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.

Things to note about a dislocated shoulder

It fucking hurts. Also, I always believed that once said shoulder was back in location that it would no longer cause pain or discomfort. Turns out when one dislocates a shoulder it rips and tears muscles, ligaments, and cartilage. This means 4 to 6 weeks of discomfort. It does, however, have the bonus of no heavy lifting and general sympathy from those around you. So he who injured said shoulder does not have to help out with the family garage sales nor with his sister's house move. The downside is that being on top during coitus cause irritation to the injury. Bad news for the Heart of Austria crowd. . . Good news for downstairs neighbors.

an open letter to freeze tag

Dear Freeze Tag

You have given me many joys in my life, especially in my childhood. The long summer days of you and me running around, crawling through people's legs to unfreeze them have always been fond memories.

Recently I visited you while camping. You were not the kind and cordial freeze tag I remember. You have become an abusive friend. I do not appreciate your hand in dislocating my shoulder. We are no longer friends, freeze tag. Maybe this will be a lesson for you. When you injure people, freeze tag, they no longer want to spend time with you.

I hope you feel proud of yourself, you jerk.

Your (ex)friend in a sling,
Ian Prebo

Film Making is an Art best Served Pretentious.

The problem with Seattle Film making is that it is a small pond with fish who think they are big. You can only grow as big as your tank, and, let me tell you this my coy friends: We are all small fish. That being said, film making is an art. But lately I've been watching my peers create bourgeois "AHHHT" as I kindly refer to it.

I may not be the best film maker out there but I know what I like and it ain't what you're serving. Go ahead and make films that satisfy your ego and make you feel like a pretty little unique snowflake. I'm gonna go and make some real art and pee in your cereal.

So fuck you very much and have a nice day.

P.S. I shat in your cornflakes.

Everybody Gets it in the End

Last night I watched the film "Shortbus." I find myself at a loss for words; the film was amazing.

Lately I have been feeling more fucked up. My mind has been caught in knots of misfiring synapses, my mylar sheeth a big sheet of peanut butter. My OCD has been acting up. I have been feeling restless or listless or anyother "less" that makes one feel disconnected.

But last night was good.

I feel like I cut down another barrier in my life, another one of those invisible obstacles that stand so cyclopean. The kind of barrier that can only be removed through force of will; or through removing a barrier within yourself.

Drew and I talked. Words I have wanted to say poured out like rivers of slime and drown her apartment. We swam in the mirk and we enjoyed it. Fear and saddness and feelings of inadequacy met headfirst in a cacophany of love.

I have never met anyone like Drew. She is, in many ways, my antithesis. Together we create harmony. From each of our thesises we create a new thesis. A synthesis. I don't know what the future holds for us, but for the first time I feel "okay."

And then we watched "Shortbus." Which, coincidentaly, is a film about these very barriers that must come down for people to be complete. It is as much a film about fear and vulnerability as it is about the human condition. We are all fucked up. Every last one of us contains foibles for days and years and centuries. For miles and kilometers. We contain these imperfections and bash ourselves against them in fear and anger and frustraition. But, if we truely try, in the end we all get it. Everybody. Everybody gets it in the end. Even if there never really is any end in sight.

Love you.

Me.

An Open Letter To My Ticks

Dear OCD inspired twitches,

I hate your guts. You make me late for meetings and get in the way of relationships. If you were a political prisoner I would have you executed. Maybe I would just lock you up in Guantanamo and throw away the key.

I hate how people look at me when you are around. You are the obnoxious friend that will not go away. No matter how mean I am to you, you still show up at parties, social functions, and even at my house when I am alone.

You suck. I hate you. If I could kill you, I would. I would hang you upside down and slit your throat so that the blood would drain out. It makes disposing the body easier. Then I would cut you up at the joints and bury you in the woods.

Die.

All the best wishes,
Ian "Twitch Master" Prebo

An Open Letter To Drew Zandonella-Stannard

Dear Drew,

I love you baby. You are so patient and caring, something that can be difficult, especially with me. I love pressing my face against your face. I am glad that you do not mind my scraggly beard or the fact that it sometimes causes you breakouts.

I am the luckiest man alive to have met you. I love you, pretty lady.

