Just Another Pretty Face

jellytest

2006-12-01T18:18:00.000-06:00

This Blog Is Ending...

2006-09-28T00:22:00.000-05:00

The post before this I wrote in Arizona, but only just released from draft form. I put it up because it leads nicely into my new blog, which I'll be setting a link to shortly.

Stay posted... if anyone out there is still listening.

You're Probably Here by Accident

2006-09-09T22:43:00.000-05:00

So, for those not in the know, if anyone still bothers to check this, I am in Phoenix, Arizona, surrounded by sand, and days away from a seven day, solitary excursion into an area known as the Superstitions, where, according to my camping guide at a little shop I found, I have a decent chance of finding water, although we can't be sure.

I haven't written because I'd just talk about everything wrong right now, and I'm not quite ready to cross that last boundary between us. I like to pretend I still believe in privacy... Not so much my own, but hers. The short version though, which I feel I can reveal, is that I am away for a month, here, in the desert, and one week of that will be spent entirely on my own - save a few coyotes. This is time for me to take the steps I need to, and time for her.

There are good moments right now, but they're brief, and I frequently find myself dwelling on her, and us, which is exactly what she isn't doing, and what I need to stop letting happen. Also, Phoenix is hot, and the dumpsters all work as little ovens, roasting the trash from the complex I am staying in.

I'm very tired of hurting. And it doesn't make it any better to know it's up to me to stop it whenever I choose to do so. I don't want to give up, but I keep getting this worried feeling I'm the only one who hasn't. My chest is sucking inwards, pulling my chin down and bending my back so that I'm almost ready to implode against my black-hole heart as it desperately pulls in anything it can to fill the wound.

I like to tell myself that feeling is me being made whole again, but I forget to pretend sometimes, or maybe my imagination just isn't fast enough. So, instead, I remember it's pain.

I'd put a joke here, but looking at myself, I think this serves as funny enough.

Short and... slightly bitter?

2006-07-15T02:37:00.000-05:00

So I haven’t been updating. But at least I have a decent excuse. Instead of complaining about not finishing my book, I finished my book. (A very special thank you by the way to the office printer, which was there to provide me my first copy.) (Also, a very special thank you to my boss, Amanda, both for letting me use the printer without her knowing, and for all her other help.)

I’d like to say something really interesting happened while I was away from you, but it didn’t. Well, except I came out straight to my gay boyfriend, my girlfriend is planning on taking a hike in the desert for 50 to 80 days somewhere in the near future, and my entire living/job situation is up in the air. Other than that though, really not much has happened.

So, given all that, I’m sure you’re wondering, “who the fuck wants to live in the desert for two months?”

Me too, my friends. Me too.

No no, I'm not dead. But fuck it was close.

2006-06-21T23:18:00.000-05:00

I haven’t been writing (so, presumably, you haven’t been reading) because nothing all that interesting was happening to me. At least nothing allowed to break the compu-personal barrier, so I stayed in hiding. Last night changed that though, and if I hadn’t been bordering on exhaustion around 1:30 when it occurred, I would have typed this up then.

So last night I stopped by the bar to visit the lady, who – as those of you have who have worked in a restaurant will understand – was having a hate-all-people day, so she felt bad and offered me her car to drive myself back home. (It takes an hour for me to get there by train from work.) I took her up on it and sat around on the computer, until she called to tell me how slow things were and that she was already done. I said I’d come get her. We haven’t seen much of each other lately, and I’m kinda missin her.

Shut up.

So I drive back out there and then turn around, picking up the dog from her parents’ place. We’re in the middle of a conversation, just coming through an intersection, when an SUV runs a red.

Well, those fuckers are big. And you don’t realize how big until you see one head on coming at your driver’s side window. Actually, to be fair, you don’t see the whole thing. You just see the grill. Maybe a headlight… where your brain is about to be.

Small cars, like, for example, the infinitely tiny Chevy I was tooling around in, really don’t have much of a chance against those things when they’re hit. And I suspected, doing some fast math, that my aluminum-foil door wasn’t gonna beat their frame-reinforced, momentum-bearing bumper, perfectly heighted to crush my ribs into my heart upon impact.

I jerked the wheel to the right around the same time my eyeballs pushed out past my skull and held my breath.

The good news, as you can probably guess, is that they had good brakes. They stopped a few inches shy of my essentially useless shielding, and for a few seconds, we just sat there. Then I pulled forward. Call me paranoid.

I don’t know. I mean, I understand that people respond to intense situations in funny ways, and that you shouldn’t judge…

But I would have felt a little better if the driver wasn’t laughing.

We also saw a monkey shit at the zoo...

2006-05-30T00:30:00.000-05:00

We bought fans today. The weather has flipped, and with it all sense of comfort.

Without getting too graphic, sweating and I don’t mix well. Oh, sweating likes me fine enough. I just don’t get the same enjoyment it seems to from our relationship. Now, I’ve got the pits well in hand, but it’s the rest of me I’m a little flustered with. Actually, I’m about a half-step from covering my face in deodorant, which I think might be illegal.

Back to the story, we bought fans. Not an air conditioner. The lady doesn’t like air conditioners. The lady likes hikes in the desert. The lady likes open windows.

I, on the other hand, love to spend money. So, if I’m not buying an air conditioner, I’m buying the most expensive fan I can find. Also, I shop the best places. So let’s just jump over to Walgreens.

They had these “tower” fans. Large cylinders that apparently blow air around just like tradition fans, but more expensively. I wanted those. The lady couldn’t understand why. She tried to get me to buy a regular fan.

“But where would we put it?”

“On the floor.”

“Doesn’t that seem…ghetto?”

“Who else is going to see it?”

I didn’t give in though, and eventually I found our baby. Babies, actually. Dual fans. Window units. …Thermostat.

Oh yeah. You heard me. Fucking digital read-out.

Now, I don’t know what it is about the technology that has me so impressed, but any minute now I might start beating off to a picture of the damn thing. 74. 75. 74. How could I not fall in love? That’s why I bought two. Even worth finding out they were in the wrong place and cost 40 bucks apiece instead of 20.

The bedroom is working like charm. Very cool. Very breezy. Did I mention it uses 80% less energy than an air conditioner? Awesome. The den though, not so much. Due to the height of the windows, that air blows right into the couch. End result: fresh, new-cow smell, but… 79. 80. 79.

I’m going back to buy a normal fan for that room tomorrow.

She was only half-right.

Nerves in Patterns on a Screen

2006-05-28T00:56:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine is hurting, and I want to help them, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to tell them what I need to. It’s the second time this has happened. I'll tell you about the first.

See, I wanted to let them know a secret. I wanted to tell them that life isn’t graded on length. That living longer isn’t living better, and living less isn’t living worse. Living is living, I wanted to tell them.

My friends had a niece born with, well, far too many problems. There was no question of “if,” just one of “when,” with the horrible possibility of “any minute.”

I saw her after she came home. I saw her laying on a couch. And I say laying here on purpose, because she could not lie herself down. In my memory, she is wearing blue, or covered in a blue blanket, although I hardly think it matters. Her face is distorted. Not in pain though. Just… distorted.

She is sleeping. She is beautiful. And I am scared to look at her.

Her brother, very young as well… far under ten - although again I can’t remember exactly, and again I hardly think it matters – quietly walks, almost crawling, up beside her on the couch, and just watches her sleep.

He isn’t scared. He just loves her. He is beautiful too.

I almost want to skip the details, but they’re so important here, for so many reasons. She stopped breathing. Not just once. Many times. So many times. But then she’d start again, suddenly sucking in air. In my imagination she shakes, almost like any baby does in a dream before settling back into a steady rhythm. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that she died not once, but ten, twenty times in the minds and hearts and arms of her parents. Once less time then that, she came back.

I can’t imagine many things being more horrible. Knowing is one thing. Finished is over.

That is just torture.

But what I wanted to tell my friend, although didn’t know I wanted to say, was this…

Her whole life, that beautiful girl was surrounded by love, was close to her family, and valued for every second she gave. As terrible as each shaking, sucked in breath may have been, I doubt her parents would have given up a single one. Her life was short, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t perfect. It was just different.

For me, the challenge isn’t in dealing with the fact that life is unfairly balanced; it’s just remembering that it’s unbalanced so heavily in our favor.

From time to time, I remember things from my life. Not long things, or involved things, just moments. A glance between me on the platform and a girl on a passing train, the smell of the molding carpets in the stairway of the apartment I grew up in, the way it felt when I fell off the slide and broke my leg.

