Drunk and blogging…

I’ve been drinking since 8:30. It’s Tuesday. I don’t have to go back to work for another week. I’m slightly depressed (nothing another beer and some Lebowski can’t fix). And let’s just say if my self-worth were a stock, now would be the time to buy.

Oh, and I have no internet until January 5th. So this is coming to you via the quasi-miraculous marriage of the iPhone and AT&T’s 3G network. The latter of which, as it happens, is pretty shitty in my new apartment. But we’ll see how this turns out. (I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar errors)

Just for shits and giggles, here are some things you might not know about Marc “Black Jeezus” Velazquez…

ONE: I’m deaf in my left ear. Well… almost deaf. I don’t know if that passes as a disability, but it’s certainly altered the way I live my life. For instance, I always try to stand or sit to someone’s left if I can. Otherwise, I have to lean my good ear in to hear what’s being said, which might look a little strange to the outside observer. I always sleep either on my back or on my left side, lest I fail to hear my alarm. And the audio in my car is set to favor the right side.

I’ve been to one of those doctors about it. An altorhinolaryntholigist, or a rhinolarinaltologist or some other unnecessarily long name. He cut a tiny hole in my eardrum and drained out all the fluids and demons and potato bugs and all the other shit that was in there. I had perfect hearing for about a week, and then it was right back the way it was. Still, a week is pretty good, considering the fact that at least three “faith healers” weren’t able to produce even a microsecond of results. Science WIN.

TWO: I’m what some would call a “Renaissance Man.” Some might call it a polyhistor. Or homo universalis, if you will. Basically, I’m good at a lot of things. I’m a drummer. A writer. A math-head. An engineer. A music aficionado. I can draw. I can fight. I can bring a woman to fruition. I’m well-versed in the sciences. I can solve a Rubik’s Cube in under 2 minutes. I can make one hell of a grilled cheese sandwich. And I can program the shit out of any VCR.

The only thing I can’t do is dance. But I’m working on that one. Any help would be greatly appreciated.

THREE: Among my greatest fears are rats, gypsies, and the impending robots vs. humans war. I’m sure a number of you skeptosauruses out there might underestimate the viability of that last one, but I for one do not intend to sit idly by while cyborgs take what’s rightfully mine. It’s one of the reasons why I started working out. And why I plan to procure a firearm as soon as I possibly can.

FOUR: I’m part of a dying breed of male homo sapiens who appreciates unshaven female genitalia. Not to say that a shine-box doesn’t have its merits, but once in a while I’d like to be reminded that I’m performing cunnilingus on an adult female. Call me old-fashioned if you must.

FIVE: Upon intense reflection, I don’t think I believe in love anymore. Or at least, not the idea of “love” as portrayed by literature, popular opinion, or Hugh Grant movies. It seems to me that people think love is some universal concept, the definition of which is roughly agreed upon by everyone. Clearly this is not the case. It’s all that matters and yet it’s not all that matters. It’s the greatest thing in the world and yet it’s the cause of untold misery. It’s what makes life worth living and yet, sometimes, it just makes you want to die. The more I think about it, the more the idea of “love” seems to resemble people’s idea of god. And if I truly fancy myself intellectually consistent, I can’t pick and choose which unfounded claims to dismiss, regardless of how nice they may sound.

Perhaps if my own experiences with love so far hadn’t been precarious disappointments, I’d be singing a different tune. But it is what it is. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. On a related note…

SIX: It’s obvious to me that things, as a whole, are getting worse and worse. And they are never going to get better again. With every second lived, every character typed, every word spoken, I am slowly approaching the moment of my demise. We all are. And from a cosmic perspective, the Andromeda galaxy is on a steady collision course with the Milky Way, and one day they’ll crash, and their contents will violently smash into each other until they’re no longer recognizable. If our own sun hasn’t gone out by then.

The best thing I or anyone else can hope for is to make life as tolerable as we can for us and for those around us. And if I’m lucky, maybe there’ll be someone to help me along the way and do me the honor of bearing another generation of miniature cynics to pass along my message of futility and doom. One can only hope.

I think I need another beer.

I Feel Like Punching a Mall Santa in the Face…

It’s that time of year where I neglect the ol’ blog. Holidays and whatnot. I’m actually writing this on an 11-inch Macbook Air at the Aventura Apple Store, where a bunch of soccer moms and foreign dudes with pointy shoes look like they’d be willing to fight each other with knives and zip-guns over the last iPod.

On the subject, Christmas, for those not yet aware, is still a crazed beast with an insatiable hunger. Every year it seems to be a bigger fucking deal than the last. Exponentially. Last year it was 150% more crazy than in 2008. This year, it’s 150% more crazy than it was in 2009. And next year, it’ll be… you know what? I’m sure you all know what “exponentially” means. Moving on.

Maybe it’s my unabashed heathenism, but the bitterness and cynicism is strong in me this time of year. This is supposed to be the “happiest season of all,” and yet everyone looks like they desperately need to down a bottle of chill pills (which, curiously enough, are on sale at GNC for $39.95 a bottle). Ultra-conservatives would probably blame this on the brazenly fictional “War on Christmas.” I wish that were even partially true. Then maybe my desire to punch Saint Nick in his jolly gonads wouldn’t be completely out-of-context.

I’m sure I’ll get around to writing shit of substance again, but it’ll have to wait, as, alas, I’ve just moved into a new apartment and will have no access to the interwebs until the 5th of January. Fuckin’ AT&T. Now I know how Anne Frank must have felt.

I know, I know. Too soon.

The Westboro Baptist Church is Out for Attention Again…

So, this happened

Members of the Westboro Baptist Church announced Thursday plans to picket Saturday’s funeral for Elizabeth Edwards in Raleigh, North Carolina.

And why, you may ask, are they protesting her funeral? Well, here it is, straight from the horse’s mouth (or perhaps “ass’ mouth,” would be more a propos):

(click to embiggen if case you can’t read it, cause I ain’t about to waste time transcribing this abhorrent nonsense)


Here I was thinking “Godsmack” was a shitty nu-metal band from the late 90s. But apparently, it’s totally a legit religious term for being smoted by WBC’s invisible fairy tale god.

Which, I can’t help but notice, bears a striking resemblance to everyone else’s god.

I do hate lumping the extremists in with the moderates. Honestly, I do. And I have nothing but profound respect for those who fancy themselves followers of Christ and choose not to condemn the recently deceased. But what exactly are the members of Westboro Baptist doing, except reading the bible and following the interpretation that they believe the “Holy Spirit” is revealing to them? Isn’t that what, like, every Christian on Earth does?

Help me out with this one, Christians. How does one go about showing WBC members that they’re wrong, theologically? It’s my view that you can’t. Not without it boiling down to “my interpretation vs. your interpretation.”

Basing one’s morality on an archaic book is a recipe for failure. Basing it instead on the principles of humanism might have some of the same pitfalls, but at least the results are better.