Snapped

Wow. March 24. What the hell happened to the last few months...?

When it comes to this blog, I feel like a walking guilt-trip. I've honestly flirted with the idea of canning it altogether, if only to avoid the impending backlash from friends or family about my chronic sloth. But SportsWhit wants an update, and work is painfully slow, so here goes.

Since I last posted here, I have (in no particular order): written three cover stories for the Indy; published my second freelance magazine story, this time for some petty cash; composed a handful of original songs on mandolin; recorded two tracks with Sean at Club Shmed Studios; skied the Beartooth Pass for an upcoming freelance magazine story; skied a snowfield above Hidden Lake for shits and giggles; attended one coworker's wedding; RSVPed to three more weddings; joined Twitter; abandoned Facebook; watched the Twins lost to the Angels again...and again...and again; moved in with K-Hole buddy and now-landlord Kyle; hosted countless parties; played music in the garage during countless parties; played Rock Band during countless parties; built fires during countless parties; gawked at a neighbor walking her five cats (yes, cats) during countless parties; drank countless liters during countless parties; done other things during countless parties; woke up to countless killer hangovers after countless parties.

Between the office, the bars and the hammock, haven't budgeted much time for ye olde blog. But (and I know I've said this before...repeatedly) I'm hoping to remedy that. I'll likely go into more detail about all the things listed above, and all the things to come, in coming days/weeks/months. For now, I'm going to shamelessly plug our paper's new website and just refer you to the Indy for the real reason I've been absent from the bloggosphere of late (though take note I'm now blogging for work).

Here's something creative, to make up for the annoying and self-incriminating list above. Take care, folks. Talk soon.

Finding the car

Two girls lean against brick outside Bodega,
Dejected, embarrassed, texting with looks that say
“Whatever. Fuck.”
Three men, black uniforms, black 9 millies on black belts,
Hands holding fake licenses, hands reaching to radios.
Bored, perhaps reassessing location or career choice.
Drunks stroll by, gawk, then forget what they’ve seen,
Lost in alcohol dreams.

Whatever. Fuck.

Every cologne known breeds in air with Jaegermeister and body odor,
An assault on the senses.
Beyond glass walls glass lives glide along Spruce,
Skaters in a scheme less than grand.
Drink, dance, flirt. Back to my place?
Yes and the hot night is hotter.
No and the cold heart is colder.
Two men, more cops. Busted looks on busted faces.

Whatever. Fuck.

Done with the heat, with bad service, with the fire twirlers in the alley.
No Chelsy tonight, no waitress to chat with,
to pass a number to
Jokingly at first, but with a phantom of hope.
Walk on, boy, walk on.
Past alleys, past drunks, past tomorrow morning’s regret.
Glass lives, filled with whiskey and vodka and shattered with one word.
Yes.

Whatever. Fuck.

July 24, 2009