Mar Williams

— Read more

— Read more

Regret haunts me. I don’t want it to be this way, but it is, and for the most part, I cope. The best I can do is live for me and hope the next wave of nostalgia isn’t so harsh.

I had an inspired moment of “I want to get healthy” today, so I logged in to my old account at The Daily Plate. It’s livestrong.com now, but then, it’s been years since I logged in. This was just spooky. I land at my old profile showing meals I had entered to track calories:

• Polish Vendor dog
• Healthy black bean tacos
• Peach Pico De Gallo
• Soy Almond Matte Latte
• Jackfruit boba smoothie
• Aparagus Goat Cheese Quiche
• Roastel Eel

Fun meals right? I remember a couple of those dishes specifically.  Memory or rosy nostalgia, I can’t say, but I picture that time fondly. Standing in my old tiny kitchen, happily lost in exploring new foods, feeling very much at home

…and that thought is a punch in the gut.

me in my kitchen, some years ago

Ugh. This is the part where I’m supposed to be thankful for that period of time, move on, and keep swimming.
*sigh* Eventually, I guess. It can’t suck like this forever can it?

— Read more

I borrowed a Cricut cutter from denhac the other day. What the hell is a Cricut cutter you ask? I didn’t know anything about this thing, but I found out how amazingly rapey the company is.

Lets pretend grandma loves scrap-booking. She wants to cut letters and shapes out of paper all day and glue them on shit. Her neighbor Betsy’s scrapbook is tight as fuck, so Grandma decides to up her game and drop  $300 on a Cricut cutter.

She can’t use her own designs on it, but it comes with a nifty cartridge that has one, very festive looking font. That’s fun for a while, but Christmas is coming up and Grandma has a hard on for snowflake shapes. The craft store sells additional cartridges for $30-&70 a pop.

— Read more

I am not exactly awake this morning. I slept probably 3 hours. I am sleep deprived more often than not these days. Unemployment and nicotine withdrawal are good contributors.

This is all very confusing

Last week, it got a little worse. Soot Foot went into heat. My adorable little foster kitten has blossomed into a loud, irritating, horny, cat.

Every morning since, I’ve waken up to “mrrrroooow mrrrrrrrrooooooeeeeewww mmmmmrrrrooww”. The other cats (all male mind you) hear this and go temporarily insane. They’ve all had their balls chopped, so they can’t quite figure out how to do what they’re programmed to, but they know they need to do SOMETHING. So they tear around the house, yowl, and generally disrupt the sleepy atmosphere of the house at 6:30am. Awesome.

Guess who’s getting her junk removed at the vet next week?

— Read more

What if I don’t want to let it go? I don’t want to move on…

Finding myself is an endless battle. I don’t make the best decisions. I don’t want to admit to myself that I fail so frequently, so I don’t often learn from my mistakes. One thing I’m good at, is adapting. Molding myself to fit whatever bullshit I landed myself in and pressing forward. The problem is finding which way is up. Hitting the ground running means shit when you’ve got no sense of direction.

Whatever path I’m on now was not created at random. My actions guided it. This is the hardest realization.

I’m hurt. I’m listening. I’m not running.

— Read more

A couple weeks back, Jane alerted me to this contest. The rules were, post a story about your favorite dive bar, and win tickets to a fancy shmancy dinner.

I love food, and drinking in dark, no-expectations bars, but I am not a writer. So I called up Delchi and asked him to help me win said tickets. See, when Delchi lived with me, he spent a fair share of his nights down the street at Nob Hill. The story he wrote about it is great, and too true. And well, It’s probably due to dive bar drinking that I neglected to post the entry in time. I had to share this story anyway, so here ya go. Enjoy!

There is an old joke about a father who explains to his son the difference between reality and fantasy. If you have not heard it then you are spending time in the wrong bar. It’s a common mistake that many of us make and that drives home the blunt point brought forward in the joke. We live in a world of fantasy when we believe that in order to have a ‘good time’ we need to bring ourselves to a bar that offers thirty-five giant television showing us everything from football to professional miniature golf, a menu of exotic foods created based on recipes smuggled out of Bangladesh in a sailor’s boot, and screaming neon instructing us what to drink and how it will make us feel. This is pure idiocy, and a good portion of the reason behind the downfall of society.

At it’s very heart all a bar needs is a good selection of liquor, a bartender with a strong wrist & a sharp wit, a jukebox that reflects upon the human condition, and enough décor to ensure that it looks nothing like the  place you just left. These simple truths have inspired all of us who have chosen to partake in the drinking arts, and have turned the four walls of our drinking establishments into a Shangri-La from the moment we walk in until the bartender declares last call. This is why I consider myself privileged to have partaken of the devil’s drink with others of my ilk at The Nob Hill Inn.

Some people will refer to it as a ‘Dive Bar’ where the end of the road meets the end of the paycheck and the people stare into their drinks and ask themselves if they are brave enough to use the restroom. Nonsense, I say. What you are looking at is a cadre of philosophers and educated men & women who have derived their wisdom from living life in the most extreme forms it has to offer. These are not the kind of people who need to be told about the refreshing, outdoorsy, back to nature ‘feel’ of what they are drinking. They already know how to catch the train to the big rock candy mountain. The feel of red naugahyde and the wafting scent of alcohol combined with the wisdom learned from another day on the streets is all they need. Billy Joel needs no introduction when he steps out of the jukebox, and no one needs to Google the lyrics to sing along.

