Where’s Wetzler is going to be defunct for awhile. Indefinitely. I have a new blog. If you’re interested, call me or something. Or text me. Or better yet, email me. Party.

I’m fed up of doing the same thing over and over. If you want to break the mold you have to fail!!!!! FAIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!a;ljkdf;kladjsf;ladjsfl;adjksfl;akdjsfl;kadjsfkl;adsjfadfakl;jfadk

Bad news, friends: I’m losing interest in this blog. I never want to write in it anymore. I’d rather play chess online or drink a beer or do pushups or go for a walk or run stairs or cut myself or do anything but write in this blog. Does that mean I don’t like writing anymore? Oh, dear. Think of the consequences if writing all of the sudden stopped appealing to me. I would have to start listening to Muse and drinking Keystone Light. I’d have to get those Adidas shoes with the toe cap that looks like a shell and — oh, fuck… have to start longboarding.

But maybe I don’t hate writing altogether. Maybe I’m just going through a slump. That’s the thing about me: I go through phases. One day I’m completely obsessed with something, the next day I could care less about it. This is, I think, the main reason (not to too my own horn here) I’m decent at everything but AMAZING at nothing. I get obsessed with things, master to them to a point I’m comfortable with (i.e. to the point where I say to myself, “OK, if I did this a fuck ton I bet I could get really good at it. But I’m not going to.), and then I move onto something else.

One of my current obsessions is rowing. I am taking a beginner’s rowing course at the Lake Union Rowing Club, and it’s awesome. We haven’t really even actually rowed yet, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to become obsessed with it. I’m going to by spandex pants and wear pink polo shirts and walk around making sexist jokes and peering at girls asses from behind my Ray-bans.

Yea.

F your F.

C’est la même chose qu’hier. C’est la même chose que me passe tous les jours. Mais qu’est-ce que je peux faire ? Je suis resté ici. Je ne sais pas que faire. Je veux faire beaucoup de choses. Je veux sortir d’ici pour voyager, pour connaître a tous les gens du monde ; Pour connaître tous les lieues du monde, de Nashville jusqu’à Samoa. Et tous les lieues que sont entre. Je veux connaître une belle fille. C’est la chose que plus je veux faire. Une belle fille. Ahhh, une belle fille. Il y a tellement de belles filles dans le monde. Il y a de belles filles aux Etats Unis, en la France, et en Japon. Sûrement en Japon.

Tous les jours je me demande : Qu’est-ce que je fais ici. Pourquoi pas je suis là ? Je veux être là. Toujours là. Peut-être ça c’est mon problème. Toujours avec les problèmes. Je suis incapable de accepter les chose tout comme sont. Je veux toujours changer quel’que chose. Peut-être j’ais besoin de accepter les choses ici avant de penser en là. Et si j’accepte les chose ici, ça peut améliorer les chose là aussi. Tout dépende d’un change d’attitude.

Je vais au Québec !

La isla de Clipperton,
es donde quiero estar,
con mis amigos las palmas
y las olas
tal vez una tabla de surf,
y una chica
y un poco de agua.
¿O es demasiado esperar?

I have a philosophy on life: Don’t stress, man. Just kidding. That’s not it. I’m not a goddamn hippie. I actually don’t have a philosophy on life, but I really feel like I could use one. Philosophies usually come in handy, especially when you’re drunk so you have some sort of catch phrase to revert to that doesn’t require thinking. “Hey man, just don’t get caught in the tuna net of technology”, something that SORT OF sounds like it might make sense but really makes no sense at all.

I go through every day, and at the end of every day remark on how quickly the day has passed, and what little I have accomplished. This days turn into weeks, fortnights, etc etc, until one day it’s your 29th birthday and you wish you were six again so you could have your birthday at McDonald’s. Just think if you could do it all over again! Would you do it all over again? I don’t think I would, because to do it all over with my current brain would piss me off because I would realize how stupid my friends were when I was younger, and to do it with the same brain as before but just be cognizant of the fact that I was living my life over again wouldn’t really lead to anything. I would probably still be arrested when I’m 17 for having my pants down at the football game, and I would probably still get tendinitis when I’m 23.

But what am I talking about, this is nonsense. Let’s talk about Clipperton Island. In the Pacific Ocean, about due south of Baja California and due West of Colombia, there is an island called Clipperton island. Made up of a beach and some reef, a lagoon and some shrubs, this island is completely deserted. I don’t even know if it has palm trees. Some sort of pirate supposedly used to use it for his hideout, but other than that it hasn’t seen much activity.

Does anyone want to go there with me? We’ll form a colony. Don’t worry, it won’t be like Lost. I may be like a Jack a bit, i.e. be respected and followed and have a passionate love affair with a girl resembling Evangeline Lily, but other than that it won’t be like Lost at all. We’ll fish for food, procure water using a desalinization system fashioned from palm bark and strips of white cotton t-shirts, and in the evening we’ll sit around a fire and throw rocks at hermit crabs and periodically scream as loud as we can. There will be no rules.

We’ll tell stories and create our own oral history. We’ll have babies and raise them to be tremendous fisher people and surfers. We’ll go back to the mainland every five years and quickly realize we hate the mainland and want to get back to our island oasis. On some days the sunset will be so beautiful that we’ll stop whatever we’re doing — giving our kids noogies or throwing rocks at hermit crabs — just to stare at the popcorn-like pinkish clouds on the horizon.

We won’t look back. We’ll be free!

“I wont tell,” says Barry.

“I know you wont tell,” I say, “but I can’t have that on my conscious.”

You see, I am an upstanding gentleman. I have resolved not to drink more than one drink a day for the next year, and I plan on keeping to this resolution. Come hell or high water. Should I find myself in a situation where a beautiful vixen is splayed at my feet and says to me in her siren voice, “Mark, tu majestad, bebe una copa más y vamos a la cama” I shall say to her, “Come off it, poor girl. You have a face like a bob-tailed ass and no business in my quarters.” Why she would speak to me in Spanish, I don’t know.

One beer is actually a good thing. I used to rip on people who only drank one beer. “Who the fuck drinks one only beer?” I would muse. You can’t feel its effects; it only makes you tired.” But one delicious, frothy beer — a Mac ‘n Jack’s, for example. One desultory golden frothy mug of liquid pleasure, seething at the glass, waiting to burrow its way into the inner chambers of your stomach to bring you warmth and merriment. One beer is not to be laughed at; one beer is meant to be enjoyed.

I like this resolution. I shall stick to it. I shall be steadfast in my ways and not err, even if a uncouth maiden whispers temptations in my ear.

Be back up and running shortly, February 7th at the latest.