I wrote a hit play

if it only were so simple...

I wish I could fall in and out of love with girls as easily as I can with my golf clubs.

in:
my 2 iron
my 3 wood
john jay

out:
my driver
my 60 degree wedge
nathan's samsonian locks

pimpin' ain't easy...

Posted by Stan at 5/29/2003 | Permalink

the rock out with your cock out world tour '03

a few years ago I read an interview where sir paul stated that there was a period in his groups artistic life where "we were the fuckin' beatles, we could have done any we wanted".

that's basically how I'm feeling. I'm so dead-on its scary. its like I've established permanent residency in 'the zone'. my football spirals have never been tighter, my bar-b-q has never tasted better, and my bull has never been more effective. every aspect in my pimpstry is peaking at the right time. just in time to melt the panties off the helpless nola ladies this weekend.

the whirlwind that has been my life for the past month or so won't stop, and it won't quit. this past memorial day weekend was no different. after getting the bomb dropped on me that our original plan was going to fall through, predicting that I might spend my weekend nestled snugly in the corner of my blacked-out room alternately sucking on my thumb and a bottle of twelve year old scotch wouldn't be too outlandish. fortunately for me and my liver, I sucked it up and lived life thanks to a wonderful distraction.

summer is officially here. I can finally realize my fantasy of spending three consecutive months outside, half-submerged in a kiddie pool, drinking fightin' cock bourbon and listening to def leppard. who says dreams don't come true?

I used to hate the perpetual darkness in my old college apartment provided by a lack of windows and an abundance of trees. now, however, I'm long for it. even though it's dark enough inside at noon to have an ultra-goth vampire party, it's not cool enough to keep my ass from heat-fusing to the couch. sometimes I have to strip naked when I cross the threshold to avoid heat stroke. let's not mention the fact that I blood literally boils when my skin touches the leather seats in my car.

in other news, I'm growing a vagina.

occasionally, however, I do miss the sun, and because of this, I've found myself spending more time outside than it takes to walk between the car and whatever building calls me. I've started playing (more like kicking this ass in) tennis with my baby brother around 6pm everyday. you'd be amazed at how strong the sun still burns at that hour.

middle of last week our tennis fever has reached a fervent pitch. we inhale our lunches and meet at the court around noon for a quick game. on thursday, my cousin told me I was really really burned. by this point, the tanning had gotten a little out of hand. in fact, the entire front side of my body turned a nice hot pink. there's nothing like living the early part of this week in discomfort and scrubbing the dead skin off my face to look presentable for the wedding I'm attending this weekend.

I've spent the rest of my free time this weekend doing more things more exciting than charring my own flesh. I've experienced houston nightlife, gorged myself at various fine restaurants, and threatened to get klassy with truman over a bottle of courvosier. If I could keep up this pace, avoid further skin damage and manage to not get too drunk to get on the plane bound for nola on saturday morning, the week will be perfect. I just have to stop drinking for a few hours friday night to not intoxicate my father on the drive to the airport saturday morning. I think that can be done.

If not, I'll be lazy, drunk and out a round-trip ticket. in other words, I've got nothing to lose. bring it on.

Posted by Stan at 5/28/2003 | Permalink

first stab at audblog

if dr. dre turned a marginally decent rapper, 50 cent, into a multibling-bling artist, think what this electronic wizzardry could do for a no talent ass clow such as myself. fuck it, I'm headed to compton to seek the fortune maker himself.

for the listening pleasure of radiohead fans out there:
audblog audio post

p.s. I appologize for the subpar audio quality. I promise it sounds much better and more crisp live...okay you may now pelt me with stones.

