Putting the "thing" back into Penny-farthing

Oh, the gods. It's very possible that there will be two additional working bikes at our house by tomorrow! That's correct. At least one more scrawny loon pedaling for his life amongst two-ton hulks careening hither and thither across an unforgiving Portland landscape. Well, unforgiving may be a strong word. It may be much too strong a word, in fact. How about "extremely mild"? *Ahem* moving on... Nothing but my whipcord reflexes and a few of the old rejuvenating to keep healthy and out from under the bottom of a fellow human being's whip. I should think that an ambulance and a team of lawyers will follow in my wake as young ladies and gentlemen who witness my breathtaking and unparalleled grace on a bicycle subsequently faint in disbelief. Despite the rapidly accumulating lawsuits, I will pedal like a bat out of hell (try to get through this sentence without thinking about Meat Loaf's 1977 chart-topping album) toward a sort of near-freedom from public transit. Take heed, you son of a griffin who tries to slow or stop my rise to the top; I will resort to fisticuffs, and lest you fancy seeing your family crest put to shame, you'd better kindly step aside.

I apologize for the small post, but I have an interesting project in the works (and by "in the works" I mean to say that I just thought of it while writing this). It will take more time and effort than usual but I promise that it will be worth it. It will, in fact, be a totally predictable cross between gonzo and investigative journalism. Handcuffs and a garage door both play prominently yet un-sexually into the story, just to give you a little taste...

Check yourself,
Craig.

P.S. In the spirit of telling you about my near-mistakes, when writing about my (untrue) cycling prowess, I almost wrote "lock up your daughters" which immediately made me cringe. Eww, something that could make the writer himself shudder so immediately and violently should not be put to page. Add the phrase "lock up your daughters" to the list of things you should NEVER SAY TO ANYONE.

A Rather Wonderful Look at Unemployment

Good news, gang! My life is no longer in the proverbial commode. That is to say, some may think that I've had it rough as of late and look a little "worse for wear" (and fuck all y'all) for it, but I really have no excuse. My haggard appearance and sickly complexion are a result of my genes and a careless diet, rather than of stress, because after all of my previous post's doomsaying and premature ejaculating, fate pulled the old about-face and awarded me the Holy Grail of all things financial and joy-inducing for young ladies and gentlemen who are as unambitious as I and lacking of most skills needed in the current job market... unemployment insurance. Oh, unemployment insurance! How sweet these two words sound together! It's just one of those word-combinations that rather roll off the tongue, I think, like "beef-wheel", "chicken-bee" or "word-combination". I think that after I pass, I might like to have my ashes put into an envelope with an unemployment check or my US Bank/State of Oregon "Reliacard" and ceremonially tossed into the ocean.
I wish you all to know that shortly after I blogged about my struggle to find work and my seemingly star-crossed living situation, I received a call from a temp agency telling me that my last place of work wanted me back, if only for a few weeks. Those of you know that know where I used to work also know that I could safely assume from this news that sales in overpriced yoga mats and t-shirts with a cartoon-ish smiling Buddha had undoubtedly gone up. Good for them. Extremely good for me. I would like to take a moment to thank old white ladies, for despite the actualization of the biggest financial crisis since the Great Depression, there will never be an ebb in demand for orange jogging caps or jackets that proclaim "I *heart* Yoga". Anyways, this was at least a guarantee that I could work enough to make money for rent for the month of April and my caring mother was kind enough to front this amount. I was off the hook until said active-wear retailer let me know that they would no longer need me. This, in fact, happened no less than three weeks later. Though I was probably a little bent out of shape about this occurrence at the time, I would soon find that it was all for the best. In spite of the state's initial rejection of my unemployment claims, I decided to try again, hoping that the extra three weeks of labor would change their minds. I was pleasantly surprised when an agent told me that she could use her power to draw money up from the state of California (my old stomping grounds for about four years), though they had recently given me the cold shoulder. I was incredulous, but gave her all of my information anyway and made my first weekly claim. I soon found a check in the mail for ten dollars more than I usually made when I was working forty hours a week! Oh the gods! How I had waited for this moment! Brand new vistas suddenly opened before me. I promptly blew half of my check on drinks that I probably owed people (I mention it often but I have fine friends that would rather be broke than without my company).
My life has since been much more like the life a human-being deserves. I drink. I ride bikes more often. I join in midnight drunken basketball games. I climb trees. I pee on unsuspecting young people's living room floors. I do unsuspecting people's dishes. I unsuspect. I take a furry young gentleman by the name of Ulo on his nightly. I join my companions for a bit of the old rejuvenating at the end of their long school- or work-day. I experiment in the kitchen, though culinary creations of mine are often likened to Pickman's Model. I've written more music this month than I have since my move last October. I run errands for friends who are much more deserving of the time and money. And finally, I waste my time and money.

Life is suddenly bearable. What the fuck?

Writing you from two or three separate computers that I have to sit ridiculous-close to since I don't have any glasses right now,
Craig

"I can see what a useless man I've become."

