Archive for the 'hangover' Category

Media Dump Post

1) The guy actually is as drunk as you may think he’s not. If you watch the series you’ll realize that everyone’s a pretty big nerd and clearly doesn’t drink too often. Maybe.

2) This is a true story, except that Edison didn’t just kill little lambs and stray dogs and cats–he actually killed a misbehaving Coney Island elephantand filmed it.

A fucking elephant.

3) “This was directly opposed to capitalist society…” He clearly went to the wrong place with his technology; yet the only place he could go to continue its research.

Funny how satire gives us more news than actual news networks. Just in a different physical manifestation.

…it’s what they don’t tell you…

This has gotta be fake. He sounds like Kenan, or Kel, or whoever it was that played the invisible boy in Mystery Men. Brilliantly hilarious.

This reminds me of the other day when I was at the park doing handstands on the monkey bars and some huge big buff black guy that I’d talked to a few times came up to me and asked me (with 5 minutes of introducing respect and “now I don’t know what you believe but”-s and “I don’t want to sound like the devil and I’m sorry but”-s) “…how could one man and his family get ALL THE ANIMALS on the earth onto one boat?? How did he know how to build a huge boat? How did the lions not go eat all the other animals? How would they get a North American grizzly bear in Egypt? What about sea creatures? How did they deal with the stench??

I laughed and chuckled and said good, you’re thinking. He said his pastor would probably dismiss the comment if he’d set it in service and probably ask him after church to never return. And I said yes, because you’re thinking.

PUNCHLINE: Then french_poet came by to meet me for yoga and I told him the story. He says, “That’s what he’s questioning?! The minute details? Overlooking the whole invisible god in the sky telling some old guy to go build an arc??”

Hahahahahaha.

nuJazz is so cool because it loves its roots. Or what it makes its roots. Or just cool videos.

Samuel Beckett was an Irish guy who essentially started the absurd theater in France, along with a Romanian named Ionesco. Neither of them were French but they felt the calling to write in French–neat huh? What’s even cooler is that after, Beckett translated all his works into English from French. How cool is that? This is an AMAZING rendition of the play created by these british organisations, complete with amazing actors and a beautiful set. It’s so goddam surreal.

That’s it. See ya.

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Okay assholes, start commenting

I see my little WordPress traffic stat graph, and all I have to say to the four of you that end up reading something on the curse of the illusioned blog:

Say something to me.

Fucking anything, just respond to what I am putting on the table and you happen to munch on. I’d hate to start being like a commercial bullshit blog that prompts its readers to comment and create a community with me.

The truth is I don’t want to write if you don’t want to interact.

Actually the real truth is that I just deactivated the Facebook in order to cleanse my soul and focus on the more meaningful parts of life, like writing. So I’ll need social medium interaction in some way.

Help me out.

Drunk Tuesdays: Distraction

All he wanted to do was write; yet as we all know he couldn’t even begin once it came down to starting out. To tell a story to express what was going on in his life—be it romantic or just plain philosophical; there was always something distracting him. Be it the coldness of his fingers, the headache the cigarette brought to the cheap beer-induced state, or the fact that the new word processing software didn’t automatically double space the text for his own aesthetic pleasure, something was always able to manifest itself into a distraction.

After formatting the paragraph details to match his comfort zone, after the undeniably distracting time spent with social network communication, after deciding viral audio clips would soundtrack the night, and after the insecurity that the burning cigarette fumes would reach from the kitchen to his roommate’s room, he realized after typing a few words to document the events that what he’d decided these actions would become was that the materialization of opening the word process could be the only step he would possibly take towards what he deemed productivity.

He tried not to dwell on his romantic psychological issues that he still refused to acknowledge after the lost perfect night with the perfect lost girl that could satisfy his cravings; he still figured making the most of his Saturday night by consuming some massive amount of alcohol would take his mind off what he believed to truly be bothering him: the absence of sex in life, the absence of romance… Thus equating to the absence of purpose? For so long the coexistence of romance and the mere possibility of sex seemed to be more of a hindrance as it motivated him to change his life, to take pride in what emoted him… Until he realized he needed the sex as powerfully as he necessitated the inspiration to engage in the activities he loved.

