Everyone i know is drinking or drunk...

Lies. Everyone I know is at work right now. And i'm 3 hours from the city that holds my heart. And my propensity to filter absolute trite bullshit.

Why do we love the crushing population of new York? Why do we adore walking into bars where nobody knows our names? The cheers of this world is niagra bar in the east village. 100% accessible by drunk with a photo booth to capture the revelr and a different bartender every night so you don't have anyone keeping tabs on you.

I'm too old for this. I want the girl I miss to be the girl i'm with.

I want the beer cooler to fill itself. I want to nap and wake up younger. How long does it take to grow happy? I'm beginning to think it takes a quadratic and a regression and nothing will ever be perfect.

My line of best fit will be made out of microns and cinnamon and Ralph Lauren polo sport. And it'll be awesome. I'll figure it out when I sober up. Oh how blogging is far more interesting when I can blog remotely. Drunk. On fire island. While the rest of the suits toil away in the concrete cubicles.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Done and done.

I just figured out...

How to post via email via blackberry from loft bed. Amazing. Coming soon to a blog near you: posting via txt via blackberry from said loft bed.

Other things I thought about tonight: without an idiot president, politics are so purely about political things... This is mildly upsetting because it's hard to stay truly informed these days when you actually have to make an effort to know more than the president.

Also: I think gay sex is the only thing humans do entirely without an underlying "survival"/prepare for the apocalypse driver... Selfish bastards. And yet, how evolved!

Things that may or may not have led me to these musings: discovering remote blogging, dwelling on the evolution of my blog, deciding it may have regressed, wondering how Bristol's baby is faring in the wilds of Alaska, lions (i'm a geo-tard), tabby kittens, cute biracial babies, obama, biracial adults, gay sex.

Huh.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Corn rows and graduation caps... gun shot means go.

This weekend was...  momentous.   For starters, my childhood best friend managed to accomplish something I've only seen infrequently and usually by people without the slightest bit of infused personability (I can say this because my close friends are still going through it and the 1, maybe, that's already done is definitely not reading my blog right now).  She graduated from medical school.  She's officially in charge of all sorts of life-like things.  Namely:  people.  

As momentous as this was for her and her family, and, well, me and my family by proxy of love, it's generally a momentous occasion not because of the technicalities, but because her journey through the technicalities displays a degree of dedication that blows me away.

My childhood cohort has wanted this since forever.  She wanted to be an emergency medicine doctor, potentially specializing in pediatrics, and now I'm in a position to actually consider moving to her city to have children so when they break things they'll be fine.  

I guess I'm still in a bit of shock that I've watched this girl hold on to her dreams through all sorts of adversity and yet I'm stumbling to be able to even express how important it is to me that she made it.  She is a testament to will power and fortitude and kindness and sacrifice and all those things whose absence make your dreams seem unattainable and far far far away.  

At the same time, I have to wonder how much of this feeling of awe rests in the fact that she's unequivocally committed now.  Like.  Committed.  Like, she's doing a residency in Boston in emergency medicine and she has the debt to prove it.  She's starting something that she'll be doing for a long long long long time.  (Hopefully long enough to treat my aforementioned accident-prone children.)  She is and will forever be a doctor.  As of 2pm yesterday it was official and it will be official until the day she can't tap out a script for her infirmed long-time friends who, at 80 something years old, just want to drift off into oblivion - legally.  

This woman started something when she was a CHILD, made it through the process without veering in any appreciable direction that would compromise the vector of her mission, and then flat out committed to a lifetime of emergencies.  Empirical proof that the picking of a direction isn't an epilleptic event or that committing to a profession doesn't have to be at the goading of a hand grenade...  I would call and ask her how she's holding up today (in the aftermath of this momentous committment), but I'm afraid she'll still be that effusive, brilliant, committed, driven, focused woman I was drunk with on Saturday.  And then what?  

Then what excuses will I have?  

Let's just say I'm stalking my career right now.  And someday soon I'll pounce and slay my chosen vegetable patch with gusto and I'll bring the bits and pieces up to Boston for emergency medical attention and I'll tell my ER doctor just how much of an inspiration she's been in my life.  This doctor, who as a girl of 12 once asked her priest if I was going to Hell for not believing in God.  He said yes.  I'm pretty sure she stuck around all these years to convince me that there is a God so that I don't go to hell.  (She's really that great, she'd totally do it.)  But it backfired.  1) Now I'm toying with the idea of starting a new religion convincing the world that SHE'S a God and 2) I thoroughly believe her priest was merely a stout, omniscient vegetarian.

