Let's Just Give This Nonsense Another Try

 Happy 2023!

In keeping with the situation, I'm sure.

Drunkards, I haven't posted here in almost a year and a half, and I'm really, really sorry about that. Surely I'm more sorry I haven't written a post than you are that you haven't read a post. I get that. 

But because I should care more about whether I'm writing than about who might possibly read my words, I need to get back at it. And here in the year of our arbitrary timekeeping mechanism 2023, I'm going to try.

To start off, just a brief anecdote. 

My Precocious Daughter, who was in, I think, the fourth grade when I started this blog, graduated from high school third in her class and is now a graduate student in a Very Large City. I'm so freaking proud of her, you guys, and I miss having her around. She's been home for the holidays, which has been wonderful. (More on me being an empty nester in a future post.)

Lol, the eggs have long since fled this nest, though.

When she got here, shortly before Christmas, she still had one final paper to write, which she banged out over a couple of days, with all the frenzied energy of a graduate student who has left their final paper to the very last moment. Although I never went to grad school, I remember the energy required to make those deadlines as an undergrad. I remember actually having that energy. Wild.

Anyway, although PDaughter is working on a degree in High-Tech Whizbang Stuff (the actual name in the catalog, I believe), she also is taking film classes, being a film junkie of the highest order. Her final paper was in this area. She let me read it when it was finished.

Damn.

My kid can write.

Like, she's a better writer than I am.

The paper was a review of a movie I feel confident few of you have seen, by a director I feel confident few of you are familiar with, in the context of a critical framework I feel few of you have considered. I'm not being condescending to any of you amazing readers, I'm just saying that this paper was...niche. But PDaughter nailed it, and it was interesting and informative even to me, who felt pretty much in over her head while reading it.

I am delighted that my kid is a talented writer. I'm also fucking mortified that I've allowed age and stress and discouragement and alcohol to turn me away from the one thing in my life that I've ever been good at. 

Other than composing for the theremin.
Wait, that wasn't me.

So I'm going to give this blogging thing another shot. Please be patient if I start off slowly. There might even be a few Best Of posts while I figure out if I'm capable of reconnecting to my writerly self.

Oh, and there may be poetry. It's the only thing I've written on a semi-regular basis over the last 18 months. (The one I've linked to is much older than that, however.)

And monkeys. Because I still love monkeys.

And I love all of you. Let's do this.

Five Years (What a Surprise)

 This Monday marks five years since my divorce was final. 

And now this song will be in my head all day, of course. There are worse fates.

(It's been five years since we lost David Bowie, too. Wow, 2016 really did suck, didn't it?)

To prepare for writing about this milestone, I've spent the last hour or so re-reading old posts from the days, months, and actually years leading up to it. If you don't know or have forgotten, three and a half years elapsed between the time my ex and I separated and the day the divorce decree was signed. I'd love to say it was because our extensive empire of assets, holdings, and bank vaults filled with money took time to be equitably split. But no. It was mostly because even the smallest of worlds can become vast and treacherous when you're navigating toward the exit.

Anyway, those posts are all archived under the "Divorce" tag on the right side of the page if you want to peruse them. I get that reading about somebody else's divorce may not be the most compelling thing in the world - especially if, as in my case, there aren't a lot of publicly available juicy details - but as for me, I'm damn glad those chronicles exist. I had forgotten, deliberately or otherwise, a lot of the stuff I'd written down. Re-living some of those moments has been instructive and emotional. 

On the whole, this is a happy anniversary for me. Of all the bass-ackward things I've done in my life, the most significant was becoming an old married lady without ever having been a young single lady.

It's nearly impossible to Google "single lady"
without getting a picture of Beyonce, so here's
a random picture of a snake in a combat helmet
instead. (RIP, Gandalf the White)

Over the last five years, I've done a lot of things I feel I should have done much earlier in life, like figuring out my own taste in decorating (which turns out to involve a lot of skeletons), putting myself on a budget and learning how to save, motivating myself (and taking responsibility when I don't), and just generally being comfortable in my own skin. I'm not saying I've been wildly successful in each of  these endeavors. But as I cruise through my fifties, I've finally put in the work that I probably should have done in my twenties. 

I'm like Thornton Melon, but again, not wealthy.

Of course, my biggest and best accomplishment - and the reason I would never, ever, actually go back in time and change any of the things I think I've done wrong - is my Precocious Daughter. She'll be a senior in college this Fall, and while I worry constantly that I've screwed up her life in a thousand ways as collateral damage of my own screwups, I'm so proud of the person she's become. I'm not sure she'll ever know how much she helped me through the dark days of the divorce, by being strong and happy and inspiring but also by needing me to be there for her. Like most parents, when I stop to think of all the ways I've failed her I go a little crazy. But then I see what she's become in spite of that, which really is a mark of successful parenting that a lot of us don't embrace as much as we should. 

