I'm trying to remember a metaphor I made last night... Sam said it made sense, despite being ridiculous. Hm.
I've been making some bad comparisons lately. When Lucy and I last set things straight, I compared taking her out on dates to taking out the trash: sometimes it can seem like the most grueling chore ever discovered by man; other times it can almost be (dare I say) fun because there's a sense of accomplishment and keeping-things-in-motion.
I'm at work and Sam just rolled up on his bike.

I'm Drunk Off All These Stars and All These Crazy Hollywood Nights

I've got a streak going: three bars in a row providing free drinks. It's sweet. Clarke's provided for the first two nights: and off-duty waitress bought our table one round the first night and two the second. Last night, this guy I know from Truman Middle College was tending the bar at Nick's. Three rounds of Pabst for three people (Mai sat out the last round), not bad.
I picked Lucy up after work last night, intending to meet Danny for a drink. But, like the skin under Toby's coat, Danny flaked. That's okay, I have to meet Vivian anyways, because she makes the best pumpkin pies. That led us to Ania's apartment, which she shares with DB. Margo was there, as were a few people I vaguely know. The party moved to Nick's, which brings this story full circle. Oh, and lots of pool was played, but the outcome was never clear.
Anyhow, speaking of Truman College, to kids were shot right out front today. That's reassuring. I definitely can't wait to go to class tomorrow. Actually, I especially can't wait because I might have a paper due this week. I'm not too thrilled considering I haven't started it.

The Sunlight is Always Gonna Take Love Away

I have a feeling my mother won't like me for the next few months. She's house-sitting for the Keenan's, who live in the same neighborhood I grew up in. This new house, though, is like my old house 2.0. It's ridiculous: Hank's room is a penthouse on the third floor with a deck that seems built for drinking and smoking, the basement is finished and has a pool table and three beds (plus a couch), and the giant kitchen has an attached sun-room. Oh, and there's parking outside, which is sweet.
Last night, four people slept over. There were four on Wednesday night, too.
It's tough: I'm given keys to a place that has "fun" and "drinking" written all over it and I'm supposed to be a responsible adult. What Bullshit. With a capital 'b.'
Matt Skiba was last night. I didn't want to go, so Aaron and I sold our tickets. I think I mentioned yesterday how Alkaline Trio has become something to reminisce over, as opposed to get excited about. Plus, it sold out so my pity-support wasn't necessary.

So I managed to kill almost seven hours here. It's almost eight o'clock and there's an older couple making out on the back couches. Cool. I'm playing the Clash and trying to abstain from having another cup of coffee because I've lost count at this point. After work I'm having a drink with Lucy and Mai and Danny and anyone else we run into. Should be sweet.

