Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Watching New Love as It Sears the Brain (NYT)
I'd hope both sections flood with blood until my End of Days and Nights. But that's the grown up on movies and love songs Pisces romantic dreaming child in me. Bring on the Dopamine and Whiskey!
Sunday, May 29, 2005
She informed me that she would never ask a man to take out her trash and no amount of my scrubbing would live up to her levels of bathtub cleanliness standards. She must have surmised, correctly, that my soft hands rarely touch the Soft Scrub (shower spray, baby, yeah!).
I actually needed to remind her about the burnt out light bulb. This turned out to be a test of my Manly-Man appearance as she had a 100 foot vaulted ceiling and a 3 foot high step ladder. As I reached up to remove the antique glass shade hanging there, I teetered slightly: "oh shit." I thought. "Real men don't eat quiche, and they don't fall off tiny, 3 foot high step ladders in front of a lady." Luckily, I caught myself, and continued to stretch, twist and practically pull the fucker off. I could not figure out how to remove the glass. I began to sweat in the sauna-temperatured apartment, would I have to unscrew the plate and re-wire the whole fucker?!?!
And then the bottom screw twisted, and all was fine. I still had my Bob Villa + James Dean image intact (or maybe the beer kicked in a little).
I ended up happily cleaning out her fridge (of Samuel Adams Hesterfrozenhaffoerwhat). We ate some tasty Villa May pizza (half cheese, half mushrooms [of non-magical variety]). After the Wilco movie, I had a piece of the driest, plaster-of-Paris, spackling infested cheese cake in my life. But it didn't stop me from finishing the entire piece which will rest in me innards for the next five years.
So, the movie (I Am Trying To Break Your Heart) not only entertained, but informed me as well. I liked the whole black and white filming. It adds drama and a crispness to events/pictures that I enjoy. I find it interesting how a black/white photo or film seems to hold more credibility or Truth than it would even if the exact thing were in color. Dorothy in the Real world, black/white. In the Fantasy world, color. (random thought).
I found the documentary informing because I really haven't ever listened to Wilco or Uncle Tupelo before last night, except for maybe on song near the end (and frick if I could tell you the name, now). They seemed a little more mellow and folksy than I usually am in the mood for, but I did almost pick up Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, but for all the wrong reasons (no, I'll not explain, please and thank you). As I did like "Heavy Metal Drummer" and whatever song they played next in the film.
In addition, it's always fun to see films and recognize/have been to the locations in it.
Some of the scenes were flashbacks to my University years and a couple of years ago when I lived with members of various bands. The arguments of album titles, flow, sound-boards, to bring the guitar up more or the bass, influences, set-list orders, and digital vs. Analog for example. *sigh* always the Roadie, never the Frontman.
The film also got me thinking, like all movies/books/tunes I like, about where I am now. Where I wanted to be now in the past. Where I want to be in the Future. The fucking fact that I now think in terms of having a Future. That I am trying to get back on the Path of my writing. Yeah, this blog is a measly little baby step, but I need to acknowledge that idea of this baby step is miles and miles further than I had been moving in the past 2, 3, 8 years.
Oops, pardon me...In summary: I had a good time, with good company, watching a good DVD; and, I hope to be allowed over again. If I forgot to say "thank you," please forgive me Arsh, and thanks for a nice night...and no, I didn't walk over to Boomer's for a night-cap, smarty-pants.
Alright, cookout tomorrow night after work. I'll keep (all 6 of) you posted! Happy Memorial Day, yo!
I looked into my sweaty hand to find a copy of Elizabeth Castro's HTML For The World Wide Web (5th Edition), so don't be surprised if (down the road (path)) some changes pop up here and there at My Cube.
In a daze, I would reach out, pick up a CD, examine the cover, listen a little at the sample player, and put it back. Moving on, smoothly like a hovering ghost who didn't know it had died 3 hours ago. Two boys complained about how "random the CDs are here," fucking John "Blah blah blah" Mayer in the same room as the Misfits and everything's overpriced. They moved on to Iggy Pop, and I blinked as a man asked me if I found everything okay tonight. I watched, confused as he rang up:
- Peaches The Teaches of Peaches and Fatherfucker.
- Bloc Party E.P. and Silent Alarm.
- The Mooney Suzuki Alive & Amplified.
And, now, I am home. Sitting here and wondering, "is it really possible to fuck the pain away?"
An experiment may be in order here...hmmm?
I rush down the stairs, clock in, and open my locker (which is empty and always unlocked) to find a bottle of Amber Romance Skin-silkening Body Lotion (Garden Collection) staring at me.
The attached note from K.H. (who quit, last day Friday night) said, "Mac: A gift from me to you! *smiley face* C-ya around! *peace symbol*-out, homie."