"So... semi-homelessness it is," I say.
"That old chestnut?" you relay.
"Yep, that's the one."
"...Is that the part where you don't have anything else of value to sell and you're moving out of your room so that rent in your house gets paid on time?"
"Mmmhmm." (nodding)
"Well..." (purses lips, rocks on heels, all while avoiding eye contact) "I guess all that hard work---"
"Was for nothing, yeah," I interrupt, looking suspiciously like I will pick up and throw the first small human being I see.
"I, uh, do not envy you. That's, um, a less-than-desirable position you're in there."
"Yeah, a bit of a fucking pickle, huh?"
"MMMmmmmwellllll, yes. You know, you have to look at this as an opportunity to be creative. Get some writing done or something of that nature. What I mean to say is, when life gives you lemons you---"
"Sell all your shit, I know."

Though the above dialogue is entirely fabricated, it's exactly how I imagine conversations with certain family members to occur, seeing as how I'm officially on the verge of roomlessness. Though it sounds harrowing to many, I feel rather prepared. Blessed, if you will. And I wouldn't. I wouldn't use the word "blessed", I mean (not being the religious type, you see; no belief in a higher power and all that). I do, however, have friends who always go to extraordinary lengths to make life easy for me, and I've already been offered storage space and the occasional sofa to sleep on. This will help tremendously, and being fueled by a desperation so complete and engulfing, only tantamount to a wounded, cornered lioness protecting her cubs, I will survive this most recent plight.


In the spirit of keeping a distressing situation at bay with a jovial attitude, I've compiled another terrible list.

Pros and Cons of having no place to live:

Pros:

• Cheap Rent
• More time spent outdoors (thus, the possibility for a tan... well, probably not, but whatever)
• Less wear on leftover records since they'll be packed away
• No more preoccupation with "privacy" anymore
• Learning more about friends' couches and floors
• No more cleaning my room
• Living Orwell's "down and out" lifestyle that I thought was such a bold statement and important sociological experiment (when I was fucking fourteen)
• Justification for showering only two or three times a week (on a good week)

Cons:

• Life sucks

Thoroughly fucked, yet still in good spirits,
Craig

P.S. Four Loko photo arranged by Alex Grubb, after someone felt the need to drink a high-gravity malt liquor energy drink in the confines of a telephone booth. And what does "high-gravity" mean anyway? I suppose when I drink a Loko, I can definitely feel the gees more-so than when I'm sans a Loko. I'll give them that. I give them that; they give me regrets. Even trade, I should think. Lioness photo by who cares?

P.P.S. The title of this post was taken from Faraquet's "Study in Complacency" and subsequently used without permission. Please, don't be angry with me, Faraquet. I love you. You too, Medications.

When it rains, I'm poor.

Oh-my-god-lucky-you. There's a new Stormgren post. Oh, quick, look at what he's saying this time. Oh, reading this is like my eyes getting married and going on a really expensive honeymoon that they didn't have to pay for. Oh no, turns out... this post sucks. Even more "oh no", getting married is like a ridiculously expensive date. A ridiculous-expensive date that your friends, family and some people you secretly hate get to supervise you on. Oh-my-god-lucky-me. I have a nasty bottle of cheap wine to nurse while I mourn two recently relocated close friends. It's true. Two of my very best friends whom I have been living with over the first 4 months in Portland just moved back to the Midwest. That great black hole with all the charm of a racist grandfather or a whiny, white, twenty-something blogger with purple-stained teeth, problem skin, and numerous documented failed attempts at being likable without being sociable. Though the Midwest seems bland and flat and to have terrible weed... well, um... it's all true. And it seems to chew up and spit out young ladies and gentlemen at an alarming rate, but still manages to draw them back for another psychological ass-whooping. This leaves some pretty wonderful people scurrying hither and thither across the country, trying desperately to salvage a good time or at least a full-time job from the slag heap. Though the low cost of living and familiarity of the Midwest are a constant temptation, I have been clever enough to sidestep the old corpse and watch its momentum carry it aft of my person. The West Coast has treated me well for many years now and the extra effort has been well-worth the trouble. Recently however, I found that old dude Life had only been sharpening its knives and waiting for me to look in the other direction, only to exploit my weaknesses and stab me in the back. Oddly enough, seeing as how Life seems to have a terribly distasteful sense of humor, it used its knives to carve a humiliating "hoof arted" slogan into my back as well, just to add insult to injury. That, of course, is a metaphor. Because not only have two of my roommates/best friends moved away, but as a special- albeit slightly belated- birthday gift, I was also laid off at my warehouse job. The job with the fucking raddest work schedule ever! It's true. This is terrible enough, but the realization that my computer and phone have both been broken for a while now adds to the horror. Though my roommate and my partner have both been kind enough to let me bandy their numbers around as my own while I search for employment, this still leaves my life complicated. Rather beaten black and blue, I should say.
The good news is that we've hooked up a couple of new roommates and they both seem awesome. I am still clinging to two of the original roommates/best friends, who remain awesome and the house, though cold, is going to be awesome again soon.

I would also like to take this opportunity to reassure my former roommates and still-best-friends that I am not angry and totally understand. Though they felt like shit and were extremely apologetic, they had perfectly logical reasons to move (though with a little late warning, I must admit) and some things cannot be helped. They are also extended special rights and privileges for being such good friends. Besides, we all know that even if they hadn't moved away, life most definitely would have found a more creative and devious plan to kick my teeth in.
"How, pray tell, could your life get any more shitty or awkward?" you ask, dear reader.
Well, I say, give it a week.

Fuck you, I love you,
Craig