An aesthetically unappealing affair.

The self proclaimed “drunkest Hemingway to ever set finger on a phone” certainly is a poet.  He composed this note on the blackberry that he and I share.  If your feeble memory needs a refreshing, here is DRunk Brendan’s inaugural post.

An (non) ode to materialism.

I spilled wine on my computer.  Red wine, pinot noir by Castle Rock winery.  While I enjoyed its rosy nose, complex fruity palate, and smooth finish, my computer sulked in it.  Regardless of what some photobooth pics lead you to believe, macbooks have a very very low tolerance for alcohol.

I am a great philosopher.  People will look back on this website and the 27 views it got on january 17 will be that much more significant.  And I, the great philosopher, have decided that there are two types of benefits in life….

Things that make you happy

And

Things that make your life easier.

I know plenty of people with money. Are they any happier?  No.  Is their life easier as they don’t have to worry about making it through the month.  Yes.

I’ve always considered myself non materialistic.  One who denounces selling yourself to a company so that you can afford a nice house and bmw and hate-my-fucking-life existence before it even has a chance to get started.  One with an intuitive wisdom to be able to decipher between the things that make you happier and the things that your life easier.

Will a new computer make me happier?  No.  I will continue my life without one, and that dumb ass smirk will still be permanantly etched on my cursedly irish and mostly sun kissed (slapped) red face.

Before DRunk Brendan called it a night, he fantasized about life without a computer.  It would be so entirely feral!  He would read more books.  Rarely, he would go on facebook, but when he did he would have 27 notifications and 12 friend requests and 4 inbox messages!  Romanticizing this soon to be rugged life without a computer, he softly fell into a deep sleep.

3 days later, the computer started working again.  DRunk Brendan probably would have been overwhelmed by 27 notifications anyway.

Drunk Brendan does not aim to be a suckcess.

“If you know your history,
Then you would know where you coming from”

-Bob Marley

Since January is official  family history month, I fancied it an appropriate time to publicly explore the delicately personal subject of ancestry for any of the worlds six million internet users to check out.  Here are 2 candidates:

Willy F Baby

William F Buckley was an American conservative author and commentator.  Although I heartbrokenly stopped paying attention in English class after my career-ending loss in the Central New Jersey Regional Spelling Bee in 3rd grade, I’m pretty sure “conservative author and commentator” means “dillhole whose man breasts lactate Kosciusko mustard”.   William, rest his soul, probably drove a luxury automobile, and it is utterly possible that said luxury automobile could tote a load far more hefty than William should ever need to tote.  Certainly, he wore the shiniest loafers that were way shinier and more expensive than your father’s most expensive and shiniest pair of loafers.  My father’s, as well.

This fellow is non-identifiable by name.  In spite of a name, I will identify him by facets of my one and only encounter with him:

1. He was at Hooters in Long Beach, California, by himself.
2. He attired himself with remarkable flamboyance.
3. He laughed often.
4. The doldrums of complete sentences did not characterize his speech.
5. Nor did making any vestige of sense in general.

Bar the most traditional fashion of tracking down ancestors, surnames, and the candidate whom I am more likely related to could not be more obvious.  Thanks, family history month.  Thanks, Bob Marley.  Thanks, Hooters of Long Beach, California.

PS- I totally made up that January is family history month.

It has been said that our dreams define who we are.  Our aspirations and goals are the purest mirror to our souls, basically summarizing who we are and how we differentiate from one another.

Many people feel uncomfortable about sharing their dreams.  It’s a challenge to take something so personal and fragile and readily subject it to the inevitable critical judgement of others.  For some folks, it takes an intimate romantic setting and a trusted significant other to discuss their dreams.  With their brain releasing dopamine like it’s going out of style, the euphoria of love is enough to compel a lover to confidently talk about a dream in all of it’s pretty little intricacies.  It is the perfect time to reveal a dream, and it can be such a crucial point in the progression or destruction of a relationship.

Other people have a shitty blog and share their dreams on there.  Hut.

Hut.

Hike.

