The House Painter

I know, I know, I know. You’ve been fiending for more CmcD, but ladies (and soft-spoken gents) there’s only so much one self-styled impresario can do. Granted, the updates have slowed and the Soapbox’s content has remained as derivative as ever, but just you wait…there is a phoenix waiting in the wings, ready to rise again (or for the first time, that’s up to you). We got some great new cuts of Flava Tribe marinating in the fridge, I’m readying a few original 1 Tuff video series (more on that at a later point), and it’s looking like I’ll finally be seeing some money for my useless multimedia talents (just imagine the nervous smiles and temporary sense of relief of Mom n’ Pops mcD). But as the future holds many promises and sure-to-be unnecessary hype, a lot has transpired the past few weeks since I last burdened you with my neurotic haughtiness.

First, the good news:

My muckraking efforts proved worthwhile as my archrival across the big pond, Jean Louis David, has closed his Huntington branch of follicle butcher shops. At press time the reasons for closure were uncertain, but I’m sure my brilliant discourse and devoted readership figured strongly in the decision. That, or JLD’s regular customers ceased giving him business after my disease-ridden head infected the entire salon’s supply of blue comb juice.

The not-so-good news:

Nearly two months ago, a cocksure chap undertook a routine household spiff-up mission with big dreams of fame and fortune. Now, entering the middle of June, CmcD stands (as he did two months prior) perched atop a ladder twenty-five feet in the air half-drunk and half-awake. How did this quick-and-easy buck / employment deferral program turn into such an epic battle of good and evil (with a dash of booze and muddled creativity thrown in for good measure)? I feel like Coppola on the set of Apocalypse Now; millions of dollars in the hole because of freakish Filipino weather, teetering on the brink of insanity, and with Wyles Mallo doing his best crazy Hopper. Sure, I have not succumbed to the pressures of this damned society and gotten on line for the Wheel of Pain that is a nine-to-fiver, but enough is enough. I took this gig as a quick fix and it’s turned out to be as hard and unfulfilling as a case of the dreaded blue balls.

Yes, I do look at everything through a cynical lens (note: I’ve already given up on the Red Sox, the upcoming elections, and the prospect of life after 25). This being said, there have been some bright spots to spending most pleasant days outside elbow-greasing it up. Few know the experience of, after a tumultuous evening of Dewar’s and Dublin Droppers, emerging from a ferocious hangover floating fifteen feet above sea level on your garage roof with nothing but a drop cloth and a dream. Doctor’s recommendation: drop and give me thirty…minutes, that is, asleep on said roof. If symptoms remain, mix and repeat.

There is a sense of danger and intrigue in the act of unsteadily balancing high atop the ground on a shoddy assemblage of flimsy alloys. Your right brain juggles the difficult tasks of neatly painting the house and managing your weight so as not to plummet to your death, while your left brain can only add, “FUCK, FUCK…SHIT, SHIT.” It’s like a goddamn Tourette’s trapeze act. But, after carefully planning which tree top to jump into in the event of a worst-case scenario, you get (as Britney so eloquently termed it) “in the zone,” you feel ignorantly invincible. You have just hit the proper question block and been rewarded with the flashing star and its accompanying theme-song. Best be stomping some Hammer Bros. as you strengthen your karate (pronounced kah-rah-tay) skills in the time honored tradition of Miyagi Dojo.

CmcD readies himself for the Murphy Brown reunion

It’s at these times when I look out on my cookie cutter suburbia surroundings and think that maybe this time I’ve done it. I have yet to sell my soul for a measly dollar. I remain steadfast in my nihilistic ways of absolute self-destruction and look at me. Certainly no one could have predicted that I would survive so many months without an inkling of legitimate employment, let alone continue my extravagant rock-star inspired nights of debauchery. Right now, at this point of my meaningless existence, I am content (at times). Someday I will find a purpose, but until then I’ll just keep on keepin’ on. Yet at the same time I remain the scourge of my inner circle, looked down upon by friends and family for my reluctance to give into the devouring machine of capitalism. With my broke-ass ladder by my side, I have since refused to give in to the weight of the sky, so what does it matter what they think? They’ll be the ones looking up when it’s all said and done. Whether or not I’ll need them to help me down from a nearby tree is another story.