MonkeyPuke Redux: On the Nines

09/18/05

Call the Doctor.

OK, so, I don't know what the flip is going on. I guess I haven't updated in a while. I'm having a hard time remembering things. This probably isn't a good time to update, but dammit, I'm going for it. Despite the fact that, like, I'm having some problems... like, I haven't been wearing any pants all day. I haven't even been outside. I apparently have a deep and terrifying conflict with the correct contracted spelling of "have not" because I endeavor to type "havne't" RE-ASSLICKING-PEATEDLY.

I'd swear that the lace to the shoe sitting next to me was actually a giant face-eating spider if the giant face-eating spider on the shoe next to me didn't seem so steadfastly affixed to the shoe sitting next to me and bare so close a resemblance to a common shoe lace.

You see what I mean here, people? PROBLEMS. I'm having some fucking problems at the moment.

Fuck. Just now, entirely without warning, the Windows License Download page flickered up, consuming the entire screen.

Terrifying.

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Do it Up!

Won't You be my Baby Promotional Tool?

A quick aside: If any of y'all are on myspace, you should go here and make yourselves friendly with Mr. Birdman if you haven't already. I realize that many of you cannot support Teh Diamondhawk by consuming its products, or have simply deemed the products unconsumable, but you can still support Teh Diamondhawk by exposing yourself it to your friends. Thankya much.

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Ass-Kickings Live Here.

Yeah, it's still September, and many days are still some sweaty summer afterthought. These are still, at times, the days of seeking shade and sticky jeans and gettin' reprieve in the frozen foods section. Yesterday it was 85 degrees outside. Some days it is 60, or 50, and on those days life is good. Those days are in preparation for October and its bounty of sweatshirts with no jackets and runs with no i.v. and trees with no green and men made of straw and crows and flannel and trucks full of apples. Those are leaves dropping early.

But one of the very best autumn natives to arrive early for the show every single year has got to be The Football. More specifically, the college football and, most specifically, University of Michigan Football.

Don't get me wrong. I like lots of footballs. I enjoy Eastern Michigan Football. The enjoyment is likely more nostalgia than passion and it exists on a certain level that comes from Saturday nights spent making a clubhouse of Rynearson Stadium and running through the streets of Ypsilanti as a Homecoming Parade clown, but it is enjoyment none the less. EMU is my father's team and I want them to do well. I admit that I also have a soft spot for the Spartans of Michigan State. I even played a Sparty for the day not long ago and went to a game up in East Lansing, which I very much enjoyed. In fact, with the exception of October 7th, I will root for the Sparties probably every game this season. They are my brother's team, and I want them to do well.

The things is, regardless of appreciation and affinities, these teams don't belong to me. Not really. Or rather, I do not belong to them. The pride isn't quite there. The lust is not there. And, like most things of great popular participation, proper participation in college football fanaticism requires, as its base, a decent portion of both pride and lust. It's a little disconcerting at times, sure, but done right it can be immensely warm as far as group applications of time and energy go.

Fine, fine, you say, where is all this bullshit going? Don't worry, I'm not going to extend this into an essay on the anatomy of the college football fan. I'm not going to spurt out some gushy paragraphs on the powerful ties of solidarity and togetherness or a myriad other strings attached. But I wanted to emphasize the base, because it's the base which most accurately accounts for the unreasonable amount of glee I took from seeing the Michigan Wolverines completely embarrass the 2nd-ranked Fighting Irish of Notre Dame on Saturday.

I don't expect all of you to care. Just take note, if you could have seen my face at Duffy's (the U of M bar in Lincoln Park) on Saturday, you would have probably detected that it was not the face of a rational man. In many ways it was the face of relief and exuberance, but it was also the face of a man unreasonably satisfied with affiliation; all pride and lust.

The point is that I am glad we won. I am really really glad we won. Notre Dame's season is probably ruined. We did it. As a result, I am happy.

I'll continue going around saying, "We kicked their ass," as if I had anything to do with it. I'll be a little ashamed that I care so much. Maybe someday I won't really care. But until then, take that,
you smelly*
no good*
effing domers.



* - Sarah Colson may consider herself exempt, for although she is a domer, she is a nice lady of pleasant odor.

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Threadless is my Anti-Job

I almost forgot to tell people to go vote for my latest threadless endeavor. This one is for a themed competition for a band called The Submarines. The theme is "peace and hate," which explains why my submission is so, um, lame. I could have come up with something less lame but that would have probably been more difficult or, at the very least, more time consuming. Also, there is some Latin text in the submission. It's incorrect and I know it, so anyone who took Latin can please can it while I stand here and look sheepish.

