Here's one from the heart, Darling:
can't live here no more
my eyes are on the ceiling
but my head's out that door.
And it's wandering around
a room over or so
and if I just lay here
it won't know where to go.
I've gotta go
I've gotta go
I'll find that better place
and I'll call it my home.
Or I'll wander and wander
just won't wonder alone.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
I Do Not Hook Up
I'm going to Denver on Sunday. Megan's in town and Dad's paying for my ticket back so I can keep Megan company on the drive there.
Okay, so I think I've discussed this before, probably on this very page (but, due to the nature of this writing area, my thoughts aren't given much time to develop and most of these ideas are half-baked, so to speak): it seems to me that there's some kind of tectonic shift that happens around a certain age. See, when a [heterosexual] man is just a boy, even before the age of puberty (you know, before he even really understands why he's doing it), the most coveted thing in the world is a woman (or girl, if this boy is around the prepubescent age (which his mind will, ideally, grow out of as he ages)) with whom he can do as he pleases. When a boy is young, he wants to kiss a girl. Everything ends there because any more excitement would be too mind-boggling. Then puberty comes, and the boy's imagination goes nuts and, well, a kind of "I'll take what I can get" mentality sinks in. Often, a boy will become a man and this mindset will never be replaced. Eventually, a long-term relationship may happen and the man's preferences will be fine-tuned into understanding that letting sex develop over a long period of time with a single person is extremely gratifying (while simultaneously lusting over what he can't have (or cheating and having the best of both worlds... but with a guilty, or merely depraved, consciousness)).
On the other side of the coin is the female mentality. Not being a woman, my take on this subject is purely conjecture, with bits of truth mixed in from accounts I've heard or, more commonly, hearsay from fellow gentlemen. Here it is: from a very young age, women have to be on guard. There are hungry boys and men with weather-tested tactics in manipulation and reverse psychology and what they seek is between (for some men) any woman's legs (for a slightly more honorable man, it's between any willing woman's legs). I think I'm digressing back to the side of the man, but it should be stated that half (which is a very rough estimate) of the fun of snagging a woman is chasing her down (which, for some men, is done literally. These men tend to land in jail).
Anyways, I'll just get to the point: at some point in a woman's life, maybe after she's realized that life is only a fairytale for a select few and that, for the rest of us, many trials and tribulations need to occur and that, for many of us, these don't lead us anywhere in particular. For instance, John once told me that a good way to look at a girlfriend is as a learning experience. Now that I've dated Lucy and Mindy and Angela and whoever else I knew so well that I could pin-point the parts of their personalities that did not go well with my own, I have a better idea of what I'm looking for. Mindy was truly a shot in the dark: I knew I wanted a woman who was willing to kiss me and was not opposed to getting drunk or high. Very loose idea. Then I learned that I did not want someone who didn't get along with my friends and who was clingy and whatever else. On to Angela, I found someone smart but took a step back in the clingy sense. Oh, and marriage. God, what an awful topic to be brought up at such a ripe age. With Lucy, I kind of scrapped lots of ideas I had that were merely ideas (which is to say, things I hadn't learned through experience or with empirical evidence). Once again, I learned that marriage is such an awkward topic (amongst many, many other thing).
Wow, this has some how devolved into an analysis of past relationships. Back on track, and getting to the point: Up to now, every girl I have ever dated under the age of 27 took a good amount of effort to shack up with (well, with a few exceptions). But then there are the girls over 27. Maybe I should make that number 25, cool? Cool. So, every girl I've had any kind of more-than-friends (however slightly)-relationship with has eagerly thrown themselves onto me. I gotta tell you, it's repulsive. I mean, if half the fun of a being interested in a girl is chasing after them, then these girls are scoring, at best a 50% on whatever test I administer them in my mind. Pretty dismal figure there.
So why is this? I don't know... but I can guess:
Being no exception, I take the role of chasing women (along with dating them and trying to piece together a successful relationship with one) as something that one can be good or bad at, just like hitting a baseball. Along the way, I'll learn something that seems like a good idea in every situation, so I'll stick to it. Girls have been known to react in a warm manner to well-placed compliments (guys fall for this much easier. For a man, being complimented on their hat is often misconstrued as "would you like to have sex with me?"), that's an easy one. So, my best guess as to why the over-25 women have thrown themselves at me is because they learned (in a misguided way (dealing with me, anyways)) that the fastest way to a man's heart is down his pants.
Or maybe the two girls I'm referring to are isolated incidents and they were just looking for kicks with a younger dude.