Facebook is the new wink.

A:  "So should I ask out that girl from Proposition?"

Me:  "YES!  Do it!!"

A:  "Just txt her?"

Me:  "Wait, are you FB friends yet?  You should be FB friends for a few days before you switch to txting."

A:  "Yeah.  I put a msg in the friend request.  She wrote on my wall.  I wrote on her wall."

Me:  "Ok, that's fine then.  Switch to txt."

A:  "But I don't even know if I'm going to Eden on Wednesday."

Me:  "Okayy... ask her if she wants to go to Cubby on Thursday.  Or back to Prop on Friday?"

A:  "If I ask her out it won't be to a lesbian bar."

Me:  "So this is a hang-out, not an ask-out."

A:  "I'll ask her out to dinner or something."

Me:  "You really are the boy."

A:  "Yeah yeah, help me.  What should I txt her?  When?"

Me:  "You realize this is turning into my next blog, right?"

A:  "Yes."

Me:  "Ok, then txt her now and ask if she's 'around' on Thursday and wants to grab dinner at the place across from Cubbyhole.  This way if it turns platonic, you've got a backup plan."

A:  "I mean, she made out with me and asked for my number.  I hope she knows it's a date."

Me:  "I might have actual work to do.  If you can't hit a beach ball with a canoe paddle from 3 feet away, I can't help you."

Excuse me sir, do you believe in jesus?

For lunch today, I tripped out to my chiropractor for some bone-cracking, muscle probing fun.  Her dedication to distract me as her thumbs gauged my erector spinae and internal/external abdominal obliques was admirable.  If not useless.  Because DAMN, woman, fuck if I'm coming back next week!!!!

On the way home I was stopped by a dapper gent in a navy suit with a pink striped shirt.  A short guy with a fade and some shadow-stubble around his jawline.  I assumed he was gay and he looked lost.  So when he indicated that he had a question for me I quickly oriented myself to my geography and was prepared to point out an avenue, a neighborhood, a subway entrance or the nearest Starbucks.  

Alas.  He stumbled through an as yet unrehearsed preamble about his organization and a survey of sorts and then he went in for the kill, "Do you know of the bible?  Do you believe in the bible?"

I wanted to say yes to the first and no to the second but then I, too, was afflicted by a case of the stumbles - he tricked me!!!  Pseudo-gay bastard was converting from WITHIN!!!   So before I could defend myself I got a follow-up, "Do you believe in the biblical mother?  The heavenly female form?"  

Heh. 

What an easy way out.  

Sucker.    

Yes.  No.  No.  Yes.  *insert walking away thinking about the beauty of pallindromes*

Death by Taxes

I woke up this morning to a few really great bits of communication.  The first one was a txt from a girl I've been chasing for months:  "I'm sorry, I was out of line, I'm really busy today but let's talk later."  Dun Dun Dun...   The second one was from my tax-people.  They sent me an email about "tips for surviving unemployment"...  

What?!?              ...                        They think I'm unemployed?  

Now, a speed bump in the road of a relationship seems like a standard growing pain but my tax people think I'm unemployed??!?  

Let me reiterate.  

The people who do my taxes have no idea that I get paid.  By anyone.  And I'm not really sure how to feel about that.  A little sad, a little ignored, a little unimportant...  Like my $29 per return isn't an admirable fraction of their business - And I worked in 5 states last year!!   ...  Frankly, I'm disappointed that such a bright, personable, intimate company with the friendliest virtual support desk has no idea who I am and/or has mis-fired their segmentation emails so egregiously that I feel alienated and insignificant.   oh H&R block, how could you?!

But I guess it's a good thing I have selective reading.  Because if one of these bits of communication had come without the other, I'd have either totally missed the absurdity of the second as I'd typically ignore H&R block for another 8 months anyway (seasonal affection disorder), or I'd have nothing with which to deflect the seriousness of the first.  Which is, after all, the point of this blog.  Deflecting seriousness with objectivity and befuddlement.  

I mean...  Really?  Don't you know me?  Don't you know how much this hurts??  How personally I'm going to take this?!                  You did my TAXES!!!!!