Ari: "I would love to come to your party Jamie, but it's anal-sex night at the Gold household."
"I have to go home and punish my wife."
I didn’t really get a vacation this summer. The vacation I was entitled to was replaced with me following sweaty teenagers and fat old men around the woods and acting enthused. I’m not bitching. Well, I mean, I am. There’s rarely a moment in the day when I’m not bitching (it’s what I do best). But I actually really did enjoy what I did this summer. I’m just a little annoyed that my only outlets for relaxation were either driving an hour and a half to see a movie or sitting in my tent eating Oreos dipped in peanut butter and reading the National Enquirer.
But now that the money’s stopped rolling in, I’m living the high-life in Jeff’s old room, following the same schedule every day.
I woke up this morning at quarter to nine and put on my Philmont shorts and a crew shirt. Now, I don’t wanna jinx this by saying anything, but there’s something very peculiar about this particular pair of short pants. The first day I put them on, I found twenty dollars in the pocket. I didn’t think anything of it, cause there’s a good chance I came back from Taos drunk and with a pocket full of billz (note the z) and just forgot it was in there. However, a day later, I put on this same pair of shorts and found another twenty-dollar bill. Crazy? I think not. For the very next day after that I looked into my pocket stunned to find yet another twenty dollar bill. Mind you, I’m not about to label these “Dan Pardue’s Fantastical Trousers” and put them on display; however, I have resolved to find more places in everyday conversation in which to use the word “trousers”.
Anywho, once I was done dressing, I worked my way downstairs to have a crumpet from the kitchen counter and discuss how Tom Cruise just got dropped from Paramount with my mom. Personally, if I was him, I wouldn’t do shit for the next five years, and then come back with a gritty independent feature with a budget that’s under ten million dollars. He’d win an Oscar and get some fucking credibility back.
I went into the garage and ran on the treadmill. I know. You’re shocked. Me? Run? Well, fuck you. I’ve got nothing to do but exercise since I quit smoking. I usually make it a mile and a half before I collapse and have to yank out the safety key to avoid some serious friction burn. Today, I made it halfway through “Songs for Silverman” by Ben Folds before I went into my cool-down trot. For some reason I decided to put on “Phenomena” by Yeah Yeah Yeahs, which got me back into a run that didn’t stop until the end of the album and beyond. Four miles and a gallon of water later, my face was flushed and I could barely stand. It was 92 degrees out, but I couldn’t be out long, cause the breeze was making the three pounds of sweat on my shirt freezing cold.
I showered, changed and headed off to hit golf balls. Wow, this update is just full of shockers, cause I’m pretty sure not even my closest of friends has any idea that I have even a remote interest in the game of golf. Well, for your information, I actually started playing when I was seven years old. I was pretty damn good, too. But, time and an extreme dislike of collared shirts caused a rift between myself and the game. But last week I played a round with my dad and brother and I’ve decided I might pick it back up. And so far, I’ve been kicking ass. I don’t know what it is, but I’m on a hot streak. I’ve been to the range three times this week, and every shot has had a perfect draw on it. Of course, this being Florida, it’s hot as hell out. So, while hitting balls this afternoon, I got drenched in sweat again. So much so that I could no longer see out of the huge frames of my women’s glasses. On that note, I’m depressed at the fact that my glasses are nearly kaput. After walking hundreds of miles through the New Mexico wilds without so much as a scratch on them, I stepped on them the other morning and have broken the frame. FUCK! Whatever. Anyway, I had a nice back and forth with one of the older members of the club when I went into the office for more range balls. He was sitting on the porch, chain-smoking with some of his friends.
Old Man: (to his friend, about me) “Jeans. It’s the jeans now.”
Dan: “Say another word, and I’ll use your asshole to store my clubs.”
Old Man: “Fuck you. Are those girl’s jeans?”
Dan: “Quit looking at my ass.”
I don’t think I’ll be allowed back there.
I then headed down to the Raw-Vera to see my favorite Rat-tail-sporting-American-Spirit-Smoking-Aging-Hippie-Assistant-Scoutmaster. I walked through the door of his ghetto ass office to find him there, the familiar blue pack of Spirits on the desk and sitting in front of his iMac. He stood up and shook my hand and said he had a present for me. He reached under his desk and produced a twelve-ounce Nalgene Flask, the exact same kind I had wanted to buy Ruthanne. Thanks Mr. Brown. We sat and talked, and by talked, I mean I said ten words over the course of two hours while he spurted on about his kids, business, the Venture Crew, Canada, and Apple Computers. I don’t care though, cause I loves me my Mr. Brown. Although, at one point, the conversation did turn a bit awkward. He pulled up a chain e-mail he had received of a bunch of people who were drunk beyond comprehension. One was of a girl who had passed out upright in the backseat of a car, her breasts spilling forth from her small blouse. And they weren’t nice either. They were the big sloppy kind. The ones with areolas the size of tea saucers.
