My Most Awkward Years: Musically Distilled

This is a mash-up of a bunch of songs from the 90s brought to my attention by a fellow wild child of those halcyon days—days that are just as bleak even veiled by nostalgia.


Nineties FTW (Wick-it's 90's Rock Nostalgia Overdose Mashup) by Wick-it the Instigator

If somebody with ProTools was able to similarly condense my existence spanning the years this music was made, the resulting song would entail a machine-gun staccato of crying, masturbating and taking Accutane for my acne. It would sound akin to a Joanna Newsom live album.

This summer went by quickly. I know that sentence makes me sound like a schoolteacher lamenting the return to the classroom, but I am not a schoolteacher because: a) what if anyone found this treasure trove of closet skeletons? and b) I do not like children. All of a sudden it's fall in New York and the sun is setting earlier and I am getting crankier but also reorienting myself with some direction. The blurry summer passed, a shot of methadone focus is definitely in order. Primarily, I am resolving to eliminate negativity (and sources of negativity) and only fight for and with that which fulfills me. My first thought after writing that sentence is to sell all my belongings, quit working and eat cheeseburgers and fried pickles every day until my heart explodes with joy and hypertension. Although that's one path to a greasy form of enlightenment, and Buddha is always depicted as a chubby fellah, it isn't really what I meant. I aim to seek out good people who appreciate my talents, encouraging and inspiring me, and not waste any time with or for those who do not.

Two quotes from one story by the incomparable Southern writer Barry Hannah struck a chord today:

Wretched hesitation ... is what embalms our lives, and that was what age demanded of you more and more, to get less and less life.

I've seen peers accept "less and less life" for the past ten years and it's a been a terrible thing to witness. People who used to seem so full of life are both aging toward boredom and personifying it. Their unnatural progression makes me want to quit Facebook. Ten years ago we flung ourselves toward excitement both haphazardly and erroneously without care or regard for the consequences, only a yearning for escape from suburban drudgery. I only assumed that my partners in crime would just grow older and choose wiser ways to get our fun, our "adult" kicks; instead of sneaking past our parents with a flask of whiskey we'd be vaulting past the rubes trading years of fluorescent office imprisonment for a chance at eventual freedom—retirement at 65, provided they live that long—with a freewheeling jaunt toward success without boundaries. And it hasn't happened. And as much as I'd like to think that they're the only ones who've given up, I must admit to my own struggles with "wretched hesitation."

Another:

I was desperate and would have been throbbing in shame but I was still drunk enough to ignore it and was majoring on the theme Whim of Fortune, and I believe trying to attach myself to a woman of such low estate that the two of us would destroy ourselves in spontaneous combustion at an impossible diving speed.

Now this quote is not quite as introspective as its predecessor, but knowing Hannah's life I think it's more than semi-autobiographical. He's at the pulse of a feeling I've had once or twice or ten times in the past, and evoked with the dexterity of a F-15 fighter pilot, fingers flying Mach-1 over the keyboard. As a young writer, Hunter S. Thompson typed the novels of F. Scott Fitzgerald to get the flow of his hero's writing. To get his rhythm. I only hope that typing Hannah's words can move me in similar ways.

So was that mash-up above the soundtrack to my most awkward years, or have the songs to that time in my life even been written yet? I don't know. But after surviving my first earthquake (yes, in Brooklyn) and a hurricane that shut down all public transportation in the city and called for evacuations in the same week, I biked down to Greenwood Cemetery for a few hours of wandering mental clarity.

And then I grilled cheeseburgers. Everyone deals with mortality differently.

Taunting Craigslist Missed Connections

I am no stranger to Craigslist. I have successfully negotiated the purchase of electronic equipment — not stolen — and did not die in the process. I have also found two roommates in this manner and neither killed me in my sleep (though one roommate's cousin did, I believe, want to partake in some late-night funny business with my handsome sleeping cherubic self).

Craigslist is also where I go to not find work. The job boards are criminally depressing, time-and-self-worth suckholes that bog me down in mire and shame and depression. Eyes glaze over, sexual appetite wilts, brain liquefies, body becoming a gelatinous goo of worthlessness, I am a Madam Toussaud's wax figure of myself under a McDonald's heatlamp, and if only I had a little more fry-o-lator experience, I could get that job at McDonald's.

