pnjky

All that time driving here, and all the time driving back on Saturday, I didn't just think about killing other drivers with mind bullets and lovecraftian horrors. Oh no.

As usual, I spent a fair amount of time thinking about all of the women I've either dated or was about to start dating and, one way or another, blew it. Sometimes quite spectacularly. I have a list like this set up in one of my notebooks, as well. I'm not entirely sure why it started, I assume it was some kind of High Fidelity moment when I felt like it was time to take stock of my failure. Regardless of the reason, it exists and I feel like talking about it.

Each of these failed relationships starts and ends about the same way. At first, I come in contact with a lovely young lady in one way or another and we start up a dialogue. From that moment on, charm drips from my every word in thick gobs and pools around her feet. Time passes and soon my warm, viscous charm is tickling the bottom of her chin. She is in danger of drowning in my witty repartee. We go out on a date.

This is where the relationship ends.

The second we are on this date, my ability to be a person of any kind disintegrates. My charm falls through, I have no direction and any amount of gumption I'd managed to work up beforehand is conveniently on a coffee break. We part ways, usually without so much as a handshake, and still I haven't realized what went wrong. I believe around this time, the lady in question believes that I was never interested and that, more or less, is the end of it all.

Weeks later I will kick myself as whatever odd amnesia fades from my brain and I suddenly remember what I have - or rather have not - done. "You idiot" I will say to myself, often in the form of a heavy sigh.

So to any ladies reading this with whom I may or may not have had a chance with, I apologize. I didn't mean to waste your time, I really didn't.

Also, I sneaked a lot of peeks at your chest when you weren't looking. A lot. Shameful amounts of staring. Yes, I understand that with many of you, if I had acted on even a portion of that lechery, I probably wouldn't be writing about how much masturbation in which I partake.

I am not a proud man.

Every time I drive back to Oak Park from Flagstaff, I wake up and get on the road an hour earlier.

I was up at 2 AM PST and walked through the front door of my parents' house at 9 AM. This is far too early and apparently I sped enough that I shaved an hour off the drive even with the 210 being littered with nothing but idiots.

If it was possible to kill people with powerful middle finger extensions, I'd be a mass murderer by now. Hate boiled from the top of my head and enveloped my car in a fog of rage. I tried my hardest to make gas tanks explode with my mind. I offered my eternal soul to dark and nameless horrors if only yawning chasms would appear along the road and swallow the targets of my ire, condemning them to an eternity of pain and suffering.

But I'm always a little cranky when I don't get a lot of sleep.

I'm cooking dinner tonight for my parents because I said I would. Unfortunately, I have a feeling I'm going to fall asleep and end up browning the right side of my face instead of delicious chicken breasts. Then, the smell of my tasty cooked cheek will waft out of the kitchen and ignite my parents' hunger and my nightmare of being devoured alive by family members will come true. I always knew it would end this way.

Regardless, this is my favorite time of year. Seasonal beers are delicious and filling, I can heat up my Vikings Blod mead at night and get shnockered on honey, I can attempt to eat enough to clog my arteries with stuffing and then I can take a food nap in the middle of the floor.

I ask you, is there anything better than eating until your pants hurt and then lying spread eagle on the floor, waiting for your body to decide it can't spare enough energy to keep you awake because of the monumental task of digestion with which you've saddled it?

I didn't think so.

I woke up this morning and I had the distinct feeling someone was cheating on me.

This is interesting to me. Mostly because it's been five to six years since I've even shared so much as a kiss. It's hard to get cheated on when there's no one to do the cheating. It was a very strange morning, like waking up in the middle of a Fiona Apple song.

It stuck with me, too. Hours after I was awake, I still had a stone in the pit of my stomach because my non-girlfriend was having sex with someone else right now because I couldn't satisfy her.

Now, this is a realistic scenario. I will probably not satisfy a woman and a man, probably a man with a beard, will come along and give her ten orgasms in three seconds (such is the power of a beard) and that will be the end of that.

Also, I kicked a baby today. Let me explain - this baby came out of nowhere.

I was walking, as most humans do, through the union, listening to John Coulton and trying to get back to feeling normal when a young mother, I'd say 19 or so, swung her daughter out into my trajectory in a wide arc, presumably some kind dangerous game with her. I tried to react but, as anyone will tell you, most sloths have better reaction times than I do. My left leg continued stepping forward and caught the child in the shin. Her leg flew out behind her and she tumbled, spitting out her pacifier and instantly exploding in tears.

I stopped and apologized and made sure she was ok and tried to explain myself, the mother got all pissy with me and said it was all my fault and she was going to sue me. I'll admit I panicked for a moment because there was no way to put a good spin on it and you can sue for just about anything. Thankfully, a wise janitor man saw the whole thing.

"Maybe if you watched where you were tossing your kid, this wouldn't happen." He added a pair of raised eyebrows as punctuation, and the teenage mother fumed and stormed off. Janitorman gave me a smile and a slap on the back.

Well, at least I forgot about feeling weird this morning.

I cut caffeine out of my regular diet a few months back. Since then, almost every single day I've felt like shit. I say almost, because some days I slipped and drank some soda or got some coffee before class and had an OK day.

I suppose this is what withdrawal feels like after at least a full decade of heavy usage 365 days a year.

