Party Saturday. Costume thing. Booze, pool, music, peeps off the streets, and disguises for to hide them identities. I LOVE throwing house parties. So much more relaxed than your standard bar or stuffy-assed club. One can really let loose at a house party. It is inviting by design: everyone has something in common with everyone else there, and you’ll more than likely see the same people in the near future. So nothing about it is Strangers-in-a-Hotel-Bar-ish, and no one there is truly able to lie their ass off about anything (a mutual friend will call them on it). Besides, the booze and debauchery are always free at our parties. Un-fucking-beatable.
I really enjoy Djing at parties too. Maybe I enjoy adding to an atmosphere of fun. Perhaps I aim to help people “let go” for a bit. Maybe it is just because I want to control the music. Maybe it is because when I DJ, I avoid drinking/smoking/passing out too much. Maybe it is the power over an environment. Maybe it is the fact that I have been doing it for almost fourteen years and it makes as much sense to me as breathing.
Who knows.
But while I really do enjoy spinning at parties, there are some drawbacks to consider. It is not all fun, some things which routinely occur are downright morale killing (“dude, this music totally sucks. And so do you.”) while other occurrences are simply obnoxious. I’ll let you in on some of what I consider irritating behavior perpetrated against the DJ at your average house party, Anytown, USA.
People fucking with the DJ’s records. People have NO idea what records cost. They think: “oh, that Milli Vanilli is soooooo gay, and you can like, get it off the Interweb for like, free and shit. So, why is such a big deal if I walk up and just start scratching on it?” Errr… because they DON’T MELT THAT WAX ANYMORE. They made X copies back in 1988 and then shut down the press. So, unlike the great digital universe of shitty-sounding MP3s, there is a FIXED number of older vinyl in existence. No more. EVER AGAIN. So, any that are available are valuable to whoever might want them. What one person hears as kitsch, a DJ/collector will properly recognize as a brilliant rarity, which should be cared for and protected. For fucks sake.
Requests for current top-40 music. Yeeeeaaaaaah… turn on the radio if you simply must hear that new Blue 7 Maroon Novemberbox 20 song. Why would a DJ buy it when it is played for free, on seven different stations, all the damn time? Request that caca in ten years, when it will be interesting and nostalgic to hear. Today, it is obnoxious and you know it.
Requests for slow or depressing songs. Sure, everybody enjoys a little Morrissey every now and again. We all have our dark moments. But when you approach the DJ at a party, and give the DJ your pitch: “hey man, did you bring ‘Everybody Hurts’? Or anything Nick Drake,” you are basically saying: “hey DJ, I hate everyone here who is enjoying themselves and I want them to suffer and suck like I do, are you with me?”
People who use the DJ's turntables as their personal tabletop. At every party I have Djed, invariably someone during the course of the night decides that their drink must be set down on one of the turntables. Not usually while it is in use, mind you, but during a break in the mix, when I am absent. Someone simply decides that the trashcan (five feet away) is just too distant a depository for their booze vessel. So, a solo cup of backwash, foam, and perhaps some semi-rotting fruit ends up perched atop my wheels o’ steel. Thanks.
People asking the DJ really vague-ass questions. I believe they do this in an effort to start a rapport with the DJ, trying to be friendly, but failing miserably. They want to ask a meaningful, insightful question, but it just ends up sounding dickish. “You got any good music?” No fucker, I only brought the absolute garbage you’ve been hearing for the past hour and a half. “Is this the only kind of music you brought?” What the hell does that mean? “Kind” of music… eh? “Man”-kind of music? Are they looking for a visual “kind” of music? Here’s a nickel, buy a clue. And my favorite: “You have anything cool to play? I want to hear some cool music.” Don’t we all, you dumbass. Don’t we all.
Oooooohhh… after my little tirade here, this might be the last time I am ever invited to DJ. OH NO!
Anybody want to buy some Technics 1200s, 3-way mixer, and a bunch of extra needles and such? I just might have some for sale…
Damn you Milli Vanilli!
Friday, October 29, 2004
Not ALL dogs go to heaven
But if there is a heaven, then this furry dude gets VIP treatment. (Jesus's Champagne room? Wha?)
THIS IS THE MOST AWESOME DOG. EVER.
And he looks almost exactly like my friend Carol's dog: Indiana (an awesome dog in his own right).
Just wanted to highlight the pooch. He rocks like granite.
Word.
THIS IS THE MOST AWESOME DOG. EVER.
And he looks almost exactly like my friend Carol's dog: Indiana (an awesome dog in his own right).
Just wanted to highlight the pooch. He rocks like granite.
Word.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
She has arrived, and I am in vent-mode
Here is a good start for this post.
Don’t get me wrong, I am indeed excited that my girlfriend has arrived, and is living with me now. But there are some elements of cohabitation which require some getting used to. I’ve never shared the EXACT same space with any of my previous girlfriends. Sure, we would stay over at each other’s place and co-mingle some items. A special pillow here, a second toothbrush there, some dishware swapping… but nothing too invasive. When neither person has ANYWHERE else to hide from the other, and NOWHERE else readily available to stash their “other” crap, then you have the true article. Then you have something beyond periodic-spending-the-night-with-respite-in-between, or that quasi-couple roommate-ish type of arrangement that young pairs mistakenly label “living together”. If a man and woman have alternate places to live (two rents, abodes, whatever), then they do not “live together”. Rather, they “kick-it at one-another’s crib”. Big difference.
On top of this distinction, I want to make it clear that I believe those couples who moved into a new place together (bought a new house, rented a bigger shared apartment, whatever) will have only a veneer comprehension of my current situation. The versions of compromise are for all intents and purposes: incomparably different. Let me try to explain.
Before my wonderful girlfriend (for those who know her, she IS truly wonderful) moved in (a whole two days ago), I had the run of my place. I called the shots. I owned the thing, and that was that. I decided what went where, and whether or not changes of any sort were in order. I was comfortable with that arrangement (made with myself). And in a very real way, I still am. I wish there was a way to make a woman comfortable in her man’s place without disturbing the relative calm of organization and the peace of arrangement/color therein. But alas, I am fully aware that a guy’s place is just that: his place. As soon as she arrives, it needs to change into: their place. And that requires her to exert as much influence in design/arrangement as would be necessary to make it: her place. This push and pull is not as prevalent when a couple parachutes into a brand new environment together (the majority of compromise and precedent setting will occur at the outset of the move by verbal negotiation, not as a result of turf-war or passive-aggressive maneuvers of the unilateral variety).
So here I am. In the process of making an honest effort to provide an environment in which my girlfriend will feel “at home”, as this is her only place to label as such. And I truly want her to be comfortable, not just to have a “feeling” of comfort. I do not want her feeling like an encroaching visitor, because that is the furthest thing from what she actually is. I invited her into OUR home, and I want that welcome to remain.
That being the case, there are some things that need to be understood. And perhaps in my effort to understand, I can help others who are (will be) in a similar situation. The main part, as it currently stands, is for me to be able to clearly define what matters to me and what matters to her. Healthy compromise can occur after that.
List time. Just a general tacking of things, to help me get the topography of the thing. I’ll make this general, and not necessarily aimed at my girlfriend (although it will all be inspired by her). I refuse to say anything against my lovely lady, but I can vent in a general sort of way. If she ever reads this, she will know what may apply to our situation.
1. The bathroom is hers, and there is no ambiguity about it. If you are allowed to store your own grooming accessories there, then you are “afforded” some slight space. That means: you and your five hygiene necessities are an organizational afterthought, not a pillar of consideration.
2. She wants to repaint the bedroom, and there is no ambiguity about it. If you left the paint the same color it was when you moved in, then this is a given. She is much more sensitive to such things, and will require color enhancement. If you painted it, well then… that’s the problem right there. Get out the brushes and head to Home Depot to color match something.
3. Her couch is better, and there is no ambiguity about it. This is more than likely true. Your couch is somewhat comfortable, sure. But hers has an academic aesthetic to it that yours never had (even when yours was new). Hers has a “style” that is referred to in architectural books. Your couch’s only redeeming qualities are: it reclines; the color hides dirt; it was free. Hers is comfortable AND attractive. Besides, you’ve probably let your stankin’ drunk buddies pass out on yours, and she knows it. Cuddling in the same divot where your sweaty friend passed gas and puked into a trashcan before lulling into a piss-staining coma, simply won’t do for her. Can you blame her? I am tired of typing that there “is no ambiguity about it,” because there NEVER is. Even when things appear negotiable, it should be understood that the fact that they are being discussed means that a decision to the contrary of yours has already been reached (in which case, there is an easy way… and a hard way to deal with any “ambiguity”).
