Drakonskyr's Xanga

A Chance To Cut Is A Chance To Cure

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 20:45:22 GMT

(or as I like to call it, a rebuttal)

[ring]

Works: "Guh. I. What? It's three-thirty in the morning."

Me: "Oh, shit. You know me. Clocks are meaningless. Time is just a human construct."

Works: "Fuuu...what is it?"

Me: "I was just wondering. If I got into a committed relationship with someone who actually mattered to me, at some point I'd have to stop having sex with my fluff on the side, right."

Works: "I...guh. Fucking obviously, V."

Me: "Right, so I was just wondering why you haven't."

Works: "Uhh...what?"

Me: "I was just wondering why you're still putting the momento futuerte in Stacy's sweet tramp canyon."

Works: "I...guh. At three in the morning, Vaccerelli? At three in the fucking morning?"

Me: "Well, I was just talking to Jareth earlier today and he was talking about you and the girlfriend and how you're all inseparable and gross roses-and-flowers-and-walks-on-the-Embarcadero. And then afterwards I was thinking about how while that's mostly true, you'd ditched out on her last Thursday, which was weird. Then I remember that Paul said you were helping Lewis with some mixing and it was in the late stages. But Lewis doesn't ever mix on Thursdays, because Wednesday is Coke Night over at his pad and he's too blasted to do anything coherent the next day. And Paul is notorious for being people's cover stories. He covered for me with the Cunt once, actually, when I was out and about with Val. He's just got a...trustworthy face!"

Works: "Vaccerelli, don't do this."

Me: "No, no, be proud of me. But the thing is, Paul wouldn't have to cover for you; you've already got a lady who you're fine and fit with. So then I started thinking if Paul was covering for you then something really big had to be up. Then it hits me; you're all on the moral up-and-up, so you really need cover; you wouldn't use Paul, that's too obvious. That'd throw everyone off, they'd think 'oh for once Paul is telling the truth'. But that kind of reverse-psychology doesn't really work."

Works: "I..."

Me: "So you hid it in plain sight. But who would you be ashamed of doing? Your exes are generally formidable, beautiful women that you're still in good communication with. You're not big on shady liasons and dingy girlfriend-poaching. So that leaves two; the bitchy blonde and the bitchier blonde. And you're not big on genuine shame, so it's obviously the bitchier blonde. Because you would have said something about it if it was just the bitchy blonde. The whole 'she's a good lay I'm having trouble controlling the urge to go off and make bad decisions', you'd give me that speil, I'll be all "Dworkowski is as human as the rest of us?!' and there'd be snideness and back-and-forth. But no, if you're actually ashamed but unable to help yourself...it's got to be Stacy. Just her. That one bookmark you refuse to take out of that chapter of your life."

Works: "..."

Me: "Well?"

Works: "I will never in life understand your reasoning or how you do that, but I feel sorry for anyone who is involved with you who tries to keep something from you, especially for your own sake."

Me: "Oh, you have no idea."

Works: "So are you proud of yourself now? You got all mister detective on something I wanted to deal with myself. Yes, I sleep with Stacy on occasion. Yes, I haven't gotten around to telling the girlfriend. Because what can I say? I'm shamefully weak for someone in my past? It hasn't been long enough for me to grow out of this masochistic addiction to her? That she uses it against me constantly for her own physical needs? That I am, in the end, just as stupid and weak about sex as everyone else?"

Me: "I'm very proud."

Works: [sigh]

Me: "Anyway, I saw 'The Box'. It's weird. Good...while nutty, and disturbing. I'd say give it a shot."

[click]

An Ish To Call My Very Own

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 22:27:14 GMT

That's right -- Drakish!

Where the misogyny and objectification is more blatant than mancouch, the ethics are as questionable as a lawyer training Machiavelli in the art of the game, the endless bouncing back-and-forth of relentless egomania and embittered self-loathing runs free, the drinking is out of control, the sense of fashion exists in some bizarre tie-fetishist continuum and the tendency towards polysyllabic indulgences would blind an ivy league professor and there's more social/cinematic/outdated cultural referendums than anyone could comprehend with three wikipedias!

Aaaaaaand FUCK OFF!

Powerless In The Face Of His Reasoning

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 22:00:06 GMT

[ring]

Me: "Hey-o."

Works: "You fucking miserable shithead. Someday the self-important assholes of the world will unite as one and build a shining golden goddamn statue in your legacy."

Me: "Here's hoping...but what prompted that, exactly?"

Works: "I got your text about your date and I was about to say something about fish in the sea and shit, when it occurs to me for the past four months, you've done nothing but screw yourself silly with insanely hot women and then bitch about how you don't have a girlfriend."

Me: "Well, uh."

Works: "You're in this bizarre sort of fucked-up Californication-level over-sexed self-loathing pissant self-obsessed writerly obnoxiousness where you don't realize just how screwed up your bullshit is. Do you? Do you? I have friends who would give up half their central nervous system for a handjob from some of the women you've been making horizontal mambo with, meanwhile you whine incessantly about not having someone in your life to appreciate you."

Me: "It's a...lot more complicated than that."

