{{{misanthropy central}}}: 11/01/2005

and then i washed my hands...

The Fortress of Solitude 2.0 continues to claw its way to life. Slowly. Deliberately. At the pace dictated by my intermitten procrastination. I've made massive progress in a bit over a week, I just need to see it through. (Like everything else in my fucking life.)

For all the whining on parade in my previous entry, I'm not doing that badly (financially). I mean, there are a lot of people much worse off. People who don't even have cable tv. People who have to make do with "girlfriends" and "requited love" and "social lives" -- ANYTHING, it seems, to fill that TV-shaped hole. It is those people that I pity most.

Perhaps they should try their hand at some further alternatives to television. [Thanks to newop, who implores you to note the left-panel wallpaper: a white man with a dead kid on one knee and a $zxxml baby in the other.]

And this is courtesy of Rico, though I don't have a segue for it.

freedom isn't free

let me use those movers that whatsername suggested, that turn out to be a lot more expensive than she suggested they'd be...

let me get a new ipod as a little present to myself, for a hellish year suffered...

let me upgrade to DVR, coz everyone else has got it...

let me get an HDTV off of craig's list, coz it's a super-sweet deal...

let me sell my old tv for a lot less than i could have gotten for it...

now let me upgrade to Hi-Def DVR, coz my new tv needs to be exploited...

oh, look at this -- the bills are starting to come in! what's this? i've got to pay rent again??

anybody have a few hundred bucks to help pay for that divorce i still need to get?

i'm a fuckin retard! wheeeeeeee!

WAY TO GO, MALICE!

right next door to other people fucking

the girl who lives next door to me sounds like a hell of a fuck-buddy.

having to listen to it, however, is not too fun.

(perhaps if i drilled a peep-hole into the wall...?)

happy fucking thanksgiving, you thankless lot

you should be ashamed of what you have eaten...

The Good Son

"I wish I knew how to quit you!"
"Operation: Malice Digs His Way to Hell" commences as i attempt to weasel out of a plan to visit my dad up in maine for thanksgiving.

reasons this is evil
- i haven't seen my dad since the wedding in '03.
- he's already bought an 11 lb. bird.
- as far as i can gather, he doesn't have any real friends up there even though he's been there forever.

reasons i don't care
+ he's a grown man and can do whatever he wants with his life.
+ the only reason i've seen my mom more often than him is because she makes the effort to come down to the city to visit me.
+ i just moved and i've got a lot of work i need to do to set up the place.
+ visiting him would kill the better of 3 days.
+ i get aggravated enough talking on the phone with him for 10 minutes, let alone being trapped with him for over a day.
+ divorced dad + divorced son x wintry maine = let's slit our wrists depressing.

and yet, given all this, there's still i chance i might go up to visit him. need to give him a call and gauge his response. all i know is, i've played the good son, i've played the good husband, and none of that shit pays off. maybe i need to be more selfish up in here.

in other news, my company now classifies my comment box as a "chat" site, so i cannot read or respond to comments from my regular terminal @ work. a nation mourns.

HALLELUJAH!!! HALLELUJAH, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!

it's over.

left the Fortress of Solitude 1.0 for the last time yesterday.

Fortress of Solitude 2.0 is breathlessly rising out of the ruins of boxes and packing material.

last night, jet and elle showed me where the bars are. newop misled me. there are bars. i had to bite back the tears because i didn't want them to see me cry.

this mourn was my first taste of the new commute to work. it was awesome.

i am utterly exhausted. so much i've got to do still, to get the place operational. but the worst of it is over. all of the death and destruction. now we begin to claw our way back to life...

saturday night, new york city, internet cafe, upper west side

$5 will get you half an hour on the internet.

by the time the movers left this afternoon, i'd been up about 32 hours.

i'd intended to get drunk -- alone -- one last time in the fos-1, but i was up packing all night. it was a hell.

