Monday, February 21, 2005

Being and Nothing(ness)

It’s a holiday. It’s a Monday holiday. And I am conceivably working on both a freelance project and work for work that absolutely needs to be done by tomorrow. It’s 3:36. I need to turn off VH1’s “Most Cheesetastic TV Stars” (#12 Bob Ross: "Public television should never be overstimulating or in your face..."), but you can imagine how hard that must be. So instead of offering you my usual array of fascinating articles or web links or fortunes, I use you, my blog reader, as my own distraction.

I. Don’t. Want. To. Do. My. Work.

There. So much better. Yet, not that much time has elapsed. Crap. Back later, I’m sure. (Maybe I will bring with my some fascinating distraction for you. We can all hope.)

I offer an apology for lapsing into the blog world’s worst: babbling about nothing. (I know you’ll forgive me just this once, yes?)

Oh, here's a fun one: Saturday night, a 22-year-old Brooklyn Kid, complete with hood cap and oversized jacket, told me I looked like his first-grade teacher. At 4 a.m., I thought that was a rockin compliment. It was the nerd-chic glasses, he said. I replied, "Well, first-grade teacher? I'll take that! That could be a great thing!" (Not even I know what I meant, but Brooklyn Kid laughed, and I felt all too pleased.

12 Comments:

At 4:53 PM, Blogger Vexation said...

Somedays it just feels right to be used.

 
At 5:27 PM, Blogger mcbickle said...

I'm glad we understand each other.

Now, not only do I not want to do my work, but I have yet another project heaped on the others. This one involves calling various homicide squads and confirming the names, dates, and deaths of two people. Now it just feels right to stop complaining. To a degree.

 
At 8:59 PM, Blogger Vexation said...

Don't stop babbling on our account. I need the distraction as well because:

I. Don't. Want. To. Do. My. Work. Either.

Screw it... It's happy hour once again...

Cheers!

 
At 9:38 PM, Blogger mcbickle said...

holy crap. i've tried to delete the second (i.e. first comment) i wrote with the minor grammatical error. see, i managed, three whiskeys in, to attempt to delete the first one, but Mr. Blogger, as always, has his own ideas...oh, somebody save me.

 
At 9:55 PM, Blogger Vexation said...

Sadly I think the only ones likely to be available to save you at this moment are: Jim Beam, Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels, or Mr. Gibson.

Personally I'm going to go Sailing with Captain Morgan and visit the Bacardi Bat's.

 
At 10:00 PM, Blogger mcbickle said...

Mr. Gibson? Who that? You got me on that one. See, now, I'm beyond the continuous drinking. Now watching a documentary about middle-aged twats and the openness they've lost over the years. Pretending that any minute now I will have the sense to finish the work I didn't hours ago. Oh. shite. (As those in that other country say.)

 
At 12:48 AM, Blogger sheleena said...

are we all drinking over here too? oh man, i didn't realize it was drunken blog night... i would have posted about my secret love affair with alexander keith...

 
At 11:57 AM, Blogger mcbickle said...

s, you didn't get the memo?
well, the morning after drunken blog night, i have to ask: who is Alexander Keith?

 
At 1:53 PM, Blogger sheleena said...

he's an old old man...
http://www.keiths.ca/k_main/k_main_index.htm

 
At 2:03 PM, Blogger mcbickle said...

tricky canadian.

 
At 9:47 AM, Blogger Vexation said...

And I see the morning after you were also able to sort out your issues with Mr. Blogger and make the comment disappear...

Mr. Gibson - A vague reference to Gibson's Finest, a whiskey that seems to have become a hit with many of my associates in the lower 48. They often request a bottle be brought each time I travel down.

Didn't realize there was a memo... I just stumbled across a perfectly good party going on and decided to crash it.

 
At 11:21 AM, Blogger mcbickle said...

i love that! i love that my rockin party of one was there for you, v. and i'll have to check into this mr. gibson. because i know mr. maker has definitely already left his mark.

 

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