Daily Record of the Most Boringest Life on Earth

My upstairs neighbor and her boyfriend engage in loud, long, uninhibited intimacy several nights a week usually between the hours of 1 and 3 am. Below them, trying to sleep in solitude, is me, feeling positively fantastic on hearing their band-pass filtered thumps, shouts and moans. This morning I thought I’d remind them that sound travels both ways. At 7 am they got to enjoy the rhythmic clanking and thudding of my dumbbells over the unrelenting drone of My Bloody Valentine…for a good hour and a half.

That’d be my dad.

Not a lot of dudes can say that their dad took off piloting a plane (all by his lonesome) 2 minutes after which the engine completely cut out, leaving said person stranded without power only ~1000′ over some very unforgiving terrain. Keeping his head whilst his plane accelerated downward toward his possible doom, dude thought to switch to the the plane’s other fuel supply and managed to restart the engine so he could land safely.

Good job saving yourself padre. Many, myself included, would be in shambles if you hadn’t.

I get ads for “Drilling Rig Financing” when I log into MySpace. They make me feel hip.

THIS JUST IN:

…you return home on the bus, forgetting you drove to work that day.

…you return to your car with it’s lights on.

…you leave your car without closing the trunk.

…you forget on which city block you parked your car.

…you repeatedly forget your cell phone.

…it takes you three minutes to figure a total with tip.

…you leave a restaurant forgetting your debit card in the check case.

…you have a hard time following hand signals at the car wash.

…you mistake stop lights for stop signs.

…you forget to eat.

…you’re perpetually short with friends and co-workers.

…you repeatedly call your friends by the wrong name.

…the highpoint of your day is breakfast.

I found this badical coffee shop in Wallingford directly across the street from my old place. It’s called Mosaic community coffeehouse. It occupies the basement of a church so it’s correspondingly massive inside. They got plenty of seating, games, rugs, National Geographics, a piano and even the same series of World Book encyclopedias I had as a tyke. When I discovered that they price their drinks on what they call a “sliding scale” (i.e. pay “what you feel is right”) I was dumbfounded. I’ve heard of this mythical sliding scale in movies and such, but never believed it could actually exist.

Now… If only I can escape to my car before Leon spots me from across the street.

Last night, driving back from band practice, this came pumping out of the speakers:

“…isotope soap, isotope soap…
…wash my head, now my brain is dead…
with isotope soap, isotope soap
…wash my ear, couldn’t hear for a year…
isotope soap, isotope soap…”
…wash my dick, now my babies are sick
isotope soap, isotope soap…”

Isotope Soap, Geza X, 1981

Being 3 years old, I guess I didn’t have the opportunity (or capacity) to appreciate this masterpiece when it first came out. I do remember liking me some Hall and Oates though.

Every morning I wake up with a bastard-ass cramp in my right foot. Anybody have any ideas on what might be causing this?

…under the right circumstances, my eyes will lock on legs of female Homo Sapiens as well. Hot damn!

Perhaps it’s due to the rare stint of happiness I’m currently experiencing but these past days I’ve been appreciating (much more than usual) the enticing curves bounding female lower extremities. Boo-yah do they ever make me feel alive. If you’re so inclined, happy hour at Chapel is one of several curve-aficionado venues that I’ve discovered; just sit close to (but not at) the bar and you’ll soon discover what I’m talking about.

Since it’s mid-June, female Seattleites can comfortably wear knee-length (or higher) dresses–much to the delight of Seattleite heterosexual males like me. Capitol Hill is the best neighborhood in the city for male women-lovers such as I to spend our summer months. Residing here are beautiful women aplenty, while most resident CH males tend to lie on the more homesexual end of the sexuality spectrum [or, if you’ll forgive the Midnight Cowboy reference, tend “to be them tootie-fruity types”]. Males in California may get exposure to beautiful skin throughout the year but they can’t appreciate freshly-exposed girl-skin the way us northerners do…being that we’ve been deprived of it for nine months or more.

Perhaps I feel free to engage in such extravagances right now. That grant on which I worked my butt off three months ago will not be funded this go ’round, but the score I received is certainly nothing to be ashamed of, especially after eight years of the Bush-mandated-“scientists-go-fuck-yourselves”-climate of research funding. [Bushboy’ll get his just desserts in “his afterlife” so I won’t waste characters bashing him here].

Anyway, I know this post has the capacity to offend. I certainly don’t mean it to do so. I’m just recording my present experience for my future reflection.

No longer do I dread returning to a butt-nasty apartment. I spent most of yesterday cleaning. Now, it’s just bad (but not nasty).