Now, given that I'm just so goddamn cheery every day, it's hard to notice how bad I really feel. Basically, every day feels like the morning after a night of partying. Headache in the morning, angry stomach, trouble functioning before noon. I'm told this is normal, but I'm used to being able to pop out of bed at 6 or 7 in the morning and, at very least, get some masturbating done.

These days I'm lucky if I can get any masturbating done before 5 o clock.

About two weeks ago, I was fixing on breaking the cycle and getting some soda, so I grabbed some pepsi at Target. As I was walking to the checkout with my 12 pack, feeling like I'd just picked up some barely legal porno, I saw a stunningly, painfully, breathtakingly beautiful woman.

Brunette, green eyes, six feet tall, elegant and graceful yet wearing a shirt advertising Paddy's Pub. So stunned was I that I didnt notice the 12 pack in my right hand swinging around oddly. It clubbed me in the back of my right knee and I crumpled awkwardly to the ground just in time for her to see it and laugh.

I stayed like that for a minute or two, thinking if I remained motionless people would think I'd done it on purpose. Either that or some kind soul would come along, be my mercy angel, and stomp on my neck.

I suppose I had it coming.

This morning I sat up in my bed and looked out my window to a gray, wet morning. I looked over at my desktop thermometer, and it said 35 degrees in my room. Class is not important when ice isn't far from room temperature. I curled up in a cocoon of warmth and happiness and fell back asleep and dreamed of a zoroastrian end of days when the faithful swim through molten rock like rivers of milk.

When I woke back up, there was a single scrap of blue poking through the clouds and, as I watched, it was crushed and there was a vague outline of a middle finger present in the darker clouds.

I like cold weather, I do. I like rain. I like days like this when it is cold and rainy and not too windy. However, I like these things when I am not in a shitty apartment where I have the only room that's got broken heating. I do not like these things when the only other person I live with smells like a rotten festering anus and my bottle of Vikings Blod mead is 600 miles away where it offers no hope for warming me and taking me back to an age when, on mornings like this, I could stave off frostbite by wading through the ocean of blood created by the morning's rape and pillage.

All I'm saying is, without proper cold weather accessories in the house and without a comfortable environment to wake up in so you can steel yourself for the wonderfully nippy day, days like this make me understand why Jack Nicholson ended up freezing to death in that hedge maze.

I have dreams, ladies and gentlemen. Bucket list dreams.

See, I've been on swiss mountaintops in hailstorms, eaten cheeses I can't pronounce, tasted the finest beers on Earth and seen a woman shit her pants while riding a bicycle. I've done a fair amount of traditional dream-like dreams and I'm only 22.

No, dear readers, my dreams are much simpler than peering down on the world from grand vistas at sunset. I'm going to let you into my world, let you see what I strive for.

1. Date a beatiful woman with very large breasts. DD minimum. It's not that I have a giant breast fetish and am not equally turned on by modest bustlines, I just want to be able to have that comparison. So later I can bed a bonny lass with a B cup and be able to decide for myself which I really like more in a practical sense.

2. Face down a bear. I know this is, somehow, less likely than dating a beautiful woman with large breasts and possibly more dangerous. However, I would like to be able to tell the story of the time a bear wandered into my camp and I stood up with a sneer on my face and did Will Smith proud as I shouted "AW HELL NAW BEAR" and charged it.

3. Run back into a burning building in front of crowd and emerge with a survivor in my arms to thunderous applause. Even less likely than the other two, but once again what a story to tell. Plus, I could ask the person I saved to help me move sometime and he or she would pretty much have to.

4. Become a father and walk down the avenue in either matching tuxedos with my son or in a king and queen outfit with my daughter. I'm all about high-concept parenting. How we will be envied.

5. Grow a beard. Look, I know it's going to be itchy and probably a little smelly and women wont want to get near it, but I want to know that I have the power to look like a viking if I feel like it.


Like I said, I have dreams.

I'm going to share disgusting details with you that will ensure another five to six years of bachelorhood for myself, but I think it's worth it if it makes to chuckle/feel a little better for a minute.

I have low blood pressure. You could have guessed that if you know how little I care about many things, how slowly I act and react and the fact that I sprinkle ACE inhibitors over my oatmeal because the crunch is good but the undetectable pulse is ever better. At times, this has caused a bevvy of strange and mildly troubling problems.

When I was 16, I would randomly become extremely dizzy extremely fast. If you have an old, gigantic-ass monitor, find the degauss option and hit it. See that screen twitch? My vision did that and suddenly I felt like I was swirling down a drain. It wasn't an inner ear problem and the doctor suggested it had to do with the fact that I was excersizing as much as I was coupled with the fact that my heart was as lazy as the rest of me and just didn't feel much like pumping blood. I can't blame it, it had a lot of other shit to do and it couldn't really multitask.

About two years later, I passed out while taking a shit. This one I can't even really explain at all. One second I was dooking with all my heart, the next I woke up five minutes later in the tub next to the toilet. Turns out, my brain felt like it had enough blood, so it took a breather. I tipped over to my right, smacking my head against the counter and probably erasing a few key key memories. Somehow I managed then to teeter in the opposite direction and crumple over the edge of the tub. I came to feeling an intense pressure on the left side of my face, only seeing the white of the tub and wondering why my ass felt so breezy. It took me a full minute to remember how to move.

