Memoirs Of An Evil Genius

We Don't Want YOUR Fries With That, Bitch!

So today is my birthday.  No, no -- don't get up!  I appreciate it, but really the applause is unnecessary.  I am OLD today, though.  OLD.  Well, old-er.  Old enough that if I were a famous actor I would start getting parts like "Single Father" and shit.  Well, maybe not me.  I would get parts like "Single Mother's Gay Best Friend", and I'd just be the catty, dishy guy who works with her at her interior design firm, and I'd be featured in the expository scenes where she's gushing on and on about the guy she met through her friend, and he's soooo beautiful (and he'd be played by Ashton Kutcher or some other such predictably affable comedian), and then I'd have to sigh and say shit like, "Oh, Susan (Drew Barrymore NO DOUBT,) you are so lucky!" and I'd have to act like I hate her for being so lucky, but really I'm so happy because she's my bestest friend and I know how broken up she's been since her husband died in that freak accident two years before.  And then there'd be a series of miscommunications between her and Ashton and she'd think he was a deadbeat, or a gigolo, or a con man, or something like that, and I'd be featured in a series of split-screen phone conversations where I'm in a bubble bath or something equally fey until FINALLY all is settled in the end and the young lovers waltz off into the sunset and everyone wonders, "HEY?  WHAT ABOUT THE GAY BEST FRIEND?"

So last weekend, Ulrich and Argyle and I had a night on the town.  Old-school.  I mean, we got SHITFACED.  Like, we drank...and then we drank some more...and then we drank some more, and THEN we decided to go to the bar, where we drank and drank and drank, and some dude tried to pick up Argyle (but he wasn't good at it, so he and his wingmen picked up ALL of us to get to her), and then the three of us stumbled home drunkenly but happily.  This is where the DRAMA begins.

We wanted chili fries.  You cannot get chili fries at any of the fast food places in our neighborhood.  So we had to go to the grocery store and buy chili and cheese, and then walk down to McDonald's at 2:30am to get fries.  But the place is closed after, like, midnight, and we had to go through the drive-thru.  Except that we were on foot.  So picture me and Argyle standing between cars -- PATIENTLY -- waiting to get to the window.  (They wouldn't acknowledge us at the speaker, you see.)  We finally get up there and ask for two orders of fries, and the manager comes up and gets ALL IN OUR FACES and says, "We don't have time for this!"

I'm all, "Listen, I'm offering you money -- I just want two orders of fries."  And she repeats, "WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!"  For what?  Walking over to the heat lamp and picking up two things of French fries?  Because seriously, that doesn't take long.  So the three of us get into this EXTREME DEBATE at 2:30 in the morning about what exactly is going on here, until I snapped out, "I am offering you my money for your product, and you are refusing it!  You are saying you do not want my money!"  And she says (try to guess) "WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!"  And Argyle barked out something pithy and we stomped off.

But we did not stomp with our tails between our legs.  Oh no!  We marched RIGHT BACK to the apartment, got in Argyle's car, DROVE BACK TO MCDONALD'S (at 3:00am), ordered our French fries, waited in the drive-thru line, got to the window, and then Argyle leaned over and shouted, "Oh!  I'm sorry -- we forgot!  YOU DON'T WANT OUR MONEY!" and then drove off at 1780mph, all the way over to the Carl's Jr. next door so we could wait in the drive-thru for another fifteen minutes to get our fries.  FOR WHICH WE GLADLY PAID.

We had briefly considered ordering two of every item on the menu at McDonald's before driving off, but it's not like they can't get your license plate number a million times while you're waiting.

Anyway, this is why we will NEVER EAT THERE AGAIN.  And you should not either.  Don't let anyone ever tell you not to do things just on principle, because it was the most awesome fun we have ever had.

Happy Holiday$!

What's this "writing"?  It seems so new, so unfamiliar!