Any one of those, any one of any memories I have or have long forgotten would have been worth it. Nothing seems more hideous to me than never existing. Every life is beautiful.

We shouldn’t be afraid to look at them.

So, darlin' darlin'....

2006-05-24T01:15:00.000-05:00

I’ve never liked loud noises. Growing up, the Fourth of July was pretty much a horror show from my perspective. I remember lying happily in the grass—actually, I don’t remember being happy, or anything before, after, or aside from what I am about to describe--when a red fireball took over the entire sky and practically made me shit my pants. I remember the apartments we lived in when I was in kindergarten, and the low flying jet that caused me to jump under a car. I remember every instance of driving at night through a thunderstorm with a white knuckle grip on the wheel and forced, rhythmic breathing.

My point, in case you missed it: I don’t like loud noises.

So I ride the subway. Short of the airports, I’m pretty sure it’s the loudest thing in the city. Unlike the airports though, you can stand right next to source. You can even stand in front of it. A lot of people do that, actually. According to one of the workers there, the Red Line alone nabs about one life a week.

“Mostly suicides.”

Good to hear.

Now, outside it’s one thing, but down there, in the tunnel, with the screeching and scraping and waves-crashing gallop, with the shaking and hurtling and the eye-tearing wind, I can only think about one thing…

Jumping.

I don’t want to die. I’m actually pretty happy. Yet there it is. Every time. The knowledge that I could, by my own power, end my life in such a manner as to require virtually no thought, no planning. Just done. I guess it’s a close cousin to that urge to drive into the median wall, or to stab an unsuspecting sibling in the kitchen while cutting bread. Not something I want to do, but something I could. Something very cold and dark.

In the end, I have to take a step back from the yellow line, to take direct action against myself. I put down the knife. I switch to the right lane.

Is there anything quite as amazing as the power to destroy yourself, to use your will to crush your will?

And I know I have it in me.

So why haven’t I done the dishes in four days?

I'm thinking about making my own video.

2006-05-23T00:59:00.000-05:00

I once knew a guy who would “work out” by going to playgrounds and using the various equipment for exercises: chin-ups on the monkey bars, that kind of borderline pedophilic activity. I always thought that was funny…

I would never join a gym. I know I’d never show up there. But that doesn’t mean I don’t exercise. Part of the “new” Chris, aside from switching from cola to nasty-ass, naturally flavored, zero calorie soda water, is a bit of a routine. I do it five days a week, twice a day. It’s very impressive. Even more impressive though is how I have seamlessly integrated it into my already existing schedule.

At the crack of 10:15 a.m., I take a brisk 15 minute walk to the train. I wear no coat so as to better encourage swift movement. When I arrive at the station, I do not use the escalator, I do not walk. No, I RUN up the stairs. The first few times I did this I lost my breath, but now I remember to breathe as I go, and I’ve found I respond much better.

On the train I stand. No rest during this work out, baby. To distract myself, I read. Keeps the mind off the pain. Once we reach the station at work, I again have to run, three flights this time. The first two usually go pretty well, but invariably, at the last leg, some jackass blocks my path and forces me to walk. Fucking jerkoff.

Then I have a five minute sprint-walk to work, where I make sure to do the occasional lap around the office, eat some eggs, maybe drink some citrus-flavored sparkling pee-water, and repeat the whole thing heading home.

I’m even drinking that crap right now.

It gives me heartburn.

Les-be friends, I'll take you homo.

2006-05-21T02:58:00.000-05:00

To start, I would point out, from personal experience, that any phrase including “the balls to…” does NOT fly in a dyke bar.

So I was walking the dog—who, I should note, had kept his special, peanut butter scent to himself all day—and happened to bump into my “man” when I passed the wine bar. As it was Saturday, and as my new definition of a good day is “any day where I don’t have to put on my pants,” I found myself in an awkward moment. See, despite showering, putting on clean clothes (for the midnight walk) AND doing my hair, I never bothered to brush my teeth. The lady had to work and I was lazy. Don’t know why. Even I hate my breath. But there you have it.

So there I was, standing on the street with my dog, my gay-date, and a few billion stink-germs nesting on the back of my tongue. In a panic, trying to talk in another direction, I said I was planning on coming in when the walk was over, and that I’d be right back. Sigh.

Sorry future-self.

When I walked in, there were the usual half-males, along with some nice flower types. The later part of the evening included a surprise visit from a heavy-set Axel Rose. Surprisingly enough, that one woman sporting the leather coat and straight-from-the-80s biker bandana owned a hair salon.

Don’t go there.

So I did my usual thing, watching the chicks make out from the corner of my eye and yet trying to look straight for the benefit of my bartender, a combination which yet again failed horribly. Tonight he recommended taking a look at gay.com. I haven’t checked it out yet, but I have theories as to its content. Oh, he also mentioned I should wear a condom. Solid advice.

After he wandered off, I began to wonder about just how “gay” I seem. In a hetero environment I slide by, but put me in any situation with alternate expectations, and suddenly all my habits/mannerisms/modes of speech become suspect. Christ, even I was wondering if I liked cock, and I KNOW me. I need to get tee-shirts that do this kind of labeling work. I obviously can’t handle the job.

On the bright side, a did get a few free glasses of wine. Oh, and a blow job.

Well, I _could_. I did get a hug though.

Shut up.

Also, and entirely unrelated, our couch comes on Wednesday. Plus, for the past two days I've had a stomach ache.

Here's a great matter.

2006-05-17T01:08:00.000-05:00

I’ll start this out by saying I hate vague, emotionally descriptive emails. Give me the concrete. Tell me the facts. Don’t just tell me how you feel. I already know how feelings work. I’ve already read about them too. Give me some perspective.

That being said, I apologize for the rest of this entry. If had balls I’d be more specific.

***

I know I could write about my adventures in assembling furniture, or make half-hidden references to the last intra-apartmental battle, but I’m not in that kind of mood. Haven’t been for awhile.

I’m not into magic. I don’t go for waving a wand, praying to a god(dess), and turning your luck from bad to good. Doesn’t add up. I do, however, believe in patterns, and our ability to sense/see where things a little larger than ourselves are headed.

Small example: I had never dreamed of applying for a writing job. But one day I decided it was time, Jellyvision was hiring (quite literally, same day), and I got it (like 3 months later, but hey…that was the doorway). I was terrified, desperate for the work (both monetarily and because I knew I loved the place/belonged there), and I STILL hear over and over that I really shouldn’t have made it past numerous stages in the interview process from my boss (Hi, Amanda!). But none of that mattered. I never doubted. And like I said, I saw the way things were headed.

I’m going to say a little more here now, and you can call me crazy. But this isn’t the first time I’ve seen the strings. And it isn’t the most expansive example. It’s just one step on much larger path that is starting to gnaw at me. It's actually getting hard to sleep. I'm moving forward almost against my will.

Short form: I have to finish the book soon. Otherwise I won’t be keeping up my end of the bargain.

And I hate giant fish.

He loves me...

2006-05-09T23:00:00.000-05:00

I’m sorry, if there’s anyone out there who cares. I’ve been a bit drained. Too tired to write the things I wanted, and too bored by the crap I did write to post it. Tonight though, I feel inspired.

I have a talent for walking myself into trouble’s open arms. Alcohol improves this ability. Allow me to illustrate.

Maybe, or mayhaps not, you remember the lesbian bar around the corner from me that I fell in love with. Well, there also happens to be a small gay contingency as well, and that includes one of the bartenders.

I like to drink alone. It’s when I can think, relax. People make me nervous, but I like being around them, so this is an excellent compromise. Usually, by the time somebody says hello, I’ve had enough to compensate for my deficiencies, and life flows smoothly. This describes my relationship with said bartender.

Now, I’ve gone in a few times, and seen him there. We’ve talked a bit, laughed, whatever. The other night, as I was wandering out of the bar, he threw a bar-email-list-card thingy at me and asked me to fill it out, so in went it all. My name, my email, my… phone number.

Then he says, “what are you doing next week?”

I tell him I’m just working, and he says,

“Wanna hang out?”

“Sure,” I say.

Sure.

IDIOT.

Skipping through a heap of mockery - supplied amply by the lady, my friends, coworkers, and my father - tonight was our date. I had run through all the possible scenarios: bringing the lady in while he was working, coming right out about it, and (my favorite) feigning surprise. I had votes from the peanut gallery on all three, but none seemed all that appealing. I would have just ditched the whole thing, but there’s something very important going on in my head we need to keep in mind: There is a BAR by my HOUSE that I LOVE. It must be protected, and however I handle this absolutely must allow for me to keep going back. A little hand-action in the alley included.