A week after that, I was whistling dixie after a relaxing shower and, for whatever reason, passed out and fell down the stairs, only to wake up naked and upside down with my mom staring down at me. Try to imagine a worse situation.

Then there was a dry spell. My heart felt like it had to step up, and it did. Well, until college at least.

Sophomore year of college I was jogging back to my room to grab a five so I could get some booze-o-hol at a party and the second I entered my room I tumbled tail over teakettle, bashed my noggin on the sink next to my bed and woke up fifteen minutes later. Note that I havent gone to the doctor for all these head injuries, but my imaginary friend Mr. Puddles says it's ok.

A year later I was especially sick and hustled to the abthroom in the lobby of my dorm and, therein, dodged a bullet. My guts hurt so bad my brain said "fuck it" and checked out. I passed out sitting on the toilet and when I came to, my face was smashed up against the wall but I was still sitting and, in my absence, had finished my business. I chalked it up as a win, hobbled back to my room and fell asleep, sweating in 20 degree weather.

This is one of those problems that I know will ruin a marriage. Things will be going swimmingly for a year and then my wife will walk into the bathroom and find me laid out, naked, covered in my own excrement and remember the day her mother told her she shouldn't have married me.

I couldnt decide on what to talk about, so I'll tackle a few things.

On writing
I've been asked by a few professors and a couple students how I write the way I do, especially the fact that in my creative writing, dialogue often reads and feels very natural. Yes, I'm bragging a little bit, but let me have this, I don't have much else.

Everything I write, I say long before it actually goes down on paper or, I suppose, the screen. I'm constantly narrating all of my entires and all of the stories and articles and essays I've written. I feel like if it sounds good said aloud, it'll sound good written and oftentimes that's true.

However, this leads to some rather trouble moments. For instance, when you're taking a shower, it might not be a good idea to say "I'd like to have kids someday but without all the fuss of having sex." Sure I was just bouncing ideas around, but my roommates don't know that. For all they know, I'm having a conversation with someone, which is odd given that I'm in the shower, or nobody which is troubling because I live with them.

On Roommates
I call them Josh and Shit. Josh because that's his name and Shit because that's what he smells like.

Josh is ok in my book. Covered in tats, stocky, good natured, worked as a Sous chef for about a decade, recently cooked delicious squid ceviche with an effeminate asian man.

Shit, on the other hand, is a mystery. I've been in this apartment now since late August. I have seen Shit for a total of one minute maybe. I have SMELLED shit far more than either of us have seen him. It's always easy to tell when Shit has left his room because his reek is the stuff of legends.

To get a feel for the hell that's unleashed when his door is opened, you're going to need a male partner. Have said partner run a marathon, and don't let him shower. After he's finished the marathon, have him sit down and stew for awhile. Really elt it stink up, maybe even keep him in a warm room. After a few hours, have him drop trou and then shove your face into his ass, more towards the taint and balls than his actual anus, but make sure you get that anus smell in there.

Shit smells like that. It's impressive. It's a strange wet dog, diarrhea, stale sweat and unwashed taint mix that is actually thick. Breathing is difficult. I've gagged on several occasions.
On parenting
As mentioned earlier, I'd like to have kids someday but without all the fuss of having sex. Now I know that makes me sound gayer than your average gay, but it doesn't change the fact that I very much want to be a father, but I don't too much feel like going through all the trouble of seduction.

Part of this is the fact that I'm the least sexy or sexual person you'll ever meet. I don't posess the necessary qualities to attract and arouse women. I've made peace with this, I understand that my lot on Earth isn't to bed gorgeous women and inspire sinful fantasies. However, sadly enough, I have a very strong desire to see a small version of myself running around. I want to dress up in matching outfits with this little me and walk down the avenue, watching as all spectators turn green with envy.

Unfortunately, without A, there is a very small chance of B and that complicates things. I imagine my future wife and I will be in a business arrangement masquerading as a marriage. I get a kid and she gets to drive my speedboat. Also, I'll have a speedboat some day. Sweet.

On Windows 7
Fuck yes, Windows 7. Suck my recently shaven genitals, Mac users, my OS is pretty and functional and I don't have to be a snooty ponce to install it. Check the box on the Mac OS sometime. Alongside system requirements, there are wardrobe and musical requirements. If you don't wear a scarf and turn your nose up at mainstream bands, the OS refuses to install.

Additionally, I don't have to live with the shame that my OS has the most annoying commercials ever conceived. Even if the Mac OS made my dick bigger, gave me washboard abs and printed money, I wouldn't use it simply because the fucking ads are disgusting.

"Hi I'm a Mac"
"And I'm a PC, a convicted rapist, and Adolf Hitler is my idol."

Nowhere in the ads does anyone mention the Mac OS actually being good, it just makes wild claims about Windows crashing every five seconds and giving your family cancer. Meanwhile, Snow Leopard gets a bug that can erase your entire hard drive. A hard drive, might I add, that you paid three times more for than you needed to. Well, at least you're trendy, right?

