tales of a milwaukee degenerate

Francoise is not Frank

2005-05-06T08:29:00.000-07:00

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Date: Fri, 6 May 2005 08:02:31 -0700 (PDT)
From: Send an Instant Message "erin stalnaker" <**********@yahoo.com> View Contact Details View Contact Details
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Subject: francoise is not frank - version to be posted
To: blackharvest6@yahoo.com
en lieu of writing something in the way of a rationalization of my idiocy i have decided to just cut and paste the contents of a couple emails. why paraphrase when the hard, cold evidence of the unfortunate fact that i am a goddamned moron can be posted publicly for all to see?

i will preface with only this - stan is my ubra-corporate fortune magazine brother in london who is trying to help me get an internship in barcelona this summer at the 'firm' where francois wears the big boss pants (this is corporate shorthand for shameless nepotism to get some soul-sucking shit gofer job which requires brownosing the a fore mentioned 'francoise').

without further pretense, email number one -

Date: Wed, 4 May 2005 15:21:59 -0700 (PDT)
From: "erin stalnaker" <**********@yahoo.com> Add to Address BookAdd to Address Book
Subject: Internship Possibility
To: ********@gsm.org
Dear Mr. James,

Stan has let me know that there is a possibility that GSM may have an opening for an intern to help with the scheduling of your February congress. I am wondering if I could call you to discuss the internship possibility further. I look forward to speaking with you.

Thank you,
Erin Stalnaker.

email number two, the following morning -

RE: Internship Possibility
Date: Thu, 5 May 2005 10:22:48 +0100
From: ************@fortunemail.com Add to Address BookAdd to Address Book
To: ***********@yahoo.com

Erin... Francoise is a girl's name. Francoise is a girl!!! always francois is a guy - francoise is a girl! ending in e is girl!!

No Answer

2005-04-20T14:47:00.000-07:00

Ever since moving back to Milwaukee from my suburban Madison apartment
with my girlfriend (now fiancee) of 6 years, I've found myself
incredibly happy and upbeat about life. For life, you see, doesn't
need to end after college, or at 22 or 23 or whatever seems popular
these days. I've made a lot of new friends, re-kindled old friendships
and found some new things about myself. All of this is quite
surprising to me, as I approach 26.

It was a late summer Thursday. Luckily, for some reason I decided to
take off that Friday and was obviously hoping for an eventful evening.
After a fantastic dinner, bottle of wine, and beer at Nessun Dorma
with Lisa, her friend, Falk, and Curt it was decided to let Lisa and
her friend go back home and hang out, for she was only in town that
night. Now, I have good times when Lisa comes out for that rare night
of drinking, but when she decides to hold back I sure as hell don't. I
recently described this situation as Sobo-unleashed.

Anyhow, Falk and I drop the ladies off at their car which was situated
in front of his place. We head up for a delicious bowl of... bowl. We
then stumble down to Circle A. I'm still pretty unfamiliar with
Riverwest bars at this point, but I've been here a few times and knew
what to expect in my current state. Drinks are flowing well when Curt
and his girlfriend show up. When Sarah decides to drink, she drinks!
After five shots of tequilla I get the crazy idea of possibly heading
back home. Sarah wants none of this. Like Elaine in Seinfeld, she
swiftly clothes-lines me off of my bar stool at our table. Circle A is
packed, and now riddled with laughter as I peel myself off the floor.
A few more rounds of Sauza after Frame shows up, and its time for the
night to end.

Surprisingly, I remember a fair amount yet. We stumble back towards
Falk's place where I plan on taking a cab back. I believe we were
joined by Emmylou, which I also believe would be the first time I had
met her. After another bowl or two, my untrained stomach starts to
give up on me. I decide a cigarette outside in the beautiful courtyard
is in order.

Dan and others (memory beginning to go) join me for a smoke. I'm still
not quite in order, so I convince him that I'm ok by myself for
another. Its starting to drizzle out, and I decide maybe I'll just
walk home. However, I've been in this state before - piss-drunk and
stoned out of my mind.

The best I can describe these experiences is going in and out of a
state of being just drunk, and drunk and stoned. Pot seems to hit me
like a rollercoaster. There are peaks and valleys. I'm currently in a
valley and begin the walk South on Humboldt. A peak hits me, and I get
the great idea to start heading west. Another valley, oh no - wrong
way. Peak! Lets go north again, and head further west!

At some point, its pouring out, and I'm pretty sure I'm a few blocks
west of Holton, and a little further North than I wanted to be. The
neighborhoods sure seem a bit rundown. But its 3:00AM, pouring, and
empty. I decide to give Falk a call. At this point of my life in
Milwaukee, he did what a lot of us would do at 3:00 in the morning
when they have to get up for work - turn his cellphone off. I got his
voicemail and leave a message of terror which would obviously go
unanswered.

This is when Sobo begins to sob. I had no fucking clue where I was,
and no fucking clue which direction I was headed. I kept at it for
what seemed an eternity. The pot was beginning to wear off, the
headache beginning to settle in. Like a brilliant flash of light I see
something familiar - Kilbourn Park on North, just south of the
Reservoir. The city skyline looked as good as it ever had, and I
jogged/stumbled down the hill to Commerce.

For some reason at 4:30AM, Lisa and her friend were still up chatting.
I walk in completely soaked, go upstairs and take my soppping wet
clothes off and crawl into bed, never to tell her what happened...
Sleepy time.

P.S. Falk now leaves his cellphone on at 3:00AM.

