line to make himself seem intelligent, and never holds himself back for fear of reprisals. He’ll go balls to the wall for what he thinks is right- would Hillary do that? Would Rush Limbaugh? Have they ever stood for anything in their lives that someone hasn’t told them that they should?
In roughly a thousand days, when the election comes back up, I’m going to write in Bill Maher’s name for president (I’d do my own, but I still drink too much to run the free world). I’d rather vote for someone who stands for something and who thinks for himself than some politician only interested in getting power, and then keeping it. Maher won't stop breaking the government's balls no matter what party takes power...and that is something that I can respect.
Welcome to America, where freethinking men go to die…or have their shows canceled.
CALLER: "Hi. Well, my question is, the Lord spoke to me approximately three years ago, and if the Lord spoke to you [Maher], I was wondering if you'd become a believer."
MAHER: "No, I'd check into Bellevue, which is what you should do..."
He used to claim that he was a libertarian back then; I liked this, because so did I. I was a young kid back then, and didn’t really know my ass from my elbow with politics although I followed them very closely (I was an oddball, I know). However, even in my middle school haze I realized that I hated the government, and didn’t think that they should have very much say over what I do. I never agreed with banning all drugs, mostly because of the inherent hypocrisy of the War on Drugs: you’re allowed to make money off of cigarettes and booze, which kill people, but not off coke and heroin, which also kill people. Apparently, some drugs are more moral than others, and selling death is better if it’s a tradition to sell death, as tobacco is. I also never really agreed with things like seatbelt laws, motorcycle helmet laws, abortion laws, or really any other kind of law that I felt was not in the American spirit of “freedom”. Murder, rape, theft; these were crimes that were punishable, sometimes by death if the crime was inhuman enough. I was never much for organized religion, as a group of people in a room, chanting, singing, and swearing that they were right about everything just seemed a little strange to me; it reminded me of the old movies where you see druids in the middle of the night standing around a fire, sacrificing things to appease their pagan gods.
For a little kid, I was incredibly skeptical of anything and everything. If you combine this with not only my political views, but the cynicism that seems to be an integral part of my personality, than you can understand why I looked at Maher as role model of sorts. He was interesting, callous, tough, funny, and all the while, you could tell that he was incredibly smart.
I stopped watching Politically Incorrect for a while in high school when I was going my personal dark ages. I’d turned away from books and learning and got into that high school mentality of being half –retarded and dopily apathetic. That wasn’t to last long though.
Eventually, I got back into politics, and when I did, it was with a bang. I realized that the government in the United States was fucked, and by fucked I mean “six-ways to Sunday, right up the ass” fucked, and that libertarians’ beliefs were partly to cause for this. What I thought had been a noble ideal of how America should be (kind of like I had thought of Republicans) had turned into the realization that everything they did actually took the power out of the hands of the people and put it right into the hands of rich CEOs and multinational corporations. I couldn’t call myself a Communist, although I read a lot about that at one time or another, and still can’t call myself a socialist, as I believe in private property and most tenets of free enterprise.
But when I came back to politics sometime around 2001, Bill Maher was still there, ranting and raving about all the things that pissed him off. And scarily enough, I still agreed with him. He seems now to have traded in his libertarian overcoat for a new vest made of liberalism in a classic sense, just as I have. I don’t classify myself as a Democrat, because I don’t believe everything they say, especially when they talk about gun control and the death penalty. Of course, if you talk to me for any amount of time, you can tell I’m certainly not a Republican, and I’m not in the “swing voter” section either. I know what I like, and I don’t have to agree with either party bout it.
Last night, Maher was literally yelling about the Democrats, and how they have become pussies in all senses of the word. They have given up talking about the environment, they have backed down to Bush in all kinds of ways, and they should be ashamed of themselves as a party. He said that he was ashamed that the Republicans have literally destroyed core issues in favor of one that only a retard could care about- boys kissing and immigrants coming over? That’s what we care about? Above helping the poor, saving the environment, and keeping the planet from falling apart?
Call me bleeding heart, but I’m not. I’m about as bleeding heart as Maher himself is, and if you’ve watched the show, you know that isn’t much. Someone with liberal views does not have to be soft, and does not have to be a career carpetbagging politician (read: Hillary Clinton). They can be tough, strong, and have varying viewpoints on many issues, all the while making sure that humanity is progressing forward, not falling backwards.
Maher is not a political lackey, or party faithful. He’s a freethinking man who doesn’t have to espouse a party line to make himself seem intelligent, and never holds himself back for fear of reprisals. He’ll go balls to the wall for what he thinks is right- would Hillary do that? Would Rush Limbaugh? Have they ever stood for anything in their lives that someone hasn’t told them that they should?
In roughly a thousand days, when the election comes back up, I’m going to write in Bill Maher’s name for president (I’d do my own, but I still drink too much to run the free world). I’d rather vote for someone who stands for something and who thinks for himself than some politician only interested in getting power, and then keeping it. Maher won't stop breaking the government's balls no matter what party takes power...and that is something that I can respect.
Welcome to America, where freethinking men go to die…or have their shows canceled.
CALLER: "Hi. Well, my question is, the Lord spoke to me approximately three years ago, and if the Lord spoke to you [Maher], I was wondering if you'd become a believer."
MAHER: "No, I'd check into Bellevue, which is what you should do..."
St. Patrick's Day Massacred
I've drank alot of beer in a lot of different places. I've covered most towns in Northern New Jersey, and even some from South Jersey (although not willingly). It's fun getting drunk in a strange land; it makes you feel like a traveler of older times, tired from a journey, looking for an inn with a pub on the bottom floor where you can have a strong ale, then wander to your room. Alright, I may be over- romanticisizing to a point, but you understand.
I I'd never been drinking in New York City before. Most of the time it's just too damn expensive, and the way I figure it, I'm going to end up too drunk to remember anywhere, so I may as well do it around here. And yet, I had to make the exception for St. Patrick's Day. Now I realize why going in there once in a while can be a shindig worth trying; so many people in such a small area can make for a hell of a time (not too mention, if you get tossed from one bar, there’s another one next door). St. Patrick’s is the prime time for this brand of drunken wandering, mostly because everyone else is drunk too, and the streets have a festive spirit to them. Seeing that city, which can be very drab and grey at times, illuminated with emerald shamrocks and golden harps at every window certainly brings a spirit of celebration that New York doesn’t normally have.
I did the standard things that I have been doing for years on St. Patrick's Day, like going to the parade and what not in NYC. I wasn't 21 last year though, so I didn't have the option of really travelling to any bars worth going to. This year I figured...ahh what the fuck. Go for it.
We drank at this bar close to Port Authority called Rendevous, a good choice because that’s where the party is on St. Pats. Some folks get fancy ideas of traveling all over the world on St. Pats to find a bar- the secret is to just stay in Midtown, as its not only where the parade is, but its also loaded with Irish bars.
In my drunken carousing around New York City, I came across some interesting things. Not interesting like ‘barfight’ interesting, of course, but still thought provoking nonetheless. One of these interesting things involved a kid from Dublin that came over for the shindig that is March 17th, and this is where my thoughts spring from.
I was standing inside this bar getting started on the festivities, when I saw through the window, and I see a couple of my buddies talking to some guy who’s got an Irish flag wrapped around him like a cape. Now, I figure that given our normally violent demeaner, that my buddies are mouthing off to this guy trying to start a fight, and if that’s going to happen, then I’m going to be there to get involved.
I went outside under the guise of having a cigarette (fucking New York City and their laws), and, as it turned out, they were trying to fight this guy’s buddies, but thought that this guy himself was cool. Being as we outnumbered them, they apparently took off, leaving us with this guy who turned out to be pretty interesting. I don’t even remember this guys’ name (I was drinking…), so I’ll refer to him as “The Dubliner”, being as that’s where he was from. The rest of this story is kind of hazy, as this is the point where I crossed that fine line of “buzzed” into the land of “blind drunk”. So bear with me.
All I really remember about this guy is that he had horrible teeth, like the kind that you don’t want to stare at, but you can’t really look away, being as they are just so THERE. Yellowed and crooked, jutting out in all sorts of ways, so bad that you could tell they fucked with his speech. He was a little taller than me, but lean, almost weak looking to a point, and the hat he was wearing turned out to be something he bought off some homeless guy down by Port Authority. You could barely see how shitty the thing looked, though, because he had yellow “CAUTION” tape tied around it, which gave him a comical deameanor, to say the least (nothing says “Let’s Get Fucked Up” like an Irishman wearing caution tape).
