It’s hard for me to remember what day it is. Being home is reminding me of the person I used to be, who, to be honest, wasn’t all that different than the person I am now. I spent one afternoon reading through my old journal, and late last night / early this morning going through my high school yearbook and remembering all the girls I had crushes on. I didn’t miss a single one. I even remember what classes I had with most of them. I don’t know if that’s sad or just thorough.
36,131 feet over Nebraska
Al Franken’s book is turning out to be a real page turner. I don’t care if what he’s saying is true or not; it’s getting my ire up and making me laugh, so that’s all that really matters. I’m significantly entertained. It’s 2:15am according to my computer’s clock, so I’m guessing there’s another two-plus hours to go. I’d read some more but, I was the only person on the plane with the reading light on, and I felt really guilty about it.
I just can’t sleep on planes. It’s not the most comfortable environment to begin with; I’m amazed I’m able to type. The reclining action on these seats isn’t anything to write about (ho ho), and there’s not that much room to spread out. But more importantly, I’m under the unfounded belief that somehow, it is by my will alone that keeps the plane from crashing. Sleeping would only let my guard down and lead not only to my death, but the death of these fine people who are flying with me. And I can’t let them down, now can I? I’d be a murderer seeing as I have the ultimate power over whether we all arrive at our destination safely. It’s a big burden to bear, but I guess I’m up to the task. Really, I have to be.
There was one exception, however [this addendum written at my parents' home]. I had the whole row to myself on one flight, the smoothest flight I could remember. It was a red eye, and I think I'd missed the plane I was supposed to take. I was heading back to New York from California, it must have been off season. I watched some DirecTV and eventually became rather sleepy. If I did miss my first flight, I must have spent most of the day at the airport and was pretty damn tired as a result. I propped up a couple of flimsy plane pillows and shrouded myself in a flimsy plane blanket and stretched out across all three seats. No seat belt, no turbulence. I think I slept the majority of the flight. I believe the flight attendant woke me up. I buckled up and prepared for landing.
The landing was perfect, not even a bounce, like we had found purchase on a feathered bed. Maybe I should pass out on the plane more often.
9:25pm Pacific; 12/24/04
Got to the airport just in time to see the fog roll in, thick like a few nights ago. Fog is fine for walking, but I’d rather not have so much of it on a night I’m supposed to fly cross-country. I’ve already been here for four hours (roughly), though the time’s gone by pretty quick. I’ve been finding ways to occupy myself, such as typing this thing up even though I can’t get on the Internet; hopefully it makes me look more interesting, because there seems to be a lot of single women around, and most of them aren’t half bad looking; though I doubt my ratty Iron Maiden T-shirt and old-ass jeans are doing me any good in that department.
I used to scoff at people on their laptops in the airport—or any public place for that matter. I just always figured it was their feeble attempt to look more interesting, but here I am—being that guy. I hate that guy.
I ended up at the airport bar—had to take the terminal shuttle to get there, since I arrived at 5:30pm and couldn’t check my bags till 9. The terminal my plane’s leaving from has restaurants and shops and the like, but they’re only accessible after you’ve passed through security, and you can’t get through security without a boarding pass, which left me shit out of luck. Well, not entirely, the other terminal was right around the corner.
At the bar, I sat down at a table by the television and ordered a rum and coke. I was asked if I wanted to make it a double. I thought that went without saying.
Sitting at the table adjacent to mine was an older woman, probably in her late 40s or early 50s. She had the bartender put on A Christmas Story, which I still haven’t seen all the way through. Most people scold me when I tell them that. During commercial breaks, she’d turn around and speak to me. She asked me where I was headed, and I told her
She told me the past few months hadn’t been the greatest. Her husband was attending a funeral in
I can hear two novices talking about NYC, my ugly, pretty, wonderful, shitty hometown; debating where
After a plate of chicken cutlet parmeggiana and broccoli, a High Life, four shots of Crown Royal and Napolean Dynomite, my Christmas woes didn't seem so bad. Y'know, everytime a bell rings, and angel gets its wings and all that. At the very least, I was able to spend the big end-of-year blow out with my family and most of my friends (the East coast ones, anyway).
For a while there, though, I was feeling like ol' George Bailey in a Capra nightmare. What difference do I make. The world would be better off without me, or maybe I'd be better off with out the world. But like George, I suppose, Clarence came 'round in the form of Canadian whiskey and showed me the true meaning of Christmas. All you need is love, man, and when love's on the scarce side, a couple of shots will clear that right up.
Ol' Crown must have been watching over me this morning, too, as upon my arrival at the office, I found a small tupperware container filled with candied nuts made by office mom, a wedge of cheese that I'd ordered as part of my mom's Christmas gift and my boss gave me my Christmas bonus in the form of a brand new Benjamin. I could hear the chorus of angels sing and saw Ol' Crown wink at me from on high. Yeah, it's all about the love, but being able to buy stuff is pretty fucking cool, too.
I'm cynical about a lot of things, but not Christmas. I like to go big for Christmas and buy for as many people as possible (I usually go overboard). I actually like the hoiliday and even all the consumer bullshit that goes with it. I like the crowds; I like the stress; I like the traveling and running around; and I even like some Christmas songs (the traditional ones). But this has been a long hard year at work and just mentally I feel drained from everything. Not to mention I'm broke. I have enough for gifts, I think, but that's about it. I don't know what to get anyone...and I'm broke. I think that really needs to be emphasized. That I'm broke.
Thinking about the elderly reminds me. Today while I was having lunch at the super burrito place with a couple of my coworkers, there was this old couple--the real cute and quiet time--sitting in the booth next to us. The waiter served them two glasses of red wine in really tall glasses with green-blue stems. They both sat together on the same bench of the large boot.
We didn't really pay them much mind; we spoke about how funny goths are, and I told a story about a dominatrix my friend hit on in a goth club in Long Island a while back. I noticed then that the couple was occasionally looking at us, but their expressions never changed--just plain and cold. After I had told my dominatrix story, the coworker sitting across the booth from me was talking about some news item he'd heard--an educational channel that's broadcasted in school and is sponsored by Pepsi or Coca-Cola or something--and how they're brainwashing children at a young age. He sat with his back to a large window that gives a view of the sidewalk and street outside. Over his left shoulder, I noticed the old man of the couple sitting next to us vomitting on the sidewalk. He was out there for a while, but eventually returned with the aid of his cane.
The couple watched us on and off the entire length of our meal and barely touched their wine. As we were leaving, I noticed the woman's eyes were still pointed at our booth.
I said, perhaps foolishly, "If you end up going to that party tonight, give me a call."
My house has become sort of a refuge for all the angsty kids who don't like their parents. That's fine. I was angsty when I was their age, but I always have gotten along with my folks. I had to be angsty about other things.
It feels strange for me, being close to 3o, and having my house full of kids--they're not my friends, but a roommate's; he's 22--and for the most part they're pretty nice. They tend to leave their empty beer bottles everywhere, but I was the same way when I was their age, and I can still be pretty messy if I don't check myself. This evening, I did a bunch of dishes before I had left over pasta and sausage for dinner. The kitchen's a mess again, but I'm not tripping. Half-hearted cleaning gives me something to do when I come home from work.
I was sitting in my room, logging quality time with my PlayStation 2 when the kids showed up. There might have been 20 of them, but really it was probably only six. I thought they might be moving on as quickly as they arrived, but they ended up staying, which was fine by me, but Mondays make me old and grumpy so I closed my door and watched disc four, season one of Carnivale. Halfway through the second episode, at 11pm, I got a phone call.
"Me and so-and-so are going to so-and-so's party. You want to go?"
"Yeah, sure."
"We'll be there in five minutes, is that cool?"
"Yeah, I'll be ready when you get here."
Five minutes was more like 20 really, but I wasn't really counting. There were discarded bowls of pudding everywhere and empty bottles of beer and kids ripping bong hits in my kitchen, but whatever. They were being pretty laid-back about it. But since I felt like a guest in my own home, I figured it'd be best just to check out for a little while. That was the plan--just for a little while. An aquaintence of mine was having a birthday today, so I at least wanted to wish her a happy birthday, and I already had to bottles of beer in me anyways...
It seems that my way to wish someone a happy birthday is to drink myself sleepy on a Monday night. I guess it wasn't entirely my fault (really, it was), but I didn't have to pay for a single drink, seeing as the birthday girl was a bar employee.
There was Guinness, fun and a cozy small turn out. I got a ride home--the bar is way across town--so I'm happy, and not only because I'm a bit buzzed.
I don't care that there's empty beer bottles (none of which are mine) strewn across my house, and it doesn't bother me that work is just a scant few hours away (but it probably will bother me when my alarms go off). For now, I'm going to pour myself a tall glass of water, maybe pay the bathroom a visit, and thank my liver for yet another proud night of service.
I owe you, buddy.
Thanks, R for the banner!
Fittingly enough, I watched most of the movie Diner this evening, but I couldn't make it through. It's really good, but I think I'm just mentally exhausted right now.
I cooked a big dinner and made a killer pot of sauce. I was really proud of it, and it was spicy enough to make my brow sweat, so I think I did something right. It's a shame I can't get really good Italian sausage here in WASP wonderland, but I make do with what we got. Besides, when you're usually cooking for stoners, you don't really need the good, good stuff. They'll eat just about anything.
