I Would Gladly Have Sex With Paul Rudd

It’s early in the morning, and I’m drunk.  I’m watching Clueless on TBS and it’s making me incredibly, hilariously happy.  Not just because I’d totally be gay for Paul Rudd, either.  I went to Denny K’s tonight and it totally pissed me off (yikes!  Paul Rudd just kissed Alicia Silverstone!  Hooray!) because they switched out the old school jukebox where DK could exercise a nominal amount of control for an internet jukebox, so it was all rap.  I said fuck that.  Because, seriously, fuck that.  I went and put a sold ten dollars in there and played Band of Horses, Bright Eyes, Cursive, and Death Cab, and told everyone to suck the biggest, blackest boner on the face of the planet.  And if I’d had more money, maybe I’d gotten past the "D’s" and played solid music until the cows came home.

Speaking of, when the fuck do the cows come home?  And where did they go?  Do cows visit places other than their homes?  I never really understood that..

I haven’t written all shitfaced in a long time.  And I’m not "shit-faced," per se.  Just drunk.  And I’ve been disenchanted lately.  The scene is trite and tired, and by extension, so are all of its players.  So I get all old mannish, drinking Tanqueray and Tonics and looking pissed off about every dolled up retard or douched-up douchebag who saunters into my favorite watering hole.  Because, seriously, I don’t buy quality drinks to have a fucking idiot in the cockeyed hat and tightass print shirts spill it all over my arms and shirt because he doesn’t care enough to watch where he’s walking.  You dig?

Well, shit.  I had a twenty minute conversation about Jude the Obscure tonight, which is funny in its own right.  We’re talking about a literary era in which conciseness was anethema, and plot was a device to enable additional description.  Not that I mind that, necessarily–minimalism has its own risks and rewards, as does poetic lyricism in which you descibe every description, so on and so forth and so what.  Well, shit.  And we talked about the Brothers Karamazov, and I started wondering when was the last time I read a book that was written after 1900.  I started ot understand why so much of my writing is all old-fashioned, and archaic as giving a rat’s ass.  And if I had a rat’s ass, I wouldn’t give it for anything, because only when you have a rat’s ass do you begin to appreciate it.

Stick that up your tailpipe!

Ha, I’m going to bed.  I’ll probably write something worthwhile tomorrow, just felt like having fun tonight.

Mitchy xoxo