I wonder if she’s ever written a letter?
That’s a valid question nowadays. I figure the more the years go by, the less likely it is that a person has ever written a letter. They may still have received one, because people who used to get letters may still be sending them.
It’s a lot like e-mail’s slow death. While they’ve only been around a couple decades, they’re going bye-bye (not really, since facebook really is just e-mail, but not really…) Letters on the other hand, have been around since paper.
I used to love writing letters. And getting them.
The last letter I wrote was to my grandmother. I should write her more often.
Before that, it was Crystal.
Which is where I just began this story. I wonder if she’s ever written one?
One night we were talking about communication. About how we should do better at it. Especially with the looming her moving out of my apartment 60 miles away coming up. Little did I know then, that the entire conversation was pretty much a lie. Just like every thing else, it seems in that ugly relationship.
Honestly, other than the girl that got my virginity, Crystal is the only gal that I don’t have good feelings about anymore. And it’s all because she was just a liar. As bad of one as a person can be.
I should have known when we had that conversation. She had already surmised that the written word, for me, goes a lot smoother than the spoken. At least when pressed. When stream of consciousness hits me, I can talk up a storm, but when I’m asked a question, not so much…
(and that’s where I lost interest last night…)
***
The dead silence of the place is comforting. The eye of the storm must be passing over. The rain has stopped. The wind has stopped. And so has that howl. That deafening howl. The wind doesn’t try to frighten you, it just does. Because it knows that you know there’s nothing you can do to slow it down. You can stand inside a building. It will knock it down. You can get in your car. It will pick it up and toss it. You can run. But it is faster.
For now, it’s gone.
So, like any sane person, I go outside and assess the damage.
A couple of flipped over trees. A downed power line. The bar’s window is shattered.
I walk down to the beach. It’s been decimated. The sand is at least four, five feet lower off the dunes. There are a few cliff-like areas where the beach was strong, but the water just carved out a path around it.
Then, just like before, the wind starts up again. Howling like an aircraft’s engine. Then the rain. It stings as the wind slaps it against your face. Not as bad as the sand, however, which hits and cuts into your skin.
But instead of running the couple of blocks back to the house, you stay on the beach. This is too good to miss. And you may never live at the beach again. Hell, you may never live again. So why not?
The water is like beer. It always looks that color here, never blue like they tell you it should be. Or even green like the place is named for “Emerald Isle”, ha. Too much military dumping I guess.
The wind adds to the illusion. Blowing the frothy bubbles about like the foam on a good pint of Guinness. It’s warm too, just like it should be.
I watch a big swath of the foam drift up towards me. I stick my hand down into the sand and grab a giant piece of it, shoving into my mouth. The salty taste makes me feel good. I don’t know why, but I’ve always loved getting salt water in my mouth. I’m surprised that I didn’t drink it as a kid. Well, on purpose at least. The drinking of it after a wave knocks you under doesn’t really count. Especially when you’re filled with fear as it drags you underneath the current.
The ocean is one thing I’ve never been afraid of. I never had to conquer a fear of the water.
But right now, it’s menacing. I do respect it. And it seems to be telling me something. Every time I inch closer to the water, a giant wave cascades along and pushes me back.
“You know better,” it seems to be telling me.
Just like my last girlfriend. The one who didn’t write letters.
I wrote her. She said she’d write me back.
Never did.
I’d write her again.
Nada.
After she broke my heart, using the same rusty screwdriver that I had wedged out of my chest from the last time, but stupidly left sitting on my mantle, to rip my heart open again -- I wrote her again.
She sent me an e-mail, months later.
Apologizing.
I fell for it again.
And she didn’t need a weapon this time. I realized it before it got too dangerous and I just ran away, broken again, but only dripping blood and not spout out of me like a geyser.
Live and learn.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Ode to the glass
The glass is dirty. From my grubby hands holding it, drink after drink. Memory after memory.
Yet it doesn’t mind. And it still does it’s job. Transferring the whiskey from the bottle to the glass with ice and then entering my mouth. Where it will go to my liver, further shrinking its usefulness.
That’s what I like about a glass. It does it’s job until it’s broken. And when it’s broken, you throw it away. You can’t glue it back together, it just won’t work the same way.
Wonder if a heart is the same?
You think it’s healed but really, is it ever? You can move on to someone else. Move on to someplace else. But your heart, it can stay behind. That’s what happens when you give it to someone, right? You’ve taken it out of your chest.
Fuck, that’s depressing.
Speaking of … I tend to wonder if I’ll die of liver disease one day…My dad is a drunk. He has a liver of steel. I was told my grandfather (dad’s dad) was a drunk. He died because he was too damn stubborn to go to a doctor.
It all sounds so damn familiar to me. Like a song that only has one memory attached to it. You could hear this song every day of your life, before that day, and after that day. But no matter what, it will remind you of just that day. Life’s like that. And there’s not much you can do about it.
Except tilt the bottle down, pour it into the glass, clink the new ice in and take a swig.
To many that sounds like a cop out.
Others see it as a need.
I’m in between those two places. Which means I’m just no good at making decisions. I can go weeks without a drink, and then weeks with one every night. There are good nights when I’m all happy and content. And of course, there are nights I black out and don’t remember whether or not a friend is still a friend anymore.
It think that’s why I keep looking for new music. If you’ve never heard a song, it can’t remind you of the past. It’s not from there. But, that’s the biggest lie I tell myself every night. A song just wraps itself around whatever the hell it wants. You have no part in this dance. That’s why an album I downloaded last night takes me back to 2000. It just does.
And one I bought two weeks ago reminds me of 2005.
And one I listened to as a high school runt puts me in college. Whichever time it feels like on that day.
Why? Maybe I don’t ever evolve. I just stagnate. Thinking too much about the past, not enough about the present. The future? Yeah, I used to plan things. But they never come true.
Shit, maybe that’s the solution. Plan to Nic Cage myself. I’ll fail at it right?
But I once said the only thing I can’t fail at is failure, so if you plan to fail what happens?
It’s like this fucking awful goatee I’m growing. Technically, I’m just not cutting it, the body itself is growing it. I know that most folk find it kind of silly. Maybe even frightening. Me? I just like being able to do what the old guys used to do in Kung Fu movies with it. Stroke it while “thinking” or right before letting out a long, ear-piercing chortle.
It also makes me look my age.
I considered signing up for a dating site today. Just to see what happens. You get the free profile set up, and then it sends you “matches”. So, after considering, I did it.
I was matched with lots of ugly people. Lots of people with “kids at home but separateds.” Even more folks with a high school education.
Sorry, I need someone who likes to read. And most of the folk I was matched with, they’d say “really don’t like to read, or no time to read.”
Fuck that. I like to read. And I do it. Lately, I’ve been taking books to work and reading there.
Thank god I got that from mom. That and being the shyest M’fer in the world.
I hate being bitter. I’m not a fucking lemon.
But I’ve let myself become this shell of a human.
And it hurts.
I like watching the rain.
I enjoy driving.
Bands still get my heart racing.
So do redheads.
And apparently, so does a good bottle of whiskey.
Yet it doesn’t mind. And it still does it’s job. Transferring the whiskey from the bottle to the glass with ice and then entering my mouth. Where it will go to my liver, further shrinking its usefulness.
That’s what I like about a glass. It does it’s job until it’s broken. And when it’s broken, you throw it away. You can’t glue it back together, it just won’t work the same way.
Wonder if a heart is the same?
You think it’s healed but really, is it ever? You can move on to someone else. Move on to someplace else. But your heart, it can stay behind. That’s what happens when you give it to someone, right? You’ve taken it out of your chest.
Fuck, that’s depressing.
Speaking of … I tend to wonder if I’ll die of liver disease one day…My dad is a drunk. He has a liver of steel. I was told my grandfather (dad’s dad) was a drunk. He died because he was too damn stubborn to go to a doctor.
It all sounds so damn familiar to me. Like a song that only has one memory attached to it. You could hear this song every day of your life, before that day, and after that day. But no matter what, it will remind you of just that day. Life’s like that. And there’s not much you can do about it.
Except tilt the bottle down, pour it into the glass, clink the new ice in and take a swig.
To many that sounds like a cop out.
Others see it as a need.
I’m in between those two places. Which means I’m just no good at making decisions. I can go weeks without a drink, and then weeks with one every night. There are good nights when I’m all happy and content. And of course, there are nights I black out and don’t remember whether or not a friend is still a friend anymore.
It think that’s why I keep looking for new music. If you’ve never heard a song, it can’t remind you of the past. It’s not from there. But, that’s the biggest lie I tell myself every night. A song just wraps itself around whatever the hell it wants. You have no part in this dance. That’s why an album I downloaded last night takes me back to 2000. It just does.
And one I bought two weeks ago reminds me of 2005.
And one I listened to as a high school runt puts me in college. Whichever time it feels like on that day.
Why? Maybe I don’t ever evolve. I just stagnate. Thinking too much about the past, not enough about the present. The future? Yeah, I used to plan things. But they never come true.
Shit, maybe that’s the solution. Plan to Nic Cage myself. I’ll fail at it right?
But I once said the only thing I can’t fail at is failure, so if you plan to fail what happens?
It’s like this fucking awful goatee I’m growing. Technically, I’m just not cutting it, the body itself is growing it. I know that most folk find it kind of silly. Maybe even frightening. Me? I just like being able to do what the old guys used to do in Kung Fu movies with it. Stroke it while “thinking” or right before letting out a long, ear-piercing chortle.
It also makes me look my age.
I considered signing up for a dating site today. Just to see what happens. You get the free profile set up, and then it sends you “matches”. So, after considering, I did it.
I was matched with lots of ugly people. Lots of people with “kids at home but separateds.” Even more folks with a high school education.
Sorry, I need someone who likes to read. And most of the folk I was matched with, they’d say “really don’t like to read, or no time to read.”
Fuck that. I like to read. And I do it. Lately, I’ve been taking books to work and reading there.
Thank god I got that from mom. That and being the shyest M’fer in the world.
I hate being bitter. I’m not a fucking lemon.
But I’ve let myself become this shell of a human.
And it hurts.
I like watching the rain.
I enjoy driving.
Bands still get my heart racing.
So do redheads.
And apparently, so does a good bottle of whiskey.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Henry's Hyundai Highways
Listening to a new album right now. All the songs are very much about someone being cheated on by their husband/band member. Or her cheating on him. Since they’re in the band together, it’s all up in the air. I don’t know the back story, and really, it might harm the songs in the mind.
Very Fleetwood Mac, for sure.
As I’m listening, my heads resting against the porch storm window. I’m staring outside through the dirty piece of plastic. And I start to wonder what it would be like to cheat on someone. Been cheated on, quite a few times, I figure. But never did the deed myself.
Like any guy, I’ve thought about it in a relationship. Always in passing, as in “that girl’s hot, I wonder…” and then it stopped. Always. Hell, maybe it’s just because I’m so damn shy. It really has nothing to do with being above it. Or better than all those heathens that actually went through with it.
Or maybe it is.
I’d like to think I’d never do it. And at this point in my life, I think if I actually got lucky enough to meet someone who I trusted enough to let in, I’d guard that thing with all my might. Good thing? Yes and no, I’d figure. The point of obsession and overprotecting could become an issue?
But, that’s a road I’ll cross if I ever get to that intersection.
***
Shaking his keyboard methodically.
Over and over.
The upside down plastic receptacle empties out a couple months worth of crumbs. Which the ogre across from me in the office wipes to the floor with one swat of his meaty paw across the desk. The sound of little pieces of spit out and dropped food fill the newsroom.
Two people, myself included, notice this episode. We look at each other, cringe and laugh.
Two others don’t seem to care.
Ahh, the newsroom.
This hulking, bulbous jester of a man walks around the office with his belly protruding from his t-shirts like his is some kind of Ignatious in the wrong part of the world.
His 1994 t-shirts are either an extreme attempt to hold on to his “better days”, when I’m guessing life was better for a know-it-all before the internet and Google. Or he simply doesn’t notice his stretch-marked paunch protruding out beneath the too-little and way-too short cotton Ts.
Somewhere Bob Mould is crying at this vision.
He’s just a gross and obtuse fucktard.
Sometimes he bends over in the office, his tighty-whiteys drooping out of his pants. All pushed up to the edge of his pants, which are much too tight and short.
I know I don’t buy clothes very often, hell some of my shirts are from the early 1990s, but once they don’t fit, I get rid of them. Luckily for me, I used to buy clothes way too big for me. Now, they’ve shrunk and I’ve grown.
Not this guy.
I’d hate to see the skid marks he leaves behind.
I know nothing about him, other than he was supposedly a sports editor at a paper in West Virginia for over a decade. Yet, he doesn’t seem to grasp the concepts of what people like in a sports section. Nor does he seem to have any grip on reality. He answered the phones for the sports department one night, and seemed lost taking phone ins. And these people keep jobs. Get better jobs.
One day, it won’t matter any more.
***
Sitting outside, well, on the carport, the rain started falling.
The complete silence around me, except for a wooden wind chime and the rain was amazing. It started me thinking of Charles Karult. And those the CBS Sunday Morning News, whatever it was officially called. Even as a young kid, I loved watched those reports. “One the Road” with Charles Karult. He’d go all over the county in a Winnebago.
Where can a guy get that job today? They’d never spend the dough anymore. Guess I could do it myself.
An Asshole in his Accent.
Henry’s Hyundai Highways.
Chortle. Snarf. Gack.
It sounds like fun, anyway.
But now the rain is over. The humidity is rising. And cars are starting to drive about. For some reason, the Lemonheads’ “It’s a shame about Ray” pops into my head.
Now I can’t stop thinking about Urge Overkill.
And mopeds.
Then it all goes away, and I think about going to the store to buy a frozen pizza and some beer.
***
Very Fleetwood Mac, for sure.
As I’m listening, my heads resting against the porch storm window. I’m staring outside through the dirty piece of plastic. And I start to wonder what it would be like to cheat on someone. Been cheated on, quite a few times, I figure. But never did the deed myself.
Like any guy, I’ve thought about it in a relationship. Always in passing, as in “that girl’s hot, I wonder…” and then it stopped. Always. Hell, maybe it’s just because I’m so damn shy. It really has nothing to do with being above it. Or better than all those heathens that actually went through with it.
Or maybe it is.
I’d like to think I’d never do it. And at this point in my life, I think if I actually got lucky enough to meet someone who I trusted enough to let in, I’d guard that thing with all my might. Good thing? Yes and no, I’d figure. The point of obsession and overprotecting could become an issue?
But, that’s a road I’ll cross if I ever get to that intersection.
***
Shaking his keyboard methodically.
Over and over.
The upside down plastic receptacle empties out a couple months worth of crumbs. Which the ogre across from me in the office wipes to the floor with one swat of his meaty paw across the desk. The sound of little pieces of spit out and dropped food fill the newsroom.
Two people, myself included, notice this episode. We look at each other, cringe and laugh.
Two others don’t seem to care.
Ahh, the newsroom.
This hulking, bulbous jester of a man walks around the office with his belly protruding from his t-shirts like his is some kind of Ignatious in the wrong part of the world.
His 1994 t-shirts are either an extreme attempt to hold on to his “better days”, when I’m guessing life was better for a know-it-all before the internet and Google. Or he simply doesn’t notice his stretch-marked paunch protruding out beneath the too-little and way-too short cotton Ts.
Somewhere Bob Mould is crying at this vision.
He’s just a gross and obtuse fucktard.
Sometimes he bends over in the office, his tighty-whiteys drooping out of his pants. All pushed up to the edge of his pants, which are much too tight and short.
I know I don’t buy clothes very often, hell some of my shirts are from the early 1990s, but once they don’t fit, I get rid of them. Luckily for me, I used to buy clothes way too big for me. Now, they’ve shrunk and I’ve grown.
Not this guy.
I’d hate to see the skid marks he leaves behind.
I know nothing about him, other than he was supposedly a sports editor at a paper in West Virginia for over a decade. Yet, he doesn’t seem to grasp the concepts of what people like in a sports section. Nor does he seem to have any grip on reality. He answered the phones for the sports department one night, and seemed lost taking phone ins. And these people keep jobs. Get better jobs.
One day, it won’t matter any more.
***
Sitting outside, well, on the carport, the rain started falling.
The complete silence around me, except for a wooden wind chime and the rain was amazing. It started me thinking of Charles Karult. And those the CBS Sunday Morning News, whatever it was officially called. Even as a young kid, I loved watched those reports. “One the Road” with Charles Karult. He’d go all over the county in a Winnebago.
Where can a guy get that job today? They’d never spend the dough anymore. Guess I could do it myself.
An Asshole in his Accent.
Henry’s Hyundai Highways.
Chortle. Snarf. Gack.
It sounds like fun, anyway.
But now the rain is over. The humidity is rising. And cars are starting to drive about. For some reason, the Lemonheads’ “It’s a shame about Ray” pops into my head.
Now I can’t stop thinking about Urge Overkill.
And mopeds.
Then it all goes away, and I think about going to the store to buy a frozen pizza and some beer.
***
Saturday, September 25, 2010
i tried some pills for my heart, but a little too late
Good decisions are harder to remember than the bad ones. Bad decisions not made are impossible to forget. Good decisions not made just aren’t there…
Talked back from the abyss.
I remember sitting on my sectional couch that my buddy gave me before he moved out of eastern North Carolina, looking at three bottles of pills. One was full of Oxycodone that I’d gotten the last time I had kidney stones. The other was Zolpidem, sleeping pills I’d gotten because I couldn’t sleep. The last was, Budeprion, some anti-depressants I had because, well, I was depressed.
