The general consensus regarding Mondays is that nobody really likes them. Statistically, if someone were to go postal at their job, it would be on a Monday, selfishly making everyone else’ Monday worse. Me? I never work Mondays, despite whether or not I’m at work. They can’t possibly pay me enough to fondle that kind of mental castigation, I can barely pay for parking, so I take it easy spinning in my revolving chair, and swinging a yo-yo while playing old vinyls.
On my off day’s, I’m out filming. I can’t explain it but filming somehow rejuvenates me, as if pretending to be someone else graces me with a better sense of my self. Then if I’m really feeling the kick of the catnip, I’ll try to fit a film before or after work. The hustle and tension of time constraint really does wonders for my skin, get’s my heart pumping, and occasionally I’ll state a solid, “WOOOO!!!” in the pitch of high C over Banshee, accompanied by a smooth succession of fistpumps. It’s not all work and play. What’s a life without 100 cc’s of belligerence and fecklessly vacant, vague, and vapid banter? Very few people fully comprehend the merriment of a having a bartender know your name. By nightfall, trade your eloctolyte water bottle for a bottle that has a surgeon general’s blessing of a jolly good frolic.
Lately, I’ve been fitting in a new hobby. Vinyl fucking records. It started off as a charming date, I picked them up, paid for everything, then took them home, and made sweet sweet music. New ones every week, call me a dirty whore. It’s true when they say vinyl sounds better. There are frequencies in analog recordings that cd’s or mp3’s can’t capture. Like a being is incomplete. The crackles and pops on a record are like a girlfriends you see without makeup every now and then, or boyfriends who get high-pitched when excited or have sweaty palms when it’s cold out. I’ve been hitting record shops in my off-time, usually alone, because I feel like I’m hunting for treasure or a Wild Mountain Buffalo. My Wild Mountain Buffalo is this album by Violet Sedan Chair called Seven Suns. There’s no record of it being made, but I had a hard on when someone found it and uploaded onto YouTube. I always go out looking for that buffalo, but end up coming back with bucks, elks, and maybe rabbits if I’ve some extra shells. I think everyone should have a hobby that they do alone, excluding (videogames, and listening to music. I mean, come on. Really? Reeeeally? Listening to music is a multi-task, and slaying demons and nazi zombies is… well okay, slaying demons and nazi zombies is kinda cool, but not if you see a t.v. screen more than you see the sun.)