There is one place on Craigslist, however, that does not disappoint: Missed Connections. Eyes search for daddy issues and latent low self-esteem with pinpoint accuracy, sexual appetite becomes voracious (easy prey, I'm perverted, etc.), brain is sharp, body feels muscular as everyone else seems so weak, I am AWESOME. (By comparison.) I could be president! And what a tyrant I would be!

I never respond to these posts, primarily because the sad/shy/chubby girl in question is never talking about me. And then I cry. Also, because, would you respond? Do you really want to meet up with somebody who was too scared/lame to talk to you the first time around, but now armed with their stairway wit they go on to Missed Connections to reach you? And, on top of that, not only are YOU so lame that you're reading Missed Connections, but you stumble across one and have so little in the way of social obligations that you'll respond, maybe even go on a date based on an email sent to an anonymous reply-to e-mail address?

Who cares. Check out what I found the other day:

In case you are blind and reading this on your braille computer (or it's reading it for you, I guess is probably more likely) here is the text:

when i saw you behind the mcdonalds counter on broadway..... my heart dipped into what seemed like a melting sundae. your hair color reminded me of the hot fudge as i was letting the spoon graze my sun soaked lips. everytime i see a mcdonalds commercial, i envision me sitting on your face as you yell im loving it. i wanna say it was the hot weather that made me so wet but then id be lying. as i watched you stack the cups into size order, i pictured you licking the sweat from the pores of my body. i hope you don't have your sexual education certificate because i'm about to certify the shit out of you. 

For the first time ever, I felt compelled to respond. No, I HAD to respond. First of all, who was this hussie not only swimming in my infinite pool of personal sadness (that helps me cope with the "success" of working about 8 days a month), but also peeing in it, degrading the true missed connections with the blatant mockery? Second of all, this is pretty funny, and one good turn deserves another. So I signed in to Gmail with my Tuesdays With Maury e-mail address and banged out the following letter from my phone, since my computer has been down for days: *Ahem*

I knew it was going to be a scorcher today, that's why I set my company issued visor at a lusty tilt. You've got Golden Arches, girl, and I ain't talkin' bout dat ass, though it's a stunna: Naw, I'm a foot man. And even though your tight tourist figure came struttin' up to the counter wearing some crusty Rainbow flip flops, I knew dem feet was the apple pie to my value meal. You know how they invented that spoon that also makes the McFlurry? The same magic put me on this earth to caress those toes of yours. I'm gonna dip em in all the sauces, even mixtures you haven't even fathomed. You're the one who's gonna get an education.

You saw me stack those cups, huh? You see how gentle I was with the supersize? Yeah, you gotta finesse the big ones in.

Also, just looked at the e-mail to get the text of the letter. Realized that I must have registered that "anonymous" Maury account under my real name.

I stand by my words.

Sadly, however, it is I that missed the connection. I haven't heard back from my lusty wench of both McDonald's and cyberspace. Here I thought I was gonna have this like Sleepless in Seattle (or You've Got Mail? I didn't see either) Tom Hanks–Meg Ryan fake internet romance based on the most important factors in any relationship: Humor, Sarcasm, Sex and Junk Food.

And I still kinda need a job.

Coming Soon... more gloom

THIS IS TOP SECRET! MORE INFO COMING SOON! (maybe even as soon as tomorrow, as long as I don't get too drunk bowling Sunday and can actually function, which, judging by the people I am going bowling with, isn't likely to happen. So maybe Tuesday. Or Monday, depending on the hangover. Who cares? No one...)

TEASER MILEY CYRUS NIP SLIP PHOTO:

this is the extent of my abilities as a human being/adult — well, this and tying nooses, which i will be doing now for myself, after i get a slice of peperoni/sausage/homemade mozz from Italy Pizza, the best slice within 20 blocks of here, and then maybe take a nap. but then: much-deserved suicide.