Love,
Ian

An Open Letter To White Guys Who Think They're Gangsters

Dear Whiggers,

You're fucking white.

Sincerely,
Cracker-ass-Cracker

An Open Letter To My Balls

Dear Scrotum and your Inhabitants,

You rock. I love that no matter where I am, you are always there, just hanging out. Whenever I am in need of a friend, you are there. You guys are awesome, and I want the whole world to know.

I love you, balls. I even love the crazy big vein you have as well as the big krinkle you have on the left nut.

Love,
Ian

An Open Letter to my Blog

Dear So Picante It's Enfuego,

I love you. I love having you around, and while I have been neglecting you, I want you to know we are friends and always will be. That being said, I am tired of posting in open letters. I know it may be cute and a little cheeky, but I can not allow myself to continue.

I am not saying that no more posts will be open letters, just that I have become bored with the format. It seemed so fresh and new, the way we interacted, but now. . . it has become old, tired, lame.

I will still post on you, baby, but I need some change. Think of this as a new step in our relationship. At first we started out just making out, and then we moved on to missionary. And, for a while, that was nice. But now I want to stick it in your proverbial butt. I love you baby, now bend over.

Yours Truly,
Ian

An Open Letter To My Alarm Clock

Dear Alarm Clock,

Shut up. SHUT THE FUCK UP!

I will kill you.

Love,
Your pal and confidante
Ian

An Open Letter To My Subconscious Mind

Dear Subconscious,

We have had many fun times, you and I. All the wonderful dreams you have given me have been a blessing. Remember the time we went to the mall? You ate too much ice cream and I got a headache from the Orange Julius. That was great. Or how about the time we went flying? What a wonderful evening that was.

Many times you come out while I am near sleep, and give those around me jems of joy, such as "feeding the bears" and "don't take it all." When you come out like this it is appreciated and wonderful.

You cannot, however, be mean to the ones I love. I will not stand for your negative comments to my girlfriend, nor your need to vent frustrations and be a general nuisance.

I understand it can get lonely in the recesses of my mind, but that does not give you the excuse to be unpleasent. If needs be I will put you in your box and never let you out. The gauntlets are off, my dear hidden friend; I will no longer tolerate your intrusions into my life if they continue to bring daytime discontent with Drew.

And finally, please no more nightmares that cause me to clog dance. We all hate it.

Sincerely, your pal and owner
Ian Fucking Prebo

An Open Letter To The Guy Who Always Sits Next To Me On The 37

Dear Man With a Creepy Mustache,

I have no problem sitting next to people on the bus who I don't know. When I first started dating my girlfriend, Drew, I also started catching the number 37 Metro, and for the most part it has been a pleasent ride. There is the lady who keeps her dog in a purse, often it is wearing an adorable sweater. There is the cute punk rock girl, with her wry smile and constant look of boredome. And then, there is you.

Every time Drew gets off the 37 at 2nd and Union you move from where ever you sit on the bus, which lately has been a seat or two behind me, to right next to me. Not only do you sit next to me, but you scoot in and lean on me. Sometimes I push back with my legs, the international sign for "you're sitting too close to me on the bus."

When the bus comes to your stop on 1st avenue you look for me. How can I tell you might ask? I believe it is the smile that forms under your serial killer mustache when we make eye contact.

You lurk there on the bus, waiting for Drew to leave, and then you quickly slide in. This must stop immediatly.

I have tried many tactics to stop these offences: eating food that makes me gassy, but you just sit through the stench. Staring at you has not worked either. You look perfectly forward and ignore me even when I sing along to my Diskman. But you still lean. And, finally, when I give up and look away you turn and stare at me.

When I try to get off the bus at 4th and Union you purposely position yourself to block my way out of the seat. No amount of politeness or "excuse mes" have done anything to sway you from your perverse attempts.

I hate you and your damn creepy mustache. I hate the way you lean on me and the way you nod to me as I leave the bus cussing you. I hate your serial killer eyes and your child molester smile. And, I hate the fact that Drew calls you my "Bus Boyfriend."

If these attacks on my person do not cease I will be forced to make a pre-emptive strike with my weapons of mass destruction.

Sincerely,
Seattle Metro Patron Extrodonaire, Ian.