Timorous Me

Thanksgiving delivered on all cylinders, minus a few cousins. Luckily, there's a pool table in my grandparents' basement in which, unfortunately, there's some kind of leak that expels an odor reminiscent of a litter box full of dead cats.
The evening before entertained the real action, though: I've never been so close to being kicked out of a bar. Actually, had we not left immediately, I think it would have happened within a minute or two. Matsuo somehow pissed off Tiki and, as I was reaching for my nearly-finished beer, all the glasses on our table crashed to the floor. It was quite a scene; I was impressed.
So now I'm bored and at work, knocking back a few yogurts. I somehow work up at 6:40 this morning despite the alarm on my phone being at the absolute lowest volume (my fault for not anticipating that the low ring volume would also mean a low alarm volume) and my alarm clock mysteriously not going off. To reward my intuitive awakening, I slept for another 20 minutes and was 5 minutes late to work. And here I am. And there have been three customers and we've been open for more than an hour. I'm here until 2:30 and this day seems like it will feel long.
I don't know, I don't even feel like writing right now. I don't know what I feel like. I feel cold, so I suppose I could say I feel like a scoop of ice cream? That could be it. Eating a ton of sugary candy and soda doesn't leave the sweetest taste in my mouth, though.
Damn this sucks. I'm so bored. Last night I watched The Dark Knight with Aaron and Diann. It was lame. The movie wasn't lame, but who goes to bed in the middle of one? Not me. So I stayed up, by my lonesome, really wishing I had watched a movie I had never seen before.
What else is there to complain about... how about getting old? Sure, I'm only 22, but still. Aaron has a funny story about a friend of his named Colin. Back in high school, the two of them would joke around about people who light incense and sit around enjoying their nasal sensory perceptions or whatever (Aaron's description painted a clearer picture, so bear with me). The two of them were driving around fairly recently, within the past two months, when Aaron made a comment about some jagbag appreciating his incense. This remark caused Colin to turn to Aaron and respond, "Hey, uh, I'm kinda into that stuff now." I found it hilarious but also entirely plausible and probably very common. And it sucks. For instance, lots of kids I knew in high school thought the whole idea of religion and church was pretty dumb. Or they said so, maybe they were humoring me. Regardless, my point is that kids go through lots of phases and find out what irritates them and what makes them comfortable, and sometimes their left brain analyzes the idea of religion (for example) and finds flaws and fallacies and things that don't add up, but their right brain reminds them that their mom took them to church every Sunday, and how it's nice to be a part of something, and maybe they enjoyed being groped by an older man in a collar. I don't doubt that this happens, especially in my family. Hey, maybe I'll fall victim to this vicious dichotomy: logical and miserable or nonsensical and happy.
I think I strayed from the topic. I don't know how to sum this all up as one point because maybe there isn't one. But maybe all this can account for why it's difficult for me to open up to people. Everyone's always changing (ideally), so if I break out my high school fuck-Christianity jokes to my old friend who may not be a full-fledged Christian, is it worth isolating myself from this person? I don't know. Maybe that's part of being myself and seeing who sticks around. Maybe.
Anyways, I have three hours left here and it was fairly busy over the past hour or so. Now I'm getting hunger pangs that coffee is only exacerbating. Time for a Twinkie.
So yeah, this is my life. Pretty exhilarating. Tonight is Matt Skiba and Brendan Kelly at the Bottom Lounge. At some point I crossed a line with Alkaline Trio-- from excited fan to reminiscent... guy. Some bands had an affect on me that would have me going to shows because it seemed important, like whatever the singer had to say bore some great importance to the future of my life. This isn't the case anymore, but that could be due to my favorite bands all growing old at a rapid pace.
Now there's a fire across the street.

And can you live with what you know about yourself, when you're all alone, behind closed doors, the things we never said but were always right there?

Well, the weather outside is shitty. I'm supposed to go out tonight, and supposedly everybody else between the ages of 21 and un(happily)married will be doing the same. I took $300 from under my mattress and spent $219 on license plates for my car. This leaves me with more money than I'd like to spend tonight. Now and then I pride myself on my self-control, but the feeling is too familiar: looking to keep the good times going, then glancing down at a full wallet. This doesn't last long, of course, as nothing ever does.
This is old news. What else..? I'm about to eat a twinkie. That's cool. This new fascination with twinkies comes from Eric buying them at the gas station, and Zombieland-- if a man risks life and limb in a post-apocalyptic world for the sake of enjoying a twinkie, I shouldn't take them for granted when they're at my disposal.
Uh... huh. I'm at a loss. I brought nothing to do, the shop is nearly empty and I'll be surprised to have a customer in the next hour.
I guess I could talk about why I look forward to Thanksgiving being over, right? Right.
My dad is very conservative. It may have been rational or commonplace at a time, but now... Well, now rationality and commonplacity are tied very closely to geography or geographic regions or something. Anyways, my dad would probably be the coolest, most level-headed person on the block in rural Arizona. Unfortunately for almost every party involved, he lives in Chicago. Here he can come off as ridiculously self-righteous. He also frequents the air-time that is occupied by Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity. So there's that. My aunt and her new husband get along very well with my dad, as do my grandparents. Meanwhile, my cousin Greg is a suave, young lawyer in the South loop who voted for Obama (he's also like 6'8, which used to impress me beyond belief until I crossed the 6' mark). I don't know how my other two cousins feel about the whole situation, but I'm usually left feeling isolated and disenfranchised and waiting to drive back to Chicago. Actually, I don't remember ever not smoking cigarettes on Thanksgiving... how else could I sneak away and pass the time?
Oh, and to make matters worse, my uncle lives with my grandparents. Doesn't sound too bad, right? Here it is: I don't know if my grandparents could ever enjoy a cold beer, or maybe a heavy, delicious German beer with Thanksgiving dinner, but the whole idea of drinking is taboo now that my alcoholic uncle (who was recovering, but may have slipped back again) is lingering upstairs. Just saying: everyone I know loves Thanksgiving because it involves quality, drunken time with family members that aren't usually around.
I suppose this is as good a time as any to step outside and dwell in self-pity for a few minutes. Be right back.

