Rolling.

Rolling.
Originally uploaded by mutant moth.

What I signed my life away for. She still needs a name.

american spirit

The guy at the liquor store isn't a friend of mine, but he might as well be. I see him more than most of my friends. Every time I see him, he gives a big smile and a hearty hello and he's always curious about what beer I'm going to buy. I get a lot of the weirder stuff, a lot of the stronger stuff, which he takes pride in stocking. Once he told me that he wished all his customers had the same taste in beer as I did. I said well, yeah, because it's more expensive, but really, he just seemed bored with the seemingly endless parade of Coors and Budweiser 30 packs that are slapped on his counter. Maybe my sixes of whatever broke up the monotony of his day. I don't know.

Like I said, we're not really friends. I don't know his name. I never ask people's names (I figure they'll tell me if they want me to know), but I do get weirded out when I see someone else working the counter. I think the guy's from the Middle East somewhere. I heard him talking to a younger guy who also works there in a foreign language that could've been Arabic. I'm not a linguist, but he's definitely not a white dude. Today, I picked up a six of Moose Drool and got in line behind these two guys. I wasn't paying attention. Shit can happen right in front of me without me noticing. Once my mind gets going on something, it's really hard to get my attention. It's not usual for the place to have a line, though I know it must do good business. It's just that people usually go in, get what they want, and leave. It's all very efficient. I don't know what grabbed my attention, but I could tell the dudes in front of me were riled up about something. There was a third guy too, ordering American Spirits, but I don't think he was with the two in front of me. The liquor store guy asked him if he wanted a pack or the pouch of tobacco you can roll. That's when one of the guys in front of me piped up.

"You know what he wants," he said.

I was in my own world till just about then. I have no idea what transpired before that even though it was right in front of me. But there was something about the way the guy said it that got my attention. Then I noticed his shaved head, his white wife beater, his pasty complexion and the tattoos on his large triceps that read "white" and "anger" left to right respectively.

Him and his skinhead buddy kept shooting underhanded comments at the liquor store guy, but nothing overt or all that offensive. They'd get snide, and the liquor store guy would just kinda laugh them off. He looked completely indifferent to their comments; he just kept smiling and laughing. After they paid for they're tall boys, the talkative one dropped a penny from the change on the table hard, kinda just tossing it at the liquor store guy, but not so much to hit him with it and said something else I don't remember (I know, I'm doing a great job of telling this story), and the liquor store guy said chuckling, "That's ok, I'll forgive you this time."

I thought he handled it all very well. When I got up to the counter, I joked around with him and told him that I didn't realize the storm troopers were in town. He laughed and rung me up, but the whole time I was standing in line and looking at these guys, I couldn't help getting really angry. I wondered if one of them would notice me and think I was Jewish, because I get that a lot, and try to start shit with me in the store, or wait for me outside. I thought maybe I should hit one of them with a bottle. I figured I could get one real good before the other one pummeled me something awful. As I walked home with my six pack, I got increasingly more angry, like I should've done something, even though I didn't know what or why. Any shouting or bottle clubbing wouldn't have solved anything. They'd still be racist pricks, and I'd still be a whiny liberal (but with some whiny liberal bruises). And even worse, all that hate and anger would've made me just as bad as they were.

go ask alice...i think she'll know

I was doing some searching on Netflix for Kate Beckinsale movies, because even though we're madly in love (I sent her a letter about it, and since I haven't received one back, I'm going to assume that my feelings are reciprocated), I've only seen a few of them. I saw an Alice move on the list and moved it to the top of my queue. I guess it was made for British television, but it had a really good cast (Ian Holm, Steve Coogan, Ms. Beckinsale, and a few other really good British actors who I've seen a billion times but don't know their names).

It was very childish, but in a good way. It was obviously made for kids, but even the most saccharine portrayals of Lewis Carroll's work kinda freak me out. I told this to my roommate and she said that the Disney cartoon gave her nightmares when she was a kid. I still get an eerie chill when I think of some of the scenes in that.

What I like most about Carroll's work is his poetry and how he mixes it into his prose as if they were nursery rhymes passed down through generations. Ian Holm gave a beautiful reading of this poem in the telefilm, and it really got under my skin.

`I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?' I said.
"and how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,' he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread --
A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale:
He said "I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rolands' Macassar Oil --
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue:
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
"And what it is you do!"

He said "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for crabs;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth --
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so,
Of that old man I used to know --

Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo --
That summer evening, long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.'

I'm not quite sure what I think about it yet, but I love the rhythm of it, and the way Holm read it made it all seem really poignant. Maybe it was the accent. Not that I'm trying to be all "tell me your feelings" but if anyone of the four of you who read this have any thoughts about it, I'd like to hear it.

