Wednesday, March 23, 2011

So, apparently, I'm calling out to the invisible masses.

Hello? Anybody out there?

Didn't think so, but that's all right.

Someday this will transition from the blog of a practicing alcoholic to a blog of a recovering alcoholic.

Trouble is, I don't know the time-frame of the transition from one to the other.

Nobody does.

I am effected with intoxication. . .

Nobody's listening, so why should I be shy?

I have these sparks of brilliance (at least in my own mind), but when I try to transcribe them, they are gone.

Trust me, my musings are frickin' gold, but whunce I commit to the keyboard, the ideas are all gone.

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I might someday upgrade this blog to include the occasional picture, but don't hold your breath. It'd be like waitin' for Nurse Ratched to begin distributing the medication based on actual need as opposed to what "The Machine" demands.

-just sayin.

We all think that we're the shit

Ya know, I ain't studied the great philosophers (at least I can spell it) or the great authors, but I do get the feeling that, no matter what the circumstance, there are always persons who have a different way at looking at the world around them. Whether they are born aristocrats, blue collar drones or simply slaves; in every group there are those who have an understanding above and beyond those around them.

Next pages

so I sit down. the overstuffed chair has had its best days. matters not. better than sitting on the milk crate on the kitchen floor. the chair is in front of the counter by the sink. my old Remington typer-writer stands at attention, ready to transcribe my next thoughts. fuuuuuckkkk. who am I kidding? Where is Little Jack Horton when you need him?

Dirty Old Men . . . where do they come from?

Can't say fer'sure, but I s'pect they been with us through all eternity. Dirty Old Men is what comes out of dirty-middle-aged-men. I'm fairly certain that there's a few back in my lineage what would bear this out.

Dissected on the Razor's edge . . .

. . . of knowing what to say or how to say it. Melvin Kaminsky had it right when he had Mongo (Alex Karas) repeat the line: "Mongo only pawn in game of life." Of course, he also commented that "I'm Tired" was the dirtiest song he ever wrote. As of today, he is still alive, but I'm sure he's coming to grips with the reality which we all must face. God (if you b'leve) bless you, Mel Brooks.

And so, yeah. I work with this guy, name of Aleksander Karas, goes by the name of "Sander". Works in a similar group as me. I'm good with it all. One day I mention that I see a similarity twixt his name and Alex Karas/Mongo's name. He lays it on me that that was his uncle. Fuck me. Gives the phrase, "Candygram for Mongo" a whole new meaning; especially when Sander is pitching flammable particulate matter into the campfire.

Just sayin'

Brilliance Eclipsed

So, I have all these huge ideas.
NO!, I say . . . these are really big.
I mean, This is great shit.

After the first entry, I can't remember a thing.

Sound familiar?

-Damn

ps I should take notes during my moments of inspiration.

pps you just wait.

ppps I could been someone . . . I coulda been a contender.

Ah fuck