Daily? Weekly? It's all just words, right?
I've recently made an attempt to get a living space of my own that isn't in the basement of relatives and/or family-that-doesn't-know-I'm-living-there. I was referred to an apartment complex in glorious and scenic CR (That's the hip and much less racist way to say "Coon Rapids"). I was however denied the opportunity to live in glorious, scenic, and apparently, exclusive CR since the apartment overlords of Colonial Estates decided that I don't earn enough with my job (Though I'm earning the most I ever have at any job. Thanks a bunch Liberal Arts degree!) and I haven't been there long enough, despite my boss living in the same apartment complex, as well as serving as one of my glowing references. So, I'm still stuck in the basement. Any ideas on possible dwellings is much appreciated, cause I tend to be drawn by Craigslist ads that end up with someone being touched in the happy place in a non-happy way.
The job continues to go well, despite having lied my ass off to get it. At this point, they've either realized that I'm a fast learner, or have collectively decided to ignore my job performance as long as it doesn't put others in harms way. And you know who sucks at tipping? Teenagers and old people. Teenagers I get, most of 'em are border-line mentally ill, but old people? Come on! You've been on the planet longer than all of us! You know how this works! Also, when do you tip: Nobody thinks silver dollars, Sacajawea coins, or two-dollar bills are cool but you. Stop it.
The gym has remained a steady constant in my life as well, but I've become humble about it. I no longer feel the need to show off my new mucles, so I hide them under body fat I acquire through beer and chicken nuggets. They're there though. And they're always warm.
My book-a-month plan is working swimmingly, as it has mutated into two books a month! Already, I've blasted through this month's book I Love You, Beth Cooper (Which I can't reccomend enough. It's hilarious, great characters, great stories, solid amount of heart, moments that made me flat-out applaud, but I didn't, cause then I would've dropped the book. Read it. Read it before the movie comes out, which, if it's done right, will be spoken of by future generations, the way our generation speaks of The Breakfast Club and Adventures in Babysitting). My second book is The Chris Farley Show: A Biography in Three-Acts, which is funny, fascinating, inspiring, and heart-breaking. (I peeked to the end. He doesn't make it. Spoiler alert. Probably should've put that first.)
The summer movie season is upon us, and that's generally my favorite time of year, as I don't care about who'll win the next election as much as I do about who would win in a fight, Batman or Iron Man? (Which I think is a more realistic pairing than the oft-debated, never-resolved Superman Vs. Spider-Man) That being said, I can't bring myself to give a shit about Speed Racer, even in a "So-Bad-It's-Funny" vein, because I don't want to pay nine bucks to have a seizure. Though, for Mom's Day, I am going to pay nine bucks to see what What Happens in Vegas and end up feeling dumber.
George Bush and I are in a fight. He promised me six-hundred dollars, and he only gave me three-hundred. Douche.
This Friday night, my improv team MITCH! makes its triumphant return to the BNW stage. We are playing Punch-Out and going toe-to-toe with Sir Laffs-A-Lot, and if we lose, we are shipping Jim Moen off to Alaska that very night. (If we win, we are rewarding Jim Moen with a trip to Alaska -- that very night.) Anyhow, come see my rusty improv Friday night, 11:00pm (The sexiest time to see a show) at 2605 Hennepin Ave S. It's a fundraiser for the Twin Cities Improv Festival, so I'm sure you clever bastards could find a way to write that off.
This performance may serve as a kinda' kick-off to a comeback of sorts, as rumblings have started rumbling about the return of Mainly Me Productions, as a return of one of the original Mainly Me-ers is imminent and promises to give me the much-needed punch-in-the-nuts that'll either motivate me, or make me vomit.
Either way, you end up entertained.
By the by -- My Subject Line Movie Contest is still going strong.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
Artistic integrity. Where did you come up with that? You're not artistic and you have no integrity.
First, there was LiveJournal.
There were only a few of us in the beginning. Loran introduced us, therefore, it was generally accepted amongst our circle of friends that the populous would find it off-putting, condescending, and pretty gay. Proving that not everybody can be wrong all the time, LJ took off. I used it mostly to steal jokes from my friends and tell them better.
Then there was some dumbass thing called Friendster, which I still don't understand. Though it did have that cool little Friend Explosion virtual graph thing going for it.
Then, the mothership known as MySpace landed, enabling the entire world to go to one place to blog, take pictures of themselves with their shirts off and/or working out, validate their popularity, rank the people in their lives, and let every damn person they know EXACTLY how they feel about Gilmore Girls. (I was always concerned for their health, since they appeared to not take breaths between monolouges)
Everybody loved MySpace -- until we started getting too many porn requests and our parents joined up. A mass exdous occured.