So I thought, well that's a bit strange, but a nice gesture on top of giving me a "cool pen" Friday evening as I left...until I read the last line which explains why I became the lucky recipient of this hottness lotion:
"(you were the only one w/ your locker labeled."
Maybe I'll start labeling my boxer shorts, and see what starts showing up in there! (oh-no-ya-didn't-boieee!)
Saturday, May 28, 2005
I can't believe she's using me like this. All I gotta say is, this movie had better be rocking, or I'll be gravely disappointed and hurt.
(HA Ha, see you in a bit, lady)
Anyway, on the drive home from work, I get to thinking about a bunch of stuff, and just needed to appease my Void. I normally resist with little fight, but last night I gave in.
"Fuck it," I thought. "I so rarely buy myself anything." This had been pointed out by my mother over the phone around a month ago. When asked how my finances were holding up, I told her I'm, very surprisingly, maintaining a steady line. I mentioned my surprise at keeping my financial head above water what with the pay cut and all, and she said, "Mac, it's because you never buy yourself anything nice." And she sounded kind of sad, and I felt a little guilty about it.
So, I went positively insane (for me) at Best Buy last night. Here is what I bought:
- Suicidal Tendencies Lights...Camera...Revolution-- "...but I'd rather feel like shit than be full of shit!"
- Suicidal Tendencies How Will I Laugh Tomorrow When I Can't Even Smile Today-- "Am I living or am I dead."
- The Kills No Wow-- "...once in a while you've got to burn your lips to keep your feelings alive."
- The Dresden Dolls-- "...and you can tell from the state of my room that they let me out too soon and the pills that I ate came a couple weeks too late..."
- Madden 2005-- my defense is top form, like a wall topped with barbed wire and snipers.
- And Clint Eastwood The Man With No Name Trilogy Set-- Guns, Gold, Whiskey, Killing, and Smoking.
I still suffer from The Void, but I can have more fun while doing it.
Man, that's how I planned on doing it, only with a 99 foot replica of my nose...Ahhh-chooo!
Last meeting with my C4 Primary, J.F.
(read prologues here and here)
I wake up to a very cloudy day. Perfect weather backdrop for wishing someone "Farewell." Stumble into kitchen, pour a cup of coffee, and head to living room to check email and such before I get ready to leave for my final 11:00 a.m. meeting.
The voicemail light winks it's one red eye at me. It's a message from J.F. informing me of a last minute cancellation Dr. E. had, and could I come in to meet with her. Suddenly, I am running late.
I rush to the office, check in, throw my last fee to M. (reception guy), and listen to the Very Angry Little Asian Man scream at the other two receptionists, the office manager, and one of the 2 medication distribution nurses. With the accent and the volume and angry sputterings and start-stops, it's not easy to make out what exactly is the man's problem. I gather from piecing parts together he didn't get enough meds (or anger management classes, yo!) the last time he visited. Unfortunately, C4 would be happy to give him more today, but couldn't as they had run out of the particular kind he needed. I understood this, as it happened to me a couple of times. They also seemed to be trying to inform him that in order to continue receiving free meds, he needed to fill out the SS-199 form, which he hadn't yet done (I didn't qualify for this form).
At this point, Dr. E. popped her head through the door and waved me in. In the back hallway, she told me to go ahead to office and wait a second, she felt she needed to "put in my two cents" and help the Angry Little Asian Man out.
After a few minutes in her office (time 10:50 a.m.), she joins me. She asked me to come in today because she had just recently been informed about J.F.'s need to "close out my case," since her Internship is ending (she's not graduating as I misreported earlier, but moving on to another Internship in Career Counseling). We talk about the meds and old side effects (still yawning, touch of nausea, tiredness at night, etc) and a NEW ONE (Yay!)...itching, fun! For (from now) the past three weeks or so, I been scratching the Hell out of my shoulders, hips and ankles. I went through the common possible problems: I didn't change laundry detergents, Lilly doesn't appear to be flea-ridden, and my apartment isn't dry with the windows being open. Dr. E. didn't think it'd be an allergic reaction to the Paxeva like I suggested. She wasn't aware of any mention of that in case studies. But, just to be sure, she pulled out this HUGE-FUCKING-MUNGOUS medical book. Turns out there is a 1 in 1000 people itchy (science word was like Rupherohscratchthecrapoutofu) reaction. Score! She explained the anti-depressant ingredient was the same in both Paxeva and Paxil CR (that I didn't have a problem with), but the coating might differ, and I may be reacting to that; so, she wrote me a two month Script for generic Paxil to get me through the waiting process at the new place.
I am now like 15 minutes late for my meeting with J.F. Dr. E. and I say good-bye and she wants me to call her next week, to check in about the reactions and such (and shit, if I didn't forget to do that a couple of days ago).
