2010 - Winner Or Loser?

The idea for this blog came to me after a succession of rotten days in November of 2009.
I thought I could reap some decent comedy from my daily humiliations.
It's a popular, well worn path.
I assumed most days would be a "loss" and joking about it would help lighten the load.
But it only magnified my misery.
This silly diary made me confront the fact I had to change my life.

Messengering had become my security blanket.
It had tattered away to nothing, and I was still clinging to it.
I couldn't keep writing about being stuck in a dead end job in a dying industry.
It was funny at first, but then it grew pathetic.
So after ten years, I officially retired.
I'm not sure I would have quit if I hadn't been publicly pouting about it every day.
I probably would have just found more things to drink.

A lot of good things happened this year.
I got engaged to a most beautiful woman.
I toured Europe and recorded with The Bitter Tears.
I formed The Nurse Novels and recorded an album.
I recorded with Tijuana Hercules.
I played drums for The Second City.
I conceived and directed a silly show about a Beatles tribute band.
I did music and taught improv at The Annoyance.

Remember when I was a jogger?
That happened.
What else.

I wrote a lot.
It seems I wanted to make writing work for me.
I considered journalism.
But I think I respected journalism too much to sully it with my drivel.
It's too legitimate.

So I freelanced very, very briefly with The Onion AV Club.
I thought I could write goofy blurbs on city happenings.
I pitched an interview piece about improvisers and bad audience suggestions.
If it got published it would pay $50.
I thought it would be a good foot in the door.
Using Facebook I interviewed a bunch of friends, and got some good quotes.
It took a week to get it all together.
The editor liked the piece and shelved it.
It never ran.
I pitched another idea: A Misanthrope's Guide To The Taste Of Chicago.
The editor didn't like that one as much.
Then he quit being the editor, and I lost interest in sort of working for the possibility of maybe $50.

I also tried writing for Groupon.
Again.
In 2009 I freelanced as a humor writer.
When it was time for full-time hirings, I was in Europe with the Bitter Tears.
Upon my return, they lost interest in me.
My friend who did get hired put it this way.
"You had that job.  But then you went on tour."
This summer, a details writer position had opened.
I sent in my samples.
The guy who hired details writers asked me if I was serious about having a full time job.
I told him yes.
A week later I followed up about my samples in an email.
He didn't respond.
Another week went by.
I applied for customer service.
Customer service said that I was still being considered for the details writer position.
I emailed the details writer guy.
No response.
I no longer wanted to work for Groupon.
A few weeks later, I met my humor writer friend for drinks.
"Yeah, he hired a bunch of young hot girls."
I think I made the right choice in not pursuing that further.

I may not have made any money writing this year, but it didn't stop me from doing it.
I wrote and read original pieces for The Paper Machete and The Ray's Tap Reading Series.
I wrote in moving cars and I wrote while working bars.
I gave out stories as Christmas gifts.
In total, I made $0 writing this year.
But if the glass is half-full, then writing those Christmas stories did save me a little money.
The glass is hall-full, alright.  
Half-full of shit.
Nevertheless, I'm going to keep writing.
I've gotten really good at first drafts.

It's funny.
I still feel as scattered and unfocused now as I was at the beginning of the year.
I know that I want to write.
I want to publish something that will make people laugh and resonate on a deeper level.
I know I've still got a lot of work to do.
I have to figure out the business.
Whatever that means.
I'm pretty sure I can do it if I don't let myself get in the way.
A misanthrope's guide to travel is a good idea.

Here is the final tally:

Wins: 250
Losses: 114
Shit: 1

May was the winningest month with 25 wins.
This can be attributed to being in Europe for most of that month.

December was the losingest month with 14 losses.
This can be attributed to financial burden and Christmas.

The shittiest day was September 15.
The day I emptied RV's of their human excrement.

But that was not the worst day.
I don't know which day was the worst.
It's hard to pick just one.
Probably one of those summer days spent soaking in my own butt sweat losing money and jacking off in the back of the van to induce a temporary suicidal cum coma.
I had several of those.

The best day was October 23.
My engagement to Lauren played out like a goofy, feel-good hour-long sitcom.
I'm looking forward to our nuptials.

