Yes, ho hum is right.
I am
bored.
I have about ten stories to edit and I don't want to do any of it. I've tried everything:
A.) Actually editting them and getting it over with.
(Bah, that's too responsible and efficient).
B.) Playing
"Thing-Thing 2" on
www.crazymonkeygames.com.
(I've already beaten it five or six times).
C.) Reading
Notes From A Defeatist by
Joe Sacco.(I've already read it about ten or fifteen times).
D.) Smoking yet another
cigarette.
(On my birthday I couldn't blow out all my candles. Time to cut down methinks).
E.) Wandering around the office aimlessly.
(That's just, well, aimless).
I don't know what the deal is. I'm restless today for no apparent reason. Bored. Unfullfilled. So I suppose I'll update on my meager happenings (and soon-to-be happenings).
Last time this was updated, as we all know, John T. Reuter was leaving us. That was a long time ago (as it was amply pointed out in the comments area of that particular post). In the intervening weeks (months) I have not done a whole hell of a lot, but here goes:
Soon after John T. Reuter left Sandpoint I took a nap. Afterwhich I had a snack and watched a movie. I forget which movie it was; but, suffice to say, it was a well-deserved break from Reuter.
I worked as usual, then sometime around early September I attended the wedding of two of my favorite people: my bosses at the bar. They are also my customers (they advertise), my neighbors (they live less than a block away), my bartenders (I frequent their establishment even in my off hours) and my friends (they are cool).
It was a fine ceremony and a fine reception. I enjoyed myself immensely and was pleased to watch my brother drink heartily of the free booze.
After the wedding and during their honeymoon, Danielle and I had the pleasure of watching their house (which is, as I mentioned, less than a block from our modest alley shack). They have cable, which is excellent, and a vast DVD collection, which is also excellent. They also have comfortable couches and three dogs, schnausers to be exact.
Over the course of their honeymoon and during our tenure in their home Danielle and I feasted mightily on the electronic bounty of satellite-fed culture. I watched innumberable specials on the History Channel -- including, but not limited to, ruminations on the nature of Evil, the history of the Holy Grail, an investigation into secret societies, the discovery and excavation of Hitler's bunker (I've seen that one about a million times) and the usual boring shite about big buildings. I also watched on HBO the new series "Rome" -- which is good if a trifle melodramatic.
This was highly relaxing and I enjoyed it (as did Danielle).
After that one week of indolence things returned to normal. Danielle continued to train for her marathon (insanity!) and I continued to work.
In mid September I committed to a horrible thing which scarred me for at least two weeks. I returned to the
Testicle Festival in Clinton, Mont.
Yes, the first time I went to this heinous bachannal I was damaged physically and emotionally. It challenged my deepest held convictions on the nature of humankind. It was a charnal house of lust and slavish indulgence. Words like hideous and horrible ring hollow in its description. Suffice to say, it was a tough call to return. It was settled sometime in July with the toss of a coin. Ben Olson and I had been suffering numerous requests from the Uninitiated to go back, and we caved. But, there was also a work component -- Ben and I also began work on a graphic novel some time in August (I believe I've written of this already). The first chapter details the fictitious main character (Max Manchester) and his experience at the Testicle Festival. Being as it had been a year since we ourselves had been to it, we thought it may be useful to refresh the memories.
So, loaded with adequate supplies (one pint of Cutty Sark scotch, one pint of Tanquerray gin, one fifth of Wild Turkey bourbon and one carton of cigarettes), a fresh crew (photographer Atom Welch, his girlfriend Mary Jane and all-around cad-about-town Chris De Cleur) and high hopes, we made the five hour trek through the wilds of western Montana.
Expectations mounted as we rounded familiar hills on the road to Clinton. Dark recollections resurfaced, and we began preparing for the onslaught. We drew closer to the Rock Creek Lodge -- located in a flooded ditch on the eastern side of the road -- and tensions reached a seeming-fever pitch.
As the lodge came into view we suffered an almost physical shock --
no one was there.
Yes, we had missed the 2005 Testicle Festival.