In the end, I went with the weakest route, and prepared myself to looked shocked. I even made sure to eat crudely.

2 hours. Shrimp, dessert, martinis. Quiet, constant conversation. Never happened.

At the end, the closest I got was a “test-hug” where he didn’t turn from the kiss, but didn’t push for it, so I had no impetus to assert my confusion. He had dodged my magic bullet. I was not enough “ass” for him to go whole hog on. I was just a maybe. A maybe he had a “good time” with and with whom he wants to “do this again.”

Now I have two problems: He stills thinks I’m gay, and I wasn’t worth going for broke on.

Fucking belly.

I’m so buying a bike.

I should get tested...

2006-04-29T02:48:00.000-05:00

Once again, I've been drinking, so feel free to hold me accountable for nothing.

The other day (where the "other day" in this case is somewhere around a few weeks ago) I leaned to my right while sitting in my office chair and found something...off. There was a sensation, a resistance, and I was confused. Looking down, I found it.

I caught a belly.

I'm not sure where. I think it might have been that public bathroom I used a couple years ago. No matter what though, here it is. A section of my body which remains virtually unaffected by my movements--be they bends, twists, reaches, or leans--and is obviously anti-american. These are not "Seventeen" abs. I have a communist gut. A dirty, red tummy. My bowels are traitorous.

I have always been thin...not counting when I was born. Then, almost ten pounds. Now, well, I'm not sure. My new friend might be tipping the scales. I've asked him what he weighs, but he doesn't talk. He just...putzes.

So, normally here I'd end with some sort of twist--hopefully insightful--that added a new level to my entire post. Unfortunately though, that was the entire point of the post to begin with. Sorry for serving dessert before the main course.

To you and me both.

Courtesy of Rumsomething Petite Syrah

2006-04-25T00:19:00.000-05:00

Welsome to my drunken ramble. I make no promises.

The other day I attempted to do some rewiring in our apartment. The lady isn't a big fan or bright light, so I bought an "easy to install dimmer switch" for our bedroom. Since she was gone for the weekend visiting family, I figured I had everything under control.

Somehow, though, I managed to completely disconnect our lightswitch from the light, and instead, set our clock radio to a dimmer, which, aside from some "party gag" level hijynx, lacks a certain funstionality. All in all, I am NOT an electrician. So I pulled my friend over from his son's (my nephew's) birthday party on Sunday to help me piece things out.

Short story, all is well, and I cashed in my relationship coupons.

In other news, have you ever wondered what happened to those little plastic trolls with the big hair once you leave them behind? They go dancing at The Uptown Lounge. (This is where a picture would make my blog funny, but, unfortunately, I have neither a picture, nor the knowledge necessary to upload one, so I'm gonna need a little help from the audience on this one.) Anyway, it was freaky.

In good news, my workload was a little overwhelming last weeek, so I got some helpers. (yay!) Originally (and I'm gonna need you to just go with my number s here) I had three "thingies" to complete in a day, which proved to be completely overwhelming. Now, though, with JV's help I have (frumroll)... Three thingiesd a day plus revisions on tghe old ones.

Good thing I'm wasted.

I love my job.

(seriously)

No, Honey. It only mentions a tie and jacket.

2006-04-20T23:33:00.000-05:00

The other night the lady and I slipped over to a restaurant called Ambria. We really didn’t plan much in advance for this, however, and all my fine, dressy linens were somewhere in storage, so we had to wing it. While I was working, she shopped, picking me up a respectable set of clothes. She came pretty close to doing it perfectly. There were some small details I would have caught, but, being a girl, she wouldn’t know to look for them.

One was the cut of the shirt. Certain dress shirts attach the arms closer to the chest, creating a thinned torso similar to what you see on 7 year old boys running around at church or temple. The second thing was: ties that are overly thick are difficult to manage, and can make some of the fancier knots almost impossible to pull off. Now, unless you’ve tied a tie, I’m pretty sure there’s no way to know this. Also, and this might just be a quirk, I like to wear socks.

Still, we had a great time, and ate many unpronounceable things. Everyone wore suits. The music was wonderful. And a twelve year old girl, obviously tipsy, wandered out of a private room, scanned the dining area, and casually freed herself from her riding panties. Twice. All in all, perfect atmosphere.

For our side, things went very well. I smiled, nodded, tested the wine, and kept my feet as far back under the table as possible.

Hot Dirty Anal Amateur Blonde Teen Free

2006-04-19T20:29:00.000-05:00

So, I was skimming through my site meter info and found a couple of "people searches" that led some poor person from Georgia onto my doorstep. Apparently, one of the poets I mocked, Becky Byrkit, has a following of sorts down south, and twice today, someone from thereabouts hunted for her and got me. This is the first time since the post this has happened, so it stood out a bit.

Okay, not exactly exciting information, but there was a third search, also for Becky...this time from Massachusetts. Now, I checked the map, and those two states aren't even a little close. Like, seriously.

I think we're talking about two whole different people.

...

Go Becky! They care!

I heard it's the sincerest form of flattery.

2006-04-17T00:57:00.000-05:00

What’s up, Bitches?

Went to Galena this weekend to visit the lady’s family and do a little Easter-ing. Stayed at a beautiful bed and breakfast called “Best Western.” On top of the usual accoutrements, the room also came with a couch. It felt like home.

Me: (pointing at the couch) What the fuck is that?
The Lady: A couch.
Me: Ah.

It was indeed a couch, I realized. Then I cried… because that couch cost an extra fifty from the place across the street. The lady booked the place since she thought I would find the other one too dirty. I had to explain that my Jew-half dominates over my prissy side, so always go toward the lower of two prices, except with peanut butter, which is the universally known exception to the rule. Still, I love her for thinking of me.

After that, we wandered over to the house to see the relations. The first night together went well, with Grandma welcoming me at dinner during a prayer.

“Dear Lord, thank you for this food and bringing us all together. And thank you for adding a new member to our family… for now.”

Guess Grandma’s a realist.

The next night was fun, too. After ditching church, we downed a few glasses of wine in rapid succession—which isn’t a surprise, as the lady’s uncle is a sommelier--and, somehow or another, my Jewishness came up. Out of nowhere, I did a little impromptu Talmudic law class, explaining the reason the Mezzuzah is placed on a slant in doorways. Everyone loved it. As a matter of fact, the next time any of you are in Galena while I’m talking about Judaic Law, I highly recommend you stop by. Also, try the soup.

Anyway, we just got home. Had to drive through a bit of a rain storm, but I would still proclaim it was great trip.

Oh, and we fucking rock at painting our apartment.

The road to hell...

2006-04-13T02:17:00.000-05:00

I got all the way to this point, and forgot what I was planning to write.

It ain't no "too boku."

2006-04-10T23:58:00.000-05:00

A few weeks back, the lady and I were out for her friend’s birthday. The big 21. Anyway, to make things easier, and in case we ever mention her again, she’s the hippie. The friend I mean. Anyway, the great to-do coincided with the return of one of the hippie’s friends—her best friend—so the lady and I got to meet her. And her boyfriend. Both of them. To make things easier, we’ll call her the tool. The same for her boyfriend--so keep close track of pronouns.

Anyway, the tools started off by complaining that the wine list at the restaurant did not include the region the wines were from. This bothered their palettes. This angered them. They turned up their noses.

We tried to order food as group. It was a sushi restaurant. They wanted their food prepared specially however, so they ordered separately. They did not like their food. Again, their noses drifted toward the ceiling.

Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mind when people know what they’re talking about and just want to know something, or have strong enough kitchen experience to speak intelligently. What I mind is when they substitute “intelligent” for “snobby” and assume they’re close enough that no one can tell the difference.

Short form: if you want to play fancy-pants, be kind enough to visit a restaurant that charges for the service. Don’t wave your maxed-out $500 credit limit credit card in our faces and scowl while muttering about the “good” wine you had in Italy when your mom’s second to last boyfriend flew you there.

Anyway, the tools are scowling and we’re laughing and somehow we end up making fun of clinical massage therapists. You can’t call them masseurs apparently, because that’s code for hookers, and they were taught in clinical massage therapy school to be offended by that.

Now, when I say “we somehow got on the topic,” what I mean is: hippie’s current beau was a new graduate of the clinical massage therapy school, and was running late for the party, out getting his drink on with the other very much not hookers. So we mocked him and his chosen profession.