It was a tall order.
Writing about every single goddamn day.
821 pages.
177,884 words.
I can't believe I actually finished it.

It seems I am a winner.
At least for this year.

Thank you for reading.

December 31 - Cafe Bong

Today is my mom's birthday.
Lauren and I took her out to eat at one of those Brazilian meat houses.
That is what she wanted.
We ate an endless parade of steak, lamb, pork, chicken.
We ate forever.
The room turned warm.
Our eyes glistened with blood and bacon juice.
We paid the bill in meat.

True Grit was playing at the movies.
The rare film that we all liked without compromise.
How often does that happen?

We bid farewell to my Mom and headed back to the city.
Tomorrow morning Lauren leaves for Louisville.
She will be there for five weeks.
Which means I'll have no one to slap me straight when I start letting myself go during the inevitably unemployed winter of discontent in cold, dark Chicago January.
December's been rough lately.
January's looking even meaner.
Fun needed to happen soon.

We went to Cafe Bong.
It's a dive bar known for its karaoke.
I've always wanted to go there.
It looks horrible.
We walked in and were confronted with a thick stench.
It reeked like a vestibule in a rancid Vietnamese sandwich shop.
Lauren balked and made an offended grandmother face.
To me it smelled like adventure.
"C'mon, let's go!"
Once inside, we were greeted by a happy Korean woman, dressed to the sixes.
She gestured at the buffet of tin foiled Korean fare.
It looked authentic and frightening.

The karaoke was in effect.
Behind the bar, a VCR-esque machine sat hooked up to a tube TV.
The production on the videos was very 80's, meaning cheap 90's.
A bearded kid in a tux commandeered the remote control.
You could manipulate the tempo of the song, and make key changes(!).
He led his pack of pals as they passed the mic around the bar, goofing on all the hits.
After each performance, a crazy Japanese cartoon noise would scream your score at you.
"96!!!"
Everyone was in jolly spirits.

Lauren and I took the two stools at the end of the bar.
A Marilyn Monroe poster sat on top of a cigarette machine, leaned against a neglected wall.
The corner acted as storage for cases and cases of beer.
We perused the playlist, a thick tattered binder.
70% Japanese (I think), 30% English.
Some of the selections were crazy.
They had four songs by Helloween.
You know, the German 80's metal band.

We drank Corona.
Well, I did.
Lauren wasn't feeling that well.
"We'll go after one song," I promised.
It took me a long time to decide on a song.
As it always does.
I ordered another beer.
Lauren got a soft drink.
We made conversation with the woman to our left.
She was there alone.
We talked about acting and work.
I think she was happy to see us.
She handed me a microphone for a duet.
"94!!!"
But that didn't count as a song.
Poor Lauren.

It was my turn.
I had chosen "Night Fever" by The Bee Gees.
I do love that song, and the whole Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.
My falsetto was in fine form.
It danced well above the staff.
For the third chorus I sung in my given register.
Variety!
Then back to the sweet tones of my Corona-courageous obbligato.
I finished the song in tandem with its fade out.
Save for a few smatters, the room laid still as the cartoon made its judgment.
"100!!!"
Whoa!
The room of fifteen exploded.
The bearded kid with the tux high-fived and high-tenned me.
It was the first 100 of the night.
He bought me a drink.
Lauren was happy for me, but happier now that the song was over and it was technically time to go.
While I downed my congratulatory beer, the Korean proprietor sang a traditional song.
I think she did "ギテペミロ".
Either that or "ぎのま".
It got the room's attention.
Everyone applauded respectfully.
Then the bearded kid in the tux appointed me to sing Abba's "Waterloo".
I forgot how the verse went.
"Mmmnnnyyaaa..I bryn ni yaya nya nya..."
I did that thing where you laugh at yourself but no one else is laughing at or with you.
The bearded kid in the tux rescued me with an off-mic guide vocal and goosed it up a few keys to salvage the blunder.
We did not score 100 that time.