Any kid who never looked at their parents and thought, "Nah, I don't want to go there" probably didn't turn out as well as they might appear to be from the outside.

Never forget that in the Brady Bunch universe,
Marcia growing up to have a drinking problem
is canon.

This is not the post I meant to write today. I meant it to be funnier, and sillier, and have more advice on how to be a happily divorced person in a world that in many ways really only wants to hear about being happy in a traditional marriage. Oh, well. I'm no stranger to things not going the way I planned them to be. Obviously.

(On that note, here's a post I wrote when I was married about another writer's [ridiculous] definition of a good vs. a bad marriage. It's pretty hilarious, and I recommend all my happily married friends feel free to ignore its advice.)

Maybe I'll write the funny, silly post later. Or maybe I'll spend the rest of the day hanging out with the Siamese Kitten and looking for new skeletons to add to my decor.

Whatever you do today, Drunkards, do it happily. 

Advice to a Failed Blogger

 The biggest news story of the week, obviously, is the Former Guy's blog shutting down.

Obviously.

The absolute spate of news outlets covering the demise of the "From the Desk of Donald J. Trump" feature of TFG's website are equivalent to BuzzFeed's never-ending series of listicles about "Celebrities You Forgot Were Couples Back in the Day." My initial reaction - "Why yes, I had forgotten that Keifer Sutherland and Julia Roberts once were engaged and had the same hairstyle" - almost immediately gives way to "Why am I reading this when I could be doing something I care about, like sleeping or trimming my cloven pinkie toenails?"

Like apparently the vast majority of humanity, I didn't actually visit Trump's blog myself. I'd read screenshots of his brief, badly written "posts" on Twitter, along with the comment threads imploring the screenshotters not to "give him air." This was a trifling and dull portion of my daily social media consumption, and now that it's come to an end after 29 days, I neither mourn it nor miss it.

On the other hand, why pass up an opportunity
to use this absolute classic of a photo?

Apparently "From the Desk of..." was getting fewer than 15,000 interactions a day, which isn't surprising, since it was a static series of short, bloviating proclamations rather than a true platform that allowed engagement with supporters, detractors, trolls, bots, or any of Dan Scavino's 600 shadow accounts.

I don't think this has the force of law behind it, but without
a retweet from Kayleigh McEnany, HOW DO WE KNOW?

Nonetheless, 15,000 eyeballs, while a paltry number compared to, say, almost any other public figure on the planet, are still considerably more than I get here in my little corner of the internet. Yet unlike the twice-impeached former occupant of the White House bathroom, I've been here for more than 10 years and I'm not letting a little thing like being roundly ignored by vast numbers of people bruise my ego to the point of giving up. 

Still, would it kill you to tell your friends?

That combination of longevity and self-delusion, I think, makes me qualified to advise any number of former POTUSes on running a blog that, if not successful, at least continues to exist. Granted, this is after the fact. But if we're to believe spokesman Jason Miller, aka the violent, cheating drugger of women who looks disconcertingly like a Tootsie Pop with some schmutz on it, the 86ing of "From the Desk of..." is merely clearing the way for a new, bigger, bolder, and totally not imaginary future Trump platform.  

With that in mind, I hereby appoint myself Definitely Official Blogospherical Advisor to the One-Term Guy. And here, based on an in-depth analysis of his previous online activity that lasted, like, at least a half a cup of coffee, is my critique and advice for running a blog when you're a rando that nobody cares about:

1. Use more GIFs. TFG's blog posts haven't disappeared; they've just been absorbed into the "News" section of his website, such that "news" to actual factual content is now what "non-dairy topping" is to actual whipped cream. That means I've been able to review his past posts, and honestly, they're pretty lacking in visual interest. Where are the memes? The amusing photoshopped images? For corn's sake, where are the GIFs? Whether you say "giff" or "jiff" (or, as I suspect, "fig"), you need to use more of them. Here's one of my favorites:

2. Play up the humor. While sarcasm and satire are worthy literary devices, there's such a thing as being too subtle. You need more laff-out-loud lines like this to keep readers coming back.

That's gold, I tell you. And now let's combine it with #1 above to create a truly memorable moment:

3. Titles are important. Put some thought into how you name their posts. A catchy title can mean the difference between boffo engagements and utter apathy. I mean, look at this series of posts:

Bo-ring. A good title is punchy and memorable and most important, reflects the content of the post itself. For instance, I would give a post like this...

...an eyeball-grabbing headline like "I Made Soup Out of Some Words!" or "This One Simple Trick to Dupe the Lowest Common Denominator of Your Base" or "You Should Stop Right Now and Read This Desperate Cry for Relevance from a Deluded Old Man." See how much better that works?

4. More guest posts. I know that the glamor and prestige of blogging can make it seem that you're the center of the universe. But it pays to sometimes share the spotlight, to provide novelty and a fresh perspective to your readers. Guest posts do just that, and they also expose you to fans of your guest. Win-win! I suggest featuring the comedy stylings of this guy, who does hilarious videos from the clubhouse of a local apartment complex while pretending to be on mountains of cocaine:

Fair warning: This guy will charge you five hundred smackers for his funny content. But a billionaire blogger can easily afford that, right?

