Saturday, March 28, 2009

RIP old friend

Whatever soulless Chinese conglomerate that makes Johnnsons Baby Shampoo is a liar. Their "no more tears formula" did make me cry. Now that it's gone.

It is a sad day in the desert my friend, a sad, sad day. The 3.5 oz. bottle of sweet golden hair nectar that I purchased on my first day in Bend and made reference to in an earlier post (Note: citations needed) so long ago has run out. I stood witness to its passing.

Since this was an unexpected loss (I had come to believe the tiny bottle to be an endless well of liquified Johnnsons, whoever they are - sans tears of course) and money is tight at the broment, mostly due to all of my friends being worse liars than the godless chinamen, and not helping me with my plane ticket last weekend, I had not budgeted for such extravagances as hygene products. I do not anticipate being able to work it into next months budget either, leaving me both a cleanliness predicament, and an open time slot in my morning routine historically reserved for shampooing, rinsing, and repeating as necessary. Note: very rarely necessary.

Fear not America, being the modern gentleman that I am, I was able to adapt accordingly. To fill the time slot, I resolve to scratch heartily around my nether region for a period of no less than 3 minutes each morning. As for the hair, I shaved it all off.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

The next time you happen to be in an international airport, sit for a time. People watch. You'll be surprised who you find. The ghetto woman. The post-ghetto woman. The burnt out groupie. The burnt out groupie's burnt out son. The amusingly small indian man. The asian clan. The obese single woman on a business trip. The obese single woman on a vacation. The obese married woman and her obese family (except the husband, who in this case is almost always painfully skinny) (Does she eat all the treats? Or does he have a crippling meth addiction?) Father time. Note: He is the one with the huge beard. The hippie. Note: medium beard. The post-hippie. Note: medium beard/receding hairline. The really hot black girl. Who knows I'm looking at her. She'll get over it.

I know you're curious, America. With your puzzled frown and your third degree. You're thinking, now what is that Max Tyson up to? Note: Preceding statement, while completely mental, is still expressed with an english accent. Why? I don't know, it's your mind.

But the story. I can help. I can tell you my newest tale. We could go there, you and I. I bet you would like that. Oh it's so close. You can almost taste it, you know, with your nose. Here it is: I am the one in the Charlotte, North Carolina airport. C- terminal. Gate 4. I'm waiting to board my flight to Hartford/Springfield/Windsor Locks (Why is windsor locks always included in this list for Bradley intl.? Why?) Last week, I received a summons from Domino and the Bro's to roll back to CT to party it up. My presence was requested. I could not dissappoint. Using all my formidable powers of persuasion, I was able to get Saturday and Tuesday off from work at Harley. As for my shifts sunday and monday at the climbing gym, well, I just won't be showing up. With the last of my moneys, including but not limited to next months rent, car payments, insurance, child support, gambling fund, treats fund, motorcycle fund, and bribery fund I bought an hugely overpirced plane ticket, and after work last night began my quest. So here I be. A little tired. A little ragged. A little sore. And probably a little creepy to hot black chick who is just now switching to a different seat. I'm on my way to the CT.

I can't believe she didn't get over it.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

It puts the lotion on the skin

I'm toeing the line of financial ruination. Using the last of my money bits I bought a plane ticket to Connecticut instead of paying next months rent and car payments and insurance and child support. I'm hoping that upon my arrival my friends will be so overcome with happiness at my triumphant return to be with them that they will donate generously to the Max fund to tide me over on my bills until I receive another paycheck.

Knowing them, they'll probably just stand by and laugh as I shame spiral to the poor house. Well guess what you bastards, if i'm going down i'm bringing you with me, and I'll get Falcone, you know he's got all those chemicals and shit, he can do long term damage.

But now for the IMPORTANT NEWS (Newsnewsnewsnewsnewsnews....)
Blockbusterrrrr, in townnnnnn, is selling used DVDs for 2 dollars each! I went craaaaAAAAAaaazy!

I bought 4.

Friday, March 13, 2009

It appears the yard wolves have grown up.

Are we finally finished with the cold dead winters?

1. No. The cold dead winters continue, even though it was in the 50's today and while I was out in the parking lot at Harley uncrating some new bikes I was sporting a tshirt and a raging mega-huge boner for the warm weather.