[photo by Tom Andersson]
When my eyes opened, I felt like I was in a state of suspended animation. I had made it into my bed last night, that was obvious, and the television was on. The Eagles were playing the Cowboys. I couldn't tell what the score was. I couldn't reallyu move, to be honest, but I was more or less aware of what was going on around me. I wondered if that was what death was like; my breathing and my heart were moving slow, at least it felt slow. Maybe I was just more aware of it. I felt calm, warm and comfortable. It was nice, really.
No hangover (I think the one the day before prepped me sufficiently), just cozy, groggy and sleepy. I didn't move for another two hours until my dad called me up, and he apologized for waking me up. I said it was okay since, I'd been awake, more or less, for a while already.
After the phone call, I thought it would be a good idea to make some breakfast. It may have been just about 1pm. I boiled some eggs when I heard my name shouted from my front door; it was a woman from work and her roommate. Everyone was going to champagne Sunday brunch--everyone!--so I was pretty much was obliged to go, and I wanted to, also.
Pretty much everyone from the night before was at Sunday brunch. I ate steak and eggs and tried to figure out what the hell the gymnastics program that was on the television above the bar was all about.
Brunch was eh, but it was nice to hang out with everyone before they headed back out of town. I didn't have any champagne, though, because the cheap stuff makes me sick. Not to sound like a snob, but if I'm going to drink champagne, it's got to be good, otherwise I'll just stick to beer and such. No one really wanted to split up so champagne brunch turned into the after after after party over at my house where some people ripped bong hits and I ended up downing two pints of Guinness. I took pictures, there were more hugs, and again, a great time was had. I head there's a birthday party tomorrow or Tuesday, then another function on Thursday, and I'll be leaving for New York to visit the family on Friday night. All this fun is really starting to wear me down.
[from stock.xchng]
Ugh.
Some saint of a woman picked me up at 4 in the morning, otherwise, I'd be freezing my ass off in the streets somewhere right now.
Tonight was more fun than I could have hoped. I got to the party fashionably late (like an hour) but the room was still pretty dead when I got there. I decided not to pre-party, but I also decided not to eat before I left the house. I figured it would help me along, and give my body one less thing to have to process. After my first stiff Bacardi and Coke, I realized that not eating was a grave mistake. Luckily, deli trays were provided, and these super cool chicken club wraps that were very, very yummy. I downed about four or five plates of food as I sipped rum 'n' coke number two.
My suit was a hit. I never look good, mainly because I don't know how to dress myself without female supervision, but when I have to get all swanked up, I make looking good my mission. I mean, if I'm going to have to be uncomfortable for a few hours, I better damn well look good doing it. Also, because I'm usually the supreme visage of frumpy, when I do look good, it's like a fucking event and everyone comments on how good I look, which boosts my ego for a full year. It's the little things, I guess, that keep me going. Thanks to the sleazy sales dude who hooked me up with the killer shirt and tie combo.
After the party was the after party at the local watering hole, and after the after party was an after after party at a house on the other side of town. I attended both and wandered around town in a drunken stupor in full suit. I was going to walk home, but it would have taken me forever, and I couldn't afford an overcoat for my suit. I'll probably try to pick one up when I'm in the city over Christmas, and the temperature was in the 30s, so I called a friend who'd said (to my roommate) that we could call at any time for a ride if we needed one. He'd ditched the party at some point. I really don't know when, but I didn't think I was going to make it. She picked me up outside a diner. I bought her chicken strips and fries, and I was whisked back to my house.
The Little Space Heater that Could is doing its best to warm up my room, and I suppose I'll slip under the covers and not get out from under them until sometime tomorrow afternoon, but I busted my ass all year to enjoy this party, and at least it was worth it.
I should be getting ready for the party, but I'm sitting around instead. Last night was long, but not half as arduous as I thought it'd be. I got home around a quarter to four and there were people in my house. I don't know who, but I introduced myself to all of them anyway, and then went to sleep.
I woke up an hour later on my floor. I knew I didn't make it to my bed. Sometimes the floor is more comfortable anyway. Apparently, at the time of my voyage into sleepy land, I had enough sense to prop a pillow under my head. I woke up reasonably refreshed--or as refreshed as possible. I didn't black out, mind you. I wasn't that drunk. I've never been that drunk, but still, sometimes I have to remind myself why or how a certain thing happened. It only takes a minute or so to remember.
What did take forever, though, was trying to figure out where I put my glasses before I fell asleep for the second time. I tore apart my room trying to find them, and finding them wouldn't be easy since upon waking up, and without my glasses, the entire world is an amorphous blob. I turned on the clinical fluorescent ceiling light to help, but really, all it did was give the blob an unnatural glow.
I did find them though, and just in time to make it down to the dry cleaners to pick up my suit. Afterwards, a late, free breakfast at Denny's followed (like 2:30pm) and then back home for two episodes of Carnivale and a nap.
Over the course of the day, I discovered that I have no money. Like really no money. It's almost all gone, and I don't think I have enough to pull a 20 out of the ATM. Good thing drinks are free tonight. I love the idea of the formal party, but really, I can't afford it, especially this time of year. Next year I should just show up in a jeans and a T-shirt.
Old acquaintences have already begun to stream into town. There's a reunion concert of sorts taking place this evening, and my office's holiday party is tomorrow. I'm equally as excites as I am nervous of the debauchery that will ensue.
I guess this is the one time of year that it's okay to make yourself into a drunken lout--not that that stops me the rest of the year--and I'm planning to take full advantage. It's been a long year, but I'm not going to get all teary eyed and look-back-y for 2004 just yet. There are still two weeks to go, and this year's been such a foul and unruly beast, I'm sure it has got a few more nasty tricks before the calendar resets and ushers in a fresh set of 12 months that will finally take on its own personality by Dec. 31st, 2005.
Was that look-back-y? It wasn't intentional, I swear.
[from Wikipedia]
That early morning fog that lingered around the valley yesterday was a memory by the afternoon, but I guess it took a liking to us, because it came back in force today around 5pm. The temperature dropped, the air got super damp, and the fog was super thick--all in time for me to make my walk home. It got worse as the night went along, and when I headed downtown at around 9pm, it was so bad, I could barely see across the street. I was kinda worried that I'd get hit by a car or something, but the world looked all warm and fuzzy, especially mixed with the glow of the orange street lights. I make the same walk maybe one to three times a day--sometimes more, sometimes less. I like walking because of the exercize, but it's also a good time to think and talk to myself (not like that). With the heavy fog settled in, it was like a whole new walk, which made it so much more interesting. ...Well, to me it was, anyway.
---
I finally caught the wrap-up special for The Office, and I couldn't have been happier with it. I only just caught wind of the series this year, and gobbled up the first two seasons. They made me laugh so hard; at least most of the first and second season did. By the end of the second season the show got frighteningly serious, and was still just as compelling.
[Ricky Gervais (writer / director / actor) performing the most ridiculous dance number ever as David Brent]
The finale was along the same lines--toeing a delicate line between uncomfortably absurd and hilarious to just plain uncomfortable. The series is wildly clever, but the most amazing part was how they were able to create such memorable characters in such a short stretch of time. It's a shame that the series is done, but I've got to admire them for going out on top and really allowing their work to mean something, instead of just dragging it out and running it into the ground.
I had this dream that involved me running around the town that I live in--though the layout was much different--in the early morning hours, like 4 to 5am, and some kind of haze had settled in. It was thick enough, I guess, that I couldn't find my way back home. I was moving pretty fast because I wanted to get home and go to sleep. I had to be awake at 7am for work, and I'm not sure what I was out doing. I was so worried about not getting home and not being able to wake up for work that I pondered just staying awake, since I would only get about two hours sleep anyway, but I didn't know where I was. I ran down a main road and made a turn on a street that I thought would bring me back to my house, but it turned out that I was in unfamiliar territory. The houses looked strange and were close together, but I thought I saw a shortcut (to where I don't know). I slipped into this one alley and on the other side, it started to look more like my neighborhood, but really, it kind of looked like the street my grandmother lives on back in New York. It felt like I was on the right track, but it wasn't what I was looking for. The shortcut left me in someone's backyard, so I quickly made my way through to the front gate so no one would think I was tresspassing. I kept thinking that I wouldn't make it to work on time at this rate.
That anxiety led me to open my eyes. It was still dark outside, and I took a deep breath because I was relieved that I was in my own house, in my bed, and had gotten to sleep after all. I closed my eyes, ready to go back to sleep, but as soon as I did, the alarm went off--6am sharp. I'm not a morning person. Sometimes, I'm not asleep when 6am rolls around; I usually wake up when the sun's up. I really thought it would be.
Of course, I got out of bed, smacked the alarm, went back to bed, heard the second alarm (my stereo), lowered the volume with my remote, laid back down, heard the third alarm (the clock again, but a beeping sound this time), got out of bed, smacked the alarm, went back to bed...
It's the same routine every morning, but this time i was doing it two-and-a-half hours earlier. I never like getting out of bed, but it's even worse now that it's winter time, and we don't use the heat in the house, because we're broke. I have a little space heater that keeps my room pretty toasty, and about seven blankets, but outside my door, it's about 50 degrees F. I pulled it together, though. I called the cab, and the driver turned out to be the guy who gave me a free ride (not that he wanted to). Turned out that it really wasn't a free ride, because I had to pay double this time.
