this is why i never eat

Have you ever been stabbed in the gut? Me neither, but the apocalyptic case of food poisoning that woke me up at 5:00 AM sure gave me a good idea. After spasmodic writhing in my bed for a few hours, I called into work and commenced puking. I was in Hell's Foldgers commercial.

I ended up going to work later in the afternoon once my stormtrooper body had violently expunged all digestive dissent. The more hours I miss at work, the less I eat.

Now I must decide how best to fulfill the tacit expectation of Saturday night excitement. I will undoubtedly fail. I hate Saturdays.

i, hipster

If anyone is still reading this, I’m back. After going dark for a few weeks I come back to you a man moved. And well fed.

In the darkness of the past few weeks, I located a new abode in a Brooklyn warehouse. My room is so large that I am beginning to get stress headaches deciding what to do with it. However, one of my new roommates is a carpenter and seems eager to assist in the building of an epic habitat for my continued scheming and machinating.

The Not For Tourists Guide to Brooklyn describes my new neighborhood as “desolate and crime-ridden,” but I would describe it more along the lines of “Don't carry expensive shit at night, and always keep a twenty on you because muggers get super-pissed when you don't have anything.”

But the cheaper rent, larger room, and more convenient location seem worth it in exchange for a few games of Avoid-Eye-Contact-With-The-Gang-Member. Also, my new roommates are awesome and hilarious.

In comparison to the stench of cat shit and misery that permeated my previous room, living amongst the convivial air of my new place is like being talked off a ledge.

For Thanksgiving I traveled to the idyllic hamlet of Princeton, NJ to stay with the Morleys for a couple of days. Once again, Jamie and Keith took me in like a starving urchin and turned what could have been another reason to get drunk into a genuinely familial holiday. Wine + copious amounts of food + board games + The OC Season 1= Best Thanksgiving in memory.

Despite my continuing jealousy/hatred of Seth Cohen for all of the bands/comics/lifestyles that his character has ruined through hollow, privledged, consumptive namedropping, I am now addicted to The OC. Say what thou wilt about mainstream television, but I tell you without pretentious irony: that show is priceless. It may be an unrealistic, hateful wealth and power fantasy, but so are most superhero comics, so I guess I was kind of ready for it.

P.S. For better or worse, my blogging should now resume its regularly unreliable frequency.

days of comics, nights of loathing

I hate this guy across from me. He's got a big dollop of silly putty which he keeps in a precious little tupperware. He just keeps it in his bag so that he can pull it out on the train for some on-the-go thumb squats or digital cardio or quirky-conversation-piece stress relief. What an asshole. Holding it up near his face and squashing in his fist like he's in second grade, saying "This is YOU!" What are you? A finger-ninja? I hope he gets arthritis.

Infinite Crisis #2? The jam.

Adrian Tomine and Seth were at the Strand tonight doing an authors in conversation thing. They talked about craft, the medium and the difficulties of producing graphic novels. I thought it was completely intriguing. A couple of my favorite authors discussing the same problems I often struggle with. It made me feel really good. Afterwards, I overheard some other guy bitching about it being boring and kind of thought he was a douche.

I feel like I am getting sick so I ate a clove of garlic. Now I smell like my social life.

i am soooo nauseous

rock-bottom makes for good pictures



Remember when drinking meant going out with your friends and doing stuff that you could joke about in the morning? Yeah... its about time I ended this meaningless pageant.

they call me the indoor kid

I still can't seem to catch a break, but I'm even more sick of talking about it than you are of reading about it. So today I'm taking a moment to look at some of the things that are rad:



-The Devil's Rejects comes out on DVD tomorrow! I loved this movie. It borders on a snuff film in places and features anti-heroes that aren't heroic in any justifiable way. I am the only person I know who found this film enjoyable, although I'm not sure anyone else saw it. The retail price is worth it for the last ten minutes alone.






-Then there's this:















This is Thomas Hayden Church of Ned and Stacey fame dressed as the Sandman for Spider-man 3. I just gave my underwear VD.










-Finally, Infinite Crisis #2 comes out on Wednesday. I might as well break out the Magic cards again cause this is the highlight of my coming week.

noo coont leavs till a foond out wha cunt didet!

And then you want a late night snack. But then the diner breaks out into dubya-dubya-one and you have to take refuge in your booth as glass and bodies fly across the room. There is blood and yelling while you try to keep the waitress calm as she hides in your trench. When all of the shouting is done, you poke your head up, see the blood spots on the floor and decide it is time to leave. Of course, there is no discount for mayhem.

The worst part is walking home in a newly settled heavy fog. I have never experienced Astoria so quiet. If I weren't so anxious from the fight, it might be beautiful. Instead I spend the whole walk home looking over my shoulder for further attack. Fog is cool though...

homefree, not homeless

shitty pants, shitty beer, solid drunk


I love drinking on the train. If I ever make it to Manhattan sober again, I'm more of an idiot than I thought. I'm pretty sure its legal here, but it just feels so awesomely illicit. And cheap.

that's about it.

STR8 SWM SKS BULIT N HED

If craigslist had eyes, this is what it would see.



Yet another day of sifting through the degenerates and grammatical abortions on the c-lizzie in search of both a new apartment and a second job. Is there an emoticon for tearful frustration?

I think the stress might be getting to me. Last night I dreamt that my mom came into town to tell me she had terminal cancer, and would be shuffling off the mortal coil within days. Then I ran around terrified for a while. Way to go brain. Thanks for nothing. Deeeeepressiiiing.

Seriously though, do I just look fucking stupid?

(P.S. This buggy, useless site has been giving me attitude for a couple of weeks now. I might have to take this grievance garden elsewhere.)

application anxiety

Job interviews are a real blast if you're on mushrooms or ecstasy or something that helps make the interviewer's unimpressed incredulity seem like a waterslide of colorful adoration. When you're sober, they tend to call up dystopian slices of Orwellian distress on par with that Pink Floyd video with the kids and the meat grinder. This is especially true for those open calls where you are surrounded by thirty or so wolf-eyed fellow applicants in better outfits than yours.

And after today's handy reintroduction to these horrors, I will probably get to go through it a few more times before I find a second job or throw myself in the river. Fuck.

(I swear this stupid thing will get not always be this mopey. Really. I'm pretty sure.)

But then I went home and watched Captain Ron. O Captain, my Captain, that movie is funny!