But guess who’s mother was a clinical massage therapist? Yes, the tool’s mother, and she didn’t really like it when the other tool told us so. We smiled and tried to be nice about it, while boy-tool told us how great girl-tool’s mother was. Girl-tool kept fighting it though. She was obviously embarrassed. The lady then asked if the reason toolette was embarrassed was because her mother gave happy endings.

Now, this might have been a bit soon for that joke, but a joke it was, and everybody at the table knew it. Everybody except the tools, of course. They got offended. They were angry. They punished us by not talking to us any longer.

They won’t come out with us now. They decided to move to South Carolina. Probably not because of the joke, but you never know.

Anyway, I know her mom's name, so if you’re looking for a really good masseur, I can tell you who to call.

My socks make a nice place setting.

2006-04-09T23:48:00.000-05:00

Hi, ‘The world.’ The lady says, “hi,” too.

Today we went out in search of a dresser, or something like it. We came back with a dining room table and six chairs. We still can’t put away a goddamn thing we own, but at least we can lay it all on one hell of a classy surface.

Am I the only one who finds it bizarre that the chairs for a table cost more than the table itself? Our new chairs, which --although way way pricey for little fish like us, are exQUISite--match the mocha from the living room, and the table matches the wood in the doorways and windows. It wasn’t on purpose (shhhhhh) but damn!, it’s hot. Suddenly, things are connecting.

Being able to come home to something nice could make all of this much much easier.

Also, my stomach hurt earlier.

Walked the dog.

Need to tan.

I think I'll call it "The Wasteland"...

2006-04-09T02:46:00.000-05:00

If you ever want to be impressed with your own unoriginality, run a Google on any particularly witty phrase you believe yourself to have come up with, and see how many other equally witty persons there are out there who managed to blog it a few howevers before you.

My test?

“My life is an open casket.”

A special shout out here for Rebecca Byrkit, who wrote some stupid poem; Tim Morales, who also wrote some stupid poem; “suzzane” from limestonestatue.blogdrive.com – stupid poem; and Cole Hill, who breaks the pattern with some stupid picture.

Fuck all y’all. I hate poets.

Oh, and for those keep track: the living room is now mostly mocha; the dining room is going "forest green."

Yesterday I trimmed my nails.

Buying soap tomorrow.

Lower legs are itchy.

My dots add up to eleven.

2006-04-05T23:17:00.000-05:00

It's that impending sense of doom... Watching everyone around me contract this thing...

My workplace is peopled by dominoes.

...So it shall be done!

2006-04-04T22:23:00.000-05:00

A few nights ago, during the time of the tropical storm, the lady and I are out for dinner in Evanston. As we’re walking to the car, a guy comes up with the typical spiel. Spiced up with a reference to a second needy individual “somewhere else.”

Honestly, I’m easy. If I have money, I give it away, so the story doesn’t really matter. This dude though, when I give him three bucks, he pushes for the five. He doesn’t look all that needy. Kind of well spirited actually for a man without a home, and particularly non-smelling. Still, my philosophy: if you have to ask me for it--one way or another--you need it.

He says I can take back the three, just give him the five. So I do. I take the three bucks and give him a five.

Understandably, he shakes his wet umbrella in my face and runs away.

Seriously. The man asked me for money. Got it. Asked me for more. Got it. Sprayed me with water. Ran off into the night.

Sometimes I feel like there are messages being given to me. Life lessons couched in particularly poignant moments. I guess that’s the way we grow. We learn. Change. Move on. So I take this lesson given from above, trusting in a higher wisdom, and continue.

Still, I wonder…

Why does God want me to kill homeless people?

If it's seventy dollars, it has to be good.

2006-04-03T00:26:00.000-05:00

A friend of the lady gave her a compliment the other day. I honestly don't know the specifics of it, and you probably wouldn't be all that excited by it anyway, so let's set that aside. What was cool about it though was that, after the lady got the compliment, she called her dad to thank him for raising her well enough that someone out there saw fit to say something nice about her.

I don't know, I thought it was a pretty sweet thing to do.

Me though, I get this outside Pottery Barn--a store we have no right being within thirty feet of:

"Why aren't you mad at me?! I want to fight you!"

And she didn't just want to argue, either. She hip-checked me a couple times crossing the street. I'm not saying it was out of line. I guess it can get pretty irritating with me constantly commenting on her driving while we're out shopping. But, in my defense, it's natural not to want to die.

Speaking of shopping, I bought a fabric steamer so I wouldn't have to iron any more. Spent about forty-five minutes tonight putting it together. I guess I should have considered why steamers haven't completely replaced irons by this point if they really are the miracle I imagined them to be.

Speaking of steamers, I have one for sale. Half price.

I fucking hate Bed, Bath and Beyond.

The Bathroom Equals Switzerland

2006-04-01T20:50:00.000-06:00

I think the best thing about living with another person is the exponential increase in stress you can offer each other. It's almost like a war, really--with emotion snippers lurking in darkened rooms, waiting to shoot you if they notice you're smiling. It really does seem almost independant of ourselves. We're countries, political ideals, religious truths...and our followers are dedicated to our mutual annihilation.

I also can't help but notice the more destructive or momentous battles occur at what should be special times, dedicated to other interests. Plans to go see a show have become our Tet Offensive. 3 o'clock in the morning is our Yom Kippur War.

Thank God I'm only half Jewish.

Too bad I don't only half sleep.

I never liked my apartment anyway.

2006-03-31T21:23:00.000-06:00

It's crunch time at the Jelly, and here I am at 9:30 p.m., sorta done; or at least done enough that I can only consider coming in tomorrow...not necessarily have to. It might sound sick, but I love it.

It's hard for me to talk about work here, and not just because the people I work with are the most likely to read this. Actually, it has more to do with the other writers here who all have blogs and managed to write about stuff first. I'd hate to seem repetitive, or--worse--behind the times.

In an effort to beat that, I'm going to stop writing about things that have happened, and start writing about them before they do.

Starting tomorrow.

I am so lazy.

This whole post feels like filler.

I'll pretend it came from the President...

2006-03-29T23:56:00.000-06:00

I apologize for my short term disappearance. Between Jelly, the book, and the lady, I'm thematically drained. I'll try and sum up the exciting details of my life in tapas-style servings to catch you up.

I was treated to a professional massage over the weekend by the lady, who nabbed one for herself as well. It was a little creepy; the pan-flute in the background gave the place a quasi-mystical, moreso-cheesy feel, but the robes were great and my rubber (I'm not sure if that's her technical title) was a soft spoken giantess who massaged my butt and held my hands. Delicious.

We decided the red it took two weekends to paint our dining room just doesn't lend itself to easy matches/transitions for the connecting rooms. This weekend, we go brown.

Mary from D.C. said my blog needs a point, but affirmed my right to ramble.

Moab (our dog) pooped twice tonight on his walk. Last night, I did the same.

Okay, well, it's off to bed. Midnight:06 in the garden of color sample cards. Seriously. It's like they're growing out of the fucking wood.

Far Too Serious for a Saturday Morning

2006-03-25T02:00:00.000-06:00

I apologize if this is unclear. It’s late, and I’m exhausted.

When I was growing up, I remember thinking ahead to when something I was excited about happening in the future - like summer vacation - would already be over. I recognized there would be that moment of realization that summer vacation (sticking with the example) had ended, and, at that moment, I would remember back to when I was thinking ahead and have this strange link to an earlier me; a mix of this anticipation and sense of loss.

At first it was little things, lasting an hour. Summer vacation and that sort didn’t start until I was around eleven or so, I think. Eventually though, I drifted farther and farther ahead, until the end of my life – whenever that may be. It’s a moment though I’ve thought about in this way quite a bit.

I’ll segue for a sec here and mention a conversation I had with a friend about God. I asked him if he had ever really felt alone. He said he thought he had, and I asked him to keep track from now on, and tell me if he ever did again. He said that wasn’t fair because now he never would, and I felt, if it was that easy to “give him God” then I didn’t really do it.

The whole thing though was just based on the idea of not feeling alone. It occurred to me later that maybe the reason I never felt alone was actually because of all the me’s in the future looking back on the me’s in the past, as I did at the end of summer to the me waiting for vacation.

If that were true though, then it would mean there will be one moment in my life where I will be absolutely alone – the moment right before I die. No future me to look back.

