It's been a while since I've written one of these.
~
Why can't this day be happily undone?
And gone the ambiguity it's wrought:
All there is to do is bear the pain, or not,
And I cannot commit to either one.
To be a stronger woman does not appeal
To stand up boldly, proudly in the rain,
And face the burning breaches once again,
And again, and again, and again till I keel.
And so I am drawn to a simpler fate,
And some easy blood and a final breath,
Yet this life has made me so fear death.
I've thought of my answer an hour too late--
That the sun could rise and days be no more:
This day, here, or the day that I was born.
~
Comments?
On with it.
Sunday, September 14, 2003
Correction-- The Guest Page will feature Ben's Manifesto tomorrow. My FTP server seems to be having problems right now and, as it is now close to three AM, I am not going to fix them tonight. Still, everybody keep your interest piqued for the next twelve hours or so, or else you may just choose to read the post (Called "Conclusive Proof of t-the Stupidity of Mankind: Part One!" on Ben's Site. Till then, please amuse yourself with Andy Milonakis, because, let's face it-- with ducky whores, you can't go wrong.
On with it.
On with it.
So lately I've been having some problems resolving myself to update this site...or rather, no problems at all resolving myself to do it, just problems with the follow through, rather like my yearly resolutions to lose ten pounds, or to stop hitting my sister's kids when they try to hug me. You know the drill. The problem, as I perceive it, is that I've recently bought an advertisement on Fark, a twenty-five dollar investment which brought me over a thousand hits. While this may seem like incentive to update, for me it's more of an incentive to climb into bed naked and curl up into a little ball...but then, what isn't it? Truly, the shock of the traffic and the potential to gain so many readers scared me as much as "The Italian Job" scared all of Detroit-- not only was the movie was a two-hour long advertisement for an increasingly popular foreign car, but Ed Norton played a surprisingly convincing bad guy, despite his winning smile.
Thusly, I will force myself back into the game, not for me, not for the Farkers, but for the dignity of the internet itself. (Warning: While the preceding link will, in fact, take you to the very soul of the internet, I warn you not to explore the site too deeply, or you may well run into a picture of a fat woman bending over to show off her fat vagina, which strangely resembles that Droopy-faced dog on the Looney Tunes.) So, in the spirit of getting my act together, pulling out of the stops and giving you, my beloved readers, what you're here for, I will divert your attention to my new Guest Writer's section, now with a manifesto by my dear friend Ben as previously featured on his site, The Ben Way.
Also, it is with my most sincere commendations that I refer you to AngryNakedPat.com, where you can sample some lyrical genius directly proportional to the size and shape of the artist, former "Man Show" Boy Andy Milonakis. This pudgy prodigy is making it big with such hits like "BINGO has AIDS" and "Crispy New Freestyle", wherein Andy belts out such heart-stoppingly beautiful lyrics as "Meet me, meet me, meet me, don't beat me, just meet me at the waffle house/ I'm a mouse from Ecuador/ You're a duck/And you're a ducky whore/You like to suck duck dick all day/I like to suck mouse dick, too/That's okay, that don't mean I'm a Jew." Yes, this fine young man is ripping through the music world like Roseanne through a bag of Dorritos, and the rest of us are powerless to stop it. He's sneaking into our lives like a Mini Cooper through a sewage drainpipe, getting into our heads like the deceptive smile of an secretly evil Hollywood actor.
And still, Detroit knows nothing. Damn those cute little dimples, damn them!
Until next time, when I will resume relative normalcy...which, on this site, will probably involve an article about a man surgically attaching the genitals of a dog to his body. The anticipation just makes me want to climb into bed naked and curl up into a little ball; what about you?
On with it.
Thusly, I will force myself back into the game, not for me, not for the Farkers, but for the dignity of the internet itself. (Warning: While the preceding link will, in fact, take you to the very soul of the internet, I warn you not to explore the site too deeply, or you may well run into a picture of a fat woman bending over to show off her fat vagina, which strangely resembles that Droopy-faced dog on the Looney Tunes.) So, in the spirit of getting my act together, pulling out of the stops and giving you, my beloved readers, what you're here for, I will divert your attention to my new Guest Writer's section, now with a manifesto by my dear friend Ben as previously featured on his site, The Ben Way.
Also, it is with my most sincere commendations that I refer you to AngryNakedPat.com, where you can sample some lyrical genius directly proportional to the size and shape of the artist, former "Man Show" Boy Andy Milonakis. This pudgy prodigy is making it big with such hits like "BINGO has AIDS" and "Crispy New Freestyle", wherein Andy belts out such heart-stoppingly beautiful lyrics as "Meet me, meet me, meet me, don't beat me, just meet me at the waffle house/ I'm a mouse from Ecuador/ You're a duck/And you're a ducky whore/You like to suck duck dick all day/I like to suck mouse dick, too/That's okay, that don't mean I'm a Jew." Yes, this fine young man is ripping through the music world like Roseanne through a bag of Dorritos, and the rest of us are powerless to stop it. He's sneaking into our lives like a Mini Cooper through a sewage drainpipe, getting into our heads like the deceptive smile of an secretly evil Hollywood actor.
And still, Detroit knows nothing. Damn those cute little dimples, damn them!
Until next time, when I will resume relative normalcy...which, on this site, will probably involve an article about a man surgically attaching the genitals of a dog to his body. The anticipation just makes me want to climb into bed naked and curl up into a little ball; what about you?
On with it.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
It's been ten years since Rashmilla Shakya lost her job. Since then, she has been living with the aid of her family, and her meager forty dollar per month pension. Since she previously worked almost all of her life in the same area of expertise, her sudden lay-off was devastating to her, as she possessed almost no marketable skills-- she knew only one life, could do only one job, and that was suddenly, wrongly denied to her. Hundreds of thousands of victims of age discrimination know this same pain. The different thing about Rashmilla Shakya-- she was twelve years old. And worshiped by all Nepalis as a living Goddess, the source of all divine power.
At least until she reached puberty. It is against custom for a Rushari, or Virgin Goddess, to menstrate, so when Rashmilla began, she was taken home to her family and started all over again as a commoner, a life she had not known since she was four years old. Human rights activists have severe moral objections to this Nepali custom: When Rashmilla returned to her common life, she had no friends, no emotional ties to her family, no real world experience. She could neither read nor write.
Oh, cry me a river.
Here is a debate over the horrid mistreatment of a little girl worshiped on high by 23 million people, raised in a palace, granted her every wish, and kept in perfect health. Meanwhile, 27 million of her Chinese neighbors are taking root in sweatshop floors, also unable to read with the exception of a handful of words like "CAUTION", "HIGH VOLTAGE", and "KATHY LEE". According to Gauri Pradhan, head of the Child Workers Group in Nepal, human rights became an issue about twelve years ago: the 80's were over, Designing Women was about to get cancelled, activists had to seek out a new kind of cruelty to rebel against. Still, I think their aim was slightly askew: Rashmilla was offered everything needed to blossom into a fully-developed adult, including a tutor. Reportedly, the man was too scared to force Rashimilla to study, but if this is the objection the Human Rights Activists have, they might start with the Northern California public school system: haven't these people seen Dangerous Minds? At twenty-two, Rashmilla is now in college, working on her degree in information technology-- all evidence suggests that she's adjusted just fine, as opposed to the illiterate masses in our own backyard, drinking in streets, starving in allies, running the WB.
Despite the criticisms, the tradition, which dates back to the 18th century, continues, if slightly altered. The monthly pension has been raised, and the girl's families are now given limited visitation rights. The remaining concerns seem based around the fact that at the age a girl is chosen, they are too young to understand the reality of the decision to become divine. They cannot begin to imagine the psychological repercussions of reaching the most crucial part of their existence at such an early age, rather akin to NBC's "America's Most Talented Kid". (There's something I'd rally behind activism against. As if reality TV in general weren't already a screaming indignity, we've got parents forcing their children in the surreal, perverse contests by the thousands and the industry's leaders cackling like the devil with a fresh helping of human souls. They know, you see, that starting the exposure of these little prodigies early lines them up for decades worth of entertainment to the extreme: Today, it's "Most Talented Kid", tomorrow it's "Most Insecure Teenager", fifteen years from now it'll be "America's Most Moving Therapy". Picture it, if you will: some kid who's parents pushed him to build his entire system of self-esteem in his ability to due Jimmy Durante impressions, laying across a couch, telling the world Liz Taylor-style how he never felt beautiful, giving us all the details of his Freudian need to be accepted for who he is by Lance Bass and Mario Lopez. But I digress.)
If it's the mature ability to make a level-headed decision they want, here's my solution: TAKE ME! I'm more than willing to sacrifice my life of privilege for...a life of even more privilege. Sure, I menstruate, but I wouldn't if I didn't take my birth contol patch one week a month. And if I'm going to be an unwilling virgin for an indefinite amount of time, I might as well be the Virgin Goddess-- actually, at nineteen years old and still biblically untouched, I think I technically am the Virgin Goddess. Let's compare: Due to religious objections to leather, a newly civilianized Rashmilla "recoiled in horror" when forced to wear shoes to school. I, too, feel that horror, every time I see a price tag at Lady Foot Locker. The Kushari must always be clothed in red-- I have the MP3 of "Lady in Red" in my Kazaa shared folder. One ritual in the initiation for a Rushari is to spend the night in a dark room with the heads of slaughtered buffaloes. I work at Burger King! We're practically Twins!
Until my long-lost birthright comes to rescue me, however, I think we're all forgetting about the real victim here: Rashmilla's sister, Pramilla, who was interviewed on Rashmilla's behalf. We all have our sibling rivalries, but what kind of hell must this girl have known? Growing up in a house with walls covered in pictures and portraits of your goddess sister-- what kind of accomplishment could even come close? "Mommy, mommy! I got all A's on my report card!" "Your sister's a goddess, kid, keep trying." It's the ultimate Jan Brady complex. How must it have felt, even, just to do the interview. "Pramilla, honey, there's a reporter here who wants to speak to you--" And for a moment, her heart is all a flutter with hopes for the attention she never before received--- "about your sister."
And it all comes crashing down again.
All melodrama aside, this girl is no more a victim than Sharon Osbourne is a talk show host. If an entire nation needs an uneducated little girl with a painted third-eye to give their lives religious focus, then we aren't the people to judge, not when our religious beliefs are being guided by the future stars of "America's Most Pedophilic Priests". There are a lot more productive things that a human right's activist could be doing with their time--There's hunger, devastation, humiliation, disease. For god's sake, there are people children being abused out there, there are fathers raping daughters, and I have to go to work at seven AM tomorrow morning! Where are the protesters at Burger King's door, holding signs that say "FREE LINDA", huh? No where!
It's always Rashmilla, Rashmilla, Rashmilla.
On with it.
At least until she reached puberty. It is against custom for a Rushari, or Virgin Goddess, to menstrate, so when Rashmilla began, she was taken home to her family and started all over again as a commoner, a life she had not known since she was four years old. Human rights activists have severe moral objections to this Nepali custom: When Rashmilla returned to her common life, she had no friends, no emotional ties to her family, no real world experience. She could neither read nor write.
Oh, cry me a river.
Here is a debate over the horrid mistreatment of a little girl worshiped on high by 23 million people, raised in a palace, granted her every wish, and kept in perfect health. Meanwhile, 27 million of her Chinese neighbors are taking root in sweatshop floors, also unable to read with the exception of a handful of words like "CAUTION", "HIGH VOLTAGE", and "KATHY LEE". According to Gauri Pradhan, head of the Child Workers Group in Nepal, human rights became an issue about twelve years ago: the 80's were over, Designing Women was about to get cancelled, activists had to seek out a new kind of cruelty to rebel against. Still, I think their aim was slightly askew: Rashmilla was offered everything needed to blossom into a fully-developed adult, including a tutor. Reportedly, the man was too scared to force Rashimilla to study, but if this is the objection the Human Rights Activists have, they might start with the Northern California public school system: haven't these people seen Dangerous Minds? At twenty-two, Rashmilla is now in college, working on her degree in information technology-- all evidence suggests that she's adjusted just fine, as opposed to the illiterate masses in our own backyard, drinking in streets, starving in allies, running the WB.
Despite the criticisms, the tradition, which dates back to the 18th century, continues, if slightly altered. The monthly pension has been raised, and the girl's families are now given limited visitation rights. The remaining concerns seem based around the fact that at the age a girl is chosen, they are too young to understand the reality of the decision to become divine. They cannot begin to imagine the psychological repercussions of reaching the most crucial part of their existence at such an early age, rather akin to NBC's "America's Most Talented Kid". (There's something I'd rally behind activism against. As if reality TV in general weren't already a screaming indignity, we've got parents forcing their children in the surreal, perverse contests by the thousands and the industry's leaders cackling like the devil with a fresh helping of human souls. They know, you see, that starting the exposure of these little prodigies early lines them up for decades worth of entertainment to the extreme: Today, it's "Most Talented Kid", tomorrow it's "Most Insecure Teenager", fifteen years from now it'll be "America's Most Moving Therapy". Picture it, if you will: some kid who's parents pushed him to build his entire system of self-esteem in his ability to due Jimmy Durante impressions, laying across a couch, telling the world Liz Taylor-style how he never felt beautiful, giving us all the details of his Freudian need to be accepted for who he is by Lance Bass and Mario Lopez. But I digress.)
If it's the mature ability to make a level-headed decision they want, here's my solution: TAKE ME! I'm more than willing to sacrifice my life of privilege for...a life of even more privilege. Sure, I menstruate, but I wouldn't if I didn't take my birth contol patch one week a month. And if I'm going to be an unwilling virgin for an indefinite amount of time, I might as well be the Virgin Goddess-- actually, at nineteen years old and still biblically untouched, I think I technically am the Virgin Goddess. Let's compare: Due to religious objections to leather, a newly civilianized Rashmilla "recoiled in horror" when forced to wear shoes to school. I, too, feel that horror, every time I see a price tag at Lady Foot Locker. The Kushari must always be clothed in red-- I have the MP3 of "Lady in Red" in my Kazaa shared folder. One ritual in the initiation for a Rushari is to spend the night in a dark room with the heads of slaughtered buffaloes. I work at Burger King! We're practically Twins!
Until my long-lost birthright comes to rescue me, however, I think we're all forgetting about the real victim here: Rashmilla's sister, Pramilla, who was interviewed on Rashmilla's behalf. We all have our sibling rivalries, but what kind of hell must this girl have known? Growing up in a house with walls covered in pictures and portraits of your goddess sister-- what kind of accomplishment could even come close? "Mommy, mommy! I got all A's on my report card!" "Your sister's a goddess, kid, keep trying." It's the ultimate Jan Brady complex. How must it have felt, even, just to do the interview. "Pramilla, honey, there's a reporter here who wants to speak to you--" And for a moment, her heart is all a flutter with hopes for the attention she never before received--- "about your sister."
And it all comes crashing down again.
All melodrama aside, this girl is no more a victim than Sharon Osbourne is a talk show host. If an entire nation needs an uneducated little girl with a painted third-eye to give their lives religious focus, then we aren't the people to judge, not when our religious beliefs are being guided by the future stars of "America's Most Pedophilic Priests". There are a lot more productive things that a human right's activist could be doing with their time--There's hunger, devastation, humiliation, disease. For god's sake, there are people children being abused out there, there are fathers raping daughters, and I have to go to work at seven AM tomorrow morning! Where are the protesters at Burger King's door, holding signs that say "FREE LINDA", huh? No where!
It's always Rashmilla, Rashmilla, Rashmilla.
On with it.
Sunday, August 31, 2003
It seems that, at current, Blogger's "Would you like to save this post?" function does about as much good as Gary Coleman's run for Governor...the good people at Blogger have vowed, however, to correct this problem, and I trust them implicitly, as you should always believe everything you read on the internet-- I can make a fortune working part time in these three easy steps, I will have a bigger penis, the American dream has been realized. Despite all the little hiccups the system has had to wipe out my writing-- the most frustrating thing for a writer, I can tell you-- my patience for blogger endures, and for one good reason: They were recently purchased by Google, and Google gives it's employees free ice cream. If that's not the American dream, I'll be damned if I can tell you what is.
And so it is that I apologize for the relative lateness of this post: as I mentioned before, the original text was lost to that distant internet heaven, a happy hunting grounds for the blocked pop-ups, missing images, and about a third of everything I've ever written.
---------
The Greenwood Acres Full Baptist Church, of Shreveport Louisiana, is church dominated by black paritioners. Pastor Fred Caldwell, who heads up the church of about 4,000, finds himself tired of seeing the same black faces every Sunday and Thursday-- it's not a unique situation, reportedly. While we make strides to beat back racism in school, government, and the workplace, religion seems to be the one area that remains in a stagnant state of segregation. Churches all over the South are marked by one set of patrons or another. No, it's not a unique problem at all, but Fred Caldwell has come up with a unique solution (sic). Fred Caldwell's answer is simple: Pay 'em.
Five dollars an hour to attend mass on Sundays and Ten on Thursdays, specifically, for white people to attend the black church. Pastor Caldwell calls thinks of his idea as radical, and says "This isn't just a good idea. This is a God idea." The Pastor claims he is working to fulfill God's vision: A vision not of hatred, not of segregation, but of bribery.
