They’re doing a photo shoot for some artist at my desk right now, so I’m going to sit here and idly type and pretend nothing is going on. I cant wait for some “who the fuck is that guy comments” from publicists when they see these pictures. ME MOTHER FUCKER. That’s who.
Sorry about the lack of updates, I’ve been slipping into madness. You want to drive someone completely fucking crazy?? Take them out of their Midwest beer-bred home, throw them into the middle of New York, give them a low man job shoveling shit on the way up for one of the hugest record labels in the country, make them live with randoms, including gay drama types, bitchy Asian girls, and a nice Bolivian family. Throw in numerous loveless encounters with hot women, some poorly timed supreme drinking powers, and a penchant for dick swingin name-droppery and they MIGHT survive. I have, barely, at the risk of my sanity, I am having an amazing time, but DAMN.
“No sir, we are not accepting unsolicited material, yes sir I believe you that your music is ‘the next shit’ but there’s really nothing I can do at this point.”
So, I owe you guys a lot (by “you guys” I mean Joey and Ogren) but not much has happened lately, so I will pull some old shit out of my ass like a colonic.
A few months ago, I dragged my friends to a weirdo dub electronic show (Deadbeat) that was in this place called “The Bunker”. It looked like an Eau Claire, Wisconsin house party basement and smelled worse because it was packed with sweaty dudes who like drum and bass (possibly the smelliest dudes on the planet), that was it, except for two girls, the only two there for a few hours. I rabidly hit on them to impress my friends, at the same time vying for some gross club make-outs. They were Australian, meaning they were pretty cool, but they wouldn’t do shots with me and since that’s the only way I know how to get anything done, I gave up.
I wandered over to my friends, to find them fighting about whether or not “It was him” or not. I looked at who they were arguing about, he looked like Michael Stipe holding hands with some guy. My friend Jay walked up and said, “are you him?” He confirmed. After this we all turned into giggling idiots, even though I barely like R.E.M. I still made it all too clear to my friends that Stipe’s presence meant that I was cool for bringing them to this unbelievably hip place.
I don’t remember how many drinks I had at this point, but if I had to guess, I would place it somewhere between “numerous” and “many”. Anyway, somehow this happened…
The flash from that picture was like a neuralyzer from Men In Black (GEEK TEST!) because I don’t remember SHIT after that.
I woke up butt naked in the middle of Brooklyn to a very disappointed looking blonde girl whose name I DID NOT remember, not even an initial’s worth.
Her “You don’t know where you are and you don’t know my name, do you?”
Me “Nope! Morning sex?”
She declined and hustled my confused ass out the door, refused to tell me her name, told me I was “mad entertaining” and pointed me in the direction of the train. I was an absolute wreck and almost died three times in the summer sun, dehydrated, and utterly confused, shit…still drunk. This was a weekday.
Later, I remembered one thing, this girl would not give me water when we got home, she would only let me drink sangria…cruel. Whatever, its because of that move that I probably passed out, unable to fulfill her.
So there you have it, the story has all the typical Name Drop Acid elements: Drinking, celebrity sightings, and a loveless encounter with a hot female. This kind of shit is why I am going crazy.