Got to the office on time to let a writer in for an early interview, but, after said interview was 15 minutes late, I made a phone call to find out what was going on. Oh. Didn't I get the message? The schedule's been pushed back. It's at 9 now...Oh. No. I didn't get that message. Thanks.
I'm not mad at them. That's the way things work sometimes, but the couch in the reception area's looking mighty comfortable right about now.
I saw a proof of the magazine today, and this time I didn't feel like vomiting, which I think is a step in the right direction.
I'm not entirely proud of this project I'm in charge of--it's really not the kind of publication I want to be doing--but still, when I see it printed up, even just in its proof form, I can't help but get all excited about it. I mean, I made that. It's kind of hard to explain.
That being said, it's not exactly what I want to be remembered for. For now, it pays the bills, which are mounting, so I guess I can't really complain. At least I'm not working retail. I know what that's like this time of year.
---
To look at the proofs, we had to drive up to this mountain town. It was foggy as fuck down here in the valley, but as we went up in elevation, the fog broke, and up in the mountain town it was a beautiful sunny day, and pretty warm too.
I've only been up to this place a few times, and it looks pretty dead. It's got that old, worn down look and seems to have one of those local hardware stores on every corner. It's the kind of place that looks like you can walk into a store and buy a glass bottle of Coke for a nickel or something. You can picture the paper boy riding his old bike down the streets and tossing rolled up newspapers on doorsteps, which is both serene and slightly disturbing. After the printing press, we ate at this cafe / deli kinda place that served big sandwiches and salads for cheap and was nestled in among tall evergreen trees. Sometimes I wonder what'd be like to live in a place like that. I think the quiet would kill me.
On the way back down the windy highway, you could actually still see the fog settling in the valley and trying to work its way into the canyon on my right. California can really be like a postcard sometimes. Sometimes, I just want to say, "enough, you're gorgeous, I get it. Just put the sun down for a minute. Please."
I should have known right off the bat that today would be filled with mixed blessings and mental lapses of staggering proportions.
I woke up with barely enough time to get dressed and call a cab for work. I had no cash, so I had the driver bring me to the ATM right down the block from my office. When I reached into my walled, I found that it was missing my ATM card. Wonderful. I limped back to the cab and told him my sob story. I offered to pay him with a check or my credit card, but he refused both and said 'no problem.' He didn't even look the least bit upset or worried. It was like he was just driving around for the heck of it. I reached into my wallet and pulled out the lonely dollar amidst the wad of ATM receipts and thanked him profusely.
A free ride caused by my own carelessness. Where was this headed?
Today was deadline day and just the thought of it kept me awake all night last night even though I was pretty beat and even exercized beforehand. Still, I tossed and turned and couldn't even doze off until past 6am. However, I was surprisingly calm until the work started rolling in hardcore. There was a 5pm deadline, and there was no chance we were going to make it, but we kept plugging away anyway. Around 8pm, I got a hankering for burrito...super burrito, and told the lone coworker remaing that I was going down the street to get a burrito and asked him if he wanted anything. He handed me a $20 bill and gave me his order and I threw on my jacket and left. I got about a block and a half away before I noticed that the place was closed. I didn't want to believe it, so I walked about half a block closer before I gave up all hope. I thought maybe they were just working with the lights off, but then I saw the Volkswagen-sized closed sign in the window and cut my losses. I called the office and told my coworker that we were shit out of luck, but he seemed to be hardly surprised about it. Apparently he was having one of those days too. We opted for fast food crap, and as I approached the office to meet up with him, I noticed that the money he had given me was nowhere on my person. Maybe I left it in the office, I told him, if not I'll write you a check. See, I would have pulled a 20 out of the bank machine myself...if I had my ATM card.
I had to get Jack in the Box...again...because it's the only fast food place in walking distance that takes credit card. I got the ULTIMATE cheesburger, which is actually a damn fine hangover cure.
Back to the office; sure enough, I left his 20 on my desk. Dodged another one there. More work, but luckily it didn't take us till the wee hours of the morning this time. We were done by about 11pm, which left time to grab a couple of drinks at this bar I can't stand and go on my way.
Unfortunately, I forgot the second disc of Carnivale that I rented and was stoked about watching tonight at the office. I watched the first two episodes last night and am crazy hooked. They seem to make TV shows with the DVD format in mind lately. They're like really long movies that you can watch in small installments. Carnivale combines a lot of my favorite visuals: carnivals, old Americana, dust and sepia tones. It's pretty crazy. It's some wacked out battle of good and evil that revolves around this dude who was picked up by a carnival. It takes place during the Great Depression in the Dustbowl of America, and the moments are pretty fuckin' wheelchair.
I got the deluxe edition of The Downward Spiral by Nine Inch Nails recently, which was a good thing because I think I lost my original copy. The deluxe edition doesn't seem all that special. The second disc has selections of B-sides and remixes that were released on the CD singles from that era. I haven't really checked to see if there were any videos or anything like that, but I wouldn't be surprised if there were.
This is the first time I've listened to it in a long time, and it's still pretty savage. This was one of my favorite albums growing up, which probably explains why I was such a miserable teenager.
When I used to work in the mall, there was one dude who was a friend of one of my coworkers, and the three of us used to get together for cigarette breaks in the mall tunnels sometimes (employee passages that are kinda like the backstage of full throttle capitalism). I think the other dude worked at the B. Dalton Booksellers or something simlarly mall-y. Bookseller was a pretty cool guy. I think he was into D&D and Magic the Gathering and Vampire the Masquerade and shit like that--a total Food Court Druid, though he didn't look the part. He looked more like one of the dudes from Bare Naked Ladies, or like a guy who could hang with those guys. You know what I mean.
Anyway, he was always telling these weird stories--I guess he was into real magic and was part of a coven or whatever. Hey, to each his own. I'm superstitious enough not to fuck with that shit. He went on once about protection spells and getting magically attacked by some black magic coven and I guess some shit went down, but he pulled through okay. Once he told me this story about how he met Trent Reznor in Manhattan by chance and ended up going to lunch or dinner with him. Apparently he saw Trent on the street walking around and probably being all Trent-like but trying to be low key about it. The Food Court Druid approached him and Trent was all "you know who I am?" and Druid was all, "yeah." Then Trent said "don't say anything," and then they got something to eat and had this deep conversation.
I'm pretty sure that's how the story went. Personally, I'm more apt to believe all that shit about magic than Trent Reznor taking random people who recognize him out to lunch then spilling his soul, but who knows. The Downward Spiral is pretty fucked up, and I mean, just look at the guy...
[from sickamongthepure.com]
That's someone who could use a hug. We all could, really.
I stopped by a local Jack in the Box on the way to see some bands last night. I needed something to eat fast, which is usually the case given my schedule, but overall I've been pretty good about avoiding fast food restaurants. Every so often, though, I like me some fast food.
Everyone who worked there, except the manager, was in high school, or could have passed for high school. Two of the girls behind the counter were talking to a customer who was their friend, I'd assume, because they knew him by name. I waited patiently, because I know what it's like to work a shitty job.
[this post was interupted by my friend. we went to some kegger and i spilled jaegermeister on a kitchen floor when i tried to take a shot through a red vine licorice straw. i'm sure other stuff happened too, but i'm just glad i made it home in one piece, though i'm not entirely sure how. -the editor]
Eventually, I got to make my order--some stuff off the dollar menu. Though I love the Jack in the Box commercials, the sad fact remains that most of their burgers make me ill. I got a chicken sandwich, a hamburger deluxe (which is smaller than most of their other burgers mind you) and some fries. I stood off to the side and awaited my meal when I noticed their breakfast menu. Jack in the Box, unlike other fast food restaurants, serves breakfast all day. I think they serve their burgers all day too, which is pretty fucking scary if you ask me. They have about six or seven options on their menu, but my favorite one was the, I swear this is what it's called, the EXTREME (caps mine) Sausage Sandwich. No, really. It's two pieces of sausage, with eggs, I think, and cheese, pressed between an english muffin or biscuit or something. According to the Jack in the Box Web site, it weighs some 217 grams, contains 690 calories and boasts 50 total grams of fat, which even makes McDonald's freakishly gluttonous McGriddle breakfast sandwich light fare by comparison. Now that's extreme.
I'm not pointing this out because I think fast food companies are evil (I mean clearly, they are), I'm just saying, maybe if you're crazy enough to eat anything titled "extreme" on a regular basis, you probably have a death wish. Especially when you consider "extreme" sports usually involve jumping off of bridges with a rubber band strapped to your ankles.
I'm just sayin'.
It seems that in America everything caries supreme, spectacular, or some such hyperbolic adjective. You'd never see tne subdued breakfast sandwich at one of these places. Though honestly, I doubt I'd eat that either.
I haven't done shit at work today. I'm not going to lie. About all I've done is AIM people, eavesdrop on office conversations and read slowly through e-mail. Oh, I did a little bit of work setting up an interview, but that's it.
It's nice not to be busy after the last few days, and I know I'll be busy again on Monday, but right now, I just don't give a fuck to be honest. I've also done a lot of time surfing the Internet looking for stupid tidbits of news; it's one of my favorite pastimes and it makes it look like I'm doing something when I'm really not. I found this little piece of news. I'd really like to buy my own island, too, but I don't think I have enough room left on my credit card.