Posted by Stan at 5/20/2003 | Permalink

it was much better when I was an asshole...

she wants me to go shopping. she wants me to go to the crafts store. she wants me to the scrapbook store. ok ok ok ok ok ok ok O-KAY! I'll go. so we drive, and we drive, and we drive. the map comes out. obviously they've bought out all of the lokta (or however the fuck its spelled) paper, but they need more. if they place an order with the distributor it won't arrive from nepal in time. it's obvious at this point that we're not going to make it before closing time, but we're determined to find this damn place regardless. we finally get there and it's this little shack, rather unimpressive. we peak in through the windows. by this time I have to pee so badly (can you tell I'm back on my h2o drinking regimen?). so I relieve myself in their parking lot. and it makes me feel manly. it feels like revenge.

ahhhhh!
public urinator

Posted by Stan at 5/20/2003 | Permalink

notables

war eating a wonderful SARS infested steak
war snaking country cones from circle k
war ending up with some killer pants that have become mine
war girls thinking that the baby chair strapped to my back seat is the most adorable thing
war drinking lone star three steps off the street, and being perfectly legal
war that hottie that left the dive in the car.
war me not getting her number because I was pissing behind an exploder
war drinking half of kate's mex-mart
war me not having any ill-effect from drinking orendain
war free lonestar beer
war marshalls 'gretel' story

Posted by Stan at 5/19/2003 | Permalink

life on the road...

I know, I know where the hell have I been? more like where the hell haven't I been. nevermind that, the important thing is that I'm in front of the computer and writing to you, so here we go.

nothing like hitting the road with no particular plan and/or agenda, suitcase, or knowing where I'm going to spend the night. hell, even sufficient funds for that matter. just me sitting in my 'road office' spinning tunes and fielding calls from friends.

I finally got to my destination on saturday. but not before getting acquainted with the local coppers. fuck the poh-lice. they also gave me shitty directions, had truman been in the car I'm sure they would have rodney kinged his black ass. which could have been a blessing in the disguise, because the local vet clinic had better signage than the county fairgrounds where the gig was at. didn't have a problem finding the pooch hospital, but the dance hall/pavillion where I was supposed to go to was a different story. I must have driven past it six or nine times before my stubborn ass broke down and called someone. then there is was, sandwiched between the vet clinic and the local pool, which of course is the logical place to build a dance hall. nothing like tempting drunken future fightin' aggies with either a dip in the pool or having them choose among a plethora of farm animals for their sodomitic pleasures.

I had some company for the next leg of my journey. as soon as I turned the key and she heard what was playing she rolled her eyes and said, 'you are STILL listening to dmb? I thought you outgrew that phase?'

now, back in the way back, I was a dmb nut. there was about a four year period in my mid to late adolesence when all I listened to was the dave matthews band. I distinctly remember getting mocked for this in high school. apparently the kids at my school realized ace of base as the musical genius that they are before I did.

I was a maniac. I bought all of the cds and traded tapes of all the shows that I could. I remember picking up a copy of the dke house show from a hippy I lent a few bucks to at a show and I listened to it endlessly for about two months. I tried to figure out the chords for the songs on the guitar. I memorized all of the skips and pops, and even now when I listen to the same set on cd format, I get a bit confused when they aren't there.

over time, my interest in dmb gradually waned, which is a good thing because it allowed me to experience new music. unfortunately, I pretty much stopped listening to them altogether. recently, I've been hearing songs by dmb and getting floored by their beauty. I've forgotten much of what I knew about them which gives me the opportunity to reacquaint myself with their music. I've thought about dedicating a week or two to listening to nothing but dmb, but I haven't had the drive to follow through. I think, eventually, that I'm going to sit down over a weekend and listen to each of their albums in succession, earliest to latest.

I had forgotten what a great song 'spoon' is.

whoa! let's get off this tangent and back to the topic at hand. it was good to see old, and not so old, friends again. but I don't know if I share the same feeling with my decision making. when given a choice between hanging out with a group of kappas or to meet wg and friends at a dive full of old people, I still choose bros before hos.

and as if god was trying to play a cruel joke on me, I again was invited to go to the kappa house and late night it. but what did I do instead? not that. I'm still debating whether I would have had more fun hanging out with a bunch of beautiful babies that wanted to party than the fun that I had ridding around eating stolen chips and country cones, and wiping my hands clean on a borrewed set of dress pants.

