E-mail: Brian7Morris "at" hotmail.com Archives March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 current Blogs Mandapants farkleberries Uranium City Records The C.M. Sienko Foundation Storyteller Musings Solotarian Views Lynne Wiora Tek Poker News Blog Some Biscuits Evil Eye Emporium Niggling Doubts Pressure Release Sara as Mommy runswithscissors Defective Yeti Afternoon Delight trancejen The Terrarium Bird Nird Slipperily Tofu Hut Stereo Gum Links Fixed Gear Gallery Get Crafty This is Grand Featherproof Books Gapers Block Chicago Bird Watching	No one must know my terrible secret... House of Noh! Tuesday, November 30, 2004 I don’t know if I’m being fair or not, but I’m really mad about it. Madder even than my old friend from school, Monica R, was the time after we’d been hanging together for like a year and after she‘d been over to my house a bunch of times and we‘d split a bunch of cheap bottles of wine together, that I told her I believed very strongly in “conditioning” all my drinking vessels before I put them into use. Conditioning consists of filling them with my urine and letting them sit for twenty-four hours or so. It’s like when you oil down a cast iron pan and bake it to “season“ it, I told her. It turned out not to be a funny joke. After I told her about “conditioning,” she freaked out and at that point wouldn’t have believed me if I told her for real that I did, or didn’t, really do it. She was mad. It’s those salvation army bell ringers. They’re back, clogging up pedestrian thoroughfares and bottlenecking foot traffic at the entrances of local grocery stores with their garishly painted red kettles full of butt-pennies, urethra dimes and vagina nickels. I don’t even want to hint at where people commonly put their quarters when nobody is looking. For a while I worked as a banquet hall bartender at a hotel where there was a crack in the concrete in the bottom of the pool so the maintenance people just ran a garden house across the cabana and left it on 24/7 to keep the water level up. One of my co-workers was an attractive freckly red-headed woman who had a touch of a tragic streak to her. One night she was complaining about one of the hotel staff people, who alerted the bar manager that she was drinking on the job. We ALL drank on the job, foxes in the henhouse and all that. I asked how the hotel staff person found her out. The freckly bartender told me that she thought the hotel staff person saw her running into the bathroom to puke. The freckly bartender went on to tell me, in her defense, that it turned out that she puked a little, just in her mouth, and that she was able to swallow it, and so that shouldn’t really be counted against her. That’s how much you would puke if I told you where people put quarters. I know - those kettles are gross! What also makes me mad is how long I always have to wait in the craft store check-out line. At first, I stand in line and tell myself that the tortoise speed of the checker is just part of the craft store experience. But then, after like half an hour, when I’m still the second person in line, I start to get these terrible urges. I can barely restrain myself from cupping my hands around the checker’s timid mouse-ear and shout “hurry the fuck up!” into the side of her head. But I don’t. That's because I’m on thin ice at that craft store as soon as I walk in the door. They’re always throwing me jive and shit on account of how I don’t got no cooter. Brian 3:50 PM Comments: Post a Comment

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House of Noh!

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

I don’t know if I’m being fair or not, but I’m really mad about it. Madder even than my old friend from school, Monica R, was the time after we’d been hanging together for like a year and after she‘d been over to my house a bunch of times and we‘d split a bunch of cheap bottles of wine together, that I told her I believed very strongly in “conditioning” all my drinking vessels before I put them into use. Conditioning consists of filling them with my urine and letting them sit for twenty-four hours or so. It’s like when you oil down a cast iron pan and bake it to “season“ it, I told her. It turned out not to be a funny joke. After I told her about “conditioning,” she freaked out and at that point wouldn’t have believed me if I told her for real that I did, or didn’t, really do it. She was mad. It’s those salvation army bell ringers. They’re back, clogging up pedestrian thoroughfares and bottlenecking foot traffic at the entrances of local grocery stores with their garishly painted red kettles full of butt-pennies, urethra dimes and vagina nickels. I don’t even want to hint at where people commonly put their quarters when nobody is looking. For a while I worked as a banquet hall bartender at a hotel where there was a crack in the concrete in the bottom of the pool so the maintenance people just ran a garden house across the cabana and left it on 24/7 to keep the water level up. One of my co-workers was an attractive freckly red-headed woman who had a touch of a tragic streak to her. One night she was complaining about one of the hotel staff people, who alerted the bar manager that she was drinking on the job. We ALL drank on the job, foxes in the henhouse and all that. I asked how the hotel staff person found her out. The freckly bartender told me that she thought the hotel staff person saw her running into the bathroom to puke. The freckly bartender went on to tell me, in her defense, that it turned out that she puked a little, just in her mouth, and that she was able to swallow it, and so that shouldn’t really be counted against her. That’s how much you would puke if I told you where people put quarters. I know - those kettles are gross! What also makes me mad is how long I always have to wait in the craft store check-out line. At first, I stand in line and tell myself that the tortoise speed of the checker is just part of the craft store experience. But then, after like half an hour, when I’m still the second person in line, I start to get these terrible urges. I can barely restrain myself from cupping my hands around the checker’s timid mouse-ear and shout “hurry the fuck up!” into the side of her head. But I don’t. That's because I’m on thin ice at that craft store as soon as I walk in the door. They’re always throwing me jive and shit on account of how I don’t got no cooter.

Brian 3:50 PM

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House of Noh!

Tuesday, November 30, 2004