I made up my mind yesterday that I would start exercizing about three days a week. I didn't want to wait for New Year's to make a resolution, because I usually make said resolutions in the throes of some depraved alcohol binge, and they're never anything practical--things like "I resolve to get drunker tonight," and shit like that. Plus, I think I've lost a little bit of weight from stress, so I figured why not keep it going?
I'm really self conscious about these things. I have no idea why. I can't exercize in the morning because I barely wake up with enough time to take a shower and walk to work let alone run around the block a few times, plus, I don't want anyone to know I'm exercizing, so I decided I'd do it at night--after 11pm. I'm tired of feeling old when I'm still sorta young, and I just can't do anything like I used to, so I guess I'll try to be more health conscious. Even typing that irks me. I had a membership at the gym a little while back, but I hated going there--all those people and lights. Gyms are loud too, and I never knew if I was working the equipment right. I suppose I could have asked someone, but the less people who realized I was there, the better.
However, my mind has been made up. I'm an exerciser now. I figured I'd do the walking thing, since I walk to and from work most of the time, and I like walking, so now I'm just speeding it up and exploring my neighborhood, which I haven't really gotten a chance to do. Not much to see at night, though, to be honest.
Tonight was the first night because the planned innaugural faster-walk-one-day-maybe-a-jog night, last night, had to be postponed due to me being at work till 3:15am. This evening, I really had no excuses, but I really really tried to find some. I warmed up a bit first and did like...stretching and situps and pushups and stuff...(this is so embarassing) which I know how to do more or less from watching fitness shows and the like, but I'm so damn unco-ordinated I feel like a dolt. Anyway, it got the job done, and after ten or so minutes (I was hoping it would take longer), I felt my heart beating a bit faster and blood flowing to places it really didn't like going. I figured I was ready, so I...y'know...wandered around at a brisk pace. I even broke out into a ...jog... in spurts, but quickly stopped if I saw a car coming, even if it was a few blocks away. I think I'd rather get caught masturbating than caught jogging... ...or maybe not. Is that weird?
I have no idea why I'm so embarassed about exercising, but I always have been. Anything that has to do with my physical self kinda irks me. I really wish I was just a brain in a box. Regardless, afterwards, I felt pretty good. I didn't go out for that long a time, and I didn't go too far, but I figured I was just getting started and all that. Let's see how long I keep this up.
I stayed real late; till it was technically early. I've been up almost 24 hours and I've spent a good deal of that time at the office. Walked home at 3:15am, soaking rain, no one in this town cleans up their dead leaves. There were these deep puddles everywhere. My pants look like I played a game of football in them; they were shot to shit anyway. My jacket's soaked. I'm going in really late tomorrow.
I had to go pay the gas and electric bill, and since it was due today, I took it over to the office since I work only a couple blocks from it. The gas and electric office is kinda enigmatic. It's just a plain brick store front with a single door and some non-descript windows. There's only a bland sign that lets you know what the thing is. The glass door is tinted and all the blinds are closed on the windows so you can't even see into the place.
There's a line, of course. Everytime I go to one of these places there's a line, which I guess is common. The woman in front of me wasn't all too happy about it either. She wasn't making a big fuss about it, but she was doing the deep audible breath thing and the kind of arm cross shifting thing. I can't say I blame her. Inside was even more bland than the outside. Gray carpet, gray blinds, gray walls and the only thing to look at was the line of windows in front of us where the employees were seated at desks.
The line moved pretty fast--so hooray. After I was done, I turned back toward the door and noticed there was a bank of those quarter candy vending machines, and just my luck, there was one of the machines was serving up Peanut M&Ms. I popped in a quarter and turned the dial and was happy to see my palm fill up with the most Peanut M&Ms ever to pour out of these usually frugal machines. Perfect dessert for that noxious Taco Bell I ate.
As a sports fan, I remember hearing all about this story. I don't think his death is any more tragic than the thousands of others, but all of them are equally unfortunate, sad and perhaps could have been prevented. I guess this piece of info makes it even worse.
RIP Pat Tillman
I ended up going out this weekend--finally--and saw a couple bands play at the local watering hole. They really need to have more shows there. I dug the first band and was kinda eh about the second band. I think they were too talented or something.
During the second band, there was this dude in a buttoned up flannel dancing with this bar chick (aka girl you'd find at a bar) being all dance-y with one another and the like. I enjoy watching men and women locked in the mating ritual because I'm too much of a wuss to get involved in it myself. I watched them witn one of the women from work and we kept making comments. She asked me if I thought they were going to go home together tonight, and I answered, "The real question is which one of them is going to regret it."
Her opinion was that the woman would, and after some deliberation, I had to agree. Dude was clearly not drunk, at least nowhere near as drunk as the woman was, and he was totally doing the "I'm only grooving like this to make her think I'm interested in something other than jumping her bones" dance. It was so funny. I need a camera phone so I can take pictures of these things.
It was nice to get out and not feel like such a hermit. I tried to play it low-key tonight; for some reason, I just haven't felt confident enough to leave the house in social situations lately. I guzzled three pints of Guinness before I felt at ease, but I stopped at the third. Tomorrow's going to be a long day at work.
I don't know why I'm at the office. I thought other people would be here, because there was a lot of stuff to do, but now I'm sitting here by myself. On a Sunday.
I suppose I had to leave the house eventually. I didn't step foot outside all day yesterday. I barely left my room, though I did make one trip to the side house to have some dinner with my roommate. I don't think that counts though. So now I'm here using the company's electricity and drinking the company's fine bottled water. I think we have the best water cooler in the Western US. I mean, seriously. This stuff is that good.
---
Luckily Google Entertainment News is keeping my wandering mind occupied. That and girlie pictures. I found this article on the Peter Sellers biopic, which makes me really want to see it. I was a big fan of the Pink Panther movies when I was a kid.
I doubt I'd get this much, though...
I'm worth $1,523,560.74! How much are you worth?
I just couldn't stay in. I really wanted to, but the house is too cold, empty and quiet. I had to go out, but I didn't much feel like going to the local watering hole and wait around until I bumped into someone I knew. I decided to go to a downtown movie theater that plays a midnight movie. It's only about three bucks, and they show some flick from ages ago that people really seem to enjoy--Goonies, Raiders of the Lost Ark, shit like that. I decided to brave the cold (record breaking lows for California) and walk downtown. It's about a mile and a half, and I made two round trips, so I feel all healthy today.
I figured I'd at least check out what was playing, and if it was something I had completely no interest in, I'd just go grab a drink. I got to the theater and saw that they were playing Animal House. I've never actually seen that movie before, so after some internal debate, I decided to give it a shot.
The theater was filled with a bunch of chowder-headed douche bags, which is to be expected for such a movie, but all in all, it wasn't that bad. Unfortunately, I was kind of disappointed in the flick. I figured it'd be good for me to see it, seeing as I've been all mopey lately, but I only really laughed at John Belushi, and I could have done without the rest of them. It's not even that the movie was too low-brow. I loved Old School, but Animal House just didnt' do it for me. Maybe it was residual mopiness...or that the theater didn't have Red Vines. Could you imagine such a thing?!
I had the weirdest dream last night:
Apparently my old editing for publications professor and I were on a road trip down to Los Angeles. I'm not sure why we were going, but he and his family (wife and daughter) were going to show me around the city because I've never been before. I remember being on one of the California state highways, which down toward the city had turned into a major freeway and commenting on how long the road was when I saw one of the mile marker exits numbered over 1000--exit number 1076 or something, which I'm sure does not exist.
We arrived at his place more or less instantaneously after in dream time, and he lived in this posh LA mansion on a hill right next to a lake. The whole hill had been developed and though all the houses were large, they had little property and were all built pretty close together, but not Brooklyn brownstone close.
We walked up to the marble entry way and his wife and daughter greeted us. His wife was of Asian descent (he's a professerly looking white guy; heavy set with curly hair and glasses, probably in his 50s) and their daughter was simply beautiful. My old professor and his wife were talking about something, but the daughter and I were like in our own world just chatting about whatever. I couldn't tell how old she was. She looked young, but she spoke much more mature. I was trying to find out her age without asking so I didn't feel like a dirty old man.
The daughter was soon joined by a friend of hers. Another girl, but I couldn't take my attention off the daughter. Apparently, we were all going to go to the mall, but the daughter couldn't go just yet; she had to visit with her friend, but it wouldn't take that long because the friend had to go to work soon. The daughter said she'd meet us at the mall. The daugher and I kept looking at each other, and I couldn't wait till she met up with us.
The professor, his wife and I head over to their car and we were off. Again, instantaneously in dream time, we were down the hill and in a much poorer region of the city. I saw cops marching down the street and drug abusers and people driving busted ass cars. I wasn't traveling in the car with the prof and his wife, but sitting on a wheeled platform, kinda like a skateboard but much wider, alongside their car. I had to push myself along using my arms and hands and pushing off on the pavement, but it the platform really got moving and kept up with the car more or less.