I kid, but not really.  It's been forever since I've updated, but it's been forever since I've done just about anything except for work.  Fortunately, my episode is in the finalization process, so MOST of the headachey parts are over.  OVER!  Of course, the qualifier "most" is "most" important here.  I've learned to stop relaxing, because at 6:30 when I'm supposed to leave I know someone will come running up, all, "OMG!  There's a thing that needs to be done RIGHT NOW for tomorrow, and if you don't do it nine million people will die!!!!" and then the 24 clock starts beeping and the screen goes to a four-way split screen, and...well, you know the drill.

But!  I am finally approaching the finish line for reals.  For REALS, for reals, because we deliver on the 21st and I go home on the 21st for the holidays, and I'm not doing any work on Christmas.  (Incidentally, I did a typo right there and said I wasn't going to do any qork on Christmas -- I'm not going to make that promise.  Frankly, I have to do a lot of qork just to get me through the holidays.)  What I WILL be doing is freezing my buns off and feeling poverty-stricken.

Oh, did I neglect to mention that I have had my car in the shop THREE TIMES since I bought it IN SEPTEMBER?  First the engine light came on and it cost ~$200 to repair.  Then the engine light came on and it cost $700 to repair.  Then, and you'll love this, the ENGINE LIGHT CAME ON -- ten days later -- and it cost $600 to repair!  And now?  Do you want to know what's happening now?  Do you?  Just listen: NOW the BRAKES are making horrific groaning noises, in manner of Shrieking Eels or similar, like they might be fixing to give up the ghost any old day.  Not comforting!  Add to these expenses the holidays -- WHICH, by the way, are taking off downhill like MY CAR WITH NO BRAKES -- and I'm practically sweating money.  I would love to stop my bank account from hemorrhaging, but it appears to be hemophiliac at this point.

Which reminds me: has everybody finished their Christmas shopping?  I HAVEN'T!  Who has time?  I bought a bunch of shit over Thanksgiving, and a bunch more over the subsequent week, but I've got more and more and more people to buy for every year.  And now that I have a "better" "job", people seem to expect more.  Apparently I can't get away with shopping at the 99¢ Store anymore.  I don't care what people say -- you never have too many ceramic hobo clown candle holders.

Anyway, I just wanted everyone to know I'm not dead.  Like my mom.  Who called me two weeks ago, and when I didn't answer called everyone I'd ever met to ask where I was and was I okay.  I was fine, by the way.  I was just drunk.  It was a Tuesday morning, after all.

(Kidding!  It was Saturday morning.)

(Kidding again!  It was Saturday afternoon.)

Dressed for Distress

So last year for Halloween I decided I wanted to go as Colonel Percy Fawcett, famed British explorer thought to have died under mysterious circumstances in the Amazon jungle in 1925.  I had this vision of me in full Great White Hunter attire, with some arrows sticking out of my back for effect.  In the end, everyone else in my party decided to go extremely low-key that year, and I wasn't about to be The Guy With The Complicated Costume.  So instead I went as Andy Warhol, and it all went over very well.

This year, I decided to revive my dead explorer idea, and employed Tex in the enterprise of rigging my arrows.  We realized that putting them in my back would actually not be a serviceable idea -- one cannot sit in the car with arrows sticking out of one's back -- so we moved them to the front.  It actually worked really well, although the harness acted like a lung tourniquet whenever I sat down, and people all responded really well.  I had this stupid mustache I made out of cotton balls and tape (hey, not everything can be all fancy and special effect-y), which made drinking difficult, but I guess we all have to make some sacrifices for fashion.

At one of the parties, we randomly ran into two women I work with.  One of them, Manda, was outfitted as Elle Driver (from Kill Bill).  She actually did a very good job, and was sexy in an understated way.  At one point in the evening, I was approached by some guy who wanted to let me know that my "girlfriend" was very sexy.

Me: Um, thanks.  But she's not my girlfriend.

Him: Not YET.

Me: ...right.  No, we're not going to go out.

Him: But you COULD.

Me: ...no, probably not, actually.

Him: But the interest is there, right?  Right?

Me: ...have you met my boyfriend?

Then he got all quiet and awkward.  Straight guys are so weird.

