Unexpected Visitors

Last night, I was tapped for my athletic prowess to represent the Cheetah bowling team.  As you can probably imagine, I jump at the opportunity to spout off Lebowski lines at any giving time.   It was pretty fun but it always ends up bad idea when I know things are gonna get nuts.  I've always thought the spontaneous drunks were the best anyway.  

I got a text last night from the night DJ who told me that the owner of our club decided to make a surprise appearance.  This automatically puts everyone on high alert.  Things have been kinda rough around here lately because business has been slow and that frustrates everyone.  I've still been survivin' on a wing and a prayer.  The only thing that has been naggin' at me is the future of my job.  I feel relatively secure in the job I do, but it is still gonna be contigent on how well the club does.  I've been thinking seriously about what my next move would be if the worst were to happen.  

I started thinking that I might try luck in Vegas.  I think at the very least it would be the opportunity of a lifetime to work in the center of the strip club universe.  Logistically, it would be difficult.  I did just buy a house about three months ago that I absolutely love.  I don't think I'd have any issues renting it but I'm not interested in selling it at all.  It's a very solid investment that could eventually help me have a financial future.  I'm not real interested in working at any other clubs in Atlanta because they all suffer by comparison to da Cheet.  I thought about maybe trying to work for a DJ company here in town where I could do weddings, parties, and trivia nights around town.  The money would probably be a big step down, but after being a cube rat a few years back,  I never wanna do it again.  It's hard to put a price on sanity.  

With all the uncertainty, I figure I've gotta be proactive is my approach to the future.  I've been considering renting out some of the empty rooms in my house.  I always knew it would become Jamie's Home for Wayward Girls.  It be way cheaper than me renting anyway.  I've been seriously considering trading in my MINI Cooper for something more practical that I could have paid off in a six month period.  It would probably end up saving me a good $400 a month.  That seems like a no-brainer, really.  To bad I still let my vanity get in the way.  But on the flip-flop, I got more attention growing a beard anyway.  

In some ways, I'm actually hell bent on having a decent sized nestegg, just in case.  I've gotten pretty good at saving in the past year aside from the occasional fall from grace when I buy drinks for all the pretty girls in a room.  I could tolerate being out of the business for my own mental health.  I just wanna make sure I've got a substancial buffer to spend all that extra time to really improve myself.  I know I'd turn into a gym rat again and I'd be away from all the bad influences that I have trouble saying no to.  

My favorite person in the whole world, Amanda, is always worried about me.  I don't really blame her and it makes my heart swell knowing that she sincerely cares.  I am shamelessly honest with her in ways I've never been with anyone.  She told me that she thinks I have trouble dating because I appear to crush on everything I see.  I don't totally disagree with that, but let me ask ya, who doesn't love pretty girls who are a little dirty?  

What I do agree with is the perception is that I always wanna portray to everyone how much I truly care about them.  And maybe roll around in the sack with them.  But I really need to work on my mystery.  I'll just wear my hair in my eyes more.  

I really don't have the answers for what I need to do.  But hopefully I'll realize that being complacent will not do an effin' thing to help.  Jamer out!

The Art of Emo

This past Christmas my friend Amanda got me this book called "Everybody Hurts: An Essential Guide to Emo Culture."  I hope all of your eyes are collectively rolling back into your skull just from the title.  I know mine did.  But I read it and slapped my forehead numerous times of how painstakingly accurate the whole book is.  Nobody (especially an overly-sensitive aging hipster) enjoys being simplified into a type.  But I'm a type and there ain't much I can do about it except for accepting it.  That's why I have a blog (in case you are scoring at home.)

I have this other friend who is facinated by transgenders (I still have my sack, thank you very much.) It really got me to thinking.  I think all I've ever wanted to be is a pale, lanky, inked, punk rock guy.   To my credit, I've got the pail thing down according to the lucky few who've seen my ass on occasion.  The sentiment and dedication and emotion are all there.  It just doesn't really fit with my appearance (despite me having the world's largest black t-shirt collection.)  

People always ask me about tattoos.  I've never gotten any and really don't want 'em.  I've always thought that it would be an untrue statement to the world about who I am.  I love 'em on most people.  But I think it's just a rung on the ladder of cool that I feel justified in skipping.  So I've kinda sabotaged myself in my quest for punk rock longevity.  