The Dubliner looked at me as I walked out of the bar to have a smoke, and he was already bullshitting with a couple of my buddies. I made a comment about something, and he looked at me funny.
“You famous?”, he asked me. “You fucking look famous. You’re a good lookin lad, you know, you come over to Ireland with that and your accent, you’ll be getting all the womens”. Needless to say, I thought this guy was cool right away.
One of my buddies is the son of Irish immigrants; the Dubliner seemed to trust him the most out of us. He must have asked my buddy a million times if we were going to beat the shit out of him. I looked at the Dubliner, and couldn’t understand why he thought we would do that unprovoked. He just shrugged, and said that people like to knock around a lot in Dublin, and sometimes they’ll call you over just to beat the hell out of you. I got a kick out of this, of course, but also realized that no matter how tough I think Jersey is, Dublin is a bit rougher. Anyway, this guy apparently thought that we were far cooler than his buddies from Ireland (we were), and he stayed with us and drank.
He was an interesting guy, I have to say. He did IT work in Dublin, and he says that its not like it used to be over there. When most folks think of Ireland, they think of a bleak, poor country where potatos are the only thing keeping the poor bastards alive, yet this world of Angela’s Ashes is long gone. The computer industry exploded over there, and Ireland is the starving bitch of England no more; the “Celtic Tiger” is the new name for the Irish economy, and its led to them finally getting on their feet as a country. This guy seemed kind of representative of that- giving away cigarettes like they were candy, buying everyone beers, and giving the general excuse of, “I’m on vacation, I don’t give a fuck”.
At about six o’clock, we decided that we’d had enough of Rendevous. We’d been drinking for a good four hours, and I was pretty merry around this time. A friend of mine has family who own bars in the city, so we figured that we’d go down that way, around 22nd street if I remember right. Apparently, this was far from where we were, and we had to find a way to get down that way. After much drunken deliberating, it ended up that some tried to walk, some took the subway, and some just ran out into the middle of the street and started giving people the finger. Even though I’m always down to give somebody the finger for no reason, I wanted to keep drinking, so my girlfriend dragged me to the subway.
I don’t remember the subway ride that well except that I hopped the turnstiles right when two cops came around the corner; I think they were off- duty and from the parade, but I ran (stumbled away) anyway. I recall that most folks were on the way back home from work, dressed nicely, suits, etc., and that I was so drunk that I couldn’t stand. If looks could kill though, we’d all be dead men. This whole time, this Irish guy is yapping about something to my girlfriend, and even though I think he’s trying to hit on her, I was too loaded to be overly concerned, and besides, I was busy talking about hating Englishmen and Protestants for fucking Ireland over for a millenium, so I was rolling with it. We got off the subway somewhere, and began walking somewhere…I couldn’t tell you where, but I can tell you that I had a flask full of Jack Daniels that was keeping me and that drunken Mick covered for the walk.
We arrived at the other bar, the one where I think my buddy’s cousin bartends at. I remember that it had blue lights inside and a ton of windows, but that fades in and out. The Irishmen looked at me, and then buys four shots.
“You like fuckin Hennessey? I come over here, they tell me only niggers drink this shit, but in Ireland, we fucking love it. It’s a Cognac you know?”. He hands me the shots and says something in Gaelic. Bottoms up. I drank four of them, and that was about five more than I should’ve had. I went out into the street, and started yelling at some girl about something, and even though I think it may have been about politics, it could have been me just being a jerkoff. Either of these scenarios is as likely as the other…talking about politics with me is bad in the first place and worse when I’m drunk (the only thing that gets me angrier than Republicans is when people badmouth Roadhouse as being corny).
The bar was packed like nothing I’ve ever seen, and getting in and out was like trying to break into Jerusalem before those walls came down. Normally, I’ll say excuse me to people if I’m trying to get through, even if I’m drunk. There was none of that. My regional pride was coming out, and I was yelling “Fuck New York, Jersey rules” at random times (this brought on by the smoking ban that Jersey recently inherited). I was putting my shoulders down and bulling through the crowd in every movement
My buddies tell me I went to another bar with them after that, but I don’t recall being there at all, and different people tell me different things. My girlfriend pretty much carried me the way back to Port Authority to catch that last bus at 11:30, and we left that Irish guy behind somewhere in the mix. I remember telling him right before we left that when he gets back to Ireland, to tell them all that the biggest badasses come from New Jersey, not New York.
“You remember that”, I told him. He nodded and said something in broken drunken Irish gibberish that I couldn’t remember, and we parted ways. Later, when I would check the website that this kid had, he had a picture of me and some of my buddies, along with the caption that said, “Some locals lads from NYC”. Fucker.
I I'd never been drinking in New York City before. Most of the time it's just too damn expensive, and the way I figure it, I'm going to end up too drunk to remember anywhere, so I may as well do it around here. And yet, I had to make the exception for St. Patrick's Day. Now I realize why going in there once in a while can be a shindig worth trying; so many people in such a small area can make for a hell of a time (not too mention, if you get tossed from one bar, there’s another one next door). St. Patrick’s is the prime time for this brand of drunken wandering, mostly because everyone else is drunk too, and the streets have a festive spirit to them. Seeing that city, which can be very drab and grey at times, illuminated with emerald shamrocks and golden harps at every window certainly brings a spirit of celebration that New York doesn’t normally have.
I did the standard things that I have been doing for years on St. Patrick's Day, like going to the parade and what not in NYC. I wasn't 21 last year though, so I didn't have the option of really travelling to any bars worth going to. This year I figured...ahh what the fuck. Go for it.
We drank at this bar close to Port Authority called Rendevous, a good choice because that’s where the party is on St. Pats. Some folks get fancy ideas of traveling all over the world on St. Pats to find a bar- the secret is to just stay in Midtown, as its not only where the parade is, but its also loaded with Irish bars.
In my drunken carousing around New York City, I came across some interesting things. Not interesting like ‘barfight’ interesting, of course, but still thought provoking nonetheless. One of these interesting things involved a kid from Dublin that came over for the shindig that is March 17th, and this is where my thoughts spring from.
I was standing inside this bar getting started on the festivities, when I saw through the window, and I see a couple of my buddies talking to some guy who’s got an Irish flag wrapped around him like a cape. Now, I figure that given our normally violent demeaner, that my buddies are mouthing off to this guy trying to start a fight, and if that’s going to happen, then I’m going to be there to get involved.
I went outside under the guise of having a cigarette (fucking New York City and their laws), and, as it turned out, they were trying to fight this guy’s buddies, but thought that this guy himself was cool. Being as we outnumbered them, they apparently took off, leaving us with this guy who turned out to be pretty interesting. I don’t even remember this guys’ name (I was drinking…), so I’ll refer to him as “The Dubliner”, being as that’s where he was from. The rest of this story is kind of hazy, as this is the point where I crossed that fine line of “buzzed” into the land of “blind drunk”. So bear with me.
All I really remember about this guy is that he had horrible teeth, like the kind that you don’t want to stare at, but you can’t really look away, being as they are just so THERE. Yellowed and crooked, jutting out in all sorts of ways, so bad that you could tell they fucked with his speech. He was a little taller than me, but lean, almost weak looking to a point, and the hat he was wearing turned out to be something he bought off some homeless guy down by Port Authority. You could barely see how shitty the thing looked, though, because he had yellow “CAUTION” tape tied around it, which gave him a comical deameanor, to say the least (nothing says “Let’s Get Fucked Up” like an Irishman wearing caution tape).
The Dubliner looked at me as I walked out of the bar to have a smoke, and he was already bullshitting with a couple of my buddies. I made a comment about something, and he looked at me funny.
“You famous?”, he asked me. “You fucking look famous. You’re a good lookin lad, you know, you come over to Ireland with that and your accent, you’ll be getting all the womens”. Needless to say, I thought this guy was cool right away.