It's official, my penis will now be reffered to as Supple Frazier.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "I see why you don't get laid." Let me tell you something. You're right. All the same, I'm not sure if I'd want to have sex with a woman who, afterwards, wouldn't be willing to say "Supple Frazier put on quite a show." Odd criteria for a relationship, yes, but it's got to be that way. It's not that I refuse to date any woman who plays into all of my really fucked up ideas, it's that i CAN'T date any woman who doesn't do that.

It wouldn't last long at all if she didn't hit the ground running and have her own wacky shit to deal with too.

I think of women the way I think of cars, and bear with me on this, it's slightly betterthan how it sounds. The crazier someone is, the more appealing they are.

I currently drive a 2003 Buick Regal LS. It's beige, it's cushy, it works fine, it has 20,000 miles on it. It's safe, it's reliable and it is boring. I hate it. My first car was a 1992 Mazda 929 with a shot suspension, cracked radiator, useless CD changer, useless(and gigantic) car phone and a sun roof that sometimes worked, other times jumped off the track and let rain in. It rattled when it got to 60, which took awhile, and it handled as though it was panicking all the time because lord knows I was. I wish I had that car. I loved that car more than I love videogames.

Yeah.

My parents didn't let me keep it because I have to take a 600 mile trip back and forth to school and they didn't want me to die in the desert. Pussies. That car had character, it had a personality, it was something to behold and to respect and not necessarily to care for, but to pray for. Please dont overheat, please make this turn, please don't burst into flames on the freeway I'm in the middle lane, I can't easily bail out, I don't want to die in a fireball.

That's the kind of woman I'm going to need to find. Every minute of our time together, I should be scared of dying in a fire.

Quirky is the word I'm looking for, I suppose. When I walk out of my room with my trapper's hat, thermal underwear and a Cocoa Puffs shirt on, I better run into her trying to rig up some kind of contraption.

"Jimmy, check this out - oop, hold on - ok, check this out" It would break, of course, contraptions never work, but the effort, the originality and the sheer lack of worry over life and limb - contraptions are notoriously dangerous, we all know this - would be something that would remind me exactly why I asked her to move in with me and why I could imagine having kids with her. Kids that would, eventually, put themselves in harms way much in the same way we do. I want to wake up to find my wife trying out a new way to feed our children, only to splatter mashed carrots on the wall when her plan fails.

I guess what I'm saying is I'm going to die single.


But I started writing this entry to say that I saw Paranormal Activity yesterday, and I have to admit it lived up to the hype. It's on of the best horror movies of all time and, though maybe it wasn't the scariest thing I've ever seen, it left me feeling mildly disturbed and maybe last night when I was brushing my teeth in the dark I thought I saw something and entered some kind of karate stance.

Look, if something's coming for me, I'm gonna chop the shit right out of it.

Now you can see why I padded it with all that car talk.

I have just recieved the greatest porn spam email name ever, and I am stealing it. The sender of the email that promised Ho(t Esshole eating! (awesome) was Supple Frazier.




Supple Frazier




I don't know what it is about this name. Maybe it's the way it rolls off the tongue, or the image it conjures up in my head. It's a jumble of them really, with accompanying captions.

"Have you seen Frazier, in accounting? Dude's supple, man"
"Back home they call me Supple Frazier."
"(At a family reunion) That is one supple Frazier"

There are so many more. All I know it, this name will be mine. Any time I could possible need an alias, Supple Frazier it is. You want to get to know a motherfucker named Supple Frazier. You want to find out if he really is supple, what makes him so supple, why his supple quality is so important that it takes precedence over his name.

Though I can't help but wonder if Supple Frazier isn't a better name for my penis and not me as a whole. Hi my name's Jim. Play your cards right, you might meet Supple Frazier.


Yep, it's one of those days.

My name is James Hansen and I'm here to make your day. I rediscovered this song, having not hear it in easily a decade.



I don't know about you, but I feel a lot safer knowing Macho Man Randy Savage has my back. Happy Wednesday.

The Babylonians knew that life sucked and death was even worse. When you died, you were jsut dead. you floated around in a miserable abyss and nothing happened and nothing would ever happen and there was no way to stop it. Your only consolation was that you weren't alive any more, and being alive sucked balls that hadn't discovered soap yet. Marduk created you to shoulder the gods' burden so they could live it up and tough nuts for you, faggot because what're you going to do about it?

That's what I thought.

And that IS what I thought for a long time. Then I saw things that let me know that, in the off chance someone was up there running things, he or she didn't entirely hate me.

Last week I saw two things that made my day, nay, many days to come much, much better because they were things that I've always wanted to see but figured it was just not in the cards.

The desks here at NAU are....desk sized, I guess. Nothing special. you sat in them in grade school, they got covered in filth and profanity and they made your butt fall asleep. Still, chances are you never had to worry about being trapped in the desk, unable to get rid of it when class was over.

You see where this is going. I know where this has been and it's no less amazing.

I've written often of the largeness of the people here...and everywhere. People are big, and not in a famous "you're huge!" way or in a height sense. Imagine going to class with a buch of oily bean bag chairs stuffed into skirts and college sweatshirts and they're all saying stupid shit.

Class was over, we were done talking about interdental fricatives and other shit I won't ever need to know and we all stood up. One of us stood up with more than she expected, though how she couldn't have expected it I can't rightly imagine. Wedged around her waist, aside from her ill fitting spaghetti strap, baby blue top, was a desk/chair combo. She sat down and stood up again, hoping it was some kind of sick joke and this time would be different.