So it seems Pastor Caldwell skipped the "Money is the root of all evil" part of the bible and skipped right to the part where Moses did the Egyptian's homework so they'd like him better. The craziest thing about the cock-eyed plan: Nobody seems to have a fucking problem with it. (At this point, I'd like to link to the article from USA Today that quoted supportive parishioners and even a religious official who agreed with the plan, but as the article was a few days old, it's either been moved or deleted. I can, however, point you in the direction of one article from the Los Angeles Times, currently featured or TheChronicle.com, which says it's "Not a bad idea" without a discernable hint of sarcasm-- which worries me. I can understand, almost forgive, the blind, ignorant approval of a bunch of backwoods sister-kissing Louisiana locals, but when a presumedly educated journalist from LA agrees with something like this, I have to take a step back and seriously assess the situation. The nation is going downhill, state by state, and when the whole state of California starts sinking into the Pacific, 30 million glossy-eyed, fake-breasted people are going to die with the words still coming off their lips: "Help us, Governor Coleman." But I digress.) Indeed, the officials think it's revolutionary, the black parishioners are offering their monetary support, and the white are suppressing their laughter. One new white member of the church, Forrest Hohman, is part of an anonymous cultural organization whose entire local chapter will be attending the Church. Hohman, too, is supportive, saying, "Well, if dem...want to pay us to go to their lil' black church, we'll take dat money, all right. Our...group, you know, we's got costs. We need funds to buy some things we've been needing-- sheets, lighter fluid, crosses, y'know. Plus, we been meaning to scout out the....place. Got ourselves a new project, ya know?"
One cannot help but marvel at the progress we've made as a society. We've made it through slavery, the Civil War, the Emancipation Proclamation, the Civil Rights Movement, numerous race riots, and the reintroduction of Oprah's Book Club. Hundreds of years ago, white people forced Africans onto ships, taking them from their homes and forced them to work without payment and to worship the white God. Now, blacks are bringing white people from their homes via Volkswagens and paying them to worship...the god the white people gave them in the first place. It seems, after hundreds of years, we can finally begin to imagine a society where people are judged not by the color of their skin, but by their willingness to pay for our approval. Amen!
It seems the pastor, who, surprise surprise, has the dark shadow of a suicidal junkie lurking in his past, has missed the point: If you are going to be a leader of men, you must first learn how to instill the right motives. You cannot inspire people with threats, of false promises, or with money. If you're going to lead people to brotherhood and compassion, if you're going to accomplish a greater good, you must do it the way god intended: With ice cream.
All the races of Breyers, together in peace.
May Google be with you. On with it.
And so it is that I apologize for the relative lateness of this post: as I mentioned before, the original text was lost to that distant internet heaven, a happy hunting grounds for the blocked pop-ups, missing images, and about a third of everything I've ever written.
---------
The Greenwood Acres Full Baptist Church, of Shreveport Louisiana, is church dominated by black paritioners. Pastor Fred Caldwell, who heads up the church of about 4,000, finds himself tired of seeing the same black faces every Sunday and Thursday-- it's not a unique situation, reportedly. While we make strides to beat back racism in school, government, and the workplace, religion seems to be the one area that remains in a stagnant state of segregation. Churches all over the South are marked by one set of patrons or another. No, it's not a unique problem at all, but Fred Caldwell has come up with a unique solution (sic). Fred Caldwell's answer is simple: Pay 'em.
Five dollars an hour to attend mass on Sundays and Ten on Thursdays, specifically, for white people to attend the black church. Pastor Caldwell calls thinks of his idea as radical, and says "This isn't just a good idea. This is a God idea." The Pastor claims he is working to fulfill God's vision: A vision not of hatred, not of segregation, but of bribery.
So it seems Pastor Caldwell skipped the "Money is the root of all evil" part of the bible and skipped right to the part where Moses did the Egyptian's homework so they'd like him better. The craziest thing about the cock-eyed plan: Nobody seems to have a fucking problem with it. (At this point, I'd like to link to the article from USA Today that quoted supportive parishioners and even a religious official who agreed with the plan, but as the article was a few days old, it's either been moved or deleted. I can, however, point you in the direction of one article from the Los Angeles Times, currently featured or TheChronicle.com, which says it's "Not a bad idea" without a discernable hint of sarcasm-- which worries me. I can understand, almost forgive, the blind, ignorant approval of a bunch of backwoods sister-kissing Louisiana locals, but when a presumedly educated journalist from LA agrees with something like this, I have to take a step back and seriously assess the situation. The nation is going downhill, state by state, and when the whole state of California starts sinking into the Pacific, 30 million glossy-eyed, fake-breasted people are going to die with the words still coming off their lips: "Help us, Governor Coleman." But I digress.) Indeed, the officials think it's revolutionary, the black parishioners are offering their monetary support, and the white are suppressing their laughter. One new white member of the church, Forrest Hohman, is part of an anonymous cultural organization whose entire local chapter will be attending the Church. Hohman, too, is supportive, saying, "Well, if dem...want to pay us to go to their lil' black church, we'll take dat money, all right. Our...group, you know, we's got costs. We need funds to buy some things we've been needing-- sheets, lighter fluid, crosses, y'know. Plus, we been meaning to scout out the....place. Got ourselves a new project, ya know?"
One cannot help but marvel at the progress we've made as a society. We've made it through slavery, the Civil War, the Emancipation Proclamation, the Civil Rights Movement, numerous race riots, and the reintroduction of Oprah's Book Club. Hundreds of years ago, white people forced Africans onto ships, taking them from their homes and forced them to work without payment and to worship the white God. Now, blacks are bringing white people from their homes via Volkswagens and paying them to worship...the god the white people gave them in the first place. It seems, after hundreds of years, we can finally begin to imagine a society where people are judged not by the color of their skin, but by their willingness to pay for our approval. Amen!
It seems the pastor, who, surprise surprise, has the dark shadow of a suicidal junkie lurking in his past, has missed the point: If you are going to be a leader of men, you must first learn how to instill the right motives. You cannot inspire people with threats, of false promises, or with money. If you're going to lead people to brotherhood and compassion, if you're going to accomplish a greater good, you must do it the way god intended: With ice cream.
All the races of Breyers, together in peace.
May Google be with you. On with it.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Okay, there was this whole long post that I wrote earlier, and blogger ate it. But it ate it with the hopes that it may be saved, as it asked me if I wanted to save it BEFORE it ate it- interesting concept- and I said yes. The problem is, I have no idea where they saved it to, so I've contacted blogger and, since I am a paying customer, they immediately e-mailed me-- a reminder that told me I was a paying customer, and the implication that they may-- or may not-- get back to me soon. In the meantime, amuse yourself with this, which I swear to god is worth it.
Man.
On with it.
Man.
On with it.
Friday, August 22, 2003
Earlier this week I was subjected to the following experience: My TV was broadcasting a woman's ass. It was a commercial ass, in tight Nike jogging pants, and it was ambling athletically across my screen-- right, left, right left. I sat there, staring at that ass, and I wondered whether or not I found that ass attractive. I couldn't decide-- it was packed tightly but bouncing nicely, and it was in that sexy slow-mo that people love in ass commercials. Still, there was something wrong with it, that I couldn't quite put my finger on.
As the camera begins to zoom out, you here an voice to match up with the ass. As you start to see the rest of the body, the voice explains "This is fifty years old." And it all clicks for you right there.
You get to see the jogging fifty-year-old as she talks about herself-- always using the word "this", by which you assume SHE means herself, but you know the script was kept purposely ambiguous. She's talking about the 5:08 mile she can run, and her ass is still doing it's AARP strut. And you're still looking at it.
I'm sure this made a very effective advertising campaign for a certain demographic. I'm sure the moment that Nike logo appeared on the screen, a hundred thousand 50-year-olds with more unmistakably...experienced asses got off of those flabby fannies and ran something akin to 5:08 mile to their local Lady Foot Locker. Meanwhile, the rest of us-- the devoted, younger generation that started wearing Nike so we wouldn't be shunned in seventh grade gym and continue to because we're brain-dead and don't know any better-- we feel all of a sudden betrayed by the TV, the way we did when we found for the first time that our parents were lying about Santa Clause. But, more prominently is this, this one disturbing, horrible thought: I was just contemplating a fifty-year-old's ass.
It is because of this commercial that I regard Little Danny Lee Robbins as a hero, despite everything. Little Danny, you see, is not getting along very well with his friends very well right now. Little Danny's parents are very mad at him. Little Danny is getting nuttin' for christmas, you see, and it's not because his parents are DECEITFUL BASTARDS. No, my hero, poor misunderstood Danny Lee Robbins' problem runs a little deeper than that...and it doesn't run quite fast enough. Danny is a 16-year-old boy from Montana, and he has all the typical teenaged problems: acne, homework, and the uncontrollable urge to deliberately hit joggers with his SUV in order to have sex with their corpse.
It was Thursday that the district court judge ruled to try Dan as an adult. Dan's defense lawyer was trying to get him tried as a minor so that he'd be able to obtain mental help outside of prison, and I think it's a tragedy that he wasn't able to maintain this goal. We all know, after all, that a sixteen-year-old couldn't possibly be to blame for this-- the real criminal is Nike. My thinking, you see, is that Danny, too, saw that commercial. Danny, too, saw that fifty-year-old ass, and while it hurt all of us, all of us, it was just too much for Danny.
Television advertising has gone too far this time. Just beginning to get over our broken hearts when Steven, the Dell guy, was arrested for drug possession and still sequestered in mourning for the death Wendy's Dave Thomas, we are barraged by such horrifying commercial blunders as the new wave of Geico commercials ("Your parents are dead, your girlfriend has left you for a lifeguard who owns a porsche and, oh, you've got AIDS, but I *do* have good news- I just saved a bunch of money on my motherfucking car insurance.") and Kelly Ripa talking "candidly" about Pantene being a makeover for your hair; this thing that Nike has done just pushed Danny over the edge. He saw that middle-aged jogging behind, and he wanted some for himself-- hell, if TV could sell us yet another of Arby's sixty different sandwiches that are just fucking roast beef on bread or the Ford Focus, for god's sake, I guess it could sell just about anything to somebody.
And this, this was what Danny wanted.
So, once again, it's television that's to blame. It's the "Pearl Girl, she's a pearl girl" jingle, it's Robert Vaughn pretending to be Joe Bornsteirn, it's 10-10-666 and "In my own words, Adelphia is your lord and Master." It's the time you recognized your parents handwriting on that package from Santa. Bastards.
So, pop quiz to see if you were paying attention-- What was the most fundamentally wrong thing about this whole development?
A: A boy has been corrupted into this sickening moral state.
B: A woman is dead, or injured, due to a perverse attacker.
C: The article doesn't even say whether he fucking succeeded, what a fucking rip-off.
The correct answer? D: "I was just contemplating a fifty-year-old woman's ASS!"
On with it.
As the camera begins to zoom out, you here an voice to match up with the ass. As you start to see the rest of the body, the voice explains "This is fifty years old." And it all clicks for you right there.
You get to see the jogging fifty-year-old as she talks about herself-- always using the word "this", by which you assume SHE means herself, but you know the script was kept purposely ambiguous. She's talking about the 5:08 mile she can run, and her ass is still doing it's AARP strut. And you're still looking at it.
I'm sure this made a very effective advertising campaign for a certain demographic. I'm sure the moment that Nike logo appeared on the screen, a hundred thousand 50-year-olds with more unmistakably...experienced asses got off of those flabby fannies and ran something akin to 5:08 mile to their local Lady Foot Locker. Meanwhile, the rest of us-- the devoted, younger generation that started wearing Nike so we wouldn't be shunned in seventh grade gym and continue to because we're brain-dead and don't know any better-- we feel all of a sudden betrayed by the TV, the way we did when we found for the first time that our parents were lying about Santa Clause. But, more prominently is this, this one disturbing, horrible thought: I was just contemplating a fifty-year-old's ass.
It is because of this commercial that I regard Little Danny Lee Robbins as a hero, despite everything. Little Danny, you see, is not getting along very well with his friends very well right now. Little Danny's parents are very mad at him. Little Danny is getting nuttin' for christmas, you see, and it's not because his parents are DECEITFUL BASTARDS. No, my hero, poor misunderstood Danny Lee Robbins' problem runs a little deeper than that...and it doesn't run quite fast enough. Danny is a 16-year-old boy from Montana, and he has all the typical teenaged problems: acne, homework, and the uncontrollable urge to deliberately hit joggers with his SUV in order to have sex with their corpse.
It was Thursday that the district court judge ruled to try Dan as an adult. Dan's defense lawyer was trying to get him tried as a minor so that he'd be able to obtain mental help outside of prison, and I think it's a tragedy that he wasn't able to maintain this goal. We all know, after all, that a sixteen-year-old couldn't possibly be to blame for this-- the real criminal is Nike. My thinking, you see, is that Danny, too, saw that commercial. Danny, too, saw that fifty-year-old ass, and while it hurt all of us, all of us, it was just too much for Danny.
Television advertising has gone too far this time. Just beginning to get over our broken hearts when Steven, the Dell guy, was arrested for drug possession and still sequestered in mourning for the death Wendy's Dave Thomas, we are barraged by such horrifying commercial blunders as the new wave of Geico commercials ("Your parents are dead, your girlfriend has left you for a lifeguard who owns a porsche and, oh, you've got AIDS, but I *do* have good news- I just saved a bunch of money on my motherfucking car insurance.") and Kelly Ripa talking "candidly" about Pantene being a makeover for your hair; this thing that Nike has done just pushed Danny over the edge. He saw that middle-aged jogging behind, and he wanted some for himself-- hell, if TV could sell us yet another of Arby's sixty different sandwiches that are just fucking roast beef on bread or the Ford Focus, for god's sake, I guess it could sell just about anything to somebody.
And this, this was what Danny wanted.
So, once again, it's television that's to blame. It's the "Pearl Girl, she's a pearl girl" jingle, it's Robert Vaughn pretending to be Joe Bornsteirn, it's 10-10-666 and "In my own words, Adelphia is your lord and Master." It's the time you recognized your parents handwriting on that package from Santa. Bastards.
So, pop quiz to see if you were paying attention-- What was the most fundamentally wrong thing about this whole development?
A: A boy has been corrupted into this sickening moral state.
B: A woman is dead, or injured, due to a perverse attacker.
C: The article doesn't even say whether he fucking succeeded, what a fucking rip-off.
The correct answer? D: "I was just contemplating a fifty-year-old woman's ASS!"
On with it.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
It's all been mixed up lately. I've been thinking so much about how to improve this thing, what to offer, how to be topical, how to design, and if there's a way to build up a following so that this can fulfill my need to be read, fill that hole in my life that's currently clogged with loose sesame seeds and the crust of old mayonaise. And now-- exactly now, not for twenty seconds now, not in ten minutes when I'll be regretting every word of this post as I go to publish-- now I don't care. I am listening to Damien Rice, and this CD is perhaps the most emotive of any I own, and this song (Older Chests) is perhaps the most motivational. So I will just write. Me.
I have been thinking about places, people. Mostly people. Zack a lot, about our past, our future, this weekend, the celebration of our one year, how long that is. But he is not what I want to write about right now. And right now is what I am living in forever, and right now will have all of my attention, for the moment.
Casey, the way the best thing for us would be if we could just have one of those brick walls like they do in the peanuts cartoons, where Charlie Brown will just be sitting there, with one tear-shaped arm supporting his head and the other bent underneath, and Linus will come by and ask what he's thinking about. They'll have casual conversation-- simple and philosophical, maybe every day, evidence of much deeper bond but never hinting at anything complicated. They never look right at each other, always forward, they never touch, it's all just this idle conversation. And comfortable silence. This, I have decided, is at the heart of male/male friendships. With women, it's crying and touching and hugging. It's more Luann or Rose is Rose. But with guys, no. That wall, those undramatic moments in the silent suburbs of the mind.
I want to expound infinitely on Casey, because he likes seeing his name in type, and because I feel I should have a lot more to say. But Casey is a concise person, in every way: his expression is concise, his emotions are concise, even our friendship seems that it would be concise, were it up to him. I never quite got the whole "brevity is the soul of wit" thing, but it seems an insult to him that I want to write pages of the details of what we do when we're together (a subject on which there are no details) or the moments where I look up at him and my thought just stops dead, and he knows what it is and so do I, but maybe this time we're too smart to acknowledge, or maybe it's just that we've gotten that far. It's a brand-new kind of (platonic) intimacy, and bittersweet seems the best way to describe it.
I wrote far too much on that last piece (a subject on which the details are imagined.) I've gone and insulted him, us, the world as I know it, again.
They never do look up at each other at that damn fence.
On with it.
I have been thinking about places, people. Mostly people. Zack a lot, about our past, our future, this weekend, the celebration of our one year, how long that is. But he is not what I want to write about right now. And right now is what I am living in forever, and right now will have all of my attention, for the moment.
Casey, the way the best thing for us would be if we could just have one of those brick walls like they do in the peanuts cartoons, where Charlie Brown will just be sitting there, with one tear-shaped arm supporting his head and the other bent underneath, and Linus will come by and ask what he's thinking about. They'll have casual conversation-- simple and philosophical, maybe every day, evidence of much deeper bond but never hinting at anything complicated. They never look right at each other, always forward, they never touch, it's all just this idle conversation. And comfortable silence. This, I have decided, is at the heart of male/male friendships. With women, it's crying and touching and hugging. It's more Luann or Rose is Rose. But with guys, no. That wall, those undramatic moments in the silent suburbs of the mind.