I cannot wrap this up without dropping a few lines about the rented sled that I'm driving around. one of the greatest features of the rental car is a yellow tab inside the trunk of the car which displays a picture of a man pulling the handle and running for dear life. so if the occasion arose that I found myself stuck inside the trunk, I could easily rescue myself with one tug.

they are real and they are spectacular,
jerry

Posted by Stan at 5/19/2003 | Permalink

a night of joy...

a night of laughter, a night of pain and suffering.

quote of the night was:

'why is it that the girls you don't like are truly crazy about you, but the ones you like are so lukewarm about it? it fuckin' sucks, man'

- nathan

I know I said I wouldn't do this anymore, but I don't really have the time or energy to explain the conversation that spawned that quote at this point. last night drained me. thus, no further details about it for you. if you don't like it, I have a styrofoam container chock full of dick in my fridge for you to eat.

I spent another sleepness night with a girl. but unfortunately, its not what you think. I had to bolt out of the matrix because I had been notified that my cousin was hospitalized and my parents were desperately trying to get a hold of me. I finally got to the hospital around 12:45am or so. a place I've become all too familiar with this year. running into a hospital with that fear of the unknown is a motherfucker.

was she having complications? was the baby okay? all these thoughts were racing in my mind, but they ceased as soon as I pushed on the door to her room.

I entered a completely darkened room to find her tossing and turning in bed. the perfect silence was broken by the pulsating sounds of the baby monitor...and the constant ringing of my pocket phone. people pick the worst times to call me sometimes. she was uncomfortable, thirsty, and the medicine they gave her made her really anxious. to the point that she was walking around the room cursing at everything and constantly paging the nurse. it was pretty funny actually. she didn't seem to find the humor in it, for I was having a hard time surpressing a smile.

I thought about making a quick run to whataburger for her, but I was stopped cold in my tracks by the npo restriction in her chart. she wasn't even allowed to have water. she finally feel asleep in the rocking chair around 2:30am. I carefully moved her to the bed and plopped my ass down on the couch to watch espn and cnn for the rest of the night. my night was pretty misserable. due to the fact that I was freezing my ass off. I had to fashion a blanket out of 3 hospital gowns. it was that or try to sleep in the bathtub which was considerably warmer.

I was just about to catch a few z's when I realized that I had to feed fred, my friend's dog that I'm watching until the 22nd while he's out of the country. unlike truman, fred eats twice a day.

when I got to his house, I had to climb over the gate and the fence. shit, this backyard needs to be mowed. the lawn is tall enough to hide a trans-am, a couple of engine blocks, and dilapidated house furniture in it. I was bracing myself for an encounter with a stray object in my path to the bowl. I would have gladly traded stubbing my toe on a rusty piece of metal than stepping on a freshly layed fred biscuit like I did. blood hell.

anyway, you could say I'm in a bad mood and easily irritated. but...

there's something about knowing the weekend is just around the corner that really keeps a fella from wanting to hang himself. as a matter of fact, I felt downright chipper when I walked in a few hours ago.

my attitude change certainly helped me get through the trip I had to make to the pharmacy to fill out her prescription, but I think being smiley and positive took way too much energy. I lasted about thirty seconds after arriving home before I smiled coyly at my bed and cooed, 'hey, sweet thang. it's about time we get reacquainted, don't you think?' naptime is the best time, y'all.

since thursday marks the beginning of my weekend, I fielded a call from sto to discuss the movie and we also tried to think of something to do with our evening. we decided to check out a new place for drinks, or for some bang-tails. my nap must have made me slightly delerious, because I can't remember ever having him agree to go out on a thursday night. my suggestions are always met with: 'hmmm, I think I'm going to get something to eat on the way home from work and watch tv'. watching tv for him means watching babylon 5, or whatever dorky sci-fi show happens to be on that night. no thanks.

I'm glad that today is over is all I can say. I'm ready for the weekend.

Posted by Stan at 5/15/2003 | Permalink

a study of contrasts

I don't want 15 minutes of fame.
I want a life.
I don't want to be a flash in the pan.
I want a career.
I don't want to grab all I can.
I want to selectively choose the best.
I don't want to sell a company.
I want to build one.
I don't want to date a model.
ok, so I do want to date a model.
sue me.
but the rest of my goals are long term.
the result of day to day determination.
I stay steady.
I redefine the word consistency.
along the way there will surely be moments of brilliance.
I am, after all, me.
but the moments will add up to something greater.
a record of excellence.
a plaque in a hall.
my name on a sandwich.
a family that's a team.
I'll never look back with regret.
I will always believe in the ideal.
I hope to be remembered, not recalled.
and I hope to make a difference.