4. She prefers all the dinnerware be both matching and “cute”. Hers happens to be both, while yours is questionable at best. Aside: you will be smart never to question what qualifies as “cute”. Because this is a term of cruel vaguery, chucked in your direction in hopes that you will nibble the bait and become justly informed that everything “hers” is unquestionably “cute”. Your trip to the hospital resulting from an unexpected aneurysm will be your only mulligan for bothering to question the “cuteness” of her things. They are all “cute”, they all match (yours: neither), and they should all be in regular kitchen use. Leave it be before you become a neurological statistic.
5. Your clothes can live outside of the closet. Get used to this, or prepare to inhabit a hall closet (or perhaps a ramshackle construct in the corner of some secret room you have successfully hidden from her). Just pile them in a quiet corner somewhere and move on. Soon, she’ll be picking all that crap for you anyway (and she’ll find a good home for the stuff she buys you). A note concerning clothing bought for you by your woman: all other women will comment at how nice it looks, and will immediately pick up on some strange pheromone signal that your woman stitched into the fabric, warning them to “dig elsewhere, this one is taken. See how he wears whatever I throw at him?”
6. I bet you never knew there were so many contraptions designed to help ease the burden of owning 6,000 pairs of shoes. Oh yeah, that’s a real problem for today’s active ladies. The sorting, indexing, referencing, and locating of a single pair of ivory, bow-tied, strappy-medium-heels can be an arduous task, requiring specialized equipment and database technology. There’s torture-device looking bracket-things that drill on to the back of a door. Some are hangar-based, with crazy tic-tac-toe pockets over every square inch, or the cubby-holed variety so she can view them in their natural pose (upright). Or she’ll just jenga-stack them in the closet with some sort of number-method to catalog their location, perhaps using Polaroid photos of them in “cute” positions (or even ON her feet) to give a visual aid in future shoe-searches, presented in a flip-ready binder.
But you know what? As I type and read what I am typing, it all sounds like a big ol’ load of bullshit from a territorial dude who simply wishes that his woman would approach things with the same level of logic that he does. Of course, that idiot is flawed in several ways. The two main ones being 1) his “logic” is only logical to him and 2) he would no doubt be less interested in a woman who thought about things the way he does.
So this list ends with me deciding to stop being such a baby about the whole thing, and promising myself to make a better effort at seeing the forest for the trees. There is a bigger picture here, and it (luckily) will not be affected by her shoe mongering or the fact that we now have a (“cute”) serving tray, yet no table to serve anything to. These things make her comfortable, and that is what I want more than anything else (even more than a better corner to stack my underwear, or cleaner space behind the toilet to stash my deodorant and razors… kidding! Kind of.).
Damn you “cute” dishware!
Don’t get me wrong, I am indeed excited that my girlfriend has arrived, and is living with me now. But there are some elements of cohabitation which require some getting used to. I’ve never shared the EXACT same space with any of my previous girlfriends. Sure, we would stay over at each other’s place and co-mingle some items. A special pillow here, a second toothbrush there, some dishware swapping… but nothing too invasive. When neither person has ANYWHERE else to hide from the other, and NOWHERE else readily available to stash their “other” crap, then you have the true article. Then you have something beyond periodic-spending-the-night-with-respite-in-between, or that quasi-couple roommate-ish type of arrangement that young pairs mistakenly label “living together”. If a man and woman have alternate places to live (two rents, abodes, whatever), then they do not “live together”. Rather, they “kick-it at one-another’s crib”. Big difference.
On top of this distinction, I want to make it clear that I believe those couples who moved into a new place together (bought a new house, rented a bigger shared apartment, whatever) will have only a veneer comprehension of my current situation. The versions of compromise are for all intents and purposes: incomparably different. Let me try to explain.
Before my wonderful girlfriend (for those who know her, she IS truly wonderful) moved in (a whole two days ago), I had the run of my place. I called the shots. I owned the thing, and that was that. I decided what went where, and whether or not changes of any sort were in order. I was comfortable with that arrangement (made with myself). And in a very real way, I still am. I wish there was a way to make a woman comfortable in her man’s place without disturbing the relative calm of organization and the peace of arrangement/color therein. But alas, I am fully aware that a guy’s place is just that: his place. As soon as she arrives, it needs to change into: their place. And that requires her to exert as much influence in design/arrangement as would be necessary to make it: her place. This push and pull is not as prevalent when a couple parachutes into a brand new environment together (the majority of compromise and precedent setting will occur at the outset of the move by verbal negotiation, not as a result of turf-war or passive-aggressive maneuvers of the unilateral variety).
So here I am. In the process of making an honest effort to provide an environment in which my girlfriend will feel “at home”, as this is her only place to label as such. And I truly want her to be comfortable, not just to have a “feeling” of comfort. I do not want her feeling like an encroaching visitor, because that is the furthest thing from what she actually is. I invited her into OUR home, and I want that welcome to remain.
That being the case, there are some things that need to be understood. And perhaps in my effort to understand, I can help others who are (will be) in a similar situation. The main part, as it currently stands, is for me to be able to clearly define what matters to me and what matters to her. Healthy compromise can occur after that.
List time. Just a general tacking of things, to help me get the topography of the thing. I’ll make this general, and not necessarily aimed at my girlfriend (although it will all be inspired by her). I refuse to say anything against my lovely lady, but I can vent in a general sort of way. If she ever reads this, she will know what may apply to our situation.
1. The bathroom is hers, and there is no ambiguity about it. If you are allowed to store your own grooming accessories there, then you are “afforded” some slight space. That means: you and your five hygiene necessities are an organizational afterthought, not a pillar of consideration.
2. She wants to repaint the bedroom, and there is no ambiguity about it. If you left the paint the same color it was when you moved in, then this is a given. She is much more sensitive to such things, and will require color enhancement. If you painted it, well then… that’s the problem right there. Get out the brushes and head to Home Depot to color match something.
3. Her couch is better, and there is no ambiguity about it. This is more than likely true. Your couch is somewhat comfortable, sure. But hers has an academic aesthetic to it that yours never had (even when yours was new). Hers has a “style” that is referred to in architectural books. Your couch’s only redeeming qualities are: it reclines; the color hides dirt; it was free. Hers is comfortable AND attractive. Besides, you’ve probably let your stankin’ drunk buddies pass out on yours, and she knows it. Cuddling in the same divot where your sweaty friend passed gas and puked into a trashcan before lulling into a piss-staining coma, simply won’t do for her. Can you blame her? I am tired of typing that there “is no ambiguity about it,” because there NEVER is. Even when things appear negotiable, it should be understood that the fact that they are being discussed means that a decision to the contrary of yours has already been reached (in which case, there is an easy way… and a hard way to deal with any “ambiguity”).
4. She prefers all the dinnerware be both matching and “cute”. Hers happens to be both, while yours is questionable at best. Aside: you will be smart never to question what qualifies as “cute”. Because this is a term of cruel vaguery, chucked in your direction in hopes that you will nibble the bait and become justly informed that everything “hers” is unquestionably “cute”. Your trip to the hospital resulting from an unexpected aneurysm will be your only mulligan for bothering to question the “cuteness” of her things. They are all “cute”, they all match (yours: neither), and they should all be in regular kitchen use. Leave it be before you become a neurological statistic.
5. Your clothes can live outside of the closet. Get used to this, or prepare to inhabit a hall closet (or perhaps a ramshackle construct in the corner of some secret room you have successfully hidden from her). Just pile them in a quiet corner somewhere and move on. Soon, she’ll be picking all that crap for you anyway (and she’ll find a good home for the stuff she buys you). A note concerning clothing bought for you by your woman: all other women will comment at how nice it looks, and will immediately pick up on some strange pheromone signal that your woman stitched into the fabric, warning them to “dig elsewhere, this one is taken. See how he wears whatever I throw at him?”
6. I bet you never knew there were so many contraptions designed to help ease the burden of owning 6,000 pairs of shoes. Oh yeah, that’s a real problem for today’s active ladies. The sorting, indexing, referencing, and locating of a single pair of ivory, bow-tied, strappy-medium-heels can be an arduous task, requiring specialized equipment and database technology. There’s torture-device looking bracket-things that drill on to the back of a door. Some are hangar-based, with crazy tic-tac-toe pockets over every square inch, or the cubby-holed variety so she can view them in their natural pose (upright). Or she’ll just jenga-stack them in the closet with some sort of number-method to catalog their location, perhaps using Polaroid photos of them in “cute” positions (or even ON her feet) to give a visual aid in future shoe-searches, presented in a flip-ready binder.