Works: "No! No it's not! Just because you like living without justification or accepting social ramifications doesn't mean the people around you are as equally morally adrift! You don't get to have your cake and bitch it doesn't have the frosting you want when you're crowding the dessert cart."

Me: "...you know, you're dating a hot piece of ass right now, I'm not sure you can really take the high road with this."

Works: "Oh, like you could ever take a high road. Plus, you know I'm not doing it out of jealousy, really ."

Me: "Look, you know, there's a long, twisted river separating the lands of the "laid" and the mystical kingdom of the "liked", and I'm just trying -- "

Works: "I don't care about any of that. I'm just telling you, getting into a massive personal sulk and going off and brooding to Nick Cave while beautiful women are persistently up for putting the spurs to you is just a big fat championship-level load of bullshit. Suck it up. You'll meet someone. Just stop being a broody little antagonistic bitch and be patient. It'll happen. You're charming when you're not doing the whole "I am such a clever asshole" routine. And eventually you'll find someone."

Me: "Who are you, my fuckin' mother?"

Works: "I think your mother is more concerned with you being twenty-five and unmarried than she is about you violating the sacred tenets of Man Code."

Me: "True on that. Anyway; if you're done touring the lecture circuit of Vaccerelli's Humanistic Failures; you wanna get the gang together and go see The Box?"

Works: "Is it about Cameron Diaz's vagina dentata?"

Me: "I don't believe so."

Works: "Let me think about it."

[click]

Life During Wartime

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 23:15:21 GMT

[drinking at Edinburgh]

Me: "...so yeah, that's the plot of my blaxplotation epic: Vaccerelli Jones, Negrotalian For Hire."

Works: "You're fucked up, man."

Me: "Aren't we all." [knocks one back]

Works: "Yeah...speaking of, why is it when someone's "discovering themselves again" or shit like that, it always just includes slutting out and drugging up?"

Me: "That's obvious; sex and drugs are the two cheapest, fastest, most available highs there are. And it's real easy to just forget --"

Works: "You know what, I don't want to talk about this."

Me: "-- what? Why?"

Works: "This is just going to turn into one of those things where you're insightful but unnecessarily harsh and have a clever mean-spirited monologue, then you figure out who and what I'm talking about somehow using some creepy logic and intuition no one but you can understand, then you'll have some high-and-mighty opinion on them, and I'll get pissed off, and round and round it goes."

Me: "Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Dworkowski?"

Works: "Don't you play naive with me. The thing where you use some creepy, inhuman lateral thinking to get into some creepy psychic-latent superpower of deduction, you get all insane and specific and start jumping to all sorts of assholish conclusions. It's annoying as shit."

Me: "Oh. Yeah. That. Well, what did you want to talk about?"

Works: "Uh...women?"

Me: "Oh, that's what we always talk about."

Works: "Music?"

Me: "Not particularly."

Works: "You just want to drink and sit here and insult each other?"

Me: "That's the spirit, you dumb polack cunt."

Works: "...bartender, I need more bourbon!"

Gon' Starin' Into The Abyss

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 23:00:21 GMT

You know, if there's anything on the internet I personally dig a lot, it's that weird, over-the-top hateful, self-aware, self-referential backlash humor that pervades after any popular demonstration of a rudimentary video edit or a witheringly tired old meme.

Which is entertaining, because like everything else on the internet, it creates it's own subculture of parodies and haters, who in turn create their own reflection of likeminded parodies and haters, who in turn...

...oh, there's that headache!

Mistaken For Strangers

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 20:45:46 GMT

Okay -- look. The cops are going to be showing up soon, and listen to me, listen to me, this isn't gonna be easy -- but you're gonna have to lie. No, no, listen to me, they'll be here any minute, listen to me already, I don't have time for this. They're going to turn up in a few moments and start asking uncomfortable things about some questionable actions of mine. Allegedly. You know me. I could never do that to an explody frog and a baby and the Prince of Nigeria. All their evidence is circumstantial, anyway. But I gotta go. Listen to me; tell them I wasn't here. I've never been near any Nigerian royalty unless you could count stupid wire transfer spam. That baby was dead anyway. And the explody frog...well, come up with something good. I can trust you with that much, right? Right? Good. The cops are on the way, and I gotta go. Especially since the Nigerian...liquidators might be on their way, too. If they show up, you didn't even know me. Or you just run. You just run.

Now. I'm going to grow a mustache and hide in Central America. I shall be El Conflicto -- glorious leader of the rebels and freedom fighters. When you see me on the news, remember me. Not as I am now, but as I will be. A leader of men. A hero. Eventually, perhaps, another martyr for the great cause. And most importantly...nothing to do with explody frogs.

If Your Opinion On This Matter Is Different Than Mine Then You Are Retarded And Have Terrible Taste

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 18:30:19 GMT

Apparently it's the 40th anniversary of Jack Kerouac's death.