Mr. Brown: “That chick is just tits out.”
Dan: “Yeah.”
Mr. Brown: “I never much liked those kind anyway.”
Dan: “Uh . . .yeah.”
This is a guy who’s been my scoutmaster since I was seven years old. Just a little weird.
After that I headed to the mall. I hate the mall. I hate the mall with everything I have in me. The reason? I can’t stand teenagers. I know that sounds weird, but for the most part, I hate them. Tends to be that they’re not nearly as cool or funny as they think they are and I’m too much of an eighty year old man to deal with their shit. The mall, it seems, is occupied and operated solely by teenagers. Also, its sole purpose is something else I can’t stand: shopping. More than just buying new things, I HATE having ten people attack me when I walk into a store with inquiries of whether or not I need help with anything. The answer is “No”. It will always be “No”. Even if I was having a massive heart attack, and I really needed to find the defibrillator in Hollister, the answer to the glossy-golden seventeen-year-old princess who asked me would still be “No”. I don’t wanna talk to you, and just because you’re being paid minimum wage with a ten percent commission doesn’t mean you have to smile at me. I hate this place so much that I usually only go right as the mall is about to close so that I can piss off whoever’s working there by pretending like I’m actually interested in buying a remote-controlled Mini Cooper from The Sharper Image. I hate it so much that I started to have a panic attack while sitting in my car at the entrance to Nordstrom’s.
But, I needed pair of genes. So I got over my phobia of that middle-class prison and went inside. Turns out I found nothing. Fuck.
Nothing happened for the rest of the night, except that I came up with an amazing story idea that could only be told in play form. This is kinda hard, since I’ve never written a play before. I’m looking back at this and wondering why I even bothered writing. I just wanted to tell the story of the pants thing, but that kinda fell apart. Either way, I filled up the flask at the beginning of this and now it’s half empty and I fear I’m starting to ramble. I’m also starting to worry. What if I’m too hungover to run tomorrow? I can’t break this streak. This is the healthiest I’ve ever been.
Fuck. There’s another shot’s worth.
I need to stop writing.
I may end up writing something I don’t want to.
Like Uncle Pete’s Top Secret Beef Stroganoff Recipe. I would hate to let that cat out of the bag.
I didn’t really get a vacation this summer. The vacation I was entitled to was replaced with me following sweaty teenagers and fat old men around the woods and acting enthused. I’m not bitching. Well, I mean, I am. There’s rarely a moment in the day when I’m not bitching (it’s what I do best). But I actually really did enjoy what I did this summer. I’m just a little annoyed that my only outlets for relaxation were either driving an hour and a half to see a movie or sitting in my tent eating Oreos dipped in peanut butter and reading the National Enquirer.
But now that the money’s stopped rolling in, I’m living the high-life in Jeff’s old room, following the same schedule every day.
I woke up this morning at quarter to nine and put on my Philmont shorts and a crew shirt. Now, I don’t wanna jinx this by saying anything, but there’s something very peculiar about this particular pair of short pants. The first day I put them on, I found twenty dollars in the pocket. I didn’t think anything of it, cause there’s a good chance I came back from Taos drunk and with a pocket full of billz (note the z) and just forgot it was in there. However, a day later, I put on this same pair of shorts and found another twenty-dollar bill. Crazy? I think not. For the very next day after that I looked into my pocket stunned to find yet another twenty dollar bill. Mind you, I’m not about to label these “Dan Pardue’s Fantastical Trousers” and put them on display; however, I have resolved to find more places in everyday conversation in which to use the word “trousers”.
Anywho, once I was done dressing, I worked my way downstairs to have a crumpet from the kitchen counter and discuss how Tom Cruise just got dropped from Paramount with my mom. Personally, if I was him, I wouldn’t do shit for the next five years, and then come back with a gritty independent feature with a budget that’s under ten million dollars. He’d win an Oscar and get some fucking credibility back.
I went into the garage and ran on the treadmill. I know. You’re shocked. Me? Run? Well, fuck you. I’ve got nothing to do but exercise since I quit smoking. I usually make it a mile and a half before I collapse and have to yank out the safety key to avoid some serious friction burn. Today, I made it halfway through “Songs for Silverman” by Ben Folds before I went into my cool-down trot. For some reason I decided to put on “Phenomena” by Yeah Yeah Yeahs, which got me back into a run that didn’t stop until the end of the album and beyond. Four miles and a gallon of water later, my face was flushed and I could barely stand. It was 92 degrees out, but I couldn’t be out long, cause the breeze was making the three pounds of sweat on my shirt freezing cold.