Okay, so I think I've discussed this before, probably on this very page (but, due to the nature of this writing area, my thoughts aren't given much time to develop and most of these ideas are half-baked, so to speak): it seems to me that there's some kind of tectonic shift that happens around a certain age. See, when a [heterosexual] man is just a boy, even before the age of puberty (you know, before he even really understands why he's doing it), the most coveted thing in the world is a woman (or girl, if this boy is around the prepubescent age (which his mind will, ideally, grow out of as he ages)) with whom he can do as he pleases. When a boy is young, he wants to kiss a girl. Everything ends there because any more excitement would be too mind-boggling. Then puberty comes, and the boy's imagination goes nuts and, well, a kind of "I'll take what I can get" mentality sinks in. Often, a boy will become a man and this mindset will never be replaced. Eventually, a long-term relationship may happen and the man's preferences will be fine-tuned into understanding that letting sex develop over a long period of time with a single person is extremely gratifying (while simultaneously lusting over what he can't have (or cheating and having the best of both worlds... but with a guilty, or merely depraved, consciousness)).
On the other side of the coin is the female mentality. Not being a woman, my take on this subject is purely conjecture, with bits of truth mixed in from accounts I've heard or, more commonly, hearsay from fellow gentlemen. Here it is: from a very young age, women have to be on guard. There are hungry boys and men with weather-tested tactics in manipulation and reverse psychology and what they seek is between (for some men) any woman's legs (for a slightly more honorable man, it's between any willing woman's legs). I think I'm digressing back to the side of the man, but it should be stated that half (which is a very rough estimate) of the fun of snagging a woman is chasing her down (which, for some men, is done literally. These men tend to land in jail).
Anyways, I'll just get to the point: at some point in a woman's life, maybe after she's realized that life is only a fairytale for a select few and that, for the rest of us, many trials and tribulations need to occur and that, for many of us, these don't lead us anywhere in particular. For instance, John once told me that a good way to look at a girlfriend is as a learning experience. Now that I've dated Lucy and Mindy and Angela and whoever else I knew so well that I could pin-point the parts of their personalities that did not go well with my own, I have a better idea of what I'm looking for. Mindy was truly a shot in the dark: I knew I wanted a woman who was willing to kiss me and was not opposed to getting drunk or high. Very loose idea. Then I learned that I did not want someone who didn't get along with my friends and who was clingy and whatever else. On to Angela, I found someone smart but took a step back in the clingy sense. Oh, and marriage. God, what an awful topic to be brought up at such a ripe age. With Lucy, I kind of scrapped lots of ideas I had that were merely ideas (which is to say, things I hadn't learned through experience or with empirical evidence). Once again, I learned that marriage is such an awkward topic (amongst many, many other thing).
Wow, this has some how devolved into an analysis of past relationships. Back on track, and getting to the point: Up to now, every girl I have ever dated under the age of 27 took a good amount of effort to shack up with (well, with a few exceptions). But then there are the girls over 27. Maybe I should make that number 25, cool? Cool. So, every girl I've had any kind of more-than-friends (however slightly)-relationship with has eagerly thrown themselves onto me. I gotta tell you, it's repulsive. I mean, if half the fun of a being interested in a girl is chasing after them, then these girls are scoring, at best a 50% on whatever test I administer them in my mind. Pretty dismal figure there.
So why is this? I don't know... but I can guess:
Being no exception, I take the role of chasing women (along with dating them and trying to piece together a successful relationship with one) as something that one can be good or bad at, just like hitting a baseball. Along the way, I'll learn something that seems like a good idea in every situation, so I'll stick to it. Girls have been known to react in a warm manner to well-placed compliments (guys fall for this much easier. For a man, being complimented on their hat is often misconstrued as "would you like to have sex with me?"), that's an easy one. So, my best guess as to why the over-25 women have thrown themselves at me is because they learned (in a misguided way (dealing with me, anyways)) that the fastest way to a man's heart is down his pants.
Or maybe the two girls I'm referring to are isolated incidents and they were just looking for kicks with a younger dude.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Intergalactic Menopause
Where do I begin? Here, I suppose. I mean, it's not like there's anything pressing on my mind (partially true), and there's definitely nothing trying to jump through my hand onto this text writing space thing.
The expression "the road to hell is paved with good intentions" is so vague and annoying, yet, in my current predicament, is as spot-on as a horoscope one reads to mean exactly what they're feeling. Does it make sense that, to keep my distance from certain people, I have to divulge my biggest ulterior motive? Something doesn't add up.
So here I am, trying to sift through these papers of mistakes and regrets before I add anything to the pile. That's reasonable, right? I'm trying to avoid certain poor, miscalculated decisions made by my brother and sister.
Things can get hairy when looking for a balance between courtesy and honesty. I've already stated in plain terms that I am, in fact, an asshole. I guess that's the out I'm looking for: say whatever comes to my mind.
Aside from the death of a friend or family member, the closest to tears I can remember getting was being overly frustrated when closing down the coffee shop one night several months ago. Lucy was waiting for me, which added to my tension. Actually, this is all irrelevant for the story I'm trying to segue into.
Up to the age of 13, I had never gone to a White Sox game that they didn't end up winning. Once, when I was 9 or 10, my friend's dad invited me and my dad to a game. We left early because it was late in the game and the Sox were losing. We could hear the crowd inching towards the edges of their seats as we walked out the gates and into the parking lot. The bases had become loaded and Robin Ventura was batting when the radio in the car came on. We were almost on the expressway when we saw the fireworks.
