Cheryl and I had a long discussion last night over why Tom and I fight so much. I proposed that Tom often starts by making some snide comment about me and I just respond. Tom then responds and we just keep going on and on. But this can't be true because I'm sure I do the same thing.
Cheryl proposed that Tom and I are so competitive that we often look at the negatives of each other's lives rather than encouraging all the positives. I don't think that's true either because Tom and I have often times spoken seriously and done just that to each other. It's only when we're bantering that we make such competitive comments like "My sister would never date you, Aaron" or "That's ok, I can just buy your sister with all my money" that we start angering each other.
In all honesty, constantly fighting with Tom is rather tiring and sad because in the end I think it keeps us at a distance from each other. Despite this, I think we just like pushing each other's buttons and regardless of long-term effects, and I don't see anything ever really changing.
20030930
So the Patriot act is in full effect and we here have changed many forms here in the mailroom, many forms. But this is the funny part this is how our company defines it...
The USA Patriot Act, which stands for Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism, was enacted to prevent money laundering and stem the flow of financing to terrorist organizations through the financial services industry.
Soooo this thing was about MONEY LAUNDERING??? WTF? You can now be jailed with no notice and held without being charged and it is about money laundering and the financial services industry?
And why the fuck is this another acronym? Which flag waiving act started this manditory use of fake military terminology for everything? I can see G Dubbya there in his treehouse sucking on a popsicle saying "Ok guys new rule: everything this government comes up with to solve any problem MUST be a hokey poorly thought out acronym or color coded code."
THEY CAME UP WITH AN ACRONYM FOR U.S.A! Jesus H Fuck, it already is one!!! What the hell does Schwarzenegger stand for?
The USA Patriot Act, which stands for Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism, was enacted to prevent money laundering and stem the flow of financing to terrorist organizations through the financial services industry.
Soooo this thing was about MONEY LAUNDERING??? WTF? You can now be jailed with no notice and held without being charged and it is about money laundering and the financial services industry?
And why the fuck is this another acronym? Which flag waiving act started this manditory use of fake military terminology for everything? I can see G Dubbya there in his treehouse sucking on a popsicle saying "Ok guys new rule: everything this government comes up with to solve any problem MUST be a hokey poorly thought out acronym or color coded code."
THEY CAME UP WITH AN ACRONYM FOR U.S.A! Jesus H Fuck, it already is one!!! What the hell does Schwarzenegger stand for?
20030929
On 9-28-03 Radiohead kicked my balls off.
That does it, Radiohead is now my true favorite band. The concert last night was proceeded by listening to 94/9's pre concert radiohead show in thick traffic. Then followed by Kate and I doing very heavy beer drinking at the trunk of the Volvo. Beer inside the show was $7.00, so we saved well over $400. We sat drunk, eating stale stone ground corn chips and cheese dip and occasionally I would leap away to pee on the vegitation in the expansive dirt parking lot. We missed Supergrass and stumbled in an hour late.
Radiohead took the stage and everyone stood up. They didn't sit down again for the whole show. I have never seen an entire concert crowd stay at its feet for a whole show, much less sway in perfect unison in an a truly shared moment of musical bliss as blue lights behind the band sofltly waved. I felt as if we were having the same collective thought if we were a giant backup chorus for the band as we all sang as one. Radiohead don't always play pretty music and are often paint a picture of a reality that is thoroghly depressing, which in fact it really is. The feeling last night was yes, we all feel that way and while we may never get over what ever it is that keeps us from a perfect and easy existence at least we know that others are there with you, chanting in unison "this is what you get...when you mess with us."
We exited the show en mass in what My friend Lee calles "group fantasy phase out" still thinking about the show experience yet not quite feeling the reality of a horrid traffic jam that awaited. We got to the car and Kate fell asleep in the passenger seat. I opened the trunk, got another beer and sat on the hood watching the sea of stationary tailights and sillouetted human figures in the dim light and dust. I offered beer to the guys stuck in the car next to me and we talked about the concert, kyaking and music in general for an hour. The ride home was surreal and a sence of overwhealming accomplishment came over me once we finally reached the freeway, as if I had personnally walked and conquered those many miles on foot. The whole way home in the back of my head was that chorus of fans, still endlessly chanting the last line from Karma Police "for a minute there, I lost myself...I lost myself." and I realized again how much I want to play music and how it makes me live and breathe and how deeply I want to feel exactly what I experienced last night again and again and again...but be on the other side of the stage, looking out, sparking it, controling it watching it as it all goes down.
That does it, Radiohead is now my true favorite band. The concert last night was proceeded by listening to 94/9's pre concert radiohead show in thick traffic. Then followed by Kate and I doing very heavy beer drinking at the trunk of the Volvo. Beer inside the show was $7.00, so we saved well over $400. We sat drunk, eating stale stone ground corn chips and cheese dip and occasionally I would leap away to pee on the vegitation in the expansive dirt parking lot. We missed Supergrass and stumbled in an hour late.
Radiohead took the stage and everyone stood up. They didn't sit down again for the whole show. I have never seen an entire concert crowd stay at its feet for a whole show, much less sway in perfect unison in an a truly shared moment of musical bliss as blue lights behind the band sofltly waved. I felt as if we were having the same collective thought if we were a giant backup chorus for the band as we all sang as one. Radiohead don't always play pretty music and are often paint a picture of a reality that is thoroghly depressing, which in fact it really is. The feeling last night was yes, we all feel that way and while we may never get over what ever it is that keeps us from a perfect and easy existence at least we know that others are there with you, chanting in unison "this is what you get...when you mess with us."