Now, there's Facebook for our networking and witty status update needs, and blogspot for those of us who wish to continue to better present other people's material. And, as a true Minnesotan, if everyone else likes it, then I do too. (This is known as the Yeah, fuck the sun. I fucking hate it too theory. [And if you know the origin of that theory, we are dear friends.])
So, the Carson Daily has a new home for me not to write in it.
I'm not gonna' lie, in the past few weeks, I've started to question whether or not The Carson Daily was needed. The universe then gave me an answer.
Last night, after I discovered that ladies league night was going to be my bread and butter at the golf course since I'm witty, charismatic, and they laughed extra hard when I would pronounce it JALL-OP-AH-NOSE, the crew retired to Bebops to watch a friend-of-a-friend play punk covers of Natasha Bedingfield songs.
While pretending not to know all the words to a Natasha Bedingfield song, a drunken young twenty-something with unfortunate hair (In that she spent time trying to make it look like that) sidled up next to me at the bar. She stared at me long enough to make me wonder if a stroke occured.
"Hello," I said Rob Burgundy?-ishly.
"You look like my husband Paul."
"Well, then you marreid a good-looking man."
"He's dead."
"Oh. Well. That's not good."
"Tonight would've been his birthday."
"..."
"I miss him."
"...all right."
Enter a softball-uniformed meathead who grabs the young widower forcefully, and demanded to know what the fuck!
"What?" She said sheepishly.
"I just asked you to dance! And you didn't answer me and just walked over and started dry-humping this fucking guy!?"
"Calm down."
"No, I will not-"
Then she tounge-probed him, and they began to make-out as if the plane were going down.
Before the saliva was wiped off on his sleeve, Softball Guy said, "I live three blocks from here."
"Sure," she said and grabbed her purse. Then she touched my face, and said "Goodnight Paul."
See? If I didn't have a blog, none of you could've known that story. And you may not realize it yet, but your lives are better now.
There were only a few of us in the beginning. Loran introduced us, therefore, it was generally accepted amongst our circle of friends that the populous would find it off-putting, condescending, and pretty gay. Proving that not everybody can be wrong all the time, LJ took off. I used it mostly to steal jokes from my friends and tell them better.
Then there was some dumbass thing called Friendster, which I still don't understand. Though it did have that cool little Friend Explosion virtual graph thing going for it.
Then, the mothership known as MySpace landed, enabling the entire world to go to one place to blog, take pictures of themselves with their shirts off and/or working out, validate their popularity, rank the people in their lives, and let every damn person they know EXACTLY how they feel about Gilmore Girls. (I was always concerned for their health, since they appeared to not take breaths between monolouges)
Everybody loved MySpace -- until we started getting too many porn requests and our parents joined up. A mass exdous occured.
Now, there's Facebook for our networking and witty status update needs, and blogspot for those of us who wish to continue to better present other people's material. And, as a true Minnesotan, if everyone else likes it, then I do too. (This is known as the Yeah, fuck the sun. I fucking hate it too theory. [And if you know the origin of that theory, we are dear friends.])
So, the Carson Daily has a new home for me not to write in it.
I'm not gonna' lie, in the past few weeks, I've started to question whether or not The Carson Daily was needed. The universe then gave me an answer.
Last night, after I discovered that ladies league night was going to be my bread and butter at the golf course since I'm witty, charismatic, and they laughed extra hard when I would pronounce it JALL-OP-AH-NOSE, the crew retired to Bebops to watch a friend-of-a-friend play punk covers of Natasha Bedingfield songs.
While pretending not to know all the words to a Natasha Bedingfield song, a drunken young twenty-something with unfortunate hair (In that she spent time trying to make it look like that) sidled up next to me at the bar. She stared at me long enough to make me wonder if a stroke occured.
"Hello," I said Rob Burgundy?-ishly.
"You look like my husband Paul."
"Well, then you marreid a good-looking man."
"He's dead."
"Oh. Well. That's not good."
"Tonight would've been his birthday."
"..."
"I miss him."
"...all right."
Enter a softball-uniformed meathead who grabs the young widower forcefully, and demanded to know what the fuck!
"What?" She said sheepishly.
"I just asked you to dance! And you didn't answer me and just walked over and started dry-humping this fucking guy!?"
"Calm down."
"No, I will not-"
Then she tounge-probed him, and they began to make-out as if the plane were going down.
Before the saliva was wiped off on his sleeve, Softball Guy said, "I live three blocks from here."
"Sure," she said and grabbed her purse. Then she touched my face, and said "Goodnight Paul."
See? If I didn't have a blog, none of you could've known that story. And you may not realize it yet, but your lives are better now.
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