thought i'd be elated once all my stuff was in the new joint, but i just feel completely demoralized. what's beyond exhaustion and beyond depression? that's me.

for some reason, i feel like i've just moved into a new dorm room. it's a very similar sensation. as if the last 10 years didn't happen, and i'm back in my junior year. except without that dim feeling of excitement lurking around the corner.

taking a nice walk around the new neighborhood -- alone -- since my UWS "friends" aren't even around tonight. newop was right: there ARE no fucking bars around here. what if i've made a grave error in judgment...??

when's it gonna be malice's turn?

good night and good luck

the clock ticks. less than 12 hours. what the fuck am i doing blogging, then? one last hit before i pull the plug for the weekend... begin separation anxiety.

for nick-o, the price of helping me today was his car. which died, was brought back to life, then towed. i ruin everything i come near.

when i post again, i shall be somewhere new. (well, i'll probably just be at work.) a fade to black shall indicate a passage of time...

in the beginning, there was... (howard the duck)

last day at the Fortress of Solitude 1.0. cable company's already shut off the tv feed (guess i won't be watching "Modern Marvels" today...), though i've still got the internet. for now.

final stretch of packing. arguably the hardest part. gathering up all the odd, last minute things. getting everything in position to be moved as easily as possible. a final trip to good will, to unload a lot of things that aren't even mine. in less than 24 hours, men are coming to haul all of this out. any delays will be on my dime.

i'm anxious as all hell about this move going smoothly, but i can't wait to be out of here. this has been the worst trip i've ever been on.

"All Right"

"alright" is not really a word. though it's pretty commonly used, the proper way to spell it is "all right". i've known this since the 3rd grade. i usually let it go, but i see it written "alright" so often, sometimes i think *i'm* the one who's gotten it wrong.

but no. i'm right. i'd go on a rant, but i don't want to get lumped in with this woman. (though i haven't seen her pic, maybe i do...)

(EDIT: scratch that. just found her pic... though, enough beers...)

[now i hit "PUBLISH POST" and i've instantly created another fascinating blog entry!]

under the sea

sometimes i pass out with the tv on full blast and whatever happens to be on the tv infects my dreams.

this was the case the other night when i dreamed about the panacea that is seaweed. the infomercial that burrowed into my head is set up like a serious interview/debate show. the generic host grills his guest, "scott kennedy", who talks up the health benefits of seaweed as if it were a massive conspiracy that our government didn't want you to hear. it kills cancer! it staves off death! it lengthens dicks! it enlarges breasts! (i think he was marketing to the hermaphrodite market...)

i forget the details of my actual dream, but it doesn't really matter. now that i've got a 6-month supply of dried seaweed pills, i'll be able to breathe underwater and dodge bullets. so have at me.

fortress of solitude 2.0

picked up the keys to FOS-2 last night. the super's name is "lucas". i can scarcely understand his english, but he seems like a stand-up guy. had dinner with jet and elle, my new neighbors and the first guests to my new home. got a better look at the space and rearranged my furniture in my head. it's going to be perfect.

if that weren't enough, i managed to sell off my oven and a big wooden cabinet thing. two things i thought would be hardest to sell off. (that leaves a refrigerator and a sofa to sell, for anyone who needs...)

leave work @ 5 today to meet up with my move consultant. everything falling into place. can't wait to be lonely in my new home! fuck yeah!

if pigs have souls, why is their meat so fucking delicious?

another article forwarded to me by newop.

how to "delay" the inevitable

it's a good thing pigs don't have feelings, or that story wouldn't be funny at all!

it's just like starting over

though i won't move in until saturday, today marks the start of my new lease. going to try to pick up the keys tonight, after work, which should also give me a feel for my new commute.

after leaving me hanging on sunday, chicago jonny dropped by last night to fork over some dead presidents and take away some of my excess baggage. everything must go. we sell gold and diamonds. just get it out of my sight before saturday.

this week, the fortress of solitude 1.0 melts slowly into the arctic...

