A Day in the Life

I'm bored, so I thought I'd add to the blog. I don't have a particular topic in mind, and nothing too exciting has happened lately; so, fueled by the one or three beers I have in me, I think I'll just recollect today's events.

Now when did I wake up again? Hmm. I suppose it was around 10:45am. My phone woke me up. Yes, you remember the loud phone I have. It's so loud, in fact, that it woke me up from another room. See, I'm currently in my "office," but the room next to it serves as my sleeping quarters. I was in there. It was my mom calling. The phone was only hooked up the previous evening (just moved into this place), and I guess she was just trying it out. I have yet to plug in my alarm clock, so it was good to have her call at that hour.

After the hang up, just kinda sat in the ol' "office" a bit. I wasn't about to make any breakfast (I rarely do) so I just kind of picked at the bits of food I had laying around. Not that I had to pick them out of the garbage or anything. I was at the grocery store last night, so I had some junk food laying around. A bag of chips... a bag of hot pepperoni sticks (which the digestive system does not like too much) and the remaining three butter-raisin tarts from a plastic tray that originally cradled six.

Then I surfed the internet a bit.

Later, I went to the mini fridge (yes, the room is well equipped) and grabbed a beer. I twisted the cap, and took a gulp. Then, casually glancing at my watch, I noticed it was 11:59am. Sigh. I would have felt so much better about that beer had it been 12:00 or 12:o1pm. There's just something about drinking in the morning that's so unwholesome.

Looking to add to the unwholesomeness, I decided that I would go to the corner store for a pack of Camels. Argus recently bought a pack, you see, and we've been smoking them on the porch (which is also conveniently attached to my "office"). Smoking isn't a habit for me - just a past time. "How am I going to get to the store, though?" I asked. Walk? Too slow. Bike? Flat tire. Roller Blade? "Hey, I haven't used those in a while!"

So I go downstairs and weave through the unpacked boxes to the closet. I find my skates. I don't think I've used them for a year or so. I go outside and lace them up on the concrete stoop and then make my way down the street. I'm a little wobbly at first, but this is mainly due to the road's bumpy surface. After a few seconds, I find my stride. When the pavement became smooth, I'm skating like an expert again.

At the store, I notice the sign that says no skateboards/rollerblades, but I ignore it. The check-out is right beside the door, so I figure it doesn't matter anyway. No hassle from the brown guy behind the counter. Maybe he didn't notice that I glided to the line up? I've never seen him there before, so I guess he also wouldn't be aware that I'm normally not 6'4" either.

"A pack of Camel Lights, please," I say. "And matches." He quickly fetches them, and I hand him a ten dollar bill (which barely covers the fucking things, and reminds me whyI hardly buy 'em anymore!). Then the guy starts caressing the bill, trying to determine whether or not it's a counterfit. He can't seem to tell, so he starts rubbing it on a white envelope or something with furrowed brow. I tap the counter impatiently, but he ignores me and holds the bill up to the lights and stares at it. The line behind me has three or four people now, but the clerk says, "Just a mintute," and runs all the way across the store to their back room, in search of one of those black lights, I imagine. He then returns, opens the till and gives me my change. I wonder if he does that for every customer?

So then I blade back and sit on the porch a bit.

I've noticed that the neighbor across the way is a guitarist like myself. I've seen him strumming an acoustic in the mouth of his garage the last couple of days, so when I hear a Green Day song ("Hitchin' a Ride") blasting from a stereo somewhere in his direction, I assume it's him, and decide to let him know that he's not the only rocker on the block. I step inside, leaving the door open, and turn on my Fender tube amp. Then, picking up the axe, I crank the volume and play the same song back to him. "Hitchin' a Ride" was one of the first songs I learned on guitar. I can't believe that album came out eight years ago. Time flies.

I then read for a while. The upcoming topic for the seminar I'm in is something to do with feminist literary theory, so I carefully arm myself with the knowledge I need to tear it apart in front of the pretentious, lesbian graduate students that sit around the table with me.

I suppose that's about it. I still haven't eaten anything healthy today, and have gone back to the pepperoni and beer a few times already. I was going to cook up some sausages on the barbeque, but I never got around to it. Meh. I'll eat something good tomorrow. And after that, I'll do my best to get into an adventure of sorts! That way I can come back here an tell you all about it.

Bye bye.

Stogey Nightclub Courts Trouble

It's Wednesday evening and I'm sitting in my room, strumming an old acoustic guitar. Suddenly there's a knock at the door.

I grunt an acknowledgement and the door sqeaks open. It's Argus, and he's carrying a piece of paper with two creases in it. A letter, by the looks of it. He doesn't say anything; he just hands it to me.

"What's this?" I ask, putting down the guitar.
"Just read it," he says, a slight smirk on his face.

