Friday, November 04, 2005

Metabullshit Post. Yes, I suck. Uh-huh. Yeah.

Okay. So I haven’t posted much around these parts lately. That’s because I’m lazy and have a “work” problem (as in: I need to do work to pay bills and shit) + a “drinking” problem (as in: if I go out I drink. I go out a-lot. I drink a-lot. And the hangovers just bleed into one another).

But I write elsewhere. Namely: here. But they don’t archive things too well, and some friends have complained that they never catch any of my shitty writing up there. So, I dug all up in that bitch and found some links. If you’re tired of reading my crap, then stop torturing yourself.

Unless you’re into that kind of thing.

A-lot of what I do is just for information purposes. I originally intended to write with more of a satirical stance, but that style met some pretty strong resistance and has since given way to pretty text-book hack-journalism. If I continue writing for them, I will have to find some way to periodically return to my pointier roots. Otherwise, I will bore myself to death whilst simply pimping shit I like through their site. Which is not the point of the thing.

Regardless, for those who missed my Austinist post-things:

I did a book review for Ben Reed’s The Bow Tie Gang. Good fucking book, if you’re literate.

I relayed my experience at EXTRAVAGASM 2005. No one read the thing, because people honestly HATE sex. I don’t get it.

I got all controversial with this half-baked opinion piece on the Austin Smoking Ban. People get so touchy over this shit.

I got to interview local DJ legend, DJ Mel. I don’t really like interviews, so I asked him ridiculous shit. I feel that it exposes more of their true character, and Mel is as crazy as me. So it worked out.

I wrote an open letter to the shittiest freeway intersection. The shittiest ever.

I told the bats underneath the Congress Ave bridge to get a real goddamn job. Freeloading, flying rats.

And we wrote a little ditty about this fucked-up 5k we have here in weird-town. Keep Austin Weird! And really fucking hot! With some bacon and ice cream, but no beer! Alright! Super-sweet alright!

I say goddamn!

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Fucking Mutated Expectations and Shit.

Every now and again, we as actors on a larger stage, the stage of happenings and going ons during the course of our lives, we breach the lines that separate our individual parts. That is to say, we start reading someone else’s lines, in a way. We don’t always know whose lines they are, or if that part is even meant to be played. But what can definitely be said is that we abandon our normal role, and take on some lines that just don’t fit our current selves. Perhaps the new part will stick, perhaps it will be wholly rejected. But that is not the point. I believe everyone does this sort of experimentation in personality, as a function of personal growth and progress. It is how one picks up new hobbies, changes careers, goes from being a soldier to a staunch anti-war activist, or survives prison by shanking fools in the showers from behind.

Alright, perhaps that last one is a bit specific and rare, but you should have seen the dream I had the other night. I was in this weird truckstop shower, trying to get some sand off of me, and had no idea what I was doing there. The shower was rather large, about the size of an average apartment bedroom, with hollow metal walls like those one would find for a toilet stall in a public restroom. A gap above and below the wall led out into the truckstop’s main room. Cement floor with a drain in the middle. Outside my shower stall, there were café tables set up in a larger room, with plasma TVs all over the place, like a sports bar of some sort. But it was truck stop, not a bar, and I was covered in sand, not overcharged tabs. The dream started with me vigorously scrubbing myself beneath a blast of hot water, nude as a bee.

So I was in there, scrubbing myself down, with my eyes closed. I was thinking about how weird it was to just have a shower stall out in the room like it was, wondering where my clothes might be, or how I got all sandy to begin with, and then I opened my eyes to see some dude walking through my shower stall/room, fully clothed. He passed through an arm of the shooting water, getting his pant legs wet, and was paying absolutely no attention to the fact that I was already in there. Under normal conditions, I would have totally lost my shit and probably busted out the most awkward wet-and-sandy-windmill fighting technique ever witnessed in any truck stop bath house, ever. But this was a dream. My word, it was definitely a dream. DUUURRREEEEEAM.

For starters, my penis was easily a good foot long, flaccid. Crazy thick too, like a pork loin. Not that I’m hung like a wine cork in real life, but I’m certainly not packing anything of equestrian proportions. So when I looked down and saw the thing, the stranger who was passing through also took notice, and he stopped next to the stall door, staring back at me in awe.

What the fuck?

I have no idea what it was that my mind was parsing through, or what it was trying to reconcile, but he and I just stood there, staring at my Johnson for a few seconds. When I looked up, he was smiling, and there were two other dudes looking over the top of the stall, trying to pretend that they were watching the plasma TV mounted on the wall above my shower. One of them stepped down out of view, walked over to the door, opened it, and peeped his head in, smiling like the other intruder. Real creepy-like.

Uh, WHAT. THE. FUCK? Seriously, this time.

