On the ten-thousandth day of internet, my web-search gave to me: endless, typing drunks!

Please forgive the use of "12 Days of Christmas" for the title. I plan to reference it about ten times in life and then let it go forever.

Anyway, today I was doing a routine Google search of my website (leckybang.com) and I found a couple entries, supposedly "by" Leckybang on a site called Drunksblog.com. Now, I know I haven't ever fathomed such a site, so it couldn't have been moi posting.

My first assumption was that it there was another Lecky Bang out there, some parallel universe quasi me, who was the opposite of me by, um, really liking alcohol. But no. Drunksblog had posted a Twitter I wrote about a drunk person in Josh's house. It is webcrawling for our drunken statements! It is a drunken RSS, I suppose. Anyway, it updates constantly, because the world is drunk.

Here are my recent favorites:
"drunk bitch is finally going to bed"
"half price wine @ crust. Drunk"
"to be drunk by clouds"
poetry.

Shhh, Please Not So Loud: One

I woke up this morning and immediately regretted it. The sun was brighter then usual, too bright and was slowly but surely killing me. My head ached in a way that only happens when you drink a bottle of champagne. I stood up from my bed and had to sit right back down. I was hungover. And for the first time part of me was glad.

Once I was able to get to my feet and withstand the weight of my own body I thought of this blog post and which cure I was going to try. I figured to start this off I would use my standard hangover remedy. I popped the Advil that resides on my nightstand for mornings just like this one and parted my unbearably dry mouth to pour water down. I always expect instant ease and comfort and therefore I am always disappointed. The next step of my cure involves a long shower. I brought my iPod speakers in to the water closet with me and put Rilo Kiley's "The Initial Friend and stayed in the shower until the album was complete, my hands were pruned and I had written most of this post in my head. By now the Advil had kicked in and I was left with only a dull ache in my head.

It's hours later and I can still feel the effects of last night on my body.
The Advil only lessened the pain, the shower, while nice, relaxing and cleansing, really did nothing. This is really no cure for a hang over.

So this concludes the first posting of Shhh, Please Not So Loud, I hope it was enjoyable. Please feel welcome to suggest hangover cures and I will attempt them and report and the success.

Perez + horrible news = surprisingly good revelation

Perez Hilton posts that a plane crashed into a house in New York. Zero commenters cry terrorism. America is officially out of the Bush era.

I want to party with THAT guy

Watch out Steven Colbert, you just got bumped down to second on my party list.

I can't fake that I don't Quake

A recent Quaker promotional display at Target has made me realize how accidentally loyal to Quaker products I am. I've always known that on a given day I eat Quaker Oatmeal for breakfast (Josh can even tell when I do because my hairline, he says, smells like pancakes ... ) but I also regularly snack on those tiny rice cakes dribbled with sugary syrup and those sinisterly addictive potato-chip rivals called Quakes, which come in Cheddar and Ranch flavors. And like anyone who has attended public education, I've come into contact more than I pleased with Quaker granola bars (which are probably at the same time the most lackluster granola bars and the most inevitable granola bars on the planet.)

I don't resent my accidental allegiance to Quaker. They make good treats, those slightly Puritan-esque, Shaker cousins who might have written the song that goes "To turn, turn shall be our delight, 'cuz by turning turning we come round right" (although I think that was written by the Shakers. I prefer to attribute it to the Quakers though, because who would call themselves Shakers?) For the record, I don't agree with their tactic of making the most bland flavor the staple in a variety pack (chocolate chip granola bars are possibly the most boring thing in the free world) but I do agree with their ability to turn some kind of wheat-like flake into a part of my life.

Future Plans

I have been mulling this project over in my head for a rather long time, it was once even proposed to my blog mate Jay as an idea we could share in, however he declined my invitation so I will now embark on this project alone.

I have a rather busy weekend ahead of me, filled with various activities, all of them involve drinking. I will this weekend be searching for the perfect hang-over cure. I have in the past tried many an old wives tales and other borderline voodoo rituals to rid myself of the aftershock of the previous night. I'm not sure which have worked.

So, I will be reporting each morning to mid-afternoon my findings, lets hope my gin addled brain will be capable of handling this.

Thoughts on Paper

I have found through years of speaking to other writers that the habits of a writer can become as important as the time and ideas that go into the story itself.
When in a group of writers there are a few topics that come up in conversation almost routinely. I have been asked by countless peers where do I write? What do I write on? When do I write? All the very basic whats and whens, and yet very seldom does the question of why come up, I assume become they have their own motivations and are aware of the personal nature and almost uniformity of the answer. And because it is polite I give them my answers, even though they change without any rhythm and reason. I have no real ritual or conformity in the basic elements of putting words on paper. Yes I own many different varieties of notebooks, ranging from leather bound journals to smaller mole-skin notebooks that fit very comfortably in my coat pocket. All of these have an equal amount of words etched in their pages and I personally have never found a favorite among them. I think some look more professional then others, and I think some are fit for different types of prose but these thoughts never really inhibit what eventually ends up within the covers. I have in my possession dozens of envelopes, fliers, scraps and bar coasters with ideas, sentences and lines on them. I am sure that if provided with an ample supply of these minor items I would write as much as with any quality of notebook. These details never linger long in my mind. I have met people who insist that they can only work on a yellow legal pad, or those who delight in showing me a very elaborate journal. To these I smile and nod and will usually take out a note pad from an inside pocket and hold it to my heart.
Eventually all these words haste fully written on paper find their way into a Word document and some have started out on a electronic scrap of paper, which I have discovered is some sort of heresy in certain circles.
The where is equally as unimportant to me. When I was younger I felt that where I wrote would influence the kind of writer I would become so I would go out on these lofty walk to various secluded places. These places were always the same in terms of nature, trees, few people, but just enough to notice that I was writing dammit! and was to not be disturbed. These places made little difference in what was finally put down, if anything. It was posturing at its finest, but such was many of my youthful acts, so I hope it can be forgiven, I was a nostalgic youth with a head full of Keats and Byron.
Just now I was in need of fresh air and stepped out on to a smallish roof that hangs from underneath my bedroom window. After carefully sweeping away what can only be called a cigarette graveyard from the recently melted enclave of my roof I brought my current notebook out with my to the roof. I was careful to find a dry place to sit and taking great care (I almost slipped off once this season attempting break off a very large icicle foolishly clad only in a robe in slippers) sat down, lit another cigarette to provide a proper burial for and wrote. It was pleasant and I noted my surrounding were quite nice, the sun was setting and I watched a kitten walk through a few yards, wandering under cars to escape the many puddles that dotted the yards and streets. But this place didn't help my writing any better then the arm chair from which I am writing now.
I guess I was just wondering what others thought on this topic.

I do prefer pens though.

The Internet: The Greatest Thing Ever?

I love the internet more and more every day. When the internet was first invented, I mostly used it to look at Beanie Babies. Now I mostly use it to look at the President's pectorals.