Le Tired

I am incredibly tired right now. More later. . .

Of Mice and Dishes

I HATE DOING DISHES. That is all.

A Pirate's Life for Me

I don't know much about technology. I am not one of those tech gurus that ponders the intricacies of the Helio or iPhone. I'm just not that guy.

That being said my girlfriend and author of One More Salute To Vanity is that girl.

Sometimes I feel as though I am a fraud of my generation, a neolithic throwback that has trouble checking his own damn email (not seriously, but you get the point).

The thing is that I have had this blog for the better part of a year now, and while I have neglected it to a fairly gargantuan degree I had always felt like a douche because I did not know how to put pictures in the blog.

As any post-modern male would do when in a bind, I asked my girlfriend. Her cutesie comments bordered on the "it's not that small" variety, but after minimal teasing we were off and a running. We celebrated over pita chips and hummus.

So, finally, almost eight months after its inception (and some good old fashioned cajoling) SPIE is going visual. Watch out internet watch dogs, I'm a cumming [sic] for you.

So, here you are ladies and gentle men, a photograph of me on one of my many exploits for the East Indica Trading Company.

Of Late Night Evenings and Inability to Sleep.

My beard itches. I watch a zombie movie. The new (ish) Dawn of the Dead. I think about how much I like the old one more. I enjoy the new one. The spin it puts on the genre of Zombie Fiction. I reminiss about "All Flesh Must Be Eaten," a zombie role playing game. I ponder the finer points of surviving the end of the world. I masturbate to free downloaded porn. My Beard still itches. My hands cramp as I type because I have been awake for so long. I can't sleep. I think about Drew. I wish I had taken a cab to her place.

I remember when things terrified me. When I couldn't watch horror films late at night. I would try, but the fear undoubtably would win. It would worm it's way under closed doors, seep through the walls, crawl under blankets and decorative afghans knitted by my desceased grandmother. The fear pervailed. I percerviered.

I started working at a video store. I rented endless hours of horror films. Zombie Movies. Cult Classics. I learned all that I could about genres and films popular to women between the ages of 16 and 35. I watched new releases two days before they hit the selves. It was called research. I would walk the floor, asking everyone questions about movies they liked, if they found everything. I felt like God. I felt like a big fucking joke in a too loose denim shirt. At least they stopped making us wear bow ties.

I think about my job now. How it tortures me to sit at a desk for eight hours. Stare at a goddamn computer screen. Stick stickers that say: If you would like to refuse delivery of the Seattle Times your account will be credited $0.25 daily or $0.75 for the Sunday edition. I put fifteen hundred stickers on key packets in an eight hour shift. I contemplate increasing productivity. I contemplate painting the walls with my brains.

I'm unhappy. I'm listless. I'm tired of MLA. I miss it. I'm unhappy and I don't know why. It's begining to get ugly, in here, alone with myself. The muck and blood are halfway up the windows now. In the back of my head I wonder if there is a rear exit. . . or if I can make one.

I masturbate while myspace loads. I watch Sasha-eighteen-HIGH three times and pop. I feel somewhat ashamed. More so than usual. I wonder where Sasha's parents were, where they are, whether they know she does what she does. I wonder where Sasha is. I wonder what would happen to my life if I joined said industry. I blog. I go smoke a cigarette.

I wince myself to sleep.

To all you non readers out there. . .

Where to start? The past year and change has been a doosy. August 26th marked two momentous occasions for Ian, The eight month anniversary of Drew and I and the year anniversary of my cousin BJ's death. Let me begin with the sad.

BJ was one of the greatest kids I have ever known. He was smart and funny, charismatic, charming, and all-around a good person. He had a great life ahead of him, and hell up until his death he had a great life. All of us in the family loved BJ. He was a shining example of what our family could produce. He wasn't a weird artist or an alchoholic, he wasn't a jerk and he never felt sorry for himself. He was stand up in every way.

On August 26th 2006 his boss was driving the two of them home in BJ's car. It was a Porsche Boxter convertible. Both of them were stone cold sober. His boss took a turn funny and rolled the car into a tree. Both died on impact.

It's been a year and the sadness of his lost still lingers. I was the person that BJ came to often for advice on girls, or if he wanted to drink a beer and hang out. I remember the first time he got drunk. We were camping out in Westport, surfing. We laid out on the beach under a huge blanket of stars and talked about girls and life. I taught him the finer points of PBR.

I remember the first time he smoked pot with his dad. It was his birthday. I set up the whole affair, and for once I felt like the person who brought family together. I usually am the one that pushes people apart. I was proud in a strange way. It reminded me of the first time I smoked with my dad. It said, in one great acrid cloud of smoke, we're family. Families should play together.

In some ways I feel a responsibility in his death. Why? I don't know. Maybe it was because I was so frank with him; that there were times where I was a bad influence. But isn't that what you do as the older cousin? Show the kids what's bullshit and what isn't? But I can't shake the guilt. Even thought there was nothing I could have done, that in no way to I even share responsibility for his death I still feel it's weight on my shoulders every day. I love you BJ and miss you dreadfully.

And now onto the Good. Drew. Where can I begin? You spend your life jumping from one meaningless fling, one night stand, relationship, date, to another and think that you will be destined to never be more to anyone than a great fuck, and then the most amazing woman drops in your lap.

Drew is everything I need. She is smart and funny, successful, she has huge amounts of drive. She pushes me to be more creative. She is beautiful and tender. She can handle me. Maybe not completely handle me, but she can put up with my insanity better than anyone I have ever known. I don't know how she does it. How she can be around my wild and boundless bouts of uncompromising rage. The world falls apart. I am nothing.

And again and again, a hand reaches into that void, clawing with fervent love. It reaches into the muck, the brine, the sewage and saliva, it dives deep into the cesspool of my heart and pulls me back out into the light. It cleans off the feces and vomit and says "I love you." She melts me. She breaks me down to make something new and better. I am more of a man. More human. More Divine. More vulnerable. I am more myself than I have ever been.

I love you, Drew.