The 200 level may be my favorite at Comiskey Park. It's the one that hangs below the skyboxes; just a few rows suspended at the perfect level for each sitting spectator the see every inch of every play that takes place. On a particular, warm, possibly August night in 2001, the Orioles were in town and my dad and I were in attendance. I remember pieces of the conversation we had with the scalper who sold us the tickets. He referred to these as the "drop-down seats." My memory of the actual game is too hazy to discern, but I was speechless once the final out was made. Literally. My dad grew frustrated with me to the point of making threats that I have since forgotten. We stayed for the post-game fireworks show, which the team didn't earn. There was no need to celebrate. The mortality in the face of opposition was now real to the point that it glowed and I couldn't help but assume they'd lose every game I would ever attend from then on.
The same feeling came over me in circumstances that were completely different. When the White Sox won the World Series in 2005, I thought to myself, "Now what?" The first occurrence shook my identity of "sports fan" to the very core. The second merely reinforced the idea that nothing really matters. What's the point of playing towards an achievable pinnacle? I suppose it's good and healthy to be goal-oriented, but what's the point if, once the winter passes, you start back at the beginning and hope for the best? Maybe it's because I don't get it that I no longer find sports to be fascinating; they now serve as a diversion from being productive. I am no longer capable of leaving a sporting event with an irrational sense of elation as I have no vested interest.
I've been experiencing a certain tightness in my chest and I don't know why. Well, it could be the excessive coffee intake, as it could be the cigarettes I've recently taken up. Or maybe it's nothing. I guess I'll have to wait and see. And it's not on my heart's side, so who cares? Not me, that's for damn sure.
Huh. I'm just barely halfway through this shift. Nine and a half hours is a long time to be in a coffee shop-- I don't know how some customers sit here nearly all day on a daily basis. I'm supposed to get a drink with Emily tonight and, lemme tall ya, I ain't too enthused. One of the most awkward feelings that I have ever experienced is that of being hit on by someone you want to remain friends with but have no interest past that. It's happened with Bella and it's happening with Emily. But what's a man to do? I've made enough girls cry in my life that I can't bare to be too blunt (which also risks being presumptuous in the case that I'm completely vain and that I'm not being hit on... unlikely, but plausible). This is a reason for my tendency to curl up in my room in the company of books, far from human interaction.
The expression "the road to hell is paved with good intentions" is so vague and annoying, yet, in my current predicament, is as spot-on as a horoscope one reads to mean exactly what they're feeling. Does it make sense that, to keep my distance from certain people, I have to divulge my biggest ulterior motive? Something doesn't add up.
So here I am, trying to sift through these papers of mistakes and regrets before I add anything to the pile. That's reasonable, right? I'm trying to avoid certain poor, miscalculated decisions made by my brother and sister.
Things can get hairy when looking for a balance between courtesy and honesty. I've already stated in plain terms that I am, in fact, an asshole. I guess that's the out I'm looking for: say whatever comes to my mind.
Aside from the death of a friend or family member, the closest to tears I can remember getting was being overly frustrated when closing down the coffee shop one night several months ago. Lucy was waiting for me, which added to my tension. Actually, this is all irrelevant for the story I'm trying to segue into.
Up to the age of 13, I had never gone to a White Sox game that they didn't end up winning. Once, when I was 9 or 10, my friend's dad invited me and my dad to a game. We left early because it was late in the game and the Sox were losing. We could hear the crowd inching towards the edges of their seats as we walked out the gates and into the parking lot. The bases had become loaded and Robin Ventura was batting when the radio in the car came on. We were almost on the expressway when we saw the fireworks.
The 200 level may be my favorite at Comiskey Park. It's the one that hangs below the skyboxes; just a few rows suspended at the perfect level for each sitting spectator the see every inch of every play that takes place. On a particular, warm, possibly August night in 2001, the Orioles were in town and my dad and I were in attendance. I remember pieces of the conversation we had with the scalper who sold us the tickets. He referred to these as the "drop-down seats." My memory of the actual game is too hazy to discern, but I was speechless once the final out was made. Literally. My dad grew frustrated with me to the point of making threats that I have since forgotten. We stayed for the post-game fireworks show, which the team didn't earn. There was no need to celebrate. The mortality in the face of opposition was now real to the point that it glowed and I couldn't help but assume they'd lose every game I would ever attend from then on.
The same feeling came over me in circumstances that were completely different. When the White Sox won the World Series in 2005, I thought to myself, "Now what?" The first occurrence shook my identity of "sports fan" to the very core. The second merely reinforced the idea that nothing really matters. What's the point of playing towards an achievable pinnacle? I suppose it's good and healthy to be goal-oriented, but what's the point if, once the winter passes, you start back at the beginning and hope for the best? Maybe it's because I don't get it that I no longer find sports to be fascinating; they now serve as a diversion from being productive. I am no longer capable of leaving a sporting event with an irrational sense of elation as I have no vested interest.
