Ten Things (8/1/05) ...late again, if i were a female, i'd officially be worried.
Yes, yes..i'm slow, but there's a lot going on right now. I'll get to all of it in the next few posts, but for now i only have my Ten Things to share. This week, Ten Things is divided into two five-part sections, one dealing with randomness as usual, the other covering the oddness that was my attempted wedding last week. We'll start with the matrimony business...
1.) I think Lulu hates me because she thinks I missed our wedding last Friday. Actually, this is more a statement of fact than a belief. But I can explain…
2.) I think my bachelor party was at the root of the entire problem. See, Lulu had men and women lining up to do everything from baking a cake to ironing her undies for her on the big day. Me? Not so much. Aside from a few death threats, I was left mostly to fend for myself (save for good ole’ CBK of course, who dutifully volunteered to be my best man…even if it was likely an offer born of pity). I can’t say that I was terribly surprised by this except for one thing…the bachelor party. Come on guys, I’d plan a bachelor party for my worst enemy if he asked…titties and beer anyone? Besides everyone knows, the groom gets too drunk to hump the stripper at these things and one of his good buddies usually takes the prize in his stead…so I’m told. So where the fuck were you guys? CBK was nice enough to drop off a stack of Barely Legal magazines, but once he saw that the ‘party’ consisted only of me, a half-finished six-pack and a bag of Doritos, he did what most honorable men would do. He double checked for strippers, found none, and left. Of all the bachelor parties I have ever been to, this was the only one with crying.
3.) I think I need more friends. After I stopped weeping at my own pathetic nature, I decided that I needed to take control of my life. It was the eve of my wedding and I wasn’t having any fun. So I jumped in the car and rolled over to Chuck E. Cheese’s. At first, the light atmosphere helped my mood but after a couple pitchers of root beer and a few games of skee-ball, I felt my embarrassment over my lack of friends begin to creep up on me again. The last straw was when they kicked me off the kiddie merry-go-round because I wouldn’t “wait my turn” or some bullshit like that. I got another pitcher of beer and retreated to what I thought was the bathroom to drink away my sorrow. Just as I was putting back the final few gulps, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Being that I thought I was in the bathroom, this caused me quite a start. I jumped to my feet and turned wildly, only to see…a six foot mouse. Turns out, I had wandered into Chuck’s dressing room by mistake but fortunately he is a kind and gracious rodent who actually inquired as to my troubles rather than kicking me out. Our chat really helped. Turns out Chuck has had some problems of his own. After hearing about his birth in a sewer, losing part of his tail in a mousetrap, his childhood as a lab rat, his violent allergic reactions to eating cheese and career as a grossly underpaid stage performer idolized by minions of children that he can not stand, it really put my own problems into perspective. We sat there drinking and talking all night long, with other members of the band stopping by to chat from time to time, it was truly a great time. But somewhere between finishing my last brew and arriving at the realization that I was pouring my heart out to a table full of freakishly big off color animals and some big blue thing with no mouth that plays the bass, I remembered that I had a wedding to get to. I bid my new friends a fond farewell and emerged from Chuck E’s to find that the sun had already risen on my wedding day. I’d have to haul ass not to be late.
4.) I think I wasn’t the one who actually missed the wedding. So I finally show up to my wedding only to find an empty chapel and no bride on hand. I checked the date, that was ok. I checked the time, a little late, but not too bad. I checked the address…I was in the right place. Well, where the fuck was everyone then? It was only after I crawled home (I didn’t want to risk driving with all the tears in my eyes) and logged on that I discovered what had happened. Lulu had become a little over-zealous in making her bathroom appointments and our entire guest list (family included) were all crowded around the bathroom, hoping to get a turn. When you fail to show up at the altar because you are having a giant orgy with all of our guests - I don’t think the failed wedding is my fault.
5.) I think it would be a shame to waste a damn good marriage vow, so I’m going to put it up here.
In the name of God, I, Cowboy Matty, take you, Lulu, to be my wife,
to read and support one another’s blogs from this day forward,
for better or worse, for richer or poorer,
sober or hung-over,in sickness and in health,
to love and to cherish,
until we are parted by death…or you fall victim to some disfiguring accident.