5. Don't get discouraged. There will be many times when you'll want to give up on the blogging game. You'll look at your underwhelming numbers and wonder why you bother. You'll be convinced that no one cares what you say, or that people who used to say they were your staunch supporters actually consider you a laughing stock and wish you would go away. Don't you give in to your discouragement. Keep on believing in yourself, even if you're literally the only person who does. Remember that you're capable of creating masterpieces like this:

Some writers have to wait years for their talent to be recognized. Don't forget that Vincent Van Gogh was dead before anyone realized that he was an artistic genius. I'm not saying that's a route you should try. But remember that the internet is forever, and if that's how long it takes for people to give you your due, then so be it. Keep cranking out that content, even if it's criticized, derided, or more likely ignored, and let posterity render the judgment you deserve. Because it will.

You're welcome. And to conclude, here's a picture of the 1990s throwing up on Keifer and Julia.

Like, share, and comment blah blah blah.

I know, I know, I know.

I haven't posted in almost three months.

I'm a slug.

Pictured: Me.

Thanks to those who have reached out, inquired about my well being, bitched at me. All responses are appreciated.

Here's what's been going on:

Precocious Daughter is now a college freshman. She lives on campus. Yes, she's only 20 minutes away, and yes, she visits at least once a week ("visits" meaning "comes over to be fed and steal any household cleaning products she doesn't want to buy herself"). But still, my only spawn is now an adult college student, and our relationship has fundamentally changed forever. Possibly that's put me in a new headspace, I don't know.

I've got a pretty big new freelance gig. I'm ghost-writing a book for a former employer. I'm stoked to be a part of it, I appreciate the income, and I'm not gonna lie, it's a resume-booster for me.

I've been mulling a shift to a freelance career. There are external reasons for this (message me), but at this stage of my life, without a child to support or a mortgage to pay, it feels more right to me than it has at other stages. Starting a freelance career when almost all of your writing/editing credits are anonymous corporate work is hard, you guys. I'm working on it.

I'm intensely missing the experience of writing and copy-editing for the amazing Knot So Subtle blog. I'd give anything to turn back the clock and take a more active role in keeping it going. I am trying to contact Tammy Hough, founder and chief editor, but no luck so far. I'd jump at the chance to revive it or to participate in the launch of a similarly exceptional women's blog. Let me know if you hear anything.

Finally, I've been doubting if it's worth writing here. The feedback I've received from many of you is inspiring and deeply appreciated. I'm prepared to let this be my legacy (until I can't afford Internet service any more). It doesn't appear that a Powerball win is in my future, so I'm willing to keep posting nonsense to whoever wants to read nonsense.

Love you all.

P.S. Can I crowdfund a dollar amount equal to winning Powerball? Asking for a friend.

Moving Forward

My Precocious Daughter is now a high school graduate.

And all of her little friends - who attended her birthday parties and got their karate black belts together and grew up before my eyes - are also graduates.

I'm so proud of these monsters. Every last one of them.

And I'm so, so grateful to the readers who have followed the journey of PDaughter and her ridiculous mother through good times and bad times and batshit-crazy times. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

A new era begins now. I sincerely hope you'll join me.

Suggestions are more than welcome.

Five Faves on Social Media

Lately I've spent more time reading/watching social media than writing/contributing. Life ebbs and flows, and right now that's where the ebb it's been going. See what I did there?

Anyway.

I thought I'd share a few of my current favorite social media accounts with you, so you can see where my head's at. Note: I define social media as Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. I'm too old for Tumblr and far too unhip for Instagram*, although some of my faves definitely may be active on those platforms in addition to the ones I list here.

*I do have an Instagram, but frankly it baffles me, so basically I only use it to stalk Fredrik from "Million Dollar Listing New York."

In no particular order, here are the accounts you could follow if you wanted to see the world through my eyes (good God, why?)

WeRateDogs (@dog_rates on Twitter): They're good dogs, Brent. Home of the best doggos and puppers, heartwarmingly and hilariously ranked for your convenience. A true phenomenon.

Single Dad Laughing (Facebook): Parenthood, dating, and lifestyle blogger. I follow him mainly for his daily roundup of memes, which I regularly steal/share on my own Facebook page.

Pictures in History (Facebook): The guy who runs this account consistently posts unique and fascinating photographs - not just the ones that are repeated and repackaged ad nauseam in clickbait articles (and I would know because I'm a sucker for clickbait articles - come at me, bro). Fun stuff.

Moshow the Cat Rapper (@IAmMoshow on Twitter and Facebook): Just what he sounds like - a dude who raps about cats, with his cats (he has five). But more than that, he's a sweet, genuine guy who spreads positivity with every post. If you could use a smile several times a day, give him a look.