J.F. and I meet in our favorite office we borrow for sessions: The Green Room. Whoever the owner of the windowless office is, they have filled it with 4 or 5 lush plants and a few mellow, soothing pictures. One feels like they really breath in here. J.F. tells me she thought I was standing her up until she found out my meeting with Dr. E was just running over. It turns out something like roughly 65% of clients, in general, don't show up for their last appointment. A result of many levels of abandonment issues, a kind of "I'll leave you before you leave me" thinking. Some of which we've discussed.
We talk. I feel weird and a little uncomfortable. Overtones (only in my mind, I'm sure) of an amiable break-up, sad, but amiable. I am unable to really look at her more than usual. I feel shy, not sure what to say. There are also strange bored vibes (from both of us), like what is the point of this? Can't start anything new. I've babbled enough about other things, now my turn to work on them. Nothing sucks more than a draaaawwnn out farewell, especially when you don't like saying good bye in general.
That's when the Fire Alarm goes off. A voice from Nowhere/Everywhere announces "Code Red in the *garglebargle*!" It's a fire drill. We and a bunch of others shuffle out the sidewalk. Her and I tell each other how this feels like high school or back at the dorms in college, those worthless, drunken/stoned fire drills at 2:00 a.m. Annoyed that your Tall Boys are getting warm and it's your turn for 3-Man and you were on a roll.
Back inside, I am really not sure what to say. In fact, now, I haven't a clue what I talked about. Probably expressed concern about new medical health center in "The Jungle," my goals I want to accomplish through them, and a new situation that's arisen. No sense of time left in session due to the late start and fire drill. I gave her "permission" to read this blog (Hi J.F.). Then she gave me a cool black journal and a sweet card as a going away present. I, of course, didn't think to bring/give anything as I am the worst gift giver ever. I thanked her, she walked me to the door where we hugged good-bye.
The world seemed even more grey and rainy.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
If You Can't Find An After Hours, Get High.
Spring Quarter '92 had ended.
The next day Ohio University would be a memory as I drove toward home, work, bars and old friends. A breeze whispered through the lint clining to my O.U. baseball cap as I tottered home from the quarter's last keg party. The party had ended early. It was only two, but Court Street stretched out deserted before me. Except for the occasional OUPD cruiser, I was alone and bored in rockin' Uptown Athens. Another quick beer-blurred glance down Court Street revealed nothing even resembling a fun time. Full of pent-up drunken energy, I needed some craziness; I yearned for one last adventure, for one last Kick before returning to The Real World. So I shuffled to Tony's to hunt up an After Hours.
There, I found my rush, my outlet; there I found that end-of-the-quarter High I needed before returning to Lamesvile. And that High came via my friend Zach.
I stumbled on Zach leaning heavily against the bar, cradling a twelve of fine quality Olympia beer with a slightly soured look on his face. He, too, was bored and under the grasp of The Urge. We greeted each other with the all-important question: "Find any After Hours?"
Not having found a party, we agreed that it was way too early to end the quarter's final night. We racked our brains for a plan. Nothing.
Then, Zach genius-ed.
"Let's go Roofing, " he said, a maniacal look creeping into his eyes.
And we were off.
We hurriedly ditched the Olympia in his apartment stairway, and briskly bumbled back behind Tony's. Giddily, I followed him up a rattling fire escape and hastened across Pawpurr's pebbled roof, tripping over a Bud Light can on the way. One hop up a brick wall and we alighted atop The Pub. Shushing loudly, we threw our bodies toward the edge of the roof and leaned out madly over Court Street.
I had done it: I had conquered my first Athens roof. I giggled like a true He-man.
Lying there, I knew how those freaks felt as they stood on the peak of Mount Everest; so cool, they nearly wet themselves in excitement. I urinated, then re-joined Zach at the edge. Below, a cop drove by. I waved, thought better of it, and gave him the finger. I am such a rebel. I was warmed up, initiated into the realm of Roofing.
This was merely the beginning.
Down the fire escape, through an alley, and on we scrambled to the next height. Zach put a finger to his lips, then motioned me up rickety stairs to an apartment door. Through the door's window a gurgling, mucus-filled snore erupted. We stood on the railing and ourselves up onto the roof. Covered with pipes and ventilators, this roof consisted of much tripping, cursing and toe-stubbing. We quickly labeled it boring and started to head back down.
That's when I found The Chain Ladder.
Hanging off our building, it didn't seem to lead anywhere, until we noticed the open window across the way. Immediate exploration was necessary.
Zach descended and went into the window.
"Come on in," he whispered. "It leads to a hallway."