As if the Mets taking two of three from the Yankees wasn't enough to get the coming week off to a good start, I'm also going to sign my life away on a 2005 Scion xB. I got a pretty good deal on it and the payments are pretty low. I'm just really excited about having a car again, even if it means I won't be able to afford taking it anywhere. The one I'm getting is white, which isn't my favorite color (you know, it gets dirty real easy), and I'm not sure what I'm going to name her.

it had to be you

I've been playing this game with myself lately. I ponder whether I should stay up late and do some work at home or just try to get up early and take care of it in the morning. Usually, I opt for trying to get up early. Over the past week, it's worked once. Friday, I was at the office by 9 and finished a story on The Meat Puppets. I wasn't as happy with it as I'd hoped. I kinda wrote it long form and should have been more mindful of my word count. I thought I set the scene pretty well, it just took me a long time to do so. When you've only got 800 words to describe an experience you'll tell your grandkids about, you've got to make them count. You've still also got to make it relevant to others, because no one cares about your sentimental crap. I think I stumbled on that last bit, but I'll have another chance to rewrite it. Today, I brought home a stack of CDs to review, but I'm just going to take care of them in the morning. I decided my evening would be better served with sports and Chinese takeout and my last bottle of Moose Drool. I've gotta run out and buy another six.

When it comes to sports, I'm really loyal and super picky. I haven't been able to get behind another team since I was a New Jersey Devils fan. That was about 18 years ago, and the affair lasted till I moved to California. Now it's just the Mets and the football Giants. For the longest time, I've tried to get into a local team, but to no avail. I tried to half-heartedly cheer for the Sharks, but they're not really local, and I don't know anyone who's into hockey, so that ended that. The A's and the Giants are out, because my heart bleeds Mets; I hate the Raiders and the 49ers can go to hell. The closest team is the Sacramento Kings, who are kinda folk heroes up here, but their fans are so fairweather, and I've never really been much into basketball. However, over the past month or so, I really got into the Golden State Warriors and their unlikely playoff run, which was ended today by the Utah Jazz.

After they upset the Mavericks in round one, I was pretty hooked. Watching the game on TV from the Oracle Arena, where 20,000 fans were standing and screaming and chanting, "Air ball," was a total rush, so I settled into the unfamiliar role of frontrunner, and I enjoyed the ride for as long as it lasted. I mean, with plays like this, I doubt there's any sports fan who wouldn't be stoked.



At I saw the game slipping out of the Warriors' hands, I figured I'd just shrug it off, but I felt that familiar bubbling of frustration--a feeling you grow accustomed to cheering for the New York Mets. I began cursing under my breath, then out loud, and then muttering hateful things at the opposing team. It could have been the heat of the moment, but maybe I've finally found my local team.

my new car

Over the past week or so, I'd been planning to buy a new Toyota Yaris. The car's small and really good on gas and kinda spunky looking which were all the things I was looking for. I found one with the right color and options and just today handed in my credit application. I was excited.

"This is exciting!" said the agent at the car buying place who has been working with me over the past couple weeks.

"I know!" I said, because it was.

I waited all day to hear back whether or not I got the 6.9% financing that would make my payments manageable. I got a really good quote from GEICO on insurance--I even got an e-mail with the gecko on it--and had figured that even though I'd be eating Ramen and table salt for the next few years, I would at least be able to sit in my car and pretend I was going somewhere. I'd already planned to take a trip up into this podunk foothill town that has a really good Chinese restaurant with really nice owners. While I was there, I could pick up the office dog and bring him back down for the weekend. Perhaps I'd also a trip up to this little town further north in the valley that has a burger stand that sells tater tots and frostys.

I thought maybe I'd take a drive to the coast some weekend or do a day trip to Reno and play penny slots with the mug full of change I have in the living room. There must be at least $30 in there.

I don't need a car. I've lived here over five years without one. I don't need it to go to work; the office and all the bars worth going to (though they're not so much worth going to anymore) are all in walking distance. I'm over all the restaurants around me, but there's really nothing to exciting outside my walking distance. I've even hoofed it to the supermarket on a few occasions, though having a car would make those trips a lot easier. Mostly, I just wanted a car. When I was talking to my mom about it she told me I should have something besides work. It's true, I guess. All I know is, this morning when I woke up, I actually wanted to get out of bed so I could drop off my credit ap, and I haven't had many days like that lately. It's why I haven't been writing much, because I'd rather get over myself in private.

I got the call around 4 or so that my financing didn't come through. My credit's good. I knew that. I've had plenty of credit checks before. But I got a lot of debt because of school loans and credit card bills that I ran up when I first moved here and so I could take regular trips back home. I thought I'd budgeted it out, but seems like somewhere around 81% of my income goes to debt. The agent told me she could get me a rate that was around 8.9% which I guess is still really good. The payments would go up a bit, but I was going to be scraping by as it was. Hearing back about my credit report was pretty shitty too. I don't need another bill. I've never been much of a morning person anyways.