Poor Lauren.
I still had more beer to finish.
Midnight was nearing.
I asked her if she wanted to ring in the new year at Cafe Bong.
She made a face that said "I love you.  But fuck you."
I finished my beer while the men gang-sang a Backstreet Boys song.
The "tell me why" one.
Its karaoke video featured lots of topless European women dancing on a sound stage.
It was the most awesome karaoke video.
And it couldn't get any better.
So we headed for the door.
The bearded kid in the tux persuaded us to stay.
The Korean proprietor offered us buffet food.
But even now, I knew it was time to go.
And we bid adieu to Cafe Bong.

The remainder of 2010 was spent in the comfort of our little apartment.
We set our alarms for the early flight tomorrow.
And had our last sleepover of the year.

Verdict: Win

December 30 - How A Tire Store Works

I took the van in to Tire Party again.
They had patched my flat a couple of days ago, but there was still a leak.
I looked at the work order.
They had tried fixing it with armpit farts.
But they didn't take.

I looked through the glass at the tire mechanics yelling and dropping metal objects and masturbating at calendars.
They saw that my tire was still flat.
They told a bunch of fag jokes to it.
But it was still flat.
A tire scientist was dispatched to see what the problem could be.
He looked like a nerd.
And a fag.
While he found the source of the leak, the mechanics depantsed him and snapped oily rags at his exposed buttocks.
This caused a lot more yelling and clanging of fallen metal.
Then they gagged the scientist and forced him to bend over a Mazda.
A circle formed.
The mechanic with the largest penis inserted it into the scientist's butt.
Some mechanics took disposable pictures of the event.
Over his shoulder, one of the mechanics masturbating to a calendar noticed the scientist being humiliated.
He edged his way into the circle and continued masturbating.
The scientist handed his analysis to the new guy, and began screaming in terror.
To drown out his cries for help, the mechanics who had prematurely ejaculated squealed their air guns.
Everyone else reached their climax to a general Guns 'n' Roses song.
When it was over many of the mechanics used the scientist's body as a facility.

So that's how a tire store works.
Hey, man.
I don't care what they do, as long as they find the leak.

The cashier showed me the tire.
He pointed to the patch on the tread.
"This is the leak we fixed."
He pointed to another hole near the sidewall.
"This is the other leak."
He asked me if I wanted to continue.
I said yes.
I didn't want to know how they fixed a flat, so I sat in the waiting room.
The cashier came in with some paperwork.
"Tony, I just need you to sign off on the new tire.  With labor it will be $285."
"Oh.  I just need you to patch that other hole."
He told that since it was on the sidewall, they couldn't do that.
I told him that I couldn't afford a new tire.
So he raced back into the mechanics dungeon.
They wiped all the fresh blood, excrement and semen from my old tire and begrudgingly put it back on the van.
Wait til next year.

Verdict: Loss

December 29 - Sakura Of America Pigma Micron Pens

Holli and Mike invited me over for the day.
We drew pictures using a wide variety of Pigma Micron pens.
Holli drew a horse.
Mike made a city out of a building.

I drew a hodge podge of American margin doodles.


I needed to get out of the house.
And spend some quality time with friends.
We spent the entire day drawing in the kitchen.
I think Holli wanted to do something active.
Sledding, ice-skating, snowball hijinx.
Mike and I were content to doodle.
Men.

I worked at the bar and it was dead.
Again.

Again.

Again.

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And again.

And again.

And again.


And again.
And again.
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Again.Again.


And again.

Verdict: Win

May 21 - España

We were in Spain.







Verdict: Win

December 28 - Haircut Whine

I needed a tremendous haircut.
My greying hair resembled a yarn mop.
So I went to my two-chair barber.
A card table displayed a bottle of purple drink and some dixie cups.
"Have some wine!"
I did.
It was good.
For haircut wine.
The barber said it was homemade.
"You can't get it anywhere else!"
I looked at a big jug of it.
"Jugs are $30," he said.
The guy in the chair spoke.
"It's good wine!"
I tapped a bottle.
It was a thin vodka bottle.
"How much is this?"
"That's 3 dollars."
Sold.
It was 10am on a Tuesday.
I just bought homemade wine from a barber.
Maybe he could pull my wisdom teeth, too.

While waiting for the haircut, I decided to brood some more about that stupid Stuff White People Like book.
I wanted to find out why it affected me so much.