I listen to the wind
to the wind of my soul
where I'll end up well I think,
only God really knows
I've sat upon the setting sun
but never, never never never
I never wanted water once
no, never, never, never

I listen to my words but
they fall far below
I let my music take me where
my heart wants to go
I swam upon the devil's lake
but never, never never never
I'll never make the same mistake
no, never, never, never

the wind -- cat stevens

Posted by Stan at 5/14/2003 | Permalink

taqueria adventures

after enjoying a mom's day brunch on sunday, when the clock struck 1:30pm my gut was begging to be stuffed...again.

since I had eaten at the lap of luxury earlier, I had to return balance to the universe by eating at a shit hole. what better place than taqueria la tapatia?

off to the well-known and fabled intersection of richmond and woodhead I went. you said wood...head. having never set foot in that place no where close to daylight, or in a state of soberness. I was afraid that in my clear minded state I might have driven past it. nate appreciated the humor in the situation. he was ridding shotgun with me via the cell phone.

let me begin by saying that the place looks totally different during the day. there is a big ass tv right by the entrance that had gone unnoticed during my many prior drunken visits there. the walls are mustard yellow, a feature which had also not registered in my altered state. I did, however, remembered the fountain sitting in the middle of the dinning area. I have dodged it many many nights and at times I too have searched for loose change in its entrails to finance that extra serving of flour tortillas, after blowing all my bank at a bar earlier that evening.

I also took the time to ACTUALLY read the menu. I was surprised to find out that they serve ceviche there. but I was even more amused by its description: something, something, 'frutas del mar', something something, fin.

frutas del mar the menu says. 'fruit of the sea.' I'm trying to enjoy the nice atmosphere but all I can do is think to myself, 'that's so fucking rude!' as if snagging some chilean sea bass is done with a nonchalant twist of the wrist from the fish tree. if we're going to be like that then let's at least be fair about it. let's call meat dishes 'slices of the plains.' chicken dishes 'parts from the coop' (or if elisabeth had it her way, chicken breasts - 'poultry tits'). vegetables; they can still be called vegetables I guess. the waitress comes over and asks me if I've made any decisions. and it hits me. we might be the 'hors d'oeuvres of the milky way!!" whoa, dude! I ask for a tecate and tell her I need a little more time.

buen provecho,
the plebeian gourmand

Posted by Stan at 5/13/2003 | Permalink

calling my b.s.?



you should see the cocktail party photogs, ha.

Posted by Stan at 5/13/2003 | Permalink

I brought you into this world, and I can take you out

I've been a neglectful parent.

I know good and well that I'm nearly not responsible enough to adequately care for another living creature (I kid, I kid), but I didn't know I could ignore a web journal to death.

I've never let this much time pass between entries before. I even managed to crawl from my bed to my desk once or twice back when I was sure I was about to die. now, I don't even have an excuse. I just can't find the motivation to sit in front of the computer and write here, and because of this, my baby is dying.

I've been reading tons of great books and watching good films. I've been absolutely h u g e timing it all over town. in the past 2-3 weeks I've done things and have been presented with opportunities that guys twice my age can only aspire to be waved in front of their faces. the lure of a diplomatic passport is a strong one. but do I want to commit to a life of 'public service' just yet? I hoped that by putting all of these good things in my head, I might regurgitate something decent, but this has not yet been the case. if anything, consuming all this pop-art, social soirees, et al just distracts me from getting anything done or thinking of anything interesting or original. maybe that's the point. that and the fact that I've been terribly busy.

it's not like I haven't had anything to write about either.

