No DDR at the Avalon last night. That is a serious oversight, and I hope the goddamn place goes out of business ASAP. Keeps all the cabinets in atrocious condition, too. Ground Kontrol caters to its audience; Wunderland should have no audience.
Then to the Triple Nickel, already half asleep. Blitzgreg bought me a Jameson's, improving my mood and alertness exponentially. Unbeknownst at the time, he was to end the evening incoherently drunk. We were discussing our mutual love of German style board games in measured, reasonable, audible tones when his drunkenness overtook him with stunning rapidity, like a thunderstorm in April overtakes a sunny day. God, I love Greg. I love this entire gaggle of friends trivia hath brought unto me.
Jenny is an interesting case. She's dated Michael for a half year now, but I have only been in her company a dozen times, at most. Yet a mutual respect has developed between us, insofar as I can respect someone from Florida (the Notre Dame of states).
Not writing on the subjects I should be writing on, if I want to advance my freelance career. Just writing, though - that is the key. Get my reps in. Get back in the habit of writing something, anything, every day.
I should try to set up an interview with the people behind Foo Castle. It might generate an article of interest to me alone, but that's okay. The world needs more information about Foo Castle in their lives.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
what 60 means
Yesterday, my father was 60 for the first time in his life. 60!.
This is alarming. This is a harbinger of things to come in my own life. My father is no longer young, ergo I am no longer young. As he begins slipping into the most undesirable target demographic, I have to accept the responsibility of adulthood, something I should have done a few years ago. Got to go to work, got to get a job -- during the worst recession in decades.
God, I want to work. I want the structure, the responsibility, the frustration inherent to all cogs in late stage American capitalism. The silly little dreams of my late teens and early twenties, conjured while under grotesquely unrealistic illusions of my own abilities and self worth, no longer hold much interest. Who cares if I become what I want to become? I just wanna subsist, man. Preferably in my own apartment, for Christ's sake.
Ford Walker turns 25 today. I am eager to showcase my Dance Dance Revolution skills before a throng of swooning female fans at his party -- at Wunderland! It's no Ground Kontrol, but I don't have any money, so it's moot anyway.
God, I'm tired.
This is alarming. This is a harbinger of things to come in my own life. My father is no longer young, ergo I am no longer young. As he begins slipping into the most undesirable target demographic, I have to accept the responsibility of adulthood, something I should have done a few years ago. Got to go to work, got to get a job -- during the worst recession in decades.
God, I want to work. I want the structure, the responsibility, the frustration inherent to all cogs in late stage American capitalism. The silly little dreams of my late teens and early twenties, conjured while under grotesquely unrealistic illusions of my own abilities and self worth, no longer hold much interest. Who cares if I become what I want to become? I just wanna subsist, man. Preferably in my own apartment, for Christ's sake.
Ford Walker turns 25 today. I am eager to showcase my Dance Dance Revolution skills before a throng of swooning female fans at his party -- at Wunderland! It's no Ground Kontrol, but I don't have any money, so it's moot anyway.
God, I'm tired.
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