| Disorder | Rating |
| Paranoid Personality Disorder: | Moderate |
| Schizoid Personality Disorder: | Low |
| Schizotypal Personality Disorder: | Moderate |
| Antisocial Personality Disorder: | Moderate |
| Borderline Personality Disorder: | Low |
| Histrionic Personality Disorder: | Very High |
| Narcissistic Personality Disorder: | High |
| Avoidant Personality Disorder: | High |
| Dependent Personality Disorder: | Low |
| Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder: | Moderate |
-- Take the Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Info -- | |
Friday, September 30, 2005
so, how fucked up am i?
what writing has done for me
It gave voice to the demons, the supernatural voices wisping between my ears and whispering, the self-defeating tongues spoken with various sources few and far-flung...
It re-ordered my mind and helped me stack words on top of each other like giant Jenga structures thrusting upward punctuating through the sky, piercing cloud layers and spiking all those prayers to God that go unanswered, littering down upon the ground in spiral dances...
It gave me a place to rest my cares and allowed me to travel down innerspace highways unfettered by worry, unchained by fear, left to roam prowling about the surface of an ash-coated wasteland...
It gave me a shot at perfection, a chance to see God in the morning, naked and unadorned, vulnerable, disrobed and hair askew, and it also gave me dinner reservations with The Devil on a nightly basis, conversations and cigars over a meal, brokering the deal to my soul...
Writing remade me in its own image. I'm just a clone. An arm from Henry Miller, a leg from Kurt Vonnegut, cartilage cut from the septum of William Burroughs, and possibly Terry Southern's spleen...
I am a literary Frankenstein monster but I bleed real blood and cry real tears, even if they were stolen from the graves of poets and authors... the dead tissue reanimated, electricity's spark causing everything to come alive...
It re-ordered my mind and helped me stack words on top of each other like giant Jenga structures thrusting upward punctuating through the sky, piercing cloud layers and spiking all those prayers to God that go unanswered, littering down upon the ground in spiral dances...
It gave me a place to rest my cares and allowed me to travel down innerspace highways unfettered by worry, unchained by fear, left to roam prowling about the surface of an ash-coated wasteland...
It gave me a shot at perfection, a chance to see God in the morning, naked and unadorned, vulnerable, disrobed and hair askew, and it also gave me dinner reservations with The Devil on a nightly basis, conversations and cigars over a meal, brokering the deal to my soul...
Writing remade me in its own image. I'm just a clone. An arm from Henry Miller, a leg from Kurt Vonnegut, cartilage cut from the septum of William Burroughs, and possibly Terry Southern's spleen...
I am a literary Frankenstein monster but I bleed real blood and cry real tears, even if they were stolen from the graves of poets and authors... the dead tissue reanimated, electricity's spark causing everything to come alive...
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
XYZ INC.
To Read Part One, Click Here...
Matt Desmond, with his bushy black hair slicked back, sat on the bus as it traveled down Glenoaks Blvd, towards Sun Valley where the XYZ Warehouse was located.
The jacket and slacks were borrowed from his father. The shoes were purchased at the Salvation Army for $5. The tie was a birthday gift from his mother: jet black, no stripes. The shirt was stolen from his older brother years ago, and never returned.
Matt got off the bus and put his Columbo trenchcoat on to combat the early morning cold. Matt never was nor ever would be a 'morning person'-- he preferred to sleep in late and stay up until the wee hours. He definitely was a 'nocturnal animal'.
Matt walked into the upstairs office above the warehouse and saw many young men, all dressed in suits, milling about, standing casually while sifting through a breakfast buffet table that consisted of bagels, coffee, and donuts.
Matt got a good look at all of the people there. He could tell who were the newbies, because they all reminded him of himself: laconic, apprehensive, exhausted from the night before...
He also distinguished the 'veterans', if there could be such a term for a job like this with such a high turnover rate. They were the go-getters, the ones who couldn't stop talking, the ones who were practicing their sales pitches on their peers and bragged about the take from yesterday and the day before.