Research suggests that I don't mind being a punchline.
As long as I am the one making the joke.
That's the whole point of this blog.
Look at what a loser I am buying wine from my barber before noon.
Ha ha ha, but I'm not really a loser, right?
Stuff White People Like is telling me that yes in fact, I am actually a real loser.
Look at this loser putting his diary online.
Everyone's a writer, you pinhead.
Been on the internet much?
You're not unique.
You worship The Wire and eat at stupid diners just like every other middle-class Gen X indie rock slouch entitled to remain clueless and directionless at age 35.
You had your chance to do something.
You spent it at bars doing bits.
Now you're old and confused.
Ha ha ha.

I wasn't ready for this sort of confrontation from a novelty book at Borders.
The people that usually made fun of me were mono-chromosomatic Wrigleyville rapists yelling "faggot" at me because I was riding a bike.
Those guys usually didn't have things like insight.
They didn't put out books.
Although I'd like to see that book.
Badly drawn stick figures with captions like "Faggot" and "Fuckin' Faggot".
Bikes are hard to draw.
Uh oh.
I'm being directionless again.
The point is I could write them off.
And now I was the one being written off.

After the haircut I noticed that the tire on the van that had been patched yesterday was sagging again.
Cool.
I went home and uncorked the previously corked bottle of haircut wine.
And went from figurative to actual loser.

Verdict: Loss

December 27 - Stuff Old People Hate

The van needed a new tire.
Every two days I've had to fill it up with air.
I took it to Tire Party or Mostly Tires or one of those tire asshole places.
It stunk of rubber and unwarranted male bravado.
Guys with tan lines where their gang bang wristbands used to be.

They said it would be a few hours.
I had a few gift cards to burn.
So I went to Borders again.
This time I skimmed the latest Stuff White People Like book.
Another blog-turned-book deal.
Biting satire and all that.
I always thought it was a funny website.
Until I realized that I am its target.
Obviously, I'm white.
Even though I'm Cuban.
The author is white.
But this isn't about being white.
It's about being boring.
And useless.

So what's some stuff white people like?
Road Trips - He railed on people who romanticize small highways and eat at places that aren't chains.  His point was that observing townies in their natural environment was as artificial as a quarter pounder.
I like road trips, and I like eating at restaurants that aren't chains.

Improv - He pointed out that only white people will pay money to see something that most likely will fail.  It's true that whites dominate improv for whatever reason.  We've all made fun of this fact for years.
I have performed and taught improv for over ten years.

Ironic Facial Hair - He understandably mocked this.
In 2000, I grew a moustache for curiosity.  I did it again this year, though irony wasn't the goal.  I don't know what the goal was.  But I am guilty of having facial hair while being white, but not qualifying as a Mancow meathead or a union schlub.

The Wire/Mad Men - He made fun of liking these shows.  I forget why.
I have said out loud that, for me, The Wire transcended the concept of a television show.  I like Mad Men.

Considering Journalism - He derided the privilege of being white and the luxury of finding oneself, which often leads toward thinking about getting a journalism degree.
This year I borrowed books from my journalist friend Christy.  I was considering journalism.

Writing Short Stories - He ridiculed short stories as the perfect medium for white people's directionless drivel.
I just gave out short stories as Christmas presents.

It went on.
I went on.

It inspired me to do a new blog.
It's called Everything Is Stupid: You Suck.
I'll just list things and why they are stupid and why you suck.

Here's an excerpt:

Pizza - You have eaten a pizza probably.  This is every idiot's dream.  You suck.  Fuck you.

Then I'll have a picture of someone who thinks they are cool, but in reality they are worthless, eating a pizza.

That's an entry.
Then I'll get a book deal.
Maybe even a shitty sitcom.

Oh no.
I'm old.
I'm bitter.
I'm taking satire personally.
This is my nightmare.
I do suck.
I am an idiot.
Fuck me.

I left Borders empty-handed again.

The macho tire clowns patched up my tire.
It only cost $40 or some shit.
I paid for it with a gift card.

For dinner I rubbed garlic on some toast.
And thought about how much I suck.

I didn't understand.
I liked the website.
It made me laugh.
It's good satire.
What happened?

Defeated by a bathroom book.

Verdict: Loss