I want to expound infinitely on Casey, because he likes seeing his name in type, and because I feel I should have a lot more to say. But Casey is a concise person, in every way: his expression is concise, his emotions are concise, even our friendship seems that it would be concise, were it up to him. I never quite got the whole "brevity is the soul of wit" thing, but it seems an insult to him that I want to write pages of the details of what we do when we're together (a subject on which there are no details) or the moments where I look up at him and my thought just stops dead, and he knows what it is and so do I, but maybe this time we're too smart to acknowledge, or maybe it's just that we've gotten that far. It's a brand-new kind of (platonic) intimacy, and bittersweet seems the best way to describe it.
I wrote far too much on that last piece (a subject on which the details are imagined.) I've gone and insulted him, us, the world as I know it, again.
They never do look up at each other at that damn fence.
On with it.
Saturday, August 09, 2003
Today, I received a piece of mail with a return address that said "Lisbon High School Promising Futures". I almost did not survive the laughter.
Inside there were several articles on the progress in the school that hopes to continue the long tradition of making it's graduates shine.
News like this just king sizes the value meal of my heart. (That's a metafor!)
On with it.
Inside there were several articles on the progress in the school that hopes to continue the long tradition of making it's graduates shine.
News like this just king sizes the value meal of my heart. (That's a metafor!)
On with it.
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Somebody has unearthed a "Where's Waldo" book from the dregs of my childhood boredom, and it wanders freely around my house now, where, every now and then, it's picked up by Zack or I, who proceed to search the final page-- the one with all the Waldos-- for an unsettling amount of time. This action, I can state proudly without fear of error, makes me the foremost expert on Waldo, and, at long last, I, and I alone, can tell you exactly where he is:
Waldo is off dry-humping Carmen Sandiego.
And now you know what they wouldn't tell you when you were nine. Welcome to adulthood. On with it.
Waldo is off dry-humping Carmen Sandiego.
And now you know what they wouldn't tell you when you were nine. Welcome to adulthood. On with it.
Friday, August 01, 2003
Saturday, July 26, 2003
Holy malfunctioning Coasters, Batman!
Because I have a number of friends in New Jersey, I feel compelled to report that the "Batman and Robin: The Chiller" roller coaster at Six Flags Great Adventure has a history of problems: This weekend, a train of the roller coaster got stuck for twenty minutes, while the riders were suspended in the air upside-fucking-down. In 1998, the ride had to be closed because people were complaining of neck and head pain, but both of these incidents seem rather tame when compared to the 1997 incidents wherein people were hitting their goddamned heads on metal parts of the coaster.
Evidentally, this coaster was designed before the Riddler was fired from Wayne Enterprises. Riddle me this: What the fuck is wrong with six flags that they aren't getting the point on this?
The one real victim of this weekends incident was a little boy who had to go to the hospital to be treated for asthma once recovered from the upside-down train. Evidently, the shock leading to his attack had nothing to do a fear of heights, but was instead caused by his disillusionment when the Dark Knight did not appear within minutes to save the day. Doctors say they did everything they could to treat his asthma, but there wasn't a measure to be taken in preventing his broken heart.
Damn you, BC, damn you.
On with it.
Because I have a number of friends in New Jersey, I feel compelled to report that the "Batman and Robin: The Chiller" roller coaster at Six Flags Great Adventure has a history of problems: This weekend, a train of the roller coaster got stuck for twenty minutes, while the riders were suspended in the air upside-fucking-down. In 1998, the ride had to be closed because people were complaining of neck and head pain, but both of these incidents seem rather tame when compared to the 1997 incidents wherein people were hitting their goddamned heads on metal parts of the coaster.
Evidentally, this coaster was designed before the Riddler was fired from Wayne Enterprises. Riddle me this: What the fuck is wrong with six flags that they aren't getting the point on this?
The one real victim of this weekends incident was a little boy who had to go to the hospital to be treated for asthma once recovered from the upside-down train. Evidently, the shock leading to his attack had nothing to do a fear of heights, but was instead caused by his disillusionment when the Dark Knight did not appear within minutes to save the day. Doctors say they did everything they could to treat his asthma, but there wasn't a measure to be taken in preventing his broken heart.
Damn you, BC, damn you.
On with it.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
As many of you may have noticed, I've been trying to gear this blog towards a larger audience lately, featuring posts about world events, news, bizarre happenings, and, well, things that aren't me bitching about my life. I'm trying to prepare myself before I start seriously investing in this site as, more than anything, I want my writing to be read, and that requires two things- content and exposure.
This all said, I'm going to take a bit of a break from that in this post, and post something I started last night, on my nineteenth birthday. (Props to Emily for remembering it!) A journalish entry, I think it may be the start of some growthful work dealing with my self-esteem issues...or maybe not so much growthful as...well, disturbing. Suffice to say, I wanted to go farther with it last night, but I am in Florida for the weekend, tied by the bonds of my vacation schedule and my laptop battery. I was unable, therefore, to get out all of what was in me then, and unable now to find it again, but I do hope that this will be the first of a series of posts that feature my intimate conversations with Jiminy Critic.
My Night with Jiminy
It’s 11:45, and raining outside the window beside me in the lounge area of my Kissimee Comfort Inn. I am in Florida on official duty– here to escort my unexperienced Uncle, Cousin and Aunt around Disney World, and attend another cousin’s wedding. Tommorrow, I will be spending the day in the company of Cinderella, Mickey Mouse, and Jiminy Cricket. Tonight, I am accompanied, as ever, by Jiminy Critic.
Jiminy Critic is the name I have given to that little voice in my head– you know the guy, chances are, one of his brothers or sisters lives with you. The one that taunts you and calls you bad things and tells you you’re fat, or incompetent, or otherwise inadequate everytime he gets the chance. I am reading a self-help book called “Self-Esteem”, and in the “For the Therapist” section, which I briefly skimmed, it talks about encouraging the client to give his Pathological Critic- that’s what those little voices are officially called– a name. I don’t know if it will mention that idea in any parts of the book that are actually for the patient. Of course you don’t, you lazy shit, you’re too much of a coward to get around to doing the things the books tells you to do before continuing reading. You’re too fucking scared to go on. You bullshit fucker.
That’s Jiminy. He’ll be in italics from now on in this post. I hope this doesn’t get confusing.
Anyways, as he mentioned, I haven’t gotten past this one activity that you have to do in the book– to be explained, perhaps, in more detail later– so I do not know whether it will ask me to give my little voice a name. But if they do, I will be one step ahead of them. I’m not sure that I’m supposed to be one step ahead of them, as the potential for personal growth seems to be based on following the books strict guidelines, but I couldn’t resist. The name seemed too perfect– there’s this lovable cartoon character who represents a happy, positive voice in your head, one that tells you the difference between right from wrong in a gentle, friendly way. And his name just happens to sound just like a word that refers to another voice that tells you the difference between the two...cruelly, harshly, and largely inaccurately, but he tells you none-the-less.
The book explains that that is one of the reasons we allow our evil little crickets to chirp– in some cases, we need them to function because their verbal punishment of us acts as motivation for us to stop slacking off, get something done, not do things wrong, etc. Not all the time, just some of it. Jiminy, and all his friends, work on the same principle as Slot Machines– if using them pays off once, we allow ourselves to get addicted. Every now and then, listening to that lil’ bastard accomplishes something, or gratifies us somehow, so we keep him around, in hopes that it’ll happen again. Take, for instance, the comparing one always does between themselves in everyone else. You might think that you aren’t as smart as person A or as pretty as person B a hundred times, but if every now and then you find a person C that you compare favorably too, you feel better about yourself, and therefore continue with this largely unhealthy thought pattern.
There are lots of other reasons- almost all of them based on the slot machine principle- that we continue to listen to these bitches. One that seems popular among my male friends, in particular, is that the punishment they inflict on themselves absolves us of guilt. Person A hurts person B, and feels guilty about it. Enter Critic. Critic calls person A a bastard, an insensitive son of a bitch, a total useless piece of garbage. This makes person A feel like he’s being punished for his sins and that makes him feel better and makes the guilt go away or, in some cases, he just believes everything the critic says– I.E. “I am a bastard, and that’s why I behaved like a bastard. There is nothing I can do about that.”– so the anxiety that comes along with wondering– wondering why he acted that way, wondering how to atone, etc.– for the situation is relieved.
Think about it.
Jiminy fucks with me. Well, nobody else can, you malfunctioning cunt. You should be thankful. He ruins my relationships– Oh, yeah, that’s me alright. –and kills off my ambition– some accomplishment there. The hotel bathroom has a large mirror, and this doesn’t help the situation a bit. As I strip myself for my shower tonight, I see my reflection.
Fat
ugly
bitch.
What are those pimply things on your ass?
You really have your mother’s body.
Look at all that goddamned cellulite– you’re only nineteen. Happy fucking birthday.
How could Zack possibly love someone who looks like you?
It’s flourescent lighting. Nobody looks good in flourescent lighting.
True, but should we do a count to find out how many people look as bad as you do in it?
My laptop is running out of batteries. I hope I can find this mindset later.
Yeah, it’s been a blast.
Go to hell.
On with it.
This all said, I'm going to take a bit of a break from that in this post, and post something I started last night, on my nineteenth birthday. (Props to Emily for remembering it!) A journalish entry, I think it may be the start of some growthful work dealing with my self-esteem issues...or maybe not so much growthful as...well, disturbing. Suffice to say, I wanted to go farther with it last night, but I am in Florida for the weekend, tied by the bonds of my vacation schedule and my laptop battery. I was unable, therefore, to get out all of what was in me then, and unable now to find it again, but I do hope that this will be the first of a series of posts that feature my intimate conversations with Jiminy Critic.
My Night with Jiminy
It’s 11:45, and raining outside the window beside me in the lounge area of my Kissimee Comfort Inn. I am in Florida on official duty– here to escort my unexperienced Uncle, Cousin and Aunt around Disney World, and attend another cousin’s wedding. Tommorrow, I will be spending the day in the company of Cinderella, Mickey Mouse, and Jiminy Cricket. Tonight, I am accompanied, as ever, by Jiminy Critic.
Jiminy Critic is the name I have given to that little voice in my head– you know the guy, chances are, one of his brothers or sisters lives with you. The one that taunts you and calls you bad things and tells you you’re fat, or incompetent, or otherwise inadequate everytime he gets the chance. I am reading a self-help book called “Self-Esteem”, and in the “For the Therapist” section, which I briefly skimmed, it talks about encouraging the client to give his Pathological Critic- that’s what those little voices are officially called– a name. I don’t know if it will mention that idea in any parts of the book that are actually for the patient. Of course you don’t, you lazy shit, you’re too much of a coward to get around to doing the things the books tells you to do before continuing reading. You’re too fucking scared to go on. You bullshit fucker.
That’s Jiminy. He’ll be in italics from now on in this post. I hope this doesn’t get confusing.
Anyways, as he mentioned, I haven’t gotten past this one activity that you have to do in the book– to be explained, perhaps, in more detail later– so I do not know whether it will ask me to give my little voice a name. But if they do, I will be one step ahead of them. I’m not sure that I’m supposed to be one step ahead of them, as the potential for personal growth seems to be based on following the books strict guidelines, but I couldn’t resist. The name seemed too perfect– there’s this lovable cartoon character who represents a happy, positive voice in your head, one that tells you the difference between right from wrong in a gentle, friendly way. And his name just happens to sound just like a word that refers to another voice that tells you the difference between the two...cruelly, harshly, and largely inaccurately, but he tells you none-the-less.
The book explains that that is one of the reasons we allow our evil little crickets to chirp– in some cases, we need them to function because their verbal punishment of us acts as motivation for us to stop slacking off, get something done, not do things wrong, etc. Not all the time, just some of it. Jiminy, and all his friends, work on the same principle as Slot Machines– if using them pays off once, we allow ourselves to get addicted. Every now and then, listening to that lil’ bastard accomplishes something, or gratifies us somehow, so we keep him around, in hopes that it’ll happen again. Take, for instance, the comparing one always does between themselves in everyone else. You might think that you aren’t as smart as person A or as pretty as person B a hundred times, but if every now and then you find a person C that you compare favorably too, you feel better about yourself, and therefore continue with this largely unhealthy thought pattern.
There are lots of other reasons- almost all of them based on the slot machine principle- that we continue to listen to these bitches. One that seems popular among my male friends, in particular, is that the punishment they inflict on themselves absolves us of guilt. Person A hurts person B, and feels guilty about it. Enter Critic. Critic calls person A a bastard, an insensitive son of a bitch, a total useless piece of garbage. This makes person A feel like he’s being punished for his sins and that makes him feel better and makes the guilt go away or, in some cases, he just believes everything the critic says– I.E. “I am a bastard, and that’s why I behaved like a bastard. There is nothing I can do about that.”– so the anxiety that comes along with wondering– wondering why he acted that way, wondering how to atone, etc.– for the situation is relieved.
Think about it.
Jiminy fucks with me. Well, nobody else can, you malfunctioning cunt. You should be thankful. He ruins my relationships– Oh, yeah, that’s me alright. –and kills off my ambition– some accomplishment there. The hotel bathroom has a large mirror, and this doesn’t help the situation a bit. As I strip myself for my shower tonight, I see my reflection.
Fat
ugly
bitch.
What are those pimply things on your ass?
You really have your mother’s body.
Look at all that goddamned cellulite– you’re only nineteen. Happy fucking birthday.
How could Zack possibly love someone who looks like you?
It’s flourescent lighting. Nobody looks good in flourescent lighting.
True, but should we do a count to find out how many people look as bad as you do in it?
My laptop is running out of batteries. I hope I can find this mindset later.
Yeah, it’s been a blast.
Go to hell.
On with it.
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
All right, you jittery little housewives, it's time to give props to Leo Sternbach, a 95-year-old man Jewish man who fled to America during Hitler's reign, all in order to bring you what you need most in life: Valium.
Yes, it's valium's 40th birthday this year, a time for...relatively sedate celebration. In reverence of this event, I started doing some research about the miracle drug, but I got really tired about halfway through, and life's too beautiful to waste on research anyway, right? I love you. Let's sing!
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Valium
Honk-shoo, honk-shoo.
In a related story, it's the one-year anniversary of highly controversial gay marraige of Viagra and Benzocaine, a substance featured on many new condoms that helps to delay orgasm. In celebration, they're throwing a party for themselves, but since their homosexuality alienated them from so many of their friends and family members, they report that it will probably be a long, hard night, and they don't expect anyone to come.
On with it.
Yes, it's valium's 40th birthday this year, a time for...relatively sedate celebration. In reverence of this event, I started doing some research about the miracle drug, but I got really tired about halfway through, and life's too beautiful to waste on research anyway, right? I love you. Let's sing!
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Valium
Honk-shoo, honk-shoo.
In a related story, it's the one-year anniversary of highly controversial gay marraige of Viagra and Benzocaine, a substance featured on many new condoms that helps to delay orgasm. In celebration, they're throwing a party for themselves, but since their homosexuality alienated them from so many of their friends and family members, they report that it will probably be a long, hard night, and they don't expect anyone to come.
On with it.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
So, a man walks into a bar, and the bartender asks "What's wrong, buddy? You look like shit."
The man explains himself. "I'm a locksmith, and this woman I installed a new lock for accused me of exposing myself to her after the job was done, while we were sitting down for tea. She says she saw my penis sticking out the end of my shorts."
"Well," says the bartender, "Did you do it on purpose?"
"That's just it," Says the locksmith, "I didn't do it at all. I've got a incredibly tiny penis, there's no way I could have done it. But she's taking me to court."
The bartender poors the guy a whiskey and says, "Well, I guess she's gonna be a little short on evidence, eh?"
Don't get it? That's because it's not a joke. This is fucking really happening.
This is the true, current story of a Pennsylvania locksmith, Robert M. Peters, Sr., (who evidently has thighs fatty enough to have a roll capable of being mistaken for a semi-erect penis.) and a woman who has just recently split up from her husband (despite breasts that the locksmith allegedly described as being beautiful).
One has to wonder who the real victim here is-
A- The aging woman, who's breasts probably aren't as beautiful as they used to be, who's husband has left her because she, evidently, can't tell the difference between a roll of fat and a penis,
B- The grossly overweight Peters who may be able to unlock many things, but never the secret to a woman's sexual pleasure,
Or C- the Doctor who had to examine The grossly overweight Peter's peter in order to testify that it's only an inch long when flaccid, four inches when erect.
You be the jury.
My favorite line from the article:
[The Prosecuting attorney] told the jurors he would build a road to lead them to find Peters guilty of indecent exposure, but [The defense lawyer] disagreed.
"The road that [the prosecution] is trying to build for you will be missing by five inches," [The defense lawyer] said.
Classic. On with it.
The man explains himself. "I'm a locksmith, and this woman I installed a new lock for accused me of exposing myself to her after the job was done, while we were sitting down for tea. She says she saw my penis sticking out the end of my shorts."
"Well," says the bartender, "Did you do it on purpose?"
"That's just it," Says the locksmith, "I didn't do it at all. I've got a incredibly tiny penis, there's no way I could have done it. But she's taking me to court."
The bartender poors the guy a whiskey and says, "Well, I guess she's gonna be a little short on evidence, eh?"
Don't get it? That's because it's not a joke. This is fucking really happening.
This is the true, current story of a Pennsylvania locksmith, Robert M. Peters, Sr., (who evidently has thighs fatty enough to have a roll capable of being mistaken for a semi-erect penis.) and a woman who has just recently split up from her husband (despite breasts that the locksmith allegedly described as being beautiful).