My dream:

Such a beautiful illustration of what can be done with hair.  That mullet does not speak and ask for respect, it shouts and demands it.  So long, and so flowing, and he acts like it’s not even there.  Thank you Jaromir Jagr.  Thank you for inspiring a dream.

I just said B clips?

That’s embarrassing.  Embarrassment will be a theme today.  And probably tomorrow, too.  But not the next day.  3 days in a row… That would just be embarrassing.

The short motion picture that you are about to maybe view is compiled of video clips that have sat stagnantly on my computer for some time.  They have sat, lonesome but not tired, with an occasional click through and consequential scowl.  But today, the day of embarrassment, is their day.  Today, they are born unto the great webs, no longer lonely and unemployed and garnering scowls from me.  Today, they no longer sit.  They stand, not very tall, and they are shared and employed and they garner scowls from newer, fresher faces.

Today is the day of embarassment, and today is your day, clips.

Once upon a train, I hardly tried my hand at producing a somewhat mature piece of writing.  The penis references and general vulgarites were to sit on the bench for this one, as I saw myself to write about my feelings and use a vivid bouquet of vocabulary to paint the picture of my experience and show the true essence of who I am as a human being.  Here it is:

There I stood, curious eyes eagerly dancing from skyscraper to street vendor to skyscraper as if they had something to teach me, my feet firmly planted on the forest floor of the concrete jungle, and next to those feet sat 5 surfboards.  An array of emotions tickled my being like a flock of feathers, creating an almost intangible feeling of helplessness but not vulnerability.  Such a strange feeling it was, the alienation of two clashing ideologies- the hurried greed of the city and my casual sandy approach….

And then, I woke up and smelt the frappachino latte that was apparently steaming in my articulate hand.  What the fuck kind of starbucks mochachino shit was that?  You would think that I wrote that while sipping on Chai tea at borders or any situation that could possibly be gayer than that.  Wanna know the truth behind carting five surfboards around New York City via public transportation?  I’ll tell you: You feel like a dickhead.

You see, being a dickhead is not an attribute, it’s an art, and one that must be mastered.  You can’t just run around kicking over trash cans and consider yourself a dickhead.  No, there’s much more to it than that.  Next time I feel like it, and/or get stranded in an airport, I will outline what being a true dickhead entails and show you just what it takes for the privilege of being able to accurately asses a correlation between a human being and the uppermost region of a penis.

This is how a true dickhead transports homoerotic muscle supplements via air travel.

Seeing through the eyes of a dick head could be: A) Pornography B) One of those videos they show you in high school health classes that makes you not like lunch so much or C) This picture.

Change can be for better or for worse, and most of the time, it’s both.  But no matter how our minds perceive a little switch of direction, it will never stop happening and nothing is immune to it.  Not even embrace the goose.

The glorification of the (not very) nascent “hip” (not so sub) subculture these days has lead to some awfully fascinating simian-like emulation actions.  What used to be referred to as “poor judement” is now totally “in”- like wearing those glasses, buying cameras from 1964, and edward sharpe in general.  It has grabbed some men by the balls, literally- forcing them to wear jeans tighter than most females, compressing the satchel and surely creating the risk of having retarded children down the road.  But haven’t you heard?  Disregarding the future and living “in the now” is fucking cool, especially if that “in the now” dictates wearing a scarf.  Someone pass me a ciggy!  And to think the world hasn’t pissed off gothics bad enough!  Now, we even stole their signature haircut?  Like I said, interesting…

But what’s cool is cool, and what else is there to do besides swan dive on into the cool (or chill) pool of conformity?  That said, embrace the goose is officially going artsy on December 15th.  Mark your calenders, hide your kids, hide your wife, and hide your husband.

Home is wherever edward sharpe and the magnetic zekes are not playing. Wait, are they even hip?

Those fucking glasses. Thank you for wearing a scarf to further prove my point. But I do not thank you for ruining the mustache. What used to be "Oh this guy's fucking out there" is now "Oh, cool... trendy" Bullshit.