The body knows.

Even when you try to utterly destroy it, the body knows what you're up to.

Drunken blogging 102.

Your physical self is not as dumb as you are. Despite cramming it full of various bottom shelf liquors, it will not relent and let you succumb to the sweet realm of sleep.

Oh no. It will make sure that even when that side of the bathtub is feeling the comfortablest, you will have to spend 20 minutes dry heaving.

Is it a fluke that heaven and heaving are so similarly constructed? No. Knowing you're alive and that something is happening to make sure things stay that way is a good feeling. As close as i can get to God, probably.

Oh, lord Renal System, I thank thee for filtering the toxins from my body, and in doing so causing me great torment, but ultimately ridding me of evil cheap plastic bottle vodka.

Amen.

Well, it has been a while since I have posted drunk. I used to do it all the time. What happened?

I'll tell youwhat happened. I became an L-7 square.

This is how I write drunk, I'll admit it.

I owe great thanks to Kiki, who got me home safely.

I owe great thanks to brian Y., who made sure I threw up enough and got pictures of it.

I hurt immmesely. But it's okay.

I have nowhere to go but up. My STOmach is no longer trying to leap out of mhy body. I managed to get my contact lenses out.

I had a good time. I enjoyed myself. I forgot that no matter how dumb I try to be, my body will still bail me out by not letting me fall asleep against the cool porcelain of hte bathtub.

It will make me suffer, and I will thank it at the end.

The body knows.

I didn't decide at any point that it would have the final say, but it does.

Proof=me not dead. Although, my friends had a lot to do with that.

Alchohol is dangerous. I have nearly died because of it much more than anyone I know has nearly died of anything else.

Good old body.

Sabrina is great. I talked to her for a while. She was a white tiger.

Dan and Eric were hilarious in their Buttercup and Bubbles costume.

Donovan in his Blossom costume made me drink water so that I would at least have something to throw up. Very nice.

Like the friend who spots you a 20 in Vegas so you would at least have something to lose.

Joey was funny.

Erin was cute, but disapppeared. I still don't know what happened to her.

My brother was looking good in his battle cow suit, but he was in need of a battle ax.

"They get the job done."

Goodnight, it's almost seven. my normal bedtime. But I"m usually not fighting sickness at this hour.

GOodnight.

Don't cheat your body.

It'll know.

Juan Bondez Strikes Back

I found myself with about 25 minutes to prepare for my infiltration into the Esperanza Awards. It was more than enough time to suit up.

To the Guillermobile!



Jay and Brenda met me at my parent's house. We opted to ditch the Guillermobile in favor of...

The Brendamobile!



She wasn't too pleased by the sudden camera flash and expressed her displeasure by swerving the car up onto two wheels.

Jay was a bit more responsive to the camera.



We met up with one of our contacts, Special Agent Mulk



Brenda told me to destroy this picture. I gave a response that was reassuring yet non-commital, just like I was trained to do at Agent Secreto School.



My mother and a few friends of the family. My mother is the surprised looking one. I look incredibly tall, but it's an optical illusion. The average height of the group is 4' 8", maybe less.



My mom receiving her award. She also gave a speech, which was somehow both heart-warming and reprimanding.



My mother and the seven other recipients of the award. (See, she's the shortest one there.)



It was Jessica's birthday, so Jay, Brenda, and I parted ways and I made a mad dash to the movie theater for my next mission: to see Mystic River with her.


We got out of the movie around 1 am. My assertion that the night was young was not agreed with by many. To prove my point, I stood on the Guillermobile and tried to look inspiring.



While I was doing that, everyone left.



All dressed up and nowhere to go. I went over to Brian Y's house and trained for the rest of the night. And by that I mean we watched Samurai Jack.

Heh heh, foolish samurai.

* * * * *

Now I'm back to being regular old Guillermo. Being Juan Bondez was fun, almost as fun as last year when for Halloween I went as my alter-alter-ego, Dos XX, the cheap Mexican knock-off of Triple X.

But this Halloween is looking promising...