People Who Loathe People

So, did everybody have a good Fourth?  Mine was deliciously low-key.  When I was unemployed, every day was kind of low-key, so it was a treat that I got to take a half-day on the 3rd and have the 4th off all together.  I slept in, I read my book, made sangria, went to the movies with Ulrich (no, we did not see Transformers; yes, that does make us the ONLY people on earth who did not see Transformers), drank sangria and tried to read my book but ended up having a long discussion about Scooter Libby, made dinner with Ulrich, drank a coconut margarita while watching Alfred Hitchcock's Saboteur, and then essentially passed out.

I regret that I did not go out and watch any fireworks, because that used to be such an indispensable part of my July 4th experience, but crowds are becoming an increasingly effective deterrent for me.  With EVERYTHING.  Like, I hate going to mall and shit, or even the grocery store when it's all full of stupid people.  I'm not an agoraphobe, or anything, I just don't like all the hassle.  Someone's always bumping into you, someone is always standing where you need to stand; at the store, you always pick the shortest line that turns out to be the longest line because the guy behind the register takes for-fucking-EVER to scan that shit and put it in a bag; on the highway, you always switch lanes in a mad dash, only to come to an almost immediate stand-still while cars start shooting past you in the lane you just left.  I hate it.

I walk everywhere.  Everywhere I can, I mean.  Like, I don't walk to work, because I would die, but I walk to the store and the bank and all that.  It's relaxing (when the sun isn't out, of course), and I feel so much less aggravation and stress.  When you're in the car, it's all 'stop at the stop sign, stop at the light, shift gears, hit the brakes, shift gears again, find a parking space, what's that funny noise?, why aren't my gauges working?, that better not be the tire I just got replaced, etc.'  When you're walking, there's really none of that.  Maybe, 'what did I just step in?', but you can wash that off.

Okay, this entry went to a strange place.  Anyway, work update: today I did nothing.  They have nothing for me to do.  Tomorrow I will have actual tasks, but today I have been fucking around online, and it is AWESOME.

Better Living Through Stuff That Goes On The Fridge

It was my birthday recently.  In the days and weeks leading up to this event, I received many a phone call from my loved ones to tell me to either a) expect a gift in the mail, or b) expect a LATE gift in the mail.  My mother called me about, oh, seventy-five times -- A DAY -- to tell me that she was sending some things in a box, and did I get the box yet, and there's one thing I won't know what to do with, and it should be coming on Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday, and I should call her, and is it there yet?  So when the box finally arrived after a month of hype, I was quite excited.

I opened it to find two tiny objects in a handful of styrofoam peanuts.  The first object turned out to be a SHOE SHINE SPONGE (!) in the helpful shade of "neutral", because my mother is apparently worried about how my footwear is representing my upbringing out here on the west coast.  The second object was...well, this:

I know what you're thinking, because it's what I thought, too.  A stapler?  A book light?  Some kind of sonic paper-cutter?  Just so you know, it came with no instructions or significant markings, but it DID come with two AA batteries to be inserted a cavity in the thing's main body.  When I put them in, I fully expected something to light up.  Nothing did.  My mother's card, on which was depicted a beagle in a birthday hat, only urged me not to "pee myself" with excitement.  No help there.

I then realized that there were two pads on the thing -- one on that hinged arm on top, and one on the main body on the bottom.  They connect when you depress the arm, and the pad in the body sinks down with a kind of a PING sound.  I was flummoxed, so Ulrich took it from me and checked it out.  The first thing he did was push down on the pad, yelp, and throw it back at me, cursing about how it just burned him.

So now I know that my mother has sent me a futuristic plastic stapler that burns people.  But wait!  There's more: I realized that the back of it was magnetic.  This means it goes on the refrigerator, which means it is designed for use in the kitchen!  We used it to alternately melt, burn, and cut things until we lost interest and abandoned it.

My mother called me two days later to see if I'd gotten her gifts yet.  I told her I had and asked her, politely, just what the fuck the thing was.  Turns out it's a bag sealer.  Like, in case I'm "eating a bag of chips, but I don't want to finish it, now [I] can seal up the bag without having to use one of those clips!"  And, you know, the fact that I don't really eat chips aside, is this really a more convenient solution than a clip?  Also: my mom sent me a BAG SEALER for my BIRTHDAY.