I've been experiencing a certain tightness in my chest and I don't know why. Well, it could be the excessive coffee intake, as it could be the cigarettes I've recently taken up. Or maybe it's nothing. I guess I'll have to wait and see. And it's not on my heart's side, so who cares? Not me, that's for damn sure.
Huh. I'm just barely halfway through this shift. Nine and a half hours is a long time to be in a coffee shop-- I don't know how some customers sit here nearly all day on a daily basis. I'm supposed to get a drink with Emily tonight and, lemme tall ya, I ain't too enthused. One of the most awkward feelings that I have ever experienced is that of being hit on by someone you want to remain friends with but have no interest past that. It's happened with Bella and it's happening with Emily. But what's a man to do? I've made enough girls cry in my life that I can't bare to be too blunt (which also risks being presumptuous in the case that I'm completely vain and that I'm not being hit on... unlikely, but plausible). This is a reason for my tendency to curl up in my room in the company of books, far from human interaction.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
My Poor Friend Me
Man, life is so boring. I mean, I know there are really, really great things going on, and there are also some very terrible things going on, but from a detached perspective of some kid trying to scrape out a living while trying to get drunk a few times a week, nothing really matters. And that's tough. It's tough in a way that's hard to comprehend if you're unfamiliar. You know Adam Dunn? He's on the White Sox and he sucks this year. Like, really badly. Here's why: in the National League he had to play first base or the outfield in order to be allotted a spot in the batting order. While Dunn wasn't a very good fielder at all, he was engaged in every play of every game. Now, on the White Sox, his only job is to hit. While the rest of the guys take the field, he sits in the dugout. Every couple of innings, he's required to stand up, stretch for a few minutes, then try to hit a few 80-100 mile per hour pitches being thrown next to him with the objective of not allowing him to make solid contact (or, ideally, any contact). If I were him, I'd be bored to death every game. I have a similar situation here at work: some days, it's really busy. On these days I get a lot done because I'm up and about anyways so it doesn't take much effort to take on the tasks necessary to, y'know, do my job. On a night like tonight, the last thing I am inclined to do is be productive. It's not necessarily that I'm lazy (though that certainly plays a part), and it's not even that I've come across anything even remotely interesting on the internet (this probably has more to do with laziness); there's no pressing issues, so there's no reason for me to stand up and walk around, so I'm not going to accidentally be ahead of schedule my accidentally taking out the garbage or cleaning the espresso machine. And then 9:30 will come around and some sense of urgency will present itself but, by that point, it will be too late. So I'll stay past 10:30 into the great abyss of time that I do not get paid for. It's terrible and it's depressing and time consuming and it's a great allegory for the way that I live my life.
Happy Saturday! If I had more than this month's rent in my bank account then I'd go out drinking. Or if it was warmer outside then I'd drive around in my convertible all night. But, alas (I kind of hate that word)! I will go home and eat pasta and either shave or watch In Cold Blood. Or both.
Happy Saturday! If I had more than this month's rent in my bank account then I'd go out drinking. Or if it was warmer outside then I'd drive around in my convertible all night. But, alas (I kind of hate that word)! I will go home and eat pasta and either shave or watch In Cold Blood. Or both.
Monday, April 18, 2011
It's a Shame All the Ways We Build Ourselves Up Just To Let Each Other Down.
Justin got stabbed walking home from his bar on Saturday night and this neighborhood isn't getting any better. Nothing was taken but a lot of blood was lost. It's a good thing that his character encompassed the will the crawl towards his apartment, and who knows what would have happened if his girlfriend hadn't been out smoking a cigarette.
My nights have been a little longer and a little drunker while my days have been more exhausted much less focused, like looking through the windshield of my car when the wipers are old and tired and the weather's too messy for them to be replaced.
in 1946 in the middle of Illinois on a particular farm in the middle of a warm October night you poked your head through your mother's legs and so began an eternity that will one day end in an unforgiving asphyxiation with no one to bear witness and and no one to fully comprehend the endless pain that's so trivial at its end. And the choices you made, with the duct-taped couches to what you should have said, they all end down in the same dull grave.
My nights have been a little longer and a little drunker while my days have been more exhausted much less focused, like looking through the windshield of my car when the wipers are old and tired and the weather's too messy for them to be replaced.
in 1946 in the middle of Illinois on a particular farm in the middle of a warm October night you poked your head through your mother's legs and so began an eternity that will one day end in an unforgiving asphyxiation with no one to bear witness and and no one to fully comprehend the endless pain that's so trivial at its end. And the choices you made, with the duct-taped couches to what you should have said, they all end down in the same dull grave.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Digging Deep, Tonight
Somehow, my body still doesn't handle hangovers very well. Maybe it was the limited sleep in a foreign bed, or maybe because, upon awaking, I was immediately thrown into my day.