He silently wished that he'd landed a job in the actual warehouse, lifting boxes and taking orders. But they wanted him on the front lines; Chas knew an able-bodied salesman when he saw one, and even Matt knew that much about himself-- that he could be mighty persuasive when need be, and that he possessed a sterling silver tongue.
Matt stepped outside for a cigarette. He was followed by a young man in a three-piece suit that his grandfather must have been married and buried in, because it didn't look contemporary by any means and fit quite badly on the lanky man's frame.
"Gotta light?" the man asked Matt.
"Yes," Matt replied, and flicked his lighter for the man.
"Name's Joe," the man said.
"Matthew."
"Nice to meet you, Matthew," Joe said, eyes darting furtively. "You been here long?"
"First day."
"Mine too."
Matt lit himself a cigarette and paused to savor the flavor. "What do you think they'll have us do today?"
"I dunno... that Chas guy, he said we were ready to hit the streets. I don't think I am, but I'll give it a try. Shit, anything's better than collecting unemployment right now, ya dig?"
Joe had a Southern twang in his voice, and Matt noticed he was missing a lot of his front teeth. "I dig," Matt answered.
"Gotta move out of my dad's place, ya know?" Joe was sucking down his cigarette in record time. "Me and the wife, it was only temporaries, see? Weren't sposed ta be there longer'n a month... but times, they're tough."
"I'm in the same boat," Matt said. "I'm living at h--"
"This job here, I hope I makes a lotta money on it, 'cause I'm goin' crazy dealing with all the stress," Joe said, unfazed by his interruption of Matt. "But I thank I can dew it. I thank I got the knack. It just takes hustle."
"I'm not so sure I have what it takes," Matt said.
"Aw, man, don't say that. I don't wanna hear that, man!" Joe was petulant.
"I'm not trying to be a downer... I mean, I want to do good. I want to make money. But if I'm no good at it, then... I'll just walk away." Matt finished his cigarette as Joe pulled out another and motioned for another flame from Matt's lighter.
"See, I ain't a quitter," Joe said, as he dragged on the butt. "I sticks it out, no matter what. Even if it kills me, I'ma sell somethin'..."
"That's awesome," Matt said, in a tone that belied the statement. "I wish you the best of luck, Joe. You deserve it."
"Thank ya," Joe said. He seemed sheepish and shy now, possibly excited that Matt had wished him well.
"I think Chas is here," Matt said, as he looked inside the office and saw the rest of the men congregating in a circle. "Let's go in."
*/*
Chas, decked out in a fine black Italian suit and loafers, whistled loudly and motioned for everyone to stand in a circle around him, in that charming Irish brogue he loved to exploit.
"Okay, papal, gather ron, gather ron, ah goat ta brief ya befar whey tek tew da streets..."
Mat surveyed the room: a collection of lowlifes, losers, unlovable lugs and louts, all stuffed into tight-fitting monkey suits that projected respectability but couldn't suppress the sleaze beneath...
Chas took the center stage and proved why he was at the top of this particular pyramid:
"Yer oll here for won reason, roight? Won reason and only won reason: ta mek munney, no? Orange ya tired of wekkin' up in da marning, yer back is knockin' from slaypin on a beaten mattress? Ya git up and ya goat no shoes own ya feet? Ya got no car, no automobile, and ya gotta tekk the measly buss? Iddin dat a drag?"
The crowd of men agreed vocally.
"I cand 'ear ya! Ah no it's marnin' boat ya gotta sound off like ya gotta pear!"
The men got louder, more riled up.
"Dat's betta. Ya gotta have big bolls if ya wanna make enny munney oaf dis gig, boys. Ya gotta have big, fat, red-hot elephant nuts!"
The men laughed. Matt chuckled at the spectacle, at Chas' choice of words.
"Look at me, boys. I wes jess like yew once. I was broke as a joke, eaten Top Ramen out da bag wit no water, holes in me shoes from walking, no girlfriend, no house of me own, nothin' but me bolls, gentlemen. Cos like Tony Montana says, 'I only got ma word and mah bolls, an' I brake dem far no one!'"
This got a huge laugh, especially from Matt, who found it surreal that he was up at the crack of dawn, listening to an Irish/Scottish bloke with a heavy accent do his impression of Al Pacino's Cuban accent in Scarface.