Dazed, horrified and ashamed we slowly descended the "Yellow Brick Road" -- a stretch of asphalt leading down to the ditch, so named for the tens of thousands of pissing hillbillies that stumble up and down it each year. About a dozen drunken bikers tripped and swayed through the muddy courtyard. They clenched soggy, extinguished cigarettes in their teeth, cursing and mumbling to each other amidst the wreckage.
A van sat with all its windows smashed out. Bottles, cans and cigarette butts littered the rutted ground -- soaked with the previous night's rain and pooling in deep boot prints. Low clouds hung in the valley, bloated and bruised with fat, hot rain. A tepid breeze blew through the empty beer garden.
It felt like we were hanging out in a used condom. We felt sordid. Betrayed.
One full year had passed since that last, raucous, terrible weekend. We'd spent thousands of hours telling and re-telling the outrageous stories that emerged from it. Thousands more friends and acquaintences had been forced to endure them, half-believing. This was our chance to prove we had not exaggerated. This was our chance to show the proofs of our dark and morbid conclusions on the nature of man.
But no.
All that remained as evidence was a mass of garbage and destroyed turf.
After several moments of silence, I was seized by the need to ingest bull testicles. Lots of them.
I charged into the lodge, marched with head held high and ordered five "Ball Dinners." At $8 a pop, I purchased roughly 35 smashed and deep fried testicles, two pounds of cold baked beans and nine pieces of garlic bread. With maniacal glee I slammed all five plates down on a picnic table in the beer garden. I glared at The Crew and commanded them to dig in. I had endured a year of tortured bad memories and struggled unsuccesfully to create anything meaningful out of the experience. I had driven (well,
ridden) for five hours in a car. All of this for nothing. I felt in a very real and palpable way that the Testicle Festival had beaten me in 2004. This was my chance to challenge it again, to be prepared for the worst and to jump-start this project.
I felt it had beaten me again.
But not if I ate a full Ball Dinner. Oh no, this one, small victory would be enough for me, but all the rest of these pansies had to do the same.
I pounced on my balls with a fury. I gnawed and chewed and snapped and fought back my gorge with each bite. They are terrible. They taste exactly how you would imagine deep friend bull balls would taste. A Ball Dinner is not like escargot or pig's feet -- things that sound disgusting but when you try them, taste like chicken. You always feel like a whiner, an uncultured rube, when you finally eat, say, chicken gizzards and find out they weren't half as bad as you thought.
But balls taste like balls. Their consistency is like that of spongy rubber, or elastic that's lost its snap. They strike an odd balance between not tasting like anything, and tasting like something deeply organic -- something biological and not intended for consumption.
And I ate them all. Then I sucked down the beans, dipped the bread in the remaining juices and drowned the whole thing in Rainier beer.
Everyone else looked on in horror. Politely taking a nibble here and there, but refusing to join me in my smorgasborg of nuts. When I finished, I was met with cold stares of terror. They reeled back from me, waiting for the eruption of vomit. It didn't come. Oh no. I held strong -- even when I noticed that my right foot was fully implanted in a pile of someone else's Ball Dinner. For a brief moment, I felt as though I had regained my righful place of mastery over this mean and spiteful event.
Until the heavy drinking started.
We hopped back in the car and drove over the Yellow Brick Road to the site of our old camp; smack dab in the middle of a fetid snake grass swamp. There we sat and took pulls off the gin and downed Mickey's grenades. Like old soldiers returned to a lost battlefield Ben and I wandered the ruined grounds, remembering how it
was.
Then we left for Missoula, where we paid a visit to Chris' ex-fiance.
The rest of the night is a sad tale of over-indulgence. The repressed disappointments of a year exploding from the mouth of a Cutty Sark bottle. We attacked Missoula with a vengeance. Bar after bar, winding up in a subterranean karaoke joint. Weirdos and tweaks abounded. Horrible renditions of Celine Dion songs reverberated off its crypt-like walls. Rounds of Moose Drool were drank from plastic Dixie cups. I was signed up to sing Johnny Cash's immortal "Ring of Fire."
Sometime after I was signed up and before I was to go on, it was revealed that this was a gay bar -- which explained why this one guy kept looking at me funny. I had thought this odd staring act was due to one of a few things:
1.) Our group (which now consisted of Ben, De Cleur, his ex-fiance, her girlfriend and myself) was very loud and none too appreciative of the talent.