Don't wanna waste my time
sitting alone in this store
and I don't need no apple--
if it'll just become a core
no, I don't want to work here anymore.
No, I don't wanna work here anymore.
I guess you'll say
we're just better off this way.
Don't wanna waste my time
sitting alone in this store
and I don't need no apple--
if it'll just become a core
no, I don't want to work here anymore.
No, I don't wanna work here anymore.
I guess you'll say
we're just better off this way.
Monday, April 11, 2011
When I Fall I Fall Hard
Uh... yeah.
Today was beautiful. It still is, but I'm currently cooped up in the coffee shop. Yesterday, Will figured out how to put the top down on the Cabrio and now I can't seem to imagine driving in an enclosed automobile. Huh.
On Mondays, it seems that the earlier I wake up, the later I get to the bowling alley. John's usually late, anyways, so it's not a big deal. Today, though, I learned that PBR is only $2... in a bottle! That's good to know. So, within the first two hours of being awake, I had a really strong cup of coffee, two cigarettes, and a beer. I should start every day off like today (as should Chicago's weather, because it was gorgeous).
Anyhow, a brief note regarding that girl... the one, y'know, on my mind: I have a feeling that I'm in for a long strand of unsuccessful relationships. That's what enjoying beer and cigarettes and being in my 20s and having no real goal is supposed to be like, right? Right. So, in the midst of realizing that I have no game and that I sound extra desperate when I try to impress women through text-messages, my future was revealed. The string-of-failed-relationships one. Yeah.
I suppose my plan is to not pursue her over-actively so I can avoid looking completely ridiculous.
I guess if this has shown me anything it's that I'm not very good at reading people. Or that I'm overly doubtful of myself.
It'd be nice to have a cute girl who knows a lot of music (both familiar and unfamiliar), and speaks two languages (though I'm not sure why I find this to be a necessity), and who will stay up late with me to listen to the Clash and drink whiskey and smoke cigarettes (but doesn't have her own pack. Once again, why does this matter?). And it's nice being around someone whom I can say anything to and not feel stupid or unnecessarily crass. Maybe this is just a pipe dream, but I'll keep dreaming it in hopes that... I don't know. Well, in hopes of satisfaction, of course.
I now understand the single life in a way that I didn't before, with all the drinking and the cigarettes and the uncertainty and the coping with wandering through a wondering mind.
Let's see... thoughts... I got nothing. Well, the president's supposed to be in Chicago today, and what sounded like Marine One flew over the coffee shop. Supposedly he's still in DC, though, possibly deterred by all the children getting shot in Chicago these days.
Today was beautiful. It still is, but I'm currently cooped up in the coffee shop. Yesterday, Will figured out how to put the top down on the Cabrio and now I can't seem to imagine driving in an enclosed automobile. Huh.
On Mondays, it seems that the earlier I wake up, the later I get to the bowling alley. John's usually late, anyways, so it's not a big deal. Today, though, I learned that PBR is only $2... in a bottle! That's good to know. So, within the first two hours of being awake, I had a really strong cup of coffee, two cigarettes, and a beer. I should start every day off like today (as should Chicago's weather, because it was gorgeous).
Anyhow, a brief note regarding that girl... the one, y'know, on my mind: I have a feeling that I'm in for a long strand of unsuccessful relationships. That's what enjoying beer and cigarettes and being in my 20s and having no real goal is supposed to be like, right? Right. So, in the midst of realizing that I have no game and that I sound extra desperate when I try to impress women through text-messages, my future was revealed. The string-of-failed-relationships one. Yeah.
I suppose my plan is to not pursue her over-actively so I can avoid looking completely ridiculous.
I guess if this has shown me anything it's that I'm not very good at reading people. Or that I'm overly doubtful of myself.
It'd be nice to have a cute girl who knows a lot of music (both familiar and unfamiliar), and speaks two languages (though I'm not sure why I find this to be a necessity), and who will stay up late with me to listen to the Clash and drink whiskey and smoke cigarettes (but doesn't have her own pack. Once again, why does this matter?). And it's nice being around someone whom I can say anything to and not feel stupid or unnecessarily crass. Maybe this is just a pipe dream, but I'll keep dreaming it in hopes that... I don't know. Well, in hopes of satisfaction, of course.
I now understand the single life in a way that I didn't before, with all the drinking and the cigarettes and the uncertainty and the coping with wandering through a wondering mind.
Let's see... thoughts... I got nothing. Well, the president's supposed to be in Chicago today, and what sounded like Marine One flew over the coffee shop. Supposedly he's still in DC, though, possibly deterred by all the children getting shot in Chicago these days.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
when you get high and write your food gets cold and your writing sucks.