Back. It's cold out. And raining. Tonight might be soggier than I had hoped.

Muscles Burning Alcohol and Nicotine

Well, it's Tuesday. Yup. Like every other Tuesday, I have foggy memories of the evening before, of Matsuo puking into a cup and Tiki peeing on my hallway floor. Hm.
It'll be a while before any drinking buddies step into my house, that's for sure. Well, not necessarily. It may be a few days. Or a month. We'll see.
Anyways, I finally got the Cabrio-- it's sweet. Aaron said we're slowly forming a club of people with cool motorcycles and feminine cars. I can see it, but the Cabrio's too much fun to be pigeonholed into the category of "chick car."
Speaking of Pigeon (being the name of a prominent character in A Long, Long Time Ago and Essentially True-- excellent book), Brigid Pasulka was at my mom's new house (which she is house-sitting, not owning) for a book club meeting. It went well and it was great seeing her and now I'm struck by the idea of moving to Germany for no apparent reason and with no plan and few belongings. It'd be nice to learn a new language and not have to... I don't know. What can I complain about? I've been lazy and not the best brother/friend/boyfriend/co-worker. It just gets so boring doing things the right way. I mean, I know how to be healthy and how to be on-time and how to tell people what they want to hear, but is it worth it? Sure, I suppose it is. It'd be nice to fall in love with my life again when I'm 60 and not be living in a dilapidated shell of a human being. Man, I feel like every time I look up, I'm a some kind of crucial crossroads. Will I tire of this and arbitrarily settle into whatever habits I happen to be entertaining at that point in time? That could be a very good or very bad thing. I'll tell you what, though: I won't let myself get used to this smoker's cough-- it sucks and it's inconvenient and awkward and only good when it results in my hacking up a huge ball of... I went over this in the previous entry, I believe.
I wasn't really led to this next point, but here goes:
The Matrix was the first to bring the idea to my mind, the one comparing humanity to a virus: grazing until the land is dead before moving on and repeating the process. Is that a realistic way to live on an individual basis? I think it will kind of happen whether or not I try, but should I make a conscious effort to enjoy things to their fullest until I bore of them? That was a prior mentality of mine but I can't quite recall how it felt. Should I listen to Against Me! until I can't stand them anymore? Should I drink constantly until the idea of waking up with poor recollection and an abundance of regret becomes overwhelming and I need to live a sober, orderly life? With a car or motorcycle or bicycle, it's possible to drive recklessly and fully enjoy the car while, simultaneously, putting the work in on the side to make sure the oil is fresh. And the work on the side can be fun, too. Did I just answer my question? Should I stop being a lazy asshole and start working out and eating right again to preserve my body throughout the alcoholic assaults I've been putting it through? Hm. But it's so much more fulfilling to eat twinkies than a banana, especially when I'm drinking or hungover. So yes, I think I did answer my own question: even if the wrong oil is cheaper-- or, for that matter, no new oil-- I still have to use the right kind if I want my car to last. Good? Good. This should begin immediately. I've already burnt myself out on school, I don't need to burn myself out on having fun, too.
Last thought for this entry:
Since working for Ms. Lerone and Stella and Starbucks and Panera and Dunkin' Donuts, I've learned a few things. First of all, Starbucks or Panera or Dunkin' Donuts would never give me a car. That thought will never come as a shock to anybody, but there's more. At Stella, generally, I'm treated as a human being, as opposed to a hat or an apron or a piece of shit. Don't get me wrong, the people who go to Starbucks and Panera and Dunkin' Donuts are also people and, thus, are not entirely incapable of making judgments in the present as individuals... but!(this is a big but)! There's a hat and an apron and a dress code and the customer doesn't really need to make any judgments outside of what flavor they want their coffee because in front of every baristas face is the Starbucks logo-- both parties can hide behind it and everything's anonymous and that's kind of how I know America. It's kind of sickening. So my point is, aside from being half-baked, that if there weren't uniforms and hats and logos to hide behind, people might make connections in different places. You know, the way that some people know their mail- man or lady but those people, generally, seem to be shunned. And that makes me wonder whether mail people seemed a little strange to me before or after I noticed their being shunned. It's the same scenario as the guy who towed my car: is he an asshole because he was expecting me to be an asshole? Was it self-defense? I don't know. I'm still not used to this coffee shop. I mean, people talk to me like we're building friendships, and, in a way, we are: I'm their coffee-guy. Rarely more and never less (until they find a different shop or I skip town or something). So there's a sense of community here, like how cops make a community out of 7-11 (but that's different because that's just cops, employees of 7-11, and the occasional drunk dude).
So there's that. It's an observation that would probably be shot down if I shared it with a human being instead of the internet or the ether or wherever these posts end up, so I guess I'm going taking the anonymous route-- the one that makes me so uncomfortable when I observe other people doing it. Kind of like cocaine-- that always had a scary aura until it was me in the circle. Now it's just dumb.

