Drunken Function

It is truly unbelievable how drunk one can be and nevertheless function. It makes me wonder at the low level of expectancy. Has the bar been set so low, in the name of progress?
Honestly, I could arrive at work smashed, sozzled, sloshed… my co-workers might notice, but my boss would not be able to tell a difference in my productivity. I once sat in front of my boss and demanded a great bloody smacking raise, still completely pissed from the past night, and got it.
Hell, I notice the difference, I feel the slightest hesitance along the way, but no more; and, in fact, I get the same amount of work done in the same time.
Ahh… but I notice, on the days when I am rarin’ to go, that I have not enough to do, that I am not in the least challenged… well. I suppose I should be thankful. After all, it leaves me the mental energy to write. You are thankful for that too… aren’t you, dear reader?
Listening to Changing Of The Guards as rendered by Patti Smith. Damned good.

Hop, Skip…

The horrible thing about a blog is, you have to figure out something to write every few days, otherwise no swine will visit your fucking blog because they are all so damned impatient and constantly bored that their attention-span amounts to the length of a hunch-backed flea.
So, here I sit, thinking about what to write, and not a damned thing occurs to my somewhat addled brain on this fine Monday morning. I hate Mondays. Which reminds me of a Banksy piece. For those of you who don’t know it: tough shit. For those of you who do: tough shit. 
Just the Way it Goes from Jaya the Cat.
 Now that we have dispensed with the cancel (ehhh, I hate it when my fingers type something they think I meant when I meant something completely different) CYNICAL formalities, how about a drink? 
And a jump.


The older I get, the more sentimental I get. And looking back, I wonder at what an unforgiving bastard I was, as a young man. I had as many failings as the next fellow, but do you think I saw them? I gave them lip-service: I always did say that I am, myself, an asshole. But did I truly believe it? I don’t think I really did. And now I know: I was. I was an arrogant fool. Gad, those were the days, when I could be a self-assured idiot without second thought. I really believed I saw the big picture, when in fact I didn’t know squat.

Going Overboard

Like, in the sense of, doing too much, like hey, no don’t… no! Too late. You already have.
Excess leads to wisdom. The problem is, when you’ve excessed enough to get that far, you can’t spell wsdion anymore. You’ve gone overboard. You no longer know or care what wisdom is. Perhaps that is the quintessence of wisdom? No, it can’t be. At the very most, you know the morning after what wisdom is: don’t drink more than you can hold.
The funny thing is, excess has other advantages as well! It allows you, for instance, to forget all those wonderful women you have been acquainted with… at least for a while.
Now, I don’t want you to think I am a misogynist. I really like women; sometimes I love them. Some of my best friends are women. Heh. But they do seem to have a penchant for hurting me, and they always manage to make me feel like it’s my fault in the end, even though my reasoning part tells me that this is not the case. Perhaps I just haven’t found the right one. Perhaps my reasoning part is just a complete idiot and doesn’t understand a fucking thing.
Listening to Babubudu, from Leningrad.


There are a couple of songs I really love where the singer screams. The Pogues’ Turkish Song of the Damned, Los Lobos’ Mas y Mas, just to name two examples. I often scream along, if I know that my landlord is out at the moment. It helps, it’s a release to do so.
God knows there is enough to scream about in this world. There is even scream-therapy, which just seems ridiculous to me, because when I do scream, it’s spontaneous. Can you imagine sitting there with ten other people, and the therapist says: so, now we will all scream. Sorry, but I am rolling on the floor laughing just thinking about it.
Just recently I let out a right royal scream. It’s a bit complicated explaining why, so I’ll just keep it short and say I was extremely frustrated and exasperated by a woman and a man both at once. I opened the window in the top floor of the house I was visiting and let out a relatively short high scream, really, really fucking loud. I can be damned loud, like yelling-to-be-heard-two-miles-away-loud if necessary, and it was necessary to me in that moment, though no one was listening.
There was some slight satisfaction in answering everyone who asked „did you hear that scream a couple of minutes ago, what the hell was that?“ with: Uh, no.


It is quite amusing to be coupled. It is a new experience for me, having been a married man for so many years and then having a steady girlfriend for quite some time. But that didn’t work out and I’ve been free for a little while and of course my friends do their best not to allow me even a few days of peace, a few blissful weeks without having to worry if I haven’t somehow insulted or disappointed a woman who supposedly loves me.
So, I find myself visiting my friends and, what a coincidence, it just happens that there is a single woman there, who just happens to be visiting them at the same time. Hoppla. It really is quite amusing and quaint, somehow. I feel like I am living in a village 200 years ago, in a time where people thought it strange that a man or woman should live alone.
The worst part is that the people –me included of course– who are supposed to be coupled know exactly what is going on and nevertheless somehow have to act as if it were a normal, coincidental meeting. I have to admit I often fail on that count completely, and have to break out in abrupt laughter, seemingly without reason. Even if I manage to avoid doing that, I am afraid the sardonic smirk I can’t seem to keep off my face in such situations doesn’t exactly ingratiate me with the females in question. But often enough they are themselves so flustered that they don’t even notice. Some of them are quite painfully uncertain and eager to please, and that is painful to me, because I don’t want to be pleased and am myself not particularly willing to please. But I can understand that it is difficult to act normal in those situations: after all, I can hardly do so myself.
There was one woman I met recently in this way who acted naturally, and we laughed together about the situation, and made mild fun of our mutual friends for trying to couple us. It was a fine evening, and I wouldn’t mind seeing her again, but in spite of that it didn’t really „click“. She was attractive too… but if it doesn’t click for me I’ve no real interest. I never have fucked a woman I didn’t earnestly love, crazy as that may sound to some people.
Listening to Love to be Loved from Peter Gabriel, by the by.