One has to wonder who the real victim here is-
A- The aging woman, who's breasts probably aren't as beautiful as they used to be, who's husband has left her because she, evidently, can't tell the difference between a roll of fat and a penis,
B- The grossly overweight Peters who may be able to unlock many things, but never the secret to a woman's sexual pleasure,
Or C- the Doctor who had to examine The grossly overweight Peter's peter in order to testify that it's only an inch long when flaccid, four inches when erect.
You be the jury.
My favorite line from the article:
[The Prosecuting attorney] told the jurors he would build a road to lead them to find Peters guilty of indecent exposure, but [The defense lawyer] disagreed.
"The road that [the prosecution] is trying to build for you will be missing by five inches," [The defense lawyer] said.
Classic. On with it.
Monday, July 14, 2003
This month, we celebrate the 20-year anniversary of Mainer Samantha Smith's goodwill mission to the Soviet Union to ease the tension of the cold war and help end the threat of nuclear bombings. Samantha, who was 11 at the time, went halfway across the world to speak to world leaders on behalf of the common man, woman and child, quite possibly saving us all from nuclear annihlation.
When I was 11 years old, my mother grounded me for a week for operating a toaster in my living room. Food for thought.
On with it.
When I was 11 years old, my mother grounded me for a week for operating a toaster in my living room. Food for thought.
On with it.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
This seems a day for quickie posts: In "Shallow Hal", a movie which frequents my twelve HBO's, there is a line wherein Gwenyth Paltrow's character, Rosemary, burns Jason Alexander's character, Mauricio (or something, I do not pretend to know how to spell it or to care enough to look it up) when he is rude to her upon their first meeting. She asks if he is wearing a member's only jacket, and when he affirms that he is, she says, "So, what are you, the last member?"
Hal laughs. Maurypovichio seems genuinely embarrassed. But I never understood why it was funny.
Today, this popped into my mind at work, and I decided that it was my mission for today to find out why- why is this funny?
It turns out, as far as I can ascertain from my research, is that the reason it is funny is because the coats which used to be incredibly stylish have fallen out of fashion, and are now only seen being warn by old men. I guess.
If you have any further information, please e-mail me at suedecaramel@dog.com.
On with it.
Hal laughs. Maurypovichio seems genuinely embarrassed. But I never understood why it was funny.
Today, this popped into my mind at work, and I decided that it was my mission for today to find out why- why is this funny?
It turns out, as far as I can ascertain from my research, is that the reason it is funny is because the coats which used to be incredibly stylish have fallen out of fashion, and are now only seen being warn by old men. I guess.
If you have any further information, please e-mail me at suedecaramel@dog.com.
On with it.
Sunday, July 06, 2003
"Who the hell was I when I liked who I was?"
I was bike riding today when that line, somewhere mixed into the context of my thoughts, popped into my head.
Zack had been expecting to entertain guests today, and I had spent the majority of the early afternoon with Emily, walking the beach of Reid State Park and making idle conversation. On the way home, I bought her a feast of McDonald's, then I went home and thought better of sitting the rest of my last day off of the weekend perched at the computer, so I went for a bike ride. Recently, I've been sticking to the areas around my house while bike riding, for fear that I would be more out of shape than I expected to be and be far away when I found myself exhausted. That kind of mentality, however, tends to take away from the point of bike-riding: When I was young, my mom wouldn't let me bike ride anywhere without someone being with me except for the streets that touched my house. And I did it like crazy, up and down Vining, up and down North. (It was North at the time, now called South, but, hey, things change.) When someone was riding with me, we'd almost indefinitely go to the paths behind wing street. I tend to think I was only supposed to go there when accompanied with someone's parents, or perhaps only in the day...some stipulation, anyway, but that only made it more exciting to be there. Amanda, she was my best friend at the time, she would always convince me to do things I wasn't supposed to, she was the only person in the world with whom I ever got into real trouble. In subsequent years, I would return the favor of her bad influence, and when she called me now and again from her new house in Topsham seeking advice, I'd prompt her to make the more exciting, if constantly wrong, decision.
With Amanda with me, the world was my playground. We biked in and around those paths, invigorated by the danger, the taboo, the way our bikes bucked over the sticks and mud. There was a place there-- a little bridge built for snowmobiles to get over this little ravine-- and it quickly became my favorite place to stop and talk or play Truth or Dare. I was always drawn to moving water, there seemed to be so much life in them, and I was easily pleased despite the tiny status of the stream that ran through it. And so, when I was rewarded, finally, with the allowance to ride at my will (within a reasonable distance) by myself, I spent a whole summer going there any time I wanted to sit alone, put my feet in the 8 inches of water, and lie back over the bridge, thinking and listening to the water and getting in touch with me.
As I was leaving the house, my mother reminded me to watch the heat as I was riding. My new bike has no place for a water bottle and it's easy to get dehydrated, so the warning was appropriate, but I blew it off, despite. "Sure, Mom, I'll watch the heat." When I got onto my bike, I turned up towards faith street, instead of down Vining where I normally make my commonplace rounts. I was going to the paths.
I went years without bike riding in between my pre-adolescents and now. A few rides or so a year, perhaps, but I never broke back in to the habit the way I did this year. A few years back, I remember, I one day got the urge to find my little bridge, my little stream, so I went off on a hot day like today. The paths start at a large sandpit that's visible from the road, and then the main one runs parallel to wing street and little ones branch off. That day, I started at the pit and went up the main path, unable to find the right turn-off that once was so unmistakable to me. Eventually, I took a guess and rode on in, then made a few wrong turns and ended up on something that only vaguely resembled a path. It was beginning to get dark, and even in my younger, more fearless days, I was afraid my mother's tendency to worry about me. She always gave me ample reason to, crying and getting hysterical if she didn't know exactly where I was for a half hour at a time. So, lost in the woods and years away from having any sense of where I was, I drudged out, hopelessly aiming for the road and almost hysterical myself.
That memory was fresh in my mind today, as I made what may well have been the exact same turn off into the woods. I, again, had no luck in finding the path that I was sure would take me to my bridge, so I, again, took my best guess. At points, the path was so diminutive I couldn't tell at all if it were a path, and at others, the rain had soaked so far into it that the four-wheeler tracks were almost two feet deep, making crossing on a bike impossible. The determination I had aimed at finding my bridge was quickly usurped by anxiety, and I felt sick and scared and helpless. I was listening to Tabitha's Secret, and "Dear Joan"-- a terribly depressing song-- was on. And about the time I was almost totally disoriented, I was deep in rememberance of how exhilirating I might have once found a situation like that-- there, in the forest, where I always wanted to be, going down new paths and seeing new things, a real adventure. How it might have felt to be alone and unafraid or with Amanda by side, the two of us unstoppable. I started wondering what ever happened to that fearlessness in me, that wanderlust, that part of me that remains now only in the form of everpresent my hatred of boredom. And somewhere in there I started examining how I wasn't confident of my ability to guide myself out of the situation, I wasn't confident in my sense of direction or my strength or my perseverance, I wasn't confident in anything about me, and I was afraid of everything inside and out, of the trees and the paths and my body and North street becoming South and, and, and...
And who the hell was I when I liked who I was?
At first, it struck me that it sounded like a great title for a self-help book. I thought about writing one, then I thought about reading one, and then I thought that I still didn't know where I was. But somewhere it kinda clicked. Now, it didn't click loud. It didn't click strong. It didn't click in such a way that most anyone would notice it really at all. But I think it clicked, and if I was imagining it, it didn't much matter: I wanted the fearlessness back.
It wasn't easy to listen to. I still wasn't exactly sure where I was, and I hadn't the slightest idea how to get where I was going. And I was thirsty, and the sweat was tickling my face and it felt like tears in my eyes...but it wasn't. It was just sweat. It wasn't at all easy to convince myself, but the situation wasn't that bad. The song had changed by then, it was more upbeat by now, and the CD wasn't that long, so I couldn't have been gone too long, and it really was kinda exciting. And so what if I couldn't ride up that hill, I could push the bike. And so what if I was breathing pretty heavy, I could have rested if I had wanted to. And I kept picturing horrible things happening to me, but they were all pretty unlikely.
And it grew. Now, it didn't grow fast. It didn't grow much. And it might shrink back the second I let it, and probably will if I do. But the "So what?" grew. So what if I can't have sex, I will be able to some day. So what if Zack thinks other women are pretty, he loves me more. So what if I work at Burger King, I'm on my way out. Oh, it was just barely there, and it wasn't easy to hear....but so what?
So I trudged on. I rode through the four-wheeler tracks, and I walked through those deep puddles that just swallow you up, and that felt good. And the sweat all over me felt okay, and I thought that I was probably losing weight, but so what if I wasn't? And I trudged on.
And I started thinking of Amanda, and she was kinda with me in a way. And I miss her, but things like that can be fixed. So what if she doesn't live across the North Street that is now South street any longer, I carried her along up the hill and down into the place where the trees were thicker and the forest was very dark. And I started thinking that I should write to her, or for her, I should let her know I was thinking about her. And so what if she didn't respond? Your god may be in the details, mine is in the process.
And don't you think I didn't lose the click, the fearlessness, the "so what"? The hills kept coming and I kept expecting at the top of them I would recognize something, and it didn't happen for a long time. Don't you think that it got any easier to hear it at all...but so what?
Eventually, I trudged out. I found myself on Route 9, somehow, and I went down wing street. There's a great big hill on wing street, and I found myself forgetting the fearlessness riding down it. Something about the forest had strengthened me, and now I was on the street again. But I rode on home, through Huston Park a little, and I saw Amanda's car parked outside her boyfriend's house. I thought about knocking on the door, but then thought better of it. I wanted some water, and more, I wanted time to make the effort perfect. But if it wasn't exactly perfect, so what?
So I rode my back to my house. My house was located on North street once, a long time ago, and now it's on South. But, hey, things change. Along time ago, Amanda lived just across it, and her and I were crusaders, and I miss it. I don't have exactly have an Amanda anymore- not and Amanda, or a Jenn, or a Casey or anybody, really, not like that. But I do have a lifetime of memories and decades to fill with more. A long time ago, my body seemed okay to me and I was fearless in life and in love....and that's not true anymore.
But maybe...not just maybe, it will be again. And until then, I'll just trudge on with it.
I was bike riding today when that line, somewhere mixed into the context of my thoughts, popped into my head.
Zack had been expecting to entertain guests today, and I had spent the majority of the early afternoon with Emily, walking the beach of Reid State Park and making idle conversation. On the way home, I bought her a feast of McDonald's, then I went home and thought better of sitting the rest of my last day off of the weekend perched at the computer, so I went for a bike ride. Recently, I've been sticking to the areas around my house while bike riding, for fear that I would be more out of shape than I expected to be and be far away when I found myself exhausted. That kind of mentality, however, tends to take away from the point of bike-riding: When I was young, my mom wouldn't let me bike ride anywhere without someone being with me except for the streets that touched my house. And I did it like crazy, up and down Vining, up and down North. (It was North at the time, now called South, but, hey, things change.) When someone was riding with me, we'd almost indefinitely go to the paths behind wing street. I tend to think I was only supposed to go there when accompanied with someone's parents, or perhaps only in the day...some stipulation, anyway, but that only made it more exciting to be there. Amanda, she was my best friend at the time, she would always convince me to do things I wasn't supposed to, she was the only person in the world with whom I ever got into real trouble. In subsequent years, I would return the favor of her bad influence, and when she called me now and again from her new house in Topsham seeking advice, I'd prompt her to make the more exciting, if constantly wrong, decision.
With Amanda with me, the world was my playground. We biked in and around those paths, invigorated by the danger, the taboo, the way our bikes bucked over the sticks and mud. There was a place there-- a little bridge built for snowmobiles to get over this little ravine-- and it quickly became my favorite place to stop and talk or play Truth or Dare. I was always drawn to moving water, there seemed to be so much life in them, and I was easily pleased despite the tiny status of the stream that ran through it. And so, when I was rewarded, finally, with the allowance to ride at my will (within a reasonable distance) by myself, I spent a whole summer going there any time I wanted to sit alone, put my feet in the 8 inches of water, and lie back over the bridge, thinking and listening to the water and getting in touch with me.
As I was leaving the house, my mother reminded me to watch the heat as I was riding. My new bike has no place for a water bottle and it's easy to get dehydrated, so the warning was appropriate, but I blew it off, despite. "Sure, Mom, I'll watch the heat." When I got onto my bike, I turned up towards faith street, instead of down Vining where I normally make my commonplace rounts. I was going to the paths.
I went years without bike riding in between my pre-adolescents and now. A few rides or so a year, perhaps, but I never broke back in to the habit the way I did this year. A few years back, I remember, I one day got the urge to find my little bridge, my little stream, so I went off on a hot day like today. The paths start at a large sandpit that's visible from the road, and then the main one runs parallel to wing street and little ones branch off. That day, I started at the pit and went up the main path, unable to find the right turn-off that once was so unmistakable to me. Eventually, I took a guess and rode on in, then made a few wrong turns and ended up on something that only vaguely resembled a path. It was beginning to get dark, and even in my younger, more fearless days, I was afraid my mother's tendency to worry about me. She always gave me ample reason to, crying and getting hysterical if she didn't know exactly where I was for a half hour at a time. So, lost in the woods and years away from having any sense of where I was, I drudged out, hopelessly aiming for the road and almost hysterical myself.
That memory was fresh in my mind today, as I made what may well have been the exact same turn off into the woods. I, again, had no luck in finding the path that I was sure would take me to my bridge, so I, again, took my best guess. At points, the path was so diminutive I couldn't tell at all if it were a path, and at others, the rain had soaked so far into it that the four-wheeler tracks were almost two feet deep, making crossing on a bike impossible. The determination I had aimed at finding my bridge was quickly usurped by anxiety, and I felt sick and scared and helpless. I was listening to Tabitha's Secret, and "Dear Joan"-- a terribly depressing song-- was on. And about the time I was almost totally disoriented, I was deep in rememberance of how exhilirating I might have once found a situation like that-- there, in the forest, where I always wanted to be, going down new paths and seeing new things, a real adventure. How it might have felt to be alone and unafraid or with Amanda by side, the two of us unstoppable. I started wondering what ever happened to that fearlessness in me, that wanderlust, that part of me that remains now only in the form of everpresent my hatred of boredom. And somewhere in there I started examining how I wasn't confident of my ability to guide myself out of the situation, I wasn't confident in my sense of direction or my strength or my perseverance, I wasn't confident in anything about me, and I was afraid of everything inside and out, of the trees and the paths and my body and North street becoming South and, and, and...
And who the hell was I when I liked who I was?
At first, it struck me that it sounded like a great title for a self-help book. I thought about writing one, then I thought about reading one, and then I thought that I still didn't know where I was. But somewhere it kinda clicked. Now, it didn't click loud. It didn't click strong. It didn't click in such a way that most anyone would notice it really at all. But I think it clicked, and if I was imagining it, it didn't much matter: I wanted the fearlessness back.
It wasn't easy to listen to. I still wasn't exactly sure where I was, and I hadn't the slightest idea how to get where I was going. And I was thirsty, and the sweat was tickling my face and it felt like tears in my eyes...but it wasn't. It was just sweat. It wasn't at all easy to convince myself, but the situation wasn't that bad. The song had changed by then, it was more upbeat by now, and the CD wasn't that long, so I couldn't have been gone too long, and it really was kinda exciting. And so what if I couldn't ride up that hill, I could push the bike. And so what if I was breathing pretty heavy, I could have rested if I had wanted to. And I kept picturing horrible things happening to me, but they were all pretty unlikely.
And it grew. Now, it didn't grow fast. It didn't grow much. And it might shrink back the second I let it, and probably will if I do. But the "So what?" grew. So what if I can't have sex, I will be able to some day. So what if Zack thinks other women are pretty, he loves me more. So what if I work at Burger King, I'm on my way out. Oh, it was just barely there, and it wasn't easy to hear....but so what?
So I trudged on. I rode through the four-wheeler tracks, and I walked through those deep puddles that just swallow you up, and that felt good. And the sweat all over me felt okay, and I thought that I was probably losing weight, but so what if I wasn't? And I trudged on.
And I started thinking of Amanda, and she was kinda with me in a way. And I miss her, but things like that can be fixed. So what if she doesn't live across the North Street that is now South street any longer, I carried her along up the hill and down into the place where the trees were thicker and the forest was very dark. And I started thinking that I should write to her, or for her, I should let her know I was thinking about her. And so what if she didn't respond? Your god may be in the details, mine is in the process.
And don't you think I didn't lose the click, the fearlessness, the "so what"? The hills kept coming and I kept expecting at the top of them I would recognize something, and it didn't happen for a long time. Don't you think that it got any easier to hear it at all...but so what?
Eventually, I trudged out. I found myself on Route 9, somehow, and I went down wing street. There's a great big hill on wing street, and I found myself forgetting the fearlessness riding down it. Something about the forest had strengthened me, and now I was on the street again. But I rode on home, through Huston Park a little, and I saw Amanda's car parked outside her boyfriend's house. I thought about knocking on the door, but then thought better of it. I wanted some water, and more, I wanted time to make the effort perfect. But if it wasn't exactly perfect, so what?
So I rode my back to my house. My house was located on North street once, a long time ago, and now it's on South. But, hey, things change. Along time ago, Amanda lived just across it, and her and I were crusaders, and I miss it. I don't have exactly have an Amanda anymore- not and Amanda, or a Jenn, or a Casey or anybody, really, not like that. But I do have a lifetime of memories and decades to fill with more. A long time ago, my body seemed okay to me and I was fearless in life and in love....and that's not true anymore.
