3.25.2009

I should of probably gone with the snow monkeys


For the last ten or so minutes I have been desperately trying to figure out what to blog about. The Muse, well, it seems that she’s abandoned me. Speaking of the Muse, the band and not the daughters of Zeus, I’m listening to them right now (Black Holes and Revelations). Anyways, my desperation will soon enough manifest itself in a post based on one of the following:
1) Japanese Macaques (pictured above)
2) I think I’m going to be fired.
3) I’m drinking Bourbon right now. I think beer explains this winter’s weight gain.
4) How I spent St. Patrick’s Day in a hospital while my Father had minor surgery.
Before I go on, let it be known that I do very little planning for these blogs. Save for the “Teen Wolf Blitzer” post, absolutely no preparation or research is used in the creation of aninterstellarburst. So if any of my posts feel unpolished or kinetic or incomprehensible - forgive me, it’s simply the nature of how I approach the blog and the “stream of conscious” style in which apply to the posts. For example, while writing the last sentence, I wanted to toss in a parenthesis in which I inform you that I’m not going to do a Japanese Macaque post. No impending unemployment or Bourbon post either. So, St. Paddy’s it is.
My Dad had a tumor removed from his bladder last week in an operation which took less than one hour. Yet for some reason, I spent over six hours hanging around a hospital with my mother. Interestingly enough, they performed the entire operation (a successful one I might add), through his penis. There wasn’t a single incision made, just cameras and medical devices straight up his wiener. And it goes without saying that when he got home, it hurt when he peed. Anyways, he’s sound as a pound now except for the fact that every four months a doctor will stick a camera up his wang again in search of more tumors.
This may sound selfish, but if any of the McClune clan suffered that day it was me. For those of you who don’t know, and that may in fact be all of you, I have a history of panic attacks. And my panic attacks occur mainly in the following places:
1) Public speaking engagements (of which I’m perfectly immune because I do no public speaking).
2) Airplanes (manageable if I bring my Xanax).
3) Hospitals (manageable if I don’t forget my motherfucking Xanax).
I hate hospitals. I spent the vast majority of my time at Mercy General chain smoking in the courtyard surrounded by signs that read “because we care about your health, smoking is not allowed”. Sans Xanax, I resorted to walking in circles around the parking garage. At one point, I summoned the courage to take an elevator to the 3rd floor waiting room where my mother was only to be confronted with an elderly woman on a stretcher in the same elevator corridor. Naturally, I retreated back outside with my USA TODAY and cigarettes.
The thing about me is this: I have never dealt with death in any real or emotional way. When my grandfather died, I left Lawrence at 1:00 a.m. and made the four hour drive to Oklahoma to attend his funeral. I was certainly sad and I wanted to cry (whatever that means) but I didn’t. And I was surrounded by people crying. But it’s not because I’m tough, it’s because in all honesty, I wasn’t particularly close with him. His death had little or no affect on my life. So am I emotional monster? I don’t think so. I’m simply lucky in the fact that those closest to me, the people in which I have an intimate investment in, have yet to die.
Anyway, that post took an unfortunate turn towards the serious. But here we are.
Jeff, are you enjoying the book. Let me know.
I’m disappointed in this post too (I think I’m going to end every blog with this post script, it seems only fitting).

posted by Ryan McClune @ 7:33 PM 8 comments

3.05.2009

Untitled....again

When I get drunk at home I like to pee in the backyard behind the pool, in the dark, and bathed in moonlight. Peeing outside is like swimming naked.


Anyway, I caught about ten minutes of “RoboCop” this morning before work. But this isn’t a RoboCop post, rather, it’s a Ryan McClune post inspired by RoboCop. Oddly enough, seeing RoboCop reminded me of a particularly disturbing memory from my childhood.
If you have ever experienced the sudden resurrection of a repressed memory, the way it finds its way from the back of your mind and into the front, or snaps into being from out of nothingness – than you certainly know how I felt today in front of the television watching Encore or Starz or something and seeing RoboCop.


By the way, the following story is entirely true.


When I was about ten years old, my Dad took me to some sort of car show – the convention center sort of thing with automobiles of the future and women dressed in bikinis. Well, the highlight of this particular early 1990’s car show was going to be the appearance of RoboCop, a RoboCop cameo if you will. So, there I was, eight years old or ten or whatever, eagerly awaiting Robocop and the thrills he was most certainly there to provide. I remember sitting there with other kids my own age and feeling restless at the fact that the RoboCop appeared to be late. So I got up, walked to over to a kind of curtained off area where RoboCop was to appear from, withdrew the curtain (ever so slightly), and had myself a bit of a peek. I don’t know what I expected to see, R2-D2 maybe, or other Robocops. Anyway, what I saw was perhaps the most horrific sight a boy of my age could ever lay virginal eyes upon (except maybe seeing one’s parents make passionate love). And what was it that I saw? I saw a middle-aged man in thong underwear putting on a cheap plastic Robocop costume. I think I lost my childhood innocence that day, I think we all did.


So, that’s the blog then. I’m disappointed too.


P.S. Jeff, “Say Anything” is much better than “Better off Dead” (that sentence sounds terrible).

posted by Ryan McClune @ 7:46 PM 9 comments