Though not as exciting to exit by way of legal descent, I went in. We walked down the hall and opened the stairwell door. Instead, the door opened into a darkened kitchen. Panic set in when we saw the plate of food on the yellow table. I nearly soiled myself.
"Run away, run away!"
Out the kitchen window, we fled the lit hallway and the possible occupants. Roofing suddenly became Plunging as our flight dropped us about 10 feet onto an abandoned lazy-boy chair. With feet back on the ground, we limped on to the next Roof victim, undaunted. Though suddenly overcome with the urge to hoot, holler, and yee-haw, I settled for another giggling fit.
Zach and I rushed down Washington Street. We put up a front of sobriety as we watched the Cop Shop (The Enemy) for activity. No one was in sight as we ducked into a thin alley and over a fence. We sped up another fire escape to a black roof (Woolworths, maybe). Zach mentioned something about alarm sensors being set-up on this roof or maybe the next one. Great, that would suck getting caught on this roof: we wouldn't even get to ride in a cop car, since we were so close to the station.
As we headed back toward the fire escape, we spied The Shoes and The Window. Simultaneously, as idea sprung to our minds. Smiling like madmen, we each picked up a shoe. I threw mine across the alley. It thudded dully against the brick wall. Then Zach threw his. He wound up like a weaving Nolan Ryan and let the nasty shoe fly. Perfect form. It sailed through the air in slow motion. The open window sucked it in like a Hoover. I could contain myself no longer. I yee-hawed like a motherfucker. Then we ran on Nikes of Adrenalin.
Alberts was our next victim to conquer. We hopped the hood of a Chevy truck and hoisted ourselves onto yet another fire escape. We clodded our way up until our progress was halted by a locked gate. Wait. A locked gate meant we weren't allowed up further. Cool. We shall conquer.
In order to by-pass the gate, we had to reach across to the neighboring building, then reach back across and lift ourselves to the next fire escape level. Zach zipped over and up, no problem. I think I started to sober up a little as my turn came about. As I hung there, dangling two or three stories above the pavement, if suddenly wasn't fun anymore: it was fucking petrifying. My palms began to sweat as I realized death was a finger slip away. My life did the cliche flashing before my eyes, and I realized it was not yet complete. I hadn't slept with Wynona Ryder or drank vodka and tonics with Brett Easton Ellis yet. I wasn't ready to die. Then, the horrible realization came that I wasn't wearing clean underwear (Aiee, my mom'd kill me). Then, Zach said hurry up, so I did.
From the top of Alberts, we wistfully watched the sun rise. Ah, glorious sun. We decided we should head home and get to bed before people went to work. Shaking hands, I wished him fun in California, and he wished me a good break in Lamesville. The last High of the quarter had been a rousing good one.
Since that night/morning, Athens has never looked the same. Having been initiated to Roofing, I now constantly look for a new roof to conquer. The night, in memory, seems like a dame Nike commercial on Acid. Bored? Just do it.
Last year, we took Court Street's west side, this year the east side shall be mine.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
Or maybe my hearing is a little sensitive today.
Okay, I need to shower and strap on some kevlar for the walk to my Intake Evaluation at the new place.
Ah, the Glory, Fame and Fortune to come. I yearn for thee.
Hoax or not, it's these types of events/ideas that make The Internet and Blogging fun for me. Informative, goofy, circular, snarky, silly, inter-connecting, entertaining, ranks and lists, poking fun at oneself, poking fun at others, and then laughing over a drink together at the end of a writing bender (or should that be laughing over writing together at the end of a drinking bender?).
I see people already talking about them on Technorati, for and against.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
(possible slight exaggeration involved here)
To make everyone I meet laugh so hard they pee a little. Just a little.
(For the sake of truth, Harshly-Yah!, didn't pee. Not at all. I need to work on my Routine)
I think the thing is fixed. Fucking Pity Votes.
Whatever. Congratulations and (supposedly) a $75 Gift Card to me. I shall connive a way to cash that puppy in (Hey! Weird Corporate Lady*. Wanna buy a gift card off me? And, thank you for asking/joining me for lunch on Saturday!).
I busted-out-loud the B.R.M.C.'s Black Rebel Motorcycle Club in honor of our lunch. I ask myself "Whatever Happened To My Rock 'N' Roll (punk song)" all the time. Forgive me for my interruptions; I am trying to break the habit, and failing badly. I need to make people laugh.
[*just kidding, dear. I'm just a lowly Playa-hater]
Sometimes, I wish I could pour my thoughts onto a page. Like tipping a can of paint onto a canvas on the floor. Colors spreading out. No edit. Just Pure Thought. The god inside throws up and out of my body, and the world (and I) could see clearly what I want to give. I would frame and hang the canvas on my wall, stand back and examine it (one hand on chin, the other around a chilled glass of wine); I'd discover me and interpret and re-interpret the Meaning of Me. My self, Myself, and my Soul. Maybe then I'd be better able to critique and understand me.
