You Sick Fuck

Sick as a dog over here. Guinness and cough syrup through and through. Watching about 6 movies a day all delirious.

I keep thinking I still have to take the 7 and wake up randomly in the night sweating. I think we are going to start getting paid like “rock stars”

More Dirty Life and Times! New Great Highs and Heights!

“I stopped the faucet before it's drip became insistent / I rubbed it out and loved the spot where it was missing” – MD

Tidbits

I won't bother to explain last night other than to highlight two noteworthy 'ideas' we'll call them. Think of this as the first blog attempt in world history to accomplish what Joyce did in Dubliners.

Ahem.

1.)Bringing my co-worker Mr. ABC to my 5-year high school reunion wasn't a good idea. When I met him he informed me that he had been drinking champagne and doing blow by himself all afternoon, and the night before, and the night before. He also told me that he had been doing a lot of writing in his “journal”, which is just about money-making schemes, and how he's going to get rich or die tryin'. You always hear about people talking about how “crazy” their friends are. Well I think Mr. ABC belongs in a mental institution.

Maybe I'll join him. Refer below:

2.) At some point I begin to get the wobbles, and decide to go for a walk. I hear a voice coming from around 8PM:

“Hey, gotta light?”

Instantaneously I walk up to the car and ask,

“Hey, wanna give me a lift?”

So I'm in this car with this woman, who is coming from a wedding, and heading back to East Orange. East Orange sounded spectacular at the time – anything to get out of the city. I didn't go to East Orange, but I did end up getting head from her parked somewhere along the West Side Highway. Man I can't blog about this shit. People last night I barely knew told me they read my blog.

“I'm looking for a girl with low-self esteem
To easy my worried mind
As I lay down to sleep
All my dirty life and times” – Warren Zevon

Post Traumatic Turkey Disorder

Still reelin' off the high from the 7. Apparently management wasn't fucking around. 4 people given the axe in the boardroom the day after. Of course a side of me feels great – Dog Eat Dog…then again over the past 6 months I have gotten to know some of these guys real well, and it was a bitch to see them be given the boot. They are, however, still being paid through the end of the year, so they aren't being completely f'ed over. Stil', Happy Holidays Tullett!

Thanksgiving was fine. Good to see the fam', and what is left of it. Can't really call my brothers my 'little' bros. anymore – as they aren't that small. Ryan is a bit taller than me, weighs about 250 lbs., and can easily kill a 30 by himself (which he does daily). But I don't want to get overly zealous here, all we are is talking about is size after all. For some strange reason in my family being big = better. And you don't leave the dinner table unless you have seconds. And you finish every damn bit on your plate.

I remember I was in Cape Cod and the people I was with were bored, or whatever they were, they got some sandwiches. And they barely ate half and threw the rest out. And I flipped out. I would have eaten it, man! I guess because they are women? Something I realise is that you have to treat women as women. You can't treat them like your buddies; they are completely different creatures. Maniacal, emotional, weak, sick half of their life, bitchy the other-type-creatures. So just pat them on their heads, and get back to work.

Good puppy.

They're actually barely human according to some Late Antique synods.
(created from the rib of Adam = not entirely human, and Simone de Beauvoir can go fuck herself with her beta theory)

“Women are children and should be treated as such” – Schopenhauer

Concerning relations between men/women I have concluded two simple principles:

1.) At first, the woman will be in control of the relationship
2.) Later on, the man will be in control of the relationship

This is always the case. Exceptions, you ask? Well, there aren't any exceptions to these rules; however, it may be the case that in the end the person you are dealing with isn't a woman, and/or the other simply not a man.

In other recent news, I spent yesterday in a comatose state, half awake-sleeping throughout the entire day, drunk off Stag's Leap. I did sleep well though.

Tonight is my 5 year high school reunion. I'm going to see if I can round' up the Stripper for accompaniment. Either way it's sure to be a memorable time.

Catch ya later!

Finks

With everyone extolling how much they're thankful for this Thanksgiving Day, I would like to present the wise & holy lament of William S. Burroughs

A Thanksgiving Prayer by Uncle Bill

For John Dillinger
In hope he is still alive

Thanksgiving Day, November 28, 1986

Thanks for the wild turkey and the Passenger Pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts
Thanks for a Continent to despoil and poison —
Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger —
Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin, leaving the carcass to rot —
Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes —
Thanks for the AMERICAN DREAM to vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through —
Thanks for the KKK, for nigger-killing lawmen feeling their notches, for decent church-going women with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces —
Thanks for “Kill a Queer for Christ” stickers —
Thanks for laboratory AIDS —
Thanks for Prohibition and the War Against Drugs —
Thanks for a country where nobody is allowed to mind his own business —
Thanks for a nation of finks — yes, thanks for all the memories… all right, let's see your arms… you always were a headache and you always were a bore —

Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.