Tiny Snek Comics (@TinySnekComics on Facebook and Twitter): The artwork here is so ludicrously simple it's beautiful; the jokes are so blase they're profound. The young man who draws Tiny Snek comics has created an entire visual and verbal language that conveys depth and sincerity through extreme silliness. He just graduated from college, but I hope the real world doesn't end his comics.

*****

There's five. I'll come up with five more another time. In the meantime, do me two favors:

1. Share your favorite social media accounts.

2. If you visit any of mine, tell them Chuck Baudelaire sent you.

I'm off to check my notifications. G'night.

An Open Letter to Paul Simon

Dear Paul Simon:

I have something I want to say. And I'd like to say it the way your song lyrics taught me things could (and should) be said: With softness, strength, wry humor, and an economy of language that belies a wealth of emotion.

So here goes:

Godammit, Paul, you can't fucking do this to me!

Do you mind if I call you Paul?

No, your disarming smile won't make it all better this time.

Look, I don't know how often you read my little blog. In my humble opinion, you really should keep up with it. You would learn about monkey art, and how to make pea soup and sweetheart balls and how to grow beans. You would be introduced to my poetry, which sometimes is (I think) truly poetic and sometimes is just about penises. The way poetry is, as you know.

You would also see that I'm a longtime and devoted fan of your music and of you personally. To me, there's only one person in the world worthy of receiving the coveted "Left-Handed Jewish Singer-Songwriters Married to a Former Member of New Bohemians" tag, and it's you, Paul.

Even Artie misses by that much.

The point is, way back in high school - a long, long time ago, even before you released Graceland - I said in a high-school writing assignment that one of my greatest goals in life was to see concerts by Bob Dylan and Paul Simon (that's you). I've seen Bob in concert twice, as you surely know if in fact you do read my blog. Or if Bob reads my blog and has told you about it. If you guys ever get together and chat about blogs you enjoy. Maybe over some nice pea soup. 

But I digress.

But while I've seen Mr. Dylan perform, I've never seen you. I've actually seen a number of my 60s musical heroes live: Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork, the Moody Blues, Ringo Starr, Brian Wilson. Yet if all these talented artists are like stuffed heads hanging over the mantel of my heart, then one mahogany plaque is still missing its lovingly amputated and painstakingly preserved trophy: Paulsimonicus harmonius newyorkicus.

If that's not, you know, pushing the metaphor too far.

Anyway, today you announced on social media that your upcoming tour will be your last. Thankfully, this will bring you to Dallas one final time, on June 1. Your retirement is not immediate, unlike Neil Diamond's, who just jerked the fucking rug out from under all of us who have spent their lives hoping to you see sing in person, just once, even while their sister has seen him multiple times, not that I begrudge her that joy.

You know?

Paul, I love you and Neil almost as much as I love
my sister. Can I call you Paul?

I don't hold out great hope that I'll have the opportunity to catch your final Dallas show. Or the means. My Precocious Daughter graduates in June, and apparently it now costs as much to graduate from high school as it cost me to get an entire college education. She's my priority, emotionally and financially, but believe me, if I could save enough money for front-row tickets to your show by not eating between now and June 1, I'd totally do it. I can always eat on June 2, right?

I'm sad, is what I'm trying to say. Sad that you're in the twilight of your illustrious career, sad that we can't always tick off all the items on our bucket lists, sad that time merely shrugs at our best efforts to slow it to an endless waltz instead of a headlong jitterbug through life.

Fucking time.

But I'm happy to hear your voice - on my records, my CDs, my streams, and of course, in my head.

Still, that long-ago invitation to come to my place and sing "Mother and Child Reunion" to me is always open. You can bring Edie. I'll make some sweetheart balls.

Love,

Chuck

Birthdays. Happy Yours, and Mine, and Ours.

If you spend any time at all here in my cozy little corner of the Internet, you know three things:

1. This blog is named after a phrase in a poem by Charles Baudelaire.

2. My nom de blog is an affectionate corruption of Mr. Baudelaire's name.

3. I am not, in fact, Charles Baudelaire, the 19th century French poet.

I do love a smock with a large bow.
But the similarities end there.

But today I discovered an EXTREMELY FREAKY connection between me and the esteemed poet.

I picked up a 2018 calendar at my local Half Price Books.

Do you have Half Price Books where you live?

I have wonderful memories of visiting the HPB location on Dallas' Mockingbird Lane in the 80s, a subterranean space that was actually physically dangerous to navigate. Nowadays, HPB locations are located mainly in suburban strip malls in 17 states, but back in the day, they could be found mostly in cramped, funky retail spaces that no other self-respecting retail outlet would occupy.

I love Half Price Books, you guys.

Anyway, Precocious Daughter and I ventured to the HPB in Richardson, Texas. Here's the thing: She and her dad had been there over the weekend, and she found something we've both been looking for: An original US vinyl pressing of Jesus Christ Superstar. In near-mint condition, at a spectacular price.