"Who's dirty?"

Last Saturday's post, Beno had this to say:

"Sixth Grade Gurg looks like he should be resting a glass of wine in one hand as he seduces a naive American tourist in the heart of Constantinople."



The tourists aren't so naive, Ben. They know exactly what this was. That Kara Priddy danced with me all night and then left me to wake up alone in the hotel room to see a single rose resting on the pillow next to me. She also left the bill for all the room service we ordered.

She did, however, take the turkey that had fallen behind the bed.

"My Mom Is Neat!"

That is what I intend to say (if I'm asked to speak, of course,) at the Esperanza Awards, tomorrow night [checks watch, sees that it is now a 6:45 am] eh, tonight!

I've got my tuxedo, I've got Brian Young's digital camera, and I've got a working knowledge of the Spanish language.

It is time to become my alter-ego...

Bondez.

Juan Bondez.

Now all I need are some cool gadgets to assist me in infiltrating the Awards Ceremony. Let's see...

This official invitation could come in handy, to fool the enemy into letting me inside.

This set of shiny, jingly, car keys could be useful in distracting the enemy should they discover my true intentions.

This pen is clearly capable of...of...stabbing the enemy in the eye while they are distracted by the jingly keys.

And of course, I've already got the cool car.

Current modifications allow it to leak oil and coolant to slip up pursuers, an ejection-through-the-windshield seat, and specially worn-down brake pads to allow me to step on the brake (to activate the brake lights) and not slow down in the least.

It's a fool-proof plan, and I'm just the fool to prove it.

Flash-Back Friday

I suppose now that I can post pictures, I should make it clear who this Kate person that I've written so much about is. (New here? "Ex-fiance" should just about sum it up.)



If only there were some way to have known that she was trouble, some kind of clue...

When I went on the cruise, I was understandably surprised at her new image.



I was even more surprised when, after the photo was taken, I was groped by the White Rabbit.


Guillermo: Professional Heretic

I worked on Sunday, calling up blood donors to remind them that they were eligible to give blood again and to schedule them if they would like to do so again. My co-worker Nate and I had an interesting discussion on religion. We have very similar opinions.

For instance, when calling people on Sundays, it is not rare for me to be admonished or berated for calling them on "The Lord's Day." Now, we're encouraged in our job to undermine people's various excuses, such as when they say they don't have enough time, or that their iron is too low, that sort of thing. We have prepared responses we can use.

So I prepared a response for this one, too.

"Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't there a Bible story about Jesus being charged with blasphemy because he was still healing the sick, the blind, and the lame on the Sabbath? I am calling to ask you to do very much the same, to help those in need, and yet you refuse in righteous anger because it is Sunday? I must be confused, because that doesn't seem very Christian to me. Of course, it may not be your fault, maybe you just never read your Bible."

I have yet to use this response. I'd probably get fired if I did. But I'm really curious how people would respond. Heh, maybe I'll make sure that my last day of working there falls on a Sunday.

I enjoy discussing religion, and even more so arguing about it. But hypocrisy is no fun. There is no greater argument that I can make than when those who claim to believe something make no attempt to follow it.

Play Ball

Dan R. and I went to the liquor store the other night to pick up some Bibles...no, wait, beer. You can build your own six-pack there. I grabbed a couple of Fat Tire, two Killian's, and a pair of Honey Brown. I lovingly refer to this combination as my "Dream Team," despite the fact that a basketball team has only five players. I don't see this as a problem, since I consider one a substitue in case one of the other beers is injured.

I handed the cashier my debit card to pay for my players. "I love people with clever cards," he said sarcastically. He was probably referring to the word "Stolen???" written on the back of the card on my signature strip.

"My only means of expression is the back of my credit card," I said solemnly as I handed him my driver's license so that he could double-check it. His only response was a snort as he handed back my I.D.

Like a Flame to a Moth

I watched The Mothman Prophecies tonight. Not one of my favorites, but I enjoy it. At work a couple of girls were talking about how they missed their boyfriends whenever they were apart. I found it interesting, and would have devoted more time to thinking about and/or discussing it had I not been working.