Although I enter this union well aware of your mildly slutty ways,
I am easily able ignore your promiscuous past as well as your current philandering,
Simply because my feelings for you are so true…
And I hear you give excellent head.
I promise to fulfill your every sexual desire,
so long as it does not involve live animals or power tools.
I will do my best not to pick my nose in public when we are together
and I will always leave the toilet seat down for you.
This is my solemn vow.
And now for a brief glimpse into the rest of my life...
1.) I think I’m about to fall right into one of those cliché stereotypes I always laugh about. When was it declared that every single greeting between males must involve a complex handshake, consisting of at least 3 parts? I’m sick of always being unprepared, never finding my rhythm, leaving the other guy hanging and, finally, gritting through that moment of awkwardness where we both silently acknowledge, “Yes, I am white, so white that I can’t even pull off the shake, twist, grab and slam with any kind of consistency.” But it has little or nothing to do with my lack of rhythm or a low “coolness quotient”; most of my problem seems to be that I am usually unprepared for the full-shake. Take this guy I work with, for instance. I see him each and every business day and every single morning he greets me with a palm slap, twist at the thumb, re-grip, pull tight for a shoulder bump, finger-snap withdrawal with a finishing knuckle slam for good measure. I’m not saying that this type of greeting is always uncalled for, but he certainly seems to be using it in excess…as do many guys these days. See, to me there are exactly three situations where that level of hand slapping is advised: 1.) When seeing an old friend again after a really long time; 2.) When expressing extreme satisfaction or agreement with something recently said or done; 3.) When filming a hip hop video. I would like to request that everyone else adopts this same criteria in order to reduce the forced hand-shake awkwardness for confused white boys like myself.
2.) I think my Saturday went a little different than planned. I had one, and only one, thing planned for my Saturday - find a new god damned job. Well, I can be motivationally challenged at times, especially when my roommates are involved. Here’s how my application process actually went:
12:03 pm - wake up.
12:04 pm - try to go back to sleep.
12:18 pm - realize I am not falling back asleep.
12:19 pm - first crotch scratch of the day.
12:23 pm - get up.
12:24 pm - get back in bed.
12:37 pm - get up again, but only cause I have to piss like nobody’s business.
12:38 pm - get back in bed.
12:39 pm - flip on the porno that I didn’t finish the night before.
12:47 pm - hurriedly flip off the porno and scramble to look otherwise occupied when Smokey knocks at the door.
12:50 pm - Smokey reveals his plan for the day, mainly revolving around severe inebriation.
12:55 pm - I decide to forgo showering in lieu of taking a pair of vicodin that Smokey provides me.
1:06 pm - I pour my first Red Bull and Vodka.
1:26 pm - Smokey hands me a lit blunt.
1:30 pm - I start eating potato skins.
1:39 pm - I pour my second Red Bull and Vodka.
2:00 pm - the room begins to spin…and by “the” room, I mean “every” room.
2:04 pm - my friend from North Carolina who I haven’t spoken to in months calls - inexplicably, I answer.
2:12 pm - knowing something is wrong, I head to the bathroom. On the way, I hang up on my friend mid-sentence and drop the phone.
2:30 pm - after a few moments of sheer agony, I begin to vomit. All I can taste is potato skins and Kettle One. This makes me vomit more.
3:00(ish) pm - I pass out on the toilet.
3:15(ish) pm - I wake up and puke some more.
4:00 pm - I manage to make it to my feet and stumble to my bed, passing out once again.
6:30 pm - I wake up. I look at the clock and double take.
6:31 pm - I brush my teeth.
6:33 pm - I finally flush the toilet from about 2 hours earlier.
6:35 pm - I wander into the living room and Smokey starts laughing.
6:45 pm - I’m smoking a bowl.
7:00 pm - I’m drinking a beer.
8:00 pm - I’m trashed again.
9:00 pm - Smokey passes out and I get online to start applying for jobs.
9:30 pm - I’m looking at online porn.
10:00 pm - I’m asleep.