So there's a line in Max Payne in which some old dude who kind of looks like Jimmy Carter mixed with Wade Phillips is very sympathetically explaining his relationship with Max to Ludacris. One thing he says is something along the lines of, "[Max's wife's suicide] defines him," and I wondered... is there literally one moment in a person's life that defines them? I mean, maybe Ma Payne was just some dude until his wife killed herself and he suddenly had a purpose. Not that everyone has to witness their spouses suicide to have a legitimate goal, because the defining time in one's life could be something like... their first communion, or being touched by a church member immediately before their first communion ceremony. Or maybe someone hit a home run in their first little league baseball game and was then defined in the sense that they would dedicate their life to being a baseball player. But then, maybe that kid grew up and wasn't good enough. He could have been a success story like Rudy, but maybe he wasn't and instead is a living, breathing, completely depressed human adult because, past the age of 35 (hypothetically), it is literally impossible to realize their end. So maybe that kid grows into the functioning alcoholic father who coaches little league baseball past the age that his kids play. And maybe he pressures his kids to play sports, and they rebel and be completely drugged up, or they take his encouragement because this hypothetical son is kind of a chump, and his growth is stunted because he wasn't able to take the path of his defining moment, or maybe he was so wrapped up playing baseball that he never picked up a guitar or sat down to write about his feelings, or he was too empty to marry the right girl and witness her suicide.
I think this is a variation on the idea that the best golfer in the world may have never had the opportunity to play golf.
Or maybe some people don't have a defining point. Or maybe some people balked in their moment.
I think this is a variation on the idea that the best golfer in the world may have never had the opportunity to play golf.
Or maybe some people don't have a defining point. Or maybe some people balked in their moment.
Girl is on My Mind
What happens to women? It's as if every woman has been broken by a certain age and the distance kept is convenient, but a little heart-wrenching.
I once dated a 27 year old. I called her from Champaign to see how she was and she was caught off guard, so much that she blatantly asked, almost offended, "why are you calling me?"
Chris is dating a 29 year old girl. Same deal.
I feel as if I have to learn how to deal with a whole new species. The women I've dated always expected regular phone calls and texts, and to be the last person I talked to before I went to bed.
My guess, as I said earlier, is that their spirits have been broken by promises by former boyfriends.
Anyhow, I've got my eye on someone. It's strange. In high school, I asked Bo why he wasn't friends with Earl. "You can't be friends with everyone," or something like that. I don't remember his exact words but I remember an implication that there just isn't enough time. So I've known this girl for about a year and a half but only occasionally hung out with her. Last week I came home from work and there she was, watching a movie. I didn't think much of it, past, "huh, she's cute," and, "huh, she likes the Clash. sweet." So, since I have no girlfriend and no rational aspirations, I figured I should be as much myself as possible. Y'know, just say whatever comes to mind, be crass, unleashed.
Ha!
Anyhow, she says I'm a bad influence. That brings me back. Christina credits me with teaching her to smoke cigarettes. And I tend to pressure people to stay up later and drink more than they otherwise would.
I once dated a 27 year old. I called her from Champaign to see how she was and she was caught off guard, so much that she blatantly asked, almost offended, "why are you calling me?"
Chris is dating a 29 year old girl. Same deal.
I feel as if I have to learn how to deal with a whole new species. The women I've dated always expected regular phone calls and texts, and to be the last person I talked to before I went to bed.
My guess, as I said earlier, is that their spirits have been broken by promises by former boyfriends.
Anyhow, I've got my eye on someone. It's strange. In high school, I asked Bo why he wasn't friends with Earl. "You can't be friends with everyone," or something like that. I don't remember his exact words but I remember an implication that there just isn't enough time. So I've known this girl for about a year and a half but only occasionally hung out with her. Last week I came home from work and there she was, watching a movie. I didn't think much of it, past, "huh, she's cute," and, "huh, she likes the Clash. sweet." So, since I have no girlfriend and no rational aspirations, I figured I should be as much myself as possible. Y'know, just say whatever comes to mind, be crass, unleashed.
Ha!
Anyhow, she says I'm a bad influence. That brings me back. Christina credits me with teaching her to smoke cigarettes. And I tend to pressure people to stay up later and drink more than they otherwise would.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
I Have Seen the Darkest Part of Humanity
It would be great to grow old, so old that my body starts failing me. Hell, even the latter stages when life has hit me past the point of my knees buckling, past the point of trying to balance on my elbows, all the way to the fetus position on the kitchen floor with no visitors until a thoughtful neighbor comes calling to warn that my car is parked on the side of the street that is to be street-cleaned and if I don't move it then it will be ticketed or towed. And I won't answer the door because I'll be dying, but it will be assumed that I'm not home. And that'll be fine. And when word gets around that I died so alone, people will sigh great, big, melancholic sighs about how depressing it must have been, though I won't have cared. Why would I? I'll be old. And I'll have lived such a long, unfulfilled life because the things I believe in don't match common perceptions of success.