Another Friday Night

2005-04-14T09:56:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I debated whether or not to include this one because it's so foul, so base, actually it's just really embarassing, but that's part of what we're doing it for, right?
Last Friday I went out dancing at Mad Planet with some friends and got pretty sauced. My taste for alcohol never sated, I stumbled over to the Riverhorse, where a friend was working (and not the "friend" that I used to hang out with). She bought me shot after shot and beer after beer. Before I even realized it the bar was closed and I was the only customer still there.

My friend asked if I wanted to go to this afterbar party and of course I responded affirmatively.

The party itself is a blur of familiar faces, falling down, falling down stairs and suddenly a brief burst of flashing lights and then

everything

went

black.

This last part is both confusing and scary, cause it sounds like a seizure. It's also a good narrative transition.

At 6:00 in the morning Willis wakes up. He has to go to Chicago so he gets up to take a shower and do his usual morning routine. Oddly he finds the apartment filled with smoke when he opens the door to his room. He rushes over to the stove which is lit and has a pot with what looks like charcoal in it. He shuts the stove off and opens the windows, turns on the fan and is only mildly irritated with me. Then about ten minutes later he hears the landlord rushing down the stairs and beating on our door.
Where's the fire!?
He manages to calm her down, saying that we were making some food and accidently left the burner on. After he gets her out of the house he looks into the front room and sees what he thinks is a pile of clothes. Upon closer inspection he sees me curled up sleeping on one of the small pink lounge chairs in our front room. I am completely naked with a towel over my head.
At about this time, Miriam comes over to pick Willis up and he decides it would be funny to show Miriam what's happened. She sees me and grabs Willis's arm so hard that it leaves marks. She's terrified.
I wake up many hours later in my bed, hungover as hell, clueless to what happened.

Slideshow of Damnation

2005-03-30T21:27:00.000-08:00

So I haven't seen some of ya'll in some time so here's a little slide show to give you a feel of my life in Milwaukee. Please be patient, it takes a little while to load. It probably won't work so well if you use dial-up.

http://www.marxmarvelous.com/WillisNateFalk

Also, take a minute to vote for the stories so that I can give the glasses to the lucky bastard that wins.

Time to Vote for Your Favorite Story

2005-03-25T10:13:00.000-08:00

I realize that it's a bit past the March 15th deadline for submissions, but I've been drinking, aright? So now it's time to vote for you favorite story among the overwhelming amount of submissions received. Polling for this will close in about 14 days... please try to vote only once.

An aside...

2005-03-25T08:36:00.000-08:00

Recently my friend Neuman responded to one of the stories on the blog. It was the one by Willis entitled, "What the Fuck is a Cutie Pop?"
He paraphrased the story for Willis and myself one night after we'd been imbibing the spirits as, "Man I was so happy walking down the street with new girlfriend and she's so cute that even the homeless people noticed."

Another degenerate quote from an unnamed source, "I date girlfriends, I mess around with floozies."

Misplaced Thank-you's

2005-03-09T08:39:00.000-08:00

a tale from Angus....

So, I got married, really young. Now probably isn't a good time to mention that I was too young to drink on our wedding day, but that isn't even the story, nor is there any drinking in this story.

So, when we got married we got lot's of presents, some from family members we barely knew. One second-step-uncle sent us some weird pre-Foreman electric grill. But it took us a year or so to figure out where it came from.

Anyway, my step-grandmother (that's my evil step-mother's mom) sent us a check for $500. Now, this was like a head-exploding amount of money at the time. I have no idea what we used it for. Well, I've never been good at sending cards so thank-yous are even more difficult. Well, we basically sent our thank-yous out really really late and by the time we did some mixture of sick guilt and shame caused me to completely fail to send a thank you for the money.

Several years later I found myself in San Fransisco, where said step-grandmother lived, and I decided I would try to make amends and see her. So I brought some gifts and swallowed my shame and called her up when I got to town. She was very cheerful on the phone and excited to meet up for lunch. I figured, no problem, it was no big deal. What a relief!

So she picks me up and we drive to a Chinese restaurant in Berkeley and all the while we're talking and a few times she says stuff and I have to correct her, like, "are you leaving for Europe soon?" and "what color is your hair now?" and other things that don't really apply to me, per se, but don't set off any red flags right away. Finally I realize what's happening and that all the questions are meant for my brother--the one who she talks to periodically and exchanges letters with. The respectful one. So, I have to, at some point, say "no, that's Forest, I'm Angus".
Fuck. Long silence. Gears turning. frown slowly clouding her face.
"Oh", I can hear her thinking, "I'm buying this ungrateful asshole lunch at my favorite restaurant?" Most embarassing moment of my life. Long, incredibly awkward and painful meal. Shameful drive back to the train station.
Shameful.

Cold Hands and Hot Thighs

2005-03-09T08:22:00.000-08:00

It was a drunken December night at Onopa when I noticed the guy I'd had a crush on for months sitting at the bar. We'll call him "Zip," just for fun. Zip and I had made-out before, but I found it nearly impossible to talk to him due to my awkward shyness and the fact that I couldn't control the words that came out of my mouth whenever we'd talk.
My friend John had just called me and told me to meet him at Foundation, so on my way out the door I decided to do the quick "hi, bye" thing, since my heart was pounding and I was probably blushing from the thought of actually approaching him.
"Hey," he said, and grabbed my hand and started walking me out of the bar. "How was your day?" he asked.
"It was pretty lame," I replied. "Last night I got too drunk at the Fuel Christmas party at my manager's house, so I was an hour late for work and had a lot of apologizing to do. How was your day?"
"It was okay," he said, and shoved his hand in my armpit as though to tickle me.
"I'm not ticklish, you know."
"No, it's just... my hands are really cold."
"Well, you know," I said, "it's warmer if you put your hands between my legs."
As soon as I said it, I winced at my own inability to function around him, but he laughed, kissed my cheek, and I raced out of Onopa to go cry to John about being a retard.
But, seriously? It IS warmer between my legs!