We exited the show en mass in what My friend Lee calles "group fantasy phase out" still thinking about the show experience yet not quite feeling the reality of a horrid traffic jam that awaited. We got to the car and Kate fell asleep in the passenger seat. I opened the trunk, got another beer and sat on the hood watching the sea of stationary tailights and sillouetted human figures in the dim light and dust. I offered beer to the guys stuck in the car next to me and we talked about the concert, kyaking and music in general for an hour. The ride home was surreal and a sence of overwhealming accomplishment came over me once we finally reached the freeway, as if I had personnally walked and conquered those many miles on foot. The whole way home in the back of my head was that chorus of fans, still endlessly chanting the last line from Karma Police "for a minute there, I lost myself...I lost myself." and I realized again how much I want to play music and how it makes me live and breathe and how deeply I want to feel exactly what I experienced last night again and again and again...but be on the other side of the stage, looking out, sparking it, controling it watching it as it all goes down.
20030918
20030902
I walked into the bathroom at work. There was a row of urinals. A little green man sat wedged between the last urinal and the wall, masturbating. I was appalled.
"Jesus Fucking Christ!" I screamed. "What the hell are you doing?"
He smiled at me and, still pulling furiously at his little green penis, gave me the finger. I didn't know what else to do so I asked him his name. He flipped me off again and in a small, grunty voice said "Mescalito."
"What?" I asked, not quite hearing him.
"Fuck you!" he shouted, "Mescalito!"
With that he flipped me off once again. This time he held the gesture for a few moments, his hands bobbing up and down in an oddly syncopated rhythm. Sensing that I would get no more of an explanation from him, I left the restroom, made my way through a maze of cubicles, and sat down at my desk.
A few minutes later my boss arrived and began detailing a sales report that needed to be recalculated. It was difficult to seem interested. Mescalito suddenly appeared sitting on top of the cubicle wall directly behind my boss. If my boss sensed the little man she gave no indication as she rattled on, seemingly unaware of the green imp masturbating feverishly some ten feet away from her. I tried not to notice but the whole scene was so completely absurd that I couldn't help but snicker out loud. Each time I did Mescalito would give off a little grunt of satisfaction and flip me the bird, grinning ever more diabolically, pulling his pud with increasing speed. Fortunately he was so precariously balanced on the cubicle wall, little forest legs dangling over the side, that the force of his pleasure-pounding caused him to fall backwards. Soon after my boss finished telling me about the sales report, having noticed neither my barely contained laughter or its source.
I arrived home from work that day tired but in excellent high spirits, perhaps a result of the sheer unbelievability of the events I had witnessed. At the time I lived with my girlfriend Erica. She got home from work before I did and usually greeted me at the door. Today she was nowhere to be found. Not yet worried, I set my keys down and went to the kitchen for a glass of cranberry juice. Halfway through the glass I heard the unmistakable sound of squeaking bedsprings coming from the bedroom Erica and I shared. I dropped the glass mid-swallow and burst into the room. I was utterly shocked to find Mescalito fucking the shit out of my girlfriend.
"Jesus Fucking Christ!" I screamed. "What the hell are you doing?"
He smiled at me and, still pulling furiously at his little green penis, gave me the finger. I didn't know what else to do so I asked him his name. He flipped me off again and in a small, grunty voice said "Mescalito."
"What?" I asked, not quite hearing him.
"Fuck you!" he shouted, "Mescalito!"
With that he flipped me off once again. This time he held the gesture for a few moments, his hands bobbing up and down in an oddly syncopated rhythm. Sensing that I would get no more of an explanation from him, I left the restroom, made my way through a maze of cubicles, and sat down at my desk.
A few minutes later my boss arrived and began detailing a sales report that needed to be recalculated. It was difficult to seem interested. Mescalito suddenly appeared sitting on top of the cubicle wall directly behind my boss. If my boss sensed the little man she gave no indication as she rattled on, seemingly unaware of the green imp masturbating feverishly some ten feet away from her. I tried not to notice but the whole scene was so completely absurd that I couldn't help but snicker out loud. Each time I did Mescalito would give off a little grunt of satisfaction and flip me the bird, grinning ever more diabolically, pulling his pud with increasing speed. Fortunately he was so precariously balanced on the cubicle wall, little forest legs dangling over the side, that the force of his pleasure-pounding caused him to fall backwards. Soon after my boss finished telling me about the sales report, having noticed neither my barely contained laughter or its source.
I arrived home from work that day tired but in excellent high spirits, perhaps a result of the sheer unbelievability of the events I had witnessed. At the time I lived with my girlfriend Erica. She got home from work before I did and usually greeted me at the door. Today she was nowhere to be found. Not yet worried, I set my keys down and went to the kitchen for a glass of cranberry juice. Halfway through the glass I heard the unmistakable sound of squeaking bedsprings coming from the bedroom Erica and I shared. I dropped the glass mid-swallow and burst into the room. I was utterly shocked to find Mescalito fucking the shit out of my girlfriend.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)