Work sucked at that moment. I’d gone through some issues with a story I didn’t want to write. About a kid who died.
Things just seemed hopeless. And sitting in my apartment, by myself, every, single night didn’t help matters. All I seemed to do was cry. Think about how crappy things were. No girl. No money. A job I hated. Yep, this was where I wanted to be at 37 years old.
And those bottles all had what I thought was the answer.
Death.
I wasn’t very lucky at that point in my life. Well, that’s not entirely true, but it’s the way I felt. My friends who were local, of which I could count on one hand at that time, didn’t seem to see anything wrong with me. Or if they did, didn’t bother to say anything.
I clung to opportunities to go and hang out with anyone. Usually, ending up in a chicken wing joint or just on a barstool. Not exactly theraputic, but it helped. Anything did, really.
But the abyss kept getting closer and closer.
I don’t know what exactly pushed me to the edge. But, there I was sitting in front of three bottles of pills, wondering if the combination would be enough to kill me. If it would put me to sleep and not hurt.
I had no clue.
But I think I was about to find out. I curled up in a ball, crying. I don’t know how long I was there doing it. I grabbed the bottles and opened them up. Pouring their contents onto my footlocker/coffee table. The one with scribbles on it from a three-year-old that touched my heart and made me live for a little while again.
That kid was gone. At least from my life.
After getting the crying done. I stared some more at those pills. All white and awful.
I grabbed my cell phone. Looking at the numbers in it. Wondering who would even answer the phone if I dialed them.
I called my mom. Saying to myself…if she doesn’t answer, it’s a sign.
She answered on the third ring.
I broke down. Completely. Utterly. I told her how much pain I was in. How little I felt and how much I felt. She had no real words for me. She never does. But she listened. And she cried. I felt horrible. She was at work. But she put off everything to just listen.
And that’s all I needed. After a long time of a lot of words and a lot of crying. I hung up.
I put the pills back in their bottles. I wiped my face, grabbed my keys, and went to work. Just like I always did.
That’s the day my mom saved my life. She’s one of two people to do that. Maybe I’ll write about the other time and other person some other time.
Is life any better now than it was then? Nope. It’s pretty much the same. I don’t have any money. I have no friends where I live and I’m single as single can be. Also, every day begins with a ritualistic listening of Rick James’ “Street Songs”. Why? Because I’m scared of what the day will bring if I don’t do it.
The highlights of my days are writing, now, however. So that’s an improvement.
I still have two of those bottles, as well. They both have two pills left in them, so don’t be scared for me. The Hillbilly Heroin went away a while ago. I used to take one every so often just to help me sleep. Or if I was in pain.
Now? I just want to go to sleep. And get up tomorrow and go to work.
The weekend is coming. I’ll probably do nothing but watch and observe and think. Maybe even read a bit. I’ll write something down too. Maybe it won't be forced? It’s what I do.
Better than the alternative.
Talked back from the abyss.
I remember sitting on my sectional couch that my buddy gave me before he moved out of eastern North Carolina, looking at three bottles of pills. One was full of Oxycodone that I’d gotten the last time I had kidney stones. The other was Zolpidem, sleeping pills I’d gotten because I couldn’t sleep. The last was, Budeprion, some anti-depressants I had because, well, I was depressed.
Work sucked at that moment. I’d gone through some issues with a story I didn’t want to write. About a kid who died.
Things just seemed hopeless. And sitting in my apartment, by myself, every, single night didn’t help matters. All I seemed to do was cry. Think about how crappy things were. No girl. No money. A job I hated. Yep, this was where I wanted to be at 37 years old.
And those bottles all had what I thought was the answer.
Death.
I wasn’t very lucky at that point in my life. Well, that’s not entirely true, but it’s the way I felt. My friends who were local, of which I could count on one hand at that time, didn’t seem to see anything wrong with me. Or if they did, didn’t bother to say anything.
I clung to opportunities to go and hang out with anyone. Usually, ending up in a chicken wing joint or just on a barstool. Not exactly theraputic, but it helped. Anything did, really.
But the abyss kept getting closer and closer.
I don’t know what exactly pushed me to the edge. But, there I was sitting in front of three bottles of pills, wondering if the combination would be enough to kill me. If it would put me to sleep and not hurt.
I had no clue.
But I think I was about to find out. I curled up in a ball, crying. I don’t know how long I was there doing it. I grabbed the bottles and opened them up. Pouring their contents onto my footlocker/coffee table. The one with scribbles on it from a three-year-old that touched my heart and made me live for a little while again.
That kid was gone. At least from my life.
After getting the crying done. I stared some more at those pills. All white and awful.
I grabbed my cell phone. Looking at the numbers in it. Wondering who would even answer the phone if I dialed them.
I called my mom. Saying to myself…if she doesn’t answer, it’s a sign.
She answered on the third ring.
I broke down. Completely. Utterly. I told her how much pain I was in. How little I felt and how much I felt. She had no real words for me. She never does. But she listened. And she cried. I felt horrible. She was at work. But she put off everything to just listen.
And that’s all I needed. After a long time of a lot of words and a lot of crying. I hung up.
I put the pills back in their bottles. I wiped my face, grabbed my keys, and went to work. Just like I always did.
That’s the day my mom saved my life. She’s one of two people to do that. Maybe I’ll write about the other time and other person some other time.
Is life any better now than it was then? Nope. It’s pretty much the same. I don’t have any money. I have no friends where I live and I’m single as single can be. Also, every day begins with a ritualistic listening of Rick James’ “Street Songs”. Why? Because I’m scared of what the day will bring if I don’t do it.
The highlights of my days are writing, now, however. So that’s an improvement.
I still have two of those bottles, as well. They both have two pills left in them, so don’t be scared for me. The Hillbilly Heroin went away a while ago. I used to take one every so often just to help me sleep. Or if I was in pain.
Now? I just want to go to sleep. And get up tomorrow and go to work.
The weekend is coming. I’ll probably do nothing but watch and observe and think. Maybe even read a bit. I’ll write something down too. Maybe it won't be forced? It’s what I do.
Better than the alternative.
Friday, September 24, 2010
you couldn't make this shit up...or could you?
The smarmy fuck comes in smiling. Every single time. His little rubber band wrapped pony tail sticking out like a piece of shit from a fat girl’s ass. Just not right that visual image. But it’s what I see when I see him.
He’s the office IT guy. I hate the fact that they call them IT guys. There’s nothing ‘it’ about them. Maybe at some places, but here, it’s not even Jimmy Fallon-esque.
Today, he got yelled at. By me.
Some days you just know aren’t going to go well. Today, didn’t seem like one of those days. Even after having to sit in my car for 40 minutes just 5 minutes away from the office. Almost a full hour I lost. An hour I won’t get paid for. An hour in this wretched place where I never thought I’d end up, but somehow have. It should be enough to fuck with my head. But my head’s already fucked enough, so this town can’t do that to it.
Anyways. My boss is being a prick today. He’s reached the point I reached a long time ago. I left the damn company, but had to come back…Swallow that pride. It’ll just hurt for a little while.
But, the shit with the computer system being completely awful just makes me mad. Then, the little rat fucker IT guy decides he’s going to be condescending. And, like Floyd in True Romance that’s one thing I’m no good at taking. Which is, of course, ironic since I tend to do that to folks. I try not to, but it just happens….
“Hey, the feeds aren’t working,” I say.
“Oh yes they are,” turd tail replies.
“The last thing moved at 12:26. It’s 2:13.”
“You need to use the right feed,” turd gurgles.
“I’m USING the FUCKING right feed,” I belt out, feeling the lack of control and having no way to stop it. I regret it. It’s the first real instance of my temper since I came back to this rat-infested office many months ago, but not enough months yet.
He doesn’t reply.
Later on, an e-mail to my boss. Detailing how all the problems are “our” fault and not “his” fault.
I hate people that pass the buck. Refuse to take the blame for shit when it happens.
I fully take the blame for my lot in live. Yeah, it sucks, but I spent the money that put me in debt. I stayed at shitty jobs when I had other offers. And I own all that shit. I don’t go to the doctor or dentist. So when I die with no teeth, it’ll be my fault.
And when I fuck up at work, I say, “yep, that was me. Sorry.”
Oh well.
The turd disappeared and two minutes later, the feed started working again.
“Yep, guess it wasn’t broken,” I say loudly. It gets a grin or two. Really not worth it, but, sometimes it is.
Me and another guy at work, Mike, we start talking about stupid things. Bad cartoons, good cartoons, baffoons we work with, and then the greatest Web site of late … a place that shows death scenes from movies.
It gets us to thinking about great ways to off the folks who bug us.
The consensus between us, and then many others in the office is Omar. The shotgun wielding homo from “The Wire”.
“Omar’s coming!” becomes the days rallying call. As is the whistling of The Farmer and the Dell.
Before too long, new guy, Jake, starts to get annoyed with us. We are a bit repetitive. But at least he wasn’t here for the Meg standoffs. When anything that bugged us got a “Meg” followed by a “Pbbbt.”
Good times are had by all. At least just enough to stay sane. And that’s really all you can ask when you’re doing mindless drivel. Reading mindless written drivel from mindless drivel peddlers with pens and pads. Although, I’d bet they all just have digital recorders now. Who has the ability to take notes anymore. Just too damn tough to pay attention and write at the same time.
Fucking amateurs.
My newest quote for the office is “One day, I won’t be here anymore.”
It’s not the best attitude, all give you that. But it’s better than “I fucking hate this place!” Although, some would argue that the new slogan implies the old one, not that that has ever been my motto at this job.
The best thing I can do is tread water and dog paddle my way though the awfulness. Tomorrow night, I’ll fight another 10 o’clock deadline. Maybe I’ll miss it this time, just to do it. Add a little spice to life.
Fiction? Or not…You be the judge.
He’s the office IT guy. I hate the fact that they call them IT guys. There’s nothing ‘it’ about them. Maybe at some places, but here, it’s not even Jimmy Fallon-esque.
Today, he got yelled at. By me.
Some days you just know aren’t going to go well. Today, didn’t seem like one of those days. Even after having to sit in my car for 40 minutes just 5 minutes away from the office. Almost a full hour I lost. An hour I won’t get paid for. An hour in this wretched place where I never thought I’d end up, but somehow have. It should be enough to fuck with my head. But my head’s already fucked enough, so this town can’t do that to it.
Anyways. My boss is being a prick today. He’s reached the point I reached a long time ago. I left the damn company, but had to come back…Swallow that pride. It’ll just hurt for a little while.
But, the shit with the computer system being completely awful just makes me mad. Then, the little rat fucker IT guy decides he’s going to be condescending. And, like Floyd in True Romance that’s one thing I’m no good at taking. Which is, of course, ironic since I tend to do that to folks. I try not to, but it just happens….
“Hey, the feeds aren’t working,” I say.
“Oh yes they are,” turd tail replies.
“The last thing moved at 12:26. It’s 2:13.”
“You need to use the right feed,” turd gurgles.
“I’m USING the FUCKING right feed,” I belt out, feeling the lack of control and having no way to stop it. I regret it. It’s the first real instance of my temper since I came back to this rat-infested office many months ago, but not enough months yet.
He doesn’t reply.
Later on, an e-mail to my boss. Detailing how all the problems are “our” fault and not “his” fault.
I hate people that pass the buck. Refuse to take the blame for shit when it happens.
I fully take the blame for my lot in live. Yeah, it sucks, but I spent the money that put me in debt. I stayed at shitty jobs when I had other offers. And I own all that shit. I don’t go to the doctor or dentist. So when I die with no teeth, it’ll be my fault.
And when I fuck up at work, I say, “yep, that was me. Sorry.”
Oh well.
The turd disappeared and two minutes later, the feed started working again.
“Yep, guess it wasn’t broken,” I say loudly. It gets a grin or two. Really not worth it, but, sometimes it is.
Me and another guy at work, Mike, we start talking about stupid things. Bad cartoons, good cartoons, baffoons we work with, and then the greatest Web site of late … a place that shows death scenes from movies.
It gets us to thinking about great ways to off the folks who bug us.
The consensus between us, and then many others in the office is Omar. The shotgun wielding homo from “The Wire”.
“Omar’s coming!” becomes the days rallying call. As is the whistling of The Farmer and the Dell.
Before too long, new guy, Jake, starts to get annoyed with us. We are a bit repetitive. But at least he wasn’t here for the Meg standoffs. When anything that bugged us got a “Meg” followed by a “Pbbbt.”
Good times are had by all. At least just enough to stay sane. And that’s really all you can ask when you’re doing mindless drivel. Reading mindless written drivel from mindless drivel peddlers with pens and pads. Although, I’d bet they all just have digital recorders now. Who has the ability to take notes anymore. Just too damn tough to pay attention and write at the same time.
Fucking amateurs.
My newest quote for the office is “One day, I won’t be here anymore.”
It’s not the best attitude, all give you that. But it’s better than “I fucking hate this place!” Although, some would argue that the new slogan implies the old one, not that that has ever been my motto at this job.
The best thing I can do is tread water and dog paddle my way though the awfulness. Tomorrow night, I’ll fight another 10 o’clock deadline. Maybe I’ll miss it this time, just to do it. Add a little spice to life.
Fiction? Or not…You be the judge.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
exact.
Life sure was a whole lot simpler when all I wanted to do was hang out at 2400 Tulane Avenue, drinking a Miller Lite, shooting the shit and listening to David Watts.
But, as of today, 2400 Tulane Avenue is an empty gravel lot. Full of a lot of promises, but I’m guessing none of them will ever be kept. I hope I’m wrong, but I doubt it. I’ve come to expect that.
When those bar chairs were still there. When Colin was still serving up good drinks and good conversations about Virginia and music, I was happy. I didn’t know I was happy then. Hell, I thought I was unhappy.
I’ll probably look back 12 years from now and think about how happy I was living at the beach.
I remember the first time Josh took me there. He was so eager. A word that we used to use to describe my boy a lot. Eager. Now, he’s not eager anymore. I’d say he’s settled. Not that really that’s a bad thing. Except those few moments when you can see the look in his eye. That lost look. That look of “take me with you.”
Fuck, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near where I am. It’s not fun.
Of course, I don’t want to be anywhere near where he is. It doesn’t look fun.
Experience is the only way to know these things, however. But I trust instinct. And my instinct says that other than the great woman he’s got, and the awesome travels he gets to take, life ain’t all that grand for him either.
I don’t revel in that. Even if it sounds like I am. There was a time when I thought he’d be my Dean. Or I’d be his Sal. I think he thought the same thing. Maybe that’s why it was doomed from the get-go?
Instead, he found a real Dean. Got to see the world. Got to bag some chicks. Got to have some fun.
Me? I chased the skirt. Didn’t look for a new Dean, or Sal, or even Old Bull Lee.
I guess that’s my burden. My weight. My cross to bear. That I always put a woman over anything else, and then I fucked up all the woman too.
Ha.
I did find a new band. I’ve always been real good about attaching a band to a particular part of my life.
The first one was KISS. That was childhood.
The next band I fell in love with was Guns and Roses. That? Adolescence I guess.
In college, the Clash became my obsession. That one lasted a good long time. In fact, I still cherish the band, even though I don’t listen to them much anymore.
After that, Johnny Thunders came to me. He was my introduction to depression and angst.
Then it was a brief interlude with H.I.M. They got me to face Emily, then run away.
Lucero is now the band. I’m guessing this is life now. I can’t see anything replacing them. Of course, I’ll meet a new love, and they won’t matter as much. It always happens. We’ll see.
Where did all of this shit come from? The bottle, I guess. This is why I shouldn’t and should drink. I get loosey-goosey with everything when my lips hit the bottle enough.
Too honest? Probably. But is there really such a thing? This shit should come out with out chemicals. With out hops and barley. Without shots and mugs.
But it doesn’t. At least not enough to my liking.
Which is OK. It’s how it’s meant to be. At least for me.
Six more rent payments to go. Then I can get out of here. Go somewhere else.
Yeah, I’ve said that all before. But for some reason, I feel different right now. Will I five months from now when the last rent payment has been made? I don’t care, really.
I want to do something with what little is left of my life. I’ve got to figure, even with genetics in my favor, that I’m most likely more than past the halfway point. I’ve got less living to do, years-wise, than I’ve already had.
That kind of fact is not something to sneeze at.
Of course, I’ll live to be 102. Look like Hal Holbrook and still be drinking fucking Shiner Bocks and Jameson. Listening to fucking Lucero and singing at the top of my lungs while doing it.
Hopefully, not dreaming of redheads, however…
But, as of today, 2400 Tulane Avenue is an empty gravel lot. Full of a lot of promises, but I’m guessing none of them will ever be kept. I hope I’m wrong, but I doubt it. I’ve come to expect that.
When those bar chairs were still there. When Colin was still serving up good drinks and good conversations about Virginia and music, I was happy. I didn’t know I was happy then. Hell, I thought I was unhappy.
I’ll probably look back 12 years from now and think about how happy I was living at the beach.
I remember the first time Josh took me there. He was so eager. A word that we used to use to describe my boy a lot. Eager. Now, he’s not eager anymore. I’d say he’s settled. Not that really that’s a bad thing. Except those few moments when you can see the look in his eye. That lost look. That look of “take me with you.”
Fuck, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near where I am. It’s not fun.
Of course, I don’t want to be anywhere near where he is. It doesn’t look fun.
Experience is the only way to know these things, however. But I trust instinct. And my instinct says that other than the great woman he’s got, and the awesome travels he gets to take, life ain’t all that grand for him either.
