Monday, September 01, 2003

The weekend is going by fast, yet there is another day in store for lazy asses such as myself. Yesterday I woke up early and to my great delight had nothing to do all day, so I listened to the incredible musical skills of Miles Davis and Duke Ellington until about 3. There seemed to be nothing to do, so I called my chap Ryan, hoping that his demented sense of humor would bring me out of my jazz trance. Ryan and I talked for a while and he soon invited Matthew and I over to his house. I went there with the extreme ambition of a rookie male exotic dancer.

I entered Ryan's household, and heard the unmistakable coarse, crackling voice of Brian Johnson, and the unnerving, shrieking voice of Ryan's to accompany it. Ryan and I sat in his computer room and listened to music, and he showed me his keen sense of Mexican heritage by playing mariachi guitar like a fucking banshee. Soon a car rolled up into the driveway, and a figure leapt out and crept toward the door. Who could this strange figure be? It was none other than Rick James, or as we called him, "Matt Faulkner". We all three sat in the computer and played with the guitar and talked about music and such, and soon we became bored, so we went upstairs to begin watching Orson Welles' masterpeice and possibly the greatest movie of all time, Citizen Kane. This film failed to keep the attention of us three testerone filled, meat- eating, bloodthirsty young men, so we decided instead of continuing the viewing, to proceed in playing catch outside.

Later, when we realized that playing catch requires energy, we went back inside, got some pizza, and watched Raging Bull. It was an experience all of its own, watching Scorsese's masterpeice, and then pausing it periodically to bitch to each other about how unfair it is that we haven't gotten laid yet. The movie soon ended, and this meant it was time to return once again to the computer room, make fun of people over the internet, and engage in things that have little or no signifigance. Ryan was talking to Cara and Elly and whoever else, so I became bored, and felt I needed to express myself on paper. Images filled my mind, and I drew them all including Cher with her lower half as a kangaroo, and a Fred Astaire lollipop. Ryan and Matt soon joined me in midnight Renaissance by drawing such things as a fictional cartoon character named Black Magic The Dolphin, and Peter Colombatto chewing his hand off. This was all so grand and we all felt energized, so we returned downstairs to watch Mean Streets, but about five minutes into it Matt was out cold and had an erection. The night was coming to a close so we went upstairs to delve into the world of slumber. A burst of creativeness came to us when we were on the edge of sleep, so we ended up making up fictional biography titles like, Courtney Sheehan: The Link Between Homosapiens and Monguloids. It was a great way to end the night.

We awoke the next morning at 10 and I was soon picked up by Ben and taken home. There was an expedition planned for the day: Ben, the kids, and I would go to down to my Grandma and Grandpa's house in Bosnia-Ville, also known as South County. There, we would take up the project of power washing their house. Ben and I went right to work, and to my great delight, the job was more satisfying than beating Matt Dalton with a lead pipe. Ben and I would switch off between using the power washer gun, and scrubbing the siding with a giant brush, but my heart was with the gun. It gave me a sense of power, and authority. The gun was long like a flame thrower, and it would spray water out like napalm, so I felt as if suddenly was in 1969 Saigon roasting the enemy like Robert De Niro in The Deer Hunter. In reality I was just spraying the side of a house with a high pressure water gun, and after realizing this, I felt like a jerk off.

Ben and I soon finished our work and we went inside to get a drink. The reward for all my hard work was the key to my grandma Nada's CD collection. It was beautiful, Sinatra, James, Miller, Goodman, all the great jazz and swing musicians. I borrowed 5 albums and made off like a bandit, and we soon left soon their house and headed back home.

Back at home, I felt tired, restless, and shitty, but it was nothing some Sinatra couldn't fix right up. What a great guy he was, I mean all the booze, all the hookers, all the money, and the great voice. Can entertainment get any better than Frank Sinatra? Not Quite. I sat my ass at the computer desk for a few hours and Ryan soon called me and updated me with the woman in his life, and after that I was tired and bored. There was, however, a beautiful light at the end of this blurry tunnel I was in, and it was Lauren Svoboda. We had a deep conversation about all the shit in our lives, and I think we both felt much better by the end of it. Thank you Lauren.

It is 11:30 p.m. as I finish this post, and I am one tired mother fucker. I have to wake up in about 2 and 1/2 hours to go up to the property in Hannible and dove hunt. Killing helpless birds should be a great way to let out all my anxiety. Goodnight.

I didn't learn much in the past couple of days, but I do have an inspiring quote...
"At least eagles fuck in mid-air."
-Ryan McDonough

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