This evening, while sitting at a local tavern whose local television has shrouded the benefit of the local fire, I overheard a gentleman say something akin to, "Have a Happy," to another gentleman who had enough of the local everything and locally left.

Have a Happy?

Happy is, of course, an adjective, and for the first time (that I have taken notice) someone has used this word as a noun. I wanted to turn to the gentleman and ask him, friend, what pray tell is a Happy? Where can I get one? Is a Happy something you live through? That Happy I had today was amazingly terrible.

Oh, the irony.

But good for him. In a world filled with normalities and people saying banal things like, "Have a happy Thanksgiving," there is a light, ladies and gentlemen. Why add on that last word? It's not necessary. He most likely did it (dropped the word "Thanksgiving") because it's just too much. Why exhaust yourself, I say. He did save time. As soon as he was done passing on his regards, he went directly back to the nothing that he was doing. It's a time saver, really.

But then you have the problem of describing the Happy. As in, "I hope you have a happy Happy." Or worse yet, the extremely paradoxical, "Go have a horrid Happy." I caution you to be aware of this problem. Then again, if you are so inclined and thrive on the disequilibrium of others, get creative and truly use it:

My Happy was distructively blissful and, in turn, I am content.

Regardless, I do wish each and everyone a wonderfully excitable Happy.

As for the word Thanksgiving, well, I just don't have time.

Yes, well, I am writing currently to promote a writing venue that I have recently began with a friend of mine. Alas, it is a blogger type thing, and alas, I know not of why it may or may not be a bad deal.

Here's the situation: a buddy of mine (old writer friend) and I have decided to begin a witing forum to express short stories about living in suburbia. These stories may or may not be fiction. Then again, if you're like me and you subscribe to the theory that all writing is fiction, the stories that you will read will be such.

Comments will be and are appreciated. These are stories, my friends - just like life.

It is a blog though, so if that thwarts you, well . . . it does then. Here is the site:

www.whiskeyandmace.blogspot.com

Check it out if you do not have an aversion to blogs. It's writing. It's perspective. It's . . .ah hell, just check it out. It'd be better to see it.

Thanks y'all.

Man, I tell you what . . . you skip town for a bit and all e-hell breaks loose.

Paul (and all other culprits), nice job with your masterpiece here. It took me a while to figure out how to write a journal, I mean it's not myspace, but you know that*.

• Ha. Yeah, I just read your rant and I did appreciate it. That was only a quick dig you understand. Although, an E-Pink sounds like a grand idea to me.

So. I've been gone, out of my head, and out of Buffalo. Something I read today in the New Yorker brought me back. Truth be told, I am not back (physically) in Buffalo, but there are days wherein I think I should be. We'll get to that later. The line read (and let me know if you've heard this):

I believe it's from Harold Arlen, "Suicide in Buffalo would be redundant."

I was sitting still in a teacher's meeting the city of Newburgh, that has been called worse than the Bronx, when I took out said New Yorker and read this line. I laughed out loud. Then I got proud. I elbowed the bored teacher next to me (it was staff development day and no staff developed) and showed her.

Well, isn't it?

Then I kicked the chair from underneath her which caused her coffee to fly all over the corrupt math teacher behind me.

No, I said. You don't talk about Buffalo that way unless you live, or have lived there.

Look. I am proud. I miss that city and am finding living in a suburb of New York difficult at best. And not in a good difficult way. Buffalo difficult was productive. This town doesn't even suck the blood out of my life like Buffalo used to do. This town does nothing. It feels nothing. There is no potential here because everyone is done. It's a bit boring.

I'm working on it though. I have my art in a local gallery. I decided to market what I am and decided to design a Writer Action Figure. (The drawing will follow.) The main feature is that you push a button and the toy sighs.

I am coming back though. Actually, sooner than later, but only for a spell. I will be at the Pink in my usual seat drinking my usual drink (which is any seat and a jameson on the rocks). Whether or not I will return in the coming year has yet to be decided. My idea of exhausting my messiah complex on little children is becoming old. There are other paths that are unbeknownst to me as of now.

I am starting a writer's blog type thingy with a friend of mine, of stories that I have run into here. It's the spoonful of sugar mentality that I am concentrating on now. It works when I don't eat bad Chinese food for lunch.

We'll talk soon.

God speed, my friends.

(Paul, may I every once in a while, join in your quest of catharsis (meaning this)?)

ps. drawing is the userpic, if I can figure it out. (yeah, I can't, nevermind)

You have one day left. Strike that, you have one day left after today which works well because the person of your dreams (seeing as though this hypothetical applies to all) seems to be sitting right beside you. You feel good tonight. You say hi. She/he says hi back with a smile that tells you to keeping talking or something of that nature. Take a drink. Relax. You have time.

But you don't.

See this situation you somehow called all along the way. You're feeling extremely anxious. 23 hours. You talk more. She/he likes Magnolia, good GOD! Wait, WAIT! Don't even say that you appreciate modern dance. You know who Giacometti is?! Get the FUCK out.