The car turned a corner and parked. The prof and his wife exited the car and told me they had to talk to a friend before heading to the mall. The wife went to the house on my right side of the street and the prof. went to an exactly identical house on the left side of the street. Both entered the houses at the same time. I don't remember which house I ended up going in (could have been the one the prof went in or the one the wife went in), but it didn't seem to matter because whichever house it was, both the prof. and his wife were in there, along with their friend who was an older lady of seemingly little consequence. The house was large enough, but with smallish rooms and passage ways. The three of them talked about something and I wandered around a bit. I heard the friend say that so and so had gotten out of his cage. Apparently the critter they spoke of was a tiny little bat. I found this out when I turned a corner and saw the thing flying toward me. I turned to run, but the bat caught up to me and latched on to my left index finger. It stung, but he wasnt' a very big bat so it didn't hurt that much, and I didn' t want to hurt someone's pet, so I walked back into the kitchen to the friend and said that I'd found so and so.
The bat was still latched on, biting my finger. It hurt, but it wasn't crazy painful. However, the bite had caused quite a bit of blood. The friend and I pried the bat off of my finger and I asked her if I should be worried about rabies. She said I migt have gotten it, but so and so was clean so I probably wouldn't have to worry. We got the bat off my finger, and i was holding him in my right hand. His jaws were still open like he was looking to bite into somethign again, or just pissed that he was behing held up. The friend, prof. and wife went into another room or something and I called out "What am I supposed to do with this bat?" and woke up.
I never did get to go to the mall...stupid alarm clock. If anyone has a dream about a pretty half japanese girl sitting in the mall waiting for me, please tell her I'll be there as soon as I can.
Got the Nirvana box set today. I didn't really get it so much as it was presented to me. I think I totally geeked out when I saw it. I gave a quiet "oh my god" as if I had just been caught in some kind of reality TV reveal; like I had just been reunited with a long lost relative.
I don't know why a scrawny heroin addict from one of the shittiest parts of Washington has had such an effect on my life. I've seen the fall of the Berlin wall, the dismantling of the Soviet Union, the Twin Towers attacked twice, two wars in Iraq and god knows what else, but none of it came close to the moment when "Lithium" made sense. The box set is pretty rough, but it's really well put together, and not in some glossy way. The sound quality is inconsistant (as well as the video quality on the DVD), but even with all the loud music, it's kinda quiet. It's about as subdued as such a thing could be, I guess. I dunno. Watching some of the clips on the DVD and listening to some of the home demos made me feel like I was intruding on something I wasn't meant to see. I'm selfish though. I wanted it anyway.
It's cold, and not just by California standards. I think it's supposed to get down into the 20s tonight. Last night, I stepped out on my porch right before I went to bed, and I forgot where I was. It's almost comforting that it's this cold in November. It reminds me of home. This is the way it's supposed to be, right?
My equilibrium has been totally thrown off since I got back from Thanksgiving yesterday. I think the cold is playing some part in that, but also, one of my roommates moved out--he was living in the side house. My other roommate decided to take residence in the vacant side house and in so doing, took all his belongings with him. Unfortunately, that has left the house quite barren seeing as he was the one who had all the stuff. Now there's absolutely nothing in the house except for my computer desk and lap top, my guitar, a love seat, a dresser, and some various other things, mostly items left over from past residents of the house. I don't even know who this stuff belongs to; no one else seems to either. I just know it's not mine.
I came home to see everything gone, and was instantly bummed. It was my roommate's stuff, so he had every right to take the stuff to the side house with him, but simply because the house was so empty. We'd taken time to arrange everything and had a nice little setup going, and now it's all gone. I don't even have anything to replace it with. I suppose I could buy furniture of my own, and I would if I was broke and weren't going to be moving out of here at the end of May.
I'm so sick of moving. I don't even know where I'm going to go next, or how I'm going to afford the rent increase, but that's another story.
Since everything's gone, there's not much point hanging out in the living room, which is what I liked to do when I got home. Now, I'm confined to my bedroom, which is kinda beat. I have all the necessary comforts in my bedroom, even if it is small, but I like reserving that room for sleeping. I hate hanging out in there all day, but really, there's not much else to do. I could sit on the couch and stare at the wall, maybe read a book, but there's nothing on the walls. It looks like me and my roommate C--the only two left in the main house--are kinda squatting in someone else's abandoned house. It's kinda funny, and kind of sad at the same time.
I like having stuff, but it's not overly important to me, which is good because I dont' have the money to get stuff. It seems to me that everyone I know has stuff. I have some stuff, but nothing important like chairs and couches and stuff. Whatever furniture I do have, I've inherited from people moving out of town. The only things that are actually mine are my twin-sized bed, the little cart thing I put my DVD player/PS2/VCR on and this crappy computer desk that I bought at Wal-Mart for 25 bucks because I wouldn't think twice about throwing it out if I had to. Now, I can't even think about getting rid of the thing. I'm not even sure if I put it together right.
I don't know how people get the furniture and whatnot. Maybe it's all inherited like mine. I try not to take on too many things because I've been such a nomad since I moved to California. I hate moving, and the less stuff I have to worry about the better. I've been lucky because I've been able to move into places that were already established, that had everything set up already, and all I had to do was fill up my bedroom with things. I can fill up an 8X11 pretty good, but anything bigger than that, and we're dealing with some serious negative space.
We need to get another roommate pronto because we're footing the bill this month for the departed guy; it's not anyone's fault, it's just taxing, especially now that it's the holiday season. I have to go shopping. I think about splurging at Best Buy and what a lame ass idiot I am. I got $125 worth of things for $50, and it was the first things I'd actually bought for myself that I didn't need in I don't even remember how long. I think I'm getting too old for this.
I was able to go to a friend's family's house for Thanksgiving, thanks to a ride offered by a coworker and her boyfriend. It was only Wednesday, and I already had something to be thankful for.
I guess I have a lot of things, but I don't need to list them. I'm well aware of both the kick-ass and suck-ass aspects of my life, though I'm probably not nearly as appreciative of either as I should be. The break was nice, but I think I could use a few more days. I stuffed my face on more than one occasion, lazed about like a bloated sack of turd, splurged at Best Buy and saw The Incredibles, which would've been the coolest movie I'd seen in the theaters this year if I hadn't seen Spider-Man 2. There's more fodder for the thankful pile.
I had a rent a car to bet back home--a nice new 2005 Ford Focus ZX5 with leather seats and a six-CD changer. It drove really nice--nicer than the older Focus I rented once--though it didn't seem to be as good on gas as I thought it'd be. Maybe I just miscalculated. It was a long drive, and there was some mountain driving involved too.
Most of the trip, though, was the long flat expanse of the California valley. The valley kinda depresses me, especially once you get into the thick of it with the endless fields and agriculture and purple, shadowy mountains in the distance around you. It really goes on forever. Once you get away from the coast, California really isn't all that interesting. It's kinda like Nebraska, really, if Nebraska were surrounded by mountains.
I'd only gotten a couple of hours of sleep for whatever reason, and I had to leave early in the morning to get the car back in time. I only had it for 24 hours, and I couldn't afford an extra day. I didn't get really tired until about 45 miles from home. That's when I started rubbing my eyes and yawning and speeding up and slowing down sporadically. A Burger King seemed as a good a place as any to recharge, get out of the car, and fill myself full of poisons that would keep my body awake. This Burger King was situated in this little shit town to the south of here. I suppose I shouldn't say that, even the shittiest towns are someone's home, but this place just seems really shitty. The scene inside the Burger King was something out of an independent film--the kind that exposes the shittiness that belies the glossy, Norman Rockwell image of small town America. There was an old dude in a trucker hat by one window eating his meal and hacking up a nasty cough, two non-descript guys in the back, and two girls working the registers who had probably lived in this place all their lives. The one girl who took my order seemed nice enough. When she read back my order, I saw that she had a tongue ring. She was probably a high school junior or senior. Something like that. She was really trying to be responsible; she apologized when she handed me my food in a bag and not on a tray because I hadn't ordered it to go. I didn't mind, really. I hate carrying the trays. I'm always worried I'm going to drop the thing.
I told her not to worry about it. I was happy that they held the mustard.
The burgers were kinda dry and tasteless, but I was only eating them to wake myself up. The onion rings were pretty good, and the Dr. Pepper had enough sugar in it to keep me from falling asleep at the table. As I was eating, a ketchup packet hit the floor next to me. I looked back toward the counter to notice that the other girl--probably a high school junior/senior herself--had thrown it. The responsible one shrieked the ketchup hurler's name, and the ketchup hurler apologized to me and explained that she was trying to hit the people sitting behind me.
I thought it was pretty funny. I said don't worry about it, because my mouth was on autopilot. The ketchup didn't explode or get all over me or anything. Again, I was just happy that they held the mustard. The ketchup hurler then started talking to the people behind me--about this guy and that girl and this parent and that parent and how she should quit Burger King and get a job at the McDonald's (which was directly across the street, mind you. I wish I had a camera) again because that's the only fast food she eats anyways. It was probably the exhaustion, but it made me kinda sad; it just sounded so dead end and hopeless--like this was all that girl had. She didn't sound at all upset about it, just maybe a bit indifferent, which perhaps made it that much sadder.
This is getting pretty emo.