"In a few moments we're going to go down tha list, tha things yew need to no when I set ya loose on the streets, peddlin ya wares ta customers and potential buyers. Ahm gonna tell ya wot ta do and wot NOT ta do, ya get me?"
They all nodded in unison. Chas then split the group up into smaller groups, so that the experienced pros could give pointers to the newbloods.
Matt was accosted by a well-dressed, firmly-cologned man named Johnny. He was wearing a gold chain and some nice rings on his fingers.
"Hey, you... show me your pitch!"
Matt was a bit dumbfounded. "My... my pitch?"
"Your pitch, man! Your sales pitch. Let me see what you got!"
Rather than standing there explaining to Johnny that he'd never pitched before, Matt instead played along instinctively. Johnny pretended to be walking down the street, setting himself up to be solicited.
Matt walked up to Johnny and started to speak but before he could get a word in edgewise Johnny blurted out, "Not interested!" and briskly walked away. Then, he stopped, broke character, and walked back to Matt.
"See how easy it was for me to brush you aside?" Johnny said to Matt. "Now let's switch!"
"Okay," Matt said, as he walked back down the hall a bit, turned around, and walked towards Johnny.
"Excuse me, sir--"
Matt tried to do the same thing Johnny did to him. "Not interested".
"--I know you're a busy man and hate to be bothered but if I can have one minute of your time to show you exactly what it is you're missing, I promise it will be worth every second I'm asking. Is that okay, sir? I won't be very long."
Matt, against his own will, acquiesced to the opening line. Johnny went halfway into his pitch and then stopped.
"See how I got my foot in with you? I just kept on talking until you heard me. Maybe you knew I was a salesman when you saw me, but I got you to stop and listen. And that's half of it, kid. If you can do that, then you're on the right track."
Matt said, "I gotta admit-- you made me stop and listen."
"One more time. Try it on me again, kid. " Johnny walked down the hall and looked at Matt, but this time with a gleam in his eye, like he'd just discovered new talent and was giving it some sort of a litmus test. Then, Johnny began to walk.
"Hello, sir, how are you doing today?"
"Whatever it is, buddy, I'm not interested."
"You look like a fair-minded person, I know you're in a hurry to stay on schedule, I'm a busy man myself, but I can tell you'd be interested n this item because it's for serious-minded individuals such as yourself..."
Johny stopped and looked at Matt. "That was pretty good, kid. Where'd you learn words like that?"
"Words like that?"
"Yeah, you know... 'serious-minded' and 'individual'... that shit works. In fact, if you don't mind... I'm gonna use it in my pitch today, see how it goes!"
"Go right ahead, bro," Matt said, unaware that Johnny was nicknamed 'The Fisher', not just because he was good with casting out lines, but because he liked to practice his pitch with others so that he could poach their best lines.
"Is this your first day, kid?"
"Yeah, first day."
"Hold on for a minute."
Johnny walked over to Chas, who was busy giving orders to the office associates. Johnny bent Chas' ear for a bit, motioned over to Matt, and then Johnny walked back over to where he left Matt standing.
"I talked to Chas about you, man. He's putting you on with Ugly Greg."
"Ugly Greg?"
"Greg's the best. You're gonna learn from The King!"
Matt tried to smile but his stomach, upset from sugary donuts and watered-down coffee, wouldn't let him.
*/*
Ugly Greg was not unattractive at all-- in fact, he was quite handsome for a man, with a passing resemblance to James Mason in his younger days. Ugly Greg was tall, well-dressed, and charismatic, but he was far from ugly.
He gained the nickname for two reasons: One, his last name was Feo, which means 'ugly' in Spanish; Two, and most tellingly, he was the resident sales champion of XYZ Inc., and anyone who went up against him in a contest of sheer numbers ended up eating the humblest of pie. Greg was so determined to be the best that it often "got ugly", with rival salesmen getting angry at Greg's seeming invincibility. Add to all that the fact that Greg always rang the bell early, scooping up every bonus that XYZ offered as an employee incentive, and it became clear that Ugly Greg was the Alpha Male, the Big Dog, the Man To Beat.
