So, I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, but I plan parties. Elaborate (yet still kind of amateurish) parties centered around esoteric themes.
For Dan’s 30th birthday, the theme was “Worf Is Always Wrong,” based on this YouTube montage of Worf from “Star Trek: The Next Generation” getting shot down over and over again any time he made a suggestion.
So, basically, anything Dan said or did would be instantly and loudly be corrected:
"What do you want to drink, man?"
“How about some whiskey?”
“HERE’S YOUR MALIBU AND PINEAPPLE JUICE.”
"What song do you want to sing?"
“I dunno, maybe something by Cake?”
“I’LL BE BY EDWIN MCCAIN, YOU GOT IT.”
Also, there was an insane forehead cake (nice job, Kathy), Worf balloons, a custom drink menu (prune juice + vodka = A Warrior’s Drink), a Rite of Ascension ceremony where Dan ran a gauntlet of confetti cannons, and like 6 other things.
I am available for hire, I guess is kind of my side point here.
So. There is this band called The Pizza Underground. And they do covers of Velvet Underground songs, except they slightly change the words to be about pizza. Also, Macaulay Culkin from Home Alone is in the band.
This is not a dream or a mushrooms idea.
This is the world we live in.
I saw them last night. They are… not great. I mean, they couldn’t really be great if they tried, and they weren’t exactly super into trying, you could tell. They had, like, a poorly tuned guitar and a snare drum and some, like, 2nd-grade music class instruments (kazoo, maracas, etc.), and they couldn’t even play those very well.
And these weren’t exactly Weird-Al-caliber parodies we’re talking about here either. The way I imagine it is they just thought of the first vaguely pizza-ish word they could change in each line of a given song, and then they were like, “OK! Perfect! Done! No second draft needed!”
♫ hey, babe, take a
walk bite on of the wild side slice ♫
THAT SAID, they were still weirdly committed to the thing, you know? They learned these songs, and they performed them on-stage for a crowd, in character and with matching outfits and all, even though they have to know how goddamn horrible they are. I find that level of dedication pretty admirable, especially when it’s for something so silly.
ALSO, I respect the thing as a con. Like, I think we can all firmly agree that this is a stupid, stupid idea. And yet, they had 2 SOLD-OUT shows of like 500 people each – they actually had to add a second one due to such high demand. So, they got 1,000+ people to come and listen to pretty much the worst thing, and they made like AT LEAST $15k in the process, and that is pretty insane and magical. I should hope for that kind of success in my dumb projects.
Basically, I just need Macaulay Culkin on my side. And I feel like, if there’s anyone in this world I can convince, it’s fucking Macaulay Culkin.
P.S. OF COURSE we went out for fucking pizza afterwards. It’s pretty much impossible not to after such an event. There’s a little pizza joint right down the street, and they were probably so confused why business was suddenly booming on this random Wednesday night.
- So. They have new, more flattering uniforms at the Petco now.
- Which isn’t necessarily saying a whole lot, considering the old ones were lumpy beige potato sack things. But still. Rrrrr.
- To be honest, I wasn’t really at my best today. I was kind of hangy and distractible and uncommunicative. But, you know. Duty calls.
- That said, we still talked for a couple of minutes. Again, it was about cat food ingredients, but hey, it’s sort of nice that it’s a given thing at this point.
- This was the first time Aubree has ever seen me not wearing my ridiculous running outfit – a fact that she herself commented on. SHE NOTICES THINGS ABOUT ME, YOU GYS.
- See, the key to maintaining a hopeless crush is actually finding just enough hope to keep deluding yourself forever. If you ever forced the issue – say, by asking a person out – then you risk ending the thing definitively. Whereas I can just mine for bits of optimism pretty much endlessly, and I never have to face that terminal moment.
- Her updated uniform indicates that she is a dog trainer. Which means, if I can work the unending war between G and Cat into conversation, I can probably guarantee like 4-5 minutes of solid talking.
- This, by the way, is why I self-identify as Slytherin. Take note, female humans: I am constantly scheming. Maybe not well, maybe not effectively, but it is alllllwayyyys happening.
Just spent 10 minutes practicing that thing where you nod hard enough that you get your sunglasses to move from the top of your head to your face.
How is your job going??