The woman has been completely hypnotized by home shopping shows.

I Am Baby, Hear Me Roar

I have put in my bid to become Favorite Uncle, and I think I'm starting to see success.  Yesterday, Mrs. Jones brought over my nephew so I could babysit while she got a haircut, and we had the best afternoon; we sang and played airplane, we chewed on my fingers, we waited to soil ourselves until grandpa came home, and then we smiled a lot.  Then, when mommy came home, we horked all over her good coat, soiled ourselves again, and horked a second time on her leg.  So we had a busy day, and were VERY GOOD.

We are using the Royal We now, because this is what one does when encountering a baby.  One assumes part of the baby's identity into oneself, like the Borg , perhaps in an effort to leach some of inconceivable cuteness.  I mean, seriously.  If someone else drooled all over me or stomped on my crotch, I'd probably be upset about it.  Not so, with my nephew.  Who is AMAZING, by the way, and has an ENORMOUS BRAIN.

I have also been spending a fair amount of time with Pussy Galore and her fiance, the soon-to-be Mr. Galore, as well as my little brother and my dog.  It's cold as hell in my parents' basement, so the dog likes to keep me warm.  The dog also REALLY likes the baby, almost disturbingly so; everywhere I went while holding my nephew, the dog pranced around my legs, trying to jump up and get her paws on him so she could flatten the baby.  Whenever I'd sit down, she'd jump up and start licking any exposed baby skin.  I've decided it's a maternal thing, and that she's bathing him.  Rather than, you know, tasting him. 

It's been nice, though, and my mom arrived in town last night, so we'll be seeing each other soon as well.  I also got a lot of cool crap for Christmas, and will have to mail most of it back since it's largely books and other heavy things.  I'm not dragging that shit around with me.

Anyway, I hope your holidays were good, and that you all have plans for New Year's!  I'm going to invite myself to some party or other and try to class up the joint.  If I don't see you before then, have a happy (and safe) night!

My Parents Drink Great Wine

...and now, so do I.  One of the great luxuries of coming home for the holidays.  They don't COOK at all, but they LOVE to entertain, and part of that means fancy olives, breads, cheeses, and fantastic bottles of wine just LYING around -- they're like windfall apples or something.  My mom will be like, "Oh, go ahead and drink that.  Otherwise it'll just sit around collecting dust."  Like, gee, FORCE me.

I flew out on Thursday, as I mentioned on Friday, but the story didn't exactly end there.  Or START there, either, frankly.  My shuttle was FIFTY FUCKING MINUTES late picking me up, and after giving me a song and dance about how all the customers were really late coming down to the van, the guy arrived and there was ONE other person inside.  For the whole ride to the airport they chatted about how airport security is a big joke and no one's actually paying attention and that lady that put her baby through the baggage check was probably "a distraction" while the "real guys" were busy getting through unnoticed.  Then he dropped me off with a really cheerful "Have a nice holiday!"  Like I'll ever sleep again.

I sat on the plane between a very nice -- and VERY CHATTY -- elderly couple.  I don't know why they booked their seats to have one open in the middle (both the aisle and window seats were already assigned when I selected mine, so I have to assume they chose them that way), but there I was.  I would have offered to switch so they could sit together, but I was terrified they'd take me up on it and I'd be sitting by the window, about as far from the bathroom as Mars, what with all the crawling over people and stuff.

They were very nice, but eventually I got tired of the gentleman CONSTANTLY asking me about my book.  I was reading Micky Spillanes I, the Jury, which was published in 1948, and he remembered it.  I would get a couple pages in and then, "What do you think so far?  Good, huh?"  Like, I DON'T KNOW.  I CAN'T SEEM TO GET INTO IT FOR SOME REASON.  Then they were talking over me and passing things back and forth, and asking me about my hometown and what I do and am I a student? and do I want to put my coat in the overhead bin? and I noticed you ordered a diet soda from the stewardess but YOU'RE SO SKINNY!  YOU DON'T NEED TO LOSE WEIGHT!  I think they put me in the middle so I couldn't escape.