What the Fuck Is a "Cutie-Pop"?

2005-03-04T13:24:00.000-08:00

A little after eight o'clock last night (March 3rd), corner of Wright and Fratney. Madeline and I had just eaten dinner at Beans and Barley, and were walking to the YCL meeting. Actually, I guess it was more of a stroll, hand in hand. Ice crunched beneath our shoes. Orange street lights spilled their luminesence on the sidewalk. We were talking about something (I forgot what it was exactly)and I hear the snap of a cold Steel Reserve behind me.
"Hey, hey, hey!" an older drunk hollered out at us.
"What's up, my man?" I said, in a toasting tone of voice.
"Man, you got yourself a cutie-pop there!"
Disregarding how bizaare his word choice was, I answered back.
"That's what I tell her."
"Man, you better be good to her, man. If I had a woman like that I'd
take her out to the Landmark every night. EVERY NIGHT, man!"
I winked at him and kissed Madeline.
"You heard what he said, right?" she chided, as if this guy had just offered me actual, concrete advice. I had to laugh.
"Does this mean I'm taking you to the Landmark?"
I paused briefly.
"Because there are some dudes there who are waiting to kick my ass."

~~~by willis~~~

Emily's First Time Doing Karaoke

2005-03-02T21:53:00.000-08:00

So, it was Dwayne's birthday last year and his wife, Bae Lee, decided to throw him a surprise party at Planet Marky's karaoke place. (If you've never been there, you should go... the guy, Marky, who does the whole karaoke thing is somewhat of a special guy, if you know what I mean.)
Before the party, some of the Fuel girls and I went out to Conejito's for dinner and margaritas. We got to the karaoke place pretty early, and since I was underage at the time, my girls told me to go to the bathroom as soon as we walked in so that they could all get carded first. I had a number of horrible fake ID's at the time, but the only one I had on me was the one of the ugly woman from Georgia. So, I'm in the bathroom and my friend Jessi comes in and she's like, "They carded all of us, so just show 'em the fake and hope they don't look at the picture." Terrified, I went out into the bar and sat with my friends, smoking a cigarette. The bartender comes up to me and he's like, "Hey, I didn't see you sneak in. What can I get for you?" In a moment of panic that he still might card me, I say, "Actually, I'm still deciding," and he's like, "Well, when you decide, my name's Angelo...and I'll be your bartender all night." Creepy, but at least I got in. In retrospect, maybe I should've just stayed home.
When the guest of honor had arrived, people started signing up for songs to sing. My friend Amanda and I did "Tainted Love," wasted of course, and then later on a group of us did "Paradise City," which is a lot more hard to sing than one might think. At around midnight, despite the drunken good time I was having, I began to feel ill and asked my friend Rebecca to drive me to her house, where I was spending the night. I stumbled right to her bed, where I passed out immediately.
Time doesn't really go by when you're blacked out, but I woke up a few hours later to a feeling of extreme discomfort. I looked around the room and realized where I was, and noticed that she was awake, too, staring at the ceiling.
"Rebecca," I whispered, "I feel really weird."
"Yeah, dude, me too."
"Um... is your bed all wet?"
She nodded. "I think you might've spilled your bottle of water."
I shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. I'm sorry."
"I have to pee," she said, and got up. A minute later, she came back in and told me that my bottle of water was unopened on the kitchen floor.
"That's strange. I wonder what it could be?"
"I dunno, man, but when I got here, you'd spilled my ashtray all over my bed and there were cigarette butts stuck to your butt. So then I had to shake you for like ten minutes to wake you up to get your keys to move your car so that you wouldn't get a ticket, and then I went to bed."
"Really? You woke me up?" I asked.
"Yup. Dude, um.... maybe you pissed the bed."
I laughed. "Yeah, right. I wouldn't piss the bed. That's fucking ridiculous."
"Well, roll over for a second..." She smelled the wet spot.
"Yeah, it kind of smells like pee. You pissed the bed, dude."
"Fuck, Rebecca....I'm sorry."
"That's okay, man. It just sucks that this is a brand new mattress with brand new sheets. Here, get up for a minute so I can spread a blanket over it."
So, what could we do? It was six in the morning, and the threat of a hangover was looming in on us. We laid there, on the piss-soaked mattress, until noon that day, because we were too lazy to do anything else.
The End.

Comrades and Christmas Elves

2005-02-16T16:34:00.000-08:00

falk here. two quick stories from me...
--------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------
In general, people like people. People want to interact with other
people. Sometimes people seek brief social interaction with strangers
merely on the basis of some vague shared interest (e.g., the friendly
"campground wave") or, even worse, some assumed fellowship between
consumers because of a consonantly consumed item. I've seen the latter
most often with car consumers.

Jeep Wrangler drivers. When you see another Jeep driver, wave.

Certain motorcyclists. When you see a biker on a bike of the same
brand, wave.

Volkswagen drivers too, apparently. I drive a Volkswagen. Sometimes
people wave at me because they're driving a Volkswagen and I'm driving
a Volkswagen. It's as if there's some sort of inherent camaraderie
between us because of our common brand ownership.

Last time a Volkswagen driver waved at me, I flipped him off.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
--------------------------------------------------------------------
In the winter, after picking up some post-bar burritos at El Chico
Zuma, Sarah and I drunkenly drove downtown to devour our food and
sabotage the elves in the winter wonderland scene made of holiday
lights in Pere Marquette Park. We had seen the elves a couple of days
earlier. We knew what they were up to. We knew what they represented.
We were going to put a stop to it. We were really drunk.

In the park, there were all sorts of wacky holiday light hijinks going
on. A jovial wintertime character was kicking a football through a
goalpost, kicking a football through a goalpost, kicking a football
through a goalpost, ad infinitum. There was a Giant Red Teddy Bear.