Since today was the first day a lot of people took their bikes out since last season, we had a huge amount of whiny assholes clogging up the shop demanding we fix all the broken bits and pieces their bikes accumulated over a winter of heavy abuse and improper winterization. It would appear that they all stored their bikes at the same facility, I imagine someplace like "crazy eddies econobox storage shack" whos motto as you well know is "we break your shit." Either way, I got a ten dollar tip for washing some dudes bike. Bonus. ( I spent it already, I splurged and ate dinner today)

2. We don't really have yard wolves, just a yard Hank, and a massive herd of wild mule deer, who enjoy tapping my window with their slimy deer snouts and nibbling all of our carefully cultivated vegetation. (we don't cultivate shit) Most of the deer look pretty juvenile, although they are all fat and healthy and lustrously pelted. I guess the suburban life agrees with them. Who knew. There is one good sized buck, and a big old methusela grandma doe who has a pronounced limp, but no visibly broken bones, so maybe she's just got the ancient deer arthritis. Yesterday Nick and I were watching the yard deer wander around and do yard deer things, and gesturing to the slow old biddie he proclaimed his desire to sneak attack her and kill her with his teeth. Which is of course the very same thing I was thinking at that moment.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

HUGE PARTY AT TREVORS

Supposedly. Drew insisted. Of course when we got there, there was nobody there except Trevor, who was sitting in his bedroom in his underwear. I wasn't upset. Far from it. The journey had always been more important than the destination for me. Mostly because we had fueled up for our trip with various cheap whiskeys and then hit the road, not in minitruck II, but astride hilarity mobiles, I.e. super sweet cruiser bicycles. Which were incredibly comfortable going to Trevor's since this journey is 96 percent downhill. Coming back was a much more...invigorating affair. Partly because it was freezing outside. Partly because we had more whiskey. Partly because I was attacked by two Geese. Partly because my bike has no lights and it was the middle of the night. Mostly because the uphill trip nearly gave me an anuerysm.

Either way, I had fun. It was a welcome departure from my newly full schedule, which has me working every day and going to bed before eleven almost every night. Such is life.

If I am able to save some cash money with my new hours, I hope to both save some for my eventual return to Bropalace at castle broburg, back in Bro-adise, ie the huge house we might rent back in CT, and I also want to start a motorcycle side project, ideally an old 1970s honda cruiser turned into a custom stripped cafe racer. That is the thing I wish to do.

Friday, March 6, 2009

no title

Big Mac hamburgers are 2 for 3 dollars the retail girls call me the "cabana boy" I drove a forklift into the garage door I got to ride a buell 1125r my elbow hurts real bad I'm teaching Drew some guitar talk about the blind leading the blind I found a pass to Mt. Bachelor progress is slow on nerd novel my left eyeball itches

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Farewell Fortress of Solitude

I did it. I moved into town. No longer will I be able to accurately call myself a desert hermit, as I am now a townie in all respects. My new house has a fenced in back yard with a shed and a trampoline and a dog. The dog's name is Hank, and he has an interesting hobby of forcefully collecting blankets and rugs from around the house, which he then hoards jealously in what can only be called a harem, as he is seldom seen trotting from room to room without one clamped victoriously in his jaws, which he will periodically stop and hump enthusiastically. As I was moving myself in today he sauntered into my room, undoubtably in search of new girlfriends of the quilted variety, and disappointed with my available selection of threadbare rags he began circling my legs with one of his current flings clamped securely in his teeth and trailing behind him, where it wrapped around my ankles in a constrictive entanglement, as if he were threatening me to do better next time with my choice of thread-count and overall blanket humpability.
My new room is hilarious, having obviously been the lair of the previous owner's son before they moved out, as it has a flannel patterned wall paper and cowboy themed border. I think I will keep it up, as it will undoubtably throw any lucky young lady I happen to bring home into a lusty abandon. At the moment my furniture consists of a metal shelf in the closet and a standing floor lamp which might work if it had lightbulbs. Tomorrow I hope to add a bed or other slumber device alongside a small dresser in which my underwears and other unmentionables may reside.
At the moment I am virtually alone in the house, as my two new roomates Drew and Nick were asleep by 8:30pm. I did not anticipate that.
Nor did I anticipate the fact that the house does not have cable TV. Surely it is the only house in America to actually have had to act upon the plethora of commercials warning viewers of the switch from an analog signal to all digital broadcast television, as everyone else recieved a cable or satellite subscription some time in the mid-90's. It is with a heavy heart that I bid farewell to the Sunday night line up on MTV, adult swim on cartoon network, and all the other stellar programming available on cable television. Surely I shall miss watching underdressed skanks with obscenely fake breasts competing to see who can be the first to snort a line of coke off of Brett Michaels wiener.
As I have only just begun recuperating from my marathon drive home from Jackson, Wyoming; and I have a lot to do tomorrow before climbing work at 5pm, I bid you adieu America. Especially because I begin my Harley Davidson employment tuesday morning. We shall meet again.