2.) I may have been staring at him.
3.) It may have been in my imagination.
4.) I may have looked like shit.
His true motivations are still unknown, but needless to say, I was unnerved. Thankfully, a rangy odd-ball decked out in solid denim came on and sang my song. This gave me an excuse to suggest we leave. There was no way I was singing "Ring of Fire" after this guy -- he was obviously a professional, or at least a regular. We had already stepped on enough toes that evening, I wasn't going to add insult to injury by not only singing this song right after him, but doing it badly -- and in so doing, expose myself to the ridicule I had up to that point been pouring on everyone else.
Hypocrit and small person I may be, but stupid I am not. I knew how the wind was blowing and how the cards were falling (among other metaphors) and the time was nigh for an escape.
I convinced my compatriots and we beat feet to a small dive bar several blocks down. At this point, De Cleur's fiance and her lady friend ditched us -- for good reason. We were on our own in downtown midnight Missoula. On a Sunday.
During our time at the final bar, I discussed loudly with Ben and De Cleur the fact that Missoula was (and still is) "the pussiest town in Montana." I'm told this came out much louder than intended, but to no effect (thankfully). Then I had a prolonged discussion with two men from Eugene, Ore. "Kit" and "Some other guy."
To my recollection our conversation was on: "If you're going to get into a car accident, to which nationality should the other party belong." I regaled them with the tale of the time Danielle and I were side-swiped by a Canadian couple on Cedar Street. They were totally in the wrong, but were courteous and concerned for our well-being. They gladly handed over their contact information and we happily directed them to the nearest coffee house. Later, as Danielle exchanged phone calls with them and their insurance company, we became friends, and they've since offered us a place to stay if we're ever in Alberta.
So that was my point: if you're going to get hit or hit anybody, make sure they're Canadians.
After that rousing bit of tet-a-tet, we went back to De Cleur's ex-fiance's place, where I attempted to prove to my comrades that I was not drunk at all. And to prove it, I would recite all the battles of the Napoleonic Wars in chronological order.
This display of unshakable knowledge was audio recorded by Ben (the blackmailing bastard) and subsequently played before a live audience some days later. Needless to say, I did quite well, and had assumed I got them all right; but, upon hearing the tapes, I realized that I forgot the Battle of Magenta in 1794 -- proving conclusively that yes, I was indeed drunk.
The next day was painful. And the drive back to North Idaho was excruciating. The balls and the booze were having it out in my stomach -- but I held strong. I even went to work later that afternoon.
That day started what can only be called my Slow March to Absolute Sobriety. The next week I avoided booze in any form like the plague. It was a time of concentrated work and clean living. Which means, of course, that it contains no stories worth re-telling.
During that time I worked more on the book illustrations I was commissed to complete (in January) and have only now approached being finished. The graphic novel project is progressing well, and I got word that
Fantagraphics Books is interested in seeing the first chapter (which I'm furiously trying to finish). Also,
The Gonzo Press (a new independent publishing house) is interested in seeing some of my work. So my stuttering illustration career may be in line for a boost.
This shining example of fine upstanding hard work was shattered last Tuesday on my 25th birthday.
Now, I had kept my birthday very low-key for many reasons:
1.) I'm not a big fan of turning 25 -- five years from 30 is five years too many.
2.) I didn't really feel like drinking heavily.
3.) I had to work the next day.
Danielle honored those reasons and so didn't plan anything. I figured my family would want to do something, and I had no problems with that. So we had a fine barbecue at my brother's house and enjoyed ourselves immensely. Then the troubles started.
Some other "friends" of mine had organized a clandestine party at the bar in which I work. I was obligated to show up, as there were about 30 people in attendance. At first all was well. We talked and enjoyed ourselves, alcohol consumption was low and everything seemed to be pointing to an early escape so I could go home and listen to my new record player (score!).
Then we played a game.
I have to say, this game was interesting and enjoyable, at first. Someone had gotten two pictures of my face and pinned them to the wall. Someone else had gone through about 15 random issues of the paper and cut out one or two random sentences from random articles throughout. I was not made aware from which issue they had come or the author or article title.