And there were the elves. Vicious, disproportionate creatures. Four of
them. They had attached ropes made of holiday lights to a passing
blimp (that these disproportionately large elves dwarfed) and they
were maliciously bringing the thing down.

The blimp was also made up of holiday lights. Everything was,
goddammit.

I unearthed the stake that was holding one of the bullies up. He fell
lifelessly to the ground with a dull thud. I was hungry, so I went
back to eating my burrito. Somewhere in the midst of all of this,
Sarah lost her resolve. It might have been the calming effect of the
delicious food. Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome. I can't say for sure.
But before we left, she picked the fallen elf up and drove his stake
back into the ground. We left the park, and from the rearview mirror I
watched the blimp struggle to break free and take flight.

2005-02-11T14:42:00.000-08:00

The fashion glasses your lucky ass could win!

Welcome Back, Punter.

2005-02-11T14:06:00.000-08:00

Don't know why I thought of making a cross-cultural reference for the title (crossing Welcome Back Cotter with the English slang for a person of the general public, kind of like calling someone a plebian... it's also been used to mean "Slang for someone who watches pornographic movies or who frequents strip clubs." go to this link for more definitions as well as other fascinating English slang). Well, two reasons maybe. I've been reading Irvine Welsh's "Porno", which is the sequel to trainspotting. Second reason being that I've been away for so long that I feel the need to welcome back anyone who checks out the page. Special thanks to my French readership and contributors.
So, here's the deal. The site doesn't work when people don't send me stories! I need them, I want them, I lust them (that may be a bit strong).
So here's the deal. I am making a challenge to anyone who's ever read and/or posted here. Each person send me one story (they can be short, blogs are supposed to be fairly brief) and tell one of their friends about the site. Shameless on my part? Definitely. A little desperate? Yes. How else can I get this thing rolling though? I will wait until the very scary Ides of March (March the 15th) to allow all submissions. Then, because I firmly believe in the democratic process, I will ask you all to vote for your favorite one. But wait... not only will you get the praise of all of your friends, family and co-workers for being the winner of the poorly named Milwaukee Degenerate blog prize but I'm throwing in material incentive! That's right, to appease your consumerist nature I'm offering a pair of gigantic two tone retro sunglasses, similar to the ones pictured. The point of this of course is so that you may pursue even more ridiculous and humiliating situations in style. And who knows, maybe you're such a clutz that you'll fall and break them while they're on your face, causing an emergency room visit for the minor injuries you'd suffer (well, I'm not such a bastard as to wish real harm upon y'all). What a great story that'd make! So get to sending them to: blackharvest6@yahoo.com. Good luck!

The Real Way to Start a Revolution

2004-12-20T13:09:00.000-08:00

This is a little out of character for the theme of this blog, having not been written by one of y'all but I have to put it up here, it's too damn funny. Thanks by the way to IndyGirl for finding this story.

Lawnmower-Riding Man Captured After Chase

Dec 7, 6:13 PM (ET)

DOVER, N.H. (AP) - It wasn't exactly the perfect getaway vehicle. A man took off on a lawnmower moments after he allegedly threw two Molotov cocktails at his ex-girlfriend's apartment building, police said. He was arrested Saturday night after a brief, slow-speed chase.

Police said the homemade bombs - two glass Budweiser bottles filled with gasoline and plugged with rags - did not burst into flames. One of them shattered, spilling gas and sending fumes into nearby apartments. Two residents were treated for breathing problems.

Steven Coleman, 37, was arraigned in Dover District Court on Monday on charges of criminal trespass, attempted arson, and resisting arrest, a misdemeanor. He could face up to 31 years in jail if convicted on all charges.

At one point during the chase, Coleman "turned around and looked directly at (a police cruiser)," Dover prosecutor George Wattendorf wrote in an affidavit. "Coleman appeared calm as he was smoking a cigarette."

Police eventually got out of their cars and walked toward Coleman. He turned himself in. Coleman said he was coming from a convenience store.

Racing the French

2004-12-13T13:26:00.000-08:00

Greetings!



Yesterday there was a race in our small town, I

knew this because i found it in our "ca bouge,

St. Lo" pamplet ("it moves in St.Lo") which tries

to talk up all of the things that go on in the

town.  I decided i was interested in

participating, i tried to call to find out more

information but was unsucessful in both

communicating my questions and decifering the

answers, so i just showed up.  i went in costume

of my "i'm only here for the beer" shirt, striped

tights with striped knee highs, my favorite

sunglasses, pigtails; a black laungerie slip, and

lots of gaudy accessories taken from my british

roomate's fashion supplies. i called up my

favorite "only other american" obnoxious friend

in town, and he was excited to participate as

well.



it took a while to figure out where to register,

and boy were the french people eager to assist

us, the woman who helped us sighed heavily when i

went to sign up and she informed us that it would

be 8 euros a piece to run.  i politely informed

her that we only had 5 euros collectively. when

she started to explain that that wasnt enough, i

explained that we were going to run anyways, so

did they want our 5 euros for whatever charity or

not??? she grumbled, reluctantly took our 5 euros

and signed us up, while looking me up and down

and shaking her head.  when i tried to ask where

to get pins to put up our numbers and where the

starting line was she informed me that that was

the end of her helping us and that we needed to

seek additional help elsewhere.

   so we harrassed a nearby boutique into

lending us some scotch tape to plaster our

numbers to our shirts.  brian had to run in the

mens division so unfortunately we were separated.

i found the start and before i knew it, we

began,  while jogging i attempted to ask how long