She didn't buy it.

Totally my reaction.

Tonight she and I ventured to said HPB. I've been cooped up at home for a couple of days, and she was massively regretting not buying the album, so off we went.

Lawdy lawdy, the record was still there.

Of course, we snagged it - at $14.99, a tremendous bargain. It includes a booklet containing the entire libretto, which is worth the price all by itself. Right?

Anyway.

PDaughter also bought an antique book about Nazi war strategy for her dad's Christmas present. (If you were never married to an historian...good for you. Really.)

As a result, our purchases totaled more than $30, which qualified us to receive a FREE 2018 calendar.

And of course HPB's calendar is filled with interesting trivia, store coupons, and every day is marked with the birthday(s) of notable literary figures.

I'm sure I'm not the only person who reacts to a new calendar by flipping to his/her birthday to see what happened on that VERY important day.

You guys.

My IRL birthday is April 9.

Guess who was also born on April 9.

GUESS.

Charles MF Baudelaire.

I swear, I had no idea until now.

I'm a little bit thrilled. And a little bit freaked out.

But mostly I love that we share this tiny bit of history. Wouldn't you?

So my question is: With whom do you share a birthday?

Google it.

Share it.

And let me know if you had any idea of the connection prior to today.

I love being freaked out this way. <3

Probably I'm About to be Out-Adulted

In just a little over 24 hours, my Precocious Daughter turns 18.

I'm staring at those words on my computer screen, hardly able to comprehend them.

Feeling a bit old, obviously.

My beautiful little girl, who was nine years old when I started this blog, is on the cusp of adulthood. Which means I've been doing this blogging crap for almost half her life.

OK, that's a little depressing, given how much little I've accomplished with it. Bleah.

So instead let's focus on her.

PDaughter was in fourth grade back then. Now she's applying to colleges.

She loved riding her Razor scooter. Now she's bugging me to buy her a car (hilarious, since her top two school choices are in New York City and Berkeley, where she will never, ever drive).

She chewed with her mouth open, making gross chomping sounds. She...totally still does that. It's a terrible habit. And it's not like I haven't tried to break her of it. Lord knows I've tried.

Hey, she's almost a grown-ass woman. She can chomp if she wants, and let the crumbs fall where they may.

Good luck winning a Nobel Prize like that, young lady.

I think it was on her tenth birthday that I first exclaimed, "I can't believe you're (age)." I've said it every year since. A teenager? Sweet Sixteen? Old enough to see an R-rated movie without me?

An actual adult?

PDaughter's voter registration card arrived in the mail a few days ago. She just missed the last local election, but she's all set for the midterms next year. My daughter can vote.

I bought her $18 in lottery scratch-offs as part of her birthday gifts. She's loved scratch-offs for years, but now if she wins she'll be able to cash them in herself. My daughter can play the lottery.

If a Hollywood talent scout or modeling agent discovers her this weekend, she can sign her own representation contract, without getting my consent.

But NOT without getting my approval. I'm still Tiger Mom, and I will protect my cub from the sleazy operators of the world as long as I can. Grrrr.

I said, hold still.

I'll never stop being her mom.

And even though she'll no longer be a child, she'll always be my child.

That's exactly the kind of treacly cliched shit I never understood until...right about now.

So tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day here in the U.S. And the day after that is PDaughter's 18th birthday.

I know I can do this, because Bestest Friend did this less than eight months ago.

As of Friday we're both old bitches with grown-up kids.

Maybe once she's out of my goddamn hair I can concentrate on growing this writing gig into something significant.

JK...she'll never be out of my hair, and if I want to grow this writing gig, it's on me as a writer to stop playing the mom-card.

Did I mention I feel old as shit to have a grown child?

Wagging finger, threatening wooden spoon, and all.

Those of you who know: How is it done? What should I do?

Happy Birthday, Precocious Daughter. I love you with all my heart. Even when you chomp.

Happy Sunday Singerie

If you've been reading this blog for more than five years...

...first of all, God bless you.

Secondly, you may remember that I have in the past written about my consuming passion for singerie, or art that incorporates monkeys dressed as and/or acting like people.

Like hentai can be a thing but this can't, right?

It's been a while since I've written about this topic that is close to my heart. Apparently I became unemployed, started a new job, got divorced, became the mother of a teenager, and other things instead.

Life is what happens to you while you're busy
saving pictures of monkeys acting like people.

But I still love singerie. So I've gathered together a whole new collection of images for you.

Please enjoy them, like them, share them.

Monkeys are amazing. Art is amazing. Monkey art is off the charts, yo.

I'll find more if you want. Let me know if you're Team Monkey Art.

Hint: I am Team Monkey Art regardless.

Post II

I posted here last night.

Possibly I'd had a few drinks.

I deleted the post this morning.

I felt embarrassed by it.