I read. Dear Tenant... during a recent property inspection... cigarette butts discarded on front lawn... all costs will be billed to...

"It looks as though they're actually serious!" I exlaim. "Fucking managment! Haven't they got anything better to do than hassle us over some lousy cigarette butts?!"

"Well, the cigarette butts alone aren't what attracted this attention," Argus says. "The other day, according to Stogey (Nightclub), our resident smoker, he was out puffing on the driveway when that uppity bitch from two doors down said something along the lines of, 'So you're the one who's been leaving all these cigarette butts around here!'"

I snort in disgust. Why the hell does she care what our front lawn looks like?

"Anyways," Argus continues, "apparently Stogey brushed her off, saying that he'd be more than happy to use a coffee can or something as an ash tray of sorts, but that he just couldn't bring himself to take up such a nasty habit. 'Caffeine gives me the shits!' I think he said."

"Ha ha! That Stogey!" I chuckle.

"Yeah, he's quite the character! And to think, he's only been here for two and half weeks, and here we are getting complaints!"

"Well, I'm sure no 'further action' will be necessary - I'll see to it that Stogey cleans up the the mess."

Later on, Stogey--who had been away on a trip to the nearby casino--returned home, smelling of beer and cigarettes.

"Hey Stogey! Did you bleed the place dry?" I ask.

"Youuuubettahbeleevit, you!" he slurs, steadying himself with a hand on the wall.

"Stogey, Listen," Argus says, holding up the letter. "The property management sent us this little note today, formally complaining about all the cigarette butts you've decorated the lawn with. They're asking that you clean them up. Heh - maybe you should've listened to that woman?"

"THE WHORRRRRE!!" Stogey screams. "She's the one who ratted me out! When's the last time you witnessed a fucking 'property inspection'!? She fuckin' TOLD 'em to come by!"

Stogey begins pacing back and forth, cussing to himself.

And he's almost certainly right. A few cigarette butts would be a pretty insignificant detail for any drive-by inspectors to take note of. Our bitchy neighbor clearly phoned this one in.

"After you've cleaned them up, you should put them in that bitch's gas tank!" Argus suggests.

"I should... I fuckin' should!" Stogey repeats.

Before long, Argus and I are on the front porch with cold drinks, watching as Stogey shuffles about the driveway and grass, picking up the discarded butts and placing them into a plastic A&P bag.

And then the woman that we suspect ratted Stogey out pulls up with her husband in their white Dodge Caravan. Stogey stands up straight from his chore like a meerkat and stares hard at the pair, who converse with one anohter as they unload their three-year-old son from his car seat. It's clear that they're doing their best to ignore poor Mr. Nightclub.

Mr Nightclub hates to be ignored.

"Hey!" Stogey shouts. "You two might want to keep your voices down -- we've got some fucking nosey neighbors around here who like to meddle in other people's personal business."

The couple move quickly towars their door, each jingling their sets of keys to ensure quick access to their house.

"You can't be too careful, I always say!" he continues.

They enter their house, slamming the door.

"JUST LOOKIN' OUT FOR YA, NEIGHBORS!"

We then cackle with laughter! Well, Argus and I do -- Stogey remains staring at the door. His face is red, and his fists are tightly clenched.

"Fuckin' whore," we hear him mutter.

Wino is Interviewed

'Evening.

I thought I'd share the latest news about the wine store job with you - not that it's news any more. It happened a little while ago, but I've been lazy and haven't updated. Annnnyway.

Just for kicks, last week I decided to meet with Judy, the manager of the wine store. She had been wanting to do an interview, you see. Being shot in the face at this job was still a concern of mine, of course, but I had nothing better to do that day, so I called her up and she suggested that we meet in the little restaurant beside her place at 5pm. "Okay. See you then," I said.

I arrived at the restaurant early and found that it was deserted. No surprise there. Over the past couple of years numerous owners have tried to set up shop, only to see their businesses go belly-up before their first short-term lease came to an end. I considered telling the enthusiastic new owner that her investment was doomed, but she looked to be having fun painting the entranceway to the bathroom, so I just ordered a coffee instead.

I sat down at a table with my coffee and waited. It wasn't long before Judy rolled up next door in her mini van. I had never seen her before, but she told me that she was Spanish on the phone, so I was reasonably sure that it was her. Sure enough, after briefely entering the wine store with a clipboard full of paper, she came in to the restaurant. She immediately guessed who I was too.

"Wino!" she said with a smile. "I hope you haven't been waiting long?"
"No, no. Just a couple of minutes."
"Well, let's have a seat up here." She then led me up two steps and to a booth in the corner, where she layed out the resume I had given her and a few thick binders, which contained the details of her business.

I won't bore you with the formalities of the interview, since it was really your typical little chat. Where have you worked, what management traits did you enjoy in past employers, etc.

