A private eye, a crooked cop, a secret agent, and a celebrity pharmacist. Send me a note or something.


Would Would MacGyver do?

I was in a bit of a panic earlier, as I had company coming and a particularly nice bottle of wine saved for the occasion - Only to discover the corkscrew was nowhere to be found.

Not to worry, however, as pushing the cork into the bottle and then fishing it out with a looped piece of string worked like a charm.

A few drinks, a few drinking games, a dance party in the lounge. The sort of night that one could describe as ‘narrow, but deep’.

A few drinks, a few drinking games, a dance party in the lounge. The sort of night that one could describe as ‘narrow, but deep’.

To do, before I die

Made an attempt at a bucket list today.

  • Fly at Mach 1.
  • Catch a marlin.
  • A respectable lap time at Laguna Seca.
  • Visit the Laphroaig distillery.
  • See Tom Waits perform.
  • India by rail.

When I see it laid out like that, I sound like someone’s dad.

He always thought of the sea as la mar, which is what people call her in spanish when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her, but they are always said as though she were a woman. Some of the younger fisherman, those who used buoys as floats for their lines or had motorboats bought when the shark lovers had much money, spoke of her as el mar, which is masculine, they spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy. The old man always thought of her as feminine, as something that gave or withheld great favors. If she did wild or wicked things, it is because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought.

— Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea


“Tracking the Bell Tea Guy”

I like to imagine when that cub reporter does find the Bell Tea Guy, he’s gone completely off the reservation and has more or less turned into Colonel Kurtz; running some fiefdom where he’s worshiped as a god. I can see it happening, some Bell tea sales rep from a provincial New Zealand town (he’s probably named Murray, and back before he went stopping calling home, his friends called him Muzza) who works his way up the ladder until he gets an overseas posting.

He proceeds to trot the globe sourcing Darjeeling from West Bengal, Ceylon from Sri Lanka, and a little known (but irresistible) variety of tea from Zhejiang Province; he scales the Hindukush mountains, in search of a eccentric exiled British shipping magnate who ensures that the exotic blends make it back to New Zealand with great haste aboard his fleet of lumbering Russian cargo planes. It’s here, suffering from altitude sickness and the lingering effects of malaria, that he begins to crack. Corporate hasn’t heard from him in eight months, but the shipments keep on coming. They’re worried about him, of course, but his productivity hasn’t seemed to suffer due to his lack of contact. After a full twelve months without hearing from him, they send a junior employee to search for the elusive fixer, now simply referred to in internal communications as the Bell Tea Guy. The junior sales rep’s body is found in an alley way in Karachi, riddled with stab wounds. A note is affixed to his corpse, with the phrase “Acta non verba” scrawled on it in barely legible handwriting.

The world’s intelligence agencies wait, with dread, for the return of this Kaiser Soze of the caffeinated beverage world.

Exactly

  • Me:So I just came home, finished that bottle of whiskey and listened to Mogwai, which felt nice.
  • Jess:Do you mean that it didn't feel nice, which felt nice?

Mogwai - Friend of the Night

I was really, really weirded out when this track showed up in the background of a promo for The Rugby Channel.

That last post

was written while heavily intoxicated, from my phone.

Tumbling from your phone is a skill I rank somewhere between picking locks and unhooking bras (essentially the same thing anyway), so I’m fairly proud of myself for managing that.

It had tags, too. Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

S.S.D.D.

A million years ago. I walk in, and it’s way past my bedtime; hunched over, all teen angst and regret. Out of the darkness, seemingly all wife beaters and too tight briefs, the old man steps forward and says “Alright, son. What is it that’s got you mopping around?” “Oh, you know. Got a mad on for some girl. You know, same as usual,” I reply, doing my damndest to avoid eye contact.


gunstreetgirl: Hello! What day is it? Oh! Not-Wednesday. Oops. I’m going crazy. I’m being my own version of studious by starting on this 10-page Shakespeare research paper that’s due on Tuesday. Jesus be some coffee, time, and lots of productivity [aka: time away from tumblr] Honestly. Look at this girl.

gunstreetgirl:

Hello! What day is it? Oh! Not-Wednesday. Oops.

I’m going crazy. I’m being my own version of studious by starting on this 10-page Shakespeare research paper that’s due on Tuesday.

Jesus be some coffee, time, and lots of productivity [aka: time away from tumblr]

Honestly. Look at this girl.