But then...loyal Drunkard and hook-nosed camel-fucker Bill the Butcher said he liked it.

So I'm going to repost it here.

I've been writing poetry since I was a kid.

This is one random verse I made in high school that has stuck in my mind.

Thank you, Bill, for your kind words.

You and I may be the only people on the planet who appreciate this.

That's OK.

It keeps me going, you know?

*****

Tonight, I'm going to reproduce a poem that I honest to goodness wrote in high school. It was...1983? 1984? One of those. From memory.

Just for the hell of it.

Although, like many poems, I feel it stands the test of time.

P.S. If you're a fan of the Who, you may recognize the cadence/rhythm of "Athena" in my youthful verse.

I Saw You

I saw you
Dancing on an ice rink in a daydream.
But when it cracked
My conscience wouldn't let me scream.
I felt it more than saw it when you went down.
I let you drown.

I heard you
Sighing like a singing bird in Amsterdam.
I couldn't help remembering
How the song began.
I smashed my bedroom window and you flew away.
Should I have let you stay?

I chased you
You never turned around to see me standing there,
Encased in a crystal room
While glass flew everywhere.
You should have seen me smile when you took your last bow.
And you're gone now.

I hate you
You threw your life away and let them bleed you.
And now I'd lie
Before I'd say I need you.
You'd have seen what was in my eyes if you'd tried harder.
If I'd been smarter.

*****

And now you understand why I work in an office and am not a professional poet.

Next time I'll write a real post. <3

Please Read This Rejected Nonsense

If you follow my Facebook page for this blog, you know that I recently submitted a piece to hip, cool comedy website McSweeey's Internet Tendency. And it was rejected.

But you guys, it was rejected really nicely. With a brief, concise, but quite constructive explanation.

I literally have never felt so positive about a rejection, you guys.

If you don't currently follow McSweeney's Internet Tendency, you totally should. It's chock-full of smart, satirical, arch, hip humor that somehow manages to be not cloying and precious more than 80% of the time.

Anyway, whereas McSweeney's declined to publish my piece, I will now post it here on my little old blog.

I thought it was funny. I hope you do, too. If you don't, I'm probably going to ignore you, because how else can I justify continuing to write? Right?

*****

On the Reason I Was Unable to Complete My Humorous Article Conflating the Speech Patterns of Holden Caulfield and Donald J. Trump

(An Unpublished Submission to McSweeney's Internet Tendency)

Dear McSweeney’s:

First, I think you’re terrific. I really do. A lot of internet sites, they’re phony, you know? They want you to think they’re smart and funny and all. But when you look at ‘em close - and I mean really goddamn close, not just with one eye or when you’re thinking about the ballgame or the stock market or something - but really good and close, they’re phony. Not good. But I like you, McSweeney’s. And I mean that. I never lie about things like that.

Here’s the thing. I wanted to write something for you. That’s what I started out to do. Write something, send it in. Maybe you would publish it or maybe you wouldn’t, I don’t know. It’s your lousy website, you know?

What I wanted to do - what I was trying to do - was come up with this funny piece about Holden Caulfield and Donald Trump. You know? Like, “who said it? Holden or Trump?” I’ve seen things like that on McSweeney’s before. And they made me laugh. Not always. I mean, Christ, I don’t just go around laughing my head off at everything I read. I have standards..

So anyway, I thought I’d give it my best shot. I do consider myself a pretty smart person. I figured I could write something for McSweeney’s. I mean, you look at some of the people who write for McSweeney’s every day. Every day. Like that’s all they’ve got to live for is seeing their name on some stupid article on the internet. Losers. But I thought, hey, I’m a smart guy, and if those guys can do it I sure as hell can. So I gave it my best shot.

This is where is gets a little screwy. I was writing - and you know, I write everything down in a notebook I keep with me. I write in it daily, almost every day, without fail. I get off on words, I guess you could say. And in case you didn’t know, I have the best words. Ask anyone.

So I’m writing. And I’m writing, you know, Holden Caulfield would say this, and Donald Trump would say that. And it’s funny, right? It’s funny goddamn schtick. I spent a lot of time on it, and I thought it was good. I thought it was pretty beautiful, in fact. I imagined that all my friends would read it and laugh like it was just about the funniest damn thing they ever saw. Not that I need my friends to do that. I’m pretty sure I don’t have any friends who read McSweeney’s, anyway.

But you won’t believe what happened next. I can hardly believe it, and it happened to me. I’m going along, writing to beat the devil, and I stop to read back what I’ve written. That’s what you do. Probably you don’t know this, but that’s what writers do. And I’ll be damned if I couldn’t figure out who I’d meant to say what. Like, to my mind there was no difference between what was supposed to be Holden’s words and what was Don’s. I swear to God, there was no difference at all. Sad.

What it was, see, I didn’t know what to do. As I said, it was supposed to be funny, but now it seemed sorta creepy, me not knowing who was supposed to have said the things they said, you know? It was weird. I was kind of mad, if you want to know the truth. Here it was supposed to be funny, but instead it went off the rails and everything.