But maybe...not just maybe, it will be again. And until then, I'll just trudge on with it.
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
"What do you do in your spare time?" I would say. And he would probably answer, but that would be irrelevant. "Uh-huh. That's cool." (It would sound interested.) "So, uh, you and I get out at the same time on wenesday." (We would...he's on overnights for while, so it won't happen, but we would in this scenario, which would be convenient.) "I don't mean like a date or anything, because, ya know, I'm engaged and all, but we should, I don't know, do something together after work. A movie, or, a store or something. We could go to Bull Moose on disagree on so much music that we both regret agreeing to go, or stick around here and play a fifty by fifty game of dots. Something."
Maybe the list would be longer. "We could go to bookland and brood over some really deep cliffnotes. Read all of 'War and Peace' in an hour." Or "You play air hockey? Wal*Mart's always fun." Or "We could both pick a group of three-syllable or higher words secretly and see who gets the other to use them all first."
Wouldn't matter what. He'd say yes-- he'd marvel at my casualty, and my great ideas, and be all too eager. This would all be going on in his head, of course, but I'd know, and I'd know further that he'd wonder why someone so confident and resourceful as me would ever want to hang out with someone like him, so I'd explain myself. "Most of my friends-- the ones I like hanging out with, anyway-- are gone for the summer, or, ya know, forever. And Zack and I are trying to arrange it so I got time for myself and other people, which keeps ending up being time for Spider Solitaire. Anyways, I thought we could have fun, or some reasonable facimile."
And, despite the fact that he works at burger king, he wouldn't be confused by the word "facimile." In the ideal scenario, he'd say "Ha! Facimile! That was the first word on my list!"
And we'd both be smiling, and laughing, and no one around would get any of it. Because they all work at Burger King.
That's how it plays out in my mind. But my mind has a lot of things playing, on and on and on, and so few of them are ever close to being accurate.
I wrote that because I kinda left everyone hanging on that second-to-last post, the one about work Ben. Being drawn to work Ben. Being drawn to the idea of being drawn to someone. Maybe that wasn't in the post, actually. Maybe it was just implied.
I'm growing to enjoy a friend of work Ben's, as well-- work Joe. Maybe it would seem less like I was hitting on either of them if I were to invite both. The one thing I don't want-- definitely DO NOT want-- is any confusion anymore about what kind of relationship I'm getting into with someone.
But it defintily would be nice to connect with someone again. Learn about someone, instead of just know everything about them. It's always nice when it starts happening, I can generally deal with it when it ends. As it always does, despite my endless optimism. I need to come to terms with that shit.
So, as a first step: My name is Linda, and I'm a chronic optimist. (Hi, Linda!) On with it.
Maybe the list would be longer. "We could go to bookland and brood over some really deep cliffnotes. Read all of 'War and Peace' in an hour." Or "You play air hockey? Wal*Mart's always fun." Or "We could both pick a group of three-syllable or higher words secretly and see who gets the other to use them all first."
Wouldn't matter what. He'd say yes-- he'd marvel at my casualty, and my great ideas, and be all too eager. This would all be going on in his head, of course, but I'd know, and I'd know further that he'd wonder why someone so confident and resourceful as me would ever want to hang out with someone like him, so I'd explain myself. "Most of my friends-- the ones I like hanging out with, anyway-- are gone for the summer, or, ya know, forever. And Zack and I are trying to arrange it so I got time for myself and other people, which keeps ending up being time for Spider Solitaire. Anyways, I thought we could have fun, or some reasonable facimile."
And, despite the fact that he works at burger king, he wouldn't be confused by the word "facimile." In the ideal scenario, he'd say "Ha! Facimile! That was the first word on my list!"
And we'd both be smiling, and laughing, and no one around would get any of it. Because they all work at Burger King.
That's how it plays out in my mind. But my mind has a lot of things playing, on and on and on, and so few of them are ever close to being accurate.
I wrote that because I kinda left everyone hanging on that second-to-last post, the one about work Ben. Being drawn to work Ben. Being drawn to the idea of being drawn to someone. Maybe that wasn't in the post, actually. Maybe it was just implied.
I'm growing to enjoy a friend of work Ben's, as well-- work Joe. Maybe it would seem less like I was hitting on either of them if I were to invite both. The one thing I don't want-- definitely DO NOT want-- is any confusion anymore about what kind of relationship I'm getting into with someone.
But it defintily would be nice to connect with someone again. Learn about someone, instead of just know everything about them. It's always nice when it starts happening, I can generally deal with it when it ends. As it always does, despite my endless optimism. I need to come to terms with that shit.
So, as a first step: My name is Linda, and I'm a chronic optimist. (Hi, Linda!) On with it.
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
That last post is a prime example of the reason I'm trying not to force myself to post anymore. It's useless to do it that way. It comes out so badly.
Zack and I, on our way home from Massachussetts this weekend, stopped in Best Buy. I heard Best Buy Radio say the name of one of Casey's favorite artists-- he had never heard pronounced by anyone with any real authority on how to say it, so I called him to tell him. Ler-che.
While we were there, we bought a CD buy someone neither of us had ever heard of so we could listen to it fairly-- rather than something one of us liked and the other did it. The album we ended up with is "O" by Damien Rice. I judged it by it's cover, knowing instantly when I saw it what kind of music it would be. Slow and lyrical and kind of Indie. Accoustic. It was obvious. I felt bad because it's not really what Zack's into, but when I tried to explain to him that he wouldn't like the kind of music I knew it was, he said something about not judging a CD by it's cover.
It occured to me then that that phrase really isn't as meaningful as it once was- don't judge a book by it's cover. Oh, it made sense in the say-- you've seen older book covers, they're very rarely revealing at all. But nowadays, while I'm sure it still applies that you shouldn't really judge anything by it's outside...you really can glean certain things by a book's cover. Some of them, anyway.
The rest of the weekend was all more pleasant than that day, and all probably more deserving of mention. But, as I've just told Emily, I'm trying to work on obeying my creative impulses more. I've just now written poetry-- a quick little thing with no painstaking concentration, just the flight of urges and words, and it came out exactly how I might have wanted it to, had I known that that's exactly what I wanted.
The urge was fueled by the music, my CD player. Damien Rice turns out to be inspiring, the way Ani is. Not all that much like Ani...slower, for the most part, but inspiring as well. Fueling, if you will. I should really make it a point to listen to this kind of stuff more often. I'd have so much more to write.
When Zack left for work, and even before that, I was bored bored bored bored. Stayed like that for a while, determining that there's little to nothing I hate more than bored-bored-bored-boredom. Then I got off the damn computer, away from the bor-bor-bor-boring conversations that always rope me in when I'm like that, and changed out of my work clothes. That, in itself, seemed to do a world of good. Went to Movieland. Rent whatever I had an urge to rent-- Days of Wine and Roses, which I've seen, and Angels with Dirty Faces, which I haven't, but I vaguely remember seeing one of the characters mentioned on this Heroes and Villains documentary my mom was watching a while ago. I think, unless I've mixed it up with something else, that it appealed to me. I don't know that I'll have time to watch these movies in the near future, but it was the walking down to get them that was really important.
There's these two maple trees in a yard on main street that are very tall. I love the time of day when the sun's just starting to set, or maybe mid-set, I don' tknow, but the sun is touching the tops of things but not the bottoms. And it set so perfectly on these trees today...I was underneath them, and their branches and leaves were cascading into each other, and the sun was cascading into them. I stopped and looked up. I was thinking of how I must have looked to the passing cars, and thinking whether or not I would write about those trees on this. I figured I wouldn't, but since I was writing anyway, it seemed worth a mention.
I wonder if I'm still interesting anybody.
Mr. Ladd called today to check up on me. I was worried that he'd be insulted, somewhat-- once I started work, I just sort of phased him out of my life, with no intentions of it being permanent, but having no real drive to call him right away. It turned out that he took my not showing up for a while as an indication that my life is going well, and he seemed so happy about it. I didn't correct him. No real reason to-- life, in some aspects, is going swimmingly. In many, it's falling apart at the seams. But I don't, as of right now, see how my interaction with him can continue to help me with it until I've given it some thought on my own for a while. To be honest-- and I open with that warning because I believe he still reads-- I've been considering another therapist. Not because he doesn't help me, as everyone seems to know he does me a world of good, but...well, a feeling I have no real definition of. Firstly, I think I love him to the point where he can't have the effect on my he really should in what's coming up. He's the one who's gotten me this far in my current issue-- dangerously, defeaningly, horribly low self-esteem. (Except to call it that seems to take away from the hollow of it all.) But, having had him to help me realize it...for some reason I think I want to talk to a woman about it. I guess I really don't know why. But it's him. I don't have to worry too much about his feelings...he's always telling me not to, and, anyway, I've done far worse.
So I've decided that all of you should go out of your way to ask me about the poem I wrote today-- "Ascension", it's called. I don't feel like pushing it on anyone individually, knowing how little time I put into it, and something else; embarrassment, I suppose. But I do want people to read it. So ask me. Go on.
Go on and on and on with it.
Zack and I, on our way home from Massachussetts this weekend, stopped in Best Buy. I heard Best Buy Radio say the name of one of Casey's favorite artists-- he had never heard pronounced by anyone with any real authority on how to say it, so I called him to tell him. Ler-che.
While we were there, we bought a CD buy someone neither of us had ever heard of so we could listen to it fairly-- rather than something one of us liked and the other did it. The album we ended up with is "O" by Damien Rice. I judged it by it's cover, knowing instantly when I saw it what kind of music it would be. Slow and lyrical and kind of Indie. Accoustic. It was obvious. I felt bad because it's not really what Zack's into, but when I tried to explain to him that he wouldn't like the kind of music I knew it was, he said something about not judging a CD by it's cover.
It occured to me then that that phrase really isn't as meaningful as it once was- don't judge a book by it's cover. Oh, it made sense in the say-- you've seen older book covers, they're very rarely revealing at all. But nowadays, while I'm sure it still applies that you shouldn't really judge anything by it's outside...you really can glean certain things by a book's cover. Some of them, anyway.
The rest of the weekend was all more pleasant than that day, and all probably more deserving of mention. But, as I've just told Emily, I'm trying to work on obeying my creative impulses more. I've just now written poetry-- a quick little thing with no painstaking concentration, just the flight of urges and words, and it came out exactly how I might have wanted it to, had I known that that's exactly what I wanted.
The urge was fueled by the music, my CD player. Damien Rice turns out to be inspiring, the way Ani is. Not all that much like Ani...slower, for the most part, but inspiring as well. Fueling, if you will. I should really make it a point to listen to this kind of stuff more often. I'd have so much more to write.
When Zack left for work, and even before that, I was bored bored bored bored. Stayed like that for a while, determining that there's little to nothing I hate more than bored-bored-bored-boredom. Then I got off the damn computer, away from the bor-bor-bor-boring conversations that always rope me in when I'm like that, and changed out of my work clothes. That, in itself, seemed to do a world of good. Went to Movieland. Rent whatever I had an urge to rent-- Days of Wine and Roses, which I've seen, and Angels with Dirty Faces, which I haven't, but I vaguely remember seeing one of the characters mentioned on this Heroes and Villains documentary my mom was watching a while ago. I think, unless I've mixed it up with something else, that it appealed to me. I don't know that I'll have time to watch these movies in the near future, but it was the walking down to get them that was really important.
There's these two maple trees in a yard on main street that are very tall. I love the time of day when the sun's just starting to set, or maybe mid-set, I don' tknow, but the sun is touching the tops of things but not the bottoms. And it set so perfectly on these trees today...I was underneath them, and their branches and leaves were cascading into each other, and the sun was cascading into them. I stopped and looked up. I was thinking of how I must have looked to the passing cars, and thinking whether or not I would write about those trees on this. I figured I wouldn't, but since I was writing anyway, it seemed worth a mention.
I wonder if I'm still interesting anybody.
Mr. Ladd called today to check up on me. I was worried that he'd be insulted, somewhat-- once I started work, I just sort of phased him out of my life, with no intentions of it being permanent, but having no real drive to call him right away. It turned out that he took my not showing up for a while as an indication that my life is going well, and he seemed so happy about it. I didn't correct him. No real reason to-- life, in some aspects, is going swimmingly. In many, it's falling apart at the seams. But I don't, as of right now, see how my interaction with him can continue to help me with it until I've given it some thought on my own for a while. To be honest-- and I open with that warning because I believe he still reads-- I've been considering another therapist. Not because he doesn't help me, as everyone seems to know he does me a world of good, but...well, a feeling I have no real definition of. Firstly, I think I love him to the point where he can't have the effect on my he really should in what's coming up. He's the one who's gotten me this far in my current issue-- dangerously, defeaningly, horribly low self-esteem. (Except to call it that seems to take away from the hollow of it all.) But, having had him to help me realize it...for some reason I think I want to talk to a woman about it. I guess I really don't know why. But it's him. I don't have to worry too much about his feelings...he's always telling me not to, and, anyway, I've done far worse.
So I've decided that all of you should go out of your way to ask me about the poem I wrote today-- "Ascension", it's called. I don't feel like pushing it on anyone individually, knowing how little time I put into it, and something else; embarrassment, I suppose. But I do want people to read it. So ask me. Go on.
Go on and on and on with it.
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
Ben. Not my Ben. Or my original Ben, anyway. My work Ben. Not really a Ben of mine at all, but I a Ben I know. And a Ben none of those of you who are reading this will know. So, for all intents and purposes, my Ben.
Ben comes to mind because he's the only one left to come to mind. Everyone else is gone for the summer or was gone for the schoolyear and now seems somehow unapproachabole for the summer. Or they're busy as fuck, or I don't want to spend time with them anymore, or I want to desperately, but can't. (None of these categories include Zack, who's spending more and more time with his unbearably selfish family. Maybe they'd let me just adopt him.)
So I look forward to Ben working, because we talk and play games when it's not busy, and write stories on the sandwich wrappers before giving them out, and try to carve religious images into the meat so that people will believe they've found a miracle in their value meal. I'd be a litte hesitant to have anymore friendships with males at all, knowing how they tend to get processed with me, but I have to see him at work, anyway, and it's safe enough...you know, unless we get put on an overnight together.
Casey's online-- he so rarely is anymore-- and I am reminded, again, of how much I miss him. I've been having dreams about him lately. Missing him ranges to and from every aspect of our relationship, but it's mostly...I don't know. Attacking him with a puppet in a Freeport bookstore. Making fun of the Ninety-Nine's decorations. Lounging on my porch in the sun. The good stuff.
Uh, it's bothering me even to get into this. Fuck it all. On with it.
Ben comes to mind because he's the only one left to come to mind. Everyone else is gone for the summer or was gone for the schoolyear and now seems somehow unapproachabole for the summer. Or they're busy as fuck, or I don't want to spend time with them anymore, or I want to desperately, but can't. (None of these categories include Zack, who's spending more and more time with his unbearably selfish family. Maybe they'd let me just adopt him.)
So I look forward to Ben working, because we talk and play games when it's not busy, and write stories on the sandwich wrappers before giving them out, and try to carve religious images into the meat so that people will believe they've found a miracle in their value meal. I'd be a litte hesitant to have anymore friendships with males at all, knowing how they tend to get processed with me, but I have to see him at work, anyway, and it's safe enough...you know, unless we get put on an overnight together.
Casey's online-- he so rarely is anymore-- and I am reminded, again, of how much I miss him. I've been having dreams about him lately. Missing him ranges to and from every aspect of our relationship, but it's mostly...I don't know. Attacking him with a puppet in a Freeport bookstore. Making fun of the Ninety-Nine's decorations. Lounging on my porch in the sun. The good stuff.
Uh, it's bothering me even to get into this. Fuck it all. On with it.
Sunday, June 22, 2003
So, here's my pet peeve of the day week arbitrary amount of time: People who, when asked about their stance on abortion say, "Well, I don't condone it as a regular method of birth control."
Who fucking does? Isn't that kind of a given? How many people, that you are likely to be having an intelligent conversation with, say "You know, I could go through the painless and relatively cheap acts of wearing a condom or taking the pill, but instead, I think I'll just get knocked up every time I have unprotected sex, and waste more time and money than I have available to me having an instrusive and painful procedure done that will leave me emotionally scarred." I'm not saying there aren't people that abuse the "convenience" of abortions, but I'm willing to bet you won't find a buttload of people who condone that abuse.
Being pro-choice doesn't mean you're wild about abortions. It means you want to leave the decision up to the people in the situation and not to the politicians who's chief concerns are probably to keep the number of taxpayers healthy while coming up with a great guilt-trip for elections 18 years from now. ("Your whore of a mother wanted to kill you, but I fought for your rights even as a fetus. Vote for me!") It's not like abortion clinics are trying to recruit people. They don't have advertising campaigns- "The risk of pregnancy got you down? Are you sick and tired of those clumsy condoms? Come on down to Dr. Death's Abortion Barn! If you're a preggo, we'll fix you up in a jiffy, and you can go write back to your life of perversion and debauchery! But, heck you don't have to wait till you get knocked up: Buy an abortion in advance and save up 15%! A great gift for the holidays. And now, for a limited time, get two abortions and get your third half off! Dr. Death's Abortion Barn: We're even cheaper than you are!"