But you know what? As I type and read what I am typing, it all sounds like a big ol’ load of bullshit from a territorial dude who simply wishes that his woman would approach things with the same level of logic that he does. Of course, that idiot is flawed in several ways. The two main ones being 1) his “logic” is only logical to him and 2) he would no doubt be less interested in a woman who thought about things the way he does.
So this list ends with me deciding to stop being such a baby about the whole thing, and promising myself to make a better effort at seeing the forest for the trees. There is a bigger picture here, and it (luckily) will not be affected by her shoe mongering or the fact that we now have a (“cute”) serving tray, yet no table to serve anything to. These things make her comfortable, and that is what I want more than anything else (even more than a better corner to stack my underwear, or cleaner space behind the toilet to stash my deodorant and razors… kidding! Kind of.).
Damn you “cute” dishware!
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
I need to make a list...
Of things that I should reference back to, six months from now.
I always have an ever-changing, constantly rotating list of issues, tasks, and goals, churning over and over in my brain. And, just like any other job or project, the items on this list need to have a scheduled time-for-completion. For example: if you want to actually run a marathon, you will need to schedule this "life dream", and do so as soon as possible. It will never be convenient to run a marathon, and it will be next to impossible if "finally get around to it" after your retirement at age 83. So get to scheduling it, if you plan on seeing it happen.
This post is about my own fucking list. I curse the list because it is the purpose, and simultaneously the bane of my existence. It is what drives me. It is what fuels my ambition, and gives reason for my regret. It is the ever-present proof that I am both extremely capable, and fascinatingly lazy. It is the measuring stick I will use when on my death bed, to decide whether or not my life added up to what I wanted it to. It oscillates between prized trophy and "time's up" buzzer. My yin & yang of productive capacity.
On to the goddamn list, as it stands today. No particular order here. Just a simple listing of what needs to happen, with associated completion requirements.
1) make a fucking list that doesn't include crazy shit like: write a novel. What the fuck does that mean? You can't "schedule" that shit, can you? I mean, that's like "scheduling" a painting. You only do that for commissioned pieces for fuck's sake.
2) make a list that DOES NOT include crazy-ass places to vacation to. This just leads to frustration in that you have yet to honestly control all the variables involved in carting yourself (and Ava) around the globe. Too many goddamn variables. Schedule the control of those variables first.
3) Stop making these useless lists, and learn to ignore the need to perpetually rate your current-self against less-wise previous selves. You might live longer that way.
4) Ignore number three, as it is unreasonable to assume that comparison will not lead to some kind of enlightenment concerning oneself.
5) Get a more gas efficient vehicle before the end of May 2005.
Carry on then.
I always have an ever-changing, constantly rotating list of issues, tasks, and goals, churning over and over in my brain. And, just like any other job or project, the items on this list need to have a scheduled time-for-completion. For example: if you want to actually run a marathon, you will need to schedule this "life dream", and do so as soon as possible. It will never be convenient to run a marathon, and it will be next to impossible if "finally get around to it" after your retirement at age 83. So get to scheduling it, if you plan on seeing it happen.
This post is about my own fucking list. I curse the list because it is the purpose, and simultaneously the bane of my existence. It is what drives me. It is what fuels my ambition, and gives reason for my regret. It is the ever-present proof that I am both extremely capable, and fascinatingly lazy. It is the measuring stick I will use when on my death bed, to decide whether or not my life added up to what I wanted it to. It oscillates between prized trophy and "time's up" buzzer. My yin & yang of productive capacity.
On to the goddamn list, as it stands today. No particular order here. Just a simple listing of what needs to happen, with associated completion requirements.
1) make a fucking list that doesn't include crazy shit like: write a novel. What the fuck does that mean? You can't "schedule" that shit, can you? I mean, that's like "scheduling" a painting. You only do that for commissioned pieces for fuck's sake.
2) make a list that DOES NOT include crazy-ass places to vacation to. This just leads to frustration in that you have yet to honestly control all the variables involved in carting yourself (and Ava) around the globe. Too many goddamn variables. Schedule the control of those variables first.
3) Stop making these useless lists, and learn to ignore the need to perpetually rate your current-self against less-wise previous selves. You might live longer that way.
4) Ignore number three, as it is unreasonable to assume that comparison will not lead to some kind of enlightenment concerning oneself.
5) Get a more gas efficient vehicle before the end of May 2005.
Carry on then.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Today: Worst Gas Ever
You don't have to read this. I am just typing it out so that I will have it to laugh at later. When I'm feeling blue... Awww...
So, this past weekend took a serious toll on me. It broke me down. Turned me inside out. Bad food, bad drink, bad sleep, bad smoke, bad brain. I think it has something to do with a subconscious effort on my part, to purge myself before Ava gets here. Well, she mentioned that as a possible reason for my lack of discipline this past weekend, and I thought it a convenient explanation. I fly to get her this Saturday, so it stands to reason that I might blow my shit on my last weekend by my lonesome.
Regardless of the reason(s), Self-Destructo has left my internal system of tubes and shoots for the processing and disposal of food-stuffs all jacked up. I feel like an over-filled balloon in the hands of a rabid eight-year-old boy, who just lets out the air in small-violent-bursts, rapidly flapping the lips of the opening together like a shit-bag wind instrument. Only this balloon has been filled with Agent Orange.
When I break myself into pieces (as I did last weekend), my system pretty much shuts itself down for a few days. Some sort of protest I guess. No budge. So I picked up some bran on the way to work today, because I am a HUGE fan of regularity, and drank two cups of coffee to help speed up the process. The result, is little more than a cattle-prod to that balloon gatekeeper of an eight-year-old: so he's just letting more out, more often than he normally would.
Now there's nothing unfamiliar, within the cubicle world, about the scent of someone else's biscuits cooking. We're all crammed into this egg-crate, one on-top of another, and we all have our own special unpleasantries. One gets used to their neighbors' more unseemly habits (flagrant nose-picking guy, incessant toe-tapping woman, that insipid walrus-looking tart who insists on using her "outdoor" voice when blabbing to her best friend back in Missouri -company phone:company bill- about getting laid the weekend before, the dude who vomits into a trashcan after hearing the walrus gloat, etc...). Being the youngest male in the department, I have gained a reputation for raising hell on school nights. Raising hell, is above all other things, hell on the intestinal tract.
So, my most heinous infraction of the rules of common courtesy is to show up after a long night and immediate blast the whole department with processed booze-humidity. Sometimes, I swear I can actually hear the air conditioner kick up a notch on Monday mornings. They probably change the filters every weekend, just to prepare.
Bygones.
But today is a Tuesday. The cannon was curiously silent on Monday, yesterday... Mt. St. Helens style... and now, the fury that built up during (yet) another practically sleepless night of bloated-belly-rumbling is being exacted upon an unsuspecting department populace. Tuesday is their usual day for rest. But the quivering bowels were gonna have none o' that restin' business. The assault began this morning, thirty minutes after my serving of bran and midway through my second cup o' joe. No formal declaration of war, no warning shots. The thunderous attack started with impressive strength, and it has been a virtual chemical fire in this joint ever since. I have had to get up and walk around the halls, just to create some sort of directed air-flow to pull the stuff away from where I sit. Otherwise, ground zero would be EASY to locate.
Those things will follow you for a good quarter mile. Just so you know.
I've been trekking to different floors, to use other departments' bathrooms, just to give my workmates some sort of respite. But as soon as I return, the relentless assault resumes.
Now I wish I had an air-conditioned chair. Man, the heat is really making my workday unpleasant. Something with an air-cooling system which ran through the seat. Something powered by natural gas perhaps. Better yet: by my own methane. That way it would only cool down when needed.
That should brighten my mood, anytime I feel like I'm sick of this shit. A cooling chair, powered (and necessitated) by my ass dirt is funny. I should continue to laugh at that. When that is no longer funny, then I am too old to find humor in anything.
Bygones.
So, this past weekend took a serious toll on me. It broke me down. Turned me inside out. Bad food, bad drink, bad sleep, bad smoke, bad brain. I think it has something to do with a subconscious effort on my part, to purge myself before Ava gets here. Well, she mentioned that as a possible reason for my lack of discipline this past weekend, and I thought it a convenient explanation. I fly to get her this Saturday, so it stands to reason that I might blow my shit on my last weekend by my lonesome.