So what the fuck am I thinking? I could abandon all my friends and live a great big life, and I could be healthy and rear some children that I'd love and maybe even marry some girl who I might get along with. But the feeling won't go away. Once it's there, it's there to stay. It's not the kind of thing you grow out of, you know? It can only be covered with layers of distractions, like sports or music or politics, and where's the truth in that? How can the Blackhawks winning the championship be legitimately fulfilling? And why get riled up when watching a game that you have no vested interest in?
But I don't really care. There's love and beauty and a bunch of other stuff, but that gets spoiled by the people in charge. I'd probably be an asshole, too, if I was some kind of authority on something.
So what the fuck am I thinking? I could abandon all my friends and live a great big life, and I could be healthy and rear some children that I'd love and maybe even marry some girl who I might get along with. But the feeling won't go away. Once it's there, it's there to stay. It's not the kind of thing you grow out of, you know? It can only be covered with layers of distractions, like sports or music or politics, and where's the truth in that? How can the Blackhawks winning the championship be legitimately fulfilling? And why get riled up when watching a game that you have no vested interest in?
But I don't really care. There's love and beauty and a bunch of other stuff, but that gets spoiled by the people in charge. I'd probably be an asshole, too, if I was some kind of authority on something.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Learning to Fly (but i ain't got wings)
Monday evening, eh? The weather feels like autumn and I'm trying not to over-caffeinate myself.
Time for a cup of coffee and a smoke to go with Tom Petty and the end of the day.
Time for a cup of coffee and a smoke to go with Tom Petty and the end of the day.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Biomusicology
I've been having some strange dreams the past couple of nights, most involving a particular old friend/current acquaintance putting the moves on a certain former girlfriend. The dream is pretty sickening (which warrants some meditation as to why, but that's for another day) and my initial impression upon awakening is that I had just experienced a nightmare.
Last night, off some kind of "spur of the moment" idea, Aaron and I decided to drive down to Urbana. It was to be (and successfully so) a short, one night trip because I had to be at work by 3 PM today.
I arrived at Matsuo's apartment around 11:15 after dropping Aaron off with Neil. Matsuo, though, had gone to St. Louis for the night, Earl was back in Chicago for the weekend, and Woj and Tiki weren't accessible by phone. Christina was up for going out, thankfully (I was thankful, not her. Well, she may have been. I didn't ask), and we met at some bar called the White Horse. Woj and Tiki eventually met us and we all headed to Murphy's. Blah blah blah. This story has no substance and lacks a point, so I'll skip ahead.
I woke up to the sound of Hokestra's girlfriend's moaning interspersed with the steady rhythm of the mattress springs being compressed and uncompressed. I don't think I realized it at that moment, but the dream I was having earlier was quite vivid: I decided to be a good citizen of the democracy I was living in and go to the voting booth to cast my opinion. Something was strange as I didn't recognize any candidates. Then I noticed that what was up for election was actually a poll on what book was best. I wasn't familiar with any of the titles, and then I probably woke up.
So there's that: from borderline nightmares in Chicago to voting for books in Urbana.
What else?
Well, I noticed that I'm doing a very half-assed version of preparing for the future. Here's what I mean:
I eat very well (relatively, I suppose). Everyday I eat yogurt and a banana and a Clif bar and I drink lots of water and don't often overdo candy or soda or liquor. I eat pasta the night before a long day so as to have plenty of carbohydrates to burn. Uh... I drink whole milk with my cereal, with a glass of orange juice. I don't put sugar in my coffee.
Outside of my diet, I brush twice a day and floss at night. I have an exercise routine that's simple yet challenging that I get around to almost every morning. I rarely smoke cigarettes three days in a row (two is pretty rare, too) and I often take 5-10 days off between nights of chain-smoking.
I think that's all that bares mentioning.
So what's wrong with me? Am I anemic? That might explain the excessive bleeding when I get a tattoo, and the excessive cold I feel when the weather isn't even that bad. But why do I pee so often? Is that just because of the excessive intake of coffee and water? And why am I always so tired? I drink a ton of coffee, I take naps, and every night I get at least 6 hours of sleep.
So here's a solution that I have not yet fully endorsed:
Go all in. Cigarettes. Bourbon. Beef jerky. Healthy food. Getting high. Candy. Making music. Writing. Y'know, living by the whim.
Drawbacks: my attention span goes down, making reading very difficult. Writing in short spurts would be fine for music or errant ranting.
I don't know. Something needs to change. I need to be more productive. Oh, and Woj said I'm bad at women. So there's that. I guess I'll have to hone those skills. Huh.
Oh, so how's this for a strange night to prompt bad dreams?:
Thursday night I saw Steve's new band, Marshfield, play at the Spot on Broadway. I wasn't sure if anyone I knew would go as no one responded to text messages. I had drunkenly promised Steve I'd make it, though, and I try to make it a point to keep every promise, especially drunken (though a few fall through the cracks). Aaron catches me as I'm walking in, so I figured I'd have good company and a ride home, if nothing else. We made our way upstairs and to the bar where I paid $4 (+ $1 tip) for a Budweiser. Wanting to shoot myself in the face after metaphorically shooting myself in the foot, I started to turn away from the bar when my attention was caught by a guy on the other side of the bar. I gave a knowing glance and head nod before turning back to Aaron. I should mention that I didn't recognize this particular person because my vision is terrible.