I don’t revel in that. Even if it sounds like I am. There was a time when I thought he’d be my Dean. Or I’d be his Sal. I think he thought the same thing. Maybe that’s why it was doomed from the get-go?
Instead, he found a real Dean. Got to see the world. Got to bag some chicks. Got to have some fun.
Me? I chased the skirt. Didn’t look for a new Dean, or Sal, or even Old Bull Lee.
I guess that’s my burden. My weight. My cross to bear. That I always put a woman over anything else, and then I fucked up all the woman too.
Ha.
I did find a new band. I’ve always been real good about attaching a band to a particular part of my life.
The first one was KISS. That was childhood.
The next band I fell in love with was Guns and Roses. That? Adolescence I guess.
In college, the Clash became my obsession. That one lasted a good long time. In fact, I still cherish the band, even though I don’t listen to them much anymore.
After that, Johnny Thunders came to me. He was my introduction to depression and angst.
Then it was a brief interlude with H.I.M. They got me to face Emily, then run away.
Lucero is now the band. I’m guessing this is life now. I can’t see anything replacing them. Of course, I’ll meet a new love, and they won’t matter as much. It always happens. We’ll see.
Where did all of this shit come from? The bottle, I guess. This is why I shouldn’t and should drink. I get loosey-goosey with everything when my lips hit the bottle enough.
Too honest? Probably. But is there really such a thing? This shit should come out with out chemicals. With out hops and barley. Without shots and mugs.
But it doesn’t. At least not enough to my liking.
Which is OK. It’s how it’s meant to be. At least for me.
Six more rent payments to go. Then I can get out of here. Go somewhere else.
Yeah, I’ve said that all before. But for some reason, I feel different right now. Will I five months from now when the last rent payment has been made? I don’t care, really.
I want to do something with what little is left of my life. I’ve got to figure, even with genetics in my favor, that I’m most likely more than past the halfway point. I’ve got less living to do, years-wise, than I’ve already had.
That kind of fact is not something to sneeze at.
Of course, I’ll live to be 102. Look like Hal Holbrook and still be drinking fucking Shiner Bocks and Jameson. Listening to fucking Lucero and singing at the top of my lungs while doing it.
Hopefully, not dreaming of redheads, however…
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
IEDs vs. IUDs
IED vs. IUD
Damn. What a horrible place for my fucking car to finally break down. Not that there is a good place for smoke to come billowing out of the engine block of my 1988 Acura Legend coupe, well, in front of the Playboy Mansion when Hugh Hefner’s out at the urologist might count, but hell, this is about as bad as could be imagined.
Off in the distance I can hear it. The pop, pop, pop of machine gun fire.
“Damn Marines,” I think to myself. Or did I just say that out loud? Just as a fucking flashlight shines right into my face.
“Put up your hands!” a voice spews from the darkness. Spew, not speak. I hear the distinct sound of rounds slipping into chambers all around me.
“Put your mother fucking hands up!” another voice decides to spew.
I put my hands up.
Lights dance all around now. Not flashlights. But lights nonetheless. I’m guessing their attached to automatic rifles. Hell, they could be giant fireflies for all I care. All I do know is I’m fucked.
Ten minutes ago I was at work. A place that every day gets a little more awful. But I’d give my big toe to be back there right now. Hell, if this gets as bad as I think it could get, I’d give my entire left foot. Although my place-kicking days would be over then.
Finally, I see a face.
Damn, this guy can’t be more than 22 years old. And all the rest of these jar heads are looking at him to tell them what to do? Reminds me of a newsroom. Where there are too many under qualified, stupid reporters running around with pens in their hands and pads in their back pockets because they’d take less than minimum wage to do the job.
I remember when I was that kid. And now, I’m 40 years old making less than I did when I was 30. Why? Well, that’s a long story that I’ve told too many times.
Now, I’m standing on the side of North Carolina Highway 24. Seven miles from the office. Thirty-three from my beach house.
“Sir, why are you here?” the kid says, not spews.
“Huh?”
“Why are YOU here?” he repeats.
“My car broke down. You see that smoke? It’s not me barbequing.” I regret saying that before the ing leaves my mouth…
“Sir, you are on restricted territory. We could have shot you. Not questions asked.”
I think to myself for a second. I’m on the side of the road. A state road. Yes, surrounded by military installations. But, still a public highway.
“Um, isn’t this highway 24?”
“Sir, that is highway 24,” he says, pointing his rifle at the pavement. “This. This is restricted territory.” Now pointing at the median.
“Sorry to interrupt your war games.”
Oops.
“How did you know we were conducting war scenarios?” he asked with a crocked up eyebrow.
“Lucky, I guess…”
Yeah, lucky is the perfect word for it. I am nothing if not lucky. Hell, I haven’t had sex in over two years, so I can’t even get lucky. Although, I have had chances. Just haven’t pursued them. It’s really why I don’t complain about it. At least I don’t have the AIDs. Ha. The AIDs.
As I’m having this internal dialogue, I glance over at some of the other “soldiers” standing about. They’re dressed in those grey fatigues. Not the tan ones you see all the time now in news footage from the Gulf or Afghanistan. Certainly not the ones in M.A.S.H., for sure.
Soon I see that they are really preoccupied with my car. Looking at it wearily. Almost scared in their approach to it.
“Why did you park this thing here?” the kid in charged asks me.
“Well, the engine started smoking, and I pulled off the side of the road.”
“But why here? There is a gas station about a ½ click to the east.”
What the fuck does that mean, I think to myself. Click.
“Didn’t you hear the gun shots?”
“Uh, not until I pulled over,” I said. “My radio was pretty loud.”
All of the sudden another kid came running over.
“Sarge, there’s something fishy under the dashboard.”
“Why the fuck are you under my dashboard,” I asked almost instinctively.
“Why the fuck do you care? Got something to hide?”
Instantly, five guns are trained on me again.
“Shit, that’s an IED!” a guy with glasses yells out.
“Sir, is there a bomb in this car. I’ll ask you once, and once only,” kid asks, or really demands.
“Uh….Uh…”
I feel a sharp pain on my neck. One of those shitbirds just hit me with the butt of his rifle. I fall down.
I wake up in a hospital. My neck hurts. Bad.
A man in a really nice uniform comes in. He must be important.
“Mr. Jones, we are extremely sorry,” he says. “But you certainly understand my men did what they did.”
“Uh…Uh…No.”
“Well, they found a box, with wires running straight from the steering wheel area duct-taped inside the dashboard. A very suspicious thing, for sure.”
“Yeah, but why were they under my dashboard?”
“You were parked in a secure area,” the nice suit guy said.
“I was parked on the side of a state highway.”
“Well, son, you’re lucky to be alive. These men are well trained. And they took all the right steps. You? You were an asshole.”
He’s got me there. I am an asshole. I wasn’t just play acting.
“Whatever. I would like to see my boss.”
“We’ve already spoken to him. This WILL NOT be in the paper.”
After they left, my boss came in.
“We’ve got to keep this under wraps, Randy. We have a nice working relationship with the base right now. Can’t mess that up for you.”
I just stare at him. Wondering exactly when the journalist leapt out of his body? What year it was. What decade even.
I told him I needed sleep. Concussion and all.
As soon as he was gone, I reached for my phone. Called my buddy. He works for a TV station. Who would have thunk the TV station would get my story over a fish wrapper?
Damn. What a horrible place for my fucking car to finally break down. Not that there is a good place for smoke to come billowing out of the engine block of my 1988 Acura Legend coupe, well, in front of the Playboy Mansion when Hugh Hefner’s out at the urologist might count, but hell, this is about as bad as could be imagined.
Off in the distance I can hear it. The pop, pop, pop of machine gun fire.
“Damn Marines,” I think to myself. Or did I just say that out loud? Just as a fucking flashlight shines right into my face.
“Put up your hands!” a voice spews from the darkness. Spew, not speak. I hear the distinct sound of rounds slipping into chambers all around me.
“Put your mother fucking hands up!” another voice decides to spew.
I put my hands up.
Lights dance all around now. Not flashlights. But lights nonetheless. I’m guessing their attached to automatic rifles. Hell, they could be giant fireflies for all I care. All I do know is I’m fucked.
Ten minutes ago I was at work. A place that every day gets a little more awful. But I’d give my big toe to be back there right now. Hell, if this gets as bad as I think it could get, I’d give my entire left foot. Although my place-kicking days would be over then.
Finally, I see a face.
Damn, this guy can’t be more than 22 years old. And all the rest of these jar heads are looking at him to tell them what to do? Reminds me of a newsroom. Where there are too many under qualified, stupid reporters running around with pens in their hands and pads in their back pockets because they’d take less than minimum wage to do the job.
I remember when I was that kid. And now, I’m 40 years old making less than I did when I was 30. Why? Well, that’s a long story that I’ve told too many times.
Now, I’m standing on the side of North Carolina Highway 24. Seven miles from the office. Thirty-three from my beach house.
“Sir, why are you here?” the kid says, not spews.
“Huh?”
“Why are YOU here?” he repeats.
“My car broke down. You see that smoke? It’s not me barbequing.” I regret saying that before the ing leaves my mouth…
“Sir, you are on restricted territory. We could have shot you. Not questions asked.”
I think to myself for a second. I’m on the side of the road. A state road. Yes, surrounded by military installations. But, still a public highway.
“Um, isn’t this highway 24?”
“Sir, that is highway 24,” he says, pointing his rifle at the pavement. “This. This is restricted territory.” Now pointing at the median.
“Sorry to interrupt your war games.”
Oops.
“How did you know we were conducting war scenarios?” he asked with a crocked up eyebrow.
“Lucky, I guess…”
Yeah, lucky is the perfect word for it. I am nothing if not lucky. Hell, I haven’t had sex in over two years, so I can’t even get lucky. Although, I have had chances. Just haven’t pursued them. It’s really why I don’t complain about it. At least I don’t have the AIDs. Ha. The AIDs.
As I’m having this internal dialogue, I glance over at some of the other “soldiers” standing about. They’re dressed in those grey fatigues. Not the tan ones you see all the time now in news footage from the Gulf or Afghanistan. Certainly not the ones in M.A.S.H., for sure.
Soon I see that they are really preoccupied with my car. Looking at it wearily. Almost scared in their approach to it.
“Why did you park this thing here?” the kid in charged asks me.
“Well, the engine started smoking, and I pulled off the side of the road.”
“But why here? There is a gas station about a ½ click to the east.”
What the fuck does that mean, I think to myself. Click.
“Didn’t you hear the gun shots?”
“Uh, not until I pulled over,” I said. “My radio was pretty loud.”
All of the sudden another kid came running over.
“Sarge, there’s something fishy under the dashboard.”
“Why the fuck are you under my dashboard,” I asked almost instinctively.
“Why the fuck do you care? Got something to hide?”
Instantly, five guns are trained on me again.
“Shit, that’s an IED!” a guy with glasses yells out.
“Sir, is there a bomb in this car. I’ll ask you once, and once only,” kid asks, or really demands.
“Uh….Uh…”
I feel a sharp pain on my neck. One of those shitbirds just hit me with the butt of his rifle. I fall down.
I wake up in a hospital. My neck hurts. Bad.
A man in a really nice uniform comes in. He must be important.
“Mr. Jones, we are extremely sorry,” he says. “But you certainly understand my men did what they did.”
“Uh…Uh…No.”
“Well, they found a box, with wires running straight from the steering wheel area duct-taped inside the dashboard. A very suspicious thing, for sure.”
“Yeah, but why were they under my dashboard?”
“You were parked in a secure area,” the nice suit guy said.
“I was parked on the side of a state highway.”
“Well, son, you’re lucky to be alive. These men are well trained. And they took all the right steps. You? You were an asshole.”
He’s got me there. I am an asshole. I wasn’t just play acting.
“Whatever. I would like to see my boss.”
“We’ve already spoken to him. This WILL NOT be in the paper.”
After they left, my boss came in.
“We’ve got to keep this under wraps, Randy. We have a nice working relationship with the base right now. Can’t mess that up for you.”
I just stare at him. Wondering exactly when the journalist leapt out of his body? What year it was. What decade even.
I told him I needed sleep. Concussion and all.
As soon as he was gone, I reached for my phone. Called my buddy. He works for a TV station. Who would have thunk the TV station would get my story over a fish wrapper?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Another day gone...
The road is the only place I truly feel at home. At least, that’s how it seemed today.
Decided to get in the car and drive somewhere new today. It’d been a long time since that particular activity was accomplished, and that’s a shame. Living in a different place should send one out into the unknown often. Until the unknown is the known, or at least the familiar.
The red shark kind of stopped that from happening at the end. She became too much of a liability and a wild card. Not that that really was a bad thing. The only regret about it is I never took that last journey, and stayed wherever she broke down. But, I guess that’s not entirely true, since she all but broke down here one night on the way back from work, but really, it doesn’t count. At least not to me.
I turned the car east today, deciding to go down U.S. 70 until it ended. Figured there wouldn’t be much out there: 1/ because it’s the middle of nowhere near the ocean, and 2/ I’ve been there before. It was 12 years ago, plus a few months, the last time I ventured out towards that part of the world. At least, I believe that was when it happened.
First stop of the day was just outside of my new town. A friend of a friend, aka, a facebook person, told me to stop at Radio Island. It was just a few miles from my pad, so why not I figured.
I pulled into the place around 1 in the afternoon. It’s right beside some kind of military installation. But not a very important one, looks-wise, and was rather un-inspiring. There were some cars parked in the lot, not too many, so that’s cool. One guy was leaving with his fishing equipment.
When I got there, it kind of resembled the little place from Jaws where folks hung out. Just a little bit. Not much really, but that’s what popped into my mind. It is kind of small in there sometimes.
I turned on the L-pod and started walking. There were a bunch of chicks out there. All in their mid-to-late 20s. Me walking by with my horrible hair blowing in the wind must have been quite a site. I looked up and smiled, got nothing and kept walking. One had one of those ugly barb-wire tats on the arm. Eh, no real loss there.
The next group was another gaggle of chicks. A little older. With two dogs. A redhead girl was quite intoxicating to look at and I found myself probably looking a little too long. They just stood around and watched me as a moseyed on past. Hair flapping in the breeze.
The decision to chop all of my hair off never seemed like a better idea that right at that moment. Why? Because I looked at my shadow and saw how awful it really looks in the breeze. Ha. Idiot.
As I passed the redhead, her little dog growled at me. Guess it’s opinion is made up. Either that or he just doesn’t like comb overs.
I keep walking, enjoying the cool water on my bare feet, but not enjoying having to move around all the fishermen along the rest of the waterway I’m walking down. That and the occasional boat passing by churning up waves along the coast. It’s a nice calm inlet, that gets overcome by them.
Finally, I get into the clear and keep walking. I see some big-ass birds, seagulls from hell, no doubt as they look at me with their hungry eyes. Not Eric Carmen hungry, but just plain I’ll eat your eyeballs out if you let me hungry.
After another two or three minutes I come to a fence. It says “Danger: Use of deadly force authorized.” Well, fuck, that makes me feel right at home on this public beach area.
I sit down and write a little. Whittlin’ might be a better activity the way I’ve been writing lately. Such drivel coming out of my mind and my pen. In fact, I don’t do enough of it. It’s the only way I’ll get out of this damn rut of awfulness.
A friend of a friend of mine, he’s on facebook, but we met before that and sorta got along, just finished his first novel the other day. He’s shown amazing fortitude in getting it done. Started it here in Eastern NC a few years ago. Moved to another pad in ENC, then to Maryland, then back to ENC and now in Charlotte.
But, he kept chugging away. Even while now working at a car wash.
That’s awesome. I need to find that dedication. It can’t be that hard to sit and write and write and write. Just discard the crap.
Well, I guess that’s what I’m doing with this blog, bloggity, blog. Although I have already disappointed myself with skipping days.
I’m only allowed to do so if I’m having fun. Which, a couple of those days that happened. Including the blackout drunken night.
Which I was given a clue about last night, as the redhead from Texas, via Alaska, California, Virginia and New York left me a message on the Facebook. She said I wasn’t “too bad” which means I was an awful mess. I also wanted to touch heads, apparently. Which is better than grabbing her boobs. Maybe? Put your damn cards on the table and see where you stand, right?
Right…
Anyways, I think I’m near 750 words, should I continue. I guess.
I got back to my car just as the second group of gals was leaving. The redhead and I left the parking lot at the same time, and I was behind her for a good 10 miles before she turned. I wonder if she got weirded out by it and just took a turn? I dug that chick, my single serving crush for the day. Of course, when I got home today, a really awesome looking lady walked by with her mom. I ran outside to take a look, she looked at me and then looked away. Story of my life.
Then an hour or so later, I was getting home from the store and saw them again. She looked awfully young this time. Oh well.
Finally, I got driving again. Got tailgated by three white trucks, one with a big 88 Dale Earnhardt Jr. license plate on the front. Yee-haw. I would see him again later too.
At one point on the side of the road, well, in the water was one of those cool house boats. Not the nice, fully furnished with shower and flushing toilets kind, that most likely have cable tv, but instead one that was just a shack on top of a boat.
Someone is living the life in that thing, I thought. Just drifting up and down the waterway, wherever he/she or they want to go. That sounds great. Huck Finn is still a very nice way to think about life. It reminds me of Schulze’s Got the Blues, a great freaking movie. Maybe I’ll watch it tonight. Although I have two new to me movies to watch…Back on target…
I got to see a bunch of cool little towns, Williston, Sea Level and others. Finally arriving at the end of the road in Atlantic. It just ended. No fanfare. Just a bunch of fishing boats. There was a cool looking white rhino that I saw as I was leaving. I now wish I’d taken a snapshot of it. Guess I’ll have to go back.