For awhile, this bothered me, but just as I was writing this, I realized I was wrong. I forgot it was a two way street. At the end of my life, I will have every me there that has ever existed, the only chance we’ll ever have to all be together.

I’ll be the least alone I’ve ever been.

Why do you have that string tied around your finger?

2006-03-22T20:23:00.000-06:00

Skipping over a few semi-reliable degrees of separation, I know this crack head. And I don't mean a crazy or reckless individual seemingly on drugs. I mean a dude on drugs. Crack. Crack drug.

Anyway, he's in his 40's/50's (for two degrees...not bad accuracy), and basically sniffed and smoked the majority of his life away. As you might guess, this led him into a difficult money situation.

Some weaker-willed crack heads might have given up at that point. But they didn't have the determination Willy - I've named him Willy - they didn't have the determination Willy had. Willy had a vision.

A criminal mastermind by that point, having long dabbled in the perpetrative arts, Willy set his plan into to motion.

The specifics here are a little hazy, so allow me some editorial leeway. I promise no damage will occur in regards to the overall series of events.

Willy, taking a gas can, slowly walked the halls of his run-down home. Past the bedroom with the sheetless, stained mattress. Past the bathroom with the ever-flushing toilet. Past the kitchen where he had been licking the surface of his last one dollar bill in a desperate attempt to get even a trace high earlier that morning. Then he lit a match.

I imagine there's a certain satisfaction is setting everything you own afire. A Fight-Clubian release, coupled with the knowledge that the insurance money will buy you enough crack to easily blast your mind into orbit - along with what's left of your teeth.

Now, in and of itself, I guess that would make a fun enough story, but it doesn't stop there. No, it takes a little more to earn a place in my blog.

See, Willy had a flaw in his plan. One detail missing from an otherwise perfect crime. Maybe you think he left a print. Or filmed the whole thing and stuck it on the net. Maybe he just couldn't keep his mouth shut about his amazing maneuver and blew his own cover. Yep, he could have done any of those things...but he didn’t.

No, Willy's mistake was a few steps earlier, when Willy never got fire insurance.

Yeah. Poor Willy.

I know it sounds a little out there, but the true stories always do. You'll have to give me a little credit as to the veracity of my tale. Unfortunately, citing my sources could prove dangerous to my informers...

Assuming there's internet access at the shelter.

Quick Rant

2006-03-20T18:55:00.000-06:00

Okay, here's the deal. I think songs are great. Love 'em. We all do. However (and this is important to note) songs have two very important elements: the music and the lyrics. The most important word in that last sentence being the "and".

and.

AND.

Poetry is okay to write out for other people to read. The entire idea is that the ryhme scheme, the syllables, the structure of the sentence, all carry the necessary elements to capture the complete experience. A lot of poetry sucks, but hey, at least it gets a fair shake.

Lyrics, on the other hand, do not carry all the weight. There's a beat, a certain method of performance, a bunch of instruments, which massively influence the work. Without these things, virtually all the time, the lyrics are flat, empty, and lame.

I only say this because of the number of times people put lyrics in their blogs, presumably to relate some emotional quality which is absolutely absent from what they leave on the page.

I end with this thought:

Uh huh, this my shit
All the girls stomp your feet like this

Too many times I've been around that track
So it's not just goin' to happen like that
Because I ain't no hollaback girl
I ain't no hollaback girl
[2x]

Oooh, this my shit, this my shit [4x]

Let me hear you say, this shit is bananas
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
[4x]

Oooh, this my shit, this my shit [4x]

Dizzy and Blocked

2006-03-20T18:41:00.000-06:00

Every once in awhile the majority of the office ditches whatever they're doing and jumps into a game of Red Faction. For those not cool enough to know what I'm talking about, RF is an entirely out-dated, first person shooter where the goal is either to shoot other people, capture their flag, or shoot other people and capture their flag. Anyway, those games have a tendency to make me dizzy. Up until today I was all right, but this latest round has me reeling. Also, I have writer's block.

I hate to say that. I think it's a lame excuse. But after months of writing stories at varying grade levels, you try coming up with a few new twists a third grader would be drawn to. (Just as a test, four weeks from now we'll see how many of your tales deal with animals, the lunchroom, and/or overcoming a fear of X.)

Today, my heroes learned to love a dog (after being saved from a scary snake) and to put their head underwater. Important life-skills, certainly, but...

Did I mention I'm getting a haircut tomorrow?

Greetings Programs!

2006-03-19T23:11:00.000-06:00

There are shows on TV dedicated to replaying clips circulating on the web. Viral Videos on Bravo and Some Shit 2.0 (that's an approximation - I didn't catch the full title) on VH-1. Something about that freaks me out, and not just that other people watch it, but that I do.

I really don't have much to say beyond that.

I'm getting a haircut on Tuesday.

I am intoxicajngmf,d g

2006-03-19T01:50:00.000-06:00

Tonight, I went out drinking by myself. The lady was working, and suddenly I realized that I hadn't been out alone in roughly God knows when. So I took a little trip over to the neighborhood wine bar and got myself semi-plastered. It was everything I remembered.

I know not everybody likes to be out drinking by themselves, but I've been building toward it since I turned 21. I would hang out at the bars I worked at, and wait for people who I knew - regulars, other employees, whatever - to come by and spice up the night. After that, I worked a job as a shopper (read: corporate spy) and so I had to go to bars all the time. Since most of my friends had day jobs, I got used to being alone. Now, I kinda prefer getting drunk by myself - good for the thinkin'.

Anyway, I'm going to diverge from the train of thought here for a moment and briefly discuss connotation vs. denotation. Essentially, the definition versus the feeling or sense the word carries with it - although I explained the two terms in opposition of their placement, so don't get confused about what means what.

Anyway, the word(s) of the day today deal with where I was, and where I live - which are very closely located.

I have a place in Andersonville. Andersonville is way gay. Way, way, super way gay, and I love it. Virtually no crime, very clean, generally tasteful (although sprinkled with the atrocious decorative mishap) and friendly - albeit cautious. If your girlfriend were 20, 5'2'' and a buck 10, you'd live here too. There's no safer place in the city.

Anyway, I went to the local wine bar (ignoring the dive bar and the bar bar, all within walking distance), and got to see something new.

Now, like I've mentioned before, I've worked in bars a long time, so something new is pretty hard to come by, but tonight was a first, and it brings me back to those lovely terms: connotation and denotation.

A lesbian is one of two things. She's a girl in college who hasn't quite made up her mind, or a chick at a bar who gets drunk and kisses other ladies. That's a lesbian - assuming you combine the "con" and the "de."

A dyke gets in bar fights.

I'm not sure if "dyke" is considered rude or insulting, and - if so - I apologize. But, just for reference, it was the bartender who called them dykes. He was gay, so I assume he knows what's what. I'm only repeating it.

Anyway, out of the nowhere, two girls in the bar I'm getting plastered in are suddenly fighting. Knowing what I know, and doing what I do, I looked around for the down pillows, checked the ceiling for shower heads, and waited for the bartender to bust out the whip cream. Surprisingly enough, none of these presumably standard supplemental events occurred. Instead, two chicks just choked each other.

It was still hot, but not the way I hoped it would be. I inferred sexiness, but the act itself was mostly just testosteronish - which lacks a bit of the draw a...well..."suds 'n lather" shower fight might bring to the table. Still, I watched, and I am a wealthier man for it.

My end point being though that...

I totally saw two girls making out later.

Maybe I'm getting old, but...

2006-03-17T17:24:00.000-06:00

So, at approximately 5 p.m. every Friday, some random dialogue cuts in on the P.A. at work. The sampled selection isn't all that important - only that at some point somebody says something which can be followed with the words "5 o'clock rock." And we start drinking.

Now, I worked in bars for over ten years. We didn't need anyone to tell us when to drink. We just did it. As a matter of fact, we had to. You can't deal with people that much and not be drunk on a semi-regular basis, so I'm not sure what it is about this particular tradition that so fascinates me, but it does. As I write, there's a little Jamaican music playing in the back, and I'm alternating sips between a nice enough Pinot Noir and a Mountain Dew. The Rock caught me unawares today, so I'm double fisting to get rid of the evidence. Anyway, all I'm trying to say is that despite this being an office (which I swore I would never work in) and that being a bar, which I supposedly love...this is where I want to be, and these little rituals are worth far more to me than being constantly blitzed and starring into the barely-covered cleavage of some random so-and-so ever were. Even if the bathroom fans suck and I sit right outside them.