So, we started doing AirBnB a bit, which is great, because we’re on track to like halve our horrible, horrible rent. But, you know me. Stranger Danger! (Unless I am super-drunk.) Somehow, though, I managed to charm our latest guest enough that she might hire me to do some work! She wrote Michelle about it after the fact (not knowing that her AirBnB messages are getting forward to me, I guess), saying, “I think he could help us out a bit, as he seems to know what he is doing/not be a dickhead.”
Boom. That’s me in a nutshell.
Seems to know what he is doing.
Not a dickhead.
That is my whole life philosophy right there. That’s all I ever strive for.
Notice that I don’t necessarily want to actually know what I’m doing – I would just like to create the appearance that I do.
I am putting this on my next round of business cards:
Last night also marks the worst bottle of wine I have ever had in my life. And let me remind you, I do not shy away from shitball wine. I used to drink canned wine on the reg. I was raised on Franzia. I have had all 4 varietals of Hello Kitty branded wine. So I know some bad wine. But this took the fucking cake.
It was a “Super Tuscan,” which I guess is a thing, and it was basically like drinking a glass of fire ants: It burned all the way down. Even this morning when I woke up, my throat felt raspy and raw, like all the throat molecules had all been burned away or something. (I literally know nothing of the human body.)
The funny part is, we deliberately skipped the whole little tasting ritual they normally have you do with wine. We laughed, “Oh, that’s so pretentious! And when has there ever been a bad bottle of wine?” And then the trickster god Loki looked down from the heavens and threw a huge fucking whammy on us, smirking all the while.
(Who am I kidding, though? Even if we had tasted the wine, I wouldn’t have sent it back. You know, because of How I Am.)
I am by myself in this apartment a lot, but it was not until 4:30 am last night – the second night of my roommates’ 3-week honeymoon, by the way – that, still really very quite drunk, I began to consider the possibility of g-g-g-ghosts.
I DON’T REMEMBER SHUTTING THAT DOOR
WAS THAT A WEIRD SHINY WHITE BLUR I JUST SAW
WHAT WAS THE CREAKING
Only 20 days ‘til I have comforting roommates again!
Why are you texting me to say you are going to call later. Just text me with the things you want to talk about, and then we never have to talk, and I can die happy.
About 40% of my mental energy as a freelancer is spent trying to never, ever talk to anyone on the phone ever.
My greatest defeats as a freelancer are any time I am unable to convince someone that we don’t need to do a call.
"Well, why don’t I just give you a ring, so we can firm up details?" is like my death toll.
I do not particularly like phone calls, is my point.
No, the title of this post is not some deep, angsty metaphor. I am literally pissed about the limitations of canvas coverings.
See, the way my little writer’s shack of a room is set up is that it’s set off from the main house by way of a little porch/vestibule sort of thing, covered by a retractable tarp awning. Not the greatest setup in the world – every time the cat goes out for a pee, he lets in a blast of cold air – but mostly it’s pretty manageable. (P.S. I’m an adult!)
The thing is, SF has gotten more rain in the last few days than I’ve seen in pretty much my entire year here, and the poor little tarp just couldn’t handle it. So, when I woke up this morning and stumbled out to pee, I found the whole awning and warped and distended from gallons of water, with much ominous dripping and creaking.
I did eventually figure out a way to rectify the situation – slowly pushing up on the bubble and draining the water through a tiny rip into a cleaned-out litter box (MacGyver!) – but a) I look and feel like a drowned rat (moreso than usual) and b) it immediately started raining again as soon as I finished, so I fear some sort of horrible Sisyphean ordeal is forever in my future.
My point is, tarps suck. Boo tarps.
This song, this video, is everything I want everything to be in this life.*
If I had unlimited budget and complete creative control, this is the music video I would make.
If I could dance like any one human on this planet, this would be that man.
If I could make any statement about the tenuous grasp I have on my weirdo #masculinity / #sexuality, this song would be it.
I want to defy
The logic of all sex laws
Let the handcuffs slip off your wrists
I’ll let you be my chaperone
At the halfway home
I’m a full-grown man
But I’m not afraid to cryyyyyyyyyy
*Minus the lame Jack Black part at the end.
AM I TALKING TOO MUCH
I MIGHT BE TALKING TOO MUCH
OH GOD I AM DEFINITELY TALKING TOO MUCH
OK, just shut up for a while, if you think so. It’s cool.
OH GOD THOUGH
I AM FUCKING THIS UP I’M BORING SHE HATES ME
Shut up. Calm down. Those are not correct statements. She would not keep conversation going if that were true.
YEAH BUT NOW WE’VE STOPPED
I’VE TAPPED OUT HER GOODWILL
Humans do not need to talk 100% of the time. In fact, that’s weird.