I was hoping a cool bar would be there at the end. But there wasn’t one. Maybe that’s where I need to open a place…Nah.
Back in the car, it was turned up N.C. 12 next towards the ferry. I recognized it vaguely from the last time I was here. With a girl that time. Laughing and smiling and not paying attention to the scenery much. Just enough to point out things to her. We took that ferry -- all two hours of it -- and kept going up the coast to Nags Head. At great shrimp at a place I’ve looked for every time I’ve been back, but never been able to find. Guess it should be that way. A once in a lifetime stop. You go back, it won’t be the same. So why bother trying…So, the mind blanks out the name of it. Unlike the ice cream place. Which is in an easy-to-find location. And has changed names twice now. A different gal and I went there. They had just built it and opened it. It was a good time too. However, I went back there. And it was completely different than I remembered it being. See what I mean.
After staring at the ferry’s dock, and scribbling some notes and snapping a photo, I decided not to go to the gift shop or the little restaurant/motel that was there.
Instead, I went back home.
Another day gone. But this one wasn’t wasted.
Decided to get in the car and drive somewhere new today. It’d been a long time since that particular activity was accomplished, and that’s a shame. Living in a different place should send one out into the unknown often. Until the unknown is the known, or at least the familiar.
The red shark kind of stopped that from happening at the end. She became too much of a liability and a wild card. Not that that really was a bad thing. The only regret about it is I never took that last journey, and stayed wherever she broke down. But, I guess that’s not entirely true, since she all but broke down here one night on the way back from work, but really, it doesn’t count. At least not to me.
I turned the car east today, deciding to go down U.S. 70 until it ended. Figured there wouldn’t be much out there: 1/ because it’s the middle of nowhere near the ocean, and 2/ I’ve been there before. It was 12 years ago, plus a few months, the last time I ventured out towards that part of the world. At least, I believe that was when it happened.
First stop of the day was just outside of my new town. A friend of a friend, aka, a facebook person, told me to stop at Radio Island. It was just a few miles from my pad, so why not I figured.
I pulled into the place around 1 in the afternoon. It’s right beside some kind of military installation. But not a very important one, looks-wise, and was rather un-inspiring. There were some cars parked in the lot, not too many, so that’s cool. One guy was leaving with his fishing equipment.
When I got there, it kind of resembled the little place from Jaws where folks hung out. Just a little bit. Not much really, but that’s what popped into my mind. It is kind of small in there sometimes.
I turned on the L-pod and started walking. There were a bunch of chicks out there. All in their mid-to-late 20s. Me walking by with my horrible hair blowing in the wind must have been quite a site. I looked up and smiled, got nothing and kept walking. One had one of those ugly barb-wire tats on the arm. Eh, no real loss there.
The next group was another gaggle of chicks. A little older. With two dogs. A redhead girl was quite intoxicating to look at and I found myself probably looking a little too long. They just stood around and watched me as a moseyed on past. Hair flapping in the breeze.
The decision to chop all of my hair off never seemed like a better idea that right at that moment. Why? Because I looked at my shadow and saw how awful it really looks in the breeze. Ha. Idiot.
As I passed the redhead, her little dog growled at me. Guess it’s opinion is made up. Either that or he just doesn’t like comb overs.
I keep walking, enjoying the cool water on my bare feet, but not enjoying having to move around all the fishermen along the rest of the waterway I’m walking down. That and the occasional boat passing by churning up waves along the coast. It’s a nice calm inlet, that gets overcome by them.
Finally, I get into the clear and keep walking. I see some big-ass birds, seagulls from hell, no doubt as they look at me with their hungry eyes. Not Eric Carmen hungry, but just plain I’ll eat your eyeballs out if you let me hungry.
After another two or three minutes I come to a fence. It says “Danger: Use of deadly force authorized.” Well, fuck, that makes me feel right at home on this public beach area.
I sit down and write a little. Whittlin’ might be a better activity the way I’ve been writing lately. Such drivel coming out of my mind and my pen. In fact, I don’t do enough of it. It’s the only way I’ll get out of this damn rut of awfulness.
A friend of a friend of mine, he’s on facebook, but we met before that and sorta got along, just finished his first novel the other day. He’s shown amazing fortitude in getting it done. Started it here in Eastern NC a few years ago. Moved to another pad in ENC, then to Maryland, then back to ENC and now in Charlotte.
But, he kept chugging away. Even while now working at a car wash.
That’s awesome. I need to find that dedication. It can’t be that hard to sit and write and write and write. Just discard the crap.
Well, I guess that’s what I’m doing with this blog, bloggity, blog. Although I have already disappointed myself with skipping days.
I’m only allowed to do so if I’m having fun. Which, a couple of those days that happened. Including the blackout drunken night.
Which I was given a clue about last night, as the redhead from Texas, via Alaska, California, Virginia and New York left me a message on the Facebook. She said I wasn’t “too bad” which means I was an awful mess. I also wanted to touch heads, apparently. Which is better than grabbing her boobs. Maybe? Put your damn cards on the table and see where you stand, right?
Right…
Anyways, I think I’m near 750 words, should I continue. I guess.
I got back to my car just as the second group of gals was leaving. The redhead and I left the parking lot at the same time, and I was behind her for a good 10 miles before she turned. I wonder if she got weirded out by it and just took a turn? I dug that chick, my single serving crush for the day. Of course, when I got home today, a really awesome looking lady walked by with her mom. I ran outside to take a look, she looked at me and then looked away. Story of my life.
Then an hour or so later, I was getting home from the store and saw them again. She looked awfully young this time. Oh well.
Finally, I got driving again. Got tailgated by three white trucks, one with a big 88 Dale Earnhardt Jr. license plate on the front. Yee-haw. I would see him again later too.
At one point on the side of the road, well, in the water was one of those cool house boats. Not the nice, fully furnished with shower and flushing toilets kind, that most likely have cable tv, but instead one that was just a shack on top of a boat.
Someone is living the life in that thing, I thought. Just drifting up and down the waterway, wherever he/she or they want to go. That sounds great. Huck Finn is still a very nice way to think about life. It reminds me of Schulze’s Got the Blues, a great freaking movie. Maybe I’ll watch it tonight. Although I have two new to me movies to watch…Back on target…
I got to see a bunch of cool little towns, Williston, Sea Level and others. Finally arriving at the end of the road in Atlantic. It just ended. No fanfare. Just a bunch of fishing boats. There was a cool looking white rhino that I saw as I was leaving. I now wish I’d taken a snapshot of it. Guess I’ll have to go back.
I was hoping a cool bar would be there at the end. But there wasn’t one. Maybe that’s where I need to open a place…Nah.
Back in the car, it was turned up N.C. 12 next towards the ferry. I recognized it vaguely from the last time I was here. With a girl that time. Laughing and smiling and not paying attention to the scenery much. Just enough to point out things to her. We took that ferry -- all two hours of it -- and kept going up the coast to Nags Head. At great shrimp at a place I’ve looked for every time I’ve been back, but never been able to find. Guess it should be that way. A once in a lifetime stop. You go back, it won’t be the same. So why bother trying…So, the mind blanks out the name of it. Unlike the ice cream place. Which is in an easy-to-find location. And has changed names twice now. A different gal and I went there. They had just built it and opened it. It was a good time too. However, I went back there. And it was completely different than I remembered it being. See what I mean.
After staring at the ferry’s dock, and scribbling some notes and snapping a photo, I decided not to go to the gift shop or the little restaurant/motel that was there.
Instead, I went back home.
Another day gone. But this one wasn’t wasted.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
barstoolery
Shitty beer drives the want to drink right out of oneself.
At least it does for me. I buy shitty beer when I’m especially poor, which is a good and bad idea. One shouldn’t drink at all when you can’t afford it, but when one can’t afford much of anything, shitty beer seems like the best alternative.
Well, going to a library would be better, but it’s Sunday.
Miller High Life is about the shittiest beer I can tolerate now. I have no idea where it stands on the shittiest beer in the world list, but I figure there are plenty below it. Last year sometime I had a sip of a Milwaukee’s Best Ice beer. It was so bad I could only take that one sip before just putting it on a coffee table and leaving it behind.
To think that was how I lived for so many years.
Finding out that beer can taste good was a great thing. I course, I still remember those early days of swilling down Coors Light. Why Coors? Because it was a cool beer at some point. I did grow up watching Smokey and the Bandit, for Christ’s sake…
My first forays into drinking “other” beers came in Arizona, really. I lived with a guy that brewed his own and it stuck. No, I’ve never gotten into the whole making it for myself thing, which is a shame, because I probably would have become obsessed with it at the right time. What do I mean by that? I mean, I would have gotten good at it when micro-brews started to catch on. Maybe I would have actually opened a brewery/bar. There are so many of them now, it’s a bandwagon missed.
But there I go, musing on the unobtainable. Only because it’s a past and present and future that didn’t occur. Even if you could have made it happen. I tend to do that, if you haven’t noticed. (here’s where you silently think to yourself, no shit Randy…)
But guzzling down a cold (it has to be cold) High Life reminds me of how I don’t want to be a degenerate drunk who drinks swill. If I’ve got to go down that path, it’s good beer. Even if good beer to me is the Shiner Family. Which, many folk hate. It does taste a little like laundry detergent. Huh. There I go, analyzing things again. What the fuck do you mean analyzing, Randy? That was a statement of fact. Well, Emily introduced me to it again. And I only drank it for a bit. It was the only beer she would drink. Well, that and fucking Michelob Ultra. But all chicks will drink that. Even the ones who say they won’t…
But I usually forget the origins of Shiner in my palette. A good thing, no doubt. But as I’m wont to do, I remind myself.
That’s why I wish I could get Lone Star beer here. It would satisfy my obsession with Texas and deliver a buzz without a single piece of that redheaded bitch attached to it.
Redheaded bitch? Damn, Randy, have you been drinking a lot?
No, I haven’t actually. I’ve had half a beer after a stroll on the beach. I said hello to about 20 people. One chick say hi back. The same chick who always does, from her porch. Although she was with the beater guy today. It’s funny. I know these people by their behavior. I assume they do the same. “There’s that loner dude. He does seem polite, though…”
I don’t go to the beach enough. I also don’t go to the local pub enough. It’s right there. Full of other wasted opportunities and lost ambitions. But, I guess that means it’s all well and good that I don’t end up there. Or is it? I mean, I could meet a beautiful woman there. Well, most likely just a woman. But maybe one to test the “fup, fup” theory of life. However, I go into the bar with no money, it’s likely I come out of it without a buzz or a fup.
It’s times like this I wish I was still in Richmond. At least there, I had a partner in barstoolery. A word that I just had to add to the Microsoft dictionary to get it to stop changing it.
I haven’t had the urge to drink since my debacle in Raleigh. I still haven’t mustered up the courage to just ask what I said. Yep, big pussy. Or more like the Fast Times version -- Big Hairy Pussy. Of course, Phoebe Cates never walks in on me when I’m beating off.
The smell of garbage just wafted in from outside. The bar across the street must have served some food yesterday. The dumpster is overfilled and sending whatever rotting carcass smell into the air that it wants. Great, that means flies will be in abundance tomorrow. No opening up the doors to get a breeze.
Speaking of no air conditioning. Woke up today, it was 76 degrees inside my house. I was freakin’ chilly. Greatness, that is.
At least it does for me. I buy shitty beer when I’m especially poor, which is a good and bad idea. One shouldn’t drink at all when you can’t afford it, but when one can’t afford much of anything, shitty beer seems like the best alternative.
Well, going to a library would be better, but it’s Sunday.
Miller High Life is about the shittiest beer I can tolerate now. I have no idea where it stands on the shittiest beer in the world list, but I figure there are plenty below it. Last year sometime I had a sip of a Milwaukee’s Best Ice beer. It was so bad I could only take that one sip before just putting it on a coffee table and leaving it behind.
To think that was how I lived for so many years.
Finding out that beer can taste good was a great thing. I course, I still remember those early days of swilling down Coors Light. Why Coors? Because it was a cool beer at some point. I did grow up watching Smokey and the Bandit, for Christ’s sake…
My first forays into drinking “other” beers came in Arizona, really. I lived with a guy that brewed his own and it stuck. No, I’ve never gotten into the whole making it for myself thing, which is a shame, because I probably would have become obsessed with it at the right time. What do I mean by that? I mean, I would have gotten good at it when micro-brews started to catch on. Maybe I would have actually opened a brewery/bar. There are so many of them now, it’s a bandwagon missed.
But there I go, musing on the unobtainable. Only because it’s a past and present and future that didn’t occur. Even if you could have made it happen. I tend to do that, if you haven’t noticed. (here’s where you silently think to yourself, no shit Randy…)
But guzzling down a cold (it has to be cold) High Life reminds me of how I don’t want to be a degenerate drunk who drinks swill. If I’ve got to go down that path, it’s good beer. Even if good beer to me is the Shiner Family. Which, many folk hate. It does taste a little like laundry detergent. Huh. There I go, analyzing things again. What the fuck do you mean analyzing, Randy? That was a statement of fact. Well, Emily introduced me to it again. And I only drank it for a bit. It was the only beer she would drink. Well, that and fucking Michelob Ultra. But all chicks will drink that. Even the ones who say they won’t…
But I usually forget the origins of Shiner in my palette. A good thing, no doubt. But as I’m wont to do, I remind myself.
That’s why I wish I could get Lone Star beer here. It would satisfy my obsession with Texas and deliver a buzz without a single piece of that redheaded bitch attached to it.
Redheaded bitch? Damn, Randy, have you been drinking a lot?
No, I haven’t actually. I’ve had half a beer after a stroll on the beach. I said hello to about 20 people. One chick say hi back. The same chick who always does, from her porch. Although she was with the beater guy today. It’s funny. I know these people by their behavior. I assume they do the same. “There’s that loner dude. He does seem polite, though…”
I don’t go to the beach enough. I also don’t go to the local pub enough. It’s right there. Full of other wasted opportunities and lost ambitions. But, I guess that means it’s all well and good that I don’t end up there. Or is it? I mean, I could meet a beautiful woman there. Well, most likely just a woman. But maybe one to test the “fup, fup” theory of life. However, I go into the bar with no money, it’s likely I come out of it without a buzz or a fup.
It’s times like this I wish I was still in Richmond. At least there, I had a partner in barstoolery. A word that I just had to add to the Microsoft dictionary to get it to stop changing it.
I haven’t had the urge to drink since my debacle in Raleigh. I still haven’t mustered up the courage to just ask what I said. Yep, big pussy. Or more like the Fast Times version -- Big Hairy Pussy. Of course, Phoebe Cates never walks in on me when I’m beating off.
The smell of garbage just wafted in from outside. The bar across the street must have served some food yesterday. The dumpster is overfilled and sending whatever rotting carcass smell into the air that it wants. Great, that means flies will be in abundance tomorrow. No opening up the doors to get a breeze.
Speaking of no air conditioning. Woke up today, it was 76 degrees inside my house. I was freakin’ chilly. Greatness, that is.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Anchor's Away...
Sitting here on my couch, looking out the same door I’ve now looked out almost every night since I moved to the beach over five months ago, something is missing.
I know what it is. And I shouldn’t be sad. But obviously, I am.
A little part of my past disappeared today. In a very good way. It’s me, however, so I’m a bit melancholy.
I sold the Red Shark. To a Marine. With a wife and kid. He called me early in the week. Luckily, I was able to get to my voicemail on the phone that I broke in a drunken haze last Thursday. The night, I most like lost a friend. I don’t know if I could call her a good friend. We had a lot in common. In too many ways, I figure.
Superficial things ended up mattering, I guess.
That car drove me through the end of the best time of my life. It steered me through the complete worst part of my life. And then died during the dullest part of it. Fitting? Maybe not, but that really doesn’t fucking matter.
For $300 that car is no longer there. It’s not killing the grass out front of my house. It’s not a potential accident for every drunken cougar that pours out of that shitty dance club across the street. Of course, the amusement factor of watching drunks in their $90,000 cars doing everything they could to not slam into my $300 car every night will be missed. The mailbox is still there, though, and it’s a whole hell of a lot harder to see in a drunken Ira Hayes haze.
Back to the non-finned shark. Mike D. named her that way back in the SJ days. Sitting out in the parking lot, wishing we were all somewhere else, or having a different boss, and possibly seeing the right person finally getting shit-canned. It’s funny how you look back at times where you were miserable then, and love every second of it. Miss it even.
That car came to symbolize a lot of shit. A lot of pain. More than I’d ever like to face again. But, most likely, will have to.
And now it’s gone.
Good riddance, I say.
My ex gave me that car. I flew down to Florida for the last time that I would. For Thanksgiving. My Celica, whose name was Carla, was wobbling on the last legs of a bad transmission replacement. Heck, the shitty replacement lasted over 99K, so it must not have been that bad. But anyway.
The arrangement was to take the Shark. Not called the Shark then, instead, it was Uncle Larry’s car. He bought it for $24,999 in cash. The receipt still in the car as the Marine drove it away while I was at work this afternoon.
Heck, the transmission slipped a little then.
It seemed like a great thing. “I’ll be able to visit more often, now that I have a decent car. And so do you!” was what I said.
She said “love isn’t enough.”
Ha. I scoffed at such talk. “Of course it is, you just have to believe it.”
Of course, now I know, she was right. Well, we both are, I think.
Love isn’t enough.