Anyway, be a pal and go blindly vote a "$" followed by a "5" and hopefully I'll have something better for you to vote on soon :)

Thankya kindly!

Factory of Doom: Post recall #1

Here begins the practice of labeling all posts regarding the events of August with a little "Post recall #" tag, mainly to help keep me from getting terribly confused about what day it is, what I did yesterday, what I am doing tomorrow, the fact that tomorrow is not August 18th, etc.

So yeah, back to THE FACTORY OF DOOM.

One of those days back then, around the 12th maybe, Heather and I went downtown. I don't know if any of you are very familiar with my general habits in Chicago, but they don't often lead me downtown. I've never really done a whole there besides sit in traffic and wander around and go to train stations. This is probably why I never really realized how effing sweet it is. More precisely, I never realized how effing sweet it is until Heather took me out to a movie on the 8th floor of some Michigan Ave building and then to a nice restaurant. The restaurant in question is the Cheesecake Factory. Yeah, it's touristy and all that, but crap in a hat is it good. This led to overindulgence of its deliciousnessicities and, finally, the rupture of some important organ which proved to be painful and sleep-inducing but ultimately forgettable. The only blemish on the evening occurred when we stopped in at a bar on our way home to meet some friends. It was an Ohio State bar. Suffice it to say, it rubbed me in all the wrong ways in most of the wrong places. Still, pretty effing sweet night. The moral? Do not dismiss any restaurant, as touristy and gimmicky as it sounds, when it occupies half of the footprint of the Hancock Building. Also, if your successful girlfriend wants to take your broke ass out on the town, and all the dashed pride that that entails, let her :) That is all.

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What Hits?

As for the song I claimed to have embedded in my previous post, the one you are no doubt not hearing this very moment, well, I did actually embed it, in all its NFL Films shockwave glory, but it was too much for blogger to handle, and it was fudging royal with me setup. So I axed it.

BUT, it does still thrive off in the backwaters of the Diamondhawk server, in the WallyNation Industries folder, eating large chalii full of crawdads in some Bobby Bouchet Meets Ricky Bobby bayou afterlife...

It'll meet you for lunch, if you like.

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SWEET BUTTERY NIPPLES TART CRUST! IT'S BACK!!

VIVA!!! At long last, the blogger gods up in their tower of google (actually in space) have deemed fit to heed my threatening email whirlwind and restore the blogging privileges so injudiciously withheld from me these last many weeks. Which, I gotta tell ya, is just a cryin' shame, because I had a crap ton to blog about. A CRAP TON. But you know what that means, oh yes. There is no time to lament the lost posts I could have easily written somewhere else and saved but didn't, but still may write in the future, no! By the beard of Zeus, it's time for the revival of the esteemed Bulleted-List-of-Who-Gives-a-Sandy-Williams!

And so...

• My return to the keyboard and bastardized narrative form has found me needlessly over-word-ified. Capiche?
  

• My brother came to visit me in Chicago and we ruled it.
  

• Ann came to visit me in Chicago and I don't recall if we did anything of note.

• No one else came to visit me in Chicago. Shame on you all, you louts.
  

• Crabby McStupid joined my new facebook group, but is on his 3rd? week of radio silence. Pick up your phone you communist.

• I went to Madison, Wisconsin, with Burgler and we ruled it. This will probably earn independent blogging consideration in the future if, sometime between now and the future, which could be anytime really, I happen to be inhabited by something not quite so lazy as myself. Perhaps one of the more industrious lichens. Like, a red one maybe.

• I got shot down at two more interviews woooooooo!
  

• Monty bolted for Boulder and we drank until we forgot ever meeting her, which was handy when Interpol showed up with their fancy warrants and strange tales of Nordic slave trade rings.
  

• Amy split for San Fran, although I'm not 100% sure that she's not just hiding out in her basement...

• You have no idea how big a pain in the ass it was to embed that stupid song. But don't worry, I did it for me own satisfaction, and you won't have to suffer it for long.

• Kyle is now officially a quarter century OLD, and I mean OLD.

I really can't remember what the heck I'm talking about. There has been all sorts of cool crap... parties and people and places and such... and I'm sure some of it is worthwhile to tell, but it's friggin' late o'clock and I can't even remember what month it is now, let alone whichever month I'm supposed to be blogging. I knew even before I regained access to my account that any attempts to do what I am doing right now would be futile. Alas, amidst all this triumphant song, I am going to bed.

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