My hair is kinda long and I wear a beard that's nicely coifed (I did find some of my lunch in it today.  Who wants seconds?) Not really punk rock anymore.  I'm no Tyler Durden, but I could easily be mistaken for anyone in the band Three Dog Night.  I'd actually probably take that as a compliment anyway.  I've never told anyone this, but my long hair is really more of a tribute to a friend of mine (There is some gay about to come your way, watch your eyes.)  Even though I know how utterly adorable I am with my short, nicely-parted, clean-shaven, I-love-my-khakis look, it's not who I am.  One of my best friends in the world, Howard, has had long hair since Kiss took off their make-up (except for his stint at Dillard's).  I admire that.  He's a rocker and he always will be.  He told me the story of going to his 20th class reunion and how clearly he recognized that he has never compromised who he is.  Most of his friends got married two or three times and have kids like most people two decades removed from high school.  They had to be in awe of Howard.  This is a guy who managed to see the Scorpions 20 or 30 times in Birmingham over the years.  While that in itself is pretty impressive, it's representative of a very concrete set of values that my friend has.  The fact that my pal has long hair might not correlate to the choices he's made or how happy is at this exact moment, but I'm positively certain that there is a lot of comfort in knowing exactly who you are.  And I think that's pretty fucking punk rock.  

As far as the lanky part goes...  Well, dudes, it ain't gonna happen.  My brother is the tallest person in my immediate family and he stands a towering 5'9" (he'd say 5'10"...  He understands the importance of an extra inch.)  We weren't issued legs at birth, but I suspect I was probably given a Krispy Kreme doughnut and a sack full of Krystals upon my exit from the birth canal.  I can't really blame glands or big bones or even my effin DNA.  I just really enjoy eating a box of Cap'n Crunch in a sitting.  Granted, I haven't eaten that stuff in quite a while, but I could if I'm in some eating contest on ESPN 2.  Gluttony isn't really punk rock either.  That's the straight-edge philosophy.  And that's the most punk rock part of punk rock, restraint.  Being above an influence is the hardest thing in the world  to conquer.  But I can only take baby steps with each mile I walk on that treadmill and resisting the urge to get my picture on the wall at Vortex for successfully eating the Double Bypass Burger.  

I guess that's why the Emo subculture was created in the first place.  It's like being Stuart Smalley but with a bitchin' iPod and a bag from American Apparel.  And while the labels themselves are ridiculous, they exist for a reason.  I guess I'm cool with that.   I couldn't wait to get my Radiohead tix.  But ya know, I've never bought anything from American Apparel anyway.  I can't wear girl jeans even though chicks seem to dig that nowadays.  I'd like to think my Levi's and Ratt t-shirt are timeless.  

 

A shot of mopey mixed with HGH

So I've been kinda dumpy lately and have lacked the will or motivation to do much of anything.  I'm always waiting to turn some corner or have some epiphany that'll change everything.  I spend so much time in this godforsaken box that it often seems like I don't have much of a life outside of it.  There aren't windows in this office, but the view isn't bad from my desk.  

I've been more manic than anything.  I try and keep my energy up when I'm around people and I really try to not dump on my friends.  I get by myself and I'm just a mess.  I'd by lying if I didn't say that chemical enhancements never really help my mood either.  I guess some things really just come with the territory.  My mother always told me that I had an addictive personality and I guess I've been in denial about how right she's always been.  Guess that's why she's my mom.  

I had been trying to do things like go to the gym over the past month to try and make some much needed changes to my shape which has gotten increasingly rounder since summer.  There was a stretch where I didn't go to the grocery store for six months and had only emergency ramen in the house.   I have had plenty of encouragement from both sides.  Some want to just rock the casbah all the time and others are truly concerned with my health.  It's always hard to implement good habits than drop the bad ones. 

I've also ceased trying to see anyone and it's been that way for a while.  I seem to always get the feeling that I'm on the outside looking in and that it seems futile for me to walk in the door because my luck has been atrocious with women.  Well, that and I don't have the best judgement anyway.  A lot of my friends tell me that I have really bad confidence issues.  I only half-way agree with that.  I'm not that down on myself.  I just cease to believe that my belly is the only reason I can't get stinky on my hangdown.  My natural radness has never been in question obviously.  Chicks dig a sense of humor.  Just not in their vaginas.  

It's not really the biggest deal in the world and I'm not sitting around pining for anyone.  I'm more consumed with getting myself right in the head.  That could be the most futile pursuit of all.  I still haven't even put the mini-blinds up in my house after a month.  Still not sure when that's ever gonna happen.  I've been slowly getting my shit in order at home.  It's been almost two months since I moved in and it still feels like an apartment for me.  I bought a new couch and obnoxiously big TV, but the walls are still white and there's nothing on the walls.  I need so much help getting stuff done around there and I keep on wondering if I bit off more than I can chew with this investment.  I just want the shit done.  

It's been a much lower priority to me than it needs to be.  I'm killing myself trying to set myself up financially.  Being here all the time is gonna pay off in the long run and maybe I'll just hire someone to give me style in mi casa.  