No, but they were very nice.  When I landed, I checked my voice mail.  I'd had several messages from Ulrich, of course, just calling to say he was thinking of me, but nothing from my parents.  So I called them, anxious to find out who was going to be picking me up from the airport:

Mom: Boy, aren't you glad you're not flying out of Denver?

Me: Tell me about it.  I'm glad I didn't book a flight with a layover.

Mom: Well, it'll be clear by Saturday.  You know, when you're flying out.  To come home?

Me: ...I'm at the airport, Mom.  HERE.  I came home today.  Like in my email.

Mom: ...you know where the cab stand is, right?

It turns out that although I forwarded her the itinerary, I got the dates wrong in my explanatory email.  So typical of me, actually.  My only excuse is that I was racing the clock against my draining battery and typed it out before I thought about it all the way.

In the cab, I was on the phone with Ulrich explaining about this time that I tried to fly from Chicago to California to visit my sister, but the flights were delayed and I ended up having to go via Detroit, and I sat next to a child psychologist who analyzed and got me to tell her about the dream I'd had the night before, where Godzilla was attacking Chicago and I had to escape on the Orange Line (which is a shitty way to escape, to be honest), and then the cabbie started to LAUGH and LAUGH and then wouldn't stop talking about Godzilla all the way home.

So I earned my vacation.  But I'm here now, and my nephew is in the other room -- bawling his eyes out, no doubt because I'm not there -- my shopping is finished, and things are pretty great.  The holiday officially begins tomorrow (at least in my neck of the woods), so everybody keep your noses clean.

Peace.

A Bad Winter's Tale

I'm running late with this entry.  I didn't have time to write it beforehand, so I'm once again trying to cram it in before my battery dies in about, oh, seven minutes.

Argyle came down with the Swahili Death Flu on Monday night of last week.  This was bad, as you can imagine.  Things on her insides were screaming for the exit, and she was in a lot of pain and misery for a couple days.  I tried to be very sympathetic, but it's hard to adequately communicate your feelings of compassion when every other sentence out of your mouth is, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"  I'm getting on a PLANE, people.  I. CANNOT.  GET. THIS.

Cut to: Friday night, when Ulrich complains of an upset stomach.  Then gets up in the middle of the night to go regurgitate his heart.  I don't mind telling you that I did everything short of actually peeling off my top layer of skin and soaking it in an acid bath to kill off any damn germs that were anywhere near me.  I HATE THROWING UP.  I do not handle it well.  I haven't barfed once in six years, and I plan to keep that train chug-chugging along, thank you very much.  This led to a lot of conflicted hair-stroking and back-rubbing while wearing rubber gloves and a HazMat suit, and now I'm going to burn everything in the apartment like the Velveteen Rabbit, because I WILL NOT GET THIS THING.  DO YOU HEAR ME, GERMS?  IF YOU'RE COMING FOR ME, THEN BRING IT!

No, don't bring it -- I was only kidding.  I don't know what I'm saying!  I'm crazy, seriously, ignore me.

I'm leaving tomorrow for the holidays and have yet to start packing.  I'm very excited, though!  Except that I'm probably going to hang out with Pussy Galore for New Year's, and she's preggers, so I'll be drinking champagne alone, or else forcing her to risk serious birth defects so as not to make me feel guilty.  I'll decide on the plane.

Happy Holidays, y'all!

The Borscht Years of Our Lives

Ulrich and I are watching Dr. Zhivago right now. His mother made us a pot of borscht, so we decided to have an evening of Russian-themed fun and festivities. Our Russian neighbors have apparently taken it upon themselves to help us out by rounding things out with some screaming in their native tongue. Hooray. The borscht was excellent, and so far the movie is as well. The screaming? Not quite up to par.