Then, I would actually start Living.
While I'm at work.
With a headache.
Dealing with your eccentric, bitchy, Old Aunt from the North Shore while she decides exactly which juice glass is the perfect size and how many wine glasses to buy for her husband's third cousin's shower (who she really doesn't know or like, by the way).
"Does this gift look cheap?"
"Lady, what the fuck is the matter with you?"
Thursday, May 19, 2005
The final mental countdown to the last hour with J.F. my intern Primary. I like to think we've both learned something over the last seven months or so together. Maybe I brought some sort of mirth, insight, educational value to her internship. And she, I believe, helped point me toward a better direction (back onto my Path), pointed out some good qualities about myself I tend to forget or downsize, and gave me some tools to continue fixing my twisted thoughts and leaky self-esteem. I am glad I started this; I just wish it didn't have to end so soon.
I awoke at 5:20 a.m. today. Maybe the rain. Maybe a bad dream. Wandered into the living room. Played with Lilly on the floor for a bit, chasing shoe laces. Watched the sky turn cloudy-blue-grey. Checked email (a.k.a deleted spam), then back to bed.
The rain has stopped. The clouds still block the sun. Beth Orton's Trailer Park plays soundtrack to my morning montage perfectly.
The clock ticks its way to the (never) end.
In eleven hours and fifty minutes, I leave C4 and float in some weird mental health limbo for the next four days until my "Intake Evaluation" at some city clinic in the ghetto.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Its blogroll A/B-lists a Who's-who of the Blogarena. Its first post contains the lyrics to the The Dukes of Hazzard theme song. I wonder if it'll be like a new Cewebrity? Stay tuned, I think they're starting the show soon: Blogebrity.
I haven't started calling in sick to work because I've either stayed up till dawn filing posts or decided to stay home to search for the perfect link. I don't dream about Blogging, yet. I don't pass up social events or a simple drink invitations. I don't hide email stations behind boxes at work or sneak out for a quick post at lunch or creep into my boss's office to use her computer.
But I've an urge to start another one. Not quit this one, but annex to it. I'm not sure why. Maybe a fresh start. Maybe because I'm feeling more arts-y than farts-y lately. If I had a digital camera, it could be my Photo Album, but, alas, I am without.
Any ideas? Drop them in the comments section. Or should I ride this feeling out? Any thought to a group blog, though I am unsure of my commitment level; I'd hate to leave any volunteers hanging. The group blog concept sounds interesting. I like the idea of posts and reaction to posts, or many perspectives on the same event/concept/theory/etc, all contained within the same blog. A two (or more) for one stop shop.
I don't know, just talking to talk, I suppose. Gotta go; they called me to come in early for work today. Someone called in "sick." Later.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
A squad of kids have been in a firefight reminiscent of the most horrific scenes in Platoonor Apocalypse Nowfor the past hour. Screaming Rebels and Whistler Bottle Rockets arc over the block and explode above the tree-line, followed by shouting and thumping of tennis-shoed warriors falling back to re-group by the field. One unfortunate little solder is apparently named "Faggular," and he needs to "come on!" for one reason or another to take the corner before his foes. I don't see anything, just the sounds popping through the Corner Quad Bunker's sand-bagged windows.
Fargo reeks of sulfur now and could be melting under Liquid Hell Napalm, for all I know.
A hush has now fallen upon the Fargo Front, and dusk is creeping slowly toward the trees.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Even Lilly slips by quietly on padded paws, saying nothing to break the night's silence.
I cannot see, but imagine an Icy White Holy Moon sitting hanging gazing in the Ink-stained Old Midnight Sky. I don't look, but imagine Shiny Slick Dew Frost on green green grass in open fields of my mind. A shadow cast tree holds perfectly motionless in the calm nothing night. It's holding its breath till dawn.
And so am I.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
The semi-hottie bartenders seemed pissed/annoyed when we asked for our check...we tipped anyway. Here's the updated list.
I celebrate the evening with a Rare Breed night-cap, while Lilly yells at me for my various misgivings and digressions. Pertney just stares quietly at the door, looking for the future.
Good-night, sweet night, good-night.
Friday, May 13, 2005
After a few minutes of this, she's done and hops off the bed and heads to the living room. I follow, check some emails and such, then plop on the couch for a masochistic game of soccer. I played West Ham, in honor of my friend (I think that's who he follows), against Crystal Palace because I used to drink Crystal Palace Gin (long ago before the discovery of lovely vodka). West Ham 1 to Crystal Palace's 2...I am a Mingy Wanker!