There is some good things on the horizon.  I found out today that Radiohead tickets go on sale for Atlanta tomorrow.  Also, Amanda and I are considering renting an RV and going to Bonnaroo with some big-breasted ladies of easy leisure.  I've never done that festival before but the Truckers are playing and they always rule me.  Besides I need a fucking vacation.  I considered maybe taking the entire week off and getting the other guys to cover me so that I could go to the beach or something after the show.  Guess we'll see what happens.  

Barack is still ruling the world and I think the primaries in Ohio and Texas are gonna be the deciding factor on who I'm gonna be voting for in November.  You know what they say, vote early.  And often.  

Roger Clemmons is such a fucking liar.  I've been sitting here watching his Senate testimony this morning and I just don't believe the guy.  I even heard that his wife was taking it, too.  I had no idea she was slumming in the minors.  I think I'm almost completely numb to all of this now.  Fuck it.  Go Braves. 

There is crying in politics and entrapment in baseball

Perhaps I got a little ahead of myself when I thought I was gonna be prolific in my blogging.  I guess I blew my wad a little too much in the first two days.  Grand opening, grand closing.  But I have at the very least been contemplating my latest rant.  I was actually waiting for the results of New Hampshire to come in before I got all pundit-y at yer ass.  

No doubt that I was as surprised as Hillary when results came in for Iowa in a practical landslide for my homeskillet, Barack Obama.   All I read in the past few days was the press shuffling it's feet and declaring the Clinton campaign dead and buried.  The mainstream press was all over the easily packaged sound bite to call her the comeback kid II.  Is that the one where she goes to Okinawa?   

Granted, I'm a Clinton fan, but a bigger Bill-Jeff fan.  But I'm also a closet idealist which is why I'm down with Barack.  Us brothers gotta stick together.  I'm still mostly just watching as a spectator at this juncture in the electorate because my horse didn't do so well in 2004.  Thanks Howard.  I'm gonna put my money where my mouth is this year but I'm waiting until after Super Tuesday before I make it rain all over Barack.  

I was telling another guy at work prematurely (THIS NEVER HAPPENS) on Monday that I thought Hillary was dead in the waterworks after the questionable tactics at that press conference where she choked up.   I thought it was a bad play.  But hey, politics is just showbiz for ugly people anyway.   I guess this wrinkle just makes it more fun to watch anyway.  

GOP-wise, I still think the Huckabee thing was a total gaseous anomaly.   He is, by far, the biggest ass-scratcher of the bunch.  Even more so than Captain Mormon.  In good conscience, I could only support McCain because he is a decent man.  But I keep asking myself where the fuck is all this grass roots buzz for Ron Paul?  Where the fuck is America's mayor? Sorry Fred, stick to, er, scripted television.  

There other thing that's got me throwing split-fingered poo is this fucking Roger Clemmons thing.  Let me preface by saying, I think he's the most dominant pitcher of the modern era and I can think of nobody that get my spurs jinglin' and janglin' like this mofo.  Especially in his prime.  But that's problem, when is his prime?  Age is gonna turn you into more of a finesse pitcher obviously.  But it seems weird that he can still seem ageless at 45.  Despite that really bad frosting thing he did with his hair when he played with the Astros.   He is the second most vocal pitcher in the game next to the love-him-or-hate-him Curt Schilling.  The thing that fucking bothers me about his reaction to  his little hissy fit is that he is trying to convince everyone he is above the game. 

I hate the pompous notion that he thinks because of his track record that he deserves to somehow rise above all the other the defunct heroes of the steroid era.  Hey Roger, this is the world we now live in.  Get used to it, you blowhard.  And that fucking bullshit telephone conversation was one of the most bush league things I've heard in a while.  You'd think if there was any cred to the story Rog is giving us, we woulda heard him ripping "Mac" a new turd-cutter six ways to Sunday.  BTW, you know, you can take B12 in pill form, it's in every vitamin aisle on the planet.  Why is every player so anxious to take it in the fanny?  God knows, there's a good chance Barry Bonds will get to find out the hard way. 

Jamie Carter's War

Damn, I've been a prolific bastard today.   Usually, I just try to stay mysterious.  Well fuck that right now!  I'm on fucking fire and kinda look like Tiny Lister from "No Holds Barred."  Maybe not my best look, but a look, nonetheless. 

Sunday night, my club had their annual Christmas party.  For the past three years, it's kinda like my 2nd chance prom.  I always try and look good and I always try and take someone that's way hot.  All PR is good PR in this case.   This year, our party moved from Taurus in Buckhead to Ten Pin Alley in Atlantic Station.  Before I continue on, let me express my hatred for Atlantic Station.  I went to a movie there about a year ago and it was the most clusterfucked experience I've had since...  Well...  I had a catheder in my cock once AND THAT WAS MORE PLEASANT. 