One of my buddies is the son of Irish immigrants; the Dubliner seemed to trust him the most out of us. He must have asked my buddy a million times if we were going to beat the shit out of him. I looked at the Dubliner, and couldn’t understand why he thought we would do that unprovoked. He just shrugged, and said that people like to knock around a lot in Dublin, and sometimes they’ll call you over just to beat the hell out of you. I got a kick out of this, of course, but also realized that no matter how tough I think Jersey is, Dublin is a bit rougher. Anyway, this guy apparently thought that we were far cooler than his buddies from Ireland (we were), and he stayed with us and drank.
He was an interesting guy, I have to say. He did IT work in Dublin, and he says that its not like it used to be over there. When most folks think of Ireland, they think of a bleak, poor country where potatos are the only thing keeping the poor bastards alive, yet this world of Angela’s Ashes is long gone. The computer industry exploded over there, and Ireland is the starving bitch of England no more; the “Celtic Tiger” is the new name for the Irish economy, and its led to them finally getting on their feet as a country. This guy seemed kind of representative of that- giving away cigarettes like they were candy, buying everyone beers, and giving the general excuse of, “I’m on vacation, I don’t give a fuck”.
At about six o’clock, we decided that we’d had enough of Rendevous. We’d been drinking for a good four hours, and I was pretty merry around this time. A friend of mine has family who own bars in the city, so we figured that we’d go down that way, around 22nd street if I remember right. Apparently, this was far from where we were, and we had to find a way to get down that way. After much drunken deliberating, it ended up that some tried to walk, some took the subway, and some just ran out into the middle of the street and started giving people the finger. Even though I’m always down to give somebody the finger for no reason, I wanted to keep drinking, so my girlfriend dragged me to the subway.
I don’t remember the subway ride that well except that I hopped the turnstiles right when two cops came around the corner; I think they were off- duty and from the parade, but I ran (stumbled away) anyway. I recall that most folks were on the way back home from work, dressed nicely, suits, etc., and that I was so drunk that I couldn’t stand. If looks could kill though, we’d all be dead men. This whole time, this Irish guy is yapping about something to my girlfriend, and even though I think he’s trying to hit on her, I was too loaded to be overly concerned, and besides, I was busy talking about hating Englishmen and Protestants for fucking Ireland over for a millenium, so I was rolling with it. We got off the subway somewhere, and began walking somewhere…I couldn’t tell you where, but I can tell you that I had a flask full of Jack Daniels that was keeping me and that drunken Mick covered for the walk.
We arrived at the other bar, the one where I think my buddy’s cousin bartends at. I remember that it had blue lights inside and a ton of windows, but that fades in and out. The Irishmen looked at me, and then buys four shots.
“You like fuckin Hennessey? I come over here, they tell me only niggers drink this shit, but in Ireland, we fucking love it. It’s a Cognac you know?”. He hands me the shots and says something in Gaelic. Bottoms up. I drank four of them, and that was about five more than I should’ve had. I went out into the street, and started yelling at some girl about something, and even though I think it may have been about politics, it could have been me just being a jerkoff. Either of these scenarios is as likely as the other…talking about politics with me is bad in the first place and worse when I’m drunk (the only thing that gets me angrier than Republicans is when people badmouth Roadhouse as being corny).
The bar was packed like nothing I’ve ever seen, and getting in and out was like trying to break into Jerusalem before those walls came down. Normally, I’ll say excuse me to people if I’m trying to get through, even if I’m drunk. There was none of that. My regional pride was coming out, and I was yelling “Fuck New York, Jersey rules” at random times (this brought on by the smoking ban that Jersey recently inherited). I was putting my shoulders down and bulling through the crowd in every movement
My buddies tell me I went to another bar with them after that, but I don’t recall being there at all, and different people tell me different things. My girlfriend pretty much carried me the way back to Port Authority to catch that last bus at 11:30, and we left that Irish guy behind somewhere in the mix. I remember telling him right before we left that when he gets back to Ireland, to tell them all that the biggest badasses come from New Jersey, not New York.
“You remember that”, I told him. He nodded and said something in broken drunken Irish gibberish that I couldn’t remember, and we parted ways. Later, when I would check the website that this kid had, he had a picture of me and some of my buddies, along with the caption that said, “Some locals lads from NYC”. Fucker.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Smokin
Fuck the smoking laws. If you don't want to inhale smoke, don't go to a bar. Goddamn fascists we have in this country now...
Friday, April 21, 2006
Wayne
View on Hambug Turpike when I was drunk
When I go to Barnes and Nobles, I can spend hours in there just reading. When I was a freshman, I used to skip class all the time, and go read books in the history section of the book store (ironically, I remember more facts from doing this than going to the actual classes). So the other day, while I was in there, I managed to find the series of books that have the pictures of the old towns in New Jersey. As I began gazing through the pictures of my hometown of Wayne, I was taken by the difference between the Wayne of old and the one that exists now.
Wayne has always been overshadowed by the looming presence of Paterson just down the hill. Back in the day, my great-grandfather owned silk mills down by the river, when the whole of Paterson was all Italians coming right off the boat from the mother country, trying to find better lives in this country. The town was full of industry, of mob dealings, and of life.
Eventually, my great grandfather moved out of Paterson, and up to Wayne, which is where most of my family is now. Wayne back then, it was just farms. There were acres and acres of land, untouched since the Dutch first came into the town in the 1700s (my Jersey city born great grandmother used to call Wayne “the sticks”, and hated the town). Barns, old houses, and a few other places were around back in the 1920s- before Rte. 23 was even built.
I always knew this, of course. But it was the pictures in that skinny little book that really kept my attention. In the first section, they had some pictures of the smaller houses that had been around forever. Washington had slept at a few of them, and the colonial troops had used some of the barns as hospitals during certain actions there. Once again, the land was rolling farmland, interspersed with the kind of thick underbrush that forms the woods in the northeast. There were a few battles in this yet untamed land, and more maneuvering and troop movements than most people realize. There is a reason New Jersey is called the “Crossroads of the Revolution”, alongside the other, more inspiring nickname of the “armpit of the country”.
Either way, as I drive the streets of Wayne now, the history is gone. The last time I went down south, to Virginia or Georgia, they have a way of preserving the history. It might be because no one really cares to live there, and so they don’t need the land as badly for housing as we do up here. But there, you can still picture battles being fought in the fields- mostly because not much has changed. But in Wayne, thinking that Washington ever rode through is nearly impossible to picture. There are townhouses everywhere, and where there aren’t townhouses there are neighborhoods, and where there aren’t neighborhoods there are strip malls. Traffic lights, neon signs, Mexican restaurants, bars, banks. So much crowded into such a tight space.
In 1920, there was one bar in the Mountain View section of Wayne. This road was the one they were originally going to make the main street in Wayne, until they figured out that it floods every year, sometimes badly. But right by the border of Lincoln Park, there was one bar, and one train station, and that old book had a picture of it. The caption read that it was “where businessmen and farmers rubbed elbows”, and that it was quite a classy place. I think the building it was in is now a seafood place, still just above where the flood waters peak at after snowy winters and warm, wet springs. The area down there is the flood zone, and the folks that live there mostly working class, some very poor, some just squatting in whatever house they can find empty. When it floods, they get out the small rowboats and get to higher land, and a week after the waters go down you can see piles of garbage lining the streets as they throw out all the garbage that was ruined. There’s a lot of good people down there, even as disreputable as they may be. Washington was there once…
I always seem to carry the burden of History with me. Maybe because I’ve read so much about it, or just that my mind wanders to easily. But once in a while I wish I could the rolling hills and the thick woods, the long blue lines retreating from invading redcoats to fight another day. To see a dirt road instead of a paved one, or feel a breeze that isn’t whipping off some yuppies’ Escalade. Those days are gone though, and all that remains are the ghosts that stare out at you from those old pictures…sometimes, when I get drunk under these lights of Wayne, I stare out at the sky and wonder, if Achilles, Washington, or any other man has looked up at that moon and wondered where we're heading as people, because History is marching on regardless, dragging us down the course that we are destined to lead.
When I go to Barnes and Nobles, I can spend hours in there just reading. When I was a freshman, I used to skip class all the time, and go read books in the history section of the book store (ironically, I remember more facts from doing this than going to the actual classes). So the other day, while I was in there, I managed to find the series of books that have the pictures of the old towns in New Jersey. As I began gazing through the pictures of my hometown of Wayne, I was taken by the difference between the Wayne of old and the one that exists now.