3.) I think I am excited for this weekend! For those of you who are unaware, there is a very important day coming up this week, my birthday! I will be turning the big 2-6 on Thursday and will be celebrating as follows: Thursday is Miss Kitty’s night. I’m going to her place after work, she’s taking me out to dinner and then has what she has termed “a special surprise” for me. Oh la la. Any guesses? Friday I am spending the day with my folks and the sis, probably having lunch at The Cheesecake Factory (a family fave) and seeing a movie. Then Miss Kitty and I are headed into the city to go to the Giants game. Afterwards we are meeting some friends from out of town for drinks. On Saturday I have an evening of dinner, drinks and strip clubs planned for myself and about 25 of my friends. Then, to round out the weekend, I am taking Monday and Tuesday off work just for shits and giggles. Happy Birthday to me, I wish you could all come and party too!
4.) I think I’ll never find a new job. Well, I will, just not anything I’d admit to doing…at least not to anyone I might meet face to face. So far I have applied to be a nude model for an art class (this position is unpaid) as well as to be a test subject in a series of fertility experiments in Berkeley that require sperm donations. They pay $65 per squirt, but there are a couple of problems, 1.) I have to go once per week every week for a year and, 2.) I’m worried that the amount of pot smoking I do will render my sample unusable. Nothing ruins a perfectly good job prospect (along with your self confidence) faster than hearing someone say, “I’m sorry sir, but your swimmers just don’t swim any more.”
5.) I think I know why it’s been so difficult for me to write lately. I have been hesitant to go into any detail about this on here because I hate it when people whine about stuff like this. However, as much as I’d like to avoid subjecting any of you to it, I must acknowledge that the true reason I write on here in the first place is for myself…and when something is weighing this heavily on me I think it helps for me to spill a little of it out, even if I sound a little whiney. So, I have casually mentioned before that I take the anti-depressant Effexor XR (mainly in the course of bashing Tom Cruise). I believe in the benefits of anti-depressants and I know for a fact that the drug I am on has helped me through some times that would have been difficult, if not impossible, otherwise. How do I back my claim that the drug has, in fact, helped me? Well, it’s tough to explain to an audience that may not have dealt firsthand with clinical depression, but to start, put as bluntly as I can, I am the veteran of a failed suicide attempt. It is difficult to fully conceive of the kind of hopelessness and self-loathing one must be deeply mired in before the thought of suicide even faintly resembles an option. Remain frozen in this frame of mind for a long enough period of time and the feeling begins to feed on itself; such fierce loneliness and despair that you soon become too far gone to attempt any repair - you just want it to stop. That was where I was. When i take the anti-depressants, they help to alleviate some of that irrational fear (the explanation on a chemical level is obviously more complex, but this is what I consciously experience) and soon I become clear-headed enough to distinguish my thoughts of depression versus legitimate concerns. That recognition is the key to preventing myself from falling back into hopelessness. Remember the movie Beautiful Mind, how Russell Crowe is unsure which people he meets are real and which are not, but eventually he learns to distinguish the two from one another, thus keeping himself out of trouble? That is the closest analogy I can think of. Anyway, here’s my current problem: I think the Effexor is failing. I dunno if it’s possible for your body to adjust to this type of medication, but whatever the reason, I am having feelings of depression to an extreme that I have never experienced while on any of the meds I have tried throughout my life. It makes even the smallest task (including writing on this blog) seem incredibly overwhelming. It make dims my view of the future and kills all but the very strongest feelings of motivation or optimism. Right now, it worries me.
Ok, since I don’t want to leave you on that uber up-lifting note, how about one more…
11.) I think God is mad at the Boy Scouts of America. Did you see that another bolt of lightning struck a Boy Scout group in Utah? This is like the third time that has happened in the last month and there have been several fatalities. Now, why exactly God suddenly hates young men with a penchant for marshmallow roasting and campfire stories, I have no idea, but I do know this much… The most recent kid to be killed was 15 years old. 15 years old!? Ok, memo to you over-users of Vaseline out there - they are the Boy Scouts, not the Teen Scouts. Once you hit high school, it is time to wave goodbye to kiddie campouts and badge wearing. I blame the parents. Had the father stressed the importance of alcohol or getting your dick wet to this young man, he wouldn’t have been on that mountain in the first place and he certainly would not have died as a virgin dressed in a yellow hankie.