Anyhoo, for all you non-ATLiens, Ten Pin Alley is a bowling alley.  It's a nice bowling alley near midtown that actually employs several Mr. Smith clones from the Matrix and they are 'roided the fuck up.  And these are the first people you see before you walk in the door.  Again,  A BOWLING ALLEY.  You'd mark it zero if these guys thought you were "over the line."  

Sure, the security people really don't have a reason to live but this wasn't my issue.  I left my iPhone in the car to charge while I was at the event and totally forgot about it.  Yeah, not too wise on my part.  I actually left pretty early and took sexiest girl alive for a beer somewhere else.  When I got home, I couldn't find the phone.  I figured it was karma catching up with me for making fun of my friend Nate for leaving his iPhone in a taxi a week earlier.  

I naturally assumed that I had just taken it out and left it somewhere.  Believe me, the last thing that was on my mind when I left the party was a fuckin' telephone.  I bitched and moaned about it all day Monday at work and happened to mention it to an ex-girlfriend who was hanging out with some of the valets that night.  She sent me an email later on telling me that one of said valets was showing off his new iPhone to people.  Of course, the screensaver is a picture of me and another chick in Santa costumes.  What an eeeeediot.  So I've had to start the process of trying to get this butthole fired, busted, and hopefully punched in the face.  I already know that it's gonna be relatively easy for me to track if the phone is re-activated through my cell phone provider. 

I just talked to the owner of the valet company and he pretty much assured me that they were gonna fire the guy regardless.  I'm filing a police report today so I'm covering my bases.  But fuck man, dropping an additional $400 really chaps my ass right now. 

What a kick in the crotch

I'm sure there are many out there who are aware of the embarrassment associated with being an Atlanta Falcons fan these days.   Me, I'm a Steeler fan, so I don't feel it as bad.  I do have at least hometown pride so I wanna see them have a respectable amount of success.  It's just good for the city.  Atlanta has long been the punching bag for crappy teams and even crappier fans.   This reputation is somewhat earned due to apathetic Braves' fans that knew the team would without question make the playoffs every year.  That part is still kinda weird to think about.  The Braves sucked big, stank ass when I followed them in the 80s. 

My point is that I was just reading about the five Falcons players that were just fined by the league for paying tribute to the imprisoned Michael Vick during last Monday night's game against the Saints.  I was at the game because someone gave me a free ticket and I was embarrassed  for the team in front of a national audience (though I doubt very many people actually wanted to watch two shitty NFC teams play.)  It probably didn't help that the Georgia Dome was practically empty by the fourth quarter.  To put a cherry on top of this big turd, Bobby Petrino jumped ship about an hour after the game.  And then you have these asshat players putting sprinkles on this shit sundae by rallying around Vick like he's Rubin "Hurricane" Carter.  If I was Arthur Blank, I woulda suspended these fucking douchebags without pay for the rest of the year.  They ain't doing anything to help this city's reputation for being more than a haven for a bunch of millionaire thugs.  I totally feel for this guy because Blank earnestly has gotten screwed for trying to bring a winner to this city.  The Falcons don't deserve to have an owner this good.  All these fucking morons do is make us look worse as a city because I feel that your local sports team is really a face for your city nationally.  

So I beg of you Mr. Blank, lose these cum dumplings, and bring back Morten Andersen for another year.  At least he's got some class. 

Welcome back, Carter

Salutations bitches, it's re-launch time.  It's been a bit of a prolonged absense from the blogosphere for the past several months, but I feel now is as good a time as any to restart.  I used to write fairly frequently on myspace, but I started getting a little sick of using that as my avenue to vent about crapola.  Since I'm an egomaniac at heart, I felt that moving my blog would make it stand alone.  And for all I know,  I could be completely alone by writing this for no one but myself.  Still, I hope for a few online stalkers just so I know that I'm in demand. 

Another reason I've decided to start over is because I've gotten inspired by reading several other local Atlanta blogs by lawyers, political junkies, and by a dude I used to work with at the video store.  I also recognized the opportunity to put my mouth where my money is (meaning I got plenty of time to do this while I'm working at the nudie bar.)  

I haven't exactly hammered out what I want to focus on, but I feel that I'll mostly be running my mouth about whatever happens to be going on in front of me.  I think you might be amazed at how eloquently I can talk about how the new chick could really use a deep dickin'.   And damn...  She soooooo could.   I'll write about other stuff, too.   I spend an obscene amount of time reading about sports and rock and whatnot.  I'm sure I'll also find ample space to squeeze out some this bleedin' heart liberal drivel.  That being said, Barack and roll, biyotch.