Anyhow, I'm at work and I should wrap this up: the guy I didn't recognize was Dick. We got to talking and eventually went to Nick's Uptown after the show. We hung out until like 3 that morning and... yeah. That's strange, huh? Oh, and Aaron's friend Greg was there. That's weird because he was (or is) dating Teela. I probably gave him the cold shoulder more than I should have, but what was I to do? Teela's unpredictable in the sense that she could have shared her take on my entire life story with him, or he could know that she thinks I'm a great big asshole. So yeah, that was weird. Anyways, I'm going to smoke a cigarette then get back to work.
Last night, off some kind of "spur of the moment" idea, Aaron and I decided to drive down to Urbana. It was to be (and successfully so) a short, one night trip because I had to be at work by 3 PM today.
I arrived at Matsuo's apartment around 11:15 after dropping Aaron off with Neil. Matsuo, though, had gone to St. Louis for the night, Earl was back in Chicago for the weekend, and Woj and Tiki weren't accessible by phone. Christina was up for going out, thankfully (I was thankful, not her. Well, she may have been. I didn't ask), and we met at some bar called the White Horse. Woj and Tiki eventually met us and we all headed to Murphy's. Blah blah blah. This story has no substance and lacks a point, so I'll skip ahead.
I woke up to the sound of Hokestra's girlfriend's moaning interspersed with the steady rhythm of the mattress springs being compressed and uncompressed. I don't think I realized it at that moment, but the dream I was having earlier was quite vivid: I decided to be a good citizen of the democracy I was living in and go to the voting booth to cast my opinion. Something was strange as I didn't recognize any candidates. Then I noticed that what was up for election was actually a poll on what book was best. I wasn't familiar with any of the titles, and then I probably woke up.
So there's that: from borderline nightmares in Chicago to voting for books in Urbana.
What else?
Well, I noticed that I'm doing a very half-assed version of preparing for the future. Here's what I mean:
I eat very well (relatively, I suppose). Everyday I eat yogurt and a banana and a Clif bar and I drink lots of water and don't often overdo candy or soda or liquor. I eat pasta the night before a long day so as to have plenty of carbohydrates to burn. Uh... I drink whole milk with my cereal, with a glass of orange juice. I don't put sugar in my coffee.
Outside of my diet, I brush twice a day and floss at night. I have an exercise routine that's simple yet challenging that I get around to almost every morning. I rarely smoke cigarettes three days in a row (two is pretty rare, too) and I often take 5-10 days off between nights of chain-smoking.
I think that's all that bares mentioning.
So what's wrong with me? Am I anemic? That might explain the excessive bleeding when I get a tattoo, and the excessive cold I feel when the weather isn't even that bad. But why do I pee so often? Is that just because of the excessive intake of coffee and water? And why am I always so tired? I drink a ton of coffee, I take naps, and every night I get at least 6 hours of sleep.
So here's a solution that I have not yet fully endorsed:
Go all in. Cigarettes. Bourbon. Beef jerky. Healthy food. Getting high. Candy. Making music. Writing. Y'know, living by the whim.
Drawbacks: my attention span goes down, making reading very difficult. Writing in short spurts would be fine for music or errant ranting.
I don't know. Something needs to change. I need to be more productive. Oh, and Woj said I'm bad at women. So there's that. I guess I'll have to hone those skills. Huh.
Oh, so how's this for a strange night to prompt bad dreams?:
Thursday night I saw Steve's new band, Marshfield, play at the Spot on Broadway. I wasn't sure if anyone I knew would go as no one responded to text messages. I had drunkenly promised Steve I'd make it, though, and I try to make it a point to keep every promise, especially drunken (though a few fall through the cracks). Aaron catches me as I'm walking in, so I figured I'd have good company and a ride home, if nothing else. We made our way upstairs and to the bar where I paid $4 (+ $1 tip) for a Budweiser. Wanting to shoot myself in the face after metaphorically shooting myself in the foot, I started to turn away from the bar when my attention was caught by a guy on the other side of the bar. I gave a knowing glance and head nod before turning back to Aaron. I should mention that I didn't recognize this particular person because my vision is terrible.
Anyhow, I'm at work and I should wrap this up: the guy I didn't recognize was Dick. We got to talking and eventually went to Nick's Uptown after the show. We hung out until like 3 that morning and... yeah. That's strange, huh? Oh, and Aaron's friend Greg was there. That's weird because he was (or is) dating Teela. I probably gave him the cold shoulder more than I should have, but what was I to do? Teela's unpredictable in the sense that she could have shared her take on my entire life story with him, or he could know that she thinks I'm a great big asshole. So yeah, that was weird. Anyways, I'm going to smoke a cigarette then get back to work.
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