Sunday

It is a much welcome Sunday after the first of many long weekends. Sundays are why they invented tea and newspapers and slippers and robes and lazy mornings.

Fuck yeah, Sunday, rock on.

Philosophy From A Pimp

We went to a club tonight, like a dance club. There was a legit prostitute there. She went off with some sleazy British guy but her pimp gave us some advice. He said that life's too short to go home early. Then he yelled at some passersby, exclaiming that they were too posh to go and dance at his club. Then he tried to sell my friend weed. Needless to say it was a good night.

Remember How Awesome I Am? I do.

Earlier today I was thinking, "huh, maybe I'm not as awesome as I thought I was," and then I was taught the game of cricket and then I scored like, 25 runs and won the game and now I realize that I am in fact just as super awesome as I had always assumed. Just to give everyone a rundown of my afternoon.

In other news I'm still in London, so I guess that's good. I'll try to keep the fans updated on other outbursts of sheer awesomeness likely to head my way in the near future. Keep up if you dare.

Morning Haiku

There's no joy more prev-

alent than waking up with-

out an alarm clock. 

Realization

Little by little it dawned on her that she wasn't going to have a good life when everything was said and done. The fact that she could reflect upon the paths she had chosen and not come up with a single happy memory was reason for panic in her eyes, and she decided that something ought to be done about it, lest she become so miserable that she drop off the face of the planet without a sound or a trace. That was truly the worst thing in the world, she figured, to disappear as soon as you die.

Writer's Block

For me it involves sitting upside down on a couch while my friend runs around lip-syncing to Michael Buble as she tapes posters to the wall.

I can think of nothing else to say. I guess that's what writer's block is.

Happy Birthday Amy!

Limerick #8

My mother once told me, "my boy,

although you're my pride and my joy,

you're upsetting the balance

with you're huge lack of talents,

so your spirits I have to destroy."

A prize for whomsoever catches the reference in the title.

Tidbits Of Wisdom From This Summer #1

"Everybody's pretty gay for Jack in the Box curly fries."

-Andrew Levy

The Artist's Brain

A dimly lit study, grey night, cluttered desk. A crazed artist sits still, pondering. He ponders life, art, relationships, contentment, religion, rhetoric, society, perception, and the impossible. His papyrus remains undirtied by his graphite, empty and bored. The young artist stares angrily at it and it winks at him, teasing. He scowls, barks at it, falls back into thought. His brain itches. Metaphors topple out and evaporate into space before they can be collected. The artist snatches at them but they are gone, snickering at him until they disappear to leave him again to his bitter silence. Thoughts rattle in his brain louder and louder, shaking it about in his skull like a jumping bean, irritating his existence to the point of absurdity. Orange striped doves weightlessly float past his imagination, countless toenail clippings fade into cream-soaked racing scooters before melding together to create an enormous black statue of a treble clef, suspended midair by eight dozen cherry-filled hot air balloons.

Nonsense. He returns. Gains his bearings. Blinks. The page remains blank and the frustrated artist bangs his clenched fist against his desk. The desk winces slightly, recoiling from the blow. The irritated artist’s hand throbs too but he only bares his teeth quickly and exhales slowly to recapture his previous composure. Bored of the stagnant room, the conscientious artist opens his ears. He pretends he can hear a grandfather clock methodically clicking, its delicate sound waves slicing through the air and tickling his eardrums, giving him comfort in his solitude. There is no clock. He is alone. He and thoughts.

The brain jitters again. This time with a tickling sensation brinking on epiphany. “At last” thinks the relieved artist, but hastily quells this thought to allow the epiphany room to germinate. He doesn’t stop to think “this is important”. He doesn’t pick up his graphite. No. He opens his eyes wide, concentrating on not concentrating. The left thigh begins to twitch uncontrollably and he lets it. The thigh thanks him and continues for a spell and then the artist can’t feel the body he assumes he owns. The brain twirls and flops and squeezes, it dances an elaborate neo-modern piece inside the artist, it is the artist himself and yet its own commodity, confined to his body, a trapped fugitive trying to escape. The terrified artist dares not move and so remains motionless inside his study, but the brain is elsewhere. Soon it can constrain itself no longer and plans its exit stratagem. Through the pores, it calculates. Through the pores.

The sly artist eavesdrops on the thoughts but does nothing to prevent them flowing. The imaginary clock stops ticking as time itself freezes, icy cold, and the brain forces the willing artist to shiver, stimulating the skin. Opening the pores. The restless brain catapults itself towards the skull and crashes, slumps, groans. The dazed artist’s left eye is forced shut. The determined brain decides on osmosis, and funnels its thoughts through the synapses until they reach the pores. Soon the internal pathways are clogged and thoughts leak out. The statuesque artist allows it to happen. The brewing epiphany seeps out his pores. It is slimy, gelatinous, midnight blue, like the blood of a dragon. The curious artist is tempted to lick it, but the cautious brain restrains him. The epiphany pours out systematically, forming a substantial pool of thought on the cluttered desk. It trickles over the empty papyrus, which immediately takes notice and sputters for help as it begins to drown. The paralyzed artist quakes gently, silently, as thoughts emanate from his brain, slithering out uncontrollably until the entirety of the epiphany has been released and the desk overflows with genius. The study falls back into its sedulous tranquility, the atmosphere reeks of anticipation, the artist’s eyes pop shut. Blinks. “Has anything happened?” he wonders, and he anxiously peers down at his desk. It doesn’t wave to him and he becomes skeptical. He peers around the room from his seat. It is still. He doesn’t imagine the grandfather clock in the corner. He remembers how he is alone. The depressed artist glances down at his page. Curious. It is filled with graphite, patterned lines and swoops, sketches, drawings, characters, letters, words, sentences, ideas. He looks it over. It is perfect.