Regardless of the reason(s), Self-Destructo has left my internal system of tubes and shoots for the processing and disposal of food-stuffs all jacked up. I feel like an over-filled balloon in the hands of a rabid eight-year-old boy, who just lets out the air in small-violent-bursts, rapidly flapping the lips of the opening together like a shit-bag wind instrument. Only this balloon has been filled with Agent Orange.
When I break myself into pieces (as I did last weekend), my system pretty much shuts itself down for a few days. Some sort of protest I guess. No budge. So I picked up some bran on the way to work today, because I am a HUGE fan of regularity, and drank two cups of coffee to help speed up the process. The result, is little more than a cattle-prod to that balloon gatekeeper of an eight-year-old: so he's just letting more out, more often than he normally would.
Now there's nothing unfamiliar, within the cubicle world, about the scent of someone else's biscuits cooking. We're all crammed into this egg-crate, one on-top of another, and we all have our own special unpleasantries. One gets used to their neighbors' more unseemly habits (flagrant nose-picking guy, incessant toe-tapping woman, that insipid walrus-looking tart who insists on using her "outdoor" voice when blabbing to her best friend back in Missouri -company phone:company bill- about getting laid the weekend before, the dude who vomits into a trashcan after hearing the walrus gloat, etc...). Being the youngest male in the department, I have gained a reputation for raising hell on school nights. Raising hell, is above all other things, hell on the intestinal tract.
So, my most heinous infraction of the rules of common courtesy is to show up after a long night and immediate blast the whole department with processed booze-humidity. Sometimes, I swear I can actually hear the air conditioner kick up a notch on Monday mornings. They probably change the filters every weekend, just to prepare.
Bygones.
But today is a Tuesday. The cannon was curiously silent on Monday, yesterday... Mt. St. Helens style... and now, the fury that built up during (yet) another practically sleepless night of bloated-belly-rumbling is being exacted upon an unsuspecting department populace. Tuesday is their usual day for rest. But the quivering bowels were gonna have none o' that restin' business. The assault began this morning, thirty minutes after my serving of bran and midway through my second cup o' joe. No formal declaration of war, no warning shots. The thunderous attack started with impressive strength, and it has been a virtual chemical fire in this joint ever since. I have had to get up and walk around the halls, just to create some sort of directed air-flow to pull the stuff away from where I sit. Otherwise, ground zero would be EASY to locate.
Those things will follow you for a good quarter mile. Just so you know.
I've been trekking to different floors, to use other departments' bathrooms, just to give my workmates some sort of respite. But as soon as I return, the relentless assault resumes.
Now I wish I had an air-conditioned chair. Man, the heat is really making my workday unpleasant. Something with an air-cooling system which ran through the seat. Something powered by natural gas perhaps. Better yet: by my own methane. That way it would only cool down when needed.
That should brighten my mood, anytime I feel like I'm sick of this shit. A cooling chair, powered (and necessitated) by my ass dirt is funny. I should continue to laugh at that. When that is no longer funny, then I am too old to find humor in anything.
Bygones.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Mental Inventory: Release...
So, what the hell are we going to tell her? I mean, is there, in all that exists, the design or method to tell your woman what exactly went down? Is there a way to explain the situation so that it does not sound so absolutely idiotic? The truth will never make do here. It was too far beyond ridiculous to bother making the tell-back a petty laundry list of disjointed events, infused with booze, ending with you sleeping in the yard. That would never cut it. So, what the hell are we going to tell her?
She has been through way too much with you already. You have dragged her through the proverbial relationship bog-mud on more occasions than a normal human could possibly stand. Remember that bachelor party where you ended up in Toronto, at five in the morning, three days AFTER the party began, dressed up like the Green Lantern? You were never even a fan of comic books. How the hell did that happen? Your only saving grace was that, unlike the groom: Ben (where did you know him from anyway?), at least your character was male. The outfit was tailored for your physique. It is worth noting though, that outside of the ball-hair protruding from his frontal panty line, Ben looked pretty smart in his get-up (but: did Little Bo Peep wear a t-back?). If only you had intended to land in Toronto, maybe she would never had to come and get you. All the way from Houston.
Who knew the Green Lantern had no pockets within which to properly store identification and cash reserves? How did HE pull it off then? Did he have a knapsack or something? A Super Hero fanny pack perhaps? You do not know, because you never were a fan of comic books. Your mistake, obviously.
But she came and got your silly ass: at the airport, detained for suspicion of terrorism, dressed in green tights, a half empty bottle of absinthe, and a really sad looking hat. She really considered leaving you to the errant judicial process of the Mounties. It was obvious from that look in her eye, which has been a staple of communication between the two of you throughout your relationship’s term (used most frequently when discussing your less-than-adult activities which only seem to occur when you manage your way out of her sight). It is no wonder that you two have a monthly breakup. If there is any wonder at all, it is that she willingly takes you and your antics back. That would have to be the only grand mystery here, the only real mystery beyond what appears to be your persistent ability to 1) place yourself in or 2) invent: the most ridiculous situations which force her to swing in like Tarzan, at the last possible second, to rescue you from your own absurdity (just to drop you off into another situation which you will most assuredly muck-up beyond recognition or comprehension).
Remember when she came and got you from the hospital after you managed to burn three theatre seats to a crisp? When you called to tell her that you were in the hospital, you curiously omitted the part about your ass being burnt to a crisp too. You also took two weeks to explain that you were trying to make yourself laugh by lighting a fart during the previews before watching The Matrix for the third time (that day). You were sitting alone. This was a solitary act. In the back row of a moderately-filled theatre. Much to the dismay of the paramedics, your lighter was leaking butane, and your pants were those oily ones you used to do your weekly “maintenance” on the piece of shit you call an automobile. Without the cautionary aide of strangers (who undoubtedly would have recommended you not light the methane emitting from your anus in public), and without the mental fortitude to refrain from wearing little more than a malatav cocktail rag… you now have permanent, and ever fire-pulsing hemorrhoids.
And as always: she simply gave you that look, brought a blanket to the hospital, and read you the latest issues of Cosmo, People, and Urb magazine while you kept clicking the morphine into your spine. Your arrival home was marked by a tub of Tux medicated pads on the bathroom counter, which you promptly loaded into your bunghole like Tux-shrapnel into your swollen anal-canal-cannon. She watched, and calmly abetted, without judgment. That love must run deep.
But this time will probably be different. The innocence of an ass-bomb gone awry is no match for the depths you sank this time.
Well, maybe you have set a similar precedent. She did not take too well to that whole disaster involving the car battery and your own nephew at your Uncle’s funeral. If it had been a funeral within her family, or it had been your nine year-old nephew who was gripping the leads first, to see who could hold on the longest, the relationship might have ended immediately after she drop kicked you off the parking block in order to break your idiot-induced circuit-of-death. Looking back, your only self-serving immediate concern was that your nephew got out of it without having to beat your time. A bet was a bet, and you felt you took it like a trouper while he just cried like a wet kitten once the blood started coming from your ears. She refused to allow the bet to be completed.
The nervous ticks you still seem to have, which make peeing in public near impossible, can be attributed to that lost bet. For reasons unknown, she is even forgiving of that. She never seems to mind driving you all the way back home between dinner and a movie, just so you can drain your tickled weasel. Christ, what a case you are.
On the subject of peeing… oh the saga… the lore…
a bit before your battle and subsequent loss to the Diehard foe, you managed to pee in her parents’ pool. Three times. Once, from on top of the slide (because you thought no one would be coming outside for a minute, forgetting: 1) that it takes you over a minute to finish 2) the slide faces the back door, and 3) her father was cooking some white fish on the grill which had to be basted and turned really fucking often). The pump for the hose which normally wets the slide surface was dead, and in a moment of idiot-ingenuity, you figured: your urine, the most accessible liquid available from the top rung of the slide ladder, would be as good as any other liquid to wet it down. If you were four instead of twenty four at the time, you may have gotten away with it. But when he walked out that door and saw you standing at the top of the slide, peeing a stream of neon over its sun-chapped surface… anger is too short a word to describe his mood-transformation. If that baster had been a cleaver, you would be a eunuch.