Wayne has always been overshadowed by the looming presence of Paterson just down the hill. Back in the day, my great-grandfather owned silk mills down by the river, when the whole of Paterson was all Italians coming right off the boat from the mother country, trying to find better lives in this country. The town was full of industry, of mob dealings, and of life.
Eventually, my great grandfather moved out of Paterson, and up to Wayne, which is where most of my family is now. Wayne back then, it was just farms. There were acres and acres of land, untouched since the Dutch first came into the town in the 1700s (my Jersey city born great grandmother used to call Wayne “the sticks”, and hated the town). Barns, old houses, and a few other places were around back in the 1920s- before Rte. 23 was even built.
I always knew this, of course. But it was the pictures in that skinny little book that really kept my attention. In the first section, they had some pictures of the smaller houses that had been around forever. Washington had slept at a few of them, and the colonial troops had used some of the barns as hospitals during certain actions there. Once again, the land was rolling farmland, interspersed with the kind of thick underbrush that forms the woods in the northeast. There were a few battles in this yet untamed land, and more maneuvering and troop movements than most people realize. There is a reason New Jersey is called the “Crossroads of the Revolution”, alongside the other, more inspiring nickname of the “armpit of the country”.
Either way, as I drive the streets of Wayne now, the history is gone. The last time I went down south, to Virginia or Georgia, they have a way of preserving the history. It might be because no one really cares to live there, and so they don’t need the land as badly for housing as we do up here. But there, you can still picture battles being fought in the fields- mostly because not much has changed. But in Wayne, thinking that Washington ever rode through is nearly impossible to picture. There are townhouses everywhere, and where there aren’t townhouses there are neighborhoods, and where there aren’t neighborhoods there are strip malls. Traffic lights, neon signs, Mexican restaurants, bars, banks. So much crowded into such a tight space.
In 1920, there was one bar in the Mountain View section of Wayne. This road was the one they were originally going to make the main street in Wayne, until they figured out that it floods every year, sometimes badly. But right by the border of Lincoln Park, there was one bar, and one train station, and that old book had a picture of it. The caption read that it was “where businessmen and farmers rubbed elbows”, and that it was quite a classy place. I think the building it was in is now a seafood place, still just above where the flood waters peak at after snowy winters and warm, wet springs. The area down there is the flood zone, and the folks that live there mostly working class, some very poor, some just squatting in whatever house they can find empty. When it floods, they get out the small rowboats and get to higher land, and a week after the waters go down you can see piles of garbage lining the streets as they throw out all the garbage that was ruined. There’s a lot of good people down there, even as disreputable as they may be. Washington was there once…
I always seem to carry the burden of History with me. Maybe because I’ve read so much about it, or just that my mind wanders to easily. But once in a while I wish I could the rolling hills and the thick woods, the long blue lines retreating from invading redcoats to fight another day. To see a dirt road instead of a paved one, or feel a breeze that isn’t whipping off some yuppies’ Escalade. Those days are gone though, and all that remains are the ghosts that stare out at you from those old pictures…sometimes, when I get drunk under these lights of Wayne, I stare out at the sky and wonder, if Achilles, Washington, or any other man has looked up at that moon and wondered where we're heading as people, because History is marching on regardless, dragging us down the course that we are destined to lead.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Thirsty Thursday
Yeaaa buddy.
Thursday may be my favorite day of all days. Number one, its named for Thor, the Norsk God who had a huuggeee fucking hammer, and used it as much as I would have had I had it. I mean, a day named after a badass like this really should just be a holiday every week, we'll call it the BAMF day (badass motherfucker).
It kind of sucks that the Grasshopper decided to be a bunch of pussies and get rid of dollar beers on Thursday nights, as this was by far my favorite thing to do at night. I dig that bar, mostly because it's not really like the rest of the bars in Wayne. There's a lack of guineas there, which means that those gold chain wearing, open shirted, collar popped pricks are nowhere around (they're all at the Greenhouse). Which is great for me.
Of course, I think they would still have dollar beers if me and my buddies weren't such drunks. I don't think they like the fact that we'd put down a ten or a twenty and buy just as many beers at one time, getting super drunk in a matter of an hour or so. Bad things tend to ensue...and by bad I mean bottle breaking and fight starting (at least). But hey, we fight the good fight, you know?
They even ditched the damn video DJ, which really sucks, because he was awesome. Just like a normal DJ, except besides playing the song, he played the video on a big-ass overhead projector, and it would also play on half the TV's. He'd always play Christina Aguilera's Dirrty video, and that was probably the only time you'd see us all quiet at a bar...there's just something about that video that cannot be put into words. Either that, or that pink thong she wears is really just something to control men's minds and sell more CD's.
Of course, when you can watch that video, and then the next one is some live version of an Eagles song, well, that makes for a kickass night. I guess it's just the natural progression of things, though, because even I had started to get sick of going to the same bar every night. I mean, dollar beers are awesome, but I need a change of scenery once in a while. In a way, I kind of limit myself with my "No Cover Charge" rule, which I generally unequivocally stand by (I don't pay cover charges. Ever. Those bastards should be paying me to be there). It limits me on where I can go, but its better off, because if a place has a ten dollar cover, then I can't afford to drink there anyway. Same goes for fancy clothes; if I can't wear jeans and a t-shirt there, then fuck'em, I'm not going. I know, this is where the hot broads hang out, but man I don't think I could deal with a girl who pays $11 for a drink...or makes me pay $11 for a drink. I could buy a 30 pack of Keystones for that and be drunk all night.
Anyway, music has an incredibly important influence on me when I'm drunk, so that's why that video DJ was awesome. Someone goes and puts on the slow version of "Listen To Your Heart", and all I want to do is slam someone's fucking head into the wall- I mean, way to kill the fucking mood man! Now, if someone throws on some old school GNR, those are fightin' songs, especially Welcome to the Jungle. I'll hit that guy that just bought me a beer, just because that song came on, and its just cooler if you're fighting to it. I think this is written in New Jersey law somewhere, but I could be wrong..."If Guns N' Roses doth come on, though must hitteth thy nearest strangerth". Its one of those old laws from the 1690s I believe, like the ones that ban blowjobs.
The best stuff to put on is the classics- "Paradise City", Billy Idol, "Sweet Home Alabama", Buckcherry, AC/DC...you can't go wrong with good ole wild drinking songs. As long as we stay away from that shit techno stuff, I'm a happy guy, and I'll have no problems with anybody. Except for that fucking DJ at the Greenhouse....if you could see me now, I'm shaking my fist (Billy Idol style) in rage at that fucking bastard...HOW DARE YOU FUCK WITH JOAN JETT!
Thursday may be my favorite day of all days. Number one, its named for Thor, the Norsk God who had a huuggeee fucking hammer, and used it as much as I would have had I had it. I mean, a day named after a badass like this really should just be a holiday every week, we'll call it the BAMF day (badass motherfucker).
It kind of sucks that the Grasshopper decided to be a bunch of pussies and get rid of dollar beers on Thursday nights, as this was by far my favorite thing to do at night. I dig that bar, mostly because it's not really like the rest of the bars in Wayne. There's a lack of guineas there, which means that those gold chain wearing, open shirted, collar popped pricks are nowhere around (they're all at the Greenhouse). Which is great for me.
Of course, I think they would still have dollar beers if me and my buddies weren't such drunks. I don't think they like the fact that we'd put down a ten or a twenty and buy just as many beers at one time, getting super drunk in a matter of an hour or so. Bad things tend to ensue...and by bad I mean bottle breaking and fight starting (at least). But hey, we fight the good fight, you know?
They even ditched the damn video DJ, which really sucks, because he was awesome. Just like a normal DJ, except besides playing the song, he played the video on a big-ass overhead projector, and it would also play on half the TV's. He'd always play Christina Aguilera's Dirrty video, and that was probably the only time you'd see us all quiet at a bar...there's just something about that video that cannot be put into words. Either that, or that pink thong she wears is really just something to control men's minds and sell more CD's.