Greg was the only "wholesale contractor" (the euphemism that the salesmen implemented for themselves) who had his own office upstairs. Johnny personally escorted Matt to Greg's office and knocked on the door.
"Yes?"
"Greg, it's Johnny. Open up."
Ugly Greg opened the door to his office. The decor inside was chaotic and messy, with papers strewn every which way. Greg welcomed them into the office with a hearty smile and a warm demeanor.
"Greg, this is Matt Desmond. He's a newblood. Matt, this is Ugly Greg."
"Nice to meet you, Matt." Greg extended his arm and caught Matt's hand with a firm shake.
"Nice to meet you too," Matt said.
"Greg, you know I don't bother you for no reason, man, but this kid... I think he's got potential."
"Really?" Greg looked Matt over, trying to find his angle. "What makes you say that?"
"He's articulated, bro," Johnny said.
"Articulated?" Greg raised an eyebrow.
"You know, well-spoken... he sounds like a news anchor!"
"How old are you, Matt?"
"Nineteen."
"No shit? Are you in school?"
"No sir."
"Did you graduate from high school?"
"Yes, I did."
"I bet you like to read."
"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact."
Johnny started guffawing. "Hear that, man? 'As a matter of fact'... that's his deal! That's his angle. Kid's got a vocabulary!"
Greg put his arm around Matt. "Well, if Johnny here says you're good to go, then I'll take you under my wing. Normally, I don't do this shit-- God knows how many losers these boys tried to pawn off on me-- but I can tell you're smart, Matt. You could be long-term, for sure."
Greg then looked back at Johnny. "Is Chas cool with it?"
"Oh, yeah," Johnny replied, "I ran it by him before I brought him up here."
"Cool," Ugly Greg said. "Welcome to XYZ, Matt. I'm gonna show you the ropes!"
Chas whistled again, and gathered his private congregation, his fledgling flock, around him once more for the final briefing of the morning. In his hand was a cheap 35mm camera.
"Today, we're gettin' rid of dees cameras. We paid three dullahs far dem, so we recommend ya sell dem far four and a haff. Of carse, the price ya set is oll up ta yew, gentlemen, so go ahead and stop buy the warehouse and grab yer merch and git ta sellin'!"
The warehouse was swarming with fashionably-dressed testosterone, each filling out forms and grabbing boxloads of cameras and other merchandise-- 'merch', as Chas referred to it --to sell throughout the day.
After Matt grabbed his own box, Greg told him to meet him ouside of the building so they could get on their way. Matt was a bit underwhelmed when he saw Greg's car, a Datsun B-210 with severe body damage and an interior that looked like a grizzly bear had eaten a man alive behind the wheel.
"What happened to your car, Greg?"
"It was stolen, then used in a high-speed chase."
"No shit!"
"I was at home watching TV when they interrupted the news. At first I was all like, 'check it out, another car chase' but then I realized it was MY car!"
"That's crazy."
"Yeah, but what can you do, eh?"
Greg took Matt to his favorite spot for selling merch: Santa Monica Blvd and Bundy.
"I always have good luck here," Greg said. "If you ask me, it's not about the pitch, or the words you use, or the way you look-- none of that matters, Matt. Location-- that's what matters."
They parked the car and got out, each holding enough merch to carry comfortably.
"Okay, Matt, how do you wanna do this-- you wanna stick by me and watch me work, or do you wanna go out on your own for a bit and see how you do?"
Matt's answer was obvious, given his independent nature: "I wanna go off on my own for a bit."
Greg smiled. "Johnny was right. You got it. And hey, if you don't do that well, remember that it's just your first day."
Matt and Greg agreed to meet back at the car in an hour. They synchronized their watches and set off on their own separate ways.
After an hour, Matt had done pretty good for himself: he sold three cameras, each for five dollars each. This came out to a personal profit of six dollars, and it didn't take much for Matt to sell them. His pitch, although unrefined and lacking in punch, was enough to convince two old ladies and a college kid waiting for the bus to give him money for the cheap Taiwanese cameras.
