Yes I can freeze my twig and berries off to witness history
BY: David Frank |
November 17th 2008
Read’em and weep and adore and idolize and plot my murder mother bitchies. I’ve got an Inauguration Day ticket, thanks to my friends Harley (aka Ryan) and Melissa and their pal Cory, courtesy of Iowa’s Republican Senator Chucky Grassley. Ohhh yeaaaah. I’ve gone rogue. I’ve gone republican. Time to scrub this blog of all my unpatriotic, terrorist sympathizing, libtard communist rants and bathe in the color red and go gay (on the unmarried, it’s a choice, down-low) for Toby Keith. MUAHAHAHAHAHA! I will sneak in the neo-con’s back door (in an umarrying, it’s a choice, down-low sort of way), stage a silent coup and rebuild the Republican Party in my own image. The bastards will never know what hit them, even as they’re signing off on universal healthcare and free DVD copies of Fahrenheit 9/11 for every American citizen.
Jesus God I’ve huffed too much WD-40 tonight. Vote Grassley! Time to tow this post back to reality. The reality being: I’VE GOT A FUCKING INAUGURATION TICKET!!! Huzzah! Vote Grassley! Actually since early October I’ve been planning on hitting up D.C. on January 20th. You know to witness history and stuff. Vote Grassley! You really only get once chance to say you were there when the First African-American President was sworn in–well, unless he wins a second term. However, I had no expectations to get tickets, knowing they’d be hotter than a Beatles Reunion tour with the resurrected zombies of John Lennon and George Harrison. Vote Grassley! So when I asked my Pennsylvania friends if I could crash at their fortress for my trip to D.C., I was shocked to hear these Obama supporters have a friend connected to a powerful Republican Senator from Iowa (Vote Grassley!), who could score us all tickets. Oh happy happy, joy joy indeed! Vote Grassley!
Actually, other than witnessing history, and apparently attending some parties afterwards due to their friend in Grassley’s office, I’m just happy to hang out with Harley and Melissa for a few days. I’ve only seen them for a total of 2 or 3 hours since they moved to PA a year and a half ago. So that shall be nice.
Okay so for the few of you who read this thing occasionally, you may have noticed I’ve been a tad quiet for a few weeks (yeah I’m talking to you Mr. Achey), except for a couple of obits. A few reasons. One, I came back from San Diego Comic Con to a shit storm of busy at my real job. Very tired. No mood to write lately. Two, I guess some hacker or something placed some advertising code on my blog for boner drugs, which forced Google to take me off of their search list engine thingy (yes, that’s the technical term). Well, that’s a horrible, ignorant, factually weak explanation, but I think that’s the basic gist as I was told. So since only about 3 people were hitting the blog per day (which is like half as many as normal!!!) after I was removed, I decided to wait until the issue was fixed. Although, before that thingy was installed a couple of months ago and raised my hits somewhat, I essentially wrote the majority of my blog posts for an audience of 4…but ignorance was bliss, and now that I know my stats, I’m a slave to them. Oh, and the code for the boner medicine never showed any sort of advertisement on the blog. Assholes didn’t even buy me dinner.
As for San Diego. Hurm. Well, I was happy I went. Happy to meet plenty of people, including Bossman Brad. You should at least hit it up once in your life. Live the madness. Swim in the weird. Yet, I don’t deny I came away with mixed feelings about the whole event. The articles I wrote while there were done in the hyperbolic persona of a man fearful for his life, a disgusted cynic. Partially true, but not to the degree that the voice comes off as. I was absolutely fascinated with the people there. And occasionally when I saw a couple, totally dressed up in something (like Mr. and Mrs. Incredible for example), holding hands or whatever, I found it sort of heartwarming. Yet, at the same time there is level of desperate attention-whoring on display that boggles the mind. The whole thing is one madcap whorehouse–and I’m not just talking about the girls wearing next to nothing. Everyone is selling.
“But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country–but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that.”
—Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
I’m off to San Diego tomorrow to cover the Comic Con.
Amanda flew out early Monday morning for Alabama. Real early. I didn’t even know the Eastern Iowa Airport had 5 am flights–so that meant we were up and moving at 3 in the goddamn morning. But it’s all good. A business trip for her new job, where she has already heard some encouraging news–but I’m not repeating it in order to avoid the dreaded jinx (and I’m not even superstitious).
She comes back tonight–just in time for me to drop her off at the curb and zip away to get a spot in line for The Dark Knight. So that basically means I’ve had 4 days of pure bachelorhood–late nights, lots of beer drinking, walking around in my underwear, not picking up anything, so on and so forth–although I do pretty much all these things when she’s home too, just not to this degree. It was a minor victory that I managed to shave yesterday. This experience has answered the eternal question of how quick can one man trash a perfectly clean apartment when his wife leaves. The answer: approx. 2 days.
Here’s a picture book of the last 4 days for you.
Day 1: Get Drunk with a Monkey
Day 2: Underwear Party
Day 3: Drink because there’s still beer in the Fridge
Day 4: Huh?!?
This all goes to show that I, like most married men, can’t function very well without my wife.
Yesterday, Amanda and I celebrated our 1 year wedding anniversary (yep, we’re part of the 7/7/07 bunch, but does it make us seem cooler if I say we picked that date 3 years out?).
I could pour a ton of lovey-dovey, dope-high syrup on you all about my wife right now. Why this almost calls for it. But I shall resist and just share this one bit of awesomeness about my wife.
She loves MSNBC’s prison-documentary show, Lockdown. Yes, she loves a show about the worst of the worst and how they fashion shivs from coffee cup lids and kick the hell out of anyone who gets up in their business.
A sudden and violet urge to nap devoured me when I arrived home this afternoon. The type of fever-inducing nap of which I awoke from 2-hours later and felt as if all my blood, guts, and muscle had slid down to my ankles when I stood up and I was dragging a 200 pound dress train behind me. I have yet to make up my mind on whether such naps are beautiful casino chips handed out by baby Jesus…or a danger not just to body and soul, but to national security. If I’m napping like this, are the terrorists winning?
Which sort of ties into exactly what was on TV the moment I came to–actually it probably doesn’t tie in whatsoever, but I’m not much for smooth transitions today. The movie: Dr. Strangelove. The scene:
I always forget how bloody brilliant George C. Scott is in this film. His facial ticks on point 5 equal pure comedic gold.
And what else! Oh yes my birthday weekend. Yes, my 27th was on Thursday and I celebrated it several nights in a row–which is sort of ironic since 27 is one of the most meaningless birthdays imaginable and I partied like a cop decked out in full riot gear thrown into a crowd of hippies, which is to say I had a good time. Good times spent with friends and loved ones. Good presents. And lots of good old-fashioned drinking. How much drinking you may ask. This much: And Tubby Boy Gooooes Down!
We scored gallons of free beer (we got the connections) at the yearly carnival that sets up camp a block from my mom’s house and terrorizes the locals for a weekend with all sorts of carny shenanigans. That’s what happens when you’re talking to pals while squatting at the end of a picnic table and sort of lose your balance. I don’t care what this pic shows. I wasn’t that drunk. Seriously. Why don’t you believe me?
It’s not that I’m the type who fears birthdays, I’m just always befuddled that I’ve actually hit the age XX when it seemed so weird and distant just a few years ago.
Oh and my annual birthday movie shall be The Incredible Hulk…b/c I love the shit out of it.
Hulk and Me, circa age 23. Oh to be young and 30 lbs. lighter again.
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