Iron Fist

Because you demanded it…the Fuck You List. Here’s a collection of fuck you’s that have been accumulating lately:

• Comment Spam: To all blog-perusing webspiders and robots from eastern Europe and other assorted parts of the world, without further ado, fuck you. Seriously, is comment spam even fucking useful? What’s the point? Do you really think people read blogs and say, “You know, some of the stuff he had on his site was pretty interesting, but I sure am glad he had those four thousand links in his comments to sites that feature lesbo sex and viagra”? (Note: Iron Fist will be launching lesbo sex and viagra categories later this year. Stay tuned.) Thankfully, I got on the Akismet bandwagon tonight and have been obliterating my comment spam. Here at Iron Fist, we don’t just block spam; we Fist it.
• Asshole Customers: A 14-pack of tools waltzed into a friend‘s work and decided that instead of her real name they were going to call her ‘Dave.’ Oh yeah, that’s clever, asshole, real clever. You know what else is clever? Fuck you and your circle jerk party. I’m glad you got iced tea poured on your crotch. I only wish it had been kerosene instead. Dick.
• Whoever peed in the elevator: OK, so I don’t really know if that was a puddle of piss in my apartment elevator, but I wasn’t about to bend down to smell it to find out. If it was piss, fuck you, that’s gross. If it wasn’t, one of my shitweed neighbors still left several pools of something in the elevator. Come on, you jerks, we have to live here, don’t trash the damn place.
• Construction vendors: I’m not going to name the company that did the work on my new office/closet at work for liabilty reasons, so for ease of reference I’ll just refer to them as the Society of Mouthbreathers. I don’t know what kind of credentials you need to join the Society, but I don’t think it’s anything terribly difficult to come by. For all I know a preponderance of knuckle hair is enough for you to make the cut and get hired there. Then you can install my ceiling access panels the wrong way so that no one can use them, which is crucial since earlier you and your half-wit buddies installed an air conditioner that didn’t work and now nobodoy can get to it to work on it. So what’s your solution, Society of Mouthbreathers? Bring in a Volkswagen-sized portable AC unit and set it up right by my desk where I’m supposed to sit? Leave it there for a week before you get around to installing a thermostat? Install the thermostat the wrong way so that it cools my room down to 58 degrees? Good call, dickburgers. Oh yeah, and fuck you.
• Herpes: Actually, I’m just kidding about that one. Everyone loves herpes — it’s great!

Right, that’s it for now. Come back later, I’ll be cranky again soon.

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Partly because there’s so little daylight, partly because people are burned out from the holidays. Also, it’s cold. Normally I don’t gripe about the cold as much as I have been lately, since I’ve moved beyond my SoCal ways and come to accept the changing of the seasons here in the Northwest, but for some reason the cold this year is really getting to me, and I find myself very antsy in anticpation of spring.

But I digress. January is no good for blogging because it’s cold and there’s no daylight, and I just haven’t had the creative urge lately.

Don’t hold your breath or anything, but I might manage to cough up a “Fuck You” list tomorrow for the last day of January. If I don’t…this month sets a record low for posts.

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Who goes to the Oregon coast in January? Seriously! It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s stormy. You have to be a little nutty.

That’s us. A little nutty. So we went to the beach, climbed out on a cliff in Pacific City, helped ourselves to a hotel swimming pool in Lincoln City, and went for a swim in the ocean. If you’ve never gone swimming in the ocean in the Northwest in winter time, I recommend you try it at least once in your life. I also recommend you don’t try it a second time. Although it’s a cleansing and near-spiritual experience, it is also goddamn cold.

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For our New Year’s Eve celebration we elected to go with the Blue Moon, where we’d celebrated many a CS Night in years past. Perhaps because of the associations we have with the place, we proceeded to drink way too much and then behave very, very badly.

I remember sending Brandon a text message, prompted by someone dialing up a Journey song on the jukebox. I also remember thinking that the second AMF was probably overkill, although if I had had this thought prior to consuming said second AMF, I probably would not have had to sit on the bathroom floor for an hour after getting home. I don’t remember too much else, although a few pictures and video clips survived the night. No, you can’t see those. You’re lucky I showed you this one.

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This week was extremely dull. Monday was a holiday for most of the company where I work, but not for my department. No employees equals no issues coming in, so I had little to do. Sure, I could have cleaned my desk and organized some of my files, but why? Then Tuesday and Wednesday the city shut down from the snow storm, so again I was left with out much to do but read e-books at my workstation all day. Needless to say I was pretty antsy by Friday, but that’s all right. I had a show to go to.

“Is there going to be dancing?” Johanna asked as we pulled out onto the freeway.

“It depends on what you want to call dancing,” I laughed. We were on our way to see the venerable Punk Group and the Epoxies, where I thoroughly indulged in the kind of dancing that goes on at these shows, the kind of dancing that involves pushing and shoving and throwing other people on top of the crowd to go surfing.  For all the roughing up that goes on, though, you’ll never find a group of people more willing to pull you back up on your feet after they’ve knocked you down on the ground than the punks in a mosh pit.

And there’s nothing like a good rock show to get the writing juices flowing.  More coming soon.  Seriously this time.

Oh yeah, the show kicked ass, by the way.

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