the race was and was informed it was about 4 and

a half kilometers, which i thought was

potentially feasible.  after the first lap, i

really wanted to take a cigarette break, but i

kept on trucking, i must have looked dilapated

already because i got a lot of encouragement from

supporters on the side.  i spent most of the the

race yelling out "presque morte" which i believe

translates to "almost dead".  When i thought i

was near the last lap; i was lapped by the lead

runners heading toward the final finish line, i

tried to head on in there too, but i dont know

how but the regulaters of the race instinctively

knew that i still had a lap to go, and rushed me

to continue on and blocked my entry of the finish

line until my final lap was finished.  by the

time i actually finished, there was hardly a

crowd there anymore (brings back good memories of

when they would actually take down the course

before my aunt and i would finish a race)



I tried to find where they were distributing

water while thinking i was going to pass out. As

i approaced the front of the line; i noticed,

that they were handing out chocolate and water.

Even though clearly  i looked like i was going to

die, the volunteers kept shoving chocolate in my

face, and not water. In my state of delirium, i

forgot i had to speak french and just kept

yelling "water, water!"  finally someone gave me

some water.

   Next, i walked around trying to catch my

breath when i ran into some of my students, who

completely tried to ignore me, and act liked they

just didnt know me.  Then i was approaced by some

men with a camera who insisted on taking my

picture, wasnt sure why, but i gladly posed for

them.  then they led me to the stage and

encouraged me to come up and say something in the

microphone and were announcing that i was wearing

a costume!  i tried to explain that i was

american; and us americans; we're shy people, but

then i though what the hell, why not?  so i

climbed the stairs and walked on the stage.  the

announcer guy asked me a question, that i didnt

understand, and i replied, "j'etais presque

morte, mais j'ai fini, quand meme", which i

believe translates to "I was almost dead, but i

finished anyways";  i came to find out later,

they were asking me why i chose to dress up in a

costume.  Well apparently, they figured out

french was not a fluent language of mine, awarded

me with a bottle of french champagne, and

escorted me off the stage!

2004-10-21T08:55:00.000-07:00

Sarah and Dug make pudding at the Riverhorse

A Warm Safe Place-----UPDATE

2004-10-20T13:07:00.000-07:00

So a while back I was dating a woman who had an incredible tolerance for my inability to be very responsible. Although I've gotten a little better since then I think it's pretty much endemic of my personality.
Anyways, at this point I was living with her because I got kicked out of my apartment or did one of those frantic overnight-moves-so-the-landlord-doesn't-find-out sort of things due to the fact that I had no money to pay rent, let alone the stacks of bills I had acquired from the energy company while living there. So she was nice enough to invite me (through no lack of begging on my part) to move into her house. And yes it was an entire house, but the interesting thing about it was that it was the smallest house I've ever seen. My ma's garage is bigger than this place was. There were two bedrooms and a long, living area and virtually no privacy at all. Oh yeah, and it was me, her and two other roommates, one who occupied the living area.
We were all pretty broke back then and only two of us had jobs so we spent a lot of time just sitting on the bed in the living area that served as our couch/other roommates bedroom. It wasn't as bad as it sounds, we actually had a lot of time to sort of get to know each other better. In fact it was great in part because we all lived like pigs, underwear and dirty dishes everywhere scattered around the house and also that strong familial sense that comes from being extremely poor.
One night, my girlfriend decided to take us out for a night of drinking, which was extremely generous on her part considering she'd also been feeding us and paying some of the bills. I can't even recall where we went out, it was somewhere in walking distance, more than likely onopa. So we got sloppy drunk and one of my roommates took off running towards the house and managed to fall and bloody her knee pretty bad. Of course, because she was prone to things like this happening, my girlfriend and I had a pretty good laugh about it.
The night wore on and we drank some wine or cheap beer at the house and eventually we all crawled to our respective beds. Obviously, I stayed in my girlfriends room with her. At some point in the early morning hours around 4:30 or so I was painfully awakened by a full bladder that was screaming 'emergency!!!!'. I had to piss so bad that I found it difficult to get out of bed without pissing a little (which I did) and I was so drunk that I had a hard time finding my way around, especially in the pitch black night. So I walked around a little bit, felt the doorknob to the room and walked to the bathroom. I didn't really bother to turn on the light because, I figured, I could approximate where the toilet was through my mental map of the apartment. So when I got in the vicinity of the toilet I let it fly. About halfway through my relief I hear, "Nathan, what are you doing?" it was my girlfriend. I was a little startled by her since I hadn't heard her approach (she tends to be very loud) but responded, "I'm pissing." To which she replied, "In the closet?"

I thought she was joking. But then she did me the favor of turning on the lights. Yep, I was in the closet all right, pissing on her shoes. I groaned and stumbled away to the bathroom to finish what I'd started and then came back to find her mopping up a huge pool of piss out of her carpeted closet. I tried to help but she told me just to lay down. I spent the rest of the next five minutes I was awake before passing out appologizing to her. Ever after that her room had the faint odor of pee by which I mean beer pee (an entirely different animal). Maybe that's why, after the living area roommate moved out she began sleeping on the bed out there.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
After reading my story, evan had his own to share:

When I have to work the next day I either cry into my beers at home and sleep early or I party the piss out of myself. Unfortunately, one day I actually did lauch the space program of piss, but it's more complicated than that.

Basically, I have to ask this question, when do you know if you're dreaming or dead? or alive I guess too? Well this is what happened...

I put the drunken bicycle and drunken me on autopilot to towards home and made it safely. That's not the story. Then I managed to keep conscious to brush my alcohol teeth and put on a nice flannel night shirt. I made it to the bed and everything was really velvety dreams and what not. However, what do you know, I had this dream where I was pissing and in the dream I had to get to the middle of the room for some reason to do this pissing. So I get to the middle of the room and have the dream where I'm pissing in the middle of the room. Next thing I know is my alarm goes off and i go to work for 8 hours.

The whole day I think, "that was a really weird dream, why did I have to get to the middle of the room? what does it mean?" and I get home from work feeling as I always do after work, sorta lame, confused and tired. Then I smell this odor. What the fuck! The dream was real, but I didn't believe it. So I touched the area I pissed on in the dream and it was wet and I felt like I failed my learning to become an adult.

Another weird thing is, when I told that story to another friend of mine, he told me that he knew this guy that pissed in his dream and while he was sleepwalking said "I'm pinking out the universe" when his girlfriend asked what he was doing.

Here's a couple from gina b

2004-10-13T17:41:00.000-07:00

these are two great stories from my bestest of friends gina b. a little background about her before the story, she creates her own reality by following the spirals of bad luck that plague her and weaving them into the most joyful, unbelievable events. I've never met anyone who has mastered their own reality so completely. gina b is currently on hiatus in France where she teaches children english and calls her friends at 3 in the morning (her time) from the local discotech on a cell phone that charges her roughly 8 dollars a minute.
now on to the horror!

i got a package yesterday from erin, my old
roomate; (she sent it
to the school) and all the profs eagerly watched
me open it (they were smiling and asking me who
sent the cadeau--present) they handed it to me
in the teachers lounge and it was the most
attention anyone had given me, someone had to
help me open it because erin abused the package
with so much tape...the first thing in there on
the top that i grabbed was a vibrator with
batteries taped on there, it was too late because
everyone in the room had seen it...there isnùt
much that can embarass me quite like that could
and then i had to laugh (by myself i might add)
then i pulled out a t-shirt, thinking it coudnùt
get worse and it said in french (donùt serve me,
i^m on the wagon..., which was this stupid joke
erin and i had together...so they think i am a
sex crazy
alcoholic....

life is good
i continually make good first impressions
love ginab

quick story...
i was teaching my first class of the week to the
11 year olds. I have already taught two just
like it that went decent so i was actually
feeling confident. The kids were tougher than
the other groups because they kept fucking
talking in french and i coudl't even tell what
they were saying. i was trying to be strict (the
teachers consistantly advise that) and i did have
"somewhat" control of the class after the first
10 minutes. i was having them answer some very
very basic questions in english on a piece of
paper. I was writing up names of colors on the
board when i heard this bizarre noise of what
sounded like a pitcher of water being dumped on
the floor...then i heard everyone groan and
yelp...i took a deep breath and turned around.
One of the students was puking (and quite a bit i
might add) she suceeded in puking on two other
students as well as all in her hair and on her
and another student's back pack. eeehhhh....

usually i have a stomach for such a thing but i
ran over to her and of course, in my panic,
forgot that they don't realy understand english
very well and just kept asking her if she was
okay. She seemed to be shocked from the puke and
was shaking a bit... to make matters worse all of
a sudden i started to dry heave because i was so
grossed out...at this point i lost complete and
total control of the class. oh it was terrible,
and the one student who was trying to help me, i
couldn't fucking understand...the poor girl, i
felt so bad for her, i finally was able to
communicate to a student to help take her down to
the infirmirary, but then there was still the
issue of the puke on the other students and hell,
all over the god damn classroom. oh it
sucked...i think i might take a pass on lunch
today, i don't know if i can stomach it.
have a great day!
loveginab

One from John Vanderhoef

2004-10-13T13:55:00.000-07:00

Sunday, Sept. 26, held an alarm to wake up early for a trip that took over an hour to start, but videogames, toast, and skim milk kept me busy until our departure to Minneapolis to see Ani Difranco perform solo, accompanied by the comedian Margrett Cho, who although politically conscious and energetic, arguably passionate, failed to really convince me of her unique skill to conjure laughter from at least my still gullet. On the way there we stopped in Eau Claire where Colleen goes to school, staying in a sorority house, and once safe in her basement bedroom, she explained the dramas of the house, the caring and the cruel under the roof that kept the sun off our bored backs, the bitches and hoes in the neighborhood, and everything else about the life of a sorority girl, the fraturnity relations, the parties, the hypocrisies, the general ghost of unease haunting the halls, pictures scattered across the wall told as much if not more of the memories clinging to the carpet like dust or crumbs, and they smoked a bowl while I sipped wine, me explain my idea to buy stock and make money, all of us agreeing its time we unearth our promised million dollars.