strapped animals

courtesy of newop, a nyt article on the phenom, and a project documenting them.

those sanitation workers really know how to get the girls. i'm going to start strapping beanie babies to the bottoms of my shoes.

nicko's trojan horses

nicko generously graced me with a bunch of leftover cardboard boxes from his recent move. he'd collected these boxes from all over the place, including grocery stores. this should have given me pause, but i figured they'd save me a few bucks.

well, the fos 1.0 has been virtually pest-free for the 2+ years i've been there -- because of its location in the middle of nowhere -- but saturday night i killed TWO roaches. and now i'm anxious i'm going to be transporting a bunch of roach farms to the fos 2.0.

well, it'll be an incentive to unpack in a hurry this saturday afternoon...

anatomy of a friday night (into saturday mourning)

friday afternoon, toilet's backed up in the fos-1. got no toilet plunger. managed without a plunger in the fos-1 for over two years and don't feel like making the investment while i'm on the verge of clearing out. try fashioning a makeshift "snake" using a wire coathanger, but it seems they make better abortion tools than toilet snakes. the toilet's a horror. a shitty horror. but i've got errands.

want to hit the gym and get a haircut before hooking up with the brotherhood of the traveling pants for drinks later -- and now i gotta pick up some drano. i think this has happened before and a bottle of that stuff cleared it right up. done, done and done.

get back to the fortress around midnight (later?). dump the entire bottle of drano into the toilet and go pass out on my mattress, taking solace in the magical properties of chemicals.

get up early saturday mourn. head to the toilet, like a kid on christmas day. the condition has not improved. i've just got a shitty cesspool mixed with an entire bottle of drano, stewing in ceramic like some unholy crockpot. now i've got to wait until the hardware store opens to buy that plunger...

dream theater

woke up from the queerest dream...

it featured newop, of all people. we were both starting our first day in a new high school. an... urban high school. our first class was math and we were both late, and also happened to be the only non-urban persons in the room. we've missed part of the lesson and i'm trying to figure it out, but i have no idea how to do the work. newop's lost too, but manages to fake it enough to participate a little. at one point, he goes up to the board to solve a problem the teacher's given him. for some reason, i have my DV camera with me and i start shooting his solution to the problem.

it becomes more and more apparent that i'm not going to figure this out, so what do i do? i duck into the next room, where there's some sort of birthday party going on. after a few minutes, newop follows me into the room and advises me: "i suggest you go back in there and do something, because people are starting to talk about the new kid who isn't saying anything." i tell him to mind his own business and he shrugs and walks back into class.

when i reenter, the birthday party has somehow bled into the classroom -- which is a relief since the focus has shifted away from maths. light, unfocused cacophony of people talking to each other. the teacher has picked up my DV camera and is watching all the raw footage i've shot. again, i'm relieved the focus is diverted from my inability with maths. the teacher strangely reminds me of my third grade teacher -- Mrs. Schwartz -- who i had a crush on. she asks me a question. it is maths-related. i wake up.

And then I wash my hands. And then I touch a football and I wash my hands. I try to go to bed and wash my hands. And I wash wash wash wash wash wash wash... but the shame never goes away.

i hate you when you're pregnant

another week down the shitter, and good riddance, says i.

this week, i'm clearing inventory like crazy eddie, suckas. if you need anything, if you want anything, phone me up. i'll make your mildest dreams come true.

things are winding down at the Fortress of Solitude vers1.0; i should have been better about setting things up this past week, but it's hard to get shit done at work. i did fill out an online change-of-address form at the USPS site. and i changed the address on my netflix account. that counts for something, doesn't it? well, DOESN'T IT??

i'm fairly chuffed at the idea of my new home. i know it's going to take a little while to get it just right, but i'm fucking in love with the location -- i just want to stick my cock into the sidewalk and go to town. (hear that? i think that's the sound of a dozen browser windows closing.)

i promise i'll rejoin the world once i've settled into the new place. unless, of course, i end up retreating even further. 50/50 chance either way.