Then, promptly dozed off on the too small couch half listening to a couple of PBS literary shows...half dreams of Montaigne, the art of the short story, and Ezra Pound stream through my consciousness.
To work till close. Nothing really memorable. I felt quiet and crabby throughout the evening. Mind wandered to other things, work feels like an intrusion interfering with "other things," things not yet discovered, but when they are, I shall feel whole again.
Back home, I experiment with a different whiskey. Normally I stick to my old reliables Jack Daniels or (my sentimentally flavored) Wild Turkey 101, but probably under the influence of this gentleman's prose, I decided to partake of a sampling of Jameson Irish Whiskey. A couple of two-finger rocks glass (with 3 cubes, of course) later, I've determined that it is a respectable and tasty version of the amber liquid. A "thinner" taste, but enjoyable. I tend to like stronger, fuller tastes (longer steeped tea, stronger black coffee, a thickly enhanced fruit drink, etc.), but definitely would reach for a Jameson again.
I fell asleep listening to the Demons in my mind whisper and creep around, their wraith-like robes stirring up tiny dust whorls of neverending sadness past. The whiskey muting them slightly and the Charlie Parker/ Miles Davis Cool Blues tape playing in the background drowned them out sufficiently for me to drift off into slumber's arms. Lilly breathes slowly and deeply next to me. And the breeze through the open window kisses my cheek lightly like a lover saying good-bye under the cover of night.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Just in time to see a fat kid in the middle of the street cock his arm back and nail a littler kid on a bike with a basketball (The Neighborhood of a Thousand Basketballs, and Broken Glass, and Dog Poo). The biker yelps in pain and crashes into a parked car, coming to a tumbled mess somewhere under the back bumper of the car-- of my car.
A couple of other guys who seem a little older come over, pick the kid up and instruct him to "shake it off, shake it off." After a couple of minutes, they all head down the block.
Earlier in the evening, 3 girls and 3 guys were chasing each other up and down the street smacking each other with belts. Good times, good times.
Monday, May 09, 2005
At C4, I got an extra bottle of meds to tie me over through an Intake evaluation and waiting list at the place I need to transfer; a fat/phat bottle of Happy Pills, Yay!
My Primary and I discussed how things were going....better...mood maintained, but still crashing (a little less) after work. It feels so nice not spending a greater part of the week playing with the idea of shotguns to the head or sleeping pills or vertically slit wrists; not getting sick for an hour before leaving the apartment; getting buzzed just to go out drinking with friends; and suffering mild to hardcore panic attacks throughout the day at work. Now if I could just stop waking up half-drowned from these annoying Night-sweats.
Also, at last meeting, I commented to my Primary one of my goals is to get "more involved with my community," meaning friends, co-workers, neighbors, dating, etc. Just a general phrase. When I got home, that general phrase ironically took on a more literal meaning: I locked my keys in the car! So, I walked to the nearby park's community center, looking for a phone. Nope. They directed me to a convenience store, where I got cash, a Milkyway bar, and a power drink. No phone. So I walked past The Ho (yes, The Ho) Bar to a laundry mat (phone!) and called AAA. A nice walk on sunny day with kids and moms running around the parks. I half read New York Magazine and half watched all the kids getting out from school and play soccer in the park; they laughed and yelled in the sun. A slight breeze rustling my pages as I sat in my building's parking spaces as I watched. It felt nice just to sit outside, warming in the sun like a turtle.
Went out for a drink after work with Harshly-YAH! Had a nice chat and a giggle. She told me about her recent trip to NYC. Other things were said like... ah-ah-ah! What happens in Houlihan's, stays in Houlihan's, so never-you-mind, my dears.
Played (and still suck at) a lot of Killzone.
Bought (and absolutely love) The Walkmen's Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me Is Gone and their split with Calla. Such a dreamy, funeral-like sound; like The Cure meets The Strokes or something.
Didn't do laundry, but did do the dishes...Holla!
Every atomic-fueled, building flattening, window-shattering sub-woofer in Chicago drove by my apartment between the hours of 1:00 a.m. and 3:50 a.m. this morning. Buhmp-buuuuuuvvvfff! Buhmp-buuuuuuvvvfff!
Sunday, May 08, 2005
- someone needed to "open this fucking gate"
- "I ain't talking to you, I'm walking my dog!"
- "We gonna clean this mother up, give me that rake"
- "Ya know, this your crib, fuck, ya know?"
- "Nah, he don't know shit. I been there with his friend, ya know?"
- "Hey girl, hey girl, why you running?"
- and the car alarms, yay!