The second time, not but two months later, was a miscalculation involving a highly competitive game of water volleyball, far too much lemonade, and that evil chemical indicator which turns the water purple after contact with human urine (her father powdered the warning system into the standard chemicals after your fountain event on the slide, which had scared his grand children into going to summer camp instead of Grammy and Grampy’s house the following June). You kept playing volleyball long after everyone was well aware that you had tainted the pool. That vicious grape mass was following you like bad karma. Her grandmother was underwater at the time, and had accidentally passed through your cloud while swimming her afternoon laps. “She should have been playing the game anyhow, she kept getting in the way of my returns” you reasoned. You didn’t even help to pull her gasping, limp frame from the pool. Your shoulder shrugging in response to this most obvious faux pas has never been accepted as proper.
Your third urination, being set up exactly the same as the second one (another mere year later), is seen by you as more their mistake than yours. You had shown a propensity to leak when in their pool, and you believe(d) that the indicator chemical should have been done away with as it would never serve as a deterrent to you, but would guarantee that everyone’s afternoon of games in the pool would come to a rather angry end. (It takes up to six hours for that purple haze to completely filter out the system, apparently. Who would have thought?) It was dark by the time the water returned to crystal blue. Chemistry sucks.
But you know what? There are worse things you have done. Truly hurtful things. Activities which transcend your amazing ability for crass indifference to other peoples’ feelings (mainly hers). Like the time, in the heat of an argument over your refusal to have the disposal professionally fixed led to a massive sewage leak in the kitchen, you claimed her father was openly gay. You are the only one capable of seeing this as an acceptable defense for your laziness. True, he did have an extended embrace with that other man at their reunion. But it was a veterans’ reunion, and that stranger saved her father’s life in Viet Nam. And the wet, open-mouthed kiss that you claimed made the whole thing gay in an “open” way was completely fabricated. A lie you stick to, even to this day, as you believe that it made your argument for not getting a licensed plumber to fix the sink: perfectly reasonable in comparison to her father’s (completely fabricated) homo-relations (“right in front of your mom, too!”). Somehow, she sees beyond the callous crap that builds your person.
So here you are. Halfway on the curb, halfway in the flower bed, begging the morning sun to pull back the cool duvet of night. Your wallet has probably been missing long enough for you to have new debt that will eclipse the size of your school loans (damn that pesky fraud protection charge, should’ve kept paying it). She’ll love that. Especially since you’ve been unemployed for the past three months, living off her meager income as a real estate agent. “Keep selling honey! You’re the champ! I’m just going to grab a beer with the fellas.” Your brilliance-void is unparalleled. And you proved that last night when you smashed the glass on the jukebox because you were convinced that they had given the C103 code you thought was for the Rolling Stones to some John Fogerty garbage, only to remember that you had selected both. Unfortunately, you only remembered your fatal selection after the owner and two simian-esque men man-handled you into the back parking lot (don’t worry, lots of folks eat with less than a full set of teeth). You could hear your precious Stones singing “you can’t always get – what you want” as you napped on the concrete… shards of jukebox glass transferred, effortlessly digging their way into your forehead, from your right hand. The dumpster juice puddle you were flattened in will surely help those wounds garner you a first-class third-world infection. You just can’t win, can you?
I know what you’re thinking: “well, if it weren’t for that one cowboy who kept buying rounds of whiskey, I wouldn’t have been so bent. I wouldn’t have been eating pavement in the parking lot, and I wouldn’t have been passed out in the bathroom to see that Mexican fellow break the urinal like a crazed baboon.” But, it is only fair to point out that the cowboy never bought you any shots. You stole them, technically, although you did offer a fair toast to his bride-to-be, and he thought that was funny since he was not getting married. Quite the contrary. He was there to celebrate his “coming out” with close friends and relatives. You were nothing more than a thieving, slobbering, (but entertaining) drunk. And it was YOU who knocked the urinal off the wall after repeatedly kicking it for a flush, ignoring that it was equipped with a motion sensor device. The Mexican fellow was desperately trying to stop the geyser you kicked into existence. He even picked you up out of the two inches of water you were gurgling in so that you wouldn’t drown. They blamed it on the day laborer, and he had yet to gather a strong enough command of the English language to defend himself. An honorable man would have defended him, as he had the common courtesy to save you from drowning in urinal water. But there was no respite for him, falling from your guilty lips. You best hope to never see him again.
But even those errors in judgment, while they are supreme in nature, do not compare to your display of gallactically immense callousness toward your lady today. You don’t remember how you ended up on this curb, do you? That’s a good thing. It might be better to wait until your hangover-induced suicidal episode subsides. Luckily, you have yet to regain full use of your limbs, otherwise you might find something really tall to jump from. Like, say, a slide leading into an empty pool? How about her parents’ empty pool? How about: it isn’t empty anymore due to the rather whiskey-pungent puddle of your piss, which is blemishing the newly refurbished surface as we lay here? That, and the damp, dissolved chemical coating that was supposed to help seal the plaster around the bottom drain. That won’t be working too well now, will it? Neutralized that base real quick, didn’t you?
Yes, the cabby should have taken you to jail right then and there, when halfway to her parent’s house, you told him that you only had $7 to your name. The fare was already at $12, and you were lying about the measly $2 you actually had in your front pocket. You should have noted the missing wallet then. But no, not the belligerent urinator. He could have ended your night of misery right then and there by bringing you to the proper authorities where she would know to come find you in the morning. But no. After he heaved and pulled you out of his cab, threw you into a brick mailbox, and rummaged through the pants on your motionless body… he definitely got that $2, and he must have taken that tuft of hair from the back of your head to settle the remainder of the fare. I don’t recall any other occasion that would have led to a surrender by scalping. He didn’t look Apache. But then again, the Apaches never really scalped by the handfuls. By some accounts, they never scalped at all. But by all accounts here, you received the bad end of a mini-scalping at some point during your bender. Bet it was Masjid who did it.
No, the tears on your left pant leg and the blood caked to your knee were not sustained from the juke box, or the well-within-his-right-to-uproot-your-follicles cabby. Those came courtesy of her parents’ neighbor’s miniature Schnauzer (after you came-to from your sad loss to the brick mailbox, you took a meandering short-cut through the neighborhood on your trek to her parents’ pool: meandering over numerous fences, flower beds, and adjoining back yards. Hell, you almost peed in two other pools, thinking you had found your target (only to realize that there was no slide to make a positive identification). You didn’t even notice the little pant-gnawing bugger until you found it extremely difficult to lift your left leg up into the birdbath, which you thought made a perfect step ladder for hiking the fence. If you hadn’t tipped the bowl of that bath the way you did, your fall might not have been broken by the dog. We’ll let that one slide, as that pooch was excessively noisy, a really shitty guard dog (you got all the way through their yard with it attached to your Dockers), and in reality, every war has collateral damage. Even the wars we wage on ourselves. Christmas will suck a little extra for those strangers as a result.
And that brings us to the here and now. Outside her parents’ home, at the bottom of the driveway, using the curb as a pillow. Yes, that is the early morning sun, punching you in the eyes. You better start walking before you are caught in such close proximity to the string of idiotic misdemeanors from last night. That’s it, groan yourself to a standing position and start… Wait up. Holy shit. Look who is coming our way now. You can’t see straight yet, but that’s her dad coming down the driveway. He looks like he’s in one of his “moods” too. Don’t tell him about the piss, or he’ll go get the baster and reenact a lost episode of OZ.
Okay, here he is… Keep it together.
“Chad. You have to stop doing this to yourself, to us. Three months is enough.”
Tell him to fuck off. He doesn’t understand what it’s like. He doesn’t know how it feels to be so goddamned lost. Tell him to fix this. Tell him to correct the broken justice of it all. Tell him this is all his goddamn fault! Tell him NOW!
“I know Mr. Jameson, I know. It’s just that…”
What!!? No apologies goddamnit! What are you doing to yourself here? You’re crumbling! Everything we’ve worked for is thinning at the seams! Grip this thing and clear it. She is all that makes sense to you, and he is standing between you and your sanity. HE is the one who is locking it all in, not YOU. HE is coveting your precious answers. HE must come correct with an explanation. HE is the…
“She’s gone kid. Forever. Now get up. She’ll never come back, to any of us.”
Jesus. Well, there it is then. The hole that is you, clearly painted in the darkest of hues. Don’t bother holding back now. We’re cocked and chambered. Pull it. Pull it! PULL! IT!
“I still love her so much…”
“I know son, I know. Me too.”