What I did find annoying, though, was how she would constantly break from our interview to talk with the waiter (whom she evidently knew rather well) who kept coming by to top off her coffee. "You're trying to make me pee, aren't you!?" she joked. "I've had nothing but liquid all day, so I've been constantly peeing!" Cringe.

She was one of those "loud talkers," who thought it perfectly normal to shout her casual conversation across the restaurant. "NICE DAY, ISN'T IT!?" she'd shout. "OH, REAL NICE!" came the reply. For fuck's sake, couldn't they save this for later?!

By this point I was pretty sure I didn't want to work for this woman. Not only was I risking bodily harm at her establishment, but I also discovered that the hours were few and the pay was lower than I had hoped.

The final straw was when she pointed to my surname on the resume and asked what its origin was. When I told her white European, she said, "Ah. You're just lacking that bit of 'spice' -- like a bit of Black or Spanish." What the fuck? 'Twas said in jest, but I was left unimpressed. What would be the reaction if I was interviewing her for a position and said "You're lacking a certain 'caucasion quality' I often look for in employees"? Ha! Not too good, I assure you. But I held my tongue. I considered sarcastically saying, "Yeah, it's really holding me back in the business world," and then laughing heartily with a slap to the table--but no. Best to shake her hand and depart. I'm cool like that.

Wino gets Serious (About being a Wino)

The other day at around noon my sleep was interrupted by a phone call.

Now, most people would simply ignore a call at such an ungodly hour, but my phone has a real bell as opposed to some innocuous computer tone, so this is not an option for me.



As an aside, do you know why phone companies made the move from bell ringers to electronic ones? Well, neither do I—but here’s my theory: I think they knew that cell phones had the potential to be huge, but realized that if people associated them with the shrill, alarm-like tone of a bell, they wouldn’t buy them! In preparation for the future, the bells were replaced by inoffensive computer chirps a decade or more ago. So now, when you observe the hundreds—and potentially thousands—of people who blab away on their mobiles every day, know that none of them have a home phone like mine; for if they did, telecommunication would be to them as it was in the beginning: an annoyance—not a hobby. Conditioning, man.

So anyway, rather than bury my head in the pillows, which does little to mute the ringing, I find it’s less aggravating to answer the thing.

“What!?” I screamed into the receiver.

“Umm, hello?” said a hesitant female voice. “Is this Wino?” She didn’t sound too young, so I held back on the charm.

“Who wants to know?” I demanded.

“Umm, this is Judy from The Dionysus Depot. I’m calling with regards to the application you dropped off a few days ago—if it’s a bad time, I can call back.”

I removed the phone from my ear a moment and tried to put meaning the woman’s words. My hangover wasn’t helping matters, but I slowly began to form a recollection. I did drop a resume off at a nearby wine store in the hopes of gaining easy (and cheap) access to alcohol, but it wasn’t “a few days ago” as Judy claimed, but the VERY day before. Why was she so quick to call? Yes, the education and experience on my resume is impressive, but just as the rules of dating state that you must wait a minimum of three days before calling a person, the same is also true for potential employers. If Judy was serious about courting my talent, she would have naturally realized how desperate calling me so soon would appear. Something about this didn’t add up, but I decided I play along.

"…Hello? Are you there?" said a chipmunk-like voice from the phone at my lap.

”Yes, I’m here,” I answered. “Sorry I snapped at you just now—I’ve been getting quite a few crank calls lately, and there’s nothing more irritating than having your work disrupted by some troublesome little brat. You understand.”

“—Of—of course. Am I to assume that you’re employed at the moment?”

She sounded a little too concerned.

“Well, not exactly. Just some volunteer work I do for UNICEF. I’m up to my neck in paper work” I said, rustling a stack of Hustler magazines that lay on the floor.

“Oh, how nice!” Judy exclaimed, sounding impressed.

She then went through the formalities, asking me where I had worked and so forth. I answered all her questions, embellishing at every opportunity. She wanted to know if I was interested in working for the Dionysus Depot, and I told her that I was.

She then arrived at what had obviously been on her mind from the beginning.

“Now, you are aware of the problems we’ve been having here lately, aren’t you?”

“Can’t say that I am,” I responded. “What kinds of 'problems'?”

Judy went on to explain that neighborhood teens have been walking into her store lately, grabbing bottles of booze from the racks and taking off. The most disturbing news she related, though, was that there had recently been an armed robbery at the establishment.

Now, I’m very much in favor of the access to alcohol this job would provide…but I’m wondering whether or not all of this extra shit is worth it. Do I really want some homey shoving a sawed-off in my face and demanding that I give him the register’s contents because he squandered his welfare check?

It’s a thinker, this one. I do like my wine. It may be worth the risk!

A Walk through Blog Land!

I'm sorry I haven't updated the site in a while, loyal readers. You've been checking my page every day, no doubt, sighing audibly at the sight of that now-familiar gerbil. Well, the wait is over.