I mean, most of the time, it's just kids or people walking around on a nice day, bouncing basket balls (thousands of basket balls) to the park, leaving the school, chasing friends, talking about work, etc. But daaaym, y'all gotta yell it, even when your friend is walking right next to you? I mean, for real! And even when my "neighbors" are talking about something like going to the store, their voices have this hard edge to it. The inflections are (loud and) sharp and harsh in such a way that even yelling "see you later" has the same vocal pattern as "fuck you: die."
Know what I mean? I don't know, it's just weird. I've been away from the Brickyard Mall of the 90's too long; therefore, I need to re-adapt my listening skills.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Friday, May 06, 2005
Thursday, May 05, 2005
K.M. = Amber Chunky Globes.
M.S. = The Gyration Croatian Sensation.
Mac = Puddin' (cause "you're so sweet") or Lesbian Trapped in Male Body*
B.H. = (my) Fake Wife.
Large % of customers this week = Cranky Bi-Polar Eccentric Helpless Fuckos with Occasional Hottie.
Stay tuned; I am sure changes and additions to follow.
*Does anyone know what comedian originally used this in their stand up??? Steve Martin? Stephen Wright?
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
"Avoooiid Hypocrisy...Avoooiiid Hypocrisy...Avooooooiid Hypocrisy!"
Amen, Brother; I'll try.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Monday, May 02, 2005
Delving into The Debauchery: Narrative of a Virgin Raver
For years, I had heard of these infamous Rave Parties; I listened to stories about these Caligula-like parties of drugs, lust, sweat and rib-rattling music. And tonight I shall partake in Cincinnati. Tonight, I Rave.
Except for a monarch butterfly committing suicide by wrapping itself around my Volare's antenna like a soft taco at 80 mph, the ride from Athens to Cincinnati was uneventful. After buying beer, I walked with my friend, Nash, down Vine Street to the pay point. We turned the corner and stopped.
A large man in black militaristic clothing greeted us on the stoop of a dirty apartment building. He cocked an eyebrow as if to ask, "What the Hell are you looking at?"
I gulped twice and looked to Nash for guidance.
"Rave party?" Nash asked, full of confidence.
Military man silently pointed into the building, then flashed four fingers.
Apartment Four held two guys and a buttload of money. One stared at us with a cold, level gaze, while the other nervously wiped his hands on his baggy jeans.
"Are any of you police, narcs, or federal agents of any kind?" the one behind the desk asked. (Yeah, I'm a fucking metermaid.)
We went to our friend Attica's apartment, where, over Bud Lights, Chris "Leggett" Braham told me about California Raves: four DJs at a time, wide video screens, as much Ecstasy and Acid as you can gobble, carnival rides in airplane hangers, Smart Bars, Dumb Bars, and other craziness. Grinning hungrily, he then said that he had heard rumors of a huge Ecstasy shipment coming in from San Diego to this Rave. Rock-n-Roll. I chugged my last beer, popped a couple of Vivarin and followed the group up the street.
We heard the music thumping half a block away and saw flashing strobe lights through the windows as we stood outside in line. Immediately through the door, two "bouncers" dressed identical to the pay point mercenary-type searched us. We went up a flight of stairs and entered Sensory Overload.
There's like 800 people here.
Strobe lights, pierced by red and green laser lights, ricocheted off a heavy fog of dry ice. Advertised in pink neon, Smart Drinks and pop were sold bu the door. Far above, bare rafters and piping surveyed the scene below. When the strobe didn't flash, the cavernous room glowed from a mixture of fluorescent and Christmas lights. At the far end, about forty yards away, behind a stack of speakers, the DJs hieled and danced on a stage. Three DJs had flown in from Detroit, one from San Diego and two were local.
Dressed in black with glow sticks or in technicolored stripes with Dr. Seuss hats, people thrusted or gyrated to hardcore dance/rave music that boomed continually at ear-bleed volume. We rushed the dance floor and plunged right in. Soon, I became one of the mass.
Suddenly, as midnight approached, one of our group ran up to us, smiling like a little girl whose father had just bought her a double-dip of mint-chocolate-chip ine cream.
"I bought Acid, come quick, "she shouted at us above the din.
We pushed our way toward the DJ stage and up stairs to its side and into "The Chill Out Lounge."
Darkness. I couldn't see shit.
When I finally got accustomed to the dark, I could see four couches, a fern, and another DJ. Lighter music played quietly. Here, people talked, "chilled out," and drank water from a cooler that went "glug, glug" occasionally. Others zoned-out, lost in private mental Heavens or Hells.
We scurried to a corner. Our ice-cream-friend, Roo, ripped blotters and handed them out to eight hungry hands. I felt like one of the disciples breaking bread. Daphne took my share, placed it on my tongue, and said, "I give you the body of Christ, Amen."
And then we danced.