Then with them high and me drunk we set off for our destination, my coffee mug filled when emptied by my slowly staining lips, until in the middle of the interstate the urge to urinate overtook me. Memories of my friends pissing in cups to throw at poor and luckless denizens of little and sheltered Wisconsin Rapids skittered across my frame of mind and in a fit of drunken confidence, even with my two friends up front stoned and hopefully inattentive or distracted by some abstract thought they would keep to themselves for their personal entertainment or contemplation, I pulled the shirt covering the alcohol in the paper bag, a precaution from any taddling gazes at Colleen's house of standards, over my zipper, seperated the copper teeth, removed my concealed dick and proceeded to fill the cup, blind to the total capacity of the drained coffee cup left over from a stop at Einstien Bagels before exiting the greater Milwaukee area. A warm rush flooded my loins, at first interpreted as an extraordinary, almost unnatural, bliss as a result of the urinating process, but what soon accurately observed as an overflow of urine, the cup completely full and dripping, and an extending area of dampness between my legs. Precisely at this moment, while I struggled to cap the flooded coffee cup, my roommate felt it necessary to turn around and begin to discuss something with me. The shirt hid my urinary accident, and while satiating her desire for converation with nods and monosylabic responses, I managed to weakly secure the lid enough to allow me to toss the entire container out the window, releasing waste to the wind in a spray of sun-shining stretched out droplets just as my friend's head turned forward, my only problem from that point, waiting for evaporation to take effect; with any luck, and luck, in hindsight, nestled in my pocket, somehow avoiding the moisture, without a smell to thwart my clever coverup.
It dried, not a lie to say nothing when nothing needs to be said, made it to the record store, twisting through one way streets and a slapped sense of direction, no cash to buy obsalete LPs, no bathroom even to drain the rest of the wicked wine, so walked three blocks down to a Wendy's where a mumbling black man named Mark looked to have shot up Heroin in the restroom before me, and waited until after I had emptied my bladder to ask me for some change for the bus, in the most unfocused and indirect way, at first inquiring where I was headed, if I had a car, and then finally when I admitted to having not even a penny on me, a truth for I lie seldom and always the size of a star in the sky, no bigger do I fib or commit fraud, he left my side to investigate the possibilites of other strangers through his confusing stumbles, perplexing questions, and ackward gestures framing shifting eyes.
At the concert many alluring dreadlocked, free-spirited, intelligent and hippy-dressed girls caught my wandering eye, drunk still due to another glass of boxed wine gulped, and when the comedian, Ms. Cho, left me almost bored and restless, we retired to the merchandise and food stands to complain about the marked up prices, them purchasing a few snippets of nurishment, me choosing not to, and as luck would have it, still in my pocket sewed into my at that point dry shorts, Christians outside were handing out free water bottles, coffee, complete with sugar, and candy, including peppermints, which I explained to them can help improve your concentration levels, and because I don't have any I can never remember to buy any - what a sad and painfully perpetual cycle of stimulation starvation I endure daily - and the Chritian girl gave off a nice air, friendly and lively, but fat had claimed her body, so any discussion beyond the safe and casual, especially that which would fall into the realm of flirting, I perpusely avoided, instead glancing sporadically and Andrea and Colleen, the second they stood up to return to our far-from-the-stage-almost-nose-bleed-just-under-the-stratosphere seats I too stepped toward the doors, waving goodbye to the faithful, returning to my life without such frivilous fantasies.
Before Ani came on, during the intermition where people could shake off the bad jokes and non-inventive humor of Ms. Cho, I drank yet more, they smoked in the car with my anxious eyes keeping watch, only distracted when their focus landed and grasped onto a pipe above. I jumped up and grabbed if with my hands, the grip feeling as good as the ones my eyes had first found, and swinging I felt the strain of weight on my muscles, awful and hearty, stressful and satisfying, turning around to face the windshield and the two girls tapping out the cashed bowl, them stepping out, and me racing them to the ground floor, me on foot, them on the elevator. I beat them both ways, down and up, so sometimes machines don't save any time at all.
Ani rocked, but with over 130 songs, I recognized very few, because I never really listened to a whole CD, my experiance with her owing mostly to downloaded and illegally owned songs, something Andrea does not take part in, but not for the reasons most boycot the act for. I tried to record the show, in a similiar style to the Decemberist concert, a future bootleg CD straddling my dreams and visions of a forgotten, or not yet remembered, day in the unwritten future, a chapter not even imagined while sucking sun flower seeds or battling constipation. It failed somehow, the recording process, through no knowledge of my own, even to this day, but I was drunk, and everything simple and stupid in you digs to the surface in an inebriated state, the ground of your decision making tears apart, the grass dies, the mountains crumble, the landscape collapses and leaves in its reorganized wake only the most base of human emotions, stripped of all methods of sedation or control, so that these naked feelings roam free and frantic, befuddled and skulking around an environment full of promise and adventure, without a thought to the thoughts of those more sober and critical, without a single second's consideration for the value of intelligence, logic, reason, memory, rationalization, or any other psychological faculty that may aid an individual in operating a tape recorder or for that matter, refraining from pissing himself in the backseat of an interstate-incompessed automobile.
I never pissed my pants sober, not since my eventless youth.
The past six months alone, due to drunkeness and the dumbing down of my nervous system, a vital sense to have when your body tries to warn you of internal overflow, I have pissed myself four times that I can remember, maybe more. Perhaps in the future, along with a handle of vodka, I should pick up a pack of depends, just that extra security you need when you plan to drink past the point of normal body functionality, when you know your biological safety systems will be out of order for a period of time.