Which makes me wish that I had the travel funds on hands, so I could go piss on that talentless, unintelligent, fuckheaded loser's grave for single-handedly creating some of the hands-down worst literature I've ever read in my life. Be it the absolute horrible narrative of On The Road or the complete nonsensical worthlessness of any of his poetry, Kerouac finds himself a permanent fixture in my list of Top Five Writers Who Should Have Been Aborted Before They Wasted My Time. Easily the worst creative mind of the Beat generation, which is a horror so intense the mind trembles in almost Lovecraftian horror, my hatred for Kerouac is a pure but gratuitous act of literati loathing that almost makes me yell at people in bookstores who are purchasing his putrid, unworthwhile sacks of shit narrowly disguised as books. The fact he's responsible for an entire subculture of pseudo-hippie self-serving beatnik fuckheads who for some reason insist he's amazing and can change lives only convinces me further that his "contributions to literature" are actually just brain-deadening trash. Trash being a bit generous.

I'll wrap this up before I get too much of a head of steam worked up, though. So, in conclusion, I'm glad he's dead, but I wished he'd died before he wrote any shitty books.

Why I Hang Out With This Guy

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 18:30:05 GMT

Works: "Yeah...got into an argument with Alyssa last night. The ex. It was a...pretty bad one, too."

Me: "How bad is bad?"

Works: "Any worse and I would have ended up screaming 'you should have killed me when you had the chance!'"

Through A Shattered Looking Glass

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 19:45:25 GMT

How I ended up in this bizarre parallel universe is too long a story, in and of itself. Let's just say I'll never use that brand of toaster again. How theta radiation makes cooked bread tastier I'll never know...but it does, dammit. It does.

Anyway. So I wake up with a thin, business-suit-wearing version of my roommate staring at me, which gave me a good hint that Kansas had exited stage right a long time back. And Dorothy was nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile, I was dressed in a band t-shirt (at least it was The Immortal Lee County Killers, mirror me had reasonable taste) and blue jeans, which threw me for a motherfuckin' loop.

Quickly I made my way outside...to New San Francisco. Apparently San Francisco had burnt to the ground decades earlier, and the entire upper end of the Bay was sunk during the Greater Quakes that ravaged California, separated Los Angeles by the Great Fault Beach into predominantly high-culture San Angelino to the north and the gang-controlled Muertos Angeles to the south. Back in my stomping grounds...the North Bay was annihilated, the South Bay become beachfront, and New San Francisco was built on top of the East Bay, eventually stretching deep into inland and grown into a metropolitan sprawl...mirroring, interestingly, the LA of my universe.

Apparently I'd made my way out to New San Francisco on a business venture; I'd never met Jennifer -- she was a children's stories author, married to a Dutch filmmaker in the so-called Second Venice, and worked with Richard, who was, as well as being the artist for her stories, also a motivated family man supporting his two kids -- and I'd never become a federal employee, I'd never gotten to know any of the bands I worked with and was instead employed as an editing agent under the Popovich Fellowship, where I was renowned for my compassion, understanding, casual mannerisms and personal involvement with my employees. Adam had hired me onto his team on great recommendation of various Bronx Arts commissions because of my record of sobriety and diligent attention to the needs of others. Because of my exemplar background, apparently my quirk of refusing suits and only dressing casually in a centralized business world was forgiven.

Fucking freaky.

Jefferson Williams Clinton was our President-Intendent, vowing the damage of the second Civil War and Canadian Invasion (our neighbors to the north were an aggressive, territorial bunch over on this side, constantly claiming Alaska and Greenland) would be repaired and the Interconnected States Of North America would be whole again. The Tex-Mexico Combine would be re-integrated, and the Montana-Dakota Faction would be reconciled. But who gives a shit about politics.

My friends were different, too. Nick "the Squid" was a hard-as-nails pimp, controlling a bunch of ho's in the Outer Richmond "Pussy" District. Will Loving was an extremely aggressive solo musician, though apparently all San Diegans in this universe were basically like New Yorkers from mine, and Karl was a savantism therapist. Danny the comic artist was instead a one-eared manic graffiti artist and Niko the poet was instead a cutthroat corporate headhunter with no aspirations of creation whatsoever. Gabe was a hotheaded, reactionary atheist indicted in the bombing of multiple churches. Corners was headed to the NSFPD Academy to work vice. Phi was a roadrunner-lipped radio DJ at a country-funk station and Seth was a laconic, humorless comic editor. Ambrose was a layabout college drop-out who worked at an auto-shop. Zach was a conservative rights terrorist from the Berkeley Republican Army. And Works...Works was a legless cripple who sat around in a wheelchair and hated everything...everyone I knew, the same people, but so...different. They were the maverick, loudmouth assholes with a disregard for social convention and drinking problems and misanthropic demeanors. Me..I was stuck in the shoes of a man with my name, renowned for his patience and tolerance of other people's issues, often offering rational, comforting advice.

Frankly, I had no idea what the fuck to do with this terrifying mirror realm of horrors and confusion.

So I tell you what I'm going to do; I'm going to get one of those fancy new epsilon toasters this dimension is promoting, and I'm going to fill up a tub, and I tell you, I'm getting out of this fucked-up world...one way or another.

One way or another.

Chillaxin' With Popeonabomb And Roninism

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 17:00:25 GMT

Word. Real post (with like...words and paragraphs and shit) coming up next.