I realized earlier this evening while posting criticisms on Donny the pornographer's site that I've been neglecting my own responsibilities as a blogger. Criticsms? Why, yes. You see, Donny hasn't been posting pictures of naked chicks (as he should be) recently. He's become thoughtful and political all of a sudden, voicing actual feelings and concerns. The outrage! I mean, I'm perfectly okay with him talking about serious stuff, but at least have the decency to decorate these posts with naked women!

If you're going to continue with serious topics, here's a possible format you could follow, Don:

Title: "A Sad Day for Donny."

Text: "...My beloved dog, Rex, died peacefully in his sleep last night - he was 11-years-old."

Picture: (Naked girl playing with her boobs)

Text: "...I'm truly going to miss you, pal. I keep tearing up every time I see your empty food dish and your well-chewed tennis ball."

Picture: (Girl - legs spread)

Text: Rex: 1994 - 2005

Picture: (Two topless girls making out)

You know, something like that. You mix the good with the bad.

So anyway, I posted a couple of comments on the most recent of Donny's posts. They read as follows:

"By today's standards." That's a phrase that's tossed around a lot--but do you really think that the men of past centuries were such a "down to earth" bunch? Hell no, they weren't! They knew a fine piece of ass when they saw it! And if Jebediah had a hot wife, you better believe the whole community looked at their beastly companions a little differently. I'm guessing that the popularity of your 'ugly models' is simply due to them being oddities in the porn world. After all, people are also very willing to stretch their necks to view a bloody car wreck too."

And then: And Donny!Let's get with the program, eh? Billboards? Jane Fonda the 'traitor'? Ugly women? These shouldn't be in a pornographer's vocabulary!

He then responded, saying that my comments always amuse him, and how he wished I would update my blog more often. "Yeah, but whaddayagonnado?" I muttered. And then it came to me! A lot of my time in Blog Land is spent replying to other people's sites. I waste a lot of good stories on their pages as opposed to putting them on my own! Remembering how I posted the gerbil comment reply, I realized that I could effectively kill two birds with one stone by showing you some more of the comments I've left! I'm so smrt!

So here are a few of this evening's messages to other bloggers:

That's a frog - not a toad.

I used to shoot frogs with my Daisy lever-action BB gun. When the BB tore through their bodies, all of their stored energy was expelled in one final, aimless leap. In mid-air they would usually die before landing face first in the muck (Thwap!), their entrails following soon after.

One day I learned that if I dropped those sturdy, "strike anywhere" wooden matches into the barrel of my empty gun, they would fire like little missiles at close range. I'd often spot a frog sitting in a centimetre or two of water, and then shoot a Red Bird his way.

FLOONK! went the splash.

The matches rarely went all the way through the body, either. They'd horrifically stick out from the frog's white belly, along with its greasy, gray organs.

For a human, the equivalent would be a 4x4 beam of lumber hitting the torso at 280-feet-per-second. Ouch!

-Wino

( In response to a picture the author had taken of a "toad" )



Isn't it gross how they tear their feathers out like that?

"Listen bird," I'll often say. "You may not want to admit it, but this feather-pulling nonsense is a problem--it's a problem that has GOT to stop!"

"Pretty birdy! Pretty birdy! Mackaw!!" they respond.

So vain, those birds. Always looking in their cheap little mirrors; spending hours on their grooming. We're always hearing about the alleged societal pressures teenage girls face - but I think these 'birds' have it worse.

( In response to a picture of a parrot )



It looks as though you let it dangle in a not-yet-solidified bowl of raspberry Jell-O.

But then again, I understand that IS a popular method.

Okay then... carry on.

*Steps out of your blog backwards - slowly*

( In response to a rather awful hair colouring )


Linkin Park? More like STINKIN’ PARK! Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw!!

( In response to a post that actually praised Linkin Park )


You're joking, right? This isn't a revelation by any means. EVERY Pope has been opposed to homosexuality - not just Ratzinger.
It Catholic policy, man! The Vatican is the original "NO GIRLS (or girly boys) ALLOWED" club!

But hey, if you REALLY want to voice your concerns, I'll link you to the man himself:

http://askthepope.blogspot.com/

Joseph is ALWAYS there to answer the people's questions.

-Wino

( In response to a gay guy who thought he had uncovered a big 'secret' about the new Pope )


For a self-described "insane person," you post a sufficient amount of smut.

Good work, Crazy.

( In response to some guy who talked about being insane, but had lots of good pictures )


Mexican labor – you get what you pay for.

-Wino

(http://rough-writer.blogspot.com/)

( I've included the link for this one so you can see how subtly perfect this response of mine is. The guy, a pretentious "writer," talked about how he felt the need to get a job--to work with the "common folk." He then explains how he quit a mere hour or two into his FIRST shift. )