Of course, when you can watch that video, and then the next one is some live version of an Eagles song, well, that makes for a kickass night. I guess it's just the natural progression of things, though, because even I had started to get sick of going to the same bar every night. I mean, dollar beers are awesome, but I need a change of scenery once in a while. In a way, I kind of limit myself with my "No Cover Charge" rule, which I generally unequivocally stand by (I don't pay cover charges. Ever. Those bastards should be paying me to be there). It limits me on where I can go, but its better off, because if a place has a ten dollar cover, then I can't afford to drink there anyway. Same goes for fancy clothes; if I can't wear jeans and a t-shirt there, then fuck'em, I'm not going. I know, this is where the hot broads hang out, but man I don't think I could deal with a girl who pays $11 for a drink...or makes me pay $11 for a drink. I could buy a 30 pack of Keystones for that and be drunk all night.
Anyway, music has an incredibly important influence on me when I'm drunk, so that's why that video DJ was awesome. Someone goes and puts on the slow version of "Listen To Your Heart", and all I want to do is slam someone's fucking head into the wall- I mean, way to kill the fucking mood man! Now, if someone throws on some old school GNR, those are fightin' songs, especially Welcome to the Jungle. I'll hit that guy that just bought me a beer, just because that song came on, and its just cooler if you're fighting to it. I think this is written in New Jersey law somewhere, but I could be wrong..."If Guns N' Roses doth come on, though must hitteth thy nearest strangerth". Its one of those old laws from the 1690s I believe, like the ones that ban blowjobs.
The best stuff to put on is the classics- "Paradise City", Billy Idol, "Sweet Home Alabama", Buckcherry, AC/DC...you can't go wrong with good ole wild drinking songs. As long as we stay away from that shit techno stuff, I'm a happy guy, and I'll have no problems with anybody. Except for that fucking DJ at the Greenhouse....if you could see me now, I'm shaking my fist (Billy Idol style) in rage at that fucking bastard...HOW DARE YOU FUCK WITH JOAN JETT!
That DJ...still sucks
Again, again, a-fucking-gain, I have a run in with that shitty DJ at the Greenhouse. This guy is sitting there, butchering songs like its his job, fucking up Joan Jett's I love Rock N Roll, and there I sit, stone sober because I don't have enough money to get a damn drink.
As if this guy isn't bad enough when I'm drunk, he's even worse when I'm not; I can't be nearly as much of a prick when I'm sober because I actually have some sort of a conscience (I don't agree with it, but its not my choice). So I'm getting irritated, and starting to bitch loudly about how bad this guy is (again, just me being a dick, not because of the one beer I had all night), but no one is really paying attention.
The place is crowded with wannabe gangbangers and whores, and I remember right away why I hate this place so much...and of course that is adding to the fire. Just as I'm about to leave, some guido looking douchebag is standing outside having a cigarette talking to some other guy about something...and I make a remark about how much that DJ in there sucks. Sure enough, guido looking douchebag turns and smiles and goes, "Ha, yea right" and then walks back in...to his DJ booth. Now, being as I'm sober, I actually feel bad that I insulted this dude right too his face, and try bullshitting with the other guy that knew him, saying that I dig classic rock and not this techno dance bullshit they play nowadays. It got nowhere.
Now, I feel kind of bad because I insulted this dude right to his face, and he could have been a lot more of a dick about it...yet the moral of the story is, don't play shitty music. Play club music at a club, play rock n'roll at a bar, or else pricks like me will insult you...consistently. If there's any DJ's out there, heed my warning, for it rings true.
On a related note, I've launched a six month JIHAD on the Greenhouse because of this shitty night.
As if this guy isn't bad enough when I'm drunk, he's even worse when I'm not; I can't be nearly as much of a prick when I'm sober because I actually have some sort of a conscience (I don't agree with it, but its not my choice). So I'm getting irritated, and starting to bitch loudly about how bad this guy is (again, just me being a dick, not because of the one beer I had all night), but no one is really paying attention.
The place is crowded with wannabe gangbangers and whores, and I remember right away why I hate this place so much...and of course that is adding to the fire. Just as I'm about to leave, some guido looking douchebag is standing outside having a cigarette talking to some other guy about something...and I make a remark about how much that DJ in there sucks. Sure enough, guido looking douchebag turns and smiles and goes, "Ha, yea right" and then walks back in...to his DJ booth. Now, being as I'm sober, I actually feel bad that I insulted this dude right too his face, and try bullshitting with the other guy that knew him, saying that I dig classic rock and not this techno dance bullshit they play nowadays. It got nowhere.
Now, I feel kind of bad because I insulted this dude right to his face, and he could have been a lot more of a dick about it...yet the moral of the story is, don't play shitty music. Play club music at a club, play rock n'roll at a bar, or else pricks like me will insult you...consistently. If there's any DJ's out there, heed my warning, for it rings true.
On a related note, I've launched a six month JIHAD on the Greenhouse because of this shitty night.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Fuck the Abercrombie Guy
He looks around the room, his teeth bared slightly. He looks from man to man, these men who have been around him for such a long time. They are his people, but they would turn on him on a dime if they were sure they could do so without retribution. Slowly, he turns the ring on his third finger around, to keep the valuable part on the inside of his hand. His eyes search from man to man, looking for the biggest and strongest.
“You slam that fucking fridge?”, he asks the muscular kid who sits at the table, smoking a cigarette.
The kid looks at him bewildered and says, “What are you talking about? I didn’t even open it”.
“So you’re fucking arguing with me now? Is that what you’re fucking doing?”
“No! The fridge wasn’t open! I don't want any troub-"
The kid is cut off as he catches a right cross to the mouth, knocking a tooth out and putting him to the ground. He looks up, enraged, and charges the guy who just hit him. The guy promptly slams the kid into said fridge, and gives him a beating he won’t forget, leaving him a limp bloody pile on the ground.
The guy backs off, yelling, and goes into the bathroom, puking blood immediately. But in between the vomiting, he looks up at the mirror, and smiles a maniacal smile at himself, all the while blood running down from the sides of his mouth. He just proved who was king shit of fuck mountain in that room, and they all know it.
In case you didn’t know, that was the last scene in the Sopranos this week, where Tony Soprano beat a guy half to death, just to prove that he was still top dog in the Mafia. In the mob, any display of weakness is something that can get you killed, no matter how high up you are on the food chain; any tears you shed are the same ones your family will be crying at your funeral.
Is it brutal? Yea it is. However, for all its brutality, there is something that is just incredibly impressive about this to me. Tony Soprano is not one of the masses, he’s the leader. If you cross him, he will kill you, and he won’t give a fuck. I think this is the same reason that people either love him or hate him; he lives how they want to live. He lives outside of all bounds, all laws, and all morality. He does what is best for him and his family, and if you try to take that, you will end up in the ground. He’s got ideas, and if they are followed, everyone in the Soprano crime family will benefit. If you don’t follow them, well, other things happen.
People will call him a brute, a cheater, a killer, and a monster. And yet, any person, I think, if probed about it, secretly admires this character. Isn’t it people like him who built the world? Wasn’t it people like him, the people that Nietzsche would call the ubermensch, that made civilization, ran empires, and caused the landscape of the world to look as it does?
Now I sit here, watching a montage of the first Gatti/Ward fight on the computer. Mickey Ward is cut and bleeding heavily out of his eyes, while Arturo Gatti's eye looks like its swollen shut. This is the famous footage of Round 9, where these two men slugged it out in one of the most brutal, bloody brawls in the history of boxing; it's as close to the Rocky movies as fights can come in real life. I mean, these two fucking guys can't even see what they're swinging at, all they can do is just feel where the other is, and swing for the fences. It's amazing to me to see these two champions, who can barely even hold their arms up, just bang out in hopes that the other drops. This fight stopped being about muscle sometime in the ninth round, and started being about heart.
This, to me, is the pinnacle of what men can do, two guys who are regarded as maybe not the best, but the toughest and most gritty contenders there are, refusing to give up no matter what happens. It seems though that as the athletes break the records that have stood for years, regular men seem now are ghosts of what they once were, beaten down and ravaged by the bullshit that society has placed on us as a whole. I see it everywhere; everything from "sensitivity training" to the massive rise in rates of obesity points me to thinking that men in this country are becoming complacent, fat, sensitive creatures with little to strive for besides a middle management position at some shit company.