THIS IS TOO MUCH SILENCE
THIS IS FUCKED
THERE’S NO WAY THIS IS GONNA WORK
HOW DO WE ALREADY HAVE COMMUNICATION PROBLEMS
You do not have Communication Problems. You are being asinine. Conversations have a normal ebb and flow.
WHAT IF WE NEVER TALK AGAIN
I’VE DOOMED US
I am fairly certain conversation will resume at a later point. It will be fine. You’re doing OK.
AUGH BUT THE SILENCE
I SHOULD SAY SOMETHING
NO I SHOULDN’T
YES I SHOULD
*opens and closes chat window roughly 15 times*
I CAN COME UP WITH MORE THINGS TO SAY YOU KNOW
I’M PRETTY SMART AND INTERESTING
I JUST REALIZED
WHAT IF I’M ONLY THE ONE WHO EVER SAYS THINGS FIRST
WHAT IF I AM ALWAYS THE INSTIGATOR AND SHE HATES IT
MAYBE SHE HATES EVERY SECOND OF THIS
Then wait for her to say something.
WHAT IF SHE NEVER DOES
She probably will. If not, that’s OK, too. Not everything has to work out the way it does in your mind.
YES IT DOES
AUGH I’M DYING
Haha, I missed this.
ME TOO <3
So, the original impetus for my draconian NO DATING policy (which seems to have lasted all of about 12 minutes) was two-fold: The first was the fact that I recently had the worst date I’ve ever had in my life, which I will hopefully get around to telling you about at a later time (HINT: It involved terrifying nudity, 80’s-style sexual harassment, and me literally fleeing the scene, drunk and cackling.) The second was the fact that it felt like I was slowly sliding into this mode where I was dating just to date, and it was all feeling like a weight and a chore and no fun at all.
The other night, I was talking to a friend about a first date he was about to have, and he was so excited and nervous and earnest about the whole thing. “I really hope she likes what we’re doing!” It was super cute. It made me feel bad, though, because I hadn’t really felt like that in a while.
Do something long enough, and it becomes a routine; do a routine long enough, and it becomes work. My whole dating strategy had slowly started to transform into this horrible process where it felt like I was just going through the motions on everything. I’d message enough women on OK Cupid that some would respond to me, I’d talk to them long enough that there was some reasonable rapport, we’d meet up at a dive bar, we’d make out, we’d hook up a few times, and then we’d kind of drift apart (or, more accurately, I would kind of drift away, when I grew disgusted by myself).
It wasn’t very nice – for me, or for them, I’d imagine. The funny part is, it came out of this weird politeness. So many of my actions were motivated by the thought, “Well, it’d be rude not to,” which leads you down some pretty dumb rabbit holes, it turns out. So, someone might send me a message, and I’d be like, “Well, it’d be rude not to reply.” And I’d keep doing that for a while, until we’d been talking for so long where “it’d be rude not to ask them out at this point.” And then, “it’d be rude not to make out after 2 dates.” “It’d be rude not to text and check in.” “It’d be rude not to go out with them every 5 days on average.”
Oh, hey. Turns out THE RUDEST THING OF ALL is leading a person on, you fucking nitwit.
It was just… a horrible line of thinking, weirdly motivated by empathy, but all the worse for it. No one wants to be a charity case, or a cog in someone’s machine. It wasn’t fair to them, investing their time in a person only going through the motions, and it wasn’t fair to me, half-assing my way through dates instead of taking a crack at making real connections. I met some great people, I know, but I didn’t really give them a fair shake, because of the awful automated place I was in. Trust me, I feel like a real shitheel about it.
So, yeah. I eventually realized I needed a hard break from that bad habit. My solution was to just go cold turkey and see how that went. But perhaps a more reasonable expectation would have been waiting until I wasn’t just dating to date, but rather dating to try and get closer to a particular person I could tell I really liked. If I did that, hopefully, I’d be excited and nervous in the right ways again, and the dates in turn would be fun and exciting and butterfly-y, too, instead of some near-chore.
I’m not saying these new things won’t end up a mess like usual, but I’m hoping I’ve at least learned to start from a better place and keep going out of genuine desire, not weird, bad, fake obligation.
Definitely not listening to a sad-fucker country song about an alcoholic falling off the wagon and drawing WEIRD PARALLELS to the fact I asked someone out. Certainly not. That would be melodramatic.