It's a long drive, and a pretty boring one at that. I only went through one proper city on the way here to there, and the rest was fruit stands, small towns invaded by fast food restaurants and fields. I had the stereo up pretty loud, but once I got tired, it kinda faded out, and all I could do was think. The whole situation made me think of some childhood story of mine, that I wanted to write down, but I've forgotten all about it. I don't know why I thought of it on the drive, because it really had nothing to do with what was going on--which was a whole lot of nothing, really--but it just popped into my head, and now it's gone. Maybe I'll write it down if I remember it again. Just before I started writing this, I tried to remember what the story was, and the fact that I couldn't remember reminded me of the song "The Way It Is" by Bruce Hornsby and the Range. It was one of my favorite songs growing up. I guess it's kinda schmaltzy, but I still think it's really pretty in that sad kinda way. Everytime I hear that song, it reminds me of being in my parent's car as a child on the way home from Christmas Eve at our relative's house in New Jersey. We were pulled into a gas station and I was nodding out in the back seat when it came on. The more I think about it now, though, I wonder if it really was on Christmas Eve when I heard it, because we always used to listen to the stations that played Christmas carols on the drive. Still, that song reminds me of Christmas every damn time.
One holiday down...
It looks like it could go either way.
Counting Backwards, the Web's yin and yang.
Woah...it's Thanksgiving already. Where'd the year go? Blah blah blah.
I think that's becoming the new holiday jingle. No one knows where years go. They don't go anywhere. They just kinda happen.
I'm going to save my 2004 reflections for another blog, I think. You know...to build suspense. Mostly because I haven't really thought about it. I haven't had much time to think about the year, really. I've been too busy.
I went to my Chinese restaurant today. I like the place a lot because of its food and its atmosphere. It's a basement restaurant; you have to take a flight of stairs down to get there. It looks like it might have been swanky in the early '80s or late '70s or something. It's still nice, but it's got that lived in shabbiness that I only find appealing in Chinese restaurants. The woman who owns it--I assume she owns it--is really fascinating. I don't know why. I've never really spoken to her, but she just exudes this matriarchal vibe. To me, anyway. She's probably in her 50s or so, but she could probably pass for much younger and maybe she actually is. You can just tell by looking at her that she's in charge; not because she's curt or stern, but because of the way she holds herself and the way she walks around that restaurant. Like she could find her way around it even if it was pitch black.
Helping her run the place are people who I believe are family members, whether they're direct family or extended. I'm not sure, but they have a rappoire like they are family. There are also an assorted cast of non-family workers and waitpersons, but they're usually in and out. Among the family (if they are family) are the matriarch, a man who is usually in the kitchen, a young girl (I thought fourteen or so) and a young boy. He's like eight or something. The young boy doesn't really do anything, but he's usually hanging out in the dining room playing with his toys. Some times he's running around, but he's not annoying. He's actually kinda funny.
The young girl fills up water, but lately she's been taking orders also. She took mine today. She just got a new hairdo that looks really nice on her. She speaks fluent Cantonese and English. The matriarch speaks some English, but mostly communicates in Cantonese. The guy in the kitchen hardly says anything and the youngest boy seems to speak English only. I'd always figured that the matriarch was the mom, dude in the kitchen was dad, and the two others were their children. This may or may not be the case. I go in there enough to be a regular. I can tell they recognize me when I come in; especially the matriarch and the young girl. I usually go in there by myself and order the number 2 special plate because it has sweet and sour pork and they make the best I've had. I usually go in there right after payday as a treat for myself. They play this really mellow Chinese folk music and that and the muted light make the place really relaxing. It's really cozy.
Anyway, I think they recognize me, but not enough to know me. I don't get "hey James" or "would you like the usual" or anything like that. I go in there enough that I'm pretty familiar with them. I can tell when they get new hairdos, or hire a new staffer. Things like that. However, I don't know the first thing about them. I don't even know their names. I just see them all the time. As such, I've created a story for them--that they're a family--to better classify them, I guess.
I think there's a point to this.
Today, I began to think that my assumptions about their relationship was wrong. I saw the young girl and the little boy interacting in a way that looked more mother to son than brother to sister. I can't explain why I thought this really. And then I realized the apparent age difference between the young boy and the matriarch. She would have had to have him late in life, and years after the girl. This isn't farfetched, but it led me to create a new fiction for the proprietors of my favorite Chinese food in town. Perhaps the girl had become pregnant at a young age, and to avoid scrutiny from their town, they decided to move to America, where such things are more accepted. (That really isn't true--those things aren't accepted--but the objectors are more subtle and insidious.) It made me wonder which story was true, if any, and how I don't really know them, even though I see them more often than I see my parents.
This is a long story, I think.
I went to a party in the city, which probably sounds a lot more exciting than it was, but I had a great time. The traveling crew from here to there was basically the same as the Rilo Kiley show, but my roommate C came along too. It was a packed car and a cramped, but still comfortable. We hit some traffic near the city, but all in all, the ride was pretty smooth. Our first order of business was to go to the record store and sell CDs and DVDs so we would have money for the trip. I sold a bunch of discs that I didn't pay for anyway and got a rousing $145.00! I was super excited. So excited, in fact, I bought two CDs. I picked up the new PJ Harvey, which is one of the albums of the year, and You Are Free by Cat Power. I guess I've been living under a rock, but I only got introduced to Cat Power's music just recently, and it's just socks-rocking to the max. Equally as compelling is the woman behind it all, Chan Marshall, who I really, really want to be the mother of my children.
Perhaps that was too forward.
Anyway, her music rocks, and she's earned billing as my obsession of the week; it's getting to the point where there should be some kind of plaque awarded. Maybe there should be a big end-of-year extravaganza where I award obsession of the year. But I guess that would be getting obsessive. I figure it's healthy as long as I'm not hiding in the bushes.
After the record store, we ended up hanging out at a friends house, who was nice enough to put us all up for the night. She lives inthis really nice brownstone/townhouse looking thing. It looks like it's kinda old, but in that really classic kinda way.
The house is full of cats, all of whom were friendly enough. The coolest of which was this big ol' cat who didn't really do much but sleep, occasionally wake up to look around, then go back to sleep. I envied him instantly.
After pre-partying (city drinks are expensive), we hailed a cab and rolled down to the party fashionably two hours late. Most of the people I know who moved from here to the city were there and it turned out to be a reunion of sorts. I had a great time shmoozing, boozing and spending my free CD money. There were three bands, all of which bothered me, and I strolled outside at 2am feeling pretty good about life in general. C and I were tired and hungry so we decided to head back to the house. The guy who drove us down to the city had gone back a little while earlier with his girlfriend. Our host gave us directions and addresses for her house and the taqueria down the block scrawled out on the back of a receipt before hopping in a cab with four other girls to the after parter.
C and I began wandering around San Francisco, looking for a good spot to hail a cab, which was difficult, I soon realized, because we weren't five attractive women. We made our way to a busy intersection, in front of a donut shop and kept a key eye. I was giddy buzzed and happy to be in a city again so I was laughing and being probably too loud. These two girls went up to C and asked him for directions. We, of course, had no idea where they were talking about. Then some other dude rolled up to the girls trying to hit on them. I turned my attention to flagging down a cab. No one's stopping--they were either full or don't give a fuck. I was considering diving under some tires, but I didn't think they'd stop. Dude went away, not getting any play, and then Homeless Guy rolled up and started talking to us and the girls.
He said to me, "Buy me a donut, and I'll get you a cab."
I said, "Oh, no. That's okay."
Then he said, "You can't buy a brother a donut?!" Which elicited a good laugh from all. It was a compelling argument, so I asked him what he wanted and went inside and bought him a jelly donut. When I came back, the girls were gone, and Homeless Guy told us, "Don't fuck around with a cab. Those girls went to 14th and Whatever street. Follow them and you can pick up a bus to where you're going." It was better than hanging out on a street corner.
We started walking, but we realized that we didn't know where the fuck 14th and Whatever was, and we were soon heading into a fucked up part of town. There was a car full of people giving us the finger and some dude following us who looked all sorts of wasted and we decided to turn back around toward the donut shop, trying to hail cabs as we went. No one gave us the time of day. Or a cab ride, which was really what we wanted.
We found the street that we were trying to get to and saw that we were just about 14 blocks away from our destination. C said fuck it let's walk, and, again, it was better than waiting around for a cab. There was some fucked up detour that blocked up the street and we ended up on some other road and soon became lost. If I didn't think it was so funny, I probably would have been freaked out. There was a silver lining, though. This street we ended up on was crawling with taxis. They seemed to be heading to this one club to pick up people. We went a little ways down the road before I said we should head back to that club to pick up a cab. It worked! We piled in the cab and told him where we needed to go, the taqueria just one and a half blocks away from where we were staying.
The cabbie asked us, "Have fun at that club tonight?"
We said we weren't at that club, but hanging out at a different one, and he started laughing and said something to the effect that we didn't want anything to do with the club he picked us up out in front of.
I asked, "Why? What kind of club was that?"
He said it was a transvestite bar, and that they were "hungry." It was pretty funny. You gotta love the city.
Turned out that Cabbie was the surly type, but a funny type of surly. He started going off about this "Chinese" guy who was driving the cab in front of us and saying how "Chinese drivers" were crazy. Mind you, Cabbie was zipping around corners, running through lights and getting on people's bumpers, but it was dem Chinese drivers that were the pits. He zipped us over to the intersection that bore the taqueria, and he said that we didn't want to get out there, and that he wasn't going to drop us off because he didn't have his .45 with him. Fair enough...
We had him drop us off at the house and he went on his way, but before he did, he made one more mention of Chinese drivers, but this time added, "and those Koreans!"