Search & Destroy

“He who seeks danger perishes in it” – St. Augustine

Well, Kevin “Danger” Mallon seeks to pass his series 7. (Note: if I were to have a midde name it certainly wouldn't be “danger”; maybe 'Moose', or 'The Recovery Kid' would be more fitting)

Hahahah…Kevin “The Recovery Kid” Mallon….Kevin “12 Step” Mallon….hee hee

any other ideas?

This weekend was intense. You want to know about some investment opportunities? I'll sell you municipal fuckin' securities out of this fuckin' world mate'. I'll fuckin…I'll fuckin'…I'll fuckin sell you bonds that will blow your fuckin' mind….Like I said, this weekend was intense.

My grandfather passed away on Saturday. Died in his car in Jersey City of a heart attack. I have to be a pallbearer. The only thing I know about pallbearing is that it's a movie starring some homo with a cheezy smile.

Also, this weekend, while hopped up on Concerta, coffee, and cigarattes, (oh yeah babe, smokin' again like The Marlboro Man)….I wrote a little diddle about falling in love with a mannequin. Very post-modern….post-modern lyrics and old-fashioned chords

I also just got a haircut. I hate getting haircuts. I am actually terribly frightened of the whole process (read: ordeal). As soon as I get in, I want to get out. My leg started twitching and I started sweating, all the while putting on a cool front. Talking about the weather, when in actuality I'm a nervous wreck.

…..I don't know why this is. It has to do with trust. A lot of salons are closed on Monday, so I had to go to Supercuts. Supercuts, FYI isn't so super. Not at all. I asked for a trim and the woman took the buzzer and started scraping my skull. Man do I hate haircuts….Maybe cause I have alopecia? Maybe I'm just insane

I also keep seeing Danny Aiello around Hoboken. I think maybe sometime I'll go up to him and yell out some random quote from “Do the Right Thing” and when he doesn't get it (or just realises that I'm bonkers) then I'll call him a “No-Talent-Hack” and walk away. Today he was parked in front of Tutta Pasta in a black jaguar, wearing shades, and blasting Sting.

HILARIOUS.

Well, that's it for now kiddies. Back to reviewing Taxation of Direct Participation Investments, Butterfly spreads, constant-dollar plans…you know fun stuff…then a glass of vino, a few Hail Mary's, maybe an Our Father, definitely gonna rub one out…then I take the big exam at 8 AM.

It's a fucking 6 hour test by the way. Tall order, but I'm taller.

Peace.

Weird Vibes

Sitting in this office is strange with no-one here. Random sounds coming out of the hoot n' holler…out of Singapore maybe?

A soldier before he enters the battlefield has nothing to do but to clean his rifle. Hand to hand combat on Tuesday. Maybe I'm over-stressing. I'm right at the cusp. You need a 70% to pass the 7. I received a 70 on a qualifying exam and have been in the same range on practice tests.

But what's more boring that reading someone blog about studying. You might as well read the fucking Torah.

Often times I'll think about blogging about something I was thinking. Like I had an imaginary conversation with William Burroughs sometime in the past few days. But I forget what the topic was. Other crap like that.

I think I'm turing into a cup of coffee.

I'm trying to get my applications into graduate school on top of all of this. The Series 7 makes the GRE seem like a cake-walk.

Something I was thinking lately is if I have been permanently scarred by Wall St. People in finance tell me I'm too academically oriented. (Imagine me professing the annals of Late Antique Rome to these overweight wolverines in golf shirts). Now I'm thinking that the academic community will shun me when-and-if I return.

I hear the voice of someone telling me to “stay true to yourself” and I want to shank that person with a dull rusty knife and twist it. What finance has done to me – well a.) it's increased my stress level and drug habits exponentially and b.) has illustrated for me how the world can be viewed as a balance sheet. In every situation there is a winner and a loser and that relationship can be perfectly quantified.

For the 7 you learn formulas that show you how insurance companies calculate your monthly payment if you subscribe to a variable annuity. They incorporate as to whether you are a smoker, how old you are, what demographic you basically belong to. And they plug this number in and out comes your monthly payment. You're merely a number. You're either on top, or you're dying and there isn't any other fucking third direction.

THERE IS NO THIRD DIRECTION. You eat what you kill. And that makes sense to me. Or I mean I think it does.

I do hope I pass this test. I've studied forever and it would look a litte poor if the Ivy leaguer was the only one out of his training class to fail the 7. I think I would just start flipping burgers.

Mahalo.

The Series 7 Blues

“They give you the juice, and you see if you live” – KHM on Doctors/Cancer

First things first. Brendan “Stud” Mallon and co. lost to Westwood in the first round of the state championships. My brother was running for his life. Maybe if Tenafly bred some strong European stock, and the Koreans and the Jews jumped off the goddam Palasades Cliffs, then maybe my brother could have got some goddam blocking.