We’ve done enough shouldering. Release… Release… Release…
That’s it. Let it all out. We can grieve now.
She has been through way too much with you already. You have dragged her through the proverbial relationship bog-mud on more occasions than a normal human could possibly stand. Remember that bachelor party where you ended up in Toronto, at five in the morning, three days AFTER the party began, dressed up like the Green Lantern? You were never even a fan of comic books. How the hell did that happen? Your only saving grace was that, unlike the groom: Ben (where did you know him from anyway?), at least your character was male. The outfit was tailored for your physique. It is worth noting though, that outside of the ball-hair protruding from his frontal panty line, Ben looked pretty smart in his get-up (but: did Little Bo Peep wear a t-back?). If only you had intended to land in Toronto, maybe she would never had to come and get you. All the way from Houston.
Who knew the Green Lantern had no pockets within which to properly store identification and cash reserves? How did HE pull it off then? Did he have a knapsack or something? A Super Hero fanny pack perhaps? You do not know, because you never were a fan of comic books. Your mistake, obviously.
But she came and got your silly ass: at the airport, detained for suspicion of terrorism, dressed in green tights, a half empty bottle of absinthe, and a really sad looking hat. She really considered leaving you to the errant judicial process of the Mounties. It was obvious from that look in her eye, which has been a staple of communication between the two of you throughout your relationship’s term (used most frequently when discussing your less-than-adult activities which only seem to occur when you manage your way out of her sight). It is no wonder that you two have a monthly breakup. If there is any wonder at all, it is that she willingly takes you and your antics back. That would have to be the only grand mystery here, the only real mystery beyond what appears to be your persistent ability to 1) place yourself in or 2) invent: the most ridiculous situations which force her to swing in like Tarzan, at the last possible second, to rescue you from your own absurdity (just to drop you off into another situation which you will most assuredly muck-up beyond recognition or comprehension).
Remember when she came and got you from the hospital after you managed to burn three theatre seats to a crisp? When you called to tell her that you were in the hospital, you curiously omitted the part about your ass being burnt to a crisp too. You also took two weeks to explain that you were trying to make yourself laugh by lighting a fart during the previews before watching The Matrix for the third time (that day). You were sitting alone. This was a solitary act. In the back row of a moderately-filled theatre. Much to the dismay of the paramedics, your lighter was leaking butane, and your pants were those oily ones you used to do your weekly “maintenance” on the piece of shit you call an automobile. Without the cautionary aide of strangers (who undoubtedly would have recommended you not light the methane emitting from your anus in public), and without the mental fortitude to refrain from wearing little more than a malatav cocktail rag… you now have permanent, and ever fire-pulsing hemorrhoids.
And as always: she simply gave you that look, brought a blanket to the hospital, and read you the latest issues of Cosmo, People, and Urb magazine while you kept clicking the morphine into your spine. Your arrival home was marked by a tub of Tux medicated pads on the bathroom counter, which you promptly loaded into your bunghole like Tux-shrapnel into your swollen anal-canal-cannon. She watched, and calmly abetted, without judgment. That love must run deep.
But this time will probably be different. The innocence of an ass-bomb gone awry is no match for the depths you sank this time.
Well, maybe you have set a similar precedent. She did not take too well to that whole disaster involving the car battery and your own nephew at your Uncle’s funeral. If it had been a funeral within her family, or it had been your nine year-old nephew who was gripping the leads first, to see who could hold on the longest, the relationship might have ended immediately after she drop kicked you off the parking block in order to break your idiot-induced circuit-of-death. Looking back, your only self-serving immediate concern was that your nephew got out of it without having to beat your time. A bet was a bet, and you felt you took it like a trouper while he just cried like a wet kitten once the blood started coming from your ears. She refused to allow the bet to be completed.
The nervous ticks you still seem to have, which make peeing in public near impossible, can be attributed to that lost bet. For reasons unknown, she is even forgiving of that. She never seems to mind driving you all the way back home between dinner and a movie, just so you can drain your tickled weasel. Christ, what a case you are.
On the subject of peeing… oh the saga… the lore…
a bit before your battle and subsequent loss to the Diehard foe, you managed to pee in her parents’ pool. Three times. Once, from on top of the slide (because you thought no one would be coming outside for a minute, forgetting: 1) that it takes you over a minute to finish 2) the slide faces the back door, and 3) her father was cooking some white fish on the grill which had to be basted and turned really fucking often). The pump for the hose which normally wets the slide surface was dead, and in a moment of idiot-ingenuity, you figured: your urine, the most accessible liquid available from the top rung of the slide ladder, would be as good as any other liquid to wet it down. If you were four instead of twenty four at the time, you may have gotten away with it. But when he walked out that door and saw you standing at the top of the slide, peeing a stream of neon over its sun-chapped surface… anger is too short a word to describe his mood-transformation. If that baster had been a cleaver, you would be a eunuch.
The second time, not but two months later, was a miscalculation involving a highly competitive game of water volleyball, far too much lemonade, and that evil chemical indicator which turns the water purple after contact with human urine (her father powdered the warning system into the standard chemicals after your fountain event on the slide, which had scared his grand children into going to summer camp instead of Grammy and Grampy’s house the following June). You kept playing volleyball long after everyone was well aware that you had tainted the pool. That vicious grape mass was following you like bad karma. Her grandmother was underwater at the time, and had accidentally passed through your cloud while swimming her afternoon laps. “She should have been playing the game anyhow, she kept getting in the way of my returns” you reasoned. You didn’t even help to pull her gasping, limp frame from the pool. Your shoulder shrugging in response to this most obvious faux pas has never been accepted as proper.
Your third urination, being set up exactly the same as the second one (another mere year later), is seen by you as more their mistake than yours. You had shown a propensity to leak when in their pool, and you believe(d) that the indicator chemical should have been done away with as it would never serve as a deterrent to you, but would guarantee that everyone’s afternoon of games in the pool would come to a rather angry end. (It takes up to six hours for that purple haze to completely filter out the system, apparently. Who would have thought?) It was dark by the time the water returned to crystal blue. Chemistry sucks.
But you know what? There are worse things you have done. Truly hurtful things. Activities which transcend your amazing ability for crass indifference to other peoples’ feelings (mainly hers). Like the time, in the heat of an argument over your refusal to have the disposal professionally fixed led to a massive sewage leak in the kitchen, you claimed her father was openly gay. You are the only one capable of seeing this as an acceptable defense for your laziness. True, he did have an extended embrace with that other man at their reunion. But it was a veterans’ reunion, and that stranger saved her father’s life in Viet Nam. And the wet, open-mouthed kiss that you claimed made the whole thing gay in an “open” way was completely fabricated. A lie you stick to, even to this day, as you believe that it made your argument for not getting a licensed plumber to fix the sink: perfectly reasonable in comparison to her father’s (completely fabricated) homo-relations (“right in front of your mom, too!”). Somehow, she sees beyond the callous crap that builds your person.
So here you are. Halfway on the curb, halfway in the flower bed, begging the morning sun to pull back the cool duvet of night. Your wallet has probably been missing long enough for you to have new debt that will eclipse the size of your school loans (damn that pesky fraud protection charge, should’ve kept paying it). She’ll love that. Especially since you’ve been unemployed for the past three months, living off her meager income as a real estate agent. “Keep selling honey! You’re the champ! I’m just going to grab a beer with the fellas.” Your brilliance-void is unparalleled. And you proved that last night when you smashed the glass on the jukebox because you were convinced that they had given the C103 code you thought was for the Rolling Stones to some John Fogerty garbage, only to remember that you had selected both. Unfortunately, you only remembered your fatal selection after the owner and two simian-esque men man-handled you into the back parking lot (don’t worry, lots of folks eat with less than a full set of teeth). You could hear your precious Stones singing “you can’t always get – what you want” as you napped on the concrete… shards of jukebox glass transferred, effortlessly digging their way into your forehead, from your right hand. The dumpster juice puddle you were flattened in will surely help those wounds garner you a first-class third-world infection. You just can’t win, can you?