1.) I think Lulu hates me because she thinks I missed our wedding last Friday. Actually, this is more a statement of fact than a belief. But I can explain…
2.) I think my bachelor party was at the root of the entire problem. See, Lulu had men and women lining up to do everything from baking a cake to ironing her undies for her on the big day. Me? Not so much. Aside from a few death threats, I was left mostly to fend for myself (save for good ole’ CBK of course, who dutifully volunteered to be my best man…even if it was likely an offer born of pity). I can’t say that I was terribly surprised by this except for one thing…the bachelor party. Come on guys, I’d plan a bachelor party for my worst enemy if he asked…titties and beer anyone? Besides everyone knows, the groom gets too drunk to hump the stripper at these things and one of his good buddies usually takes the prize in his stead…so I’m told. So where the fuck were you guys? CBK was nice enough to drop off a stack of Barely Legal magazines, but once he saw that the ‘party’ consisted only of me, a half-finished six-pack and a bag of Doritos, he did what most honorable men would do. He double checked for strippers, found none, and left. Of all the bachelor parties I have ever been to, this was the only one with crying.
3.) I think I need more friends. After I stopped weeping at my own pathetic nature, I decided that I needed to take control of my life. It was the eve of my wedding and I wasn’t having any fun. So I jumped in the car and rolled over to Chuck E. Cheese’s. At first, the light atmosphere helped my mood but after a couple pitchers of root beer and a few games of skee-ball, I felt my embarrassment over my lack of friends begin to creep up on me again. The last straw was when they kicked me off the kiddie merry-go-round because I wouldn’t “wait my turn” or some bullshit like that. I got another pitcher of beer and retreated to what I thought was the bathroom to drink away my sorrow. Just as I was putting back the final few gulps, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Being that I thought I was in the bathroom, this caused me quite a start. I jumped to my feet and turned wildly, only to see…a six foot mouse. Turns out, I had wandered into Chuck’s dressing room by mistake but fortunately he is a kind and gracious rodent who actually inquired as to my troubles rather than kicking me out. Our chat really helped. Turns out Chuck has had some problems of his own. After hearing about his birth in a sewer, losing part of his tail in a mousetrap, his childhood as a lab rat, his violent allergic reactions to eating cheese and career as a grossly underpaid stage performer idolized by minions of children that he can not stand, it really put my own problems into perspective. We sat there drinking and talking all night long, with other members of the band stopping by to chat from time to time, it was truly a great time. But somewhere between finishing my last brew and arriving at the realization that I was pouring my heart out to a table full of freakishly big off color animals and some big blue thing with no mouth that plays the bass, I remembered that I had a wedding to get to. I bid my new friends a fond farewell and emerged from Chuck E’s to find that the sun had already risen on my wedding day. I’d have to haul ass not to be late.
4.) I think I wasn’t the one who actually missed the wedding. So I finally show up to my wedding only to find an empty chapel and no bride on hand. I checked the date, that was ok. I checked the time, a little late, but not too bad. I checked the address…I was in the right place. Well, where the fuck was everyone then? It was only after I crawled home (I didn’t want to risk driving with all the tears in my eyes) and logged on that I discovered what had happened. Lulu had become a little over-zealous in making her bathroom appointments and our entire guest list (family included) were all crowded around the bathroom, hoping to get a turn. When you fail to show up at the altar because you are having a giant orgy with all of our guests - I don’t think the failed wedding is my fault.
5.) I think it would be a shame to waste a damn good marriage vow, so I’m going to put it up here.
In the name of God, I, Cowboy Matty, take you, Lulu, to be my wife,
to read and support one another’s blogs from this day forward,
for better or worse, for richer or poorer,
sober or hung-over,in sickness and in health,
to love and to cherish,
until we are parted by death…or you fall victim to some disfiguring accident.
Although I enter this union well aware of your mildly slutty ways,
I am easily able ignore your promiscuous past as well as your current philandering,
Simply because my feelings for you are so true…
And I hear you give excellent head.