Anyway, long story short, I went out instead and had a few drinks and hired a prostitute.

And that, McSweeney’s, is why I didn’t finish my article like I meant to. Maybe I’ll try again in a few days. Maybe, I don’t know. I’m sure I will. And you know what? It will be goddamn tremendous.

With love and squalor,

Chuck Baudelaire

better off irl

Hi, Drunkards. I know I haven't posted in more than a week. Sorry about that.

On behalf of this adorable Basset hound, sorry.

Last week was a perfect storm of....stuff.

On behalf of my darling PDaughter, Precocious Daughter had many band practices, both early and late.

I found myself caught in a tangle of financial statuses.

And basically, I thought I might be better off dead than, you know, how I was IRL.

This, if I'm going to be honest.

Here's the thing: I have many loved ones (some blood relatives, some honest soulmates) who want me to be a successful, first-class human.

I love you all. Really.

But for those who recognize my weaknesses, acknowledge my foreign differences, and love me anyway, I say: Thank you.

You are my forever love for you. Forever.

And all I have to say in our defense in this:

I support your belief in America.

And in me.

And in our post-American belief in loving one another forever.

I hope we can all be happy. I personally will donate my entire forever to this belief. 

If tomorrow is your belief to the contrary, I understand.

I hope we will come together later.

Until then, God bless together, you guys.

<3

This Is Confessional. Please Respond with Approbation.

Hi, Drunkards.

It's been a rough week.

As illustrated by this humorous meme.

I
'm not going to sugar-coat it. On Wednesday, I prepared for the third Presidential debate by drinking heavily. More heavily than usual. I'm not sure why. Maybe I thought it would enhance my satirical skills for live-tweeting the proceedings (which it didn't because I ended up too drunk to tweet at all). Maybe I was stressed because Drummer Boy planned to join me that evening, which is a rare midweek treat. Maybe I'm just a mess.

Me. It goes to me.

But here's the thing. Wednesday night, while I was drinking and getting ready for the debate and acting like an idiot in front of Drummer Boy, Precocious Daughter was volunteering at a nearby middle school. She volunteers because she earns community service points for National Honor Society, but also because she's just a great kid who loves to help out when she can. The middle school is about a five-minute drive from our home. But I would be making that five-minute drive to pick her up...under the influence. Drunk. Wasted.

Drummer Boy was appalled. But he didn't stop me. Because he was appalled.

You guys, I stepped into a car while well over the legal limit to pick up my only child from a school where she was doing volunteer work. 

Feel free to be outraged and disgusted. You are not alone.

PDaughter and I got home safely. I ended up throwing Drummer Boy out of my apartment because...reasons? Apparently I got very bitchy and verbally abusive. Fact is, I don't remember any of it.

But the next morning, I saw he had written me an e-mail at 3 a.m. It was the hardest, saddest thing I've ever had to read. I almost didn't read it at all, although I ended up returning to it several times over the next couple of days.

Drummer Boy showed me tough love, you guys.

He broke my heart and shamed me and made me cry.

I'm not going to spill his private business here. But he has lived through his own substance abuse issues. And the thought that he very easily might not be here but for luck and his own mighty strength...it brought me up really fucking short.

And the thought that he might give up on me, as he strongly hinted he might do after my latest shenanigans, well, that just slapped me in the face.

Drummer Boy and I are still together, you guys. He is the love of my life, my rock, my friend.

And I will never put my child in danger just to feed my blog.

And I will be the role model I need to be for PDaughter, and the person I know I can be to myself.

Do I promise to never touch demon alcohol again?

Well, no. I can't make that promise.

Just being honest.

But can I put the two most important people in my life above vodka?

Oh fuck yes.

They are everything to me. Vodka is just a crutch for my weaknesses.

It doesn't even outrank this pissant little blog. You guys - my handful of loyal friends and readers - you mean so much to me. I want to keep writing what I can to give you what pleasure I can.

I want to write that goddamn book I keep talking about.

I want to live happily ever after.

Feel free to tell me I'm an idiot for endangering my life and my relationships. I need to hear it.

I promise to respond with monkeys and politics and whatever.

Thank you, my Drunkards.

I love you all.

Catch Me If You Can (And You Totally Can)

Coupla things tonight.

First: If you are one of my IRL Facebook friends, you know that tonight I changed my profile pic to one of me smiling, with new glasses, a new hairstyle, and altogether more sincere joy than literally any profile pic I've posted since joining FB in...2008 or so.

Second: If you are not one of my IRL Facebook friends, then you're just not trying. Quite a number of Drunkards have tracked down my normcore identity and sent friend requests. I accept all friend requests from (formerly) anonymous Drunkards, by the way. If you've made the minimal effort to piece together the copious clues I leave to my identity on this blog, then more power to you, and I'm flattered by the request.