What have we become? There was a time once when men were truly men; when it wasn't OK to be "in touch with your feelings", it wasn't OK to be scrawny and weak, and it wasn't OK to be beaten down by life. It was right to be tough, it was alright to not whine about your feelings, and it was understood that life wasn't fair, it never has, it never is, and it never will be.
When was this time? I don't know if we even realized it ended, or when it happened. It probably happened sometime in the last century though, and it was certainly a slow moving process (maybe that's why we didn't catch it). When was it exactly when the model for men is the Abercrombie boy, the skinny runt of a lad who doesn't look like he could kill a bunny, much less kill a deer and eat it?
Why did we lose this masculinity? We are stuck now in a society where violence seems to be completely unacceptable, to the point where there are perennial calls for such things as the UFC to be banned... is the idea of two trained and willing men beating the fuck out of each other now that repulsive? I understand that we claim that we are such enlightened beings as where we should not enjoy this, but I do. There is something both noble and admirable in seeing two guys that are willing to physically kill each other for nothing more than pride. Say what you will about that statement, but it is men like this that have built this world. This is the same reason that I love boxing as much as I do- there is no other sport where it is just two men in a ring, most of whom would rather die than be beaten, and are driven by nothing more than their hearts and an indomitable will to win.
But no, we are no longer in an age where something like this is admirable. Now there are trophies for thirteenth place, and everyone has to love themselves! Well what the fuck ever happened to bettering yourselves? Why is it OK to not strive to be the best? Why do I have to be sensitive to the morbidly obese, to the weak, and to those who would rather roll over and die like a dog than stand up and fight? Most people encounter something difficult, and rather than strive to overtake it, sit back and quit, or, worse yet, feel that they shouldn't have to bother in the first place. This has something to do with the castration of the competitive spirit that guys exhibit, and I don't like it at all. This same spirit that feminists and weaklings will bitch about is the thing that has built the cities, the religion, and modern society as we know it.
There seems to me to be a war against testosterone, in this country especially. A kid shows some fire, and we put them on Ritalin. Just in case they miss one, advertising takes care it later on in life, dumbing men down to the point where they think that a certain car or suit or house is a measure not only of success, but of masculinity. Keep your fancy houses and Lamborghinis...if we meet in an alley, I know I could rip your throat to protect myself, and that comforts me alot more than a car that does 160 MPH.
I don't know where America is supposed to go with this. There are signs all around us- gym classes getting cut, car seats for fatter kids, etc. People are getting complacent and lazy, and the people who were once long ago the hunter gatherers are getting to be the worse. Nothing disgusts me more than a man who, if his family was threatened, is too fat and out of shape to even consider posing a physical threat to the attackers. Maybe this is why I weightlift, or why guys take all kinds of martial arts, or why guys get high off jogging. We are preparing for a war that never seems to come, for a fight that one day will separate us from the fat inert masses, from the peaceful hippies, and will make the feminists ask us again to pick up guns to save their asses. Maybe. Or maybe its just that I never want to be one of those guys, and would rather be the ubermensch, like Tony Soprano, than an accountant in Bergen County. Maybe...
“You slam that fucking fridge?”, he asks the muscular kid who sits at the table, smoking a cigarette.
The kid looks at him bewildered and says, “What are you talking about? I didn’t even open it”.
“So you’re fucking arguing with me now? Is that what you’re fucking doing?”
“No! The fridge wasn’t open! I don't want any troub-"
The kid is cut off as he catches a right cross to the mouth, knocking a tooth out and putting him to the ground. He looks up, enraged, and charges the guy who just hit him. The guy promptly slams the kid into said fridge, and gives him a beating he won’t forget, leaving him a limp bloody pile on the ground.
The guy backs off, yelling, and goes into the bathroom, puking blood immediately. But in between the vomiting, he looks up at the mirror, and smiles a maniacal smile at himself, all the while blood running down from the sides of his mouth. He just proved who was king shit of fuck mountain in that room, and they all know it.
In case you didn’t know, that was the last scene in the Sopranos this week, where Tony Soprano beat a guy half to death, just to prove that he was still top dog in the Mafia. In the mob, any display of weakness is something that can get you killed, no matter how high up you are on the food chain; any tears you shed are the same ones your family will be crying at your funeral.
Is it brutal? Yea it is. However, for all its brutality, there is something that is just incredibly impressive about this to me. Tony Soprano is not one of the masses, he’s the leader. If you cross him, he will kill you, and he won’t give a fuck. I think this is the same reason that people either love him or hate him; he lives how they want to live. He lives outside of all bounds, all laws, and all morality. He does what is best for him and his family, and if you try to take that, you will end up in the ground. He’s got ideas, and if they are followed, everyone in the Soprano crime family will benefit. If you don’t follow them, well, other things happen.
People will call him a brute, a cheater, a killer, and a monster. And yet, any person, I think, if probed about it, secretly admires this character. Isn’t it people like him who built the world? Wasn’t it people like him, the people that Nietzsche would call the ubermensch, that made civilization, ran empires, and caused the landscape of the world to look as it does?
Now I sit here, watching a montage of the first Gatti/Ward fight on the computer. Mickey Ward is cut and bleeding heavily out of his eyes, while Arturo Gatti's eye looks like its swollen shut. This is the famous footage of Round 9, where these two men slugged it out in one of the most brutal, bloody brawls in the history of boxing; it's as close to the Rocky movies as fights can come in real life. I mean, these two fucking guys can't even see what they're swinging at, all they can do is just feel where the other is, and swing for the fences. It's amazing to me to see these two champions, who can barely even hold their arms up, just bang out in hopes that the other drops. This fight stopped being about muscle sometime in the ninth round, and started being about heart.
This, to me, is the pinnacle of what men can do, two guys who are regarded as maybe not the best, but the toughest and most gritty contenders there are, refusing to give up no matter what happens. It seems though that as the athletes break the records that have stood for years, regular men seem now are ghosts of what they once were, beaten down and ravaged by the bullshit that society has placed on us as a whole. I see it everywhere; everything from "sensitivity training" to the massive rise in rates of obesity points me to thinking that men in this country are becoming complacent, fat, sensitive creatures with little to strive for besides a middle management position at some shit company.
What have we become? There was a time once when men were truly men; when it wasn't OK to be "in touch with your feelings", it wasn't OK to be scrawny and weak, and it wasn't OK to be beaten down by life. It was right to be tough, it was alright to not whine about your feelings, and it was understood that life wasn't fair, it never has, it never is, and it never will be.
When was this time? I don't know if we even realized it ended, or when it happened. It probably happened sometime in the last century though, and it was certainly a slow moving process (maybe that's why we didn't catch it). When was it exactly when the model for men is the Abercrombie boy, the skinny runt of a lad who doesn't look like he could kill a bunny, much less kill a deer and eat it?
Why did we lose this masculinity? We are stuck now in a society where violence seems to be completely unacceptable, to the point where there are perennial calls for such things as the UFC to be banned... is the idea of two trained and willing men beating the fuck out of each other now that repulsive? I understand that we claim that we are such enlightened beings as where we should not enjoy this, but I do. There is something both noble and admirable in seeing two guys that are willing to physically kill each other for nothing more than pride. Say what you will about that statement, but it is men like this that have built this world. This is the same reason that I love boxing as much as I do- there is no other sport where it is just two men in a ring, most of whom would rather die than be beaten, and are driven by nothing more than their hearts and an indomitable will to win.
But no, we are no longer in an age where something like this is admirable. Now there are trophies for thirteenth place, and everyone has to love themselves! Well what the fuck ever happened to bettering yourselves? Why is it OK to not strive to be the best? Why do I have to be sensitive to the morbidly obese, to the weak, and to those who would rather roll over and die like a dog than stand up and fight? Most people encounter something difficult, and rather than strive to overtake it, sit back and quit, or, worse yet, feel that they shouldn't have to bother in the first place. This has something to do with the castration of the competitive spirit that guys exhibit, and I don't like it at all. This same spirit that feminists and weaklings will bitch about is the thing that has built the cities, the religion, and modern society as we know it.