So I don't have a record of the Ani Concert.
She looked like an ant playing so far away. The bassist that played with her, to provide that harmonic rhythem, appeared as an obese ant, not because of his own percentage of fat content, low from my limited perspective, but because of the beast of an instrument which stood as his verticle equal, a colossul stringed musical device devoted to keeping the beat.
Ani, over 35 (I think) jumping around stage with the vivacity of a teenager, the vigor of an athelete, the musical energy of a punk band, except she didn't smash any instruments to profess her anger, angst, and misguided rebellion against an economic, political, and social system that daily insulted their learned quality of compassion for their fellow man. Ani just gave her guitar to the stage hand who came out after almost every song to give her a new one, perfeclty tuned. It seemed phony, faked, false, and ingenuine, her words either about relationships or politics, both one could argue can be applied to almost any aspect of our world, from science to philosophy. Even punks like Ani Difranco, because she cares to care, dares to care, shares a set of shotty solutions through song and passion, rations out anger with a heafty helping of humanity - or maybe she just plays music that people can relate to, in whatever form their connection comes in.
That night we drove home, emptied gas tanks, wallets, fast food wrappers, pizza supplies at avarice department/grocery stores, heat from the oven, vodka and juice from the bottle, then our cups, bowls, our lungs of breaths, our throats of late night voices, and our ears of energy from having to listen to it all, ending the long day while already in the next one, three in the morning, lights out, music from the children's cartoon, The Animaniacs, educating us about the fifty states and their capitols, the nations of the world, the presidents of the united states, and the most common ingrediants found in icecream.

Here's a couple from Evan

2004-10-13T11:51:00.000-07:00

Last week I thought someone was coming from another world into my film classroom because I heard these loud pounding sounds coming from where the floor meets the wall and it sounded like Frank or someone was stuck between dimensions. I had been drinking before class so I was worried that somehow this alcohol made me feel or notice something that the other students couldn't perceive. Then I volunteered my answer to the professor's question and we watched a film.

When I was little I liked to watch ants. I came from New Mexico so we have all sorts of ants, some of which you rarely find in Wisconsin. Anyway, I was real little and I would just go to my backyard squat over an ant hill and just watch them rock out. I musta done something bad to them on accident cuz suddenly I felt this horrible pain on my thigh and looked down to see this giant chomper clamped to my skin as it turned red. It really burned and started swelling.
Before this I had such a peaceful relationship with the ants. I was little and didn't really understand what I did that would make it worthwhile for them to bite me so ferociously. But once it happened I really felt it was unfair.
So I guess my observation of them made me realize they love sugar so my revenge (though I'm both ashamed and find it funny at once), was... I made some jello and put it next to the hill where I had been attacked. The ants all went for it but many of them got stuck in Bill Cosby's fetish.
I guess it's not that funny.

the link is to Evan's art page that he maintains

Bienvenudo

2004-10-12T11:20:00.000-07:00

Howdy campers,

I welcome you graciously to my new blog. Many of you have probably been directed here from my friendster site, so there's a better possibility than not that I know you. My intent here is to create a space for stories of the madness of my own and other's lives. I intend to put up the brutally honest, humiliating and in all hilarious anecdotes that pepper our lives. Please email me your own stories so that we can create a community filled with post traumatic stress disorder, bad person thinking, and dashing attempts at achieving greatness (that usually fall short).

A Tale of Rear Ends
I'll start out with a story of my own that happened over the summer. As many of you know, I happened to get really into bicycling this summer. This is just another of my burning hot passions that fade quickly. Not to say that I don't like biking anymore, I love it, I'm crazy about it, but this summer I really liked biking. You know, in that unhealthy obsessive/compulsive way. So I was riding around with a group of friends that I frequently rode with, I think on this day we were coming back from a ride out to Fox Point and back. We were coming down Farwell heading towards North avenue and I was drenched in sweat. I was at that point where I was kind of overheated and dehydrated from a previous evening of drinking and I was getting a little bit delirious. As we passed a gas station I saw this woman pumping gas at a gas station. I started to look away (to concentrate on the road so as not to get hit by traffic) but then did a double take. She had an enormous ass! I'm not putting her down or anything, I actually quite appreciated it, especially in the red sweatpants she was wearing. Well the delirium got the better of me, because I totally forgot about what the hell I was doing as I was checking her out. After a couple of seconds, after she was out of immediate eyeshot, I came back to my bike and looked forward just in time to realize that I was about to rear-end a parked car. Some how I managed to swerve out of the way but it threw me off balance enough that I had to overcompensate for the jerking motion. Instead of hitting the back of the car I ended up falling on the side of it, nearly taking off the sideview mirror and taking off about three layers of skin. I kind of fell over and had to do the half-running, half-falling on my bike thing, gouging the shit out of my ankles with my bike pedals.
When my friends realized what had happened and I told them why it happened they laughed their asses off at me and warned me to watch out for those "bike-wreckers".

Now send me some damn stories that I can put up here.

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