The post was almost about that actually, and I was deciding whether or not "poop-smell" required its own place in my blog when 5 (well, 5:17, but shhhhh) came around, and I was thankfully sidetracked.

Still, I wanted to use "poop-smell."

Site Counter? I don't even know her.

2006-03-17T16:44:00.000-06:00

I added a site counter. Very exciting stuff. I cut and paste into the HTML without destroying my page, so that was a bonus, but there were/are some downsides. Allow me to elaborate.

When I went to the "Free Site Counter" site (site, site, site), I thought I was being particularly sneaky when I selected the INVISIBLE counter. That way I would avoid embarrassing myself by displaying the impressively tiny amount of traffic this site gets. It would be for me, and me alone - like my special place, but on the internet.

So I've looked at it. Twice actually. Once from work, and once from home. I've had two visits. Both from me.

If that weren't bad enough, turns out though that the free counter comes with little ads (as most of the three of you are probably aware), and one of them is for the place that distributes the counter. The problem? If you click on the word "data" in their advertisement, it takes you to my site-stat page.

I wanna cry.

3,650 days, or something like that...

2006-03-16T13:06:00.000-06:00

A quick smattering of background:

High school was bad. Screw the details and the sad stories - it was just bad. But certain people, certain cruel, horrible people, made it that much worse, and one of them happens to be this focus of today's post.

Congratulations.

I've grown a lot since then, and I don't mean as a person - although I have. Right now I'm referring to the pure, physical growth I underwent between high school and college. Yay for me. [insert flag waving here]

A few months ago I went to my reunion, both to say hello to the few and scattered friends I had from that time, and to gloat, rub it into, and outshine those who hurt me - and who hopefully got really, really fat and/or bald. Unfortunately, not all my old nemesisesisses (I'm not sure the plural form of this word never ends) attended, so while I would call the evening a partial victory, it was lacking a certain silky vindictiveness.

Thank goodness for last night.

I ran into one of them at a restaurant. He didn't recognize me. He thought I was insane when I said "hello" and started up a conversation. When he eventually realized who I was - somewhere around the point where I told him - he looked shocked.

I was in heaven.

The lady was with me, along with one of her friends. She caught on that something was up and made sure to do a couple of what I will call "butt walks" by the table, and even kissed the girl we were with, God bless her. If I had to run a quick tally...I was dressed better, looked better, landed a better job, had a great looking girlfriend with seemingly bi-tendencies, and totally fucking won.

Ten years in the making, but wow, so worth it.

Even though no one reads this...

2006-03-05T14:06:00.000-06:00

It's not exactly what I would call hidden. If you look for it, you'll find it, which means I can't say anything here I wouldn't be willing to say in front of everyone I know. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I know I go blog-hunting, searching for people I don't like so I can see what's going wrong in their lives. Hopefully, I'm not the only one a little sick that way.

Which means that I'll just have to talk about issues, or non-issues I decide to elevate to news-worthy status, but nothing really personal - assuming my opinions and writing can be viewed as somehow not being closely tied to me.

It's okay though, I have another degree of separation to throw in between Me (note the capital "m") and the me you see here (non-capital "M"). I've noticed (and maybe I'm wrong, but who cares?) that it's the persona that's interesting, not the person. My problems/life/job aren't worth your time to read - or mine to write, for that matter. So let's dress it up a bit. Let's make me a character.

Then somebody might bother reading this.

Crazy Exciting

2006-03-04T02:26:00.001-06:00

This blog officially exists. The great Google has spoken.

I guess now I have to start posting.

Like any properly ego-obsessed individual, I google my name every once in awhile (read: day) to see whereabouts I am. Occasionally I pop up at the top for a less-than-impressive short story site (putting me ahead of Christopher Weil & CO, of which I am surprisingly unaffiliated), but I sometimes disappear completely. Why? Well, I'm sure there's a reason.

Anyway, today, I got hit with a double-whammy. First, I saw my bio had come up on Jellyvision's website, which means I am now available to all web-browsing ex-girlfriends who can finally say "Oh, look. He became a person!" Secondly, but no less amazing, is that my blog has crossed from obscurity to main-stream, so much that if you type in my name and the super-secret code word "blog" - you get this. My blog.

Welcome to my world. I just did some painting in my dining room.

So I added some links...

2006-03-01T01:36:00.000-06:00

I have no idea what the ettiquette is for adding links. I'm not sure if you're supposed to ask, or if people then somehow feel they have to reciprocate. I'm hoping it's a "no" to both, though. I'd hate to make someone feel cyber-obligated.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I should be working on the book. The book should be done. The book would be done if not for those bastards at Jellyvision who hired me right when I was about to finish. (See, that didn't take long. Look where being patient got you.)

Okay, I just made an aside the referenced a previous post, yet blog readers have a tendency to start from the top and work their way down, going back through history, or - at least - that's what I do, and I use myself as the basis for judging just about everything, so we'll assume it's universal. That pretty much kills the joke. I'd reverse the whole thing, but I can't future reference just yet...that's a little out of my league.

Conclusion?

This blog is going to suck.

Luckily though, not too many people are going to have to suffer through it.

Boom

2006-03-01T00:35:00.000-06:00

Okay, back on the scene. It's been five months since my last post. Here's a quick near-half-year in review:

1. Got hired - sort of.
2. Got apartment - sort of.
3. Got...

Okay, I moved in with my girlfriend. Never done that before. Very exciting times.

So let's attack this all from the top down, shall we? And let's see if, just for kicks, we can make a whole paragraph.

Actually, fuck that. Let's try and keep anything in the almost-present. I'm sure you'll figure out the bits and pieces as we go.

I'd write more right now, but for some reason, the idea of this thing is making me nauseous. I can't really take myself seriously enough...well, to even finish that thought. Even my lack of pretension feels pretentious.

Let's make a little deal. I won't keep going back over my little life-snippets editing and reediting and driving myself crazy over word choice as long as the both of you don't take this too seriously.

All right then. Let's move on.

The Horror...

2005-09-29T22:57:00.000-05:00

With the recent surge in supernatural television, I’m inspired to tell one of my own scary stories. Like all such tales, it relies on you believing in my ability to accurately relate the events which took place, as well as trust that I’m not just here to sell you white salmon.

If it helps, I don’t even like fish.

Location may or may not be an important factor. I'm hardly expert enough to determine that, so I leave it up to you. I was in an apartment (not my own) which had no previous, nor (to my knowledge) further paranormal activity. This was approximately five years back, in the town of Urbana: home to half the illustrious University of Illinois. I was alone.

It started off in a dream. The specifics have started to fade, but I remember breaking off a conversation with some girl - the salient, memorable detail being that she was out of place (where ever we were) – and heading to my car.

As I got in, I was talking to my father on my cell phone. Again, what we said is lost to time. What stands out from that moment was my realization that I wasn’t actually on the phone, so someone was with me…also, that it most certainly wasn’t my father. For a dream, that would be pretty standard procedure, but I became, for the briefest of moments, entirely lucid. I realized the voice was not occurring within the dream state, but from somewhere…else. At that instant, I knew I wasn’t alone. Before I woke up, I was told a date in July, the name of a beach, and shown a northerly pointing peninsula.

I came to consciousness as though the entirety of my body was sucked upwards into the real world. There was tremendous pressure inside my head, and I realized both that I was going insane (because something else was definitely inside my brain), and how horrible the rest of my life was going to be.

I looked around the bedroom, or, rather, I looked at the bedroom; I couldn’t actually move my body, save to open my eyes. At first, I fought it instinctively, but the fear calmed, the pressure abated, and I knew that if I broke free, I’d miss whatever it was I was about to see.

Staring directly upwards, I watched a skeletal woman, dressed in rags, holding a very tiny baby in the palm of her hand; also just bones. The baby repeatedly slid out of her grasp towards the wall, as though it were a clip being played again and again. After a time - I have no idea how long - the image became mist, and reformed into a four-squared window, where four faces looked at me. Once again…no flesh, just bones.

Involuntarily, I shivered and broke the connection. The image dissolved, the presence disappeared, and I was left on my own.

I made a few phone calls, retelling the events while shaking on the couch, the sickly-thin cat mewling at me in desperate need of petting (it has since become fatter). Later, we found a calendar I had seen a few weeks before with a woman holding a baby in her palm. Then I learned (from a nurse) that sometimes you can start to wake up, but, for whatever reason, your mind doesn’t quite click to awake, and you mix dreams with reality…all while under the influence of a self-created paralytic.