There seems to me to be a war against testosterone, in this country especially. A kid shows some fire, and we put them on Ritalin. Just in case they miss one, advertising takes care it later on in life, dumbing men down to the point where they think that a certain car or suit or house is a measure not only of success, but of masculinity. Keep your fancy houses and Lamborghinis...if we meet in an alley, I know I could rip your throat to protect myself, and that comforts me alot more than a car that does 160 MPH.
I don't know where America is supposed to go with this. There are signs all around us- gym classes getting cut, car seats for fatter kids, etc. People are getting complacent and lazy, and the people who were once long ago the hunter gatherers are getting to be the worse. Nothing disgusts me more than a man who, if his family was threatened, is too fat and out of shape to even consider posing a physical threat to the attackers. Maybe this is why I weightlift, or why guys take all kinds of martial arts, or why guys get high off jogging. We are preparing for a war that never seems to come, for a fight that one day will separate us from the fat inert masses, from the peaceful hippies, and will make the feminists ask us again to pick up guns to save their asses. Maybe. Or maybe its just that I never want to be one of those guys, and would rather be the ubermensch, like Tony Soprano, than an accountant in Bergen County. Maybe...
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Easter
I was talking to one of the guys I work with today, and he asked me if I was going to Church for Easter.
I told him pretty plainly that there's not much that I despise more than going to Church on Christmas, Easter, and right before you die. If you are going to do it, than fucking do it. If not, then don't think that two fucking days a year are going to make up for 363 days of not giving a shit.
Besides this, I had to explain that me and God are not exactly on speaking terms right now, so it would not be a good thing for me to barge into his house.
The Red Sox won though, so the day wasn't a complete waste.
I told him pretty plainly that there's not much that I despise more than going to Church on Christmas, Easter, and right before you die. If you are going to do it, than fucking do it. If not, then don't think that two fucking days a year are going to make up for 363 days of not giving a shit.
Besides this, I had to explain that me and God are not exactly on speaking terms right now, so it would not be a good thing for me to barge into his house.
The Red Sox won though, so the day wasn't a complete waste.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Bar bullshit
Last night was a good time. I haven't let loose like that in...well a week or so. No, honestly its been a while since I was as...uppity as I was last night. I swear to God its these fucking zombies that Bill makes.
Bill is the bartender at a local bar by me, which is actually a Chinese restaurant (its always funny how these bartenders who are right off the boat from China have names like Bill, Chip, or Steve). Its a quiet place, or at least it was until my buddy found out that we could drink there when we were 17. We haven't stopped going there since. By now, I can order half the menu and enough beer to drown a horse, and I get charged 18.75. Its kind of like Chinese Cheers.
Either way, this bastard makes these zombies, which he calls a "mixed drink" and I call a "Cup of drunk". These have the ability to make you insta-drunk, which is damn impressive for a "mixed drink", and if you drink two of'em, then you may wake up in the morning with a fat chick having pissed yourself (I mean, not that I have, but its possible.) Throw in a couple shots of whiskey, and you've got yourself a night worthy of a Kerouac novel. It was a good time. I was pretty shitfaced by about 11, so it was successful. Of course, when I get that drunk, I start trouble.
The only problem with this Chinese place is that they close early- 11:30 on the weeknights. Back when I was underage, it was only this joint and another that I could drink at and not get hassled by some bouncer- the other place is the Greenhouse. I had a thing set up back in the day, as all of us did before we were 21- we'd go pre-game at China P, then go to the Greenhouse afterwards. It wasn't bad for a 19 year old kid who really couldn't go anywhere else.
Even with this storied history, the Greenhouse is a bar that I can barely hide my enmity for. It is the place where good times go to die, and I've avoided it like the plague for a long time. Fights are always interesting, but there's just too many tough guy guineas there with little dicks who've got to prove something. I've literally almost fought guys for telling them to watch out because drinks were coming through...its to the point where I think most of the crowd there has a fucking learning disability.
ME: "Watch out bud, drinks coming through
TOUGH GUY: "The fuck did you say to me?"
ME: "I said watch out."
TOUGH GUY: "Who the fuck you think you're talking to?!"
ME: "Obviously a fucking retard, huh?" I say with a sigh.
They get mad at this kind of thing. The only good thing is that I know a lot of people who frequent the place, so I'm never alone in any situation. Either way, I don't like that kind of shit so much anymore, I've had my licks. Nowadays I just want to hang out and drink.
Anyway, they had a DJ at this shitbox bar, and this guy was a tool. He looked like your typical fag frat boy, a red and white striped collared shirt covering a skinny- fat body, a goofy fuckin haircut that made me want to smack him on principle. Anyway, I walked over towards the door and started bullshitting with the lone bouncer, a mountain of a man who's known by "Mac". He's cool for a coke blowing bouncer...he's always been good to me. I started talking about this DJ, man this guys sucked.
So after hearing that the bouncer agreed with me, I figured, "Fuck this guy". I walked over to his dashboard thing and started fucking around with all the knobs and buttons and everything...and this fella didn't think it was nearly as funny as I did.
"Can I help you?", he asked bitchily.
"Yea. Leave" I said.
"What?"
"You fucking suck balls. Play Skynyrd or something. Like, you're really fucking bad" (I'm a class act I know.)
I mean, what do you say to that? This guy had nothing good, cause if he did I would've kept mouthing off to him. He was taller, but I could've beat his ass. Part of the moral of the story is that I guess I'm a bully, and one of those guys I hate sometimes, mouthing off to everybody I can. Although, this guy did piss me off, so maybe I was justified. Probably not, but it makes not feel like such a dick. Of course, the fact that all this happened at the Greenhouse takes some of the sting away, because that place is such a shithole and I hate it.
Before I left, I was a gentleman in the bathroom (meaning I pissed on the toilet paper) and broke some thing on the wall that apparently dispenses something. Oh well, here's to drinking.
Bill is the bartender at a local bar by me, which is actually a Chinese restaurant (its always funny how these bartenders who are right off the boat from China have names like Bill, Chip, or Steve). Its a quiet place, or at least it was until my buddy found out that we could drink there when we were 17. We haven't stopped going there since. By now, I can order half the menu and enough beer to drown a horse, and I get charged 18.75. Its kind of like Chinese Cheers.
Either way, this bastard makes these zombies, which he calls a "mixed drink" and I call a "Cup of drunk". These have the ability to make you insta-drunk, which is damn impressive for a "mixed drink", and if you drink two of'em, then you may wake up in the morning with a fat chick having pissed yourself (I mean, not that I have, but its possible.) Throw in a couple shots of whiskey, and you've got yourself a night worthy of a Kerouac novel. It was a good time. I was pretty shitfaced by about 11, so it was successful. Of course, when I get that drunk, I start trouble.
The only problem with this Chinese place is that they close early- 11:30 on the weeknights. Back when I was underage, it was only this joint and another that I could drink at and not get hassled by some bouncer- the other place is the Greenhouse. I had a thing set up back in the day, as all of us did before we were 21- we'd go pre-game at China P, then go to the Greenhouse afterwards. It wasn't bad for a 19 year old kid who really couldn't go anywhere else.
Even with this storied history, the Greenhouse is a bar that I can barely hide my enmity for. It is the place where good times go to die, and I've avoided it like the plague for a long time. Fights are always interesting, but there's just too many tough guy guineas there with little dicks who've got to prove something. I've literally almost fought guys for telling them to watch out because drinks were coming through...its to the point where I think most of the crowd there has a fucking learning disability.
ME: "Watch out bud, drinks coming through
TOUGH GUY: "The fuck did you say to me?"
ME: "I said watch out."
TOUGH GUY: "Who the fuck you think you're talking to?!"
ME: "Obviously a fucking retard, huh?" I say with a sigh.
They get mad at this kind of thing. The only good thing is that I know a lot of people who frequent the place, so I'm never alone in any situation. Either way, I don't like that kind of shit so much anymore, I've had my licks. Nowadays I just want to hang out and drink.
Anyway, they had a DJ at this shitbox bar, and this guy was a tool. He looked like your typical fag frat boy, a red and white striped collared shirt covering a skinny- fat body, a goofy fuckin haircut that made me want to smack him on principle. Anyway, I walked over towards the door and started bullshitting with the lone bouncer, a mountain of a man who's known by "Mac". He's cool for a coke blowing bouncer...he's always been good to me. I started talking about this DJ, man this guys sucked.