Was this his? It was not the artist who was able to transfer it to the page. It is not a translation from thought to substance that he is looking at, it is pure thought direct from the brain, now lounging, collapsed and exhausted in his skull, perusing its handiwork. The selfish artist decides it is his. His brain, his words, his art, his brilliance. Guilt overtakes him, no doubt a message sent from the brain, informing him of the truth. The artist decides to ignore it. He smiles at the page, laughs. The first sound to be emitted from the dimly lit study for some time. The greedy artist picks up the page, stands. Pushes in the seat. Organizes the desk. Puts away his graphite. He leaves the study spread the word, expose the epiphany. He closes the door, does not notice his heavy shoe splash in an infinitesimal puddle of midnight blue.

James Pearce, Lettings Negociator

In England they spell "negotiate" differently.

If I told you to picture a stereotypical British Real Estate Agent, you would come up with the exact image of James Pearce, Lettings Negociator (that's what it says on his business card). First time we met him he was sporting a dark blue, perfectly fitted checkered suit with a pink and blue striped wide tie, tied perfectly. The pomade in his hair kept it firmly gelled in place, and you could tell that even the few hairs that were slightly unkempt had been placed there on purpose. Upon meeting him on subsequent days this was proven to be true. He talked fast, repeated his main points several times a minute, and on the first day mentioned he has been so busy he didn't "even have time for a cup of tea and a fag," and then gave us a toothy grin and chuckled to himself. He's one of those people who's so charming and so sleazy that you can never tell if he's the good guy or the bad guy. That's who we were dealing with.

Sparing all the horrific details, he's our realtor and we now have the best flat ever, in the nicest part of London, ten minute walk away from school, with a garden and free wireless. I'm skipping over the week of hell we endured in looking at flats all over the various ghettos of London and almost falling short of paying for the place we have now. Well, as James said to us (numerous times) we deserve several pints for our efforts.

That's it. Don't worry, future blog posts will be funnier and less informative, because I know that's what the people want.

Cheers,

Adam

Subway Conversations

BUM: Yo, you a writer?
WRITER: Yeah.
B: What you write about?
W: Oh...you know.
B: No I don't know. What you write about?
W: Prostitutes. Whores who murder the rich businessmen who try to hire them.
B: Damn. That's fucked up.
W: Not really, I'm simply reversing the status quo that we as a society have become accustomed to. It's more of a metaphor for the unjust way the world has been established.
B: Alright. You ain't gonna kill me or nothin?
W: No. You're not a whore, are you?
B: Man, you fucked.
W: I guess I am.

Edinburgh

I guess I believe that where you write could potentially be nearly as integral to a piece as what you write. Thus I have brought my notebook and decided to jot this note down in it while atop the Scott Monument in Edinburgh, Scotland. Here I have a full view of the entire city--the shoreline, Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh Castle, the buildings, the people. Right now I don't feel full; in fact very much is missing for me (as it begins to rain--am I inside a cloud?), but I do feel inspired and close to happy, though most of all I stand here and look out at Edinburgh thoroughly amazed.

Hello London

Fresh off the boat...already I have ravished a beautiful European girl into submission and drunk eighteen pints of Guiness. London is everything you'd think that it would be only better because I'm me.

On a side note, D and I also made sweet passionate love on the plane ride over, just to warm up. It was a great way to calm my nerves down for the flight, because nothing lulls me to sleep more than some great sex.

Leaving for Edinburgh in a few hours to claim my next victim(s). If anyone wants a snow globe or something like that just let me know so that I can tell you to go to hell.

Kittens and Candycanes,
Adam

Goodbye America

I'm closing in on my last few hours in the United States of America and thought that this epic moment in my life deserved its own blog entry.

I just spent an awesome day and a half in New York City with my grandpa before departing for London/Edinburgh. Saw a couple Broadway shows (In The Heights and Boeing Boeing) which were great (except for Boeing Boeing which was terrible), and even met up with Casey at 1 in the morning last night when we discovered we were both in Manhattan. By the way, don't take the subway at like, 3 in the morning...not fun.

Well, I've written a goodbye note to all the people I just had to leave. I was planning on writing like, individual little notes to some people to tell them how great they are but then I decided that'd be way too sad, and too much like I was dying. So in lieu of that I wrote everyone this:

I didn’t have it in me to say any real goodbyes this time, or to let those I needed to let know know how I much I care about them. I’m not good at that. But it's not the end of the world, because the people I need to see again I will make sure I see.

Okay I'm off...wave goodbye to America for me.

Sensitively,

Adam

Open Form Letter to the Masses

Dear Masses:

First of all, fuck you. Second, fuck blogs.

I don't hate blogs, but I do like making fun of them. They suck. Somehow people always delude themselves into thinking they can start a blog that isn't completely self-absorbed and masturbatory. Of course it never works. But it might work for me.* You see, this blog isn't for me, it's for you. It's way less work for me to keep everyone updated on the awesome shit I'll soon be doing by writing one blog than to talk to each of you individually. Besides, having the same conversation more than once bores me. That being said, I will only continue to update this shitty thing if at least a few people are actually glancing at it, because otherwise I'd just feel like too much of a douchebag.

I love each and every one of you who has read this (including myself). You are the best.

Fondly,

Adam

*Generously paraphrased from Arrested Development