Unless you believe in it. Unless you give yourself up to it. No matter what it ends up doing to you.
Some people never get their heart broken. They meet a guy/gal, fall in love, get married and never look back. Never get their heart ripped out. Or stabbed by a rusty screwdriver.
Me, I’ve been down the road. And I don’t regret it. I still cry too much over it. It’s been over 5 years now. Almost as long as the relationship itself.
There are good days. There are horrible days. At first, the horrible days outnumbered the good days 10 to 1.
Now? The good days and bad days are about even. But it’s not because of her anymore. It’s because of me.
But that car is gone. The last real reminder of her. Yeah, there are other little things, but not ones that literally weigh a ton. Heck, half of that damn car wasn’t even around when she was. New muffler. New tires. New windshield. New wipers. New radiator. New alternator. New timing belt. Although that stain of bar-b-que sauce was still there. All these years later. Threw a book on top of a McDonald’s pack one day. Then it sat under it for over a week before I sat in the passenger seat and noticed it.
I wonder if she ever did? If not, it’s just a memory. Not a shared one. Not like they matter. To her, anyway.
An anchor it was. And now she’s gone.
And I still never had sex in it. Despite promises.
But we all know about promises made vs. promises kept.
I know what it is. And I shouldn’t be sad. But obviously, I am.
A little part of my past disappeared today. In a very good way. It’s me, however, so I’m a bit melancholy.
I sold the Red Shark. To a Marine. With a wife and kid. He called me early in the week. Luckily, I was able to get to my voicemail on the phone that I broke in a drunken haze last Thursday. The night, I most like lost a friend. I don’t know if I could call her a good friend. We had a lot in common. In too many ways, I figure.
Superficial things ended up mattering, I guess.
That car drove me through the end of the best time of my life. It steered me through the complete worst part of my life. And then died during the dullest part of it. Fitting? Maybe not, but that really doesn’t fucking matter.
For $300 that car is no longer there. It’s not killing the grass out front of my house. It’s not a potential accident for every drunken cougar that pours out of that shitty dance club across the street. Of course, the amusement factor of watching drunks in their $90,000 cars doing everything they could to not slam into my $300 car every night will be missed. The mailbox is still there, though, and it’s a whole hell of a lot harder to see in a drunken Ira Hayes haze.
Back to the non-finned shark. Mike D. named her that way back in the SJ days. Sitting out in the parking lot, wishing we were all somewhere else, or having a different boss, and possibly seeing the right person finally getting shit-canned. It’s funny how you look back at times where you were miserable then, and love every second of it. Miss it even.
That car came to symbolize a lot of shit. A lot of pain. More than I’d ever like to face again. But, most likely, will have to.
And now it’s gone.
Good riddance, I say.
My ex gave me that car. I flew down to Florida for the last time that I would. For Thanksgiving. My Celica, whose name was Carla, was wobbling on the last legs of a bad transmission replacement. Heck, the shitty replacement lasted over 99K, so it must not have been that bad. But anyway.
The arrangement was to take the Shark. Not called the Shark then, instead, it was Uncle Larry’s car. He bought it for $24,999 in cash. The receipt still in the car as the Marine drove it away while I was at work this afternoon.
Heck, the transmission slipped a little then.
It seemed like a great thing. “I’ll be able to visit more often, now that I have a decent car. And so do you!” was what I said.
She said “love isn’t enough.”
Ha. I scoffed at such talk. “Of course it is, you just have to believe it.”
Of course, now I know, she was right. Well, we both are, I think.
Love isn’t enough.
Unless you believe in it. Unless you give yourself up to it. No matter what it ends up doing to you.
Some people never get their heart broken. They meet a guy/gal, fall in love, get married and never look back. Never get their heart ripped out. Or stabbed by a rusty screwdriver.
Me, I’ve been down the road. And I don’t regret it. I still cry too much over it. It’s been over 5 years now. Almost as long as the relationship itself.
There are good days. There are horrible days. At first, the horrible days outnumbered the good days 10 to 1.
Now? The good days and bad days are about even. But it’s not because of her anymore. It’s because of me.
But that car is gone. The last real reminder of her. Yeah, there are other little things, but not ones that literally weigh a ton. Heck, half of that damn car wasn’t even around when she was. New muffler. New tires. New windshield. New wipers. New radiator. New alternator. New timing belt. Although that stain of bar-b-que sauce was still there. All these years later. Threw a book on top of a McDonald’s pack one day. Then it sat under it for over a week before I sat in the passenger seat and noticed it.
I wonder if she ever did? If not, it’s just a memory. Not a shared one. Not like they matter. To her, anyway.
An anchor it was. And now she’s gone.
And I still never had sex in it. Despite promises.
But we all know about promises made vs. promises kept.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
the excuse hole
Woke up this morning feeling kinda here.
Then The Replacements popped into my ear.
All I wanna do is drink beer for breakfast,
All I wanna do is eat them barbeque chips.
I guess that’s a good sign for the day?
After the realization of what happened last night hit me, I opened up my eyes. She wasn’t there.
Hook ups I usually leave for washers and driers. The emotional connection I usually make takes its toll when the feeling isn’t there in the morning. Used up and tossed away.
A friend of mine called me a pussy last night. How true is that? The ability to fuck and run is in there, it creeps out every so often. But sometimes it’s just the ability to fuck. The run part doesn’t happen. Even when it should.
But hell, it’s been over two years since I even got a taste of anything remotely characterized by swapping bodily fluids, so I guess I should be happy, right? I don’t have enough money to date anyone, so the prospect of that happening being zero, is a good thing…
I glance about the floor to see if I was stupid or smart. Panic sets in for a moment until I step on it. “Ok, at least my dick isn’t going to fall off,” dances through my mind. The only thing good about being a pussy is usually you don’t have to wear a condom. You end up in a relationship and the pill gets introduced, or some other kind of baby stopper is employed. Because really, condoms suck.
I head to the kitchen. The fridge is empty as usual. There is a half eaten carton of eggs in there, but I just don’t feel like cooking them. You know you’re lazy when cracking an egg and stirring is too much effort. No cereal. No pop tarts. Just peanuts and crackers. What a life I lead. The life if leisure? Sure. But the wrong kind. Except for last night. I wonder…
There’s this constant awful noise outside of my window. I crack the blinds to get a glance at what monstrosity is making me wish I was in bed again. It’s a beer truck, parked with the engine churning outside the shag club across from my house. I used to get a kick out of watching the 50s and 60s hit the bar scene to dance the night away. But now it bores me to do so. Mostly, I believe, because I can’t afford the cerveza to imbibe while doing such a silly endeavor. That, or I feel like I’m too damn close to being in that age bracket.
The prospect of working today is pretty gloomy. I want to be able to get up in the morning, grab a bottle of whiskey and a short glass and write. That would be nice. Instead, I get up in the morning, check my Facebook status and debate whether or not today is the day I should shave. Lately, I’m down to shaving twice a week. Once early, and once if I happen to go out on Saturday. Otherwise its bum city. And as the Big Lebowski told me once “the bums will always lose!” So, I guess I’m a loser baby.
I also hate my job once I get there. It’s just a paycheck, I try to tell myself. But, when every penny goes to paying the bills of a misspent existence or as I’ve now labeled it “a casualty of a mismanaged existence…” Someone said to me the other day “that’s why I like you, you’re so original and witty.” My response?
“Nah, not really. I stole that from The New York Times.”
At least I still give credit where it’s due. Maybe that’s a weakness too? Just steal, steal, steal and no one will know. Well, 99 percent of the folks won’t know. It’s that 1 percent that you have to watch out for. And hopefully fall in love with.
Another weakness, the ever-long quest for the unobtainable. You’ve already had your brushes with smart, funny, beautiful women. And you fucked those up. So, you went for a not-so-smart, great-in-bed version, and she fucked you up.
I just don’t want to settle. That’s always been my only requirement. And I know within the first 5 minutes if I’d be settling or not. It’s why I hate it when I know within 5 minutes that she’d be settling. Which, of late, has come up an awful lot more.
“Don’t fucking hate on yourself so much,” the gallery exclaims.
Well, when the lady finds out you’ve got a pretty bleak future, filled with rising bills and falling teeth, they tend to scatter.
Fucking pessimist. Go back to your hole.
Yeah, it does feel a little bit like the fiddler crabs running around on the beach. They stay in their holes too much, and when they come out, they go crazy. Only to quickly go back into the hole.
Get the fuck out of the hole.
The hole is this place. The hole is my mind. The hole is not home, it’s an excuse.
Then The Replacements popped into my ear.
All I wanna do is drink beer for breakfast,
All I wanna do is eat them barbeque chips.
I guess that’s a good sign for the day?
After the realization of what happened last night hit me, I opened up my eyes. She wasn’t there.
Hook ups I usually leave for washers and driers. The emotional connection I usually make takes its toll when the feeling isn’t there in the morning. Used up and tossed away.
A friend of mine called me a pussy last night. How true is that? The ability to fuck and run is in there, it creeps out every so often. But sometimes it’s just the ability to fuck. The run part doesn’t happen. Even when it should.
But hell, it’s been over two years since I even got a taste of anything remotely characterized by swapping bodily fluids, so I guess I should be happy, right? I don’t have enough money to date anyone, so the prospect of that happening being zero, is a good thing…
I glance about the floor to see if I was stupid or smart. Panic sets in for a moment until I step on it. “Ok, at least my dick isn’t going to fall off,” dances through my mind. The only thing good about being a pussy is usually you don’t have to wear a condom. You end up in a relationship and the pill gets introduced, or some other kind of baby stopper is employed. Because really, condoms suck.
I head to the kitchen. The fridge is empty as usual. There is a half eaten carton of eggs in there, but I just don’t feel like cooking them. You know you’re lazy when cracking an egg and stirring is too much effort. No cereal. No pop tarts. Just peanuts and crackers. What a life I lead. The life if leisure? Sure. But the wrong kind. Except for last night. I wonder…
There’s this constant awful noise outside of my window. I crack the blinds to get a glance at what monstrosity is making me wish I was in bed again. It’s a beer truck, parked with the engine churning outside the shag club across from my house. I used to get a kick out of watching the 50s and 60s hit the bar scene to dance the night away. But now it bores me to do so. Mostly, I believe, because I can’t afford the cerveza to imbibe while doing such a silly endeavor. That, or I feel like I’m too damn close to being in that age bracket.
The prospect of working today is pretty gloomy. I want to be able to get up in the morning, grab a bottle of whiskey and a short glass and write. That would be nice. Instead, I get up in the morning, check my Facebook status and debate whether or not today is the day I should shave. Lately, I’m down to shaving twice a week. Once early, and once if I happen to go out on Saturday. Otherwise its bum city. And as the Big Lebowski told me once “the bums will always lose!” So, I guess I’m a loser baby.
I also hate my job once I get there. It’s just a paycheck, I try to tell myself. But, when every penny goes to paying the bills of a misspent existence or as I’ve now labeled it “a casualty of a mismanaged existence…” Someone said to me the other day “that’s why I like you, you’re so original and witty.” My response?
“Nah, not really. I stole that from The New York Times.”
At least I still give credit where it’s due. Maybe that’s a weakness too? Just steal, steal, steal and no one will know. Well, 99 percent of the folks won’t know. It’s that 1 percent that you have to watch out for. And hopefully fall in love with.
Another weakness, the ever-long quest for the unobtainable. You’ve already had your brushes with smart, funny, beautiful women. And you fucked those up. So, you went for a not-so-smart, great-in-bed version, and she fucked you up.
I just don’t want to settle. That’s always been my only requirement. And I know within the first 5 minutes if I’d be settling or not. It’s why I hate it when I know within 5 minutes that she’d be settling. Which, of late, has come up an awful lot more.
“Don’t fucking hate on yourself so much,” the gallery exclaims.
Well, when the lady finds out you’ve got a pretty bleak future, filled with rising bills and falling teeth, they tend to scatter.
Fucking pessimist. Go back to your hole.
Yeah, it does feel a little bit like the fiddler crabs running around on the beach. They stay in their holes too much, and when they come out, they go crazy. Only to quickly go back into the hole.
Get the fuck out of the hole.
The hole is this place. The hole is my mind. The hole is not home, it’s an excuse.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Rogers and Hammerstein
Chapter 2: She Wants
“I Ain’t Going to the Bar Tonight…No, I’m not going to the bar tonight….”
Not exactly the theme song for this place that I would have picked, but it fits. No one is coming to the bar tonight.
“Stop being a fucking pessimist,” she says. I still don’t know why I only call her she. She calls me Want, I call her She. Guess it fits.
“It’s reality, honey,” I say taking a quick swig of Shiner. “There’s no one fucking here.”
“It’s 9:45 in the morning, you asshole. And this shitbox just opened after it being closed down for seven damn years. Did you tell anyone to be here?”
“Yeah, I told a couple of folks, most of don’t live here, though.”
“You don’t want to succeed do you? Just like with women, you fall in love, then you push ‘em away. I’ve known you for, what, six months? And I have that part of you figured out.”
I think back six months ago, damn, to the day even. I hate that I’m good with anniversaries. She walked by the bar wearing a Husker Du shirt and Umbro shorts. I didn’t even know they made them that short anymore. She looked at me, trying to sand some wood on the porch.
“Why are you building a porch for the bar?” she asked.
“Have you ever seen Tarantino’s Death Proof? I want this place to be like the bar in that movie. All the way down to the jukebox…” I said looking up through my sweat.
“What about Stuntman Mike?” she replied.
“Sure, he’ll be here too…”
“If you want it, make it so,” she said walking away.
“What’s your name?” I yelled out, kind of desperately.
“Later,” she laughed.
Yeah, that was a good day. Two nights later she’d come back again. Ended up hanging out on the finished porch -- the inside was still too much of a wreck, drinking Shiners and listening to T. Rex. That went on for four months.
Then, I met Sid. Her ex-boyfriend. Well, now he’s her ex. Then, he wasn’t yet.
It was December 22nd. The night before I was going to get in my beat up Hyundai and drive the 15 hours to my parents’ house for Christmas. I’d asked She if she wanted to go with, being that she didn’t have any family that she cared to hang out with and all. She said she’d tell me later.
Well, here it was an hour before I was leaving, and I had no answer. So, I called her up. No answer.
Her apartment was near enough to I-10 that I figured I’d just stop by. I did. Big mistake. Or not. It’s all about perspective.
I got out of my car, walked up to her front stoop and knocked on the door. She lived at house number 237. That made me chuckle. I hear some commotion inside. She has two big dogs -- one a lab, the other a mutt -- but it’s not them as I see both Rogers and Hammerstein in the back yard looking at me. I notice they each have this forlorned look in their eyes. I’m good at noticing signs, days later.
“What the fuck do you want?” comes a yell from the front door in a voice I don’t recognize at the moment, but will soon come to know as Sidney’s voice. Damn, that’s the name I always wanted to give my dog. The dog I was going to get in a few weeks when I finally open my bar.
“Ummm, is She here?” I spit out nervously, forgetting that this fucktard isn’t going to know who She is.
“Natalie! Some shit bird is out here, asking for She. That’s got to be you, isn’t it? Fucking whore.” And he slams the door in my face.
Two minutes later, She comes to the door.
“I’m sorry,” She says. “I should have told you.”
“Yeah, might’ve been a good idea.”
I went home, had a miserable Christmas. But that’s par for the course. Invited my family all to come to the grand opening of my bar in a few weeks. They laughed. Isn’t that strange reaction, I thought for a second, then remembered this is my family.
The drive back to the dirty city isn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be. I just put on Lucero and sing at the top of my lungs the entire time. If I’d had a bottle of whiskey, probably would have drank it too. And then ended up pulling off the side of the road to sleep somewhere.
By the time I pull into my driveway, my throat doesn’t work anymore. Neither does my voice.
On cue, my phone rings.
“Hello,” I meekly say into the old flip phone. I won it on e-bay to replace the phone I broke back in 2010. Ironically, because of a redhead. Old habits die hard.
“Hey, it’s me,” she says.
“What’s up,” is all I can muster.
“We need to talk. He kicked me out. We’re not together anymore.”
“I have a feeling this has happened before.”
“Stop being an asshole. I’ve been in my car the last four days. Couldn’t face going anywhere else.”
“Where are you?”
“About six cars down from you, Want.”
When you put that pet name at the end of certain sentences, it can fuck with your mind. I think that’s why she does it.
“Ok, come on in…”
“I Ain’t Going to the Bar Tonight…No, I’m not going to the bar tonight….”
Not exactly the theme song for this place that I would have picked, but it fits. No one is coming to the bar tonight.
“Stop being a fucking pessimist,” she says. I still don’t know why I only call her she. She calls me Want, I call her She. Guess it fits.
“It’s reality, honey,” I say taking a quick swig of Shiner. “There’s no one fucking here.”
“It’s 9:45 in the morning, you asshole. And this shitbox just opened after it being closed down for seven damn years. Did you tell anyone to be here?”
“Yeah, I told a couple of folks, most of don’t live here, though.”
“You don’t want to succeed do you? Just like with women, you fall in love, then you push ‘em away. I’ve known you for, what, six months? And I have that part of you figured out.”
I think back six months ago, damn, to the day even. I hate that I’m good with anniversaries. She walked by the bar wearing a Husker Du shirt and Umbro shorts. I didn’t even know they made them that short anymore. She looked at me, trying to sand some wood on the porch.
“Why are you building a porch for the bar?” she asked.
“Have you ever seen Tarantino’s Death Proof? I want this place to be like the bar in that movie. All the way down to the jukebox…” I said looking up through my sweat.