I know what you’re thinking: “well, if it weren’t for that one cowboy who kept buying rounds of whiskey, I wouldn’t have been so bent. I wouldn’t have been eating pavement in the parking lot, and I wouldn’t have been passed out in the bathroom to see that Mexican fellow break the urinal like a crazed baboon.” But, it is only fair to point out that the cowboy never bought you any shots. You stole them, technically, although you did offer a fair toast to his bride-to-be, and he thought that was funny since he was not getting married. Quite the contrary. He was there to celebrate his “coming out” with close friends and relatives. You were nothing more than a thieving, slobbering, (but entertaining) drunk. And it was YOU who knocked the urinal off the wall after repeatedly kicking it for a flush, ignoring that it was equipped with a motion sensor device. The Mexican fellow was desperately trying to stop the geyser you kicked into existence. He even picked you up out of the two inches of water you were gurgling in so that you wouldn’t drown. They blamed it on the day laborer, and he had yet to gather a strong enough command of the English language to defend himself. An honorable man would have defended him, as he had the common courtesy to save you from drowning in urinal water. But there was no respite for him, falling from your guilty lips. You best hope to never see him again.
But even those errors in judgment, while they are supreme in nature, do not compare to your display of gallactically immense callousness toward your lady today. You don’t remember how you ended up on this curb, do you? That’s a good thing. It might be better to wait until your hangover-induced suicidal episode subsides. Luckily, you have yet to regain full use of your limbs, otherwise you might find something really tall to jump from. Like, say, a slide leading into an empty pool? How about her parents’ empty pool? How about: it isn’t empty anymore due to the rather whiskey-pungent puddle of your piss, which is blemishing the newly refurbished surface as we lay here? That, and the damp, dissolved chemical coating that was supposed to help seal the plaster around the bottom drain. That won’t be working too well now, will it? Neutralized that base real quick, didn’t you?
Yes, the cabby should have taken you to jail right then and there, when halfway to her parent’s house, you told him that you only had $7 to your name. The fare was already at $12, and you were lying about the measly $2 you actually had in your front pocket. You should have noted the missing wallet then. But no, not the belligerent urinator. He could have ended your night of misery right then and there by bringing you to the proper authorities where she would know to come find you in the morning. But no. After he heaved and pulled you out of his cab, threw you into a brick mailbox, and rummaged through the pants on your motionless body… he definitely got that $2, and he must have taken that tuft of hair from the back of your head to settle the remainder of the fare. I don’t recall any other occasion that would have led to a surrender by scalping. He didn’t look Apache. But then again, the Apaches never really scalped by the handfuls. By some accounts, they never scalped at all. But by all accounts here, you received the bad end of a mini-scalping at some point during your bender. Bet it was Masjid who did it.
No, the tears on your left pant leg and the blood caked to your knee were not sustained from the juke box, or the well-within-his-right-to-uproot-your-follicles cabby. Those came courtesy of her parents’ neighbor’s miniature Schnauzer (after you came-to from your sad loss to the brick mailbox, you took a meandering short-cut through the neighborhood on your trek to her parents’ pool: meandering over numerous fences, flower beds, and adjoining back yards. Hell, you almost peed in two other pools, thinking you had found your target (only to realize that there was no slide to make a positive identification). You didn’t even notice the little pant-gnawing bugger until you found it extremely difficult to lift your left leg up into the birdbath, which you thought made a perfect step ladder for hiking the fence. If you hadn’t tipped the bowl of that bath the way you did, your fall might not have been broken by the dog. We’ll let that one slide, as that pooch was excessively noisy, a really shitty guard dog (you got all the way through their yard with it attached to your Dockers), and in reality, every war has collateral damage. Even the wars we wage on ourselves. Christmas will suck a little extra for those strangers as a result.
And that brings us to the here and now. Outside her parents’ home, at the bottom of the driveway, using the curb as a pillow. Yes, that is the early morning sun, punching you in the eyes. You better start walking before you are caught in such close proximity to the string of idiotic misdemeanors from last night. That’s it, groan yourself to a standing position and start… Wait up. Holy shit. Look who is coming our way now. You can’t see straight yet, but that’s her dad coming down the driveway. He looks like he’s in one of his “moods” too. Don’t tell him about the piss, or he’ll go get the baster and reenact a lost episode of OZ.
Okay, here he is… Keep it together.
“Chad. You have to stop doing this to yourself, to us. Three months is enough.”
Tell him to fuck off. He doesn’t understand what it’s like. He doesn’t know how it feels to be so goddamned lost. Tell him to fix this. Tell him to correct the broken justice of it all. Tell him this is all his goddamn fault! Tell him NOW!
“I know Mr. Jameson, I know. It’s just that…”
What!!? No apologies goddamnit! What are you doing to yourself here? You’re crumbling! Everything we’ve worked for is thinning at the seams! Grip this thing and clear it. She is all that makes sense to you, and he is standing between you and your sanity. HE is the one who is locking it all in, not YOU. HE is coveting your precious answers. HE must come correct with an explanation. HE is the…
“She’s gone kid. Forever. Now get up. She’ll never come back, to any of us.”
Jesus. Well, there it is then. The hole that is you, clearly painted in the darkest of hues. Don’t bother holding back now. We’re cocked and chambered. Pull it. Pull it! PULL! IT!
“I still love her so much…”
“I know son, I know. Me too.”
We’ve done enough shouldering. Release… Release… Release…
That’s it. Let it all out. We can grieve now.
Friday, October 15, 2004
That Guy. Who knew?
I must have pulled off a dozen “That Guy” moments last night. It was amazing, in a very sad, sad, sad… but ALIVE sort of way.
When I got off work (left early, at 5pm, word), I was beyond irritated. I was raging to the point of being unproductive. One cannot be expected to execute a specific set of complex tasks effectively while outraged at the existence of the tasks themselves. I would compare it to being asked to “properly” raise someone else’s pack of rabid wolves. I’m no wolf, these issues are fucking uselessly rabid, and “proper” is so beyond vague that it will only serve to piss me off (rather than give me a goal to aim for). Blah-blah-blah, suffice to say: I was extremely irritable. So I decided to go for a run to work out the stress.
Three sweaty miles and two levels of body odor later, I remember that I am supposed to meet up with Dan and Sophie for a drink at Deville. It was already 6:30 at that point. Dan and Sophie are absolutely fantastic people. Just hanging around them puts you in a better mood. All smiles. They were heading to the Busta Rhymes concert at 8pm, and I had agreed to a pre-show happy-hour thing to see them off. I did not intend to pay twenty bucks to see Busta bust his same ol’-same ol’, but I had not seen them in almost a month. Had to go to Deville.
Parked my ride on a steep side street around the corner from Deville, put up my parking break (noting to myself how seldom I use it), took off my sweaty jogging shorts and shamelessly got out of the car. “That Guy” moment 1: I was that guy who you periodically see out in public, in his boxers, looking about all nervous like a pervert. But I just wanted to wear my pants instead, which would better house all my pocket-filling possessions. I have to be standing to put on my pants, right? Whatever. After clothing my sweaty self, I wandered into Deville, smelling like eau de suwetsoque. Dan and Soph were outside with two friends of theirs. We started drinking. The other two friends jetted, and Dan bought a few lemon…ish shots.
Dan was persistent about me attending the concert, plying me with evil liquor. I gladly took the booze, and held out until he offered me a free ticket. Word. I was willing to go… for free. That would be worth it. So we downed our drinks, shot some shots, and headed to Austin Music Hall, racing the booze in my blood. We arrived and parked LONG before I was fully marinated.
In the front of the line: Sophie and a friend of hers. I suck with names. Dan and I jumped the barricade that housed the line and got right up front with them. I remember two little asian girls looking at me, with the eyes of grand disappointment, as my nuts cracked on the top of the railing when I tried to hurtle it with one jump. They hated me the way business hates tax. “That Guy” moment 2: I jumped into the very front of a long, well established line. I hate that fucking guy. I always have. And as it should be, security hates that fucking guy too. I was removed from my spot and placed at the rear (Dan muscled his way through and was not detained). While in line, the booze in my veins spread like fungus, and I began to pickle. By the time I was being frisked at the front, I was completely plowed. “That Guy” moment 3: that fucking guy, who is in line (baseball game, ATM, grocery store, Drivers’ License, whatever line) by himself, and is almost too drunk to stand. That guy sucks\rocks. Whatever lines I joined after that: I was that fucking guy.
Once inside, the concert was doing its thing. We shot Jager and what not, throwing a few cans of shit beer between, just for good measure. Soon, I was taking on a variety of other obnoxious “That Guy” personas:
Moment 4: that dumbass that shouts “words” really loud during a concert, even though they don’t know any of the lyrics. Shut the hell up, will you? No.
Moment 5: that irritating louse who smokes in a NO SMOKING establishment (I was asked four times by security to cut it the fuck out).