It all came into place, mostly, so I pretty much wrote it off.

Except for one thing:

Just for kicks, a few days later my friend and I Googled the beach name. It took a few variations on the spelling; and, for awhile, we came up with nothing; but, eventually - in a random post giving directions to a party - we found it, hidden along the west coast…in Washington…

…on the peninsula.

I’ve never been to that beach, nor heard of it prior to my dream. It wasn’t even on a map.

I don’t know, maybe I should have gone there on that date in July. Maybe there was something there I was supposed to see, something I needed to do. I still remember how it felt, and how sure I was.

Over time, I’ve buried it; but, now and again, I wonder: was it real?

I guess I’ll never know, but I can live with that.

Actually...I'd prefer it.

Fully Render This!

2005-09-28T20:03:00.000-05:00

The greatest video game of all time is Galaga. It’s okay, don’t worry. I know you agree. If, perhaps, you’re a member of the more recent generation that’s never had cause to go to an arcade, and only know the pleasures of TV gaming, then you are excused from voting…whether you have an opinion or not. It is on your behalf though that I will describe the profound, existential bliss achievable only when locked in mortal combat with alien bug-ships and the all-mighty tractor beam.

You can thank me later.

It begins simply enough; choose one or two players. For you beginners, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter all that much at this point if you play alone or with a partner. For the advanced, here’s a little trick: Put in fifty cents (oh, the humanity!) and take a shot at the game as Player Two. Why, you say? For some reason, the second station has an extra place-holder for the score. If you don’t take advantage of that, somewhere around level 95 the counter will flip back to zero, leaving you to keep accurate track of the tally yourself - and everybody knows it’s not cool to do math while defending the universe from swooping bees.

So there you are. The game has started and you find yourself at the bottom of the screen. No 3D imaging here. No foreground. No special moves to speak of. Just LEFT, RIGHT, and FIRE. That’s all you need.

Here come the bugs.

There are two parts to every stage. Being the dramatic foes they are, each level requires the assaulting insects to fly through in waves. Don’t worry, for now they won’t attack…at least not in the beginning stages. Later levels show a little more aggression, but for the moment, their little larvael curtain call is just a chance for you to wipe them out of the sky.

There are patterns they follow: the side they swoop in from, where they end up. It changes as the levels progress in a decently sized loop before starting back over (hence: loop). You’ll figure that out in time. For now, just shoot as many of them as you can. Be careful though, the game only allows three little plasma-bullets on the screen at once, so if you miss, your rate of fire slows down dramatically while you wait for that last shot to clear the top.

Keep your eyes open and go get ‘em!

Okay, you’ve picked off a few, but now comes the real test. They’ve assembled into a rectangular formation and will, one by one, begin dive bombing you. You can die here, and not just by being shot. Don’t fly into the ships. You’ll both explode and they have no sense of self-preservation.

Assuming you don’t get immediately wiped out by this, the most exciting element of the game comes into play right…

…about

…now.

A weird, dragonfly-ish thing comes down to the bottom third of the screen and spits out a tractor beam. Believe it or not, this is the path to victory. Those silly bugs have provided you with the most powerful weapon against their kind, almost. It’s up to you to get it. Let me explain.

Get caught in the beam. DON’T do this if this is your last guy. When I was six, that was the way I always died: never understood the life-counter. Otherwise, assuming you have at least one more ship in your stockpile, beam yourself up. Congratulations, you’ve become a temporary P.O.W.

The level resets and your ship is now red, stacked on top of the alien which stole it. Patience, this is a tricky time. At some point, the alien your old fighter is piggy-backing on will swoop down, your ship on top, and attack you. DO NOT SHOOT YOUR SHIP. It nabs you a thousand points, but that’s an insult-trade considering a ship’s value. No, you want to avoid that at any cost.

Instead, nail the hostage taker. If you do this while he’s flying around, the ship is returned, and now you have double the firepower. You’re an easier target, but you don’t care. You’ll waste the little baddies while they’re doing their pre-level parade and by the time they’ve regrouped, it’ll be a slaughter.

Well, once you stop sucking.

Why is this such a great game? It's definately not the bleepy, inter-level music, the streaking, multi-colored lights passing themselves off as stars, or the limited play options. No, it’s a great game because of the intensity of one-on-one(hundred) battle, the appealing integration of alternating-pattern recognition, and because - once you get good - a quarter buys you forty-five minutes of sweaty palmed adventure. After playing for awhile, when you get into the zone, it’s almost Zen-like. You’ll liberate your higher mind, free of all Earthly concerns.

Also, this one time when I played, a guy bet me and I won, like, forty bucks.

So find a Galaga machine at the local, run-down bowling alley, get good, and earn some rent money. Your wallet, your inner bodhisattva…and your universe…will thank you.

How much for that...

2005-09-27T22:14:00.000-05:00

I don’t love dogs. I can admit it. I like dogs. They’re cool. They can catch, fetch, lick and make little kids smile. My family has had dogs as long as I can remember. My grandparents usually have three or more, and not just pretty ones. Oftentimes, they are rescued off the street, hate people, and, for the most part, spend their time boarded up in the guest bedroom when my family comes to visit because otherwise they’d be somewhat prone to kill us. My sister, the oldest of two, has the same obsession with dogs my grandparents passed down to my mother. She owns a dog, some sort of cross between a rat and a reindeer, and cries when it doesn’t eat a cookie. My mother is the same way. Like I said, I like dogs, but I don’t love them. Not like that. So once again my girlfriend has added an interesting element to my life.

She (surprise) loves dogs. Loves dogs, and talks to them as though they were children in a soft, cuddly voice frequently reserved for morning cartoon characters. If you’re wondering where she picked that up, come have dinner with us some time at her parents’ house. Her mother loves dogs, too.

It isn’t just reserved to women though, in case that was your theory. It was mine, sort of, before, but it turns out my uncle, my mother’s brother, also has the affection affliction. His isn’t just limited to dogs (neither, for that manner, is my mother’s, my sister’s, or my grandparents’), but they do take up the majority of his attention. He also used to have a parrot, Buggie Bird, but he died in a tragic twine accident.

So my family loves dogs, cries over dogs, has doggie funerals and, in the extreme cases, takes them to acupuncture. Again, I like dogs, but I don’t like dogs enough to put pins them. They’re just fun. Great to play with, but I don’t like all the hassle involved in owning one. The walking, the feeding, the vetting (in this case I mean “going to the vet,” not “checking their background”), all of this registers high on the unappealing scale, and yet, this afternoon, if you happened to be living in Evanston and were looking out your window, there you would have seen me, leash in hand, plastic bags in my pockets - and Moab. Moab is the dog.

He’s about the size of my girlfriend, and while that height is fine for a person, it’s somewhat disconcerting for a canine (that’s science talk for “dog”). He is a hound-ish thing, with generally good manners, fur that peels off as though he knew I were allergic, and a desperate desire to make friends with squirrels. Also, and I learned this on walks, he poops. A lot.

I feel a little strange going into detail about doggie defecation, so you’ll have to allow me my occasional euphemism or metaphor. I’m not a generally bashful guy, but certain subjects remain a tad taboo for me. Be forewarned though, I’m not holding back the imagery. It’s only fair. He didn’t.

I have my plastic bags….two now, because I learned that little trick... and we’re out and about in the neighborhood. I’m not sure if or when the sense that everyone is watching you starts to fade. Maybe there’s a moment, when you cross from dog-walker to dog-enthusiast, that the rest of the world melts away. I don’t know though, for the same reason I’ll never find out about that “runner’s high.” For me, already somewhat self-conscious, walking around with a waste-making machine, going lawn to lawn and treating trees like toilets, I’m hard pressed not to imagine I’m the center of attention.

So I’ve developed a rule set: a code to live by during the process. I’m not sure how functional it is, for all I know it has the effectual value of compulsively turning the lock open and closed three times every time I leave the house, but at least it makes me feel better.

First off, I avoid any non-natural or non-state related items. What I mean is: plants and mailboxes only. Maybe fire hydrants, but Moab doesn’t like those, so I have yet to evaluate them. I also have a depth rule. No more than five feet towards the house or apartment. The front part of the lawn, after the sidewalk and up to the street, is fair game. Fields are free zones.

So that’s our target area, but now the specifics. Peeing is cool. Pee like a fiend. I can handle that. Moab squat pees like a girl dog, but that’s okay. I have to demonstrate he didn’t pull a number two for any potential observers by bending my head towards the drop zone, bag in hand, and shaking “no” after an appropriate amount of analyzation, but I’ve gotten used to that. No, my only problem comes down to the real deal.