“What about Stuntman Mike?” she replied.
“Sure, he’ll be here too…”
“If you want it, make it so,” she said walking away.
“What’s your name?” I yelled out, kind of desperately.
“Later,” she laughed.
Yeah, that was a good day. Two nights later she’d come back again. Ended up hanging out on the finished porch -- the inside was still too much of a wreck, drinking Shiners and listening to T. Rex. That went on for four months.
Then, I met Sid. Her ex-boyfriend. Well, now he’s her ex. Then, he wasn’t yet.
It was December 22nd. The night before I was going to get in my beat up Hyundai and drive the 15 hours to my parents’ house for Christmas. I’d asked She if she wanted to go with, being that she didn’t have any family that she cared to hang out with and all. She said she’d tell me later.
Well, here it was an hour before I was leaving, and I had no answer. So, I called her up. No answer.
Her apartment was near enough to I-10 that I figured I’d just stop by. I did. Big mistake. Or not. It’s all about perspective.
I got out of my car, walked up to her front stoop and knocked on the door. She lived at house number 237. That made me chuckle. I hear some commotion inside. She has two big dogs -- one a lab, the other a mutt -- but it’s not them as I see both Rogers and Hammerstein in the back yard looking at me. I notice they each have this forlorned look in their eyes. I’m good at noticing signs, days later.
“What the fuck do you want?” comes a yell from the front door in a voice I don’t recognize at the moment, but will soon come to know as Sidney’s voice. Damn, that’s the name I always wanted to give my dog. The dog I was going to get in a few weeks when I finally open my bar.
“Ummm, is She here?” I spit out nervously, forgetting that this fucktard isn’t going to know who She is.
“Natalie! Some shit bird is out here, asking for She. That’s got to be you, isn’t it? Fucking whore.” And he slams the door in my face.
Two minutes later, She comes to the door.
“I’m sorry,” She says. “I should have told you.”
“Yeah, might’ve been a good idea.”
I went home, had a miserable Christmas. But that’s par for the course. Invited my family all to come to the grand opening of my bar in a few weeks. They laughed. Isn’t that strange reaction, I thought for a second, then remembered this is my family.
The drive back to the dirty city isn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be. I just put on Lucero and sing at the top of my lungs the entire time. If I’d had a bottle of whiskey, probably would have drank it too. And then ended up pulling off the side of the road to sleep somewhere.
By the time I pull into my driveway, my throat doesn’t work anymore. Neither does my voice.
On cue, my phone rings.
“Hello,” I meekly say into the old flip phone. I won it on e-bay to replace the phone I broke back in 2010. Ironically, because of a redhead. Old habits die hard.
“Hey, it’s me,” she says.
“What’s up,” is all I can muster.
“We need to talk. He kicked me out. We’re not together anymore.”
“I have a feeling this has happened before.”
“Stop being an asshole. I’ve been in my car the last four days. Couldn’t face going anywhere else.”
“Where are you?”
“About six cars down from you, Want.”
When you put that pet name at the end of certain sentences, it can fuck with your mind. I think that’s why she does it.
“Ok, come on in…”
Monday, September 13, 2010
Paper towels and ice cubes
Chapter 1: Opening night
Should I be surprised no one is here?
No. Not really. I spent every dime I had just getting the place suitable for folks to come and drink till they were gone.
Instead, they never came. Maybe an ad in the newspaper wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. Or at least some fliers for the kids in the streets to hand out between con games and coin tosses. Yeah, because kids still play that shit. Just like Steve McQueen in the “Cincinnati Kid”, one of the best freaking movies shot in this town. And don’t give me any of that Nic Cage in Bad Lieutenant bull either. The original kicked its ass, even though it wasn’t in the city.
I look around the place. It’s dark. Kind of muddy looking. Exactly what I wanted from the place when I lucked into buying it a year and a half ago. Then, it was just a mold-filled remnant of the storm. Left to rot like so much else. My job wasn’t to save this place. Instead, it was to save myself.
My list of folks I expected to show up read a lot less like the list I expected to show up for my 40th birthday here. I was still living in North Carolina at the time. Sent out invitations and all. Who the fuck does that for their own birthday? Someone who desperately needs his friends to show some love, that’s who.
You spend enough time alone inside your mind, it works on ya. Just like being a POW in Vietnam or Korea would do. Or in solitude in prison. Why the fuck do you think it’s done? To fuck with the mind, that’s why. And if you do it to yourself, damn there must really be something wrong in there.
I can’t remember the last time I really felt a part of something. Yeah, newsrooms always did the job. But that’s exactly what it was -- a job. And most people have the ability to separate the two things. For me, the job was the life. Even in the beginning, in school. I had roommates that sat around smoking’ dope and sniffin’ God knows what up their noses. I once sat in the room with one of them while he smoked a spliff. Or what I thought was just a spliff. Three days later, I’m still awake.
“Hey, man, hope you didn’t mind me smoking angel dust the other day,” Kurt said as he was finally taking a shower after a week.
“Fuck.” was all I really remember thinking.
That’s when I realized I wanted to get out of there. I liked them, and dug the parties and hanging out that happened. And the late night Filberto’s runs for a carne asada plate. But, after that, I really started hanging out at work, all the freaking time. So much so, I put myself in more debt staying in school to stay at the job. To this day, that student loan haunts me. But, it’ll die with me.
Stuff:
About the only thing he’d approve of is having Waylon Jennings’ Greatest Hits album on the jukebox.
I haven’t seen a Mexican girl here since 2009.
She walked in, then went straight to the jukebox, put in a quarter and played David Watts like she knew the opportunity was going to be there. Then, she ordered a Lone Star. I might like this gal.
“You know, I’ve never tried crystal meth before,” I said. “I have had Crystal before. And it left quite a bitter taste. But taught me a damn good lesson about myself.”
Killing cockroaches with a 3-iron is fun, but I won’t make your neighbors think much of you.
“Pork chops soaked in Teriayki sauce. Not bad, honey.” That was the last complement she gave me.
John Gruden may be this generation’s Brent Musburger. He’s that bad.
“You’re a writer? What do you write about?” he said with a swirl of PBR on his chin.
“You,” I said.
The next thing I remember was Daphne from Scooby Doo’s voice. Then, a paper towel filled with ice on my lip.
“That was stupid,” she said.
“Nah,” I replied as the ice broke through the paper towel. “PUtting ice in a paper towel. That’s stupid.”
She laughed and gave me a fresh Shiner. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad after all.
“I’ll write about you now,” I said.
“Why? I’ve got nothing interesting,” she said with a wink.
“Probably right, but hey, the night is young and your ex may show up.”
“That was my ex.”
Should I be surprised no one is here?
No. Not really. I spent every dime I had just getting the place suitable for folks to come and drink till they were gone.
Instead, they never came. Maybe an ad in the newspaper wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. Or at least some fliers for the kids in the streets to hand out between con games and coin tosses. Yeah, because kids still play that shit. Just like Steve McQueen in the “Cincinnati Kid”, one of the best freaking movies shot in this town. And don’t give me any of that Nic Cage in Bad Lieutenant bull either. The original kicked its ass, even though it wasn’t in the city.
I look around the place. It’s dark. Kind of muddy looking. Exactly what I wanted from the place when I lucked into buying it a year and a half ago. Then, it was just a mold-filled remnant of the storm. Left to rot like so much else. My job wasn’t to save this place. Instead, it was to save myself.
My list of folks I expected to show up read a lot less like the list I expected to show up for my 40th birthday here. I was still living in North Carolina at the time. Sent out invitations and all. Who the fuck does that for their own birthday? Someone who desperately needs his friends to show some love, that’s who.
You spend enough time alone inside your mind, it works on ya. Just like being a POW in Vietnam or Korea would do. Or in solitude in prison. Why the fuck do you think it’s done? To fuck with the mind, that’s why. And if you do it to yourself, damn there must really be something wrong in there.
I can’t remember the last time I really felt a part of something. Yeah, newsrooms always did the job. But that’s exactly what it was -- a job. And most people have the ability to separate the two things. For me, the job was the life. Even in the beginning, in school. I had roommates that sat around smoking’ dope and sniffin’ God knows what up their noses. I once sat in the room with one of them while he smoked a spliff. Or what I thought was just a spliff. Three days later, I’m still awake.
“Hey, man, hope you didn’t mind me smoking angel dust the other day,” Kurt said as he was finally taking a shower after a week.
“Fuck.” was all I really remember thinking.
That’s when I realized I wanted to get out of there. I liked them, and dug the parties and hanging out that happened. And the late night Filberto’s runs for a carne asada plate. But, after that, I really started hanging out at work, all the freaking time. So much so, I put myself in more debt staying in school to stay at the job. To this day, that student loan haunts me. But, it’ll die with me.
Stuff:
About the only thing he’d approve of is having Waylon Jennings’ Greatest Hits album on the jukebox.
I haven’t seen a Mexican girl here since 2009.
She walked in, then went straight to the jukebox, put in a quarter and played David Watts like she knew the opportunity was going to be there. Then, she ordered a Lone Star. I might like this gal.
“You know, I’ve never tried crystal meth before,” I said. “I have had Crystal before. And it left quite a bitter taste. But taught me a damn good lesson about myself.”
Killing cockroaches with a 3-iron is fun, but I won’t make your neighbors think much of you.
“Pork chops soaked in Teriayki sauce. Not bad, honey.” That was the last complement she gave me.
John Gruden may be this generation’s Brent Musburger. He’s that bad.
“You’re a writer? What do you write about?” he said with a swirl of PBR on his chin.
“You,” I said.
The next thing I remember was Daphne from Scooby Doo’s voice. Then, a paper towel filled with ice on my lip.
“That was stupid,” she said.
“Nah,” I replied as the ice broke through the paper towel. “PUtting ice in a paper towel. That’s stupid.”
She laughed and gave me a fresh Shiner. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad after all.
“I’ll write about you now,” I said.
“Why? I’ve got nothing interesting,” she said with a wink.
“Probably right, but hey, the night is young and your ex may show up.”
“That was my ex.”
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Behind the curtain
Woke up this morning, and I could think about was her. And then my mind started to do stupid things. Not like this is a rare occurrence or anything, but it bothers me. For over an hour my mind kept doing the same damn thing over and over. Of course, I’m sitting there thinking I should just type all of what I’m thinking. Or at least grab a notepad and write it down. It’s not healthy. But it’s also not healthy to avoid it. So, I kept thinking about it. Over and over until it drove me to actually get out of bed and face it.
I miss her.
I miss you.
I miss being with you.
I miss seeing you.
I miss driving places with you, or to get to you.
I miss your voice, a voice I can’t hear anymore. The cliché of not remembering the sound of someone’s voice certainly is a cliché for a reason.
I miss waking up next to you. Or the anticipation of knowing I’ll be doing that soon.
I miss eating at chain restaurants with you.
I miss debating.
I miss your kisses.
I miss making white Russians and staring at the world.
I miss pulling out my record player on to the porch and listening to Frank and Deano.
I miss fretting over you during hurricanes.
I miss carving pumpkins on Halloween.
I miss listening to music and not having it remind me of you.
I miss not drinking.
I miss being happy.
I miss looking forward to the future.
I miss feeling like I was in control.
I miss arguing in the streets.
I miss long talks about death.
I miss your fingernails, digging.
I miss you painting my toenails, and my dad thinking I’m gay because of it.
I miss hoping for a phone call from you.
I miss writing about things that don’t somehow end up being about you.
I miss planning.
I miss dreaming.
I miss feeling.
I miss everything.
I miss your breath next to mine.
I miss the warmth of the bed when I got home from work at 2 in the morning.
I miss having something to look forward to when I am driving home from work.
I miss endlessly trying to find a job where you are, and failing, but still trying.
I miss days when sadness was the furthest from my mind.
I miss hope.
I miss your music.
I miss your smell.
I miss the cucumber body wash.
I miss being loved.
I miss someone calling me.
I miss feeling wanted.
I miss feeling alive.
I miss long walks around the same neighborhood.
I miss the silly jokes that never got old.
I miss your face.
I miss your elbows.
I miss the back of your knees.
I miss your legs.
I miss your eyes.
I miss your smile.
I miss me smiling.
I miss knowing the feeling that things are going to be ok.
I miss a day without depression.
I miss being broke because of you, in a good way.
I miss wanting to get out of bed in the morning.
I miss not wanting to get out of bed in the morning when you’re there.
I miss how jealous you were.
I miss the stritch.
I miss the ibis.
I miss big balls in cow town.
I miss penguins.
I miss crabby.
I miss the things I don’t remember anymore.
I miss freckles.
I miss meaning every promise.
I miss trust.
I could go on. But I think the last one sums it up. I don’t trust myself, let alone another person. I remember writing down after this, after finally coming out of the other side a long, long time after it happened and then it happened again with another girl, a girl that didn’t deserve it -- the chameleon as I no refer to her as she becomes what the guy wants her to be, and I really believe she’s still doing it -- writing down that I’d never break another person’s heart again. Now that I knew what it felt like, what I’d done.
How fucking arrogant is that? And how fucking stupid. It’s perfectly acceptable to have mine broken again, to face that pain, but you can’t face breaking someone else’s again? Then you’re going to be this miserable fucking wreck for the rest of your life. Because without the risk, there is no reward. Both ways. And you may have to make someone else feel like this again to find it.
I’d hope not, but it may have to happen. And for sure, the ability to face that prospect is the only way to truly stop being miserable. And stop getting black out drunk with a woman I would love to have a shot with, but instead now I wonder if I opened my big old depressed fucking mouth and lost a friend out of the deal.
Those moments are when my dad comes out of me. Like a dragon. Breathing fire. And that scares the shit out of me. I don’t want to be like that. The rage that is inside is scary. Maybe I just need an outlet for it? I bag to punch instead?
I can sense my depression, which I knew never left completely, is starting to win again. I can’t afford therapy again. Hell, I don’t have insurance.
And I’m scared. Scared of myself. Scared of what lurks behind the curtain, so to speak.
I’ve written this down before, but it’s true …
My life has been so defined by my losses, instead of my gains.
Self-defined, but defined.
It’s a curse that I can’t seem to find a way out of.
And sometimes I wonder if
I want to at all.
I miss her.
I miss you.
I miss being with you.
I miss seeing you.
I miss driving places with you, or to get to you.
I miss your voice, a voice I can’t hear anymore. The cliché of not remembering the sound of someone’s voice certainly is a cliché for a reason.
I miss waking up next to you. Or the anticipation of knowing I’ll be doing that soon.
I miss eating at chain restaurants with you.
I miss debating.
I miss your kisses.
I miss making white Russians and staring at the world.
I miss pulling out my record player on to the porch and listening to Frank and Deano.
I miss fretting over you during hurricanes.
I miss carving pumpkins on Halloween.
I miss listening to music and not having it remind me of you.
I miss not drinking.
I miss being happy.
I miss looking forward to the future.
I miss feeling like I was in control.
I miss arguing in the streets.
I miss long talks about death.
I miss your fingernails, digging.
I miss you painting my toenails, and my dad thinking I’m gay because of it.
I miss hoping for a phone call from you.
I miss writing about things that don’t somehow end up being about you.
I miss planning.
I miss dreaming.
I miss feeling.
I miss everything.
I miss your breath next to mine.
I miss the warmth of the bed when I got home from work at 2 in the morning.
I miss having something to look forward to when I am driving home from work.
I miss endlessly trying to find a job where you are, and failing, but still trying.
I miss days when sadness was the furthest from my mind.
I miss hope.
I miss your music.
I miss your smell.
I miss the cucumber body wash.
I miss being loved.
I miss someone calling me.
I miss feeling wanted.
I miss feeling alive.
I miss long walks around the same neighborhood.
I miss the silly jokes that never got old.
I miss your face.
I miss your elbows.
I miss the back of your knees.
I miss your legs.
I miss your eyes.
I miss your smile.
I miss me smiling.
I miss knowing the feeling that things are going to be ok.
I miss a day without depression.
I miss being broke because of you, in a good way.
I miss wanting to get out of bed in the morning.
I miss not wanting to get out of bed in the morning when you’re there.
I miss how jealous you were.
I miss the stritch.
I miss the ibis.
I miss big balls in cow town.
I miss penguins.
I miss crabby.
I miss the things I don’t remember anymore.
I miss freckles.
I miss meaning every promise.
I miss trust.
I could go on. But I think the last one sums it up. I don’t trust myself, let alone another person. I remember writing down after this, after finally coming out of the other side a long, long time after it happened and then it happened again with another girl, a girl that didn’t deserve it -- the chameleon as I no refer to her as she becomes what the guy wants her to be, and I really believe she’s still doing it -- writing down that I’d never break another person’s heart again. Now that I knew what it felt like, what I’d done.
How fucking arrogant is that? And how fucking stupid. It’s perfectly acceptable to have mine broken again, to face that pain, but you can’t face breaking someone else’s again? Then you’re going to be this miserable fucking wreck for the rest of your life. Because without the risk, there is no reward. Both ways. And you may have to make someone else feel like this again to find it.
I’d hope not, but it may have to happen. And for sure, the ability to face that prospect is the only way to truly stop being miserable. And stop getting black out drunk with a woman I would love to have a shot with, but instead now I wonder if I opened my big old depressed fucking mouth and lost a friend out of the deal.
Those moments are when my dad comes out of me. Like a dragon. Breathing fire. And that scares the shit out of me. I don’t want to be like that. The rage that is inside is scary. Maybe I just need an outlet for it? I bag to punch instead?
I can sense my depression, which I knew never left completely, is starting to win again. I can’t afford therapy again. Hell, I don’t have insurance.