I promise to fulfill your every sexual desire,
so long as it does not involve live animals or power tools.
I will do my best not to pick my nose in public when we are together
and I will always leave the toilet seat down for you.
This is my solemn vow.
And now for a brief glimpse into the rest of my life...
1.) I think I’m about to fall right into one of those cliché stereotypes I always laugh about. When was it declared that every single greeting between males must involve a complex handshake, consisting of at least 3 parts? I’m sick of always being unprepared, never finding my rhythm, leaving the other guy hanging and, finally, gritting through that moment of awkwardness where we both silently acknowledge, “Yes, I am white, so white that I can’t even pull off the shake, twist, grab and slam with any kind of consistency.” But it has little or nothing to do with my lack of rhythm or a low “coolness quotient”; most of my problem seems to be that I am usually unprepared for the full-shake. Take this guy I work with, for instance. I see him each and every business day and every single morning he greets me with a palm slap, twist at the thumb, re-grip, pull tight for a shoulder bump, finger-snap withdrawal with a finishing knuckle slam for good measure. I’m not saying that this type of greeting is always uncalled for, but he certainly seems to be using it in excess…as do many guys these days. See, to me there are exactly three situations where that level of hand slapping is advised: 1.) When seeing an old friend again after a really long time; 2.) When expressing extreme satisfaction or agreement with something recently said or done; 3.) When filming a hip hop video. I would like to request that everyone else adopts this same criteria in order to reduce the forced hand-shake awkwardness for confused white boys like myself.
2.) I think my Saturday went a little different than planned. I had one, and only one, thing planned for my Saturday - find a new god damned job. Well, I can be motivationally challenged at times, especially when my roommates are involved. Here’s how my application process actually went:
12:03 pm - wake up.
12:04 pm - try to go back to sleep.
12:18 pm - realize I am not falling back asleep.
12:19 pm - first crotch scratch of the day.
12:23 pm - get up.
12:24 pm - get back in bed.
12:37 pm - get up again, but only cause I have to piss like nobody’s business.
12:38 pm - get back in bed.
12:39 pm - flip on the porno that I didn’t finish the night before.
12:47 pm - hurriedly flip off the porno and scramble to look otherwise occupied when Smokey knocks at the door.
12:50 pm - Smokey reveals his plan for the day, mainly revolving around severe inebriation.
12:55 pm - I decide to forgo showering in lieu of taking a pair of vicodin that Smokey provides me.
1:06 pm - I pour my first Red Bull and Vodka.
1:26 pm - Smokey hands me a lit blunt.
1:30 pm - I start eating potato skins.
1:39 pm - I pour my second Red Bull and Vodka.
2:00 pm - the room begins to spin…and by “the” room, I mean “every” room.
2:04 pm - my friend from North Carolina who I haven’t spoken to in months calls - inexplicably, I answer.
2:12 pm - knowing something is wrong, I head to the bathroom. On the way, I hang up on my friend mid-sentence and drop the phone.
2:30 pm - after a few moments of sheer agony, I begin to vomit. All I can taste is potato skins and Kettle One. This makes me vomit more.
3:00(ish) pm - I pass out on the toilet.
3:15(ish) pm - I wake up and puke some more.
4:00 pm - I manage to make it to my feet and stumble to my bed, passing out once again.
6:30 pm - I wake up. I look at the clock and double take.
6:31 pm - I brush my teeth.
6:33 pm - I finally flush the toilet from about 2 hours earlier.
6:35 pm - I wander into the living room and Smokey starts laughing.
6:45 pm - I’m smoking a bowl.
7:00 pm - I’m drinking a beer.
8:00 pm - I’m trashed again.
9:00 pm - Smokey passes out and I get online to start applying for jobs.
9:30 pm - I’m looking at online porn.
10:00 pm - I’m asleep.