And, while I'm on the subject, it seems to me that a huge argument for illegalizing abortion, the Bible's, if I remember correctly, is that the child may have the potential to do anything, something that may even benefit you one day! I think this argument comes from fear and greed: people are so afraid to lose anything, they don't even care if they have it. "Little Susie down the block wants to have an abortion...but what if her future son would have cured my disease, or made me lots of money? I must STOP HER!" People are packrats when it comes to human life, especially babies. They figure the more time something has left, the more potential it has to improve the world. But my argument is this, and I wish I could copyright this next statement: Potential goes both ways.
And that means two things, at least so far: A, not only does little Bobby Fetus have the chance to live a long, prosperous life in which he'd volunteer, save lives, and make an air freshener that would completely eliminate that "old lady" smell, but he's also go the potential to die early, or kill hundreds, or rape women, or seriously contribute to old lady smell problem. And B, just as there's no way of knowing what Bobby might have accomplished if he wasn't aborted, there's no way of knowing what the mother or father- or anyone else involved, for that matter- might of accomplished if he was. She could be the one who finds a cure for cancer, to give into the classic hypothetical situation cliché.
I feel the need to create posters making these points...well, not the first one, since that's just me blowing off steam (but, SERIOUSLY, who the hell condones that??), but I think I could make some compelling designs with the second idea in mind. I wonder if there's a local pro-choice organization I could volunteer for. Though I'd probably be surrounded by people who felt the need to point out what uses they do and do not condone. Ugh.
On with it.
Who fucking does? Isn't that kind of a given? How many people, that you are likely to be having an intelligent conversation with, say "You know, I could go through the painless and relatively cheap acts of wearing a condom or taking the pill, but instead, I think I'll just get knocked up every time I have unprotected sex, and waste more time and money than I have available to me having an instrusive and painful procedure done that will leave me emotionally scarred." I'm not saying there aren't people that abuse the "convenience" of abortions, but I'm willing to bet you won't find a buttload of people who condone that abuse.
Being pro-choice doesn't mean you're wild about abortions. It means you want to leave the decision up to the people in the situation and not to the politicians who's chief concerns are probably to keep the number of taxpayers healthy while coming up with a great guilt-trip for elections 18 years from now. ("Your whore of a mother wanted to kill you, but I fought for your rights even as a fetus. Vote for me!") It's not like abortion clinics are trying to recruit people. They don't have advertising campaigns- "The risk of pregnancy got you down? Are you sick and tired of those clumsy condoms? Come on down to Dr. Death's Abortion Barn! If you're a preggo, we'll fix you up in a jiffy, and you can go write back to your life of perversion and debauchery! But, heck you don't have to wait till you get knocked up: Buy an abortion in advance and save up 15%! A great gift for the holidays. And now, for a limited time, get two abortions and get your third half off! Dr. Death's Abortion Barn: We're even cheaper than you are!"
And, while I'm on the subject, it seems to me that a huge argument for illegalizing abortion, the Bible's, if I remember correctly, is that the child may have the potential to do anything, something that may even benefit you one day! I think this argument comes from fear and greed: people are so afraid to lose anything, they don't even care if they have it. "Little Susie down the block wants to have an abortion...but what if her future son would have cured my disease, or made me lots of money? I must STOP HER!" People are packrats when it comes to human life, especially babies. They figure the more time something has left, the more potential it has to improve the world. But my argument is this, and I wish I could copyright this next statement: Potential goes both ways.
And that means two things, at least so far: A, not only does little Bobby Fetus have the chance to live a long, prosperous life in which he'd volunteer, save lives, and make an air freshener that would completely eliminate that "old lady" smell, but he's also go the potential to die early, or kill hundreds, or rape women, or seriously contribute to old lady smell problem. And B, just as there's no way of knowing what Bobby might have accomplished if he wasn't aborted, there's no way of knowing what the mother or father- or anyone else involved, for that matter- might of accomplished if he was. She could be the one who finds a cure for cancer, to give into the classic hypothetical situation cliché.
I feel the need to create posters making these points...well, not the first one, since that's just me blowing off steam (but, SERIOUSLY, who the hell condones that??), but I think I could make some compelling designs with the second idea in mind. I wonder if there's a local pro-choice organization I could volunteer for. Though I'd probably be surrounded by people who felt the need to point out what uses they do and do not condone. Ugh.
On with it.
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
It's a Zackless day for Linda-- he celebrated Father's day with his natural father, so this is the make-up day for his stepdad, Tim-- and I am resolved to make the best of it. What this means, exactly, I do not know anymore. I had hoped to go on a nice, long bike ride, revelling in whatever music escorted me, but it's raining now. As appealling as the sweet soleful solitude of a ride through the light rain is to me, it may at any point turn heavier, and the whole idea becomes hopelessly impractical. And anyway, unlike yesterday, I am not without things to say, I think. I think that today I do not need the momentum to move me.
I've decided that I do not like this CD- the second...or maybe first...the blue one in the pair from Ani's "So Much Shouting, So Much laughter" on random. Other things I've decided about this CD: If I thought I could get Casey into music with rather feminist undertones-- or, rather, despite feminist undertones-- this is the CD I would push him into....or, rather, pull, as I am already in it. But there will be no pulling or pushing Casey into anything, I suspect. And I do not know where I was going with that. Also-- that was the only other thing I had decided about that CD. The pluralization of the word "thing" in "Other things I've decided about this CD" was an intentional deception on my part. I lied to you. I do that.
Bad me.
I'm listening to...uhm, the "Letter to John (Insert some latin last name vaguely reminiscent of 'Leguizamo' here)" half of a track on this CD divided between two songs...or, rather, I was when I started this plane wreck of a sentence. Now it's "Grey", which I must have quoted on this site multiple times before. This song has a feeling I associate with it that's somewhat akin to anguish, but also closely related to relaxation. I know it's not something I only get with this song, but it's hard to define. Maybe it's resignation...maybe you should just listen to it. If you download it, be sure to get the version off of this album. "So Much Shouting, So Much Laughter," not "Reckoning". Though there's a song called Reckoning, which I highly recommend.
What a shitty paragraph. Seriously, who reads this garbage?
I need to include something of value-- I won't go back to updating as often as I used to if I'm going to insult myself this way. This, for sure, isn't my worst post, but it's a far cry from my best...which, without having the slightest idea of what it might have been, I suspect was deleted with the nine that were. My desire for quality is driven, largely, from the fact that I've replaced my hit counter on the site. I got twelve hits yesterday alone...four or five were probably from me, recalibrating and such, but I am shocked to know that I got seven or eight non-me hits in one day, considering how rarely I've been updated. I had assumed that all the people who once checked daily or weekly or even just monthly to see if there was anything new had long ago given up on me. I'm surprised to find that the fresh new start I had planned to make isn't all that fresh and new-- my old followers seem to be coming through for me.
A new hook, too, possibly. One of my hits yesterday was from someone on google who typed in the search "very bored." Someone from the United Kingdom- I'm somewhat popular around there, as are quite a few people connected through links- Jeff, Emily and I to my knowledge. Maybe, just maybe, I made their favorites menu, and they will be back. I shall have to keep track. Stupid hit counter. Casting it's spell all over again.
AHHH! Still nothing interesting.
OH! Okay, I shall tell the story of what bizarre happenings found me this Sunday. For this retelling, I take off my headphones-- this may well be the most interesting thing I have to relate for years to come, I want to be sure I get this perfect. Be assured-- this is a true story. If you do not believe me, you may contact Jenn.
It started Father's day, when Jenn and I both found ourselves empty-handed in the department of obligatory gifts for the men who influenced us most in our childhoods-- I remembered, shortly, that Jim Henson was dead anyway, but Jenn still wanted to get her Dad something, so I followed suit. After buying them their gifts, Jenn dragged me into Goodwill, where she immediately started scouting out T-Shirts. Already having my share of protein-stained men's jeans and shirts from company functions and summer camps I never attented, I amused myself by browsing through the yearly surge of slightly damaged (or protein-stained) prom dresses that pours in every june.
Now, this is the part where things get kinda weird. Yessir, Goodwill may be a Bargain Hunter's paradise, but even an old pro like me got more than I bargained for this time around.
I'm feeling the cloth of a white princess-style dress when I hear someone in my peripheal vision greet me. "Hi..." Now, try hard to picture it, please, this will be very important later if you're to get the full effect of this story. A man, about 5'5", medium build, tan skin, stubbles on his face. About thirty years of age. Straight, dark brown hair that was style short, but needed to be cut, a little mussed on his head. He is wearing, on this comparitively hot day, a full tweed suit, complete with a red bow tie. He is swinging a blue parcel of some sort- something in between a purse and a lunchbox, it was hard to tell- from arms that he holds just slightly too far from his body for it to be normal. This, along with the bright, sunny smile on his face, the slight impediment of his speech, and the stereotypically perfect setting of Goodwill quickly led me to the conclusion that he wasn't quite all there. Got it? Good.
Remember how he said "Hi?" We're going to go back. Because "Hi" wasn't it's own sentence. Not at all. "Hi" was the first word, and it's imperitive that you understand that he said this all at once, so we're going to start from just before the "Hi." He walks up to me and he says,
"Hi, I like to wear dresses sometimes."
The comma doesn't really do it justice. It probably shouldn't be there. It's there because I don't like the way it looks otherwise, but there wasn't a full comma in the way he spoke it. Maybe half a comma. Try to imagine half a comma in there. Suffice to say, the man said "Hi" followed directly by "I like to wear dresses sometimes."
I am going to do my best at accurately reporting what my responses were. I may fuck up a little, though, you see, because I wasn't paying much attention to me at this point. "Oh..." I think I said. Sounds right.
"That's a pretty one, huh?" He was referring to the white princess-style gown still in my hands.
"Yes, it's very pretty."
"Do you think it would look pretty on me?"
Maybe, just maybe somewhere there's a book on subjects like this. Maybe-- just maybe-- there's a place where you can look up the protocol for this kind of situation. Maybe, just maybe, there was a right thing to say at that point. But if that book, with that protocol, containing that right thing exists, there weren't nearly enough copies circulating to meet my needs at that moment. So I did what I supposed any blue-blooded American girl would do:
"Yes, I guess it would look very pretty on you."
When he picked up the garment and held it up to him-- up, juxtaposed against his little tweed suit and his little red bow tie-- I started to get the feeling that I might not be able to handle the entire situation with such tact. You must imagine that this whole ordeal was very difficult for me, what with feeling the social obligation to keep a straight face. This social obligation continued to rub against my willpower like so much sandpaper on and exposed nerve when he replaced that dress and picked up another-- short, this time, an 80's get up covered with blue and black sequins in a tiny checkboard pattern and huge, teal ruffles at the bottom and on the straps. He held this one up against him and again asked for my approval: "How about this one? Would I look pretty in this?"
Not wanting to be repetitive, I replied, "Yes, yes, that one would go very nicely with your...complexion." And, hey, it was true enough.
"I think it's too small," he said, and began to comb through the other gowns on the rack. "Help me find a pretty one to try on."
Alert! Alert! Alert! I can only assume that the majority of you have not been in a situation such as this one, but you should know-- when a mentally challenged transvestite asks you to help him find a protein-stained prom dress to add his own stains to, your mind crashes like a Lisbon High School library computer. I should have excused myself. I should have faked having to go to the bathroom, or seeing somebody I knew, or having a fucking seizure, I should have just gotten the hell out of there. But I wasn't working with many remaining system resources; the best I could come up with was, "But...I don't know your size." And you'd think, maybe that would trip up a retarded cross-dresser. Maybe a guy walking through goodwill with a purse-lunch box in a tweed suit on a hot day would be slowed down by that one. But for a unabashedly dumb social outcast, he was a cagey one. "It's medium."
Game. Set. Match.
So I picked up a couple dresses for him. "Those are too thin" he said to all of the body-hugging ones. I wouldn't have expected a man so entirely unaware of his surroundings to be aware of the bulging of his squared hips in a tight dress, but then he'd already caught me off guard with the "medium" thing. I suggested a few more dresses, but he finally returned to the white princess gown. "I think this one's the prettiest." I've cut out a lot of the dialogue in this for the sake of being concise, but I must stress, he used the word "pretty" at least 20 times. "Should I try this one on?"
Warning: System Resources Dangerously low "Uhhhh..."
"I think I'm gonna try it on." Damn it. Oh well, if I hadn't managed to discourage the poor man, at least I was afforded the oppurtunity to make my escape. Or so I thought.
"Will you stay out here to zip up the back for me? And tell me if it looks pretty?"
I can't remember what I said. It isn't important, either, because, by now, you've all guessed. You all know damn well by now that, a few minutes later, after a unexpectedly casual Goodwill employee unlocked the dressing room for the 30-year-old man holding the garishly large, teenaged girl's dress, I was standing outside of that dressing room, waiting there, waiting to zip it up for him.
At this point, I had managed to spot Jenn, as I'd been attempting to do all along. I signalled for her to come over, but she remained firmly stationed, having witnessed the event from across the store. She motioned back for me to come to her, and I shrugged in reply. She mouthed to me: "COME OVER HERE."
I mouthed back: "I CAN'T. I HAVE TO ZIP UP THIS GUY'S DRESS." I don't believe she understood, exactly, but Jenn and I have known each other a long time. She may not have known what, precisely, was going on, but she must have already been laughing on the inside.
And then, the moment we've all been waiting for-- the door behind me opened. And he was standing there, my special new friend, looking...well, just as pretty as can be. And, yes, he was wearing that big white gown. Inside out.
"Ohhhh...you look...pretty."
I'd like to believe I said it with that amount of hesitation. In actuality, it probably felt somehow natural by then. And when he waddled over to me, taking great care that he didn't step on the ends of his skirt, and turned to reveal his un-zipped, un-laced back and the top of his black boxer-briefs, the thought that occured to me as though it was nothing was, "Hmmm, he doesn't have a half-bad body." He was, however, mistaken in saying that medium was his size: the dress would not zip hardly at all, so I did the best I could to haphazardly lace up the back, realizing that precision, at this point, was not a priority.
"I can't get it all the way," I told him, "It doesn't quite fit."
"Oh." He looked down at himself, picked up his big, fluffy, inside-out skirt and swooshed it around him. "You really think I look pretty."
"Oh, yes."
"Really?"
"Would I lie to you?" I guess the fun in-store girl talk that had transpired between us gave me some amount of undeserved credibility, because he seemed satisfied with this. "Do you think I should walk around the store like this?"
Somehow, heroically, I managed to surpress that. "No, no, I don't think so. You look so nice right there in the dressing room. Why don't you just look at yourself in the mirror?" He turned and admired himself for a bit, and I saw my oppurtunity. "Okay, I'm going to shut the door for you, so you can get dressed. And I'm going to go back to my friend, okay?"
"Okay." He said, hesistantly, and reached to shake my hand. I extended my hand, and he immediately brought it to his lips and planted a series of kisses on it. "I like you."
"I like you, too. I'm gonna go now."
I left him in the dressing room, and I met Jenn over near the worthless knick-knacks they sell at the back of the store. I immediately let out the rush of laughter that had gathered at the back of my throat, and she giggled a little but hushed me. I went to explain myself, but she hushed me repeatedly, wanting to wait until we left the store, fearing that perhaps he had traded the majority of his intellect for a super sense of hearing. We hurried to the register, where the perpetually angry greek(ish) woman rang up Jenn's items all too slowly. From across the store, I heard the familiar voice loudly declaring to another customer: "THAT GIRL OVER THERE LIKES ME IN THIS DRESS!" The cashier shot me a strange glance and I reciporcated: for all she knew, he was ranting crazily; for all the customer knew, he was referring to that twisted cashier.
Up until he approached us, of course. Jenn refused to turn around, as he took my hand again, and placed another kiss on it. "I like you. Will you be my girlfriend?"
"I can't," I stammered, trying to save face in front of the line. I waived my ringed finger in front of him. "I'm engaged."
"I mean my friend, friend. We'll talk and stuff."
"Uh, maybe, but my friend's leaving now, I have to go." Jenn had started to walk towards the door.
"We could have conversations." He said. I was surprised he hadn't said "pretty conversations."
"Well sure. Are you here a lot?" I said, trying to avoid being forced to give him a fake phone number. "I'm here a lot."
"I'm here a bunch, too." He said. "Maybe I'll see you sometime."
"Maybe you will." I smiled, making the mental note to avoid Goodwill in the near future. "Goodbye!"
"Goodbye!" He replied, and Jenn and I rushed into the parking lot. And that was the end of it.
That's all there is. There ain't no more. Until I meet that retarded transevestite once more. And until that does happen, I shall have to continue using Ani for my inspiration, because I seriously doubt my life will be littered with things that interesting. I don't think I could handle it if it was.
My name is Linda, I like to wear dresses sometimes. On with it.
I've decided that I do not like this CD- the second...or maybe first...the blue one in the pair from Ani's "So Much Shouting, So Much laughter" on random. Other things I've decided about this CD: If I thought I could get Casey into music with rather feminist undertones-- or, rather, despite feminist undertones-- this is the CD I would push him into....or, rather, pull, as I am already in it. But there will be no pulling or pushing Casey into anything, I suspect. And I do not know where I was going with that. Also-- that was the only other thing I had decided about that CD. The pluralization of the word "thing" in "Other things I've decided about this CD" was an intentional deception on my part. I lied to you. I do that.
Bad me.
I'm listening to...uhm, the "Letter to John (Insert some latin last name vaguely reminiscent of 'Leguizamo' here)" half of a track on this CD divided between two songs...or, rather, I was when I started this plane wreck of a sentence. Now it's "Grey", which I must have quoted on this site multiple times before. This song has a feeling I associate with it that's somewhat akin to anguish, but also closely related to relaxation. I know it's not something I only get with this song, but it's hard to define. Maybe it's resignation...maybe you should just listen to it. If you download it, be sure to get the version off of this album. "So Much Shouting, So Much Laughter," not "Reckoning". Though there's a song called Reckoning, which I highly recommend.