And I’m scared. Scared of myself. Scared of what lurks behind the curtain, so to speak.
I’ve written this down before, but it’s true …
My life has been so defined by my losses, instead of my gains.
Self-defined, but defined.
It’s a curse that I can’t seem to find a way out of.
And sometimes I wonder if
I want to at all.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Klaus Meine
The light struck my face. “Ugh,” was about all I could muster in thought or word.
Something felt odd. This hotel room is not a good place to be. Red Roof Inn just outside of Raleigh, North Carolina. Two beds. One not slept in. One disheveled.
I looked around the room. 10:45 a.m. Damn. Going to have to get up soon to leave.
I’m still drunk.
Then I see the smashed up Cds on the floor. A quick flashback to the night before. Me coming back from the concert. No. I don’t remember that. All I remember was throwing those Cds very hard on the ground. I look at them now. One is completely shattered.
I don’t remember why I did it.
The Lucero show was great. In fact, all of the bands were awesome. And I didn’t even feel weird being alone at the venue for over two hours. Looking at the bands. Tapping my feet. Swaying a little every so often. Even checking out the women. It was a good time. The Big Boss beers going down nice and easy. They’d better at 5 bucks a pop.
The redhead and her buddy arrived late. She’s so damn beautiful. So damn everything that I’d ever want in a lady. Good taste in music and whiskey. And she laughs at my jokes. She thinks I’m odd and doesn’t care.
Yet, she doesn’t like me the way I’d want. And, usually I’m cool with that. I can chase. Hell, Joey said everyone needs something to chase, so, I keep chasing. Like a dog trying to get its tail. Like a guy trying to blow himself. Some things just aren’t meant to happen.
The drinks keep flowing. Even some Jameseon is swilled. When Lucero goes on, we’re close to the stage. It’s great.
I sing like a crazed beauty pageant momma -- awfully and unselfconsciously. I’m having the time of my life. Every time I go to a show with her, I see her looking at me while the songs are going. It’s the only time her eyes give me the time of day. It’s in those moments that I want to believe that she digs me the way I dig her.
But then the music dies and so do the looks. She goes and chats it up with one of the band. I actually talk this time. I remember saying something about Social Distortion. I also remember it not coming out the way it was in my mind. All of this should have clued me in to how fucking drunk I was.
I don’t remember much else.
A bad joke about riding in the back of the dude’s truck. Getting the Cds.
That’s it.
A good hour of my life, gone. Never to be remembered.
I don’t like blacking out. It makes me think of my dad. The awful person he sometimes becomes when he drinks too much. And then in the morning, everything is supposed to be normal again.
That’s the person I become in those instances.
Usually, I’m a happy drunk. Not caring about anything.
But she brings this side of me out more than anyone else ever has.
And I do mean ever.
I’ve had girlfriends that I’ve been that drunk with. They didn’t bring this out.
Only her.
It’s got to be a sign.
That I have to get away.
Maybe my words last night did that for me. I don’t know.
I just have a broken cell phone to show for it.
And another friend telling me I called her at 2:30 in the morning. God only knows. I called her up the last time this redhead got me drinking and out of my mind.
What is it about this girl that does this to me?
I’m scared to ask her if I said something stupid. Maybe I made some kind of advance on her. Ha. Advance. What is this, “Leave it to Beaver”?
I was probably more pissed off about the hotel room. That I paid for. Like the tickets. And didn’t get paid back. Did I ask for the money? Who knows, but probably not.
And because I’m so destitute at the moment, I used it to build up some rage.
Fuck. I don’t want to be like my dad. At least in this respect.
What is it about this girl…? And why do I keep coming back for more…?
Driving home from work tonight, I put on the Scorpions. Why can’t my world be more like Klaus Meine’s? His song writing tells how he sees it. Everything is in absolutes. There’s no guessing. There’s no hemming and hawing. I’m Still Loving You. I’m going to Rock You Like a Hurricane. I Really had a Blackout!
Something felt odd. This hotel room is not a good place to be. Red Roof Inn just outside of Raleigh, North Carolina. Two beds. One not slept in. One disheveled.
I looked around the room. 10:45 a.m. Damn. Going to have to get up soon to leave.
I’m still drunk.
Then I see the smashed up Cds on the floor. A quick flashback to the night before. Me coming back from the concert. No. I don’t remember that. All I remember was throwing those Cds very hard on the ground. I look at them now. One is completely shattered.
I don’t remember why I did it.
The Lucero show was great. In fact, all of the bands were awesome. And I didn’t even feel weird being alone at the venue for over two hours. Looking at the bands. Tapping my feet. Swaying a little every so often. Even checking out the women. It was a good time. The Big Boss beers going down nice and easy. They’d better at 5 bucks a pop.
The redhead and her buddy arrived late. She’s so damn beautiful. So damn everything that I’d ever want in a lady. Good taste in music and whiskey. And she laughs at my jokes. She thinks I’m odd and doesn’t care.
Yet, she doesn’t like me the way I’d want. And, usually I’m cool with that. I can chase. Hell, Joey said everyone needs something to chase, so, I keep chasing. Like a dog trying to get its tail. Like a guy trying to blow himself. Some things just aren’t meant to happen.
The drinks keep flowing. Even some Jameseon is swilled. When Lucero goes on, we’re close to the stage. It’s great.
I sing like a crazed beauty pageant momma -- awfully and unselfconsciously. I’m having the time of my life. Every time I go to a show with her, I see her looking at me while the songs are going. It’s the only time her eyes give me the time of day. It’s in those moments that I want to believe that she digs me the way I dig her.
But then the music dies and so do the looks. She goes and chats it up with one of the band. I actually talk this time. I remember saying something about Social Distortion. I also remember it not coming out the way it was in my mind. All of this should have clued me in to how fucking drunk I was.
I don’t remember much else.
A bad joke about riding in the back of the dude’s truck. Getting the Cds.
That’s it.
A good hour of my life, gone. Never to be remembered.
I don’t like blacking out. It makes me think of my dad. The awful person he sometimes becomes when he drinks too much. And then in the morning, everything is supposed to be normal again.
That’s the person I become in those instances.
Usually, I’m a happy drunk. Not caring about anything.
But she brings this side of me out more than anyone else ever has.
And I do mean ever.
I’ve had girlfriends that I’ve been that drunk with. They didn’t bring this out.
Only her.
It’s got to be a sign.
That I have to get away.
Maybe my words last night did that for me. I don’t know.
I just have a broken cell phone to show for it.
And another friend telling me I called her at 2:30 in the morning. God only knows. I called her up the last time this redhead got me drinking and out of my mind.
What is it about this girl that does this to me?
I’m scared to ask her if I said something stupid. Maybe I made some kind of advance on her. Ha. Advance. What is this, “Leave it to Beaver”?
I was probably more pissed off about the hotel room. That I paid for. Like the tickets. And didn’t get paid back. Did I ask for the money? Who knows, but probably not.
And because I’m so destitute at the moment, I used it to build up some rage.
Fuck. I don’t want to be like my dad. At least in this respect.
What is it about this girl…? And why do I keep coming back for more…?
Driving home from work tonight, I put on the Scorpions. Why can’t my world be more like Klaus Meine’s? His song writing tells how he sees it. Everything is in absolutes. There’s no guessing. There’s no hemming and hawing. I’m Still Loving You. I’m going to Rock You Like a Hurricane. I Really had a Blackout!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Booze and Lucero tickets
I woke up a little early today.
Walking out into my kitchen, I scratched my butt. As I stood there in between the kitchen and the hallway, I wondered what time it was. It’s been a game of mine, well in my head, for years now. Ever since I stopped owning a watch. Or a clock. I never have understood the need for a watch. If one ever really needs to know what time it was, just ask someone. Or guess.
I seemed to always be pretty darn close.
As I stood there, finger finding a place to scratch, I guessed 8:30 or so.
I walked towards my lawn chair. Yep, no furniture except for the dirty old couch and a couple of lawn chairs. At 39 years old, that might seem a bit sad. But honestly, I have had lots of furniture over the years. Most of it was taken by girlfriends or their family. That’s the sad part.
By the chair was my cell phone. My only clock, except for the computer, which is off. It read 8:33.
As always, I’m pretty close. Sometimes after a bender or something, and it’s cloudy out, I’ll be off. Usually, however, it’s easy.
I go to the fridge. There’s not much in there. Pickles. Eggs. Condiments. A jug of tap water. And a 12-pack of Miller High Life. Bought it for the hurricane. My broke ass decided it was the best thing for the money. And really, it probably is. Yes, it sucks, but for 5.99 you really have a tough time getting anything better.
I grab one and grab the opener off the counter. Psssssssssssssssttttttttttttt! I open it up and take a swig.
No better way to start the morning, huh? Maybe it’ll be a good day for once.
I go to the cupboard to find something to eat. I spy a box of generic Pop Tarts. They’re called Toast’em pop-ups. They even have a pop guy with a big shit-eating grin on his face staring at you from the cardboard. Pretty much saying “You bought these? For 67 more cents you could have had the real thing. AND, they give you eight, not six. Dumb ass.”
I pull one out, put it in the oven. I don’t have a toaster. I bought one once for a girlfriend. It ended up getting recalled, but I never took it back. I wonder if she still uses it? And will it one day burn her house down? And since I just typed that, am I now responsible for that? Nice train of thought for 8:37 in the morning. Swig. Swig. Swig.
Yeah, that’ll help.
“Can’t hurt none,” the voice in the head says. Not a voice like Jim Gaffigan’s baby voice, but anyway.
I put on some shorts and a shirt to go outside and stare at the day.
It usually doesn’t stare back, but for some reason, today it is. There is a lady outside walking her dog. It’s one of those ugly, poodle-like dogs. Yeah, the schnoodle. I’d probably be driven to drink if I had to walk a schnoodle for my wife. Oh yeah.
The dog takes a giant shit in the parking lot right across from my house. I’m happy it didn’t shit in my yard, because that is about the only thing I get mad about nowadays. Well, that and the fucking idiots that I have to work with. Sports editors with no sense and sports reporters who can’t put two words together without fucking up grammar rules.
It’s a great way to not earn a living.
My bank account is at an all-time low for the time I’ve been living here. I have bills due on pay day. For the first time in probably two or three years I’m going to be paying them all on line that day.
That’s a scary place to be. Especially when you’ve been there so much over the past 20 years. It reminds me of that great thing that Matty and Josh used to have on their fridge… UVA + You = Success. They always laughed at it. All the while getting closer and closer to being productive members of society. I always saw it for what they wanted to see it as, a reminder that life doesn’t have to go according to a plan.
Glad my student loan deferment ends this month too. Such excellent timing. Of course, I should have just not paid it the entire 14 months I was unemployed, instead of getting the deferment right when I got a job.
Brilliance is written all over this guy. And as always, master of great timing.
Anyways, I would have spent that extra cash while unemployed on booze and Lucero tickets anyway.
Walking out into my kitchen, I scratched my butt. As I stood there in between the kitchen and the hallway, I wondered what time it was. It’s been a game of mine, well in my head, for years now. Ever since I stopped owning a watch. Or a clock. I never have understood the need for a watch. If one ever really needs to know what time it was, just ask someone. Or guess.
I seemed to always be pretty darn close.
As I stood there, finger finding a place to scratch, I guessed 8:30 or so.
I walked towards my lawn chair. Yep, no furniture except for the dirty old couch and a couple of lawn chairs. At 39 years old, that might seem a bit sad. But honestly, I have had lots of furniture over the years. Most of it was taken by girlfriends or their family. That’s the sad part.
By the chair was my cell phone. My only clock, except for the computer, which is off. It read 8:33.
As always, I’m pretty close. Sometimes after a bender or something, and it’s cloudy out, I’ll be off. Usually, however, it’s easy.
I go to the fridge. There’s not much in there. Pickles. Eggs. Condiments. A jug of tap water. And a 12-pack of Miller High Life. Bought it for the hurricane. My broke ass decided it was the best thing for the money. And really, it probably is. Yes, it sucks, but for 5.99 you really have a tough time getting anything better.
I grab one and grab the opener off the counter. Psssssssssssssssttttttttttttt! I open it up and take a swig.
No better way to start the morning, huh? Maybe it’ll be a good day for once.
I go to the cupboard to find something to eat. I spy a box of generic Pop Tarts. They’re called Toast’em pop-ups. They even have a pop guy with a big shit-eating grin on his face staring at you from the cardboard. Pretty much saying “You bought these? For 67 more cents you could have had the real thing. AND, they give you eight, not six. Dumb ass.”
I pull one out, put it in the oven. I don’t have a toaster. I bought one once for a girlfriend. It ended up getting recalled, but I never took it back. I wonder if she still uses it? And will it one day burn her house down? And since I just typed that, am I now responsible for that? Nice train of thought for 8:37 in the morning. Swig. Swig. Swig.
Yeah, that’ll help.
“Can’t hurt none,” the voice in the head says. Not a voice like Jim Gaffigan’s baby voice, but anyway.
I put on some shorts and a shirt to go outside and stare at the day.
It usually doesn’t stare back, but for some reason, today it is. There is a lady outside walking her dog. It’s one of those ugly, poodle-like dogs. Yeah, the schnoodle. I’d probably be driven to drink if I had to walk a schnoodle for my wife. Oh yeah.
The dog takes a giant shit in the parking lot right across from my house. I’m happy it didn’t shit in my yard, because that is about the only thing I get mad about nowadays. Well, that and the fucking idiots that I have to work with. Sports editors with no sense and sports reporters who can’t put two words together without fucking up grammar rules.
It’s a great way to not earn a living.
My bank account is at an all-time low for the time I’ve been living here. I have bills due on pay day. For the first time in probably two or three years I’m going to be paying them all on line that day.
That’s a scary place to be. Especially when you’ve been there so much over the past 20 years. It reminds me of that great thing that Matty and Josh used to have on their fridge… UVA + You = Success. They always laughed at it. All the while getting closer and closer to being productive members of society. I always saw it for what they wanted to see it as, a reminder that life doesn’t have to go according to a plan.
Glad my student loan deferment ends this month too. Such excellent timing. Of course, I should have just not paid it the entire 14 months I was unemployed, instead of getting the deferment right when I got a job.
Brilliance is written all over this guy. And as always, master of great timing.
Anyways, I would have spent that extra cash while unemployed on booze and Lucero tickets anyway.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
never get off the boat
Hungover to the point of the shakes almost 20 hours after the last drink, driving home the six and a half hours in the dark was probably not a good idea. The road flies by underneath the car, the occasional thud of a bad section of road jars one from the coma of nothingness.
The repetitive sound of bugs tapping up against the glass of the windshield is almost soothing. Almost because the horror of the guts and left behind awfulness in front of your eyes makes you realize how easily that could be you.
This road has been traveled by me so many times. Yet, only twice have I ever stopped anywhere on the 102 miles of back roads that have etched itself into my mind. The interstate system in this country has its merits. In Texas or Nebraska or Oklahoma it works out nicely. Maybe it has something to do with football? But in North Carolina and Virginia, not so much. It could be the repetition of it all. I’ve done the drive so many damn times that eventually you seek out a different way. But by now, I’ve done this back roads version that it should feel that way, but it doesn’t.
But, in all those years, only twice have I stopped.
One time was at the Hardee’s in Scotland Neck, NC. Emily and I were driving home for the holidays. It was extremely early in the morning. She wanted some food, and honestly, so did I. But there isn’t much to choose from on this road. A small diner in Hobgood was closed that time of day. Odd, since I would have believed the smaller the town, the earlier the eatin’ place would be open.
In Oak City, I have no idea where the barbeque joint that is advertised on the side of an old barn actually is. The sign read “Smitty’s BBQ. Best in the land!” But no directions. Guess that means if you don’t know, they don’t want ya there.
As we pull into Scotland Neck, a picturesque little town in the god awful middle of nowhere in North Carolina. It has and old Main Street section. All the old buildings look awesome, but three out of four are closed up. You park in the middle of the street still, which makes for some dodgy driving conditions when the weather is bad because people just don’t seem to care. It could be that living in Scotland Neck makes you that way…
We pull into the Hardee’s order some breakfast food. As we pull up to the pay window, a nice in the face looking older woman greets us with a loud “Hiya!” It startles me, but I manage to smile and say “Purty good.” Yeah, my accent comes out sometimes.
She gives us our food after I give her the money. It’s a transaction.
Then she hands us an extra box.
“Here’s some more biscuits,” she smiles. Yes, the sentence came out in a smile. “We made too many, so it’s your lucky day!”
“Thanks,” I say, not really sure how lucky we really are. The box has 10 biscuits in it. What two normal people want that many biscuits, to go along with the biscuit sandwiches we actually ordered.
“She was nice, and that’s pretty cool,” Emily says. I don’t like remembering the banality of our relationship sometimes. Yet, it’s better for me to do so.
The only other time I stopped anywhere on this drive was to get gas once. And only because my old Celica, Carla as it was named by my ex, was running on empty. But not in a Jackson Browne kind of way. No, that’s me as I’m driving tonight.
The E on the gas gauge was mocking me. I didn’t think I’d make it anywhere near a gas station that night. But before the car started putt, putt, puttering in the way a car does when the gas tank is exhausted of it’s fine liquid, I saw a light.
There it was at 1:35 in the morning. An open gas station in the middle of nowhere.
I pulled in, hoping it was still open.
It was. Two people were inside. I got out, pushed my credit card for fuel and filled her up.
I looked inside at the two people. One the cashier, the other dressed in black. They were just standing there, not looking at me, but not looking at each other. Odd.