meet my new landlord

Dan Hedaya
although he bears a resemblance to the compact and felonious

Roman Polanski
in voice and character, he mostly resembles a Hedaya character.

that distrustful, mob-like glare. that born n' raised in brooklyn accent.

so explain to me what you do, because what you wrote down -- i don't know what dat is...

and dey PAY you for dat...?

where-djoo grow up...?

play any instruments...?

any kids, pets...?

got any money in da bank...?

and you feel comfortable about yer ability to make dis rent...?

that forward, unblinking stare. sizing me up. each question tinted with a faintly accusatory tone. looking for my tells. scouring for the deal-breaker.

and then my broker stumbles in. late-30s blonde woman, small, fragile, seemingly perpetually hungover, even at a 6pm appointment. resembling hilary clinton and acting like helena bonham carter in fight club after she's overdosed on sleeping pills.

she takes the heat off me. we sign papers. i fork over all my money. and dat's dat. and dere ain nuttin dat nobody cud do aboudit.

i was cured, alright.

War!!!

been insanely busy at work -- what in the cocksuckmotherfuck?! this job vascillates between being a boat ride and being a fucking shitstorm. people trying to hit it hard before the holidays start dropping. before year-end reviews and bonuses and raise-considerations.

more complications with the move. gonna have to work stuff out with the old place. keyspan is a sonuvabitch. regardless, i'll probably have to deal with the fos 1.0 beyond november 15th.

goodbye, cruel borough

so long, brooklyn!

you can take your infestation of hip and cram it with walnuts, you self-satisfied lot!

thanks for all the memories i'll need to repress! something to keep me busy! what a gift!! (you shouldn't have!!!)

you've got some terrific views -- of manhattan! but i'm gonna be where the lights are shinin' on me!

packin my bags, gotta go, i'm the samsonite man...

garbage

picture book!
of people with each other,
to prove they loved each other
a long time ago...
- ray davies

the great purge continued last night, at ye old fortress of solitude. i swear, the majority of my effort needs to be spent figuring out how to get rid of most of the shit in that place -- coz i sure ain't takin' half of it with me.

found an old stack of pictures lodged in a bookshelf last night. a quick flip-through and a cringe. then -- trash. some people have a weird thing about throwing away pictures. and there is something sad about it, when you stop to think...

but that's the trick: you can't stop and think. you've just got to do it. because if you stop and think, even for a moment, then nothing in the world makes any sense anymore. and you start getting that old, familiar urge to paint the ceiling the color of your brains.

so, that's the lesson of the day, kids: run away. run as far as you can see. and whatever you do, don't ever look back. because it will motherfucking destroy you.

[i see you out there... YOU HEAR ME?!?]

korea looks like a woman

(at least it does to The Meowking, after he's had a few beers.)

rico had a fight with a payphone on the street last night. that's what we get for hanging out in k-town so much. all that aggression's starting to bleed through.

waiting for meowk and rico to arrive, i had to chat with this down-on-his-luck korean guy named "david" at the bar. i was trying to give him my "sympathetic listener" character, but i was ready to shoot somebody. he was going off on this faux-macho tirade about the differences between korean women and chinese women, and started whining about how asian men are at the "bottom of the totem pole". (he kept using this fucking "totem pole" metaphor.)

justin, the 21-year-old bartender, tried to keep up the conversation (since i wasn't responding): "you know who i think are below asian men? i mean, i don't know if you want to consider them 'asian', but indian guys. i think they're lower than us!"

korean david: "no, i think they're above us. you know who else are above us? mexicans. a nice tall mexican man? forget about it..."

around here, i start texting Meowk trying to figure out how late he's gonna be.

what people don't understand is that i don't hate people for the mere sake of hating people. i hate people for sound reasons.

on the lighter side of the news, some of the punches sara delivered to me on saturday have since blossomed into a lovely black and blue mark. ladies love malice. (love to harm him.)