Whiskey measured by the jigger and soda measured by the bottle cap combine into a glass and are slid down to a grateful waiting hand. Even the most ridiculous looking hipster or chad who wonders in is given a chance to prove that they can join the human race and drink with civilized people. Some lean on their bravado and move on quickly to another bar, others sit back and listen to the conversation as if they were on their father’s knee being given the wisdom of the ages.  Either way within moments it’s another round, another song and a handful of hours until closing time. No bullshit, no pretense, no judgments, and if a person feels the need to tell a dirty joke, well there is an audience to hear it. You have the equal opportunity of finding a Kerouac or a Miller scribbling their next book in-between drinks as finding the person who urinated on your garbage can on the way over.  It’s all here for you to experience.

So what is the difference between fantasy and reality? Fantasy says that we need to soak ourselves in satellite driven neon glowing rooms filled with designer liquors and artisan beers while discussing television over exotic foods. Reality is that all we truly need is a place to drop in to see what condition our condition is in. When you come to this realization, grab your last twenty dollars and walk through the doors of The Nob Hill Inn. Take a chance on experiencing all the things your parents warned you about in life. You can thank me later by buying a round.

— Read more

I don’t like kids. Despite this,  I recently found myself entertaining the idea of having one of my own. Cuz my kid wouldn’t be a shitty kid. Oh, it’d be a fucking nutjob, but a well behaved, creative, artistic nutjob. Yeah right. Thankfully I got over it.

Now I’ve got this roommate. He’s been a close friend since high school, and while he is seriously awesome, his offspring is not. Once a week, she spends the day over here screaming, making giant messes, whining, talking back, crying and generally spazzing out. I don’t think he’s a bad parent at all. I think he busts his ass to entertain and care for the kid. I’m guessing most kids are this draining and I just don’t have enough exposure around them to have a good gauge.

She’s in the other room chattering right now… about everything, non-stop, while bouncing a ball… and running.

The good part about this situation is that she’s perceptive enough to know I don’t like kids. She leaves me alone. Most of the time, she won’t even talk to me when I’m right next to her. She has her dad ask me if I can print her a coloring book picture, or if she can play with one of my toys. This is great for me. When I tell her to stop chasing a cat or to clean up her toys, she looks at me like I’m a scary monster and dutifully does what I ask… up until today.

Today I was on the porch having a cigarette with my roommate. She was being especially bad, so I held the door closed while we smoked so she couldn’t get outside. In retaliation, she locked us out, and giggled at us through the glass. OMFG kid are you serious? Fortunately, she has a short attention span, and this game was only funny for a couple minutes. Unfortunately, her attention span had her upset about being punished for about the same amount of time.

Now she’s back to running around and hassling the cats. *grumble*

Yeah I can do without kids. Someone else’s kid, one day a week is more than enough for me.

— Read more

I’m inspired by a friend’s blog post on social conditioning (which in turn was inspired by another blog post on social conditioning), yadda yadda, anywho…

I have a hard time blogging. The point of the sudux blog (at least at the time) was to gain some exposure with my art. So, this is supposed to be about selling myself. Yeah… I don’t have the first clue how to do that. I do art. I post it. I hope people like it, and at some point when I get the motivation to do so, I will sell art. That’s the plan anyway.

Oh, there it is.

So what do I really want to do with this blog? I want to write about nothing, everything. I want to give myself an outlet, because like a lot of people, I’ve been conditioned to keep everything to myself. Don’t talk about your problems. Wear a smile. Crying is unacceptable. Sure, it leaks out from time to time, and when it does, I feel guilty. I’ve once again broken the rules of interaction. Unlike my other blogging friend, I do not wear my heart on my sleeve. It’s locked up tight in the closet next to the gimp.

The other part of that conditioning is simply: looking stupid. I was a damn awkward kid, and I’m a fairly awkward adult. I still struggle with the social thing. It’s terrifying and alien every time I do it. There are so many rules to being social that I can’t seem to remember all at the same time. Say “thankyou”. Look at people when they talk to you. Don’t interrupt. If someone asks how you’re doing, return the sentiment. Don’t look freaked out when an minor acquaintance hugs you. Don’t say anything weird! Yeah, that last one…

Best zit ever. Seriously.

Until I’ve had my social lubricant (PBR), I am on best behavior. Give me a few and being social is fairly manageable. I can pay attention to a conversation (sort of), participate, etc. But past that magic sweet spot, all that carefully practiced social grace (Ha!) goes out the window and I’m the ADHD train. Talking over people, getting irritated if I have to listen to more than 3 sentences, hijacking karaoke in the middle of a song (true story), and talking about the zit on my thigh that was really satisfying to pop.

So I’m taking a shot at letting some of this crap in my head out, and getting over this fear of being vocal, minus the hangover. Hell, maybe it’ll even be an entertaining blog along the way.

OK that’s the last blog post about blogging. Promise.

— Read more

I suck at blogging. Yes, I’ve said this before. Good thing Jane is on my ass.

So what’s the news? Well, I’m gearing up for my annual birthday bar crawl. This’ll be the 5th year in a row I’ve done it. Same Broadway bars, different goofy costumes. It started out as a joint birthday for me and my little brother. Over time it has expanded to encompass anyone with a September birthday. My buddy Tuna is even flying out to Denver to co-celebrate with us! So yeah, I’m expecting a decent amount of drunk asses this time around.

This year is “Revenge of the Nerds”. Guess who I’m dressing up as?

Wanna join us?

— Read more