I finished gassing up. Put the cap back on the gas tank and drove off.
A few minutes later, down the road I was when I saw flashing lights ahead. Three cop cars flew right on past me, going at least 100. Don’t know if they were heading to the gas station, and I never bothered to try and find out.
The repetitive sound of bugs tapping up against the glass of the windshield is almost soothing. Almost because the horror of the guts and left behind awfulness in front of your eyes makes you realize how easily that could be you.
This road has been traveled by me so many times. Yet, only twice have I ever stopped anywhere on the 102 miles of back roads that have etched itself into my mind. The interstate system in this country has its merits. In Texas or Nebraska or Oklahoma it works out nicely. Maybe it has something to do with football? But in North Carolina and Virginia, not so much. It could be the repetition of it all. I’ve done the drive so many damn times that eventually you seek out a different way. But by now, I’ve done this back roads version that it should feel that way, but it doesn’t.
But, in all those years, only twice have I stopped.
One time was at the Hardee’s in Scotland Neck, NC. Emily and I were driving home for the holidays. It was extremely early in the morning. She wanted some food, and honestly, so did I. But there isn’t much to choose from on this road. A small diner in Hobgood was closed that time of day. Odd, since I would have believed the smaller the town, the earlier the eatin’ place would be open.
In Oak City, I have no idea where the barbeque joint that is advertised on the side of an old barn actually is. The sign read “Smitty’s BBQ. Best in the land!” But no directions. Guess that means if you don’t know, they don’t want ya there.
As we pull into Scotland Neck, a picturesque little town in the god awful middle of nowhere in North Carolina. It has and old Main Street section. All the old buildings look awesome, but three out of four are closed up. You park in the middle of the street still, which makes for some dodgy driving conditions when the weather is bad because people just don’t seem to care. It could be that living in Scotland Neck makes you that way…
We pull into the Hardee’s order some breakfast food. As we pull up to the pay window, a nice in the face looking older woman greets us with a loud “Hiya!” It startles me, but I manage to smile and say “Purty good.” Yeah, my accent comes out sometimes.
She gives us our food after I give her the money. It’s a transaction.
Then she hands us an extra box.
“Here’s some more biscuits,” she smiles. Yes, the sentence came out in a smile. “We made too many, so it’s your lucky day!”
“Thanks,” I say, not really sure how lucky we really are. The box has 10 biscuits in it. What two normal people want that many biscuits, to go along with the biscuit sandwiches we actually ordered.
“She was nice, and that’s pretty cool,” Emily says. I don’t like remembering the banality of our relationship sometimes. Yet, it’s better for me to do so.
The only other time I stopped anywhere on this drive was to get gas once. And only because my old Celica, Carla as it was named by my ex, was running on empty. But not in a Jackson Browne kind of way. No, that’s me as I’m driving tonight.
The E on the gas gauge was mocking me. I didn’t think I’d make it anywhere near a gas station that night. But before the car started putt, putt, puttering in the way a car does when the gas tank is exhausted of it’s fine liquid, I saw a light.
There it was at 1:35 in the morning. An open gas station in the middle of nowhere.
I pulled in, hoping it was still open.
It was. Two people were inside. I got out, pushed my credit card for fuel and filled her up.
I looked inside at the two people. One the cashier, the other dressed in black. They were just standing there, not looking at me, but not looking at each other. Odd.
I finished gassing up. Put the cap back on the gas tank and drove off.
A few minutes later, down the road I was when I saw flashing lights ahead. Three cop cars flew right on past me, going at least 100. Don’t know if they were heading to the gas station, and I never bothered to try and find out.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
there's no re-sell value there
Get up. Slink around the house in underwear. Turn on the stereo. Frown at what disc is in the player. Replace it with something else. Cook scrambled eggs. Lay on the couch in the heat. Wonder if today will be better than the day before. Decide it will or won’t be. Pretty much setting the tone for the rest of the day. Finally pull self off of couch to take a shower. Look at face in mirror. Think of Waylon Jennings lines. Decide not to shave, once again. Shower. Dry off. Get dressed. Grab a package of crackers for lunch. Start car. Drive car for 50-55 minutes. Enter work. Work. Joke with co-workers about how much work sucks. All knowing it isn’t really a joke. Be frustrated by incompetence surrounding self. Finish work. Drive 50-55 minutes home. Check for mail. Be disappointed that no one wrote a letter. Think of Glossary lyrics. Go inside. Open up windows and doors to cool off the joint. Turn on computer. Type. Think of eating something. Maybe eat, maybe not. Stare at keyboard, wishing something would jump out of the brain onto the page. Finally start falling asleep on couch. Move to bedroom. Sleep.
Get up….
Could have had a date tonight. Wonder how that would have turned out? Found out last night that this woman that my friends are trying to set me up with will be at the beach all weekend. However, me, I’m going to be working today, then hitting the road for D.C. All I know about her is she’s a teacher. I’ve thought about the fact that you end up with your father as a daughter and your mom as a son, and that would fit. But that’s me, thinking too much before it even matters. She’s younger than me, I think. Which would get chants of “of course she is” from any and all friends of mine. I don’t try to only date younger women, but I end up doing it.
She won’t qualify for the fup, fup club, however. So, that research project will have to wait for another day.
Honestly, there’s no desire to go to work today. Yesterday, I ended up combining three wire stories into one (space issues). All on the same college team. First, a local kid was one caught up in an NCAA investigation. Then right before deadline, he was cleared to play. So, another re-write. I like doing this, don’t get me wrong, it’s what I chose as a profession years ago. But to do it for the dolts who get the real stuff bothers me a lot. Found out one of the dolts applied for a ‘way over his head job’ last night. If he actually got it, which he won’t, my faith in this profession will sink to a new low. Reward the idiots, curse the ones who actually get what it’s about, and stand up for it. To the detriment of their lives and careers.
I gave too much of my soul to this profession, and it didn’t give anything back.
Did I expect it to? I mean, it has no soul itself. And other than the ideals of some involved, it never has and never will. I guess that’s been my issue all along. I believe in myths. I believe in lofty aspirations. When, in fact, man does not live by anything like that. It’s like Joe Strummer. You can hope he lives up to his words, but when you look at the man himself, he didn’t. Ever. Even from the beginning. He was just a flawed person, like all of us.
I don’t want to give up on believing that something good will come if I keep trying. But, like Sam Jackson once said … “I’m trying real hard Ringo.”
I just need to stop thinking about it. But how do you do that? I used to stop it by drinking. But I don’t want to just do that anymore. It’s expensive (and I’m broke, as well as broken) and I don’t want to die of cirrhosis anymore. Not as glamorous as the authors made it seem. Well, they never made it seem that way, I did.
It’s an awful thing when the CD ends before you’re ready for it to do so. It’s a disadvantage of old technology. But the advantages of Lps and Cds and such far outweigh having all my songs on an I-pod. What an awful thing. Music should be appreciated, not just tossed into the ears. It’s also not an investment anymore. You used to go to a store, browse around, talk to folk, listen to them, absorb them. Now? You hear it in a commercial, go online and buy it for 99 cents. Eventually, I’m sure all digital purchases will disappear into the ether. No one is going to have a thrift store full of digital music, are they? There is no re-sell market for MP3s.
I still revel in finding an old 45 in a thrift. Or a CD in a box with the “not for re-sale” sticker on it, meaning it’s a promo.
Those are the things that keep me going…
Got to keep on trucking.
Ha. Maybe I can drive a small truck, right?
Get up….
Could have had a date tonight. Wonder how that would have turned out? Found out last night that this woman that my friends are trying to set me up with will be at the beach all weekend. However, me, I’m going to be working today, then hitting the road for D.C. All I know about her is she’s a teacher. I’ve thought about the fact that you end up with your father as a daughter and your mom as a son, and that would fit. But that’s me, thinking too much before it even matters. She’s younger than me, I think. Which would get chants of “of course she is” from any and all friends of mine. I don’t try to only date younger women, but I end up doing it.
She won’t qualify for the fup, fup club, however. So, that research project will have to wait for another day.
Honestly, there’s no desire to go to work today. Yesterday, I ended up combining three wire stories into one (space issues). All on the same college team. First, a local kid was one caught up in an NCAA investigation. Then right before deadline, he was cleared to play. So, another re-write. I like doing this, don’t get me wrong, it’s what I chose as a profession years ago. But to do it for the dolts who get the real stuff bothers me a lot. Found out one of the dolts applied for a ‘way over his head job’ last night. If he actually got it, which he won’t, my faith in this profession will sink to a new low. Reward the idiots, curse the ones who actually get what it’s about, and stand up for it. To the detriment of their lives and careers.
I gave too much of my soul to this profession, and it didn’t give anything back.
Did I expect it to? I mean, it has no soul itself. And other than the ideals of some involved, it never has and never will. I guess that’s been my issue all along. I believe in myths. I believe in lofty aspirations. When, in fact, man does not live by anything like that. It’s like Joe Strummer. You can hope he lives up to his words, but when you look at the man himself, he didn’t. Ever. Even from the beginning. He was just a flawed person, like all of us.
I don’t want to give up on believing that something good will come if I keep trying. But, like Sam Jackson once said … “I’m trying real hard Ringo.”
I just need to stop thinking about it. But how do you do that? I used to stop it by drinking. But I don’t want to just do that anymore. It’s expensive (and I’m broke, as well as broken) and I don’t want to die of cirrhosis anymore. Not as glamorous as the authors made it seem. Well, they never made it seem that way, I did.
It’s an awful thing when the CD ends before you’re ready for it to do so. It’s a disadvantage of old technology. But the advantages of Lps and Cds and such far outweigh having all my songs on an I-pod. What an awful thing. Music should be appreciated, not just tossed into the ears. It’s also not an investment anymore. You used to go to a store, browse around, talk to folk, listen to them, absorb them. Now? You hear it in a commercial, go online and buy it for 99 cents. Eventually, I’m sure all digital purchases will disappear into the ether. No one is going to have a thrift store full of digital music, are they? There is no re-sell market for MP3s.
I still revel in finding an old 45 in a thrift. Or a CD in a box with the “not for re-sale” sticker on it, meaning it’s a promo.
Those are the things that keep me going…
Got to keep on trucking.
Ha. Maybe I can drive a small truck, right?
Friday, September 3, 2010
a moment of pure bliss
It wasn’t something that I should have been surprised by. Yet, the feeling that washed over me as the rain pelted my Blackened Voodoo shirt and old Arizona State hat from the hurricane did.
It was a moment of pure bliss.
What made it that way, I started to consider. It wasn’t the soaking rain. It wasn’t the wind or the sand or the huge waves eating parts of the dunes like giant pieces of pecan pie.
No, it was the silence. It was the lack of movement. It was the aloneness.
As anyone who has ever lived at, or just spent time at, the beach knows -- people tend to be everywhere. Except when summer is over. That’s when everyone gets back to their hurried lives of buying things and watching shitty television. Of believing what the bloated heads on the cable news networks tell us. Taking comedians take on the news seriously. Of eating things that slowly kill us.
I’m guilty of many of those very same things. I don’t watch much TV anymore. Just what I download if something sounds remotely interesting. I try to read. But I make excuses not to a lot more than I used to. Which makes me feel sad. I have bought 1,000s of books over the years. I used to say they were my gift to myself at retirement. All the good and bad writers. From Hemingway to some guy who wrote pulp novels in the 40s.
The collection has been chopped up over the years. Just like me. Some stayed in New Orleans, probably drowning in Katrina mold. Some stayed in Florida. Probably settling into a landfill about now. Still others were left behind in apartments and houses in Arizona, Alabama, Virginia and North Carolina. Left to be found by the next person, and hopefully enjoyed, but most likely tossed into a plastic garbage bag to be semi-preserved in a dump.
It’s what happens to all of us anyway, right? We’re preserved and stuck in an airtight metal box with 1,000s of other dead souls. Why anyone would want to be buried is something I can’t comprehend. If the soul lives on, does it want to be stuck in a box? Will it get out before all the chemicals are put in? And what if we’re just supposed to die and rot? Become part of the food chain.
That’s always intrigued me. Becoming part of the food chain. The chain is pretty broken right now. Smashed into obedience by large corporations. But hey, I’d love to think that one day some fat idiot in Long John Silvers is eating a part of me. So I can course through his meaty, sweaty ass-funk smelling body and poke at his liver till he drops.
Yeah, that’s kind of awful. But it’s true, like everything is frightening.
My wish is to be tossed into the ocean, so the fish and sharks and whales and little organisms can just chomp on me. Then, those fish or whales or sharks will be eaten by other, bigger fish, whales and sharks. Eventually, they’ll bite the wrong hook or swim into a net and end up on a dinner plate. Wouldn’t that be nice?
But back to the aloneness.
When I first arrived here, everything was slower. There were not a lot of people around and it was agreeable. I was able to walk on the beach in the morning or late at night, never seeing a soul. In the afternoons, there would be a few, but not too many. Mostly book readers and shell scoopers.
Then came Memorial Day. Still the worst day here, in my opinion.
The people came in waves. Much like yesterday’s hurricane. Just people, cars, dogs, babies, bikes, and anything else.
Plus, drunken marines.
The aftermath was a wasteland of garbage and crap. Chairs bought hours before were mangled and thrown away. Beer cans and bottles dotted the roadsides and the beach. And then there were the cigarette butts. If anyone tells you people don’t smoke anymore, come to the beaches here. Butts everywhere left behind by asses.
So, as I walked alone in the streets, pelted by rain drops and random flying things, I realized how awesome it is to be here.
When they’re not here.
Am I a misanthrope? These thoughts pop into my head.
Do I hate people?
Nah, things just seem better when they’re not around.
Until you find yourself painfully alone too much of the time. And then you sit on your porch watching, looking for a way to connect. Walking amongst the hordes, once again trying to find a way to connect. Drinking from a bottle, thinking maybe it will provide the strength, the courage to reach out.
It happens so rarely. But when it does, you remember being the guy walking down the street alone in the rain really isn’t so fun…
It was a moment of pure bliss.
What made it that way, I started to consider. It wasn’t the soaking rain. It wasn’t the wind or the sand or the huge waves eating parts of the dunes like giant pieces of pecan pie.
No, it was the silence. It was the lack of movement. It was the aloneness.
As anyone who has ever lived at, or just spent time at, the beach knows -- people tend to be everywhere. Except when summer is over. That’s when everyone gets back to their hurried lives of buying things and watching shitty television. Of believing what the bloated heads on the cable news networks tell us. Taking comedians take on the news seriously. Of eating things that slowly kill us.
I’m guilty of many of those very same things. I don’t watch much TV anymore. Just what I download if something sounds remotely interesting. I try to read. But I make excuses not to a lot more than I used to. Which makes me feel sad. I have bought 1,000s of books over the years. I used to say they were my gift to myself at retirement. All the good and bad writers. From Hemingway to some guy who wrote pulp novels in the 40s.
The collection has been chopped up over the years. Just like me. Some stayed in New Orleans, probably drowning in Katrina mold. Some stayed in Florida. Probably settling into a landfill about now. Still others were left behind in apartments and houses in Arizona, Alabama, Virginia and North Carolina. Left to be found by the next person, and hopefully enjoyed, but most likely tossed into a plastic garbage bag to be semi-preserved in a dump.
It’s what happens to all of us anyway, right? We’re preserved and stuck in an airtight metal box with 1,000s of other dead souls. Why anyone would want to be buried is something I can’t comprehend. If the soul lives on, does it want to be stuck in a box? Will it get out before all the chemicals are put in? And what if we’re just supposed to die and rot? Become part of the food chain.
That’s always intrigued me. Becoming part of the food chain. The chain is pretty broken right now. Smashed into obedience by large corporations. But hey, I’d love to think that one day some fat idiot in Long John Silvers is eating a part of me. So I can course through his meaty, sweaty ass-funk smelling body and poke at his liver till he drops.
Yeah, that’s kind of awful. But it’s true, like everything is frightening.
My wish is to be tossed into the ocean, so the fish and sharks and whales and little organisms can just chomp on me. Then, those fish or whales or sharks will be eaten by other, bigger fish, whales and sharks. Eventually, they’ll bite the wrong hook or swim into a net and end up on a dinner plate. Wouldn’t that be nice?
But back to the aloneness.
When I first arrived here, everything was slower. There were not a lot of people around and it was agreeable. I was able to walk on the beach in the morning or late at night, never seeing a soul. In the afternoons, there would be a few, but not too many. Mostly book readers and shell scoopers.
Then came Memorial Day. Still the worst day here, in my opinion.
The people came in waves. Much like yesterday’s hurricane. Just people, cars, dogs, babies, bikes, and anything else.
Plus, drunken marines.
The aftermath was a wasteland of garbage and crap. Chairs bought hours before were mangled and thrown away. Beer cans and bottles dotted the roadsides and the beach. And then there were the cigarette butts. If anyone tells you people don’t smoke anymore, come to the beaches here. Butts everywhere left behind by asses.
So, as I walked alone in the streets, pelted by rain drops and random flying things, I realized how awesome it is to be here.
When they’re not here.
Am I a misanthrope? These thoughts pop into my head.
Do I hate people?
Nah, things just seem better when they’re not around.
Until you find yourself painfully alone too much of the time. And then you sit on your porch watching, looking for a way to connect. Walking amongst the hordes, once again trying to find a way to connect. Drinking from a bottle, thinking maybe it will provide the strength, the courage to reach out.
It happens so rarely. But when it does, you remember being the guy walking down the street alone in the rain really isn’t so fun…
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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