He came home with his teeth bleeding.

Other than that. Same old antics. Dirty life and times. Boozing and whoring.

I am staying at work this week until around 10 PM just studying for the Series 7. I have my sleeve rolled up, my desk is littered with new york coffee cups, and all I eat is crap out of the vendor. I feel like the loser guy from Wall St. (the movie). You know, the irish guy, with glasses, who now is in Scrubs?

Chewing gum in the front of my teeth. Reading the WSJ. I'm about to snap. I'll drop you in a fucking heartbeat.

“I know that, I can do the math
I know no-one likes a psychopath”

“You don't go to school to eat lunch” – Some guy on Sportscenter

Radio Shack

I haven't really been focusing on my attire lately and strolled into work a bit late today, wearing a 5 dollar tie with a blue whale pattern that I bought at Century 21 while rolling on E at 10 AM the other week. The tie, matched with a bluish shirt I am wearing made me look like a salesman.

For this manager guy just told me to take my tie off because I “look like [I] work at Radio Shack”

I just start laughing.

I walked into work yesterday at 7 AM to find this dude eating a chicken parm hero. Today he took it easy and just had a chicken cutlet hero, extra mayo. The guy doesn't shut the fuck up about food. It's absurd. He'll entertrain himself for hours, looking at menus, reading them aloud, talking about double sausage french toast breakfast sandwiches. He is incidentally within inches of being pushed down a flight of stairs.

People just drop food off at his desk. HE WON'T SHUT UP. I FIGURED IT OUT. I'm going to have to tell him “WILL YOU GO TO LUNCH?!”

superspecialrambling

I was reading someone's blog online and theirs was completely different than mine. Their's was more mundane, but it seemed more controlled…more like listening in on a converstaion. So then I thought about the character of my blog. Basically my blog is just to let myself know that I'm still alive. I'm still here. Truckin' on. A lot of it is randon inner dialogue.

Today I realised on the PATH train that I had been muttering and repeating to myself “municipal securities” interceded with randon racial slurs

municipcal securities…fuckin' nigger motherfuckers…spicos…municipal securities…bitch fucker…municipal…fuckin'…

You get the jist.

The series is tough man, what can I say. Plus, I'm out of my fucking mind. But, I LIKE IT.

I wish I had some fucking marijuana. I used to hate it. Now I love it. Just like the markets, rise, expansion, descension, recession. It's cyclical. Get it? I don't.

“You really need some help. A regular psychiatrist couldn't even help you. You need to go to, like, Vienna or something. You know what I mean? You need to get involved at the university level, like where Freud studied, and have all those people looking at you and checking up on you. That's the kind of help you need. Not the once-a-week for eighty bucks, no. You need a team. A team of psychiatrists working around the clock, thinking about you, having conferences, observing you like the way they did with the elephant man. That's what I'm talking about, because that's the only way you're going to get better.”

– Jerry, to George, in “The Pitch”, Seinfeld

FEAR & TREMBLING

I don't want to blog about how I need to get my shit together. That will come. And if it doesn't it won't be because I didn't write it down. Then again I remember reading somewhere that 90% of people don't write their goals down.

90% of Americans don't own a passport.

I haven't left the country since May.

Regina Spektor hears voices in her mind. And it breaks her heart.

Allen Ginsberg's national resources consisted of:

“two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions” – America

Asobi Seksu played in the apple store in Manhattan a few days ago.

I'm feeling a bit like I need to get scrubbed down with a sponge. Spiritually.

Do you know that St. Augustine had an illegitimate child named “Adeodatus”?

A-Deo-datus – meaning “Given by God” – apparently was a very popular name in Late Antiquity.

Do you know that I'm reeling for a smoke? Also that I got an appetite for addiction as deep as the Pacific Ocean? Very appropriate analogy.

LORD EVICT ME FROM THIS HOUSE OF BLAND INIQUITY AND DELIVER ME TO THE HOUSE OF SERENE INSPIRATION

MUSE SEVER ME FROM THIS STULTIFYING APHASIA AND RELEASE ME INTO THE BRAZEN UNKNOWN

All art is pain.

On And On November 3rd, 2006.

“My old man's like a worn out pair of your favorite sneakers
And he 'son whatever you do, do it well just because'

And my girlfriend said 'Kev, you got to stay true to yourself
Time takes no holiday, not for you or no-one else

And my best friend gave me up, left me alone in the dirt
I wanna tell him that I'm sorry, I'm sorry I made you hurt

On and on.
On and on.
On and on.
On and on.”

“Some wounds never heal” – Warren Zevon