All the while: Silence. Nobody moved, nobody made a noise, nobody made a smell. We all looked on, afraid to breathe as though it might break the spell, might free her from her prison. Some of us made eye contact and spoke volumes. Yes, sir standing over there, this is actually happening. This is an occurence and we are witnessing it.

"I told you this desk was too small! Stupid fucking college can't afford normal sized desks! Come ON!" She fooled everyone. You're right, that desk is too small. Women with so many fat rolls it's hard to tell which is her tits, which is her stomach and whether that's a camel toe or just cleft lard tucked into her pants as if to decieve us all and make her look less like she has a large stomach and more like she has an enormous vagina - something all men often say they look for in a woman - are excellent judges of "appropriately sized things."

I understand how insensitive I was being. How insensitive we were all being just standing and marvelling as she flailed and grunted and panted. However, really think about the situation. This woman found herself so immense that she was unable to leave a desk that is designed to be easily entered and exited. These desks are even easier to get out of than the ones I sat in at middle school. Unless she is some kind of genetic marvel and actually generates calories, forcing her to actually fall in the negative for her daily values just to stop her freakish growth, this problem could have been avoided.

Yes, once again, Jim mentions that being fat is the fat person's problem. Yes, once again, you're probably thinking to yourself "What an asshole, they can't help what they are." And yes, once again, I'm telling you that you're stupid and you need to stop coddling these mobile waterbeds filled with crisco. You probably think alcoholism is a disease, and that an addict can't blame themselves because they don't have control.

You probably also once said "my granpappy tweren't no damn monkey" and took a swig of moonshine before fucking your sister daughter under a tree where you just lynched you a negro. You're stupid, is what I'm getting at.

Regardless, here was this massive woman grunting, trapped by cheap wood and poorly painted metal and it put everything in perspective. I'm a lonely, misanthropic jackass who deserves whatever comes his way and then some and my come-uppance can't be far off. Still, I can get out of a desk because I am human sized.

The very same day, as I walked back to my apartment from that very class, I watched as another very large woman mounted her bike, presumably made from adamantium as I didn't hear the creak and groan of the material as she created the strangest silhouette I could ahve imagined. Like an apple sitting on a toothpick. I'll admit I was jealous of her balance as she rode off. Amazing.

Maybe 500 meters on down the line, I ran into her again, sitting on a bench, bike beside her, red faced and panting, sweating like she'd just run a marathon and presumably nowhere near her desitnation or the bike might have been in the bike rack nearby. The 500 meters I ahd walked before catching back up to toothpick apple was entirely flat. At most, the incline could be described as "exceptionally gentle."

You always hear about these things, about the extreme inability of large men and women to complete simple things without sweating and wheezing, but you never think you're going to see it. It's like a black man eating a watermelon. I've heard that stereotype for so long and have yet to see even a very tan white man going to town on a watermelon and lusting after white women.


So I saw these things and knew, knew deep down in the softest, moistest parts of me, that life was good. Life is about experiences, about enjoying things on a day to day basis, about being able to genuinely smile and exude good will. I saw myths, seeming impossibilities. For a few moments that day, I was Ahab sinking his spear into that whale and laughing as a spray of blood bathed him in sweet, sweet vengeance, only to later put that spear between my legs, pump my hips and make lewd noises while looking at Queequeg, mocking and humiliating him.

"Suck it, Queefqueg" I might say. He hates that name.

So I got off point and, as usual, things took a dark turn. Regardless, I'm feeling great these days. I'm sitting here with tempura in my stomach and a Kirin Ichiban in my hand and earlier I took a dump that was so relieving I shivered afterward.

The only way this could be better would be to have a girlfriend who would sit down next to me and comment on the fact that whatever unholy ritual I performed in the bathroom worked because she couldn;t go near it without an intense feeling of unease.

Dream big.

When I woke up this morning I was in a foul mood. I know this is shocking because I'm such a sunny and upbeat young man, but this morning was pure shit. I didn't feel good, the usual nightmare lingered longer than necessary and involved spiders, my nose had bled all over my pillow and I generally wasn't "feeling it."

This afternoon, however, I was as happy as could be. You see, I decided that today was a beer day. Today was a day when I headed out to a store with various styles and breweries represented and grabbed a bunch of different, previously untasted beers and then scurried home with my beautiful golden treasure. To me, this is the equivalent of going out on a very special date with the one you love.

Consequently, if a woman ever surprised me with a treasure trove of various beers, I would fall so deeply in love with her, she could fuck my dad and my brother right in front of me and brag about how much better they were in bed than me and I'd still consider staying with her.

Now, beer days and I have had an evolving relationship. In the beginning, I was innocent and fresh. Phil and I would head out to bevmo and giggle and titter at the seemingly large beer selection and we'd pick out brews that had been well reviewed on Beeradvocate.com. We had no idea what we were looking for in beer, we only knew that we wanted to enjoy drinking it. It was a magical time, full of wonder and discovery. Every brew was fresh, every experience pure, unsatisfying and followed by lots of drunken Rock Band.

Soon things took a dark turn as our tastes became more refined and we decided what we liked and didnt like, why, and what we were suddenly looking for in beer. We become beer snobs. These are the dark ages, full of sneers and disgusted scoffing.

