Whackin It

I got a little day drunk at lunch today (my mom was in town for the flower show, but that's a whole 'nother story. Also for the love of god, if you still check this thing mom, stop reading now.) and I'm still kinda pissed that my proper site isn't up and running yet, so I might as well tear off a legit post.

Here's the story of how I got caught whackin it.

There are things that happen in life, that at the time, seem like the most mortifying, horrifying thing ever. You think that they'll bring an end to life as you know it, will cause you to to be ostracized and result in general outcasterism. As a neurotic kid who was way too concerned with other peoples' opinions, this was pretty much everything for me. But you get older, you grow up and you realize how fucking hilarious this stuff is. The time I got caught jerking off in high school definitely falls into this category.

I lived in a cul de sac growing up. Ok, it wasn't really a cul de sac, the road just kinda ended in a dirt patch and then there was a field. But whatever. In about junior high, one of my friends from school moved in across the street. We'll call him B. B was the funny kid in school. He was someone you didn't want to have any dirt on you, because he would bust your balls at will.

I was terrified of B, while at the same time desperate for his friendship and approval. And here's the thing about B, when you were one on one, he was totally capable of being kind and empathetic. But, as we all know, kids are ruthless. I'm just as guilty of this kind of shit myself and it's something I regret...a lot. But, I was a kid and I was the biggest cliche in the book (covering up my own insecurities by pointing out flaws in others.)

I'm pretty sure I was a sophomore, maybe a freshman when this all went down. Now, if you know anything about fourteen to fifteen year-old boys, you know this: they masturbate. A lot. I don't know how these kids today survive. I would have pulled it off with all the porn available. These kids have no idea how good they have it. They'll never have to talk a greasy kid at school into stealing some of his dad's gross porn. They'll never scour the woods for woods porn (This exists. For real.) They'll never have to have a secret cache of Victoria Secret catalogs and Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issues stowed in the bathroom. It was a rough time, the 90's.

Which brings us to the point of this story. It wasn't so bad that I got caught beatin' it, it's what I was beating it to that's funny.

It was summer and like most days, I decided to have some sexy time with myself. The lock on my door was broken. This usually wasn't a big deal, as my family was pretty good about knocking.

I got myself set up on the floor. Put my "material" in front of me, dropped trough and laid myself over the blue corduroy husband pillow that was so dear to me (there's another masturbatory story about this pillow, but that's for another time.) So there I am, getting really into my "material" and having at myself. I'm going at it for a few minutes when I hear something behind me. I turn around to see B standing there, eyes bulging out of his head. He closed the door and tore ass down the stairs. I ripped my pants up and turned a shade of hot red.

Now, as I've said, it was bad enough that I'd just got caught beating off, but what was I jerking it to? Thanks for asking. It was. Well. Here, just look at the goddamn picture:



Ayep, I had gotten caught beating off to Stephen King's "It". The book no less. Like I said, times were rough, and there was a pretty hot sex scene in it. The kicker? I'm pretty sure it was a copy that I'd borrowed from B. I think it was his mom's. Needless to say, I never returned it.

To his credit, B never said a word about it. I'm pretty sure he told everyone, I mean I grew up in a tiny town, everyone knew everything, but he never said a word to me about it.

Holy Shit

I've come across some interesting stuff while doing research to get my dumbass tattoo fixed. This is one of my favorite, awesome tattoos:



Edit. Here's idea number one for my cover up:

me: i am...it's gonna be foghorn leghorn riding a tazmanian devil w/ jesus drinking a 40 in the background and an alien holding a bong with "take me to your dealer" underneath. and a yin yang.

Next Time I'm Just Going to the Bar

So today was supposed to be a pretty productive snow day, with some awesome - read shitty - Sci Fi peppered in for good measure. I was planning on starting off the day geeking out on Flash Gordon, mission accomplished. Then I was gonna get to work on a little reading and some other nagging projects. I thought this would be a much better way to spend the day than going to the bar like any healthy, red-blooded real American.

I got some reading done and got a bit accomplished, but then I figured out how to get my webcam to work on chatroulette.com. Chatroulette being a site that instantly matches you with strangers on web cams around the world. You know, so you can dialogue with someone on the other side of the globe about social issues and the like. I guess that was their intent. Maybe. What you mostly end up seeing is cock. Lots and lots of cock. Sweet mother of christ. Some important lessons were learned, tears were shed and I really need a hug and a shower now.

But, there was learning about the glorious tapestry of humanity to be had. Here's what I learnt:

• A head of lettuce is a perfectly acceptable masturbatory supplement.
  
• Doods love to jerk it. Love. It.
  
• Seriously. I used to think I was into the porn a bit too much, but my god I am a prude.
  
• There are some sad and very lonely men out there.
  
• Goatse. Remember goatse? Got to see that awesomeness again.
  
• Weirdos on the internet don't like me. Sad face. Oh wait this is good.
  

