Omar Mung

With alcoholic mixin’ in thirty diff’rent kitchens.

Wet Brain Syndrome can be.

I had a reoccurring dream when I was five or six that I was voluntarily buried alive without a casket under a tree in our front yard. And there I’d hang out in total darkness, for some reason completely exhilarated.

Also, the wine store guy was talking about how bad it’s getting because no one’s buying expensive booze much these days. So, just an FYI - no one is buying expensive booze much these days.

All-curing miracle elixir made from:
-sea-turtle egg omelettes
-bullets fired across the Iran/Iraq border

yes, way

Promised recap of cross-nation life-uproot experiement: Now On File

In the ‘Go West, young man,’ prescription bottle label fine print where it says ‘NO REFILLS,’ it also lists the Mo’ Better Ratio as—3:1. So all those times where Tom Petty is singing from, say, oh radios, into your zone about ‘No Place Like California,’ or whatever California songs… they’re all accurate. It is the future here. The trade-off, though… it’s also a strange little island where the knob for ‘Real World’ is turned down to ‘6′  and no one from here knows anything about anything else.

When I’ve cleaned away all the grease, and allergens and gotten up at the right time and taken my vitamins, and distanced myself, and inflated everything to the right pressure, and filled out all the forms completely, and called the support line, and changed the cartridges, and stretched, and sobered up enough, well sometimes, sir, none of it matters.

Also: This is an example of a real thing that’ s probably not a real thing.

Know that.

So, a few things before I must go back to the Haus of Pain…

1.) I am, among other things: a person, a comic website, and now an informational Facebook page about that comic website. And also a regular Facebook personal page, for the dedicated. Hit me up.

2.) I have a new job involving: lighter-than-air flight, the interweb, commuting large distances on nested vehicles (bicycle inside train, in this case), and half-abandoned Army/NASA airbases.

3.) After a year in San Francisco, my six years in Chicago has been bumping to the top of the jar, attempting recapitulation in some porpoise-language of soft bumps and squeaks. More on this later… my body is making a promise right now to let that particular porpoise do whatever it wants.

But right now it’s TIME TO MAKE THE DONUTS.

Yeah… yeah. I think the human condition might include some territory up near the top where anyone can like have a great life by pulling out all their own wiring. If you ever cut your own hair when you were three, you’ve probably been there. I’m currently going through some sort of simultaneous personal renaissance/hatch-battening exercise. Everything is sunny but I bought sunglasses. For wearing. On my face.

My brother just returned from two+ years in the Peace Corps in Zambia. Apparently the battery of anti-death drugs they pump you with gives you crazy dreams at night. Contrast that with citizenship-dictated dreams, to wit, The American Dream (freedom to wear sweatpants and snack 24/7), The Chinese Dream (C.R.E.A.M.), and The Zambian Dream (according to my brother: to have a chicken), and I’m beginning to think that stirring the dream pot once in a while is good for business.

I’m negotiating my recent 0.0004 megawatt lighting/living adjustment, but it’s a bumpy, bright, bright road. Like welding-goggle-style pavement.

Notes:

1. Someone make Omar Mung a Wikipedia page, por favor
   
2. Test results final analysis: coffee is to my CNS as sobriety is to Robert Downey Jr.’s liver

“Mom, can I go in the water?”

“No. Did you put sunscreen on yet? I told you to put sunscreen on.”