Honestly, not even difficult.

Third: I got a super-cute new hairstyle tonight, less than a week after getting a super-cute new pair of eyeglasses. I feel...new. Different. Happy. And that feels awesome. Possibly that's shallow, but I'm a middle-aged, middle-class American white chick, so fuck your judgment. I feel good right now.

Look me up on Facebook if you don't believe me.

I'm the middle aged, blonde, bobbed, bespectacled, from-Milwaukee, formerly-Catholic chick who should stand out like a sore freaking thumb.

FIND ME.

Love you, my friends and not-yet-friends. See you soon.

Bits N Pieces

Some short takes for a long weekend:

• My guest post for The Booklynite is up. Check it out, and then check out the whole blog, because she's a pretty kick-ass person and my newest Friend I've Never Met.

• With college football season kicking off, I feel the need to watch (for the 80,000th time) my all-time favorite Key and Peele bit:

• Drummer Boy and I will be watching Gene Wilder movies this weekend. We will laugh, and possibly cry. I wonder if he's ever seen The Producers?

• Here's a big one: Precocious Daughter and I will be spending Thanksgiving week in my hometown. My parents have moved into their new house in suburban Milwaukee, and we're going to visit. I'm excited to see it again, and even more excited to show PDaughter her mom's old haunts. I hope that's not weird. Is that weird? I hope not.

• I just found out that Netflix is re-booting one of my all-time favorite shows, "One Day at a Time." It will feature a Cuban-American family, with Rita Moreno(!) as the grandma. All the characters will be new, except Schneider. Exactly as it should be. Oh, and I tweeted about it, and the show's producer responded. Sweet.

• Finally, this: It's September, even though New Year's Day was, like, three weeks ago. Damn, 2016, though. I feel as if we will have to face at least one more major celebrity death in the next four months. Give me strength, Drunkards. We're all going to need it.

More tomorrow. If I haven't told you lately...I love you guys.

You Supply the Topic, I'll Supply the Moderately Entertaining Post

You guys, I've made a new blogger friend. She is The Booklynite, and she's like my twin, if I were younger, prettier, more exotic, and lived in Brooklyn.

Uncanny, right?

You should check out her blog because it's smart and funny and has a lot of swearing. I know you guys like that stuff. Yet you still come here regularly. It must be the swearing.

I really am pretty good at it, goddammit.

The Booklynite and I have exchanged a few emails, and she has very kindly invited me to write a guest post on her blog. (Which, again, you should totally check out.) I'm psyched. No one has ever asked me to write a guest post. Well, now the Booklynite has, so all y'all can go fuck yourselves.

I mean that with so much love.

Here's the thing. I don't know what to write about. I want it to be something good. I want it to be something her readers will appreciate, as well as something that will make my loyal Drunkards wander over and take a look. I want it to be funny, because funny is basically all I've got.

On the other hand...come over here...a little closer...let me let you in on a secret...

*I don't necessarily want to give her my A stuff, because that shit is in short supply and if I accidentally write something brilliant, I want to be here and not there*

Now back off, you're too close.

Go away, kid, you bother me.

For that reason, and in a bald-faced attempt to engage my 12 readers, I'm going to let you all choose the topic of my post for The Booklynite. I'll write about almost anything: monkeys, squirrels, TV, octopuses, the election, sloths, marmots, Donald Trump, guinea pigs...you name it, I'll lay down some marginally literate and borderline humorous prose. I'll pick the topic I like best and run with it. And give you a shout-out, of course. I try to give people credit, even when I'm stealing their ideas.

Let me know in the comments what you think I should write about. I'll go there, I swear.

In the meantime, do check out The Booklynite. Because she was nice enough to stalk me, and I want to return the favor.

Ideas, people. Let's hear 'em.

Wonderful Spam

Is it a good thing that I'm starting to get more spam comments?

If anyone knows who the artist is, please let me know
so I can give attribution. I love this drawing. <3 b="">

I mean, I hate spam. I hate it in my inbox, I hate it on social media posts, and I probably should hate it on my blog posts.

Except...doesn't it mean that someone, somewhere is paying attention if they're spamming me?

Yes, yes it does.

If you were going to say that spambots are nothing but affectless algorithms randomly targeting anything that seems remotely likely to earn them clicks, regardless of content, you just hush up.

My internet has been down most of this weekend (I'm siphoning data off my cell phone to post this), Precocious Daughter is pissing me off in that way only teenagers can piss off their mothers, and I'm feeling generally disgruntled/unfulfilled/empty right now.

The thought that my blog might actually rise to the level of being spammable is kind of all I've got.

Still, if the spam comments begin to outnumber the real comments, that will be pretty depressing. So why not spend 20 seconds to post a real comment? Just say "hi" or "I love dinosaurs" or "f*ck you." Anything except "I found this words much helpful. Thank you for post. It will that you like me back."

Or, you know, even that.

Spammers can't be choosers.