A balance was—fuck it, I’m gonna go paint.

A Smoker’s History: Volume 3

Follow up to A Smoker’s History: Volume 2

My oldest friend (since second grade! Note to self: write about distinction of friends one day) was in town for the semester, having graduated a semester early and waiting to go to grad school. He was a smoker. He didn’t give me shit for smoking roll-ups, but once I’d run out, we (him, myself, and two others), decided to attempt to master cleanse ourselves. It was great for the week it lasted, but we were back smoking the day we were done. I normally stuck with American Spirits, all natural as they’re said to be, and he claimed he couldn’t imagine a “disgusting Camel” after that cleanse. Good, I guess.

But then the yellow American Spirits got old and boring and gross. He brings a pack of Lucky Strikes from Europe after going to see his girlfriend, and immediately I was in love.

Most smokers like Lucky Strikes (am I wrong?). There’s something about the whole toasted flavor thing that really does the trick. Not just the taste but the texture of the smoke inside your mouth, engulfing your lungs… Something about it is just delicious. Rumors said there was cardboard in the filters, thus the reasoning for their termination of sales in the States; but I’ve found no such evidence in my little bit of research–all I’ve found out was that they weren’t selling too well in the States anymore, so they took off. Granted, the cigarette’s new distributor British American Tobacco may very well have taken care of that evidence of the cardboard, but for simplicity’s sake I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. Now: imagine that smooth taste & texture of the Lucky Strike. Yum. Now imagine it after an eight month smoking career of boring, as-natural-as-it-gets tobacco– no chemicals for flavor, no preservatives to make it burn more enjoyably, nothing. This Lucky Strike was GOOD.

After that night, there was a tingling sensation in the back of my mind that while I was smoking my Spirits, I COULD be smoking cigarettes with taste… Thus a few weeks later when I began dating artist_girl, who smoked Camels, it was no surprise to me when I woke up one morning and drove hung-over to the pharmacy to buy a two-for-one-point-five pack of Camel lights. After a month of that, I switched over to a coworker’s preferred brand of Camel Turkish Golds. Delicious, almost reminding me of that night of the Lucky Strike… He said everyone up north smoked them, but down here in Southern California it may as well be Camel’s abused middle child. For the same price, too.

So that was my brand for awhile. I guess it still is, in a manner of speaking. I smoked Lucky Strikes straight and through the two months I was in Mexico, and brought two cartons back to the states (and one carton of Gauloises bleus, bad idea). I fell in love with them again and couldn’t imagine how any Mexican nor American tourist found them “too strong” and preferred Marlboros. Maybe ‘twas a marketing thing: you could only find Lucky Strikes at the Oxxos (7-11s) in any case. Sometimes it was quite a chore to go buy cigarettes as I refused to buy anything else, despite my level of intoxication.

Now here I am, puffing away on the first pack of the carton of ‘Strikes that some visitors from Mexico brought me as a gift. There were a few moments of contemplation last week, smoking a pack of American Spirits I bought for the hell of it after I found a pack outside my house and rather enjoyed it, when I thought of going back to rolling the old Spirits, getting that good old headrush like those first days. The days when it wasn’t an addiction or craving but an experience that required a little finesse from my soul to make it worth the smoke.

Finesse from the soul? The reader asks. Yes, finesse from the soul. I’m a believer in fighting that twentieth century urge to just let it be more convenient; putting some moi into it makes anything physically healthier. If the soul gets exercise, the whole being benefits. One can look at this in many different terms, but I think a universal aspect notable in many facets of life is that great feeling you get after a good exercise sesh, or after cleaning the house all day, or after cooking your dinner, or after doing your homework, or after taking care of something really important at work…

You cared about something, poured a part of you into it, and saw great results. Thus making the physical benefits, productive feelings, or nourishment that much more alive and reputable within yourself.