About a year ago I decided this wasn't the way to go about beer, this was unnecessary. It's alright to hate Miller and Bud and Coors, everyone knows they're shitty beer anyway, but hating on beers I hadn't heard of was just wrong. Just like racism, beerism only hurts everyone involved. These days I am much more prone to grabbing beers I've heard nothing about and eagerly popping the cap to get at the joy resovoir beneath. This leads me to the recent haul:

Ayinger Celebrator doppelbock
Red Stripe
Birdgeport IPA
Pete's Wicked Ale (brown ale, I believe)
Hinano Tahiti
Xingu Black Beer
Franziskaner Weissbier
New Belgium Hoptober

I've already had the Franziskaner and Red Stripe, and they were both fantastic. Easy to drink, alcoholic and pleasant to taste. As I type this I'm enjoying the Hoptober. Clean and crisp, refreshing, smooth finish but a decent hop kick.

If you're of age, please, do yourself a favor. Have a beer day. Red Stripe has the right idea. It's beer! Hooray beer!

I don't know if you've seen Network before. If you haven't, shame on you, it's a goddamn classic. If you have, you'll watch this clip with a bit of a smile on your lips because Howard Beale is the tits. If it was possible, I'd have given Peter Finch two oscars for this shit.

My dad introduced me to Network when I was a kid and was far too oblivious to the outside world to understand that it was written by some kind of prophetic madman. This was around the time he was introducing me to Caddyshack, Animal House, Stripes, all of the classic comedies that writers these days wish they could match in terms of sheer fantasticity. Needless to say, all of those movies had more boobs and farts and Bill Murray being silly, so Network never stood a chance.

But I watched this movie again and it depressed me how little has changed in 30 years. Sure, maybe nobody has steel belted radios sitting around any more, nor would they want to spend time with it, but everything Howard Beale was shouting about is still happening, and everything he urges the viewers to do is still everything we need to do.

For extra jollies, the next time you have to give a presentation at work or you have to give a pep talk to a flagging company, memorize this speech and switch a few words around so it applies to whomever you're speaking to. Either they'll appreciate the reference or you'll seem like you care a shitload about the company.

After the cut is another fantastic Howard Beale rant that is still chillingly true today.

( This is the cut )

I had an entry written when I suddenly thirsted for jack and coke. I have neither jack nor coke. We will return to your regularly schedule programming once soused.

Suck my dick, liver.

[EDIT] It's the funniest thing. After having a lot of the booze-o-hol, all I wanted to do was lie in bed and watch Misery. Strange, I'm usually so active when I'm drunk. I'd apologize, but it was MISERY. you'd do the same thing in my situation.

Allow me to preface this entry with an admission. I have been much angrier than necessary lately, and it's the fault of everyone I meet. I am so sick and tired of people being idiots. I was in Barnes and Noble (DO YOU SEE AN S AFTER NOBLE? NO, YOU DON'T) and I actually heard "do you have any more books about vampires?" That right there is enough to warrant a rage-fueled stroke, I think.


I hate Diablo Cody. Or should I say I hate Brook Busey.

Brook Busey is a fantastic example of the kind of person I mean when I say "drama person." She was definitely in every school play, probably floated around rehearsals singing songs from whatever stage production was trendiest and said things like "oh my god that's so random."

Her writing is what gave her away before I ever saw her, because only one kind of person could write something that could so accurately capture the feeling of nails on a chalkboard in teh same room as your parents who are currently describing, with great detail, the sex they were having the night you were concieved. It's uncomfortable and irksome to hear and all you want to do is just leave and forget you ever heard it, and you want to punch anyone who repeats it in the face.

I would say that her writing tries too hard to be hip and trendy and "different" but that's not entirely true. Brook herself tries way too goddamn hard to be "different" and SO WACKY AND OFFBEAT.

DO YOU SEE THE GLASSES I'M WEARING!? DO YOU SEE WHAT SHAPE THEY ARE!? THIS OUTFIT IS NOT TRADITIONAL!

This began as a rant (as usual) against drama people in general, but next week I'm going to be forced to sit through Juno again for my ethnicity on film class and the dread is boiling over into other parts of my mind. It's not that I hate the idea of Juno, or that I entirely hate the story, it's that every word every character says is like being surrounded by a bunch of attention starved shitheads singing songs from Rent ad nauseum.

Every single line feels like it was written with Mrs. Busey smirking to herself saying "This is going to be the next catchphrase until this next line!"

I can hear her patting herself on the back for such mind-blowingly witty and quirky things like "honest to blog?" and "your eggo is preggo."

Here's another way to look at it because this is the way I write and you're just going to have to deal with it. You know when "Gettin jiggy witit" was around, but then really old white guys said it and you just felt sorry for them? That's how I feel about everything Brook Busey does.

I have raged against drama people for about as long as I've known they existed. They are the ones who wear fedoras WITH T-SHIRTS!? and listen to bands nobody has heard of specifically because nobody has heard of them. They don't have taste, necessarily, they just have an extreme desire to be recognized as completely different from the 50 other fedora and striped-shirt'd people around them listening to "Observational Beaker."