I could write about how I'm on a first name basis with a huge hollywood celeb. sat on one-on-one meetings and all. how kevin...errr crash davis gave me an autographed baseball. and how this woman approached me and asked me if I was a friend of his and if I could introduce her and take their picture. when I told her we weren't, she asked if we were partners, to which my dad replied, "not yet!" either my dad didn't hear her initial inquiry or he's somehow acquired a knack for subtle humor.

I could write about how I spent an entire afternoon locked in my hotel room until I finished my presentation and ended up being on the verge of some sort of mental breakdown that I almost beat my dad's ass for throwing me to the wolves, only I wasn't sad or upset about anything in particular. being under the gun is always good for writing. just like being bitter helps you appreciate the sweetness in your life when it comes. ok, god throw me a freaking bone here. don't you think you've put me through enough shit to last a lifetime? can you at least let me meet a girl that lives within 69 miles of my abode? I'm tired of all these out-of-towners, flings, and what have you.

I could write about how listening to a lot of gansta rap makes me see that I'm much more misanthropic than I previously thought, which is quite a feat.

I could write about the many times I had to bite my tongue when I was giving a presentation on 'domestic capital development program' at a break-out session full of industrialists, ceo's, vp's, directors, senators, etc. if they only knew that they were listening to a 25 year old kid had just banged out a powerpoint presentation the night before and was now encouraging them to commit resources to a 5-year 46 billion dollar project.

I love having that edge. its good to be getting it back.

I could write about how it's oddly comforting when I get an email from a friend that reads 'are you lying dead in a ditch somewhere???' if I haven't posted an entry in a week or so.

could write about how seeing avril lavigne at the reliant stadium/center limo dock standing about 6 or 9 feet from me might be the funniest thing I've seen all year and how I'm upset that I hardly noticed that she was playing at the stadium later that evening. hmmm, go see avril's concert or hang out with a bunch of old businessmen who used to bounce me of their laps when I was a kid? that's a no brainer.

I could write about any of these things, but I just haven't. and now my baby is suffocating. it's turning blue and cold and I don't care.

really, it's scaring me to death. I've never had a problem sitting down at the computer and banging something out.

but right now, I'm faced with the decision of whether I should try to resuscitate this child or just let it die. I'm hoping that I've raised it to the point that I can just come back and check on it when I get the time and it will remain healthy.

or maybe I can just kill it with bad metaphors.

Posted by Stan at 5/13/2003 | Permalink

robodog...

kaboom!

truman mcbeerdrinker. hunter. a dog barely alive.

we can rebuild him. we have the technology. we can make him better than he was.

better? stronger. faster.





no dogs were hurt during the making of this post....well not yet.

six million dollar stan

Posted by Stan at 5/06/2003 | Permalink

I am an island

before I went to sleep on friday night, I mapped out my weekend. that map ended up crumpled on the floor next to my bed intertmingled with a pile of magazines, as hardly anything went according to plan.

the first order of business was to drive out to the galleria and pick up a new suit I was having altered. for one reason or another, my cousin and I ended up sticking around for a lot longer than we had planned. while I was there I stopped by the tailorshop to get fitted for yet another one. a true ballah can never have too many suits. I walked into the shop knowing exactly what I wanted, expecting to pay a certain figure. the salesperson tacked on hidden fees that doubled that figure. suspicious that the guy was trying to take advantage of what he perceived to be my naivete (afterall, I was wearing flip flops), I punched him in the throat, shouted 'FUCK YOU' and thrusted my middle finger in the air as I stomped out.

before seeking another shop. we walked into some boutique. I paid no particular attention to the name, for I firmly planted my arse in a leather chair. we eventually left, and headed off to a bbq with the woman that birthed me.

on the way to the mid-afternoon gathering we stopped at an heb to stock up on sodas. you can't just show up empty handed like cousin eddie, you know. we arrived and I made a bee line for the cooler to dump our wares in the ice. my cousin was busy scoring some chairs for us. not willing or able to socialize with a crowd who already knew and had developed a level of comfortability with everyone except us, we became an island. after only about a half hour there, I was asked to offer some expert 'quing tips. disappointment in the choice of chicken meat I preched the coal wisdom to those that gathered around the fire. when the can of schlitz was empty I excused myself, and veered off in my mom's direction and told her I was blowing out of there. I was out like fast eddy duncan. backdoor style.