We also spent the afternoon doing wine-tasting and buying presents! Well, I bought presents. It’s been a really expensive season this year, people. I usually start my Christmas shopping around August so that I can get it all done without bankrupting myself all at once. I have a CRAPLOAD of family. Unfortunately, I found myself unable to get all of it—or, frankly, any of it—done in advance, so I’ve been backed into a financial corner behind a mean, money-hungry eight ball that’s going to knock me over the head, steal my wallet, cut me open, steal my organs, put me in a bathtub full of ice, and use lipstick to write "YOUR KIDNEYS HAVE BEEN REMOVED—YOU HAVE THIRTY MINUTES TO CALL THE HOSPITAL OR YOU WILL DIE" on my chest.

So there’s been some fiscal strain. I’ve sort of reached that point, though, where it kind of doesn’t matter anymore. I’m so far in debt that I won’t be getting out again for a long, long time, and every cent I spend is really just a drop in the bucket. There’s some comfort in abject poverty, it turns out.

In addition to this, it was my brother Crash’s birthday on Tuesday, but he’s out of the country. I wasn’t able to call him, but I haven’t been able to e-mail him either, because our stupid internets are out! Well, "our" stupid internets. I guess I shouldn’t really imply ownership, since we’re sort of hijacking them. Anyway, I was gone all day and couldn’t, er, "borrow" anyone else’s, so I have to send that thing, like, posthaste. Shit, I’m a terrible brother.

Okay, anyway, I’m going to watch the revolution now. Y’all stay warm.

Von Trapped

I'm not doing so well.  I've been trying for the last fifteen minutes to come up with the proper opening for this entry, but I guess it's time for full disclosure: I was cooking this huge dinner tonight (story to follow) and poured myself a martini while I was at it.  I haven't seen the brighter side of sober ever since.  I didn't used to be such a lightweight, y'all!  What happened to my iron constitution of yore?  Hell, what happened to my chapstick?  I can't FIND that shit!  I'm trying to PACK, people!  I have a VACATION to go on!

Okay, maybe calling it a "vacation" is a little forgiving, considering all the unemployment and everything, but I DO have a trip to take, and I DO leave tomorrow morning.  My grandmother's birthday is shortly after Thanksgiving, so we're all planning some kind of party.  And by "some kind of party", I do not mean the EXCITING kind.  No guests or fun party drinks or anything -- no, it'll pretty much be just us, doing our regular family crap.  Of course, this still entails singalongs and accompanied performances.  I'm not kidding -- my childhood was just this side of having an ex-nun governess and running from the Nazis.

Not that I'm complaining.  My Very Brady upbringing was a lot of fun.  And I say all this by way of reporting to you that in two days' time, it will finally be Thanksgiving again!  I'm heading back to where to the temperatures are low, but all is compensated for by Warm Baby.  Warm Baby makes everything better.  For reals.  And since Pussy Galore is on her way to Warm Baby #2, and having her baby shower on Saturday, it's going to be a Very Baby Weekend for me.  Oh dear.  That pun was lame even for me.

But I guess it's time to take stock of life.  That's what I do, prior to the holidays.  So, let us pontificate on the importance of stuff, and whatever, and...oh, fuck it.  I'm going to spend the weekend fifth-wheeling around married couples and children.  When I went home in September, I got lectured for an irreverent T-shirt I happened to be wearing.  I am TWENTY-FUCKING-EIGHT YEARS OLD.  I can WEAR an irreverent T-shirt if I FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT.

Anyway.  Argyle unfortunately has no plans for T-Day, and I felt badly about that, so I made her a dinner.  It wasn't all from scratch, but almost everything had at least a "scratch" element to it -- I made her some turkey breast (I wasn't about to roast an entire turkey just for one person), sweet vermouth gravy, apple dressing, mashed potatoes, maple sweet potatoes, and I bought her a pumpkin pie.  She made her grandmother's cranberry sauce, and I'm here to testify that it is AMAZING.  So I think she'll have a happy holiday.

And despite all my kvetching, I know I'm going to have a happy holiday myself.  Here's hoping there's one in store for you guys -- HAPPY THANKSGIVING!