I will most definitely get drunk and go on chatroulette again. And god forbid I ever start dabbling in weed again, I'll be over that shit. But I'll probably avoid it for a while. I mean, it's only gonna be around for another week, max, before someone ends up killing someone on it and it gets shut down.

Sci Fi Snow Day

Running commentary about the shitty Sci Fi movies I'm watching today at twitter:



Full Sci Fi SnowDay tweets are here:
http://twitter.com/abefroman

Snowmaggedon, Imma Gettin It

So it was snowmageddon, or snowpocalypse, weekend this weekend. I didn't do anything particularly stupid, so there's not much to blog about. I did fall down Dr. Awesome's Webster stairs, though.



Webster stairs being servant's stairs. I can't help but think that this fall would have been a little less painful if there'd been a grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs, like in the show, to take the brunt of my tumbling body. I mean really. Also, if a large greek man with a sweet 'stache had been there to comfort me after my tumble, I can't help but think that things would have been a bit better. Where is my Mr. Papadopoulos, I ask you?

Other than that, I made it through Snowface Off: Face Your Snow Off weekend relatively unscathed.

Looking for Snowmageddon 2, the Reckoning tomorrow night though. I'll make sure to do something stupid just so I have a decent blog entry.

Just in Case You Forgot

Flash Gordon is an under-appreciated cinematic masterpiece. It's also got a kickass soundtrack:



I really have to become a supervillian, just so I have an excuse to menacingly say "eearrrrth" the way homeslice does in the beginning of this video. I just may start doing it randomly anyway.

Also, at the end he totally says, "You looney bird, they need you on the ground." The fuck Flash? Seems to me the most effective arena for a beardo bird warrior dood would be in the sky man.

Quickly Now

I just tried to google something, and mis-typed one of the words. I have decided that when I finally sit down to record my low-fi album of songs about my cats that this typo will be my band name. Yes some day, I shall release this on the world:

Calculator Snog

Compounding Anxiety

If you've known me for, like, five minutes, you probably know that I'm totally unsatisfied professionally. You probably also know that I recently sent out a shitload of grad school apps. You may further know that I'm now freaking out waiting for those answers to roll in.

I don't know if it's because my fucking head felt like it was going to explode tonight, but I've decided to allay that anxiety by, well, compounding it. I dug out the old Writer's Market and started digging through literary magazines that accept "experimental" work. I'm told this is what my stuff would fall under. Tonight, I submitted online what, I think, is my best work to about five publications. I'll submit to about five more tomorrow night and so on until I'm through every market that might take my work. Then I'll plow through the publications that only take hard copy manuscripts. Then, I'm gonna go through again, submitting my second best work, until I know, one way or another if I'm wasting my time.

Here's to sore throat induced freak outs!

Birthright

If you're born a Kennedy man, you're probably gonna die young and beautiful; unless you get shitfaced, drive off a bridge and let the broad in the car drown. The Johnson men have the wealth of the family business and a life of leisure (seriously, watch that movie "Born Rich"). When you're a man born into my family, you also get a special legacy all your own: the gingerbeard.

All the men in my family have the gingerbeard. Except my father, oddly enough...hmm. My one uncle's gingerbeard is pretty prominent, to the point that my friends referred to him as Redbeard. He also kinda looked like a viking, in that Molly Hatchet sorta way, so I'm sure that didn't help. I remember growing out my first patchy beard and seeing the first strips of red and orange. It was like a Bar Mitzvah, a vision quest and umm, some other coming of age thing all at once.

My hair is pretty dark. I wouldn't call it black, but it's not too far off. Yet, when I let my face get a bit wild and wooly, the hair color runs the gamut from jet black to white. There are shades of orange and yellow in my beard that don't occur in nature. I suppose this would be some sort of benefit should I ever get back to my roots and take up deer huntin'. I wouldn't need to invest in one of the blaze orange vests.

Yes, being the lone male bearer of the family name and all the proud traditions that come along with it - a penchant for Notre Dame football, having thin chicken legs, inexplicable bouts of rage over the most inconsequential things, ball busting that always goes way too far and gets way too personal and hair that shall never be groomed - is a special burden. But, I suppose things could be worse, I did get some sweet chicken legs, after all.

Now, on with the largely inconclusive photographic evidence! (you could see the gingerbeard a lot better in these photos before I started dicking around with the curves, but every shot looked like it was pulled directly off a Meghan's law web site...hence the editing):

Relationship Advice

I'm friends with lots of girls, mostly because I had bad male role models growing up and I'm, admittedly, a bit of a fruit. As such, I end up giving lots of relationship advice. This is hilarious because I fucking suck at relationships myself. Yet time and time again I find myself dishing out real talk to my estrogen friends. I've decided to just start responding to everyone in relationship-ese. Por ejemplo:

Kacie: i know but dont u think its weird that she never called me back

me: she clearly just doesn't like you...you should text her, but if she doesn't respond you can't write back because then she'll know that you LIKE her!

This was a coworker asking me if I thought it was weird that our boss hadn't called her back.