I've already said too much (haven't said enough / that's me in the corner, crying alone to michael stipe lyrics)

Fat And Bloated, Mainly Around The Chin + Homeless V-Day Card

The other night's observance of a "holiday" was just an excuse to cram unhealthy food down my throat like Chris Farley before he chose the ultimate diet: drug overdose. (I'm lookin' at you, Al Roker; you're still fat and Farley's like a skeleton these days.) I took my love of dairy products to a previously unseen level and bought an embarrassing amount of cheese for myself and 4 other lonelyhearts. I made steaks. I drank red wine. Vegetables were present as a healthy option. I stayed up too late discussing sluttiness, intelligence and drinking. I ate far too much and got a gut-bubbling five hours of "sleep," which basically meant closing my eyes, clenching my cheeks and praying I wouldn't shit the bed. That being said, it was fun; but I didn't get what I asked for from any lady suitors, which was this:

thanks for all your support

Since I don't feel like I've got much to say, I thought I'd unload some pictures from my phone that have a lot of relevance when it comes to love, and by that I mean hanging out at bars and pet shopping.

klonapins are red, xanax is white, help me fill in the blanks, what happened last night?

SO TRUE!

my cat can't feel anything when i wear them

The one thing this week has provided is nice weather, which is conducive to photographing the homeless. I've got card number two in my ongoing series of Homeless Trading Cards (TM), and he is the ever elusive "Schlumpy". It's rare to capture him in his natural habitat, leaning against a payphone by the subway and covertly eating a sleeve of Mentos.

he's either an infant or 80, i have no idea

So enjoy this heartthrob above as a late Valentine's Day present to all (one) of you.

Tiny Twin: Kinda Sounds Like a Dickens Character With a Speech Impediment

I was just looking at the "stats" section of this blog that tracks who reads this embarrassment of mine. Basically, it tells me your Social Security number and how much porn you watch daily (it hovers around maximum security prisoner levels), which is just barely more than me, but you probably cry during the act just slightly less than I do. (Thanks Southern religious upbringing!) While it doesn't actually tell me about how you are just like James Franco (he's everywhere), it does tell me what search terms in Google currently bring up my blog. "Pooping With The Door Open" was an obvious one, but my favorite was "Are Lionhead Rabbits Insane?". My boring blog is result number six in Google, which has me proudly telling girls about my "huge Web presence."

My newfound confidence is all thanks to my tiny twin, a dwarf lionhead rabbit named Martina Van Buren. She is insane, at least a little bit, but she also lets me degrade her in photographs and is pretty fun to have around. I haven't had a pet of my own since I was in high school, when I rocked a 20-gallon fish tank and was convinced I would become a marine biologist solely based upon the idea of living in a warm ocean environment, eating seafood, scuba diving, riding in boats, stumbling upon swimsuit photoshoots and not upon the reality of having to pass college-level science and math courses (which, like most things, I suck at). My family dog died about an hour before I landed in Atlanta this past Christmas, and I didn't get to see her because my flight was delayed two hours on the runway because they "had problems getting one of the engines to start." (also the tagline for my other website, MaleSexualDysfunction.com) Since the engine eventually did start and I didn't die that night, too, I'm currently drafting up a lawsuit about how Delta killed my dog. But until I'm a hundred-aire from the punitive damages, I have found companionship from this little monster:

what the hell?

she looks kind of like Nicholas Cage here

These two photos are the rabbit bad cop good cop routine: In the first, she stares you down with a steely gaze and malignant non-verbal threats; in the second, she's going to cuddle the confession out of you.

Martina is chill, she's litterbox trained (already) and she sat on my shoulder the other night while I was wrapped in my Snuggie drinking bourbon and watched back to back Jack Nicholson movies, "Easy Rider" and "The Last Detail", without bitching at me once, something no other girl has ever done.

P.S. If you want to play an '80s-style video game to learn proper condom use, go here. And by "proper condom use", I mean the goal is to catch three falling hearts and hit the space bar to shoot a condom bubble onto people at the club, which is a pretty accurate description of all my past condom use.

P.P.S. I was feeling totally uncreative today but when I decided to just sit down and write something a bunch of good ideas came to me (none of which are documented here). It proves that if you sit down and decide to just work no matter how you're feeling, you can get something done. Read "The War of Art" by Steven Pressfield. Everyone. NOW.