What a shitty paragraph. Seriously, who reads this garbage?
I need to include something of value-- I won't go back to updating as often as I used to if I'm going to insult myself this way. This, for sure, isn't my worst post, but it's a far cry from my best...which, without having the slightest idea of what it might have been, I suspect was deleted with the nine that were. My desire for quality is driven, largely, from the fact that I've replaced my hit counter on the site. I got twelve hits yesterday alone...four or five were probably from me, recalibrating and such, but I am shocked to know that I got seven or eight non-me hits in one day, considering how rarely I've been updated. I had assumed that all the people who once checked daily or weekly or even just monthly to see if there was anything new had long ago given up on me. I'm surprised to find that the fresh new start I had planned to make isn't all that fresh and new-- my old followers seem to be coming through for me.
A new hook, too, possibly. One of my hits yesterday was from someone on google who typed in the search "very bored." Someone from the United Kingdom- I'm somewhat popular around there, as are quite a few people connected through links- Jeff, Emily and I to my knowledge. Maybe, just maybe, I made their favorites menu, and they will be back. I shall have to keep track. Stupid hit counter. Casting it's spell all over again.
AHHH! Still nothing interesting.
OH! Okay, I shall tell the story of what bizarre happenings found me this Sunday. For this retelling, I take off my headphones-- this may well be the most interesting thing I have to relate for years to come, I want to be sure I get this perfect. Be assured-- this is a true story. If you do not believe me, you may contact Jenn.
It started Father's day, when Jenn and I both found ourselves empty-handed in the department of obligatory gifts for the men who influenced us most in our childhoods-- I remembered, shortly, that Jim Henson was dead anyway, but Jenn still wanted to get her Dad something, so I followed suit. After buying them their gifts, Jenn dragged me into Goodwill, where she immediately started scouting out T-Shirts. Already having my share of protein-stained men's jeans and shirts from company functions and summer camps I never attented, I amused myself by browsing through the yearly surge of slightly damaged (or protein-stained) prom dresses that pours in every june.
Now, this is the part where things get kinda weird. Yessir, Goodwill may be a Bargain Hunter's paradise, but even an old pro like me got more than I bargained for this time around.
I'm feeling the cloth of a white princess-style dress when I hear someone in my peripheal vision greet me. "Hi..." Now, try hard to picture it, please, this will be very important later if you're to get the full effect of this story. A man, about 5'5", medium build, tan skin, stubbles on his face. About thirty years of age. Straight, dark brown hair that was style short, but needed to be cut, a little mussed on his head. He is wearing, on this comparitively hot day, a full tweed suit, complete with a red bow tie. He is swinging a blue parcel of some sort- something in between a purse and a lunchbox, it was hard to tell- from arms that he holds just slightly too far from his body for it to be normal. This, along with the bright, sunny smile on his face, the slight impediment of his speech, and the stereotypically perfect setting of Goodwill quickly led me to the conclusion that he wasn't quite all there. Got it? Good.
Remember how he said "Hi?" We're going to go back. Because "Hi" wasn't it's own sentence. Not at all. "Hi" was the first word, and it's imperitive that you understand that he said this all at once, so we're going to start from just before the "Hi." He walks up to me and he says,
"Hi, I like to wear dresses sometimes."
The comma doesn't really do it justice. It probably shouldn't be there. It's there because I don't like the way it looks otherwise, but there wasn't a full comma in the way he spoke it. Maybe half a comma. Try to imagine half a comma in there. Suffice to say, the man said "Hi" followed directly by "I like to wear dresses sometimes."
I am going to do my best at accurately reporting what my responses were. I may fuck up a little, though, you see, because I wasn't paying much attention to me at this point. "Oh..." I think I said. Sounds right.
"That's a pretty one, huh?" He was referring to the white princess-style gown still in my hands.
"Yes, it's very pretty."
"Do you think it would look pretty on me?"
Maybe, just maybe somewhere there's a book on subjects like this. Maybe-- just maybe-- there's a place where you can look up the protocol for this kind of situation. Maybe, just maybe, there was a right thing to say at that point. But if that book, with that protocol, containing that right thing exists, there weren't nearly enough copies circulating to meet my needs at that moment. So I did what I supposed any blue-blooded American girl would do:
"Yes, I guess it would look very pretty on you."
When he picked up the garment and held it up to him-- up, juxtaposed against his little tweed suit and his little red bow tie-- I started to get the feeling that I might not be able to handle the entire situation with such tact. You must imagine that this whole ordeal was very difficult for me, what with feeling the social obligation to keep a straight face. This social obligation continued to rub against my willpower like so much sandpaper on and exposed nerve when he replaced that dress and picked up another-- short, this time, an 80's get up covered with blue and black sequins in a tiny checkboard pattern and huge, teal ruffles at the bottom and on the straps. He held this one up against him and again asked for my approval: "How about this one? Would I look pretty in this?"
Not wanting to be repetitive, I replied, "Yes, yes, that one would go very nicely with your...complexion." And, hey, it was true enough.
"I think it's too small," he said, and began to comb through the other gowns on the rack. "Help me find a pretty one to try on."
Alert! Alert! Alert! I can only assume that the majority of you have not been in a situation such as this one, but you should know-- when a mentally challenged transvestite asks you to help him find a protein-stained prom dress to add his own stains to, your mind crashes like a Lisbon High School library computer. I should have excused myself. I should have faked having to go to the bathroom, or seeing somebody I knew, or having a fucking seizure, I should have just gotten the hell out of there. But I wasn't working with many remaining system resources; the best I could come up with was, "But...I don't know your size." And you'd think, maybe that would trip up a retarded cross-dresser. Maybe a guy walking through goodwill with a purse-lunch box in a tweed suit on a hot day would be slowed down by that one. But for a unabashedly dumb social outcast, he was a cagey one. "It's medium."
Game. Set. Match.
So I picked up a couple dresses for him. "Those are too thin" he said to all of the body-hugging ones. I wouldn't have expected a man so entirely unaware of his surroundings to be aware of the bulging of his squared hips in a tight dress, but then he'd already caught me off guard with the "medium" thing. I suggested a few more dresses, but he finally returned to the white princess gown. "I think this one's the prettiest." I've cut out a lot of the dialogue in this for the sake of being concise, but I must stress, he used the word "pretty" at least 20 times. "Should I try this one on?"
Warning: System Resources Dangerously low "Uhhhh..."
"I think I'm gonna try it on." Damn it. Oh well, if I hadn't managed to discourage the poor man, at least I was afforded the oppurtunity to make my escape. Or so I thought.
"Will you stay out here to zip up the back for me? And tell me if it looks pretty?"
I can't remember what I said. It isn't important, either, because, by now, you've all guessed. You all know damn well by now that, a few minutes later, after a unexpectedly casual Goodwill employee unlocked the dressing room for the 30-year-old man holding the garishly large, teenaged girl's dress, I was standing outside of that dressing room, waiting there, waiting to zip it up for him.
At this point, I had managed to spot Jenn, as I'd been attempting to do all along. I signalled for her to come over, but she remained firmly stationed, having witnessed the event from across the store. She motioned back for me to come to her, and I shrugged in reply. She mouthed to me: "COME OVER HERE."
I mouthed back: "I CAN'T. I HAVE TO ZIP UP THIS GUY'S DRESS." I don't believe she understood, exactly, but Jenn and I have known each other a long time. She may not have known what, precisely, was going on, but she must have already been laughing on the inside.
And then, the moment we've all been waiting for-- the door behind me opened. And he was standing there, my special new friend, looking...well, just as pretty as can be. And, yes, he was wearing that big white gown. Inside out.
"Ohhhh...you look...pretty."
I'd like to believe I said it with that amount of hesitation. In actuality, it probably felt somehow natural by then. And when he waddled over to me, taking great care that he didn't step on the ends of his skirt, and turned to reveal his un-zipped, un-laced back and the top of his black boxer-briefs, the thought that occured to me as though it was nothing was, "Hmmm, he doesn't have a half-bad body." He was, however, mistaken in saying that medium was his size: the dress would not zip hardly at all, so I did the best I could to haphazardly lace up the back, realizing that precision, at this point, was not a priority.
"I can't get it all the way," I told him, "It doesn't quite fit."
"Oh." He looked down at himself, picked up his big, fluffy, inside-out skirt and swooshed it around him. "You really think I look pretty."
"Oh, yes."
"Really?"
"Would I lie to you?" I guess the fun in-store girl talk that had transpired between us gave me some amount of undeserved credibility, because he seemed satisfied with this. "Do you think I should walk around the store like this?"
Somehow, heroically, I managed to surpress that. "No, no, I don't think so. You look so nice right there in the dressing room. Why don't you just look at yourself in the mirror?" He turned and admired himself for a bit, and I saw my oppurtunity. "Okay, I'm going to shut the door for you, so you can get dressed. And I'm going to go back to my friend, okay?"
"Okay." He said, hesistantly, and reached to shake my hand. I extended my hand, and he immediately brought it to his lips and planted a series of kisses on it. "I like you."
"I like you, too. I'm gonna go now."
I left him in the dressing room, and I met Jenn over near the worthless knick-knacks they sell at the back of the store. I immediately let out the rush of laughter that had gathered at the back of my throat, and she giggled a little but hushed me. I went to explain myself, but she hushed me repeatedly, wanting to wait until we left the store, fearing that perhaps he had traded the majority of his intellect for a super sense of hearing. We hurried to the register, where the perpetually angry greek(ish) woman rang up Jenn's items all too slowly. From across the store, I heard the familiar voice loudly declaring to another customer: "THAT GIRL OVER THERE LIKES ME IN THIS DRESS!" The cashier shot me a strange glance and I reciporcated: for all she knew, he was ranting crazily; for all the customer knew, he was referring to that twisted cashier.
Up until he approached us, of course. Jenn refused to turn around, as he took my hand again, and placed another kiss on it. "I like you. Will you be my girlfriend?"
"I can't," I stammered, trying to save face in front of the line. I waived my ringed finger in front of him. "I'm engaged."
"I mean my friend, friend. We'll talk and stuff."
"Uh, maybe, but my friend's leaving now, I have to go." Jenn had started to walk towards the door.
"We could have conversations." He said. I was surprised he hadn't said "pretty conversations."
"Well sure. Are you here a lot?" I said, trying to avoid being forced to give him a fake phone number. "I'm here a lot."
"I'm here a bunch, too." He said. "Maybe I'll see you sometime."
"Maybe you will." I smiled, making the mental note to avoid Goodwill in the near future. "Goodbye!"
"Goodbye!" He replied, and Jenn and I rushed into the parking lot. And that was the end of it.
That's all there is. There ain't no more. Until I meet that retarded transevestite once more. And until that does happen, I shall have to continue using Ani for my inspiration, because I seriously doubt my life will be littered with things that interesting. I don't think I could handle it if it was.
My name is Linda, I like to wear dresses sometimes. On with it.
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Fixed up my template a little, wanted to write, had nothing to say. Too often lately.
Decided it was time for a ride-- got my new $20 dollar diskman hooked up and got on my new $50 dollar bike. Collectively, a $70 dollar cure for writers block and those spare ten pounds I've been carrying around with me since christmas....three years ago. Ani and a foward momentum always make me want to write.
And the quote I've been dying to transcribe lately comes from "Swan Dive".
And I don't care if they eat me alive
I've got better things to do than survive.
That and a hundred others inspire the hell out of me, but that's been the one I've been shouting out lately as I zoom over crosswalks, confusing the poor pedestrians. Music and momentum...ahh, it feels good.
And all these snippets of blog rushed to mine, listening, and still would be rushing-- as I am still listening-- if it weren't for the fact that I'm gradually catching up with them. 10 minutes to do so, ten minutes ten minutes ten minutes of freedom and then Zachary is home. 10 minutes of dashing, daring, bike-dancing rider/writer till I'm a pretty housewife once more. I'm getting better and better at this double life stuff. One of these days, I'll have it perfected.
Too much lost already. Too many things gone down. Flawed relationships strung between a few flawless nights. More dances in inappropriate, embarrassing places with Jeff and serendipitous sexuality with Emily. About a hundred kisses with people I've yet to meet, a million moments of anguished tension...well, maybe not all of those are gone. But the idea that maybe, maybe, maybe it could go somewhere. Gone. And taking long walks through distant cities with musicians and poets coming out of open mics. Laying on the ground staring at the starry skies with people like Greg.
And the music, the dark room, the jazzy back beats, and Casey and I not saying too much. That's the most tangible loss of them all.
And yet, Zack has just walked in-- three minutes early-- and as I look up at him, hiding something behind his back that I can only guess is for me, I can't help but let go of any and all doubts that he is worth it, even with Ani's muted trumpet players trying to keep me in this world, even with this keyboard calling to me as it does.
I guess I'll be sure either way when I see what's behind his back. On with it.
Decided it was time for a ride-- got my new $20 dollar diskman hooked up and got on my new $50 dollar bike. Collectively, a $70 dollar cure for writers block and those spare ten pounds I've been carrying around with me since christmas....three years ago. Ani and a foward momentum always make me want to write.
And the quote I've been dying to transcribe lately comes from "Swan Dive".
And I don't care if they eat me alive
I've got better things to do than survive.
That and a hundred others inspire the hell out of me, but that's been the one I've been shouting out lately as I zoom over crosswalks, confusing the poor pedestrians. Music and momentum...ahh, it feels good.
And all these snippets of blog rushed to mine, listening, and still would be rushing-- as I am still listening-- if it weren't for the fact that I'm gradually catching up with them. 10 minutes to do so, ten minutes ten minutes ten minutes of freedom and then Zachary is home. 10 minutes of dashing, daring, bike-dancing rider/writer till I'm a pretty housewife once more. I'm getting better and better at this double life stuff. One of these days, I'll have it perfected.
Too much lost already. Too many things gone down. Flawed relationships strung between a few flawless nights. More dances in inappropriate, embarrassing places with Jeff and serendipitous sexuality with Emily. About a hundred kisses with people I've yet to meet, a million moments of anguished tension...well, maybe not all of those are gone. But the idea that maybe, maybe, maybe it could go somewhere. Gone. And taking long walks through distant cities with musicians and poets coming out of open mics. Laying on the ground staring at the starry skies with people like Greg.
And the music, the dark room, the jazzy back beats, and Casey and I not saying too much. That's the most tangible loss of them all.
And yet, Zack has just walked in-- three minutes early-- and as I look up at him, hiding something behind his back that I can only guess is for me, I can't help but let go of any and all doubts that he is worth it, even with Ani's muted trumpet players trying to keep me in this world, even with this keyboard calling to me as it does.
I guess I'll be sure either way when I see what's behind his back. On with it.
Saturday, June 14, 2003
Wow. I haven't updated the blog for a while, and suddenly it's very different. This must be the influence of the google network. I hope this keeps out the damned bugs that have scared me, for the most part, to the point of not writing in here.
I haven't really been writing in general, which is not to say that I have not been working towards my forwarding my career in writing...or, rather, my alleged future career. My ambition has taken a great leap forward in recent times, which I attribute to the forty hour work weeks I've been putting in at Burger King. Something about doing a job that a trained monkey could easily excel in has me more motivated than I've been in a long, long time. There are only so many Chicken Whoppers one can sell before the soul goes on vacation.
I'm noticing, right now, that not writing has taken a far larger toll on my abilities than anticipated. I'm stopping, more and more often, to remember the words I want, failing at that, trying to rephrase and having it come out awkward and clumsy. Writing meaning what it does to me, this is not a way to live-- buried alive in two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. (I'm aware this is a McDonald's thing, but we have a BK counterpart of that sandwich, The King Supreme. Woot.)
All is not lost, though. I am currently working on a project which I fully expect to yield at least some results in my attempts to scratch and claw out of this life. I'm witholding details from most, as I find that I work better with absolutely no expectations on me, on top of which their seem to be a barrage of people eager to copy my idea every time I explain. Suffice to say, there is no glamour or prestige in my current project, just a small, barely visible oppurtunity that I believe may eventually open some doors for me. It's not much, but it doesn't involve special sauce.
As far as the rest of my life goes, I can safely say that my undying hatred of my little highway Burger King is my biggest problem right now. I've resolved some things between Casey and I, at least, come to the decision that will eventually lead to their being resolved, and Zack and I are as strong as ever. I have bouts of unhappiness with everything and anything, but they're getting fewer and far between. The vaginismus problem hasn't gone very far in either direction, but I've done some research about options that seem at least possibly helpful and far less painful than the traditional ones, and I don't intend to linger in limbo too much longer about this. I expect that I'll be in a world of shit in the near future, with at least one of the few people that I've seemingly just phased out of my life: Don't ask me why this phenomena has occured. I suspect that working so much has just depleted my desire to interact socially or emotionally with people, but I've never had so much disregard for my interpersonal obligations before. I'm sure I'll regret it when the shit hits the fan a few weeks from now, but for now, I like having my free time. And I like being with Zack, better than I like being with anyone else. I've never prioritized a romance over friendships before, but...well, some things in life just beat others. And my old, ever-giving self who hurts for the pain of everybody else was really wearing on me.
