Good Lord

What a MESS.

We were slotted to have a nice, quiet afterhours the other morning, and well, it got a little out of hand.

A little over a hundred people jam packed into my apartment. I JUST finished cleaning.

What I’m about to say may sound a little racist, but I don’t care, because it’s true. Private party afterhours attract cracked out Russians like moths to a burning crack rock.

And they refused to leave.

You know how they say that house guests and fish have a shelf life of about three days? Well cracked out Russian party crashers clock in at about the same time as a milk in a locked car sitting in the parking lot of a Phoenix, Arizona Walmart in August.

Halfter Hours

There’s really nothing better than going to bed only to wake up and have an afterhours party start at your apartment. We do this from time to time and honestly, they’re so good, my roommate and I wonder why we even go to parties anymore when we can just have them at home.

Here’s an incomplete list of benefits:

You get to shower

It’s at YOUR house, so drinking and driving isn’t really a problem. Getting to bed can be a bit difficult though.

Since nearly everyone else is completely titted by the time they get there and you’re (hopefully) sober, you get that “wise non-fucked up person” vibe going on, and people listen to you.

You can have that early morning cigarette guilt free.

Picking up girls ten feet from your bed is kind of easy, not that I do that sort of thing.

You get to make certain areas of your apartment VIP zones where only ex-girlfriends and best friends are allowed.

Beer for breakfast.

Beer for lunch, if the party goes that long.

Finally, kicking all the crackheads out of your place and then continuing on with your day, like nothing really happened. It’s fantastic.

Stank You

Bizarre happening today.

At dinner tonight a dish came, and it smelled like sex. That high temperature kind of smell that a woman puffs out from the spot right behind the bend in her chin after she reaches orgasm.

I’ve noticed most people have no idea about this smell, which is unfortunate for me because I end up sounding like a douche when i say, rather loudly, that the potatoes smell like sex.

Signs of Summer #1

Ice Cream Sandwiches.

Is there any more perfect food?

They’ve been the same since the dawn of time. Same wrapper, same ice cream, same chocolate graham cracker heavenly casing.

I just ate two.

I felt like I was at a tee ball game. Not playing, mind you, because I never developed the hand eye coordination needed to become a baseball player. All the coordination I was supposed to be learning from playing video games was being thrown out, because I learned how to cheat at video games and hence was a bench warmer for most of my two year baseball career.

Like in an Elevator

Makin’ forced painful small talk while you’re goin’ dowwwwwwn.

I hate that moment in the elevator when you realize you’ve got a talker. They breathe heavily, or shift their weight and groan. Something to catch your attention. A little non-verbal heads up that the inanity is about to come.

*cough*

“Jeez what a day.”

I could not begin to care less.

In fact, I’m not sure how I would go about lessening my level of care about your day. I’m positive that even if I were to take a blunt object, like say, your slightly too large forehead, and pummeled myself senseless with it, my new catatonic state would not even come close to harboring a comparable level of care to the nano-scale amount I presently posess.

But I don’t ever say that. That would most definitely be rude. Usually I do one of those half laughs that
sound somewhere between a fart and a cough. Then I roll my eyes like I know what they’re talking about.

Yeah, seriously, what a day. We’re comrades in arms together fighting against the drudgery of our daily lives, thank you for that ray of sunshine letting me know that I’m not alone. I will NOT lose seventy pounds and fit out the minuscule opening my window makes. It will be alright.

Then you stand quiet as the metal box of uncomfortable silence rises into the air. You don’t say anything because there isn’t anything to say, and if there was you’ve got what? Ten seconds to say it in? What on earth do they hope to accomplish in this period of time? The first of a series of Dickensian mini-conversations through which we will slowly and regularly get to know each other? In episode 32 we’ll quickly share the photographs in our wallets. Episode 108 will be the bullet pointed retelling of the times we lost our virginities.

• Awkward.
• Got walked in on.
• Shameful. So shameful.

Before you know it, it’s time to say good-bye.

And you actually have to say it.

“Have a good day!”

“See ya around.”

“Take care.”

Ugh.

I wish just once someone would make idle pointless chit chat with me in the elevator and then get off on their floor, turn around and say to me, “Tonight, when the moon is high, a silver hawk will land at your window. Grasped in its ethereal talon will be the key to a magical kingdom.”

Because I’m convinced the entire twelfth floor of my building is full of gypsies, and they can do shit like that.

*Sniffle*

Apparently you can develop allergies when in your twenties.

At least I made it this long. I remember some kids I grew up with were allergic to everything. I used to laugh at them as I ran naked through fields of rag weed only stopping to crush up pollen and snort it off the back of my hand like some flowery rave bump.

Today however was like the biggest come down ever. Eyes watery, sinuses clogged, ugh.

I actually refuse to use allergy medication because that would be admitting that it’s happened. Kind of like how I completely erased all Red Sox World Series wins from my mind by drinking rubbing alcohol.

Me Time

Every year, after our events, my boss takes a day or two just to be out of the office and out of contact. Until this year I always thought it a little irresponsible.

Though now with all of my extra responsibilities and heavier work load, I’ve copied his behavior and have done the same. Today I took a me day.

I didn’t call anyone back, didn’t check my email, didn’t really move past the confines of a two block radius and just stewed in my solitary lazy juice all day.

It was deeply satisfying. Not the being lazy thing. I take being lazy to a level of unheard of artisanship.
But rather, the alone-ness of it all.

I know some people who can’t be alone for long periods of time. I’m the exact opposite. I love being alone. Reading, watching TV, playing video games, sitting and staring at the sky. These are things best done alone, and quietly. Sometimes I feel that if I don’t get my Me Time, the thoughts I generate being around other people will get into a giant brain brawl with my regular thoughts and I’ll have to be put down like that poor horse from the Derby.

Only I’d make some really crazy glue.

Nyuck, Nyuck.

Than Disco

That was hard. I’m pretty certain this is the longest I’ve ever been awake without the use of illicit drugs.

Not that I do that sort of thing.

Event was another success, though I lack the cognitive ability to describe my genius at this degraded level of consciousness.

Though what was fun was strolling into a party yesterday morning, just a little while after waking up, seeing everyone completely fucking tanked and then telling them I was leaving in a bit to go to work. Talk about Debbie Downer material.

“Hey Dave, let’s do a shot!”

“Nah, I have to go prepare an event for thirty thousand people, you go ahead. You go have your fun.”

Waaaa Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Something New

I’m about to attempt going to sleep at 7am to wake up at 2am.

I feel like a toddler being put down for a nap.

What’s even better is that what I’m waking up for, an outdoor event, is forecast to be in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Pneumonia here I come.

The Final Countdown

Doo doo do do do!

Da da da da da!

It’s the fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinal countdown!

Love that song.

After this weekend my summer begins. So hopefully, expect more posts like the one below from my gorgeous, brilliant stand-in, Sunshine, as I will be spending most of it, as I always do, in a drunken, loutish haze.

Thought for the day: Tom Waits is a genius, in everything he does. Check out Wristcutters: A Love Story.