I think I called ryan or something. that is not really important. I eventually found myself sitting in front of the couch around 1:45am watching the end of 'finding forrester' or something. oh yeah, sara called. I'm glad that she got an idea of my cell phone dilemma. even if I move an inch my signal fluctuates from 6 or 9 bars to one or none.

day of the lord found me rising out of bed rather late. to make up for loss time I began to work the phones. of course my sucky houston friends couldn't be reached. so I made plans to kick with my most loyal compadre, truman. we went for a walk/scouting session. we hadn't had that much fun together in a long time. too bad I ran out of batteries. the flora and fauna were in full effect.

we both came back filthy. but we were greeted by guests. and while I would have joined them I felt myself on the brink of a coma, and needed to get to get out of my jeans pronto. not thinking, I went into my room, dropped my pants and set to walking about the house in my underwear. at least The Mantenna didn't make a guest appearance, which is surprising, because he so does enjoy entertaining guests.


I'm out,
hugetimer

Posted by Stan at 5/06/2003 | Permalink

bullshit

so I finally saw the nude pictorial of 'joe millionaire's' sarah kozer. I would like to voice my disappointment in the lack of bush shots. is it wrong to want to get to know her a little better by having a visual of her, as timmy would say, taint?

the hun

Posted by Stan at 5/02/2003 | Permalink

a black dress and a trucker's hat...one deadly combo

two nights in a row, whoa cowboy!

if last night was anything like most wednesday nights, I would have spent my time glued to the couch cruising the digital cable before I deciding I could no longer take it and rushed right back to the comfort of my room. this time, however, I took it upon myself to leave the comforts of the house. I felt like I was in high school again, except now, I have more money at my disposition and I know what boobies feel like.

after feeding and playing with truman, I jumped in the 'wheels of love' and motored down the interstate, stopping once at a convenience store to prevent a messy bladder explosion and to re-ice my screwdriver.

I called scotter to be sure they were still at the venue we had agreed to meet up the night before. he, unlike me, actually still has friends that still live in my city and, shock and horror, still associates with them. most everyone I still care to talk to have left town, hence the aforementioned remote jockeying that dominates most of my weeknights.

the venue was this uptown bar, for what they like to call 'frat boy night'. I soon came to find out why. as soon as I crossed the threshold, I felt minutes away from being able to collect a social security check. the joint was filled with u of h undergrads or people who might not have made it that far. hanging around with a bunch of cheesedicks who enjoy drinking natty light pumped from a rusty keg and high fiving each other after they've discovered their mutual love for nelly is no longer my cup of tea, and almost no amount of underage girls in tube tops can change that.

the reason for us being there was to celebrate my friend's recent layoff, a 'pink slip party' if you will. luckily, we had brought our own crowd. but during a lull in the action (the girls had gone to the restroom) I created some entertainment for myself by telling people that mr. pinkslip and I were gay lovers and we had just celebrated our first anniversary. one member of the tube top team thought I was going to tussle with her because she was moving in on my man. that would have been entertainment.

then the one girl who was behind the wheel got tired and they all had to leave. our harem was non-exhistant faster than snoop dogg could cash a bowl. my sorrow was quickly erased by a shot glass that was waved right under my nose. the vanishing act I did on it would have made david copperfield proud. next, some random bartender gave me a sniffer. I confirmed the fact that I will never ever become a hip hop superstar: I don't like the taste of courvosier.

I had almost talked myself into leaving, until I saw this older girl that I know walk in. she too was invited to the party and I decided to stick around to see if I could get anywhere. all I have to say that a black dress and a 'girls gone wild' trucker's hat, while a rare and odd combination, looks quite nice on the former head cheerleader.

after I left the festivities, I called sara back. she heard me diss the filthy beggar out in the parking lot again. if I ran a bill collecting firm I would definately hire panhandlers, because they never ever go away.

the end...or is it?

war girls gone wild
war chugging contests
war severance packages
war my need to purchase a g-suit 'cause of my driving style
war lucid dreams

Posted by Stan at 5/01/2003 | Permalink