22 hours, 45 minutes.

Clock is ticking.

What do you do? What do you want? Sex? Hmm? A cuddle partner?

A cuddle partner? Give me a fucking break, you have 22.5 hours.

Is it really worth it when you're leaving for Montauk in the morning?

I will expound on this scenario at a later date. It's a metaphor like anything else (if we look for the ketchup behind the leftover pasta).

The Paradox of Reality as Seen Through the Eyes of a Proleptic Nihilist.

When you take into account the desire for a person to be completely honest with you, versus the amount of recovery time (you would base on yourself or on thoughts of this other person), you will inevitably come to the conclusion that it is indeed a lose-lose situation. Do I say what I want to you, or are you going to cry? Can I handle you crying? Do I care at all if you cry – strike that- will your crying affect me in some productive way at all, besides the obvious and useless guilt that will set in?

But then, no. Once again, wrong question.

Enter the person I despise but whom I actually adore more than I know -the nihilist(hence the paradox), complete with apathetic actions (oxymoron?) and unceasing desires (the anti-buddhist?). It sounds like a college artist of some type, funded by Pink Floyd albums. Give me a canvas. I'll paint it red. (Let's try the honesty thing) Speaking for all artists, in terms of what all artists hope you'll say, (my opinion) "You'll say I'm angry and filled with senseless passion. It's a cry for attention people! That's what art is! Look at what I created Mommy!"

Mommy: What, it's a red square . . .

The Artist: FUCKING SHIT! You're right.

Mommy: Oh wait I see it now.

The Artist: What? What do you see?

Mommy: My keys, I knew I left them over here.

The Artist: (sigh)

I'm going into the abyss once again because there is a reality that I am now capable of admitting: I am more masochistic than nihilistic, much to my bitter dismay.

God speed ladies of promise, honesty, and intrigue. You will always be more misogynistic that I will ever unintentionally come close to.

Just a word to say that I'm outta here for a bit for no particular reason. Who knows how long, but just thought I'd let y'all know.

The new userpic says it all.

Thanks Woody.

- stickboy

ps. Keep fighting the good fight people. I'll see y'all around.

In all fairness, I think I should let you all in on a little aspect of my life.

I am a priest. That's right. Or I was at least. This whole thing about toys was the best thing I could comeup with. My cousin is the guy that does the toy thing and that is why I decided to try this town.

I left Oregon because I met a woman while I was priesting and had sex. Three times in two days. She then had a child which I considered divine intervention and yet the church did not see it as such.

So yes I have a child and his name is Will. He's in Oregon, I hope, and I hate my life because I am not there. The girl shacked up with a drummer from some jazz band from Frisco and I have not seen her since. The poor kid is witnessing debauchery at it's finest.

So all the stuff I write is a show. I am not the man I thought I was and the things that pop into my head I must write down, in the form of a self loathing writer. All I want to do is to work at Home Depot for God sakes. Oh what tangled webs we weave.

My name is Brian but if we're laying everything out on the table, I really spell it Bryan.

God help me.

It happened once again. I should say that it's about to happen. Nothing has happened yet although I'm pretty sure that they know it'll happen.

There is a scene in the movie Talk to Her (Hable Con Ella) in which the main character is listening to a singer in a garden of some sort, surrounded by people who are listening but are not really hearing what he's saying. The man is so moved by this singer's song that he begins to cry. The man singing sounds like he's just lost love and that he now realizes that he'll never get there again. It's a lament. I have no idea what he is singing about but I swear it chokes me up every time I hear the song.

For some reason, this man's pain is beautiful.

I get sick at the idea of someone constantly there. But they pander. They convince. We'll be happy. I don't know. Yes we'll be happy. Well what about my needs? I need loathing, I have no choice.

Sweetheart, we all have a choice.

I'm beginning to think that's not the case after I say hey why not, sure come on over, I'll grow to love you, but I have work to do, yes I want to sleep, but I can't now. Okay sure. It'll end badly, it always does. Consider yourself warned.

You don't mind? Oh, you don't believe me. Okay.

My guilt is absolved.

But why do you do this?

I can't help it. It's in my nature, says the Scorpion to the turtle.

Does anyone know a substantial amount about Jung's theory of the Collective Unconscious, and would like to briefly describe what people are constantly telling me that I walk the line of everyday?

If not that, can anyone suggest THE book, his book, to read about this? (ex. Existentialism, read the Myth of Sisyphus) I have piles of anthologies to read and yet, I'd love to sneak in some Jung. I admit, when it comes to psychoanalysis, I know about my mind as much you do . . . of my mind.

sqb, didn't you mention something about this one time or another.

On another but maybe completely related subject, I truly believe that I can make things happen if I subconsciously think about them. (FUCK oxymoron) Within reason of course. But the, man I'd like to meet someone who . . . and then BLAM, shit happens more than you know.

Shit like that. Are perhaps all the planets are aligned. Where's Mars these days, that fucker bastard always messes with my mind.

oh, my bad . . .

It's a shame though. I get this perverse kick out of freaking people out.