And, lastly on my list of resolved problems, etc., I've bought myself a new diskman. Cheap, 20 dollar thing, but it plays, and dependably. This is more important than I would have imagined before I went so long without-- there's a feeling I associate with diskmen that I never experienced before the very first time I held one. It's akin to the blissful feeling of ownership one sometimes has with material objects they cherish, but mixed with a kind of peaceful seperation from the rest of soceity. Wearing one and walking, or playing basketball, or riding my bike, or just being in my house...I'm within the world, but the world is not within me. I've replaced the stressing noises with my own soundtrack of life, and that makes me more relaxed and reflective. I see everyone, but I listen to none of their shit. I think Lisbon is meant to be seen and not heard.
On the down side, Mom vedoed a hypothetical trip I mean to plan to New York this weekend. That money, however, may be going towards buying myself a new bike through a guy Nick knows, and that's fine with me. I find there's an athlete within me I've spent much of my life denying, probably too infused with performance anxiety, or still bitter from not making the soccer team in sixth grade. But being physical undoubtedly brings something out in me that I love, and I've always, always loved biking: my whole life, I've loved the freedom of it, the ability to move by my own power. Biking brings back the years of youth I spent mostly on two wheels, and with life rushing by 10,000 whoppers at a time, I need all the nostalgia I can get.
My name is Linda: would you like fries with that? On with it.
I haven't really been writing in general, which is not to say that I have not been working towards my forwarding my career in writing...or, rather, my alleged future career. My ambition has taken a great leap forward in recent times, which I attribute to the forty hour work weeks I've been putting in at Burger King. Something about doing a job that a trained monkey could easily excel in has me more motivated than I've been in a long, long time. There are only so many Chicken Whoppers one can sell before the soul goes on vacation.
I'm noticing, right now, that not writing has taken a far larger toll on my abilities than anticipated. I'm stopping, more and more often, to remember the words I want, failing at that, trying to rephrase and having it come out awkward and clumsy. Writing meaning what it does to me, this is not a way to live-- buried alive in two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. (I'm aware this is a McDonald's thing, but we have a BK counterpart of that sandwich, The King Supreme. Woot.)
All is not lost, though. I am currently working on a project which I fully expect to yield at least some results in my attempts to scratch and claw out of this life. I'm witholding details from most, as I find that I work better with absolutely no expectations on me, on top of which their seem to be a barrage of people eager to copy my idea every time I explain. Suffice to say, there is no glamour or prestige in my current project, just a small, barely visible oppurtunity that I believe may eventually open some doors for me. It's not much, but it doesn't involve special sauce.
As far as the rest of my life goes, I can safely say that my undying hatred of my little highway Burger King is my biggest problem right now. I've resolved some things between Casey and I, at least, come to the decision that will eventually lead to their being resolved, and Zack and I are as strong as ever. I have bouts of unhappiness with everything and anything, but they're getting fewer and far between. The vaginismus problem hasn't gone very far in either direction, but I've done some research about options that seem at least possibly helpful and far less painful than the traditional ones, and I don't intend to linger in limbo too much longer about this. I expect that I'll be in a world of shit in the near future, with at least one of the few people that I've seemingly just phased out of my life: Don't ask me why this phenomena has occured. I suspect that working so much has just depleted my desire to interact socially or emotionally with people, but I've never had so much disregard for my interpersonal obligations before. I'm sure I'll regret it when the shit hits the fan a few weeks from now, but for now, I like having my free time. And I like being with Zack, better than I like being with anyone else. I've never prioritized a romance over friendships before, but...well, some things in life just beat others. And my old, ever-giving self who hurts for the pain of everybody else was really wearing on me.
And, lastly on my list of resolved problems, etc., I've bought myself a new diskman. Cheap, 20 dollar thing, but it plays, and dependably. This is more important than I would have imagined before I went so long without-- there's a feeling I associate with diskmen that I never experienced before the very first time I held one. It's akin to the blissful feeling of ownership one sometimes has with material objects they cherish, but mixed with a kind of peaceful seperation from the rest of soceity. Wearing one and walking, or playing basketball, or riding my bike, or just being in my house...I'm within the world, but the world is not within me. I've replaced the stressing noises with my own soundtrack of life, and that makes me more relaxed and reflective. I see everyone, but I listen to none of their shit. I think Lisbon is meant to be seen and not heard.
On the down side, Mom vedoed a hypothetical trip I mean to plan to New York this weekend. That money, however, may be going towards buying myself a new bike through a guy Nick knows, and that's fine with me. I find there's an athlete within me I've spent much of my life denying, probably too infused with performance anxiety, or still bitter from not making the soccer team in sixth grade. But being physical undoubtedly brings something out in me that I love, and I've always, always loved biking: my whole life, I've loved the freedom of it, the ability to move by my own power. Biking brings back the years of youth I spent mostly on two wheels, and with life rushing by 10,000 whoppers at a time, I need all the nostalgia I can get.
My name is Linda: would you like fries with that? On with it.
Tuesday, May 27, 2003
Some kind of strange hormonal phenomena is taking it's toll on me. I have no real grasp, anymore, of how much, and only Zack and Casey have been privy to my initial guesses.
My desire to write is depleted. My desire to leave the house is depleted. My desire to do anything sexual is depleted. My tolerance for stupid people and bitchy comments is depleted. My avoidance of redundant word usage is depleted.
Lately, it's been up and down, and I used all my up today getting through work-- Yes, I am officially back at Burger King-- without some kind of felony.
The only person around to blame is generally Zack, and, in lieu of that, I've been thinking that I'm experiencing some sort of severe chemical problem. At current, though, I'm thinking maybe it is the former-- just in a less negative way than I've thought. Maybe the lack of alone time, time spent getting in touch with my anger and sadness and all the rest of those bullshit words, while listening to depressing music and going for long, meditative walks is finally catching up with me. Maybe that's why all my insecurities have been blurting out lately-- they haven't had anywhere else to go.
Even if that's not it, it'd be nice to convince myself. Lately, it's not the right answer that counts as much as the answer that will get me through the day. All these little vices and mistakes that seem to be coming together all at once: the wall isn't falling out brick by brick, it's just suddenly crumbled.
The effects of which are daunting and disorienting. Everything becomes obfuscated-- I am without the slightest direction as to what I want, what I have, where I am, where I'm going, what should be done, what needs to stop. I find myself dreaming of nightmares and wallowing in pleasure. Writing clichéd bullshit like that and being equally divided by the adolescent remnants that find it impressive and the....still more adolescent remnants that find it disgusting. Or, rather, not really writing at all. Neglecting the blog, the journal, the scraps of poetry that fester inside my mind, the dying instinct to talk to people about my problems. I've decided that anything that happens as a result of my onslaught of desperation and stupidity happens all the way-- I don't want rescue this time. I'm in or I'm out.
And I'm taken back to Casey, on my porch prom-night-morning, pressing his forehead to mine and telling me not to do the melodramatic shit that I've almost been driven to. His arms are around me and I remember what it's like to be reminded that someone cares, remember why I used to wear this inner darkness on my sleeve, so someone like him could hold me and tell me they don't want me to fuck myself up, someone like him could play the knight in shining armor suddenly, suprisingly. I've been trying, in the past few days, to communicate to Zack how much prom night with Casey fucked us both up. Nothing happened, as I swore up and down it wouldn't, but the fake-romance gave way to lingering feelings-- I wonder if Casey would object to my publicizing this, maybe I'd better save it as a draft until I can talk to him-- and now the fogginess of boundaries has gotten to us both. Neither of us really seem the more logical any longer.
EL proms do that.
"The only way to fix it is to wash it all away
Any fucking time, any fucking day
Learn to swim, I'll see you down in Arizona bay."
Tool will provide a brand-new asset if I am to get back into the spirit of introspective, hateful alone time. And I originally started that sentence "Tool will provide a brand-new tool...". Fuck me.
Maynard's lyrical prowess-- why the fuck do I always always group the words "lyrical" and "prowess" together?-- and the incredible range of emotion in his voice have me captivated as of late. I feel almost as drawn to him as I did to the lead singer of Godsmack at the concert last week: if you haven't heard about it, then you're fucking not listening, because I couldn't believe it if there was anyone who was there who was able to talk about anything else for days later. I walked in with nothing but apathy towards Godsmack, but I walked out changed forever. Ah, man. Could I have written that whole paragraph any worse?
My inability to write with the same style and flare I've demonstrated previously has me frustrated, as does almost everything as of late, but I am looking out the window now, and the sun is setting and the golden light from the west contrasted so deeply with the eastern shadow on the branches of a tree out front stops me, as it always seems to. I will not ever lose my profound respect for the aesthetic beauty that spreads through my sight and infects my mind, despite it's best attempts to hate everything I can see. I will not ever do the things that Casey asked me not to do, because I'll never stop thinking how his forehead felt pressed against mine when he asked me not to, I'll never stop knowing how incredible people like him are when there faces are that close to mine, or wanting to understand them when they're too far away.
No matter how foggy things get, the sun always sets in the west.*
On with it.
*Information curteousy of Nick Laverty, who often fills in my lapses of general knowledge.
My desire to write is depleted. My desire to leave the house is depleted. My desire to do anything sexual is depleted. My tolerance for stupid people and bitchy comments is depleted. My avoidance of redundant word usage is depleted.
Lately, it's been up and down, and I used all my up today getting through work-- Yes, I am officially back at Burger King-- without some kind of felony.
The only person around to blame is generally Zack, and, in lieu of that, I've been thinking that I'm experiencing some sort of severe chemical problem. At current, though, I'm thinking maybe it is the former-- just in a less negative way than I've thought. Maybe the lack of alone time, time spent getting in touch with my anger and sadness and all the rest of those bullshit words, while listening to depressing music and going for long, meditative walks is finally catching up with me. Maybe that's why all my insecurities have been blurting out lately-- they haven't had anywhere else to go.
Even if that's not it, it'd be nice to convince myself. Lately, it's not the right answer that counts as much as the answer that will get me through the day. All these little vices and mistakes that seem to be coming together all at once: the wall isn't falling out brick by brick, it's just suddenly crumbled.
The effects of which are daunting and disorienting. Everything becomes obfuscated-- I am without the slightest direction as to what I want, what I have, where I am, where I'm going, what should be done, what needs to stop. I find myself dreaming of nightmares and wallowing in pleasure. Writing clichéd bullshit like that and being equally divided by the adolescent remnants that find it impressive and the....still more adolescent remnants that find it disgusting. Or, rather, not really writing at all. Neglecting the blog, the journal, the scraps of poetry that fester inside my mind, the dying instinct to talk to people about my problems. I've decided that anything that happens as a result of my onslaught of desperation and stupidity happens all the way-- I don't want rescue this time. I'm in or I'm out.
And I'm taken back to Casey, on my porch prom-night-morning, pressing his forehead to mine and telling me not to do the melodramatic shit that I've almost been driven to. His arms are around me and I remember what it's like to be reminded that someone cares, remember why I used to wear this inner darkness on my sleeve, so someone like him could hold me and tell me they don't want me to fuck myself up, someone like him could play the knight in shining armor suddenly, suprisingly. I've been trying, in the past few days, to communicate to Zack how much prom night with Casey fucked us both up. Nothing happened, as I swore up and down it wouldn't, but the fake-romance gave way to lingering feelings-- I wonder if Casey would object to my publicizing this, maybe I'd better save it as a draft until I can talk to him-- and now the fogginess of boundaries has gotten to us both. Neither of us really seem the more logical any longer.
EL proms do that.
"The only way to fix it is to wash it all away
Any fucking time, any fucking day
Learn to swim, I'll see you down in Arizona bay."
Tool will provide a brand-new asset if I am to get back into the spirit of introspective, hateful alone time. And I originally started that sentence "Tool will provide a brand-new tool...". Fuck me.
Maynard's lyrical prowess-- why the fuck do I always always group the words "lyrical" and "prowess" together?-- and the incredible range of emotion in his voice have me captivated as of late. I feel almost as drawn to him as I did to the lead singer of Godsmack at the concert last week: if you haven't heard about it, then you're fucking not listening, because I couldn't believe it if there was anyone who was there who was able to talk about anything else for days later. I walked in with nothing but apathy towards Godsmack, but I walked out changed forever. Ah, man. Could I have written that whole paragraph any worse?
My inability to write with the same style and flare I've demonstrated previously has me frustrated, as does almost everything as of late, but I am looking out the window now, and the sun is setting and the golden light from the west contrasted so deeply with the eastern shadow on the branches of a tree out front stops me, as it always seems to. I will not ever lose my profound respect for the aesthetic beauty that spreads through my sight and infects my mind, despite it's best attempts to hate everything I can see. I will not ever do the things that Casey asked me not to do, because I'll never stop thinking how his forehead felt pressed against mine when he asked me not to, I'll never stop knowing how incredible people like him are when there faces are that close to mine, or wanting to understand them when they're too far away.
No matter how foggy things get, the sun always sets in the west.*
On with it.
*Information curteousy of Nick Laverty, who often fills in my lapses of general knowledge.
Friday, May 23, 2003
Well, Mr. Ladd has managed to instill a certain confidence in me about this whole Chad coming home situation, on the plus side. On the minus side, it seems I immediately leap upon the bus of the newest insecurity-- or even the older, somewhat unresolved ones-- immediately after getting rid of one.
I haven't mentioned on this yet-- only to each and every one of you individually, I suspect-- that I have now inherited my Grandmother's engagement ring. I was nervous for a long time that it would be hideous, but it turns out it's beautiful, and fits my hand perfectly...except that looking down at it, I still get the sense that it's fake, that it's a commonplace ten dollar Wal*Mart ring that I'm wearing as a momentary fad instead of a valuable diamond that signifies the permanence of mine and Zack's relationship. Even with my disbelief as to it's genuinity, though, the pressure of it is bearing down on me. It would be one thing if Zack and I had gotten this ring on our own terms, but with an inherited ring comes a sense of responsibility: This ring was a token of the love of my grandmother and grandfather, who are now both laying in their graves, juxtaposed, and that creates quite a legacy to uphold. A lifetime of fidelity, trust, forgiveness and love. How can four words that sound like such good things become so frightening when combined with the word "lifetime"?
Still, for all the fear in the world, the idea of lying in my grave next to Zack makes death seem happier. If he and I are to die before we're married, somebody make sure we're buried together. Or, I dunno, burned together and spread throughout some common beautiful place. Or embalmed and made into a living display of our love-- two dead bodies, fucking eternally. Eeeeewwww.
"Oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place
Each time a curtain opens, sunlight pours in, a lifetime melts away
And we share a name on some picturesque grave."
~Bright Eyes
That last line is so unexpectedly romantic. It's what got me thinking about the idea of that in the first place, how beautiful it would be.
I am flipping through some pictures I've recently taken. The film was supposed to be for prom, but stopping the action of prom to take pictures of people never ends up interesting, so I took a few before it happened and, the next night or so, I ended finishing up the roll with pictures of Zack. I managed to capture so much playful, gorgeous essence of him that's been lacking in pictures I've taken previously, I'm enamoured with this roll. My mom, looking through them and expecting to see more prom pictures than were there, commented, "You'd think there were no one in the world but Zack."
Yeah. That's pretty much it.
Ben, today, apologized for the way he and I have been interacting lately, and for the way he's been unsupportive of mine and Zack's relationship. I should have shared in more of the blame, thinking back on it-- I first told Ben about my engagement when I was still engulfed in overwhelming doubt, and I confided in him, above every else, about how likely I thought we were to break up before marraige. Because Ben seemed the one to tell, back then. But some combination of my hopeful love life and his disasterous one has pushed us opposite directions as far as a life outlook is concerned, and this has made things difficult for us. I can't speak for him, but it was enormously hurtful for me...to spare details, I'm glad it's over. I have to thank him for being willing to be the one to apologize. This start towards he and I rekindling the kind of chemistry we used to have...minus the, uh, gratuitous sexual advances, was the little victory I needed today, and it came on unexpectedly.
Almost too unexpectedly to be fueled by his unprompted remorse, I suspected, so I asked Casey if he had anything to do with it. His response was "I might have." I don't know if this meant that, yes, he had talked to Ben, but he didn't want to admit it completely or that he honestly wasn't sure, but I got a real sense that he was, once again, working to preserve my feelings. And this makes me feel.....oh, man. I love Casey. A fucking lot.
And I love Ben. That's worth mention, too. They really don't make them anywhere else in the world like they do in Auburn.
That should be on their town signs. "Welcome to Auburn, Maine: We have wonderful boys!"
Hmmmm....86 that.
Outright prom tomorrow, EL prom sunday. I'm attending the latter with Casey. That has me thrilled....while there's nothing like being with Zack under any circumstances, Lisbon's prom this year was rather dissapointing, as ever. And while I don't vy for this year to be anything like last year-- in the infidelity department, especially-- I can't wait to walk into the hall on Casey's arm. Everyone, by now, is well aware of my little extra-marital crush on Casey, and while I still insist that nothing will happen between us, I'm endlessly glad with the fact that Zack's okay with the type of relationship that we have. Because whether or not I could give him up for Zack-- which is debatable-- I really, really don't want to give him up for anything.
Serena and I were just planning our outfit for tomorrow's outright prom, which is an alternative liftestyles prom, if you're wondering. Looks like I may be combining some lingerie I have with a plaid skirt and white shirt, some thigh-highs and tall "fuck me...if I weren't engaged" boots, and go for the dirty catholic schoolgirl motif. And while I shall remain absolutely "good" at all times, I'm-a gonna have me some fun tomorrow. Yee-haw.
My name is Linda, and I've been very, very bad. On with it.
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