But that snippet of conversation came back to me while I was watching the movie. It will most likely never be the case that two people are always together. At some point, they will be apart, and I would think that it would be a good idea to know how to deal with that.

Then I tried to think about the people I miss.

It was difficult. Not to think of the people, but the realization that I don't tend to "miss" people so much as try to think about other things, to forget about them.

Which isn't fool-proof, obviously, because I'll do something as mundane as order an Ocean Water from Sonic and then drown in a flood of memories.

But then I'll forget that, too.

Eh, yes, well, I guess that's why I try to write everything down. It's like looking at a snapshot of your thoughts, Memento-style.

Goodnight.

The following is a brief transcript of a recent communication between the various elaborate structures that manage and maintain my trains of thought.

"Sir! We have a problem! The boredometer is in the red!"

"What?! Dammit! Engineering, what's going on down there?"

"We've got a rupture in one of the main lines! We're hemorrhaging interest at an incredible rate!"

"Dammit! And we still have forty more minutes of class to sit through!"


Going to the Notebooks

More often than not I find myself at a loss for words. In the case of this blog, I have been sort of glossing over this problem the past few days by throwing out pictures. It's an easy way to avoid writing (despite the fact that I'm still at the point where it takes me as long, if not longer, to post pictures than to just try to write something new.)

The same with tonight, I suppose.

But I have devised a way to take care of the problem. I'll just grab one of my various notebooks and try to figure out what the hell I was talking about.

I've received compliments about some of my writing. I've been told that I'm a "good writer." And I appreciate that, I do. I'm glad that some people like it and even think it's good.

But the following should be made clear: I am also a very bad writer. I'm that guy that didn't pass English 101. Granted, I dropped the class and then passed the second time I took it, but still.

English 102? I'm strongly hoping that my third time will be the charm.

So, I take great pleasure that some like the work of a bad writer.

Neil Gaiman, whom I had the pleasure of hearing speak at the Comic-Con, gave this advice for writers: "I have good days when what I'm working on seems to write itself, and then I have the bad days when nothing is sounding the way I want it. The trick is to get through those bad days and keep writing, because in the end, after I've sat down and edited and revised it, I honestly am not able to tell apart what was written on the good days from what was written on the bad."

Well, that's not precisely what he said, but it's the basic idea.

I just thought I'd give some examples of the stuff that I have never seen fit to let again see the light of day:

For instance, in an old notebook, I came across this lone sentence:

"Weakness does not storm the gates, but drips in along the eaves of comfort."

It sounds like I'm quoting something or someone, but there are revisions to it. Heh, maybe I just took an existing quote and changed it just enough that I can't be sued.

Wow, I just found a poem, I think.

In a feckless succession of
absorbed and streamlined Revolutions
You aren't the only lonely

Lying dormant in deliberation
trying to dismiss the churning
(You can always lie about your life
as soon as anyone starts asking)

Which vapor trail are you at the end of?
Your facial origami pressed against what window?
You're not the only lonely

Maybe it was from that period in my writing where I was convinced that if no one else could understand it, that meant it was good.

Actually, now that I think about it, it sounds like a song I've heard before. Maybe I was just making up new lyrics to it, as I am wont to do.

If I don't understand what a song is talking about, that means it has to be good.

Heh, here's another. I was once accused of being "cliche." Maybe I was angry about that when I wrote this:

Your recycled languages come gushing forth from
clinging mist.
Peeling off cliches that stain sticky grey
like bandages.

Shouting "seize the day!" as you slap around for the snooze button
and eight more minutes of your ideal life.

Reprint every old abrasion
large enough to attract attention.
Turn your eyes into oceans
while your quotation marks hang in the air and buzz about like angry gnats to cloud my vision.

Let that be a lesson to all who dare to mock me. I will answer in kind, and by in kind I I mean I will write an angry, almost incomprehensible, poem about it that you will most likely never even be aware exists.

Sweet, sweet, justice.