3.) I think I am excited for this weekend! For those of you who are unaware, there is a very important day coming up this week, my birthday! I will be turning the big 2-6 on Thursday and will be celebrating as follows: Thursday is Miss Kitty’s night. I’m going to her place after work, she’s taking me out to dinner and then has what she has termed “a special surprise” for me. Oh la la. Any guesses? Friday I am spending the day with my folks and the sis, probably having lunch at The Cheesecake Factory (a family fave) and seeing a movie. Then Miss Kitty and I are headed into the city to go to the Giants game. Afterwards we are meeting some friends from out of town for drinks. On Saturday I have an evening of dinner, drinks and strip clubs planned for myself and about 25 of my friends. Then, to round out the weekend, I am taking Monday and Tuesday off work just for shits and giggles. Happy Birthday to me, I wish you could all come and party too!
4.) I think I’ll never find a new job. Well, I will, just not anything I’d admit to doing…at least not to anyone I might meet face to face. So far I have applied to be a nude model for an art class (this position is unpaid) as well as to be a test subject in a series of fertility experiments in Berkeley that require sperm donations. They pay $65 per squirt, but there are a couple of problems, 1.) I have to go once per week every week for a year and, 2.) I’m worried that the amount of pot smoking I do will render my sample unusable. Nothing ruins a perfectly good job prospect (along with your self confidence) faster than hearing someone say, “I’m sorry sir, but your swimmers just don’t swim any more.”
5.) I think I know why it’s been so difficult for me to write lately. I have been hesitant to go into any detail about this on here because I hate it when people whine about stuff like this. However, as much as I’d like to avoid subjecting any of you to it, I must acknowledge that the true reason I write on here in the first place is for myself…and when something is weighing this heavily on me I think it helps for me to spill a little of it out, even if I sound a little whiney. So, I have casually mentioned before that I take the anti-depressant Effexor XR (mainly in the course of bashing Tom Cruise). I believe in the benefits of anti-depressants and I know for a fact that the drug I am on has helped me through some times that would have been difficult, if not impossible, otherwise. How do I back my claim that the drug has, in fact, helped me? Well, it’s tough to explain to an audience that may not have dealt firsthand with clinical depression, but to start, put as bluntly as I can, I am the veteran of a failed suicide attempt. It is difficult to fully conceive of the kind of hopelessness and self-loathing one must be deeply mired in before the thought of suicide even faintly resembles an option. Remain frozen in this frame of mind for a long enough period of time and the feeling begins to feed on itself; such fierce loneliness and despair that you soon become too far gone to attempt any repair - you just want it to stop. That was where I was. When i take the anti-depressants, they help to alleviate some of that irrational fear (the explanation on a chemical level is obviously more complex, but this is what I consciously experience) and soon I become clear-headed enough to distinguish my thoughts of depression versus legitimate concerns. That recognition is the key to preventing myself from falling back into hopelessness. Remember the movie Beautiful Mind, how Russell Crowe is unsure which people he meets are real and which are not, but eventually he learns to distinguish the two from one another, thus keeping himself out of trouble? That is the closest analogy I can think of. Anyway, here’s my current problem: I think the Effexor is failing. I dunno if it’s possible for your body to adjust to this type of medication, but whatever the reason, I am having feelings of depression to an extreme that I have never experienced while on any of the meds I have tried throughout my life. It makes even the smallest task (including writing on this blog) seem incredibly overwhelming. It make dims my view of the future and kills all but the very strongest feelings of motivation or optimism. Right now, it worries me.
Ok, since I don’t want to leave you on that uber up-lifting note, how about one more…
11.) I think God is mad at the Boy Scouts of America. Did you see that another bolt of lightning struck a Boy Scout group in Utah? This is like the third time that has happened in the last month and there have been several fatalities. Now, why exactly God suddenly hates young men with a penchant for marshmallow roasting and campfire stories, I have no idea, but I do know this much… The most recent kid to be killed was 15 years old. 15 years old!? Ok, memo to you over-users of Vaseline out there - they are the Boy Scouts, not the Teen Scouts. Once you hit high school, it is time to wave goodbye to kiddie campouts and badge wearing. I blame the parents. Had the father stressed the importance of alcohol or getting your dick wet to this young man, he wouldn’t have been on that mountain in the first place and he certainly would not have died as a virgin dressed in a yellow hankie.
posted by Cowboy Matty | 10:41 PM
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