I showered, changed and headed off to hit golf balls. Wow, this update is just full of shockers, cause I’m pretty sure not even my closest of friends has any idea that I have even a remote interest in the game of golf. Well, for your information, I actually started playing when I was seven years old. I was pretty damn good, too. But, time and an extreme dislike of collared shirts caused a rift between myself and the game. But last week I played a round with my dad and brother and I’ve decided I might pick it back up. And so far, I’ve been kicking ass. I don’t know what it is, but I’m on a hot streak. I’ve been to the range three times this week, and every shot has had a perfect draw on it. Of course, this being Florida, it’s hot as hell out. So, while hitting balls this afternoon, I got drenched in sweat again. So much so that I could no longer see out of the huge frames of my women’s glasses. On that note, I’m depressed at the fact that my glasses are nearly kaput. After walking hundreds of miles through the New Mexico wilds without so much as a scratch on them, I stepped on them the other morning and have broken the frame. FUCK! Whatever. Anyway, I had a nice back and forth with one of the older members of the club when I went into the office for more range balls. He was sitting on the porch, chain-smoking with some of his friends.
Old Man: (to his friend, about me) “Jeans. It’s the jeans now.”
Dan: “Say another word, and I’ll use your asshole to store my clubs.”
Old Man: “Fuck you. Are those girl’s jeans?”
Dan: “Quit looking at my ass.”
I don’t think I’ll be allowed back there.
I then headed down to the Raw-Vera to see my favorite Rat-tail-sporting-American-Spirit-Smoking-Aging-Hippie-Assistant-Scoutmaster. I walked through the door of his ghetto ass office to find him there, the familiar blue pack of Spirits on the desk and sitting in front of his iMac. He stood up and shook my hand and said he had a present for me. He reached under his desk and produced a twelve-ounce Nalgene Flask, the exact same kind I had wanted to buy Ruthanne. Thanks Mr. Brown. We sat and talked, and by talked, I mean I said ten words over the course of two hours while he spurted on about his kids, business, the Venture Crew, Canada, and Apple Computers. I don’t care though, cause I loves me my Mr. Brown. Although, at one point, the conversation did turn a bit awkward. He pulled up a chain e-mail he had received of a bunch of people who were drunk beyond comprehension. One was of a girl who had passed out upright in the backseat of a car, her breasts spilling forth from her small blouse. And they weren’t nice either. They were the big sloppy kind. The ones with areolas the size of tea saucers.
Mr. Brown: “That chick is just tits out.”
Dan: “Yeah.”
Mr. Brown: “I never much liked those kind anyway.”
Dan: “Uh . . .yeah.”
This is a guy who’s been my scoutmaster since I was seven years old. Just a little weird.
After that I headed to the mall. I hate the mall. I hate the mall with everything I have in me. The reason? I can’t stand teenagers. I know that sounds weird, but for the most part, I hate them. Tends to be that they’re not nearly as cool or funny as they think they are and I’m too much of an eighty year old man to deal with their shit. The mall, it seems, is occupied and operated solely by teenagers. Also, its sole purpose is something else I can’t stand: shopping. More than just buying new things, I HATE having ten people attack me when I walk into a store with inquiries of whether or not I need help with anything. The answer is “No”. It will always be “No”. Even if I was having a massive heart attack, and I really needed to find the defibrillator in Hollister, the answer to the glossy-golden seventeen-year-old princess who asked me would still be “No”. I don’t wanna talk to you, and just because you’re being paid minimum wage with a ten percent commission doesn’t mean you have to smile at me. I hate this place so much that I usually only go right as the mall is about to close so that I can piss off whoever’s working there by pretending like I’m actually interested in buying a remote-controlled Mini Cooper from The Sharper Image. I hate it so much that I started to have a panic attack while sitting in my car at the entrance to Nordstrom’s.
But, I needed pair of genes. So I got over my phobia of that middle-class prison and went inside. Turns out I found nothing. Fuck.
Nothing happened for the rest of the night, except that I came up with an amazing story idea that could only be told in play form. This is kinda hard, since I’ve never written a play before. I’m looking back at this and wondering why I even bothered writing. I just wanted to tell the story of the pants thing, but that kinda fell apart. Either way, I filled up the flask at the beginning of this and now it’s half empty and I fear I’m starting to ramble. I’m also starting to worry. What if I’m too hungover to run tomorrow? I can’t break this streak. This is the healthiest I’ve ever been.
Fuck. There’s another shot’s worth.
I need to stop writing.
I may end up writing something I don’t want to.
Like Uncle Pete’s Top Secret Beef Stroganoff Recipe. I would hate to let that cat out of the bag.