Moment 6: that really stoned-looking hippy guy at the concerts who ends up dancing with no one, in the back rows of the crowd. He always creeps me out. I’m sure I was creepy.
Moment 7: that rude motherfucker who plows ALL the way up to the front of the concert crowd, cigarette and beer in hand (cigs NOT allowed), smiling and laughing the whole goddamned way. Yep. Gimme a medal, I earned it.
When it was apparent that there would be no encore, we all staggered out to the parking lot. Dan, Sophie and their friend took off. It was only 10:30, and there was no way I was manning a vehicle. I needed food. So I set off to find some.
“That Guy” moment 8: that staggering-drunk fool, wandering about, apparently without aim, that you see meandering on the sidewalk of some dark side street as you cruise past. You know the one, that guy who you always wagered was one of the “newer” homeless drunks? “Oh, he’ll look as bad as those others pretty soon.” Yeah, that’s what I looked like. Classic.
I made my way to Katz’s (never Kloses!… or spells properly) and got a seat in what used to be the smoking section. Here in Austin, there was an ordinance passed sometime this summer (without my approval), which barred smoking from just about everywhere. Unbeknownst to me, Katz’s is within the reach of this ordinance. “That Guy” moment 9: that inconsiderate SOB that smokes in the NO SMOKING section. Technically, I was that guy twice. When I was told to put out my second smoke, I did so in the remainder of my food, per the waiter’s request. What a crock. No smoking at Katz’s? Jesus, come back and reclaim this shit-hole for your own.
While at Katz’s, I managed to wrangle a nice woman into conversation. She was busy with some paperwork at an adjacent table, and I was bored (and steam-grinning drunk). So I leaned over and introduced myself. Cool lady. Somewhere near my parents’ age. She works with the Victims’ Unit at the Sheriff’s Office as a volunteer counselor. Her husband passed away a couple years back and she is in the process of finding her own groove. Very easy to talk to. She didn’t seem to mind that I was completely obliterated, partially incoherent, and smoking in a NON SMOKING restaurant. Her name was Patti, I believe. But my memory is utter sheeeeeeite, especially when the memory is Jager-soaked. Good soul on that lady.
I left Patti at Katz’s and wandered around the streets for another couple of hours, thinking, considering, pondering. I got home after midnight and immediately went to sleep.
“That Guy” moment 10: when I got into my truck this morning to go to work, the fucking parking brake was still up. It had been engaged since De-fucking-Ville. I used to make fun of that guy. Fuck it. I think I still will. Sometimes, I redefine “dumbass” downward.
Not a dozen moments, but ten is still not respectable. Man, sometimes, I think I love life too much.
When I got off work (left early, at 5pm, word), I was beyond irritated. I was raging to the point of being unproductive. One cannot be expected to execute a specific set of complex tasks effectively while outraged at the existence of the tasks themselves. I would compare it to being asked to “properly” raise someone else’s pack of rabid wolves. I’m no wolf, these issues are fucking uselessly rabid, and “proper” is so beyond vague that it will only serve to piss me off (rather than give me a goal to aim for). Blah-blah-blah, suffice to say: I was extremely irritable. So I decided to go for a run to work out the stress.
Three sweaty miles and two levels of body odor later, I remember that I am supposed to meet up with Dan and Sophie for a drink at Deville. It was already 6:30 at that point. Dan and Sophie are absolutely fantastic people. Just hanging around them puts you in a better mood. All smiles. They were heading to the Busta Rhymes concert at 8pm, and I had agreed to a pre-show happy-hour thing to see them off. I did not intend to pay twenty bucks to see Busta bust his same ol’-same ol’, but I had not seen them in almost a month. Had to go to Deville.
Parked my ride on a steep side street around the corner from Deville, put up my parking break (noting to myself how seldom I use it), took off my sweaty jogging shorts and shamelessly got out of the car. “That Guy” moment 1: I was that guy who you periodically see out in public, in his boxers, looking about all nervous like a pervert. But I just wanted to wear my pants instead, which would better house all my pocket-filling possessions. I have to be standing to put on my pants, right? Whatever. After clothing my sweaty self, I wandered into Deville, smelling like eau de suwetsoque. Dan and Soph were outside with two friends of theirs. We started drinking. The other two friends jetted, and Dan bought a few lemon…ish shots.
Dan was persistent about me attending the concert, plying me with evil liquor. I gladly took the booze, and held out until he offered me a free ticket. Word. I was willing to go… for free. That would be worth it. So we downed our drinks, shot some shots, and headed to Austin Music Hall, racing the booze in my blood. We arrived and parked LONG before I was fully marinated.
In the front of the line: Sophie and a friend of hers. I suck with names. Dan and I jumped the barricade that housed the line and got right up front with them. I remember two little asian girls looking at me, with the eyes of grand disappointment, as my nuts cracked on the top of the railing when I tried to hurtle it with one jump. They hated me the way business hates tax. “That Guy” moment 2: I jumped into the very front of a long, well established line. I hate that fucking guy. I always have. And as it should be, security hates that fucking guy too. I was removed from my spot and placed at the rear (Dan muscled his way through and was not detained). While in line, the booze in my veins spread like fungus, and I began to pickle. By the time I was being frisked at the front, I was completely plowed. “That Guy” moment 3: that fucking guy, who is in line (baseball game, ATM, grocery store, Drivers’ License, whatever line) by himself, and is almost too drunk to stand. That guy sucks\rocks. Whatever lines I joined after that: I was that fucking guy.
Once inside, the concert was doing its thing. We shot Jager and what not, throwing a few cans of shit beer between, just for good measure. Soon, I was taking on a variety of other obnoxious “That Guy” personas:
Moment 4: that dumbass that shouts “words” really loud during a concert, even though they don’t know any of the lyrics. Shut the hell up, will you? No.
Moment 5: that irritating louse who smokes in a NO SMOKING establishment (I was asked four times by security to cut it the fuck out).
Moment 6: that really stoned-looking hippy guy at the concerts who ends up dancing with no one, in the back rows of the crowd. He always creeps me out. I’m sure I was creepy.
Moment 7: that rude motherfucker who plows ALL the way up to the front of the concert crowd, cigarette and beer in hand (cigs NOT allowed), smiling and laughing the whole goddamned way. Yep. Gimme a medal, I earned it.
When it was apparent that there would be no encore, we all staggered out to the parking lot. Dan, Sophie and their friend took off. It was only 10:30, and there was no way I was manning a vehicle. I needed food. So I set off to find some.
“That Guy” moment 8: that staggering-drunk fool, wandering about, apparently without aim, that you see meandering on the sidewalk of some dark side street as you cruise past. You know the one, that guy who you always wagered was one of the “newer” homeless drunks? “Oh, he’ll look as bad as those others pretty soon.” Yeah, that’s what I looked like. Classic.
I made my way to Katz’s (never Kloses!… or spells properly) and got a seat in what used to be the smoking section. Here in Austin, there was an ordinance passed sometime this summer (without my approval), which barred smoking from just about everywhere. Unbeknownst to me, Katz’s is within the reach of this ordinance. “That Guy” moment 9: that inconsiderate SOB that smokes in the NO SMOKING section. Technically, I was that guy twice. When I was told to put out my second smoke, I did so in the remainder of my food, per the waiter’s request. What a crock. No smoking at Katz’s? Jesus, come back and reclaim this shit-hole for your own.
While at Katz’s, I managed to wrangle a nice woman into conversation. She was busy with some paperwork at an adjacent table, and I was bored (and steam-grinning drunk). So I leaned over and introduced myself. Cool lady. Somewhere near my parents’ age. She works with the Victims’ Unit at the Sheriff’s Office as a volunteer counselor. Her husband passed away a couple years back and she is in the process of finding her own groove. Very easy to talk to. She didn’t seem to mind that I was completely obliterated, partially incoherent, and smoking in a NON SMOKING restaurant. Her name was Patti, I believe. But my memory is utter sheeeeeeite, especially when the memory is Jager-soaked. Good soul on that lady.
I left Patti at Katz’s and wandered around the streets for another couple of hours, thinking, considering, pondering. I got home after midnight and immediately went to sleep.
“That Guy” moment 10: when I got into my truck this morning to go to work, the fucking parking brake was still up. It had been engaged since De-fucking-Ville. I used to make fun of that guy. Fuck it. I think I still will. Sometimes, I redefine “dumbass” downward.
Not a dozen moments, but ten is still not respectable. Man, sometimes, I think I love life too much.
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