Thanks For All The Nice Murder Music

It's tough selling coffee without a voice. I really don't know where it went-- Mike and I were driving back to my place around 3 or 4 this morning and it occurred to me: I'm losing my voice. It's tough; I'll go a while without talking and forget that exercising my vocal cords lets out a crackly, unbecoming murmur. Then a customer walks in. At least when I'm consistently talking for a period of time I can control my range, instead of diving into a pool of speech that isn't very deep.
This brings me to my next question: how does this happen? Is yelling responsible for every morning that has me waking up with half a voice? Here are a few occasions to which the question is directed:
-after a long night of drinking
-after going to a show
-after smoking lots of cigarettes/weed.
I don't know. This whole business boggles my mind. I'm drinking peppermint tea, though, in hopes it helps.
Earlier today I saw a squirrel. Earlier today I saw a fat squirrel. I'm talking about one squirrel here, but is that how nature works? Or, well, is that how squirrels work? I figured there was some kind of nut-stockpiling going on, not some mid-November binge eating. Then again, I'm going off a four-second observation of one squirrel.
Anyways, so there's what's up: I'm a little sick, a little hung over, and a little jonesing for a cigarette.

Okay, now I feel like shit. I just smoked a cigarette because I was bored and hoping to expel a large amount of phlegm that I suspect is impeding my speech. When I woke up this afternoon I coughed up a huge, green wad of shit that must have been in my lungs or something. It was gross and so big that getting it out almost made me puke. I can't tell if it's cold in the coffee shop or if it's my deteriorating immune system. Hm. This may not keep me in tonight, though, because I've been in the kind of mood that insists on being shortsighted and making bad decisions.
Last night must not have been enough, though it was great seeing friends I rarely get to hang out with.
Anyhow, there's work to be done so I can close up shop and get on with my life.
Oh. So I began this shift with some Nick Cave before getting into some Murder By Death. It lasted two hours or so, maybe a bit less. During the last song of that stretch, a regular, on his way out, commented: "Thanks for all the nice murder music." All I could do was smile a big, voiceless grin.