Case in point, it’s still smoking; but at least it works that much differently inside.

Hungover Sundays: Why?

I went through a phase/am going through a phase/stopped caring about this phase where I can’t bring myself not to drink just for one single night. I can’t explain why. Sometimes I tell myself for the creativity, sometimes I tell myself for the social aspect of it… But then under whichever category the night falls, I don’t see myself working towards the goal.

I think back to when I saw 99 Francs in France, the month I’d arrived there… I’d just taken a random train and ended up in Avignon, and saw this movie. I never thought twice about it, I was just trying to be adventurous. Now, I imagine myself taking a similar trip, and the whole time I just know I’ll be thinking about what could come out of it, why I’m taking it, what I’m hoping will come of it.  And the irony (though unrelated): the thought of buying a beer never even crossed my mind as I sipped Perrier in a dark bar that was ready to get rid of me and dance.

Can people truly be more complex than others, is that possible? We all come from the same genetic genres. Perhaps it’s just what you’re exposed to as you’re melded. Complexity, or do I just simply overanalyze everything? If life is the journey to finally understand one’s self, why do I sense that I’d be able to figure shit out a whole lot better if I were almost anyone else? I just don’t see the rationality in it. I want to write, I want to make music, I want to paint, I want to love. I want it all yet can’t succeed in one true field of expertise. How does this work? I see my figure slowly fading away from optimal bodybuilder/sexy dude to doesn’t-give-a-shit/drink-every-night dude, and I can’t figure out if I care or not. Why does Bukowski click so well with how I see myself? An alcoholic knowing he’s a writer, struggling to get his shit accomplished with who he knows he is–so complex, yet so goddamn simple! To what regard did he see himself? Was he as simple as his words?

I see myself drinking just for the sake of it (as Charlie B says, there’s nothing else to do—though I do it even if I have something else to do, and do it during), and I start to realize that it may be to dumb down my nerves, to shut my brain off a bit so I can just relax and do whatever I’m doing WITHOUT analyzing every little aspect of it.. Is curse too strong a word? I don’t want to get all Dostoevsky up in here.

That being said, I need a cigarette. Probably for the physical addiction I can’t escape, but quite possibly just because I want to get up and talk to the cutie outside the coffeeshop (sorry, to get up and look and think about talking to the cutie outside the coffeeshop). Hot damn.

Oh, yeah. So in my “excited about this new blog/website I’m starting” phase, I’m going to have little themed days of the week going in tune with what I write: Hungover Sundays with mornings of reflections or stories of the night before, Mixtape Mondays with new music I’ve discovered over the week (still working this one out, it may not be so frequent), Stoner Chronicles with my stories of travel & marijuana, maybe a new graphic day, and some other ones whenever I figure it out.

Damn, she left.

Hungover Sundays: 12 Bottles of Chuck Shaw

I am a hungover piece of shit. I tried. I fell back asleep. I dreamt of my little pink notebook that received text messages wherever there was open space, until there was no more room…

Then you could never receive another text message.

I have a horrible amount of homework to do.

I miss the heroin who’d actually discovered the road until morning.

I am drinking strong coffee out of a little espresso cup.

I think she misses me too.

I am creating words. On a paper that is on a screen that can print out to real paper if I wanted to spend the ten cents at the school library.

This coffee is actually quite tasty.

Alex and Alina and Fahad are supposed to come over to get their shit they left behind when they left me behind last night. I will make them clean.

I think maybe I will go print this, to prove to myself something that my subconscious is trying to tell me.

I REALLY miss her… She who found the second star to the right. She’s worth a few hundred dollars extra. She needs to take her job a little less seriously. I can’t believe what my mom said about that whole movie idea: hippy, executive: what the fuck brings two together so well?

Ah, fuck. They’re here.


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jayurbzz


Another twenty some odd young adult who believes he sees things from a unique perspective. Here be my poetry & prose, short stories, favored school papers, rantings, and "blogs." Comment, critique, and profit.