There was a definite air of homoeroticism involved, which in all honesty, I’m cool with even in real life. I feel comfortable enough in my own understanding of the difference between my own feelings of attraction and the mere reflection of those imposed upon me. Not that I am the subject of such things on a regular basis, but whenever it has come up in my real life, I believe I have handled it with respect and decorum. Even though these dudes were much more aggressive in their stance than any I have experienced, it played out the same, for the most part. But it all felt as if it could degenerate into a jailhouse-communal-bathroom situation at any moment (don’t drop the soap, son!). Of course, in dreamland, we are all super-something-or-other, if we aren’t victims. Apparently, I was not playing the victim role in this dream, because I just folded my arms and said something along the lines of “hey, guys, I’m trying to get this sand off me, would you mind staring at some other dick, somewhere else?” Just as I imagined they would, they all scurried off with real embarrassment. Again, I’m not going to pretend I know what this dream was trying to make me privy to. But it might have something to do with unabashed confidence, even in the face of obvious reasons to be embarrassed or intimidated.

Because soon after that, the guys that scurried away must have gone around telling everyone of my bathing escapades, because a growing crowd had formed to watch me shower. Looming over the stall walls, peeking through the door, and some were just hanging out in there with me. They all started out with a menacing sort of tone, a kind of “come on now, squeeeeeel! Squeeeeeeeel!” sort of presence to them. But I checked each one individually, with a cold stare, or some snarky words about whatever jacked up gear they were wearing (typical truck stop garb: filthy work boots, padded vests, old jeans, whatever) or their potential pathetic penchants for banging one-legged, genetically limited boys. And they quickly backed down after being confronted. Then, women started to join the mob. Teenage girls and hormonal fifty year old ladies. Just as lecherous as the trucker dudes. For whatever reason, I remained calm and just continued to concentrate on the project at hand: get that fucking sand out of my various cracks and crevices, all the while wondering: where the hell are my clothes?

For those who don’t know me, I’m not an exhibitionist by normal definition, and I am certainly not the type of person who would stand for this type of deification. I mean, these trucker dudes and random ladies were slowly morphing into a benign crowd like one would find at a PTA meeting. And I was their sole focus of curiosity. Me and this inhuman slab of shlong swinging between my legs. Somehow, I had earned their respect, and they were staring at me like I was supposed to answer some existential question for them. They were highly expectant, and I realized it, but didn’t care. I was intent on solving my own sand problem. Fuck them and their ridiculous expectations. I owed them nothing, and acted accordingly.

Eventually, I got all the sand off of my skin, and was done with the shower. I still did not know where my clothes were, where the sand came from, where I was, or where I was supposed to be. But as soon as I turned the water off, the crowd dispersed, and only a few remained. It was almost as if I had just finished some sort of stage show, and there were some people milling about, hoping to meet me, the performer. All I wanted to do was get out of there. But they sort of crowded me in, keeping me in the stall, chit-chatting with me about inane bullshit. I even knew some of their faces. People I had worked with in the past, or friend-of-friends from current day. But I had no feelings of shame or embarrassment. I didn’t even think to ask to borrow an undershirt or anything. I willingly complied with the rules of pointless banter and fielded comments and questions about the weather or politics. Newborn nude and dripping wet. Whatever.

The dream ended with me requesting that everyone leave my stall so that I could figure out where my clothes were, and whether or not the absurd swelling of my procreative member was the result of something medically scary. Everyone smiled and shuffled out or lowered themselves from the top of the stall walls, wishing me luck in my quest. Fucked up sand-washing-big-dick-exhibitionist dream: fin.

Now how this relates to my little theme here, is the question of role, and expectation in an individual’s life. The occurrence and results of mutation in personality.

In the dream, I acted completely different from what I would have done in real life. Probably different from how anyone else would act as well. The situation was absurd, and there was a thick expectation from the crowd around me. Expecting what? I didn’t know. And I didn’t care. Whatever they were waiting for me to say, or do, was not going to come from me willingly. And that was a conscious decision that I was actively making throughout the events that played out. It was like a dry-run, staged by my mind, for situations (albeit much less ridiculous) that I would (and have) inevitably encounter in my real life. Situations where I would be challenged, however subtly, to comply with expectations imposed on me beyond my own abilities or willingness. This happens to everyone in life, and how we respond to these situations is a powerful molding agent for the mutations and expectations of our own personalities. It is one of the many ways in which we grow and change throughout our limited time here, together. Perhaps my brain is trying to shore itself up, or bracing itself for something it perceives as immediately threatening.

I would have had to buy new pants if that dream was my reality. I like my pants as they are. But thanks, my little mind, for the opportunity to see the other side, if only in a dreamland truck stop. Somehow, there’s no irony in any of that.