These people never produce anything worthwhile, they just shit out whatever they want and, not wanting to seem like they're not trendy, all of the other people with fedoras on cum all over each other, going on and on about how amazing this new diarrhea is.

This isn't like other diarrhea, this diarrhea is so random.

As I type this, I am rather drunk.

Impossible, you say, you are far too coherent and sexually attractive to be drunk.

Possible, say I. I understand that I am extremely sexually exciting, and my words can be read as I type them, but I am also currently in posession of several bottles of pale ale. They are in my tummy area. On the inside.

Speakeasy's Untouchable pale ale is quite possibly the best thing. Not best drink, not best beer, not even best substance or liquid. It is the best thing. It's drinkable, the bottle is moderately stylish, it's moderately affordable and it has some alcohol in it and if you drink it beautiful women will think touching your penis is a good thing.

(Editor's note: some of that might not be entirely true)

But I didn't write this to talk about how much better my beer slection is than anything any of you have ever done in your entire lives. No, I started writing tonight because today I saw the single most beautiful thing anyone could ever see.

It's no secret that I want children and today reminded me that it's not crazy to want them as much as I do.

Today there were a few children playing on the grass between the buildings in my apartment complex. They all had nerf guns of varying types. One had the sniper rifle, one had a ball blaster (hilarious every time) one had the revolver and one had the machine gun.

The Nerf machine gun is every bit as awesome as it sounds. If you don't think it sounds awesome you're either a woman or mature.

Anyway, there were also some rubber balls out on the grass, the kind you played handball with in elementary school. I watched the nerf battle for awhile because EXCUSE ME I SAID A NERF MACHINEGUN I SHOULDNT HAVE TO EXPLAIN THIS.

Machinegun kid had revolver kid locked down behind a tree, but he ran out of ammo and had to reload, and that's when revolver kid hatched a plan that cemented him and his friend as the two best children. I'm sorry if you're reading this and pregnant, but your baby is going to suck compared to these two.

Off like a rocket revolver kid ran for one of the inflatable balls. Machinegun kid saw him go and finished reloading as fast as possible before giving chase. Unfortunately, revolver kid reached the ball before machinegun kid was in range, picked it up, spun around and hucked the ball as hard as his exuberant little arms could. kaWHACK the ball hit machinegun kid square in the face. Absolute dead on, amazing aim, glorious power.

The impact knocked Machinegun kid on his ass, as you'd imagine, but the shock caused his hand to clench and he started firing his Nerf machinegun as he fell like this was some kind of movie. His arms stretched out and he fell exactly as you would imagine, nerf darts flying in a wide arc as he fell back on the grass. Revolver kid immediately screamed "NOOOOOOOO" and ran over to his fallen foe, making sure he was ok so he wouldn't get in trouble.

Read that again and tell me that these two kids are not better than anything any of your future children could ever be.

This depresses me and yet fills me with hope. I'm depressed because I don't have amazing children like that that I can point to and say "Is that my kid over there? you know it, pal." I'm filled with hope because some day, I believe my child will hit his friend in the face with a big rubber ball and then howl with despair as he rushes to hold his fallen friend's head in his lap, weeping and screaming at the sky "WHY NOT ME!?" before hanging his head and shaking with rage and sadness, muttering "why not me"

Years later he will hear someone playing handball and have flashbacks, sinking to his knees and staring at his hands. "I AM A MONSTER" he will shriek. "I AM A MONSTEERRRRRR"

"That Hansen kid ain't right." Some teachers will say.
"No. No." Others will say and walk away without another word.
They won't understand. They'll never understand.


Really, very drunk.

I haven't had a truly good day in a few years, so I'd forgotten what it's like to spring out of bed and immediately feel like dancing to some Tom Jones.

Of course, I got right into it no problem. Imagine Hugh Grant in Love Actually, but far more pelvic thrusting and I think I winked at myself in the mirror. It's all sort of a blur and if I think too hard about it I'll have to deal with some very confusing emotions.

I can't tell you why I woke up in a good mood because, in all honesty, there's no reason. I suppose graduating finally in a couple months is ok, and having money in the bank is nice and the sweet ass Chipotle Pesto Pasta I have still in the fridge is downright fantastic, but with the exception of impending graduation these sorts of things have been around before. On top of that, graduation is stressing me out so much all of the skin is peeling off my fingers and I look like a monster.

Adding to the oddity, after 15 seconds in the shower, my fingers look like I've been in a pool for hours. Very worrying.

I haven't gotten laid, I didn't kill my arch nemesis (someday, you smarmy bastard) and I didn't reforge the blade of destiny and save the princess from the clutches of Apocryphon, keeper of lost secrets so I can't account for the exuberance. You might say it's irrational and I might high five the shit out of you.

It's a nice feeling being happy, I can see why you people like it so much, and I'd like to find out what brought this on so I can wake up every day and declare my love for sex bombs.

Unfortunately, I know this isn't in the cards for me because I'm happiest when I'm miserable and I subconsciously seek poor situations out.


You see, I fancy myself something of a raconteur. If you've met me in person you know how fond I am of telling various stories when I have them and I like it even more if my stories are met with smiles, chuckles, laughs or parades and confetti. To be honest, nobody likes happy stories.