To start, Moab doesn’t stay still while doing his…um, hrm…duty. He moves, kind of like a crop duster. I try to hold his leash tight – it’s the cool, spin out/retractable kind – but he still has a few feet leeway, so I’m hard pressed to control it. This means I have to keep a sharp eye on each separate act so as not to leave anyone behind, sort of like the Navy, only with poo. In the daytime, it isn’t that hard. At night, it’s a wee bit challenging. Luckily, it’s harder to see me then, so I don’t really care.

Assuming we’ve successfully ID’ed all known hostiles (keeping with the military metaphor), then comes containment. It should be a simple process, and sometimes it is. Just wear the bag like a glove and pick up the pieces, turn right-side out, and walla! Doggie bag. Tie it up and walk through the neighborhood with proud authority.

In practice though, it’s never quite that simple.

Okay, it smells, and that’s bad on its own, but it’s not the only thing - from time to time it isn’t…solid. Oh, it looks solid, but don’t get caught off guard. It’s a trap. A very, very squishy trap, designed to get all over your hand. In this case, the best thing you can do is pantomime the proper actions, avoid contact with the plastic as much as humanly possible, and abort the walk, using back alleys to hide from any angry homeowners who don’t appreciate the smeary gift you’ve left behind. If you can, walk a different path for a couple days and maybe vary your standard walk time.

I never said I wasn’t a coward.

So I walked Moab today, and do a lot of other days because I’m just that nice and because, according to my girlfriend, he loves me. I don’t get why. I’m just around all the time and occasionally wrestle a bit with him, but maybe for dogs that’s all it takes. We take naps together, and I know a couple good spots to scratch his belly, but I think he stinks. Not entirely as bad as he could, but he does. Of course, to be fair, his paws smell like cheerios, and that’s pretty cool. He can do tricks, and he’s not bad company. He listens (most of the time) and is funny to watch run. I spend time alone with him when the lady isn’t around and I make room for him in bed when he decides he doesn’t feel like sleeping alone…he’s soft and warm, so it isn’t all that big a deal.

Still though, I just like dogs. I don’t love them.

Well, maybe one.

Go go gadget blog-bot

2005-09-26T02:30:00.000-05:00

It's hard not to be impressed. My first real, searchable blog has been up about three hours and already there are two bot posts. At least, I assume that's what they are. Out of curiosity, I actually checked out the site advertised in the first one and found it to be under construction, which I thought was pretty funny in a laugh-to-myself, not-really-a-laugh, more-like-bemused sort of way.

Since it's such a nice intro to the topic, I'm going to come clean about my opinion on blogs, blogging, and the mystery surrounding one of the information superhighway's newest oases.

Up until now, I've avoided posting. Why? Paranoia. Not that someone would kill me, or eat me, or kill me and eat me, or anything like that. No, my fear was/is plagiarism. It's a somewhat silly concern, considering that we (writers in general) are all fighting so hard to be published and yet we assume that, given access to even a little of our work, somebody else will instantly turn it into a ticket to stardom, but it's a fear harbored all the same. Because of it, I have avoided writing blogs almost entirely.

Of course, reading them is a different story all together.

I've been lurking for ages. I love that there's a term for that. Lurking. I'm sure that just about everybody does it, and that's part of the thrill: knowing that at any time, someone you've never met could be zeroing in on your life, keeping track of what you have to say and feel.

See, and this is the interesting part, the blog isn't just a way to vent emotional/intellectual steam into the ether. It's evolved into a real community...just one populated by the fictitious or idealized sides of its observers. Even that's bit of an embellishment. Maybe not fictitious. Maybe what I really mean to call it is...personal. It might not be the objective truth, but it's the world - their world - through their eyes, and that's where the web becomes so incredibly useful. Want to know what it's like to be a twelve-year-old girl growing up on a farm in Kansas? A forty-something dentist in upstate New York? A cancer survivor who loves hiking? It's a Google search away. Type and click.

We're all moving one step closer to each other at the speed of broadband (even though to some it looks like we're pulling apart): building up our online Katamari. Every day we learn more, every day more information becomes available.

We might not all get to be movie stars, but this isn't a half-bad compromise.

The Joys of the Weekend

2005-09-26T01:15:00.000-05:00

It’s Sunday, and I woke up to football. I had never especially liked football growing up. As a general rule, I didn’t watch anything sport-related by myself. It’s not that I don’t appreciate athleticism. I do. I’m impressed by impressive athletes. Less so in tennis, but that we can save for when I have absolutely nothing else to talk about. Football though, at least that has an exciting man-crushing-man aspect to it: something that appeals on a basic death and destruction level. Hockey used to have that, but then they ruined it by stopping the fights. Then again by stopping Hockey. There was nothing quite like huddling in the rafters while freezing with your friends and drinking a beer that somehow never stayed cold while two ant-sized people beat the heck out of each other on the ice, but those days are long gone. Now, now I’m left with football - and my girlfriend loves it. A lot. And I'm not just making the emphasis to create a sense of dramatic irony. This goes much deeper. I mean: special-football-season-collar-for-her-dog, magical-game-day-prayer-candle, all-the-plates-in-the-entire-apartment-are-her-team’s-colors loves football.

So now you start to see the picture, and what’s worse is…she’s a Packer fan. My cousin is Marv Levy. I could have lived with her being a Bills fan. I was a Bills fan every time they didn't quite make it. But a Packer? Really? A Packer?

I don’t know. Maybe it’s in my blood, and here I'm not just talking about family. I'm also taking about my city: Chicago. I never really cared all that much about team rivalry before this, but, well...I was there. I was THERE in ‘85. I remember real football. I saw real football. Nothing, ever, in the future history of the sport will top that year. Even Tecmo Bowl knew that. I wasn’t a fan of the game, but I knew real ability, and I was there (in case I forgot to mention that). They had a real nickname too: Monsters of the Midway. And what were Bear’s fans called? Bears fans. That was all we needed. That was a team.

Cheese-head. That’s my girlfriend. She claims it with pride.

I’m sure a lot of great things came out of Wisconsin. I could look them up on the Internet, but I’ll be satisfied simply assuming this to be true. I don’t know them off-hand though because instead of embracing any one of what I’m sure must have been a myriad of achievements on a national, perhaps even world level, and promoting said accomplishments with well-deserved dignity, they (presumably the entire state) decided to champion “Cheese-head” as their moniker. Their civic duty ignored, and in its place a foam-hat monument to soured milk.

So this morning - and by this morning I mean 1:30 in the afternoon since it’s Sunday and I was out the night before (because the night before Sunday belongs to Saturday and on Saturday we go out) - this morning I was sitting in the living room of my girlfriend’s apartment, drinking coffee from a green colored cup and eating leftover chocolate cake from a gold colored plate, watching the Bears get crushed by Cincinnati. Why the Bears? Because Green Bay doesn’t play until 3:15 and Sunday is football-day now. I was sitting and watching the game so I could be a manly man with my normally feminine girlfriend and watch Orton, our third quarterback of the year, try and throw for the team record in single-game interceptions. I say "our" because as soon as you watch a team for more than five minutes, you have the option of joining its fan base, and I've been watching them for two weeks. Anyway, we were watching him, Orton (whom I thought to be worst quarterback ever in the history of the world), make a go at the hall of shame, but - sadly - it turns out some guy back in the seventies sucked even more than he does, so Orton couldn’t even do that right.

On the bright side, at least Green Bay is worse, but that doesn’t really help.

So the Bears (who were supposed to dominate their division, by-the-by) lose their real QB in pre-season and now can’t even kick a field goal while the Packers are rebuilding almost the entire team, save Bret Favre (who’s now a hundred and eighty) during the year I suck it up and finally start watching football like God intended. Awesome.

Still, the day wasn't shot. I had "The West Wing," to look forward to. I've been waiting all summer to find out who the next president was going to be, and now I know. After months of speculation and conjecture, it's...a blur.

Yay!

Ahh well, that's the way the world works. The team I want to root for for the Superbowl basically announced before the season started that they were doomed, and the show I wanted to wrap up its mystery in the first episode calmly let me know my wish would come true in roughly twenty-two weeks.

But keep your chin up. Gas prices are down to $2.75.

Yay!

2005-09-23T15:44:00.000-05:00

Yay! (a celebration over my victory in the creation of this blog.)