The object was for someone from the crowd to read the sentence in question and I was to name either that issue, author or title. If I got it right, that crowd member was to put on a blindfold and attempt to pin the sentence on my picture -- the goal being to shut my mouth.
I answered the first 10 or so perfectly (by author). I was doing fine, then I got one wrong. This part of the equation had not been explained to me.
Turned out, if I got one wrong, I was required to drink a shot of whatever the crowd determined. The first was Old Grand Dad -- a filthy disgusting bourbon that gets its name from child molesting old grand dad's in Kentucky. This went down like fire, and permanently made me incapable of answering any more questions correctly.
The next wrong answer dealt me with a shot of tequila -- served by my own dear little brother (bastard).
That was when it all went down hill. I was whisked across the street to another bar, this one a smoky dive frequented by only the most sordid characters (me and my friends, mostly). The bartender is a friend of mine, but you wouldn't know it from the sheisse he was serving up. Flaming shots of this or that, black viscuous bowls of death, hell-broth combinations of vile substances meant for engine degreasing.
I'm told by De Cleur that my body motions took on the characteristics of either Rasputin or a puppet -- or a puppet of Rasputin. Mercifully, my friend Seth took heed of my pitiful requests, "I just want to go home and listen to my records," and took me home.
Once more, a horrible morning after. It was dose that made we wish I'd been born a slug -- or something without a liver. Horrible, horrible.
After that day (which was exactly one week ago) I swore off the vile temptations of "friendly" bartenders. A combination of my own weak will and the amazing powers of persuasion possessed by "my friend" the bartender, turned me asunder, and he will pay.
After that followed another period of sobriety. Clean living and hard work. Amen.
This past weekend I was treated to a day away from town by Danielle. She had organized a one-night stay in Hot Springs, Mont. -- a town about three hours from here, famous for its... you guessed it... hot springs. We stayed at the Symes Hot Springs Lodge, where they pump sulphuric hot spring water directly to your room. Needless to say, we did not leave the room and had a grand time away from "friendly" bartenders, testicles and work.
We returned yesterday and now... here I am. Back at work. Or, avoiding it at any rate.
This coming weekend (now for the soon-to-be-happenings), Danielle and I will be taking off once more, this time to Portland, Ore., where she will finally run the Portland City Marathon (26 miles). She has been training for this grueling event for more than two months -- just recently hitting her goal of 24 miles. I am amazed that the human body can endure such stresses, but then again, I am the man who ate deep friend bull testicles and drank nearly eight gallons of booze (this is not a real figure) over the past month or so. She and her father will be running the route together -- which is very touching (if insane). I'm excited to see this take place, as her running schedule (4 a.m. to 8 a.m.) has been ruling not only her life, but mine for some time.
While in Portland, we hope to do our usual routine -- going to Powell's, eating really good food and fantasizing about the day when we will be able to move there and go to graduate school. As an added bonus, my baby brother will be in town at exactly the same time visiting his girlfriend (who goes to school there). To make matters even more coincidental, Ben Olson will be in town as well -- selling our graphic novel to independent comics publishers and attending a comic book convention in search of "geeks and fake-hipsters."
"Geeks and fake-hipsters" is part of a photo book project he's working on with an extremely wealthy and eccentric Hollywood big wig with which he is acquainted (he used to work for him in L.A. as a production assistant on commercials). The jist of the book is a series of black and white portraits of self-proclaimed "geeks and fake-hipsters" accompanied by Ben's rantings on self-identity and their own personal statements on why they are geeks/fake-hipsters, why it's important, what it means, etc.
I am actually
in this book as a "geek." I was paid $100 for it. Look for it in stores... actually, it's not going to be sold. Nevermind. It has also been discussed that I should accompany Ben to Boise in the commission of this work, to root out fake-hipsters. As a former Boise resident, I can attest that there are no
real hipsters in that town, but there are ample "hipsters." I don't know when this will happen, but needless to say, it's been "discussed."
So.
There you have it. Everything that's happened since sometime in August. What remains now is basically, more of the same. Work, avoidance of work, flailing attempts at "making it big" (or making any money at all) and the constant struggle of keeping my liver from exploding like a Claymore anti-personnel weapon.
With that, I suppose I'll edit some now.