If I told you about how much sex I was having with Bar Rafaeli and how awesome it was to live in my giant french mansion overlooking a chocolate milk sea, you might say "neat" but you wouldn't chuckle to yourself and possibly tell anyone else about it.

My favorite story to tell to people I don't know is the story of Mario eating his own semen. I have a set of hand gestures and expressions that usually come up and I enjoy the pace of it. If it was, instead, a story about how he was right, won the bet and we went home without anything mildly gross happening, it wouldn't be worth telling.

Being miserable and seeing other people at their most miserable leads to the most fantastic stories because they are easier to relate to. Of course, you probably can't relate to sucking down your own jizz, but you can probably relate to wishing you hadn't made a certain bet, or to a dozen people crowded around you, taking pictures and video of you doing something embarassing, or simply to the shittiness of lying to the soon to be semen-filled schlub.

I would be overjoyed if my life played out like a Ricky Gervais show/movie. Oh the stories I could tell if life shit on me nonstop. Of course, I'd probably commit suicide, but for the last few months of my life, I'd be amazing at parties.

I don't have anything witty to say about the title, it's just true.

This morning before I went to the doctor to learn that one of my tonsils is red and swollen and disgusting looking just because it feels like it, I went to Hastings to pick up some movies because I enjoy movies.

For you Californians that may not know what a hastings is, it's a Borders with more junk food and no cafe. I know, right? No cafe? How are you supposed to look trendy without a cafe? You can't wear a scarf in a STORE. I'd snort and sneer dismissively if I wasn't so busy drinking this chai latte and working on my screenplay.

If I wrote a screenplay it would just be an excuse for me to see some titties. Which describes every screenplay.


Anyway, I picked up a replacement for my Pitch Black DVD which I lost sometime last year or the year before. I definitely had one at some point I'm sure. I also got V for Vendetta, Fifth Element and Resident Evil: Degeneration, the CG resident evil movie (the only good one). I slapped together some pizza, chilled some life water and spent the entire day laying in my bed eating pizza, guzzling flavored water and generally moving as little as possible.

Who ever said deep vein thrombosis can't be fun?

I specifically moved my room around so that it's ridiculous inefficient space-wise, but it allows me maximum relaxation opportunities. I consulted with a Feng Shui guru and apparently demons can walk right into my room and devour my hopes and dreams, but from a completely prone position I can watch TV, grab a drink, open or close my window or even sleep. I gladly trade my hopes and dreams for such utility and comfort.

I'd say now that I've discovered something like this is possible, you'll all see much less of me but let's face it, very few of you ever see me and sightings are infrequent at best. I've heard stories of a blurry video clip of me walking into a forest, but scientists can't actually confirm that it's me.

The unfortunate side effect of discovering this dimension of pure comfort is the trickery. In the middle of V for Vendetta I thought I could nap, so I pasued it and rolled over. Instantly wide awake.

I should have listened to mr Feng Shui. Demons be walkin all over my shit.

I am writing this at 10pm on a Friday night.
I'll remind you that I am a 22 year old man at college. Yes, I am aware that this is pretty sad.

Unfortunately, I decided that 2pm was a good time to crack open a bomber of Stone Ruination, a bomber of Rogue Morimoto Sobi, a couple Untouchables and some local brown ale that I've already forgotten the name of. 90 Shilling perhaps. Then I decided making english muffin pizzas was another awesome idea. Then I decided washing it down with an energy drink after not having that much sugar or caffeine in a long time was also a good idea.

It's funny how many bad decisions I can pack into one day and yet none of them are the saucy "let's be bad" kind, they're just the plain bad kind.

The bad decisions started earlier today, however, when I decided to listen to some music from John Mayer. I've heard he isn't so terrible with the music playing or the voice using, but I'd never given him a listen.


I feel like you also need a little backstory to really get why this could be dangerous. I don't sleep well at all. For the past 5 years or so, I have had a nightmare just about every night. Usually something apocalyptic, perhaps some zombies, one time I think I was drowning, run of the mill fucked up things. Additionally, I really only get about 5 hours of this shitty sleep a night because my body decides I'm not tired enough to go to sleep till 1 AM and it's impossible to sleep past 6.

Essentially, this makes me very very very tired almost every minute of every day. Since I gave up sugary, caffeinated drinks over the summer, I have entered a kind of "walking dead" state in which my body continues to function and walk around and even eerily mimic normal human behavior, but my brain is essentially ornamental.


Today was no exception. I slipped on my noise cancelling headphones (because I like to get the full experience the first time I listen to an artist) and sat on my bed. Two minutes into the listening, I thought "hey, this is kind of relaxing. Very mellow, I think I like it."

Five minutes into the listening I lost complete muscle control, emptied bladder and bowel and slid off the bed into a pool of my own filth as the soothing rhythms permeated every fiber of my body and inhibited any constructive movement.

Mercifully, I didn't have repeat on and at the end of the last song I was set free by glorious silence. I roused with a start, gasping for air and marveling at the wonder that is conscious muscle control. I immediately deleted any and all John Mayer music from my computer.

I don't have the energy to resist his smooth grooves and soulful lyrics. His music is dangerous to me. I'm lucky I didn't pop something of his in while I was driving. The paramedics would have arrived at the scene of my accident, opened the door and immediately fallen limp in a pile on the ground, subdued by the otherworldly calm.