So after hearing that the bouncer agreed with me, I figured, "Fuck this guy". I walked over to his dashboard thing and started fucking around with all the knobs and buttons and everything...and this fella didn't think it was nearly as funny as I did.
"Can I help you?", he asked bitchily.
"Yea. Leave" I said.
"What?"
"You fucking suck balls. Play Skynyrd or something. Like, you're really fucking bad" (I'm a class act I know.)
I mean, what do you say to that? This guy had nothing good, cause if he did I would've kept mouthing off to him. He was taller, but I could've beat his ass. Part of the moral of the story is that I guess I'm a bully, and one of those guys I hate sometimes, mouthing off to everybody I can. Although, this guy did piss me off, so maybe I was justified. Probably not, but it makes not feel like such a dick. Of course, the fact that all this happened at the Greenhouse takes some of the sting away, because that place is such a shithole and I hate it.
Before I left, I was a gentleman in the bathroom (meaning I pissed on the toilet paper) and broke some thing on the wall that apparently dispenses something. Oh well, here's to drinking.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Drinking again
I'm drinking a little bit. And by "a little bit" I mean LOTS. I'm just kinda chillin' here by the computer, drinking a beer, pregaming for wherever this night takes me.
So being in a contemplative mood tonight, I wonder why writers are so prone to being so very fucked up. I mean, everyone you see that writes decent songs is some kind of fucked up, all my favorite writers and poets were a bunch of drunks, even artists get into the mix once in a while. I wonder why business majors don't drink as much...you would think when the name of your game is "Take what you can and fuck everyone else", you would need a few drinks to sleep at night. But no, its us writers who are half crazy drunks, we who are so often bleeding heart liberals.
I'm not much for information on how the brain works, but I swear we are wired differently than nearly every other person. If you have a fondness for reading literature and writing, than you are guaranteed to be some kind of fucked up, no matter how decent your life is.
I think it is because, as I once read somewhere, we feel life to too much to bear living it. We're so wrapped up in everything that is going on in the world, in the politics and genocides and revolutions and deaths and oppression, that we never can just sit back and enjoy what we've got. We're so goddamn worried about things that seem so far out of control for us....I doubt many businessmen give a fuck about the world's affairs, aside from how it affects oil futures and the price of gasoline.
I remember a teacher of mine saying how much the English teachers in high school drink; "They're at the bar before you, and they're there when you're leaving". So its not just me- we're all nearly beyond comprehension. I can't figure out whether that's good or not.
So being in a contemplative mood tonight, I wonder why writers are so prone to being so very fucked up. I mean, everyone you see that writes decent songs is some kind of fucked up, all my favorite writers and poets were a bunch of drunks, even artists get into the mix once in a while. I wonder why business majors don't drink as much...you would think when the name of your game is "Take what you can and fuck everyone else", you would need a few drinks to sleep at night. But no, its us writers who are half crazy drunks, we who are so often bleeding heart liberals.
I'm not much for information on how the brain works, but I swear we are wired differently than nearly every other person. If you have a fondness for reading literature and writing, than you are guaranteed to be some kind of fucked up, no matter how decent your life is.
I think it is because, as I once read somewhere, we feel life to too much to bear living it. We're so wrapped up in everything that is going on in the world, in the politics and genocides and revolutions and deaths and oppression, that we never can just sit back and enjoy what we've got. We're so goddamn worried about things that seem so far out of control for us....I doubt many businessmen give a fuck about the world's affairs, aside from how it affects oil futures and the price of gasoline.
I remember a teacher of mine saying how much the English teachers in high school drink; "They're at the bar before you, and they're there when you're leaving". So its not just me- we're all nearly beyond comprehension. I can't figure out whether that's good or not.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Hope in the Ghetto...For Once?
I was working with this Puerto Rican kid the other day who impressed me alot. He's from Paterson, so I had my thoughts on how he would work out- the last Puerto Rican was a lazy piece of shit. I know him being Puerto Rican has nothing to do with it; its far more about Paterson than any gene in his blood. It irritates me that I judge like this sometimes, but from my experience, people from Paterson don't want to work, they want to sell drugs and be tough guys, mouthing off about how many people they've knocked out or how many times they've been shot (I hate to tell them all that this short white boy would rip the shit out of their skinny tattooed asses, but I figure its not worth the trouble).
This kid impressed me though. He goes to a Catholic school in Wayne, not too mention he's a football player, so he's already better than your average ghetto trash that we normally get at my job. But either way, he's still from Paterson, so you have to be wary. I could tell he's got a head on his shoulders; he certainly is sharper than the other guys they hired this spring. He's about my height, around 5'7, but a lot skinnier and lighter, especially for a football player (maybe 135 soaking wet). Close cut hair, with the sideburns coming to a point like all the guineas like to do now, and he wears a blue and black flannel jacket that at least looks like it adds some mass to him.
He was telling me about just regular shit that goes on in Paterson. It certainly is a different world then Wayne is, and, being as I've never lived in a city, I find all the stories interesting. He mentioned that he just stays away from the blacks (which I've heard from Puerto Ricans before) because they are the ones that start all the trouble.
"You'll be chillin at a basement party, and some ignorant nigger will walk in and go, "Fuck Dominicans and Puerto Ricans". I always tell them to just ignore the fucking kid, and let the shit go away, but then someone mouths off to them, and then there's 20 niggers sitting outside waiting for you, and then fifteen cop cars come. This shit could have been avoided".
I admired this. Normally, guys from P-Town want to run their mouths about being tough, but this kid is the kind that doesn't see a reason for it. He thinks its retarded to fight someone over a hard look, "He didn't give a shit about the look I gave him when it was just him, but now that he's got his boys with him he wants to brawl. That's fuckin retarded".
Like I said, I'm impressed. Not only because he's from Paterson, but because he's only 17. Hell, even now, if someone mouths off to me, we have a problem. This kid's got a cooler head than I do.
What I'm hoping is that he's smart enough to get out of that shithole city, and get into college like he should. I think I'll start mentioning this in passing to him, especially because you never know how long he'll be working with me; guys float in and out all the time. But if I can get this guy to understand that he's got to use that head of his, and get his ass out of Paterson, than I'll be satisfied.
"Just don't ever make fun of my mother", he says. Hey man, no problem. You got my respect.
This kid impressed me though. He goes to a Catholic school in Wayne, not too mention he's a football player, so he's already better than your average ghetto trash that we normally get at my job. But either way, he's still from Paterson, so you have to be wary. I could tell he's got a head on his shoulders; he certainly is sharper than the other guys they hired this spring. He's about my height, around 5'7, but a lot skinnier and lighter, especially for a football player (maybe 135 soaking wet). Close cut hair, with the sideburns coming to a point like all the guineas like to do now, and he wears a blue and black flannel jacket that at least looks like it adds some mass to him.
He was telling me about just regular shit that goes on in Paterson. It certainly is a different world then Wayne is, and, being as I've never lived in a city, I find all the stories interesting. He mentioned that he just stays away from the blacks (which I've heard from Puerto Ricans before) because they are the ones that start all the trouble.
"You'll be chillin at a basement party, and some ignorant nigger will walk in and go, "Fuck Dominicans and Puerto Ricans". I always tell them to just ignore the fucking kid, and let the shit go away, but then someone mouths off to them, and then there's 20 niggers sitting outside waiting for you, and then fifteen cop cars come. This shit could have been avoided".
I admired this. Normally, guys from P-Town want to run their mouths about being tough, but this kid is the kind that doesn't see a reason for it. He thinks its retarded to fight someone over a hard look, "He didn't give a shit about the look I gave him when it was just him, but now that he's got his boys with him he wants to brawl. That's fuckin retarded".
Like I said, I'm impressed. Not only because he's from Paterson, but because he's only 17. Hell, even now, if someone mouths off to me, we have a problem. This kid's got a cooler head than I do.
What I'm hoping is that he's smart enough to get out of that shithole city, and get into college like he should. I think I'll start mentioning this in passing to him, especially because you never know how long he'll be working with me; guys float in and out all the time. But if I can get this guy to understand that he's got to use that head of his, and get his ass out of Paterson, than I'll be satisfied.
"Just don't ever make fun of my mother", he says. Hey man, no problem. You got my respect.
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