Around 1:00, I was covered in sweat, had rubbery legs, and Oh Lordy, did I have to pee. I wandered through the crowd in search of a bathroom, which I found empty. Cool. It resembled a Speedway bathroom minus the condom dispenser: off-white linoleum, a mirror, a rust-stained sink, one urinal, and one toilet. I opted for the toilet.
As I stood streaming recycled Bud Light into the puke-covered toilet, the door flung open, crashing against the wall. Two bodies burst in, locking the door behind them. Lovely, two psychos and me with my bladder in operation and penis in hand.
That's when the walls started breathing.
Meanwhile, psycho guy screamed, "can't you see them? They're right there, and madly rubbed the back of his shaved head. the psycho girl, laughing hysterically, splashed him with water.
"I resurrect thee with this blessed water in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy ghost, " she yelled.
The psycho guy cried, "Is it hot or cold?"
I had no answer for the schmuck because the walls were hyperventilating and the urine had crept up into my bladder. I glanced at the girl who grinned, shrugged, and splashed more water. I smiled and emptied my bladder. Saying "bye" to living walls, I headed out. The psycho guy screamed, "if I look into the mirror, I throw up."
Back into Sensory Overload, the smell of pot and cloves rammed its heated fist up my nose. I looked around to get my bearings straight. On the wall above me, overlooking the sea of people, moved the face of Satan, and Satan was green and gnashed his teeth over and over. Shapes writhed and loomed in the shadows.
Walking like an ape with bad knees, I shouldered my way back to "The Chill Out Lounge" with this obnoxious grin plastered on my face. I look like a vegetable. What? Never mind, just get to The Lounge. Avoid the space cadet, Star Trek look-alike; s/he's silver and ugly. Light a cigarette. Keep walking. Damn, I'm thirsty. Lounge. Water.
At The Lounge. Friends. Cool water. Sit down with Nash. They're playing the Hokey-Pokey song, "...put your left foot in, and shake it all about...." Everyone sings along. Next song: "...there was a farmer, who had a dog, and Bingo was its name-o...." Look across at people on the couch. It's Daphne and Thelma. Tell Nash they look like flappers from the Roaring Twenties. Light another cigarette. The smoke smells like dogshit on my fingers: smoke it anyway. Kid with Mohawk walks in, walks out. Two guys plug in the pop machine and buy cheap Cokes. The light from it flashes and the people on the couch yell in protest. The machine is unplugged. The space cadet just walked in. Glance at Daphne and Thelma. They point to the dance floor, downstairs, and I nod. Must dance. Must escape the space cadet thing.
The fog was London-think and the stobe light screwed with my mind, but I can't close my eyes. Just dance. God, a beer would taste orgasmic now. The DJs are shouting for the crowd to get up, move, get up, move. They look pissed and political, waving their fists and screaming. A beautiful girl in bra and baggy jeans worn off-the-hip dances in a booth behind them with a stuffed iguana. She keeps ramming it between her legs. Hank gives me a Sweet Tart and says something about exploding.
With a head full of Acid, I lean against a speaker and watch the crowd. Every race imaginable is dancing together. A guy in dread locks brushes against me, his sweat leaving a streak on my arm. Nasty.
Why do people go to these parties? Why do they (we) munch drugs and dance? Are we looking for something? What is missing in our lives? Where are our heroes? Some girl starts shouting. She doesn't want to look at her aura in the mirror. Why not? What is she afraid she'll see?
As I stagger for the mirror on the edge of the dancefloor, I see the space cadet thing coming for me. Aaaarggh! S/he turns the other way. Rock-n-Roll. Rumors go around about a midget with three fingers. Supposedly, the midget is dating the space cadet. Charming couple.
"Fuck it," Leggett screams. "There's no X here."
It's 3:30. Light another (my thirtieth?) cigarette. My legs shake: must dance. Marin screams and points to "one of the most evil things" she had ever seen. Some guy was holding up a balloon and The Green Satan was on it gnashing his teeth, eyeballs spinning over and over.
I find myself in The Lounge again, sitting on the floor. I burn my arm on Nash's arm. Never mind, don't ask. I look across the room at a couch. The beautiful dancer (sans stuffed iguana) is sitting between a guy with Bermuda shorts on and another in a NIN t-shirt.
Strobe light reflections look like lightning on the window.
Look back at the dancer. The Bermuda shorts guy is holding her head in his lap. She's crying? Whoops, not quite. Can you say Oral Sex? Hello!
After a while, the two get up (did she actually just wipe off her mouth) and go separate ways. And who says hippie love is dead?
Around 5:00, we decide to leave; the local DJ sucked. The dancefloor was now noticeably less crowded. Outside, the air felt bitter cold, yet refreshing. It was butt-quiet. Reality returns; back to Earth.
Rave, rave against the dying of the night.