It was about 3am, and we were just looking to crash. It was around this time that I began to wonder about things. "I bet you the door's locked," I said. And it was. Our friend who drove us down had the key, and he was asleep inside. I called him on his cell, but no answer. We called our host, who was partying somewhere, and she said she was now locked out too, because she had given our friend the key. We sat on the stoop for a minute perplexed. C said, "fuck it. I'm getting a burrito." And that sounded like a great idea.
I was a bit wary about heading down to this intersection that Cabbie was so paranoid about. It didn't help that just as we approached, there was some loud disturbance catty corner from us. The dispute, however, drew the attention of Super Cop, who, lights on and all, zoomed around the corner to deal with it. Under cover of "the man," we hustled to the taqueria, which was seriously packed.
Every walk of life was in there: drunks, lecherous skeevers, posh homosexuals, skater kids, super rich guys, cracked out skanks, hot ass party chicks, hipsters, thugs, blue collar workers; blacks, whites, Mexicans, Asians, Arabs, Indians, undeterminable others. It was the melting pot in action. This place kinda gave me hope for the country; everyone bound more or less harmoniously together by killer burritos.
I don't know if the burrito was the best I've ever had, but at 3:something in the morning, it was the most wonderful thing ever. We walked back to the house, burritos in hand, and in no need of a .45, wondering if we'd be sleeping on the stoop. I called our friend again and got no answer. We started eating.
Five minutes later, our friend emerged from upstairs and let us in. Our host had called him also, and told him we were waiting downstairs. Success! I pounded down half of my burrito in silence and then began to arrange my sleeping quarters--a couch by the window that had belonged to the big ol' cat. I moved his bed to the floor and moved myself into its place. I was too tall for the couch, but it really didn't matter. I passed out eventually. I woke up a few times during the early morning to see that the big ol' cat was fascinated by my presence. He started on the window sill. I woke up again, and he was watching me from the back of the couch. I woke up again, and he was quite at home on my chest. He would wake up, look around, then go back to sleep. Lucky cat.
We all were awake at around 8am, and we hit the road soon after. I was suprisingly awake the whole ride home. But as soon as I spilled out of the car, I was seriously beat. I went into my room, put on my new Cat Power CD and slept till the sun went down. Lucky me!
I don't know what the deal is. My cable modem works, then it doesn't, then it does, then it doesn't again. Right now it does--obviously. But I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. It's been a neverending saga since I got the damn thing, and I'd get DSL if it wasn't so shitty.
Ah well.
I got on the computer earlier with something to say, but now after a good hour and a half of Pimp My Ride, I don't remember what it was. It definitely wasn't important.
Watching Austin Stevens battle a 17-foot long anaconda had to be the funniest thing I'd seen all day. They edited it in such a way that it looked like he was chasing the thing down as it darted down the river. It would cut to the snake swimming, then to Austin running with a purpose, then back to the snake, and so on and so forth until Austin pounced on the fucking thing. That's when it got more fun. He was wrestling with this monster, and then it took him down under water, and then there was nothing. Just ominous music--assumingly produced by some denizen of the Amazon. Suddenly, Austin appears from the water with this thing hoisted high over his head like the Stanley Cup or something, and then there's this Matrix-y multi camera effect for no god damn reason, and it was fucking awesome. It's hard to explain, but I was hooting and hollering the whole time. He may be my favorite nature show host of all time, not that I've put a lot of thought into it...
After Austin encountered and photographed the big snake, which is what he's after on every show--there's some big snake somewhere and he simply has to risk his life in order to get it all pissed off and take photos of it; to each his own, I guess--he then reflected on his journey. All quiet sitting on the bow of his house boat with his own voice over recounting his many trials and travails. I don't know why, but it's the coolest thing ever. Just watch it.
Somehow, the mix of alcoholic substances I consumed last night didn't turn Sunday into a miserable pain fest. I drank Bacardi and cokes, a few beers, some girly shots, a shot of Southern Comfort, and God knows what else, and I woke up at 10am this morning feeling oddly refreshed. Like I'd just worked out at the gym or something. Perhaps it was the late night waters that saved my ass. Or maybe that I was actually drinking good stuff last night and not the usual cheap well crap. Either way, today was a lovely relaxing shindig.
I heated up the last of my Chinese food. That stuff just lasts forever. It's like everytime you go back to the fridge, it's multiplied or something. I went to see my roommate in his play, and that was fun. Afterwards I met up with his parents who ended up footing the bill for my dinner, and that was really cool.
I don't know what set me off, but I've really wanted to write lately, so once I got home from dinner, I went straight to the laptop and got a'typing. I've been thinking of writing scripts lately, so that's what I did. I don't really know how to write a script, but I think they're more condusive to the way my mind works, at least creatively. I've tried the whole book/story type thing, and I did okay at that, I think. I just really want to tell a story through pictures. I've always had, and the book thing was kind of a personal compromise I made, since I wouldn't have to work with anyone but myself. I really don't want to work that way though. I love to collaborate, and even though I don't have anyone to collaborate with, I'm really not going to worry about that. I've written a couple of one act plays--that were all really bad--and things of that nature, but I've never really tried to write a script, and it keeps coming up as a suggestion. It's time to stop being lazy about it.
Dialog and images are what really excite me I guess. All the book back talk and description gets too heavy handed, and I get myself stuck on the details. I'm never able to portray the image I have in my head properly. Anyway, I figured I'd give it a shot, so that when it sucks and I ditch the idea, I can say I gave it a try. I have a group of scenes that are really bright in my head right now, and I thought I'd be able to do one page a day until it was done and see how it turns out. I hope it doesn't make me want to vomit. I'm not sure how long a script is supposed to be. I think over 100 pages unless I'm mistaken, but if I stay true to my one page a day, I can get a draft done in a few months. It's a nice thought anyway.
So I went against my good judgement and went out tonight. Again. I'm not sure if I had the money to do so, but my now ex-roommate swung by the house around 11:30p and asked if I was going downtown.
Of course I was.
Turned out that one of the publicists I work with on a more or less daily basis got me on the guest list at a show at the bar just beyond downtown. Not that this was a major feat or anything. This wasn't a hot ticket by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a nice gesture on her part nonetheless, especially since I told her that I probably wouldn't be able to make it. Mounting circumstance made it possible for me to go.
I arrived at the bar, and I was on the list, but I had missed the band the publicist managed, and I felt like a big old jerk...especially the old part. I had a few free drinks, purchased with my liquor stamps, and bought the band's CD to restore my scene karma. I really hope it works. The other bands on the bill were nothing special, so me and my now ex-roommate headed over to the local watering hole where we found ourselves in the company of two young ladies. The three of them were talking about something--I'm not really the talkative type, but I would chime in with laughs and knowing nods at the appropriate times, even though I couldn't hear a word that was being said. It was kinda loud in the bar, after all, and all the rock 'n' roll has done wonders on my hearing.
Since my roommate is a popular chap, we were soon surrounded by the usual flock of local scenesters. This town isn't very big, and on any given night, you're pretty sure to see everyone you know. Among the gaggle was a female coworker of ours and her roommate. Also in attendence was Huggy Guy, who I met during a recent drunken escapade. He and my now ex-roommate seemed to know each other, at least on an acquaintance level. I should have known.
Nothing of real excitement or importance happened I guess, which is also to be expected, but it was a fun time. I ended up wandering outside at the urging of the bar staff and stood in the rain, I guess, for quite some time before I truly realized it was raining. Upon my shocking reveal, I decided I should walk home because my jacket was a mere hoody, and I was already getting rather soaked.
I walked for a while when my drunkeness clashed with my laziness and my wetness and, to the right of me, I spotted a cab which looked like it had just dropped off a fare. I knocked on his window and scared the shit out of him.
"Do you have a fare?" I asked.
"No," he answered, shaking off his intial shock.
"Can I get a ride?"
"Hop in," he said.
I scampered into the back seat, and then I was soon startled by a knock on the window. It was some Random. Random asked me where I was headed. I answered with the general location of my home. He asked if it was cool if we split the cab.
Oddly enough, I've never been asked that before, so my first thought was to look at the cabby. I really had no problem with it, but was this good policy? Was it legal?
The cabby said, "It's up to you, man."
So I agreed, and the random hopped in the cab with his two random friends. They were on the way to my house anyway, and at 2:15am on an early Saturday morning, it's not like I was in a rush to get anywhere. Turned out it was a good decision to let the randoms share my cab. Their ride reduced my fare by a couple of bucks, which is a good thing when you're as broke as I am, and the three randoms provided entertainment by way of their stupid dramas.
I'm not sure what the deal was, but one random received a call from this random girl on his cell phone. He had the volume turned up hella loud, so I heard the whole conversation. Apparently, girl was pissed at her stupid boyfriend because he had done her wrong. From the conversation, it was easy to see that this was not the first time this had happened. Random guy in the car was all, " you have to dump that guy." Then other random dude asks to be let out of the car! The two remaining randoms are all, "but you don't even have a phone," but emo random is all, "I'll find you guys. I'll meet you at the house."
