peace

I’m going to try and write something before embarking on this journey. I’ve grabbed a notepad and it will serve as the official document of it, but, as I’m wont to do, I will type here as well.

The reason for the new notepad is to record a journey. One that begins today, and ends, well, never. I have made it my point of existing for the next while to take a trip every day. And observe. Now, most days will revolve around me going to work. But, to make it possible, I have to stop somewhere new every day. And that will be the “journey” for that day.

Boring? Probably. But something has to happen to knock me out of this rut that I’m stuck in and don’t want to be stuck in anymore. It’s been probably the longest rut of my life. At least when girls dumped me and left me suicidal, I drank copious amounts of alcohol and took stupid road trips to nowhere.

As of right now, the stupid road trips can’t happen because I can’t spring for the gas. I really need a roommate or something. This 700 a month rent payment is bogging me down. A lot more than it should, but my debts are an anchor of stupidity. It’s a reminding of some good times, and bad decisions. Definitely two things that I have a lot of experience with.

My first act in this crazy drama of nothingness will be to have my buddy John shave my head. If you know me, which most of you who stumble here don’t, I have never not had hair on my head. Well, maybe as a baby, but I doubt it then too. I cut my head open back in 1994 or so, and they gave me the option of stitches and a shaved head or staples and keeping my flowing locks and I chose the staples. I guess I may finally see what that left my head with. A nice scar or a sickeningly awful one. Or, of course, nothing much at all, which will be a disappointment. As one of my stories will have a boring ending. Ha. One of them.

Right now my hair looks awful. I kind of call it my Phillip Seymour Hoffman. But he really wasn’t or isn’t balding. But his hair always looked horrible. Except in Capote. But of course…

Anyway. I have hair that is passable when there is no wind. But when it kicks up, and believe me it does here at the beach, it looks like a toupee flapping in the breeze. And, I’m done with it. Hell, not having to buy shampoo will be one less thing to worry about. I do know I’ll probably be wearing my knit beanies a lot more. Knit beanies? Really. That’s the official name for those things? I liked ski hats better.

I’m also ready to start seriously considering the move. Which I guess could be the final chapter of this notepad-based tome? Stranger things have happened. I wonder what will happen along the way? Probably not much of anything. That’s been my theme the past two years, for the most part, minus that whole falling in love with someone I shouldn’t have thing.

Heck, I might read the bible on top of a rock overlooking Hopewell. Ok. That’s not going to happen. But the absurdity of it is pretty tempting.

I think I realized too late in my life that I need change a lot. It’s probably not too late to become a roadie or a truck driver, so I’m leaving things open. I know I don’t want to be staring at the cubicle walls of the Daily News when Fall rolls around in 2011. Much like that e-mail that I sent to myself almost five years ago as part of one of those sites where they send it to you five years later, I don’t want to be disappointed in myself. That e-mail, if it ever comes, will start a night of drinking. I do know that. But, in all honesty, what it says won’t be that hard to deal with anymore. I hate what happened. But I’ve come to grips with it. I accepted it for what it is, and that I can’t do a damn thing about it. No matter how hard I may want to, or even try to.

It’s now time to go get in my car. Find something, anything, better than this.

Peace.

a poor excuse

Get up. Shit. Shave. Shower. Eat. Read the newspaper. Get dressed. Drive to work. Work. Go home. Watch TV. Sleep.

Get up.

I’m not meant to do this.

You notice I didn’t even put in the “kiss the wife” or “pat the kids on the head” part of the cliché-ridden American Dream. Why? Well, those aren’t part of my reality.

And with my latest move, Watching TV has fallen off as well. Although I still watch programming on my computer, so that has to go to.

I do the other things, however. With the added bonus of jamming to Rick James’ “Street Songs” every morning. I decided to do that one morning, and every morning since has not been worse than the one before it. So, I take that as a positive.

The beard went today. Well, elongated “Lebowski” goatee, went.

Woke up too late today to get my hair cut. There I go, routine-ing myself again.

Ugh.

I read a quote last night, on a Facebook “friends’” page. I put this in quotes because I’ve met this person all of twice. Never had a conversation with her, yet for some reason she deemed me worthy of Facebook Friend status. Whatever that is.

Like most things that I don’t write down, I have no idea what the quote was. But the impression it made on my mind has lasted. I’ve got to get out of this rut and make what I want to happen happen.

Yeah, psycho-babble for the most part, but I need to take control of things again.

I’d kind of buried myself in this almost Unabomber code. Don’t shave the goatee until I find another job. Well, I’m not looking for a job, but the goatee grew. It was cool and all, don’t get me wrong. But, it pretty much did eliminate one other part of my quest at the moment -- finding a date.

There really aren’t many non-biker chicks that dig a long-ass goatee. Well, that’s not true, but I don’t run in the circles of Alt-Country musicians quite enough to find those women. Add the minor factor that I don’t play in one of those bands, and you get my point.

The image of Hal Holbrook from the movie “Into the Wild” constantly haunts me. He seemed kind of happy; living out in the desert by himself making leather belts. But he was tortured by his past. And that’s no way to live, trust me. The past made me who I am, but it can’t control who I’m going to be. Unless, that is, I let it. And I do.

It’s why every day I wake up and I know I have to go to work, I loathe it. I stay in bed too long. I linger by this computer a little too long. I play that extra CD -- right now it’s “Something Old, Something New” a mix given to me by the redhead of drunken blackout fame. And I think seriously about just not going -- Gibbonsing it. But I never do. Not yet. But there I go. Saying I’ll do it later.

The 23rd is looking like an excellent day to skip class. I’ve racked up an amazing 2.5 sick days so far. Isn’t that sad? The company only gives 5 sick days a year. Cheap bastards. But, that’s the way of the world now, isn’t it? At least that’s what folks with the stocks and bonds want me to think.

There I go with the crazy, old-guy conspiracy talk again. Who am I becoming? A sane man? I crippled man? Just a man?

Nope. I’m just Randy. A broken-hearted, naïve, silly wanderer who is stuck in place for the half-decade.

Time to Ride On, Bon Scott would tell me.

Excuses smell, ya know. Because they are assholes. Pity the fool that sits on his ass while the world keeps running. He ends up atrophied, insane and useless.

Set a goal. Achieve it. Sounds simple, doesn’t it?

It is.

I just want to own a bar. With a 45s jukebox. And a dog named Sydney.

Still.

I talked with a bar owner about it. He saved up money for 12 years to get to the point of being able to start his own place. That he rents. That’s encouraging and discouraging at the same time.

There won’t be any saving up plan here. I’ve got to come up with an investor. Or 12.

I’ll take care of the jukebox and the dog.