Thursday, September 21, 2006

I seem to recognize your face
Haunting, familiar, yet I can't seem to place it

Cannot find a candle of though to light your name

Lifetimes are catching up with me.

By the time you read this, it is Friday.

You're sitting in your shitty cubicle, or office, thinking,

"Fuck. It's Friday.

Fucking Friday.

If I can make it through the next 7 hours...


Friday is kind of magical that way, unlike the other days of the week

It holds the promise of 55 hours of Freedom, even if you will spend 24 of those hours sleeping.

55 hours of Freedom.

Fuck it, you may sleep 35 of those 55 hours... because you can.

Or, you may only sleep 5 of those hours, depending on your predilections.

You may spend up to 18 hours watching football, and another 4 watching highlights, because, well, nobody is the Boss of You.

You may.

You may.


You might be hungover on Friday, or you might not.

Regardless, you're definitely hating it, wherever you are.

Because you have 8 miserable hours before you are Free like William Wallace.

What I do know, however, is that you are reading this on Friday.

There is a bounce in your step.

A twinkle in your eye.

Fucking Friday.

You might get laid.

According to a study that exists only in my head, 85% of all the sex that is had, occurs on the weekend.

I can give you a little tip, though, from a guy who pretty much lives his life like it is a weekend...

Make sure you Do Something.

Plan it out.

And tell somebody.

Make it mildly scary, like, say, mountain biking down Big Sky.

Beacuse once you voice it, it becomes real.

And you're gonna be held accountable on Monday, at the coffee pot.

Monday, the antithesis of Friday.

And the fact that you did what you said you were going to do, and have a story to tell, makes Unbearble Monday that much more bearable.

And if you can provide five minutes of escapist fantasy on a Monday, well, you're a fucking hero.

Because it helps everyone get through Monday.

Which leaves you only TuesdayWednesdayThursday from Friday, when the sky is the goddamn limit, nobody is the boss of you, and you can go ahead and drink milkshakes, masturbate and watch cartoons.

(Just sayin'... if that's what you wanna do... have fun.)

So, keep that all in mind as you read this, while you are getting paid to drink coffee and wipe the yesterday out of your eyes.

I can guarantee you, though, that despite Friday's charms, you would rather be somewhere else right now.

Why else would you be reading this?


You would rather be anywhere else.

And that is why you are checking in on The Duder.

Seeing what up.

Well, this is what up.

A tribute to the Grandeur of Friday.

Enjoy it, motherfucker.

Have a great goddamn weekend.

You know I will.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Lindsay!

Sorry I can't make it to the original B-Town, but, like I said, I am getting my teardrop tattoo retouched.

Not even sure if you read this, but Happy Birthday. Blain is a keeper. Hang on to him.


Like a cliff, or maybe the girder in an unfinished building, and the bad guy is stepping on your fingers, while you have the other bad guy dangling from your other hand, and somehow, you heave the bad guy up, grab your gun and bust a cap right between the duder's eyes, he falls off the girder dead in the water and the other bad guy, who even could be a chick, looks at you like you are a Hero, and right there on the spot, renounces Satan and commits his/her life to rebuilding the devastsated 9th Ward in New Orleans.

And then maybe you get a teardrop tattoo.

Beacuse they are just cool as shit.

And fierce.

But Happy Birthday, Lindsay.

This P.S. was for you.

And Blain.

Becasue I am pretty fucking sure he is sitting at his desk, miserable on a Friday, laughin his ass off.

But, sincerely, think about the teardrop tattoo.

Because that would look badass on you.


If you have to ask, you'll never know...

I deleted a post I wrote last night.

It was a bit too venomous for The Dude Abides.

So, I let it go to the wind.


I met this guy tonight, while I was having dinner.

He went skiing today.

He hiked up Sacajawea Peak and skiied down the bowl.

Awesome, yet insane.

Oh, it tempted me, but...

With this little snow coverage, an error could be very, very painful.

Plus, you need "rock skis." And, if you were reading this here rag last winter, you would know I went through three boards last year (broke the binding off my old Crap board, rode a humongous new Burton for a few days and snapped it in half on a mogul, then got a slightly smaller Burton), so I am not exactly itching to take out my sweet ride on three inches of snow over rock.


I watched a couple movies recently.

Lucky Number Slevin, was pretty damn cool. Josh Hartnett, Bruce Willis, Morgan Freeman, Sir Ben Kingsley... pretty damn good cast for a movie I don't even remember being in theaters.

It involves a case of mistaken identity (Hartnett), hit men (Brucce Willis), rival mobsters (Sir Ben, Morgan Freeman), and one hell of a twisted plot.

I really liked it.

I also watched an oldie- Godfather, Part III- but a goodie. I have watched and re-watched the first two installments in this classic series, but neglected the third. I think I had only seen it once, back in the late 80's. This was simply because it was so critically reviled.

I even bought the first two on DVD.

Unjustly so.

Absolutely unjustly criticized.

Well, I tell you, it aged like a fine wine.

Thematically, artistically, it was consistent... He even captured the feel of the first two, despite the 15 or so year gap.

It was great.

The only thing that sticks with me, as to why this movie was so panned, was Coppola's choice to cast his daughter, Sofia, in one of the lead roles.

Sure, she is not a "classic beauty," but hell, was Talia Shire?

Who cares?

Great movie.

Give it another shot sometime.

Besides, you'll get to see Pacino say, "Just when I thought I was out... they Drag... Me... Back... In!"


I am Returning to L.A.

November 18th.

U.S.C. vs. Cal.

And I am going to get a teardrop tattoo, because that's how I roll.


In case it seemed like they were my words, you should know that the post below was entirely the lyrics to a Pearl Jam song called "Untitled." They only perform it live. It is a beautiful song, maybe a minute and a half, but... damn.

It is one of my go-to writing songs. I play it on a loop, again and again, while I write.

I got a car, I've got some gas
oh let's get out of here
get out of here fast
ooh everyone's confused
so I stay in my room
If I go I don't want
to go alone

I hope you get this message
oh you're not home
I could be there in ten
minutes or so
Oh I've got my things
we'll make it up as we go along
with you I could never be alone
... never be alone.

The other songs I do that with are "Of the Girl," again by Pearl Jam, "Still," by the Foo Fighters and "Little Martha," by the Allman Brothers, "Moonlight Mile" and "Sweet Black Angel," by the Rolling Stones.

So, there you go.

That's my secret.

One of those songs plays on a loop, between 10 and 25 times, depending on the length of the post.

And, by the way, if you somehow interpreted those lyrics as me being "whiney," and feel I just need to "get back on the horse," well...



I have been seperated for exactly 5 weeks.

I understand that this blog would (will) get a lot more interesting when I start dating.

Hold your fucking horses.

Live vicariously elsewhere until I get my shit together.

(And believe me, my shit? It really could use some togetherness.)

So, chill.

And let time do its thing.

Like it always does.