I guess he just needed to be all emo and walk in the rain. The cabby and I were silent. The cabby dropped the rest of the randoms off, and then the cabby and I started laughing about the whole thing. I told him I felt bad, because I was such a boring fare. I was usually just wasted and needed to get home, as was the case this evening. He told me that he was tired of the interesting fares--all the dramas and whatnot. He had had enough, though he did confess that sometimes his female passengers would flash him, and suddenly, I thought it might not be so bad to be a cabby.
*I'm drunk and sleepy...I left this post unedited. Just fix any errors in your own head. Thank you.
My roommate bought Halo 2. It looks like a lot of fun--it's fun to watch anyway--but I haven't had the desire to play yet. Those first-person shoot 'em up games don't do anything for me but make me dizzy. It's been on non-stop since it has entered the house, though, and not coincidentally, the bong hasn't left the living room table.
As I may have already mentioned, today was an incredibly boring and tiresome day of work. I guess that's what makes it work. A few times I had almost drifed off to sleep at my desk, kinda like what's going on now. I should really sleep better than I do. I should eat better too, but you've gotta make money for that.
I get the best fortune cookie fortunes. I don't know why. A week before my friends came out from New York to visit me in California, I got a fortune that said "Old friends will return to you." Seriously. Last night I got my favorite ever. It read "You will have a comfortable retirement." It sounded so nice...I liked it so much I put it on my bedroom door. At least I have something to look forward to in 40 years. I only think of it now because it's 7:33 pm, I'm still in the office, and this has been the most boring, tedious day of work. Ever. I'm so over this place right now.
I missed like the first ten minutes of Lost. This greatly disturbed me, but it wasn't long before I got right into the swing of things--"woah"ing and things of that nature. It was a good episode. I love how DAW and Kate have resorted to a battle of the tank tops. One is clearly dreamy, the other is sexily cut; it's a development that is as intriguing as the plot. I liked HHA scamming on Pregnant Chick. Speaking of scamming, AAD is about to bust a bamboo shoot upside of Gw/K's head. I'd whoop his ass for macking on DAW too.
Other than Lost, today was a typical mid-week whatever. We have this new printer/copier/scanner/office god machine that prints the best color I've seen. It's also about half as tall as me and costs about as much as I make in a year. Pretty fucked up. I think it will end up replacing all of us. I did my weekly (at least that's how it seems) order-in Chinese ritual. I mixed it up this time though and got the Snow Peas Prawns (which is really difficult to say) instead of the Sweet and Sour Pork. God I love Sweet and Sour Pork; I should have swapped out something else. I just don't feel like I've truly ordered Chinese unless I get fried rice and chow mein.
...Blah.
I was supposed to meet with my boss today. Actually, we were supposed to meet on Monday. But really we were supposed to meet last Friday. My boss is difficult to get a hold of sometimes. I wasn't stressing about it. I hate meetings anyway. My boss is a pretty cool guy, but it's just meeting itself that bothers me. I'd rather just do it and not talk about it. We can fix any problems that arise along the way. I never leave a meeting thinking, 'wow. I'm glad we had that meeting.'
I asked my boss if we were going to meet today, and he said, 'yeah, just give me a minute,' which is what he usually says when I ask him that question. One out of every four or five times I ask, we actually meet. Again, I'm not stressing about this, that's just how it goes.
About an hour or so later, he comes to me and says, 'I'm going to get coffee, you want to come along? We'll talk about stuff on the way.' I don't drink coffee, but it's nice to get out of the office, so I grab my page of notes and follow along.
We went to get coffee at a Starbucks. Until this summer, I had never been inside a Starbucks, which is a piece of information that startles most people when I tell them. There are a variety of different reasons for this. The first being that when I was drinking coffee, Starbucks had just started its plan for world coffee domination. Being new and exciting, everyone was going to Starbucks, which meant ridiculous lines, which meant I couldn't be bothered. Also, when I was a coffee drinker, I was also rather poor, and since my coffee drinking wasn't of the compulsive variety (I never needed that cup of coffee in the morning; I only drank it when I felt like it), I didn't see the point in paying $3 for a cup. I only really drank coffee because I wasn't old enough to get into bars yet, and going to a diner or 24-hour donut shop were my only options for late night hangouts. One buck for a cup of coffee covered hours worth of loitering. Alcohol soon replaced caffeine, and I found that I never really liked the jitters that a cup of coffee gave me.
On occasion, if I'm really completely zonked and need to be awake, I'll take a small cup of coffee, black with no sugar (coffee tastes like shit, be honest, and no matter what hazel nut bullshit or Eqyptian this or that you toss in, it still tastes like coffee, so why try to hide it?), but those instances are few and far between.
My avoidance of Starbucks has nothing to do with it being a giant, all-devouring, Wal-Mart-like evil corporation, though it is, it's just a logistical decision. I don't think you can get a small cup of black coffee at a Starbucks anyway. However, since this past summer (in Washington, my friend and ex-roommate worked at one, which was the cause for my first visit), I've been in Starbucks two or three additional times, each time was with my boss.
The interior of a Starbucks is truly perplexing to me. The two I've seen were all wood and brick with quaint tables and bookshelves and things of that nature. In the Starbucks downtown, the one I went to today, there are always tons of people doing work and talking and just kind of hanging out. Today was no different. It was packed, though no one seemed to be buying coffee. The majority of the customers were unbelievably beautiful women (there were good looking guys there too, but my focus was elsewhere). They were nicely dressed, for the most part. One, a blonde who was standing in front of me at the condiments table was decked out in a stunning, form fitting business suit. She was probably just a year or two older than me. I couldn't really make eye contact. Another was your typical California girl--blonde, blue eyed and stairmaster-fit. She wore her long hair down and it was bouncy like something out of a shampoo advertisement. She walked past me to sit down next to her square-jawed, hunkish boyfriend with the starting quarterback's physique. It was then that I began to notice that I was easily the ugliest person in the Starbucks (it was like Death Cab for Cutie show deja-vu). In addition to the two more traditional beauties I mentioned, there was also a collection of sexy Asian women, sexy librarians, and girls next door types. In addition to the upsetting beauty factor, some hipster dude typed away on his sleek new Mac laptop. Pseudo-intellectuals talked about some book-learnin' shit at a table by the window. There were dudes with the man purse. It was kinda like being in a living version of an upscale catalog. I ain't trying to hate on nobody; I'm just saying. If a new Volkswagen Beetle convertible pulled up and four girls in tennis skirts with iPods showed up chatting about The OC, I probably wouldn't have batted an eyelash.
The great shows continue as Death Cab for Cutie pulled into town with Pretty Girls Make Graves to shower the city with cred. It looked like some people in the audience got new clothes and did their hair just for this event, and I wouldn't be surprised if they did. The pairs of black-rimmed glasses were in the hundreds, and there was no shortage of people who were way cooler than me. Seriously. I'm starting to get sick of going to shows where I am clearly the lamest dude in the building.
It was painfully obvious too, since I was probably in the upper age bracket, especially if you exclude the super cool rock parents who chilled in seats in the back while their kids had a rollicking coming of age experience. I'm totally going to take my kids to all the rock shows they want to go to, and I hope I hate the music they listen to and think it's just noise, but I'll be happy that they had a good time. That's the healthy and natural order of things.
Oddly enough, of the two bands, I was more familiar with the opener, Pretty Girls Make Graves. I think I interviewed one of them a year or so ago; in preparation, I listened to the CD a bunch of times. Of course, I'd completely forgotten most of the songs on the CD, but a couple did sound vaguely familiar, and I think I liked their sound better live. The group is really dance-punk-ish / new wave-y, and I thought that would translate into an energetic live show, but really, PGMG just kinda stood there. Maybe they were tired after being on the road for a month straight. Still, they sounded pretty damn good.
I was probably the only person in the audience who didn't own a Death Cab for Cutie album, again, excluding the rock parents sitting in the back, but I knew this would be another "event" type show, and I was more concerened with the spectacle of the whole thing than anything else. Well, I also got in for free, but I would have paid if I had to. It was half the price of the Built to Spill show, after all. Unfortunately, Death Cab isn't big on spectacle; they're more about good songwriting and such. Can you imagine? They were really fucking good, and it was the second time in less than a week that I went to see a band I was unfamiliar with and had a really great time. More proof that I should just go to every show I can. It's a lot more productive than hitting up the bars, and my liver could use some time off. It's time to start fucking up my hearing again. Take that ears!
Apparently, Death Cab's performance was so powerful that it caused some poor little spock kid to puke all over the floor of the auditorium, which cleared a huge spot. No one wanted to fuck up their new clothes. The clearly fabulous gaggle of hipster hotties in front of me--not to bey stereotypical, but it seems that everyone who goes to these indie rock shows is very short; I'm not a tall man, but at 5'9", I tower over a good portion of the crowd, except of course for the one beanpole dude who always ends up in front of me--all decked out and well-haired, kept holding their noses and giggling. Before I realized what had happened, I thought I was the bearer of the offensive odor; the show was pretty packed and I just seem to be genetically disposed to sweating. There. I said it. I got all self conscious and put my jacket back on and crossed my arms. It wasn't until I left the show that I found out about the indie vomit-rocker.
---
Death Cab left me all emo so I came home to watch Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind, which was just about the coolest movie ever and left me even more emo. I always knew Jim Carrey had it in him, and Kate Winslet moved up ten notches on my favorite actress list. She's also devastating with blue hair. Roowrr. Excellent movie! I know everyone says that, but it's true.