He waited for Greg back at the car. Greg showed up five minutes late, with a hot dog in his hands and nothing else.
"How'd you do?" Greg asked in between bites.
"I sold three cameras."
Greg was surprised. "Three cameras? How much did you sell 'em for ?"
"Five each."
Greg smiled. "Way to go! That's awesome! One hour's work and you've already sold three!" He gave Matt a high five with his free hand.
"Where's your stuff?" Matt asked.
"Sold it all," Greg said. "The whole case."
Matt's face screwed up into an incomprehensible grimace. "That quick?"
Greg finished the hot dog and showed Matt the money. "I usually do better."
"Damn," Matt said. "I don't know if I'll ever get that good..."
"Ah, don't worry about it," Ugly Greg said. "Your first day, three cameras in one hour? That was better than my first day."
"Really? How long you been with XYZ, by the way?"
"About three years," Greg said. "I didn't make any real money until a month into it. You're doin' great, Matt! I predict that you'll make at least $50 by the day's end."
This encouraged Matt. The rest of the day, he divided his time between selling his own wares and watching Greg work his magic on the streets. By the end of the day, when the two men had returned to the warehouse at sundown, Matt had made $75 in take-home cash, and Ugly Greg had sold every box he grabbed from the warehouse that morning, for a grand total of $500 in personal sales. Greg had even swept up the incentive bonus by lunch time, a feat that both amazed and fascinated Matt to no end.
Riding home on the bus in the evening, Matt was excited about this new job. If I keep this pace up, he thought to himself, I can have a gang of money by the end of the week...
He saw Joe, the man who'd bummed a cigarette off of him that morning, in a seat near the back of the bus. Figuring he had the right to talk to him as a friend and a co-worker, Matt walked up to him and sat down next to him.
"Hey, Joe!"
"Hey, what's up, man?" Joe looked tired, drained.
"I made $75 today. How'd you do?"
Joe was silent for a spell. Then he said, "Ahm quittin'."
"What?" Matt felt very bad-- maybe Joe had done badly and didn't want to hear from someone else who had done well.
"Ahm quittin'... this ain't fer me. I ain't got what it takes."
"How can you say that? It's only been one day. I thought you were going to give it a shot, no matter what."
"Yeah, I said them thangs, an' takes it back. Ahm gonna go down to EED tomorra and get my unemployment check."
"Oh, well.. sorry to see you go, Joe."
"Don't mention it, buddy. Hey, good for you, right? I ain't tryin' to bring you down, man. Ahm happy that you did well, believe me. I just wish I was a better salesman, you dig?"
"I dig."
Joe rang the bell for the next stop, got up from his seat and exited the bus. Three more stops and Matt would be home as well. Matt sat there, feeling bad for rubbing it in with Joe, but then again he had no idea that Joe was so discouraged.
This didn't affect Matt negatively, however-- if anything, it gave him the impetus to go home, iron his clothes for the next day, and strike out on his own once again, to try and make some money so that he could move into his own place and start running his own life.
Matt Desmond, with his bushy black hair slicked back, sat on the bus as it traveled down Glenoaks Blvd, towards Sun Valley where the XYZ Warehouse was located.
The jacket and slacks were borrowed from his father. The shoes were purchased at the Salvation Army for $5. The tie was a birthday gift from his mother: jet black, no stripes. The shirt was stolen from his older brother years ago, and never returned.
Matt got off the bus and put his Columbo trenchcoat on to combat the early morning cold. Matt never was nor ever would be a 'morning person'-- he preferred to sleep in late and stay up until the wee hours. He definitely was a 'nocturnal animal'.
Matt walked into the upstairs office above the warehouse and saw many young men, all dressed in suits, milling about, standing casually while sifting through a breakfast buffet table that consisted of bagels, coffee, and donuts.
Matt got a good look at all of the people there. He could tell who were the newbies, because they all reminded him of himself: laconic, apprehensive, exhausted from the night before...
He also distinguished the 'veterans', if there could be such a term for a job like this with such a high turnover rate. They were the go-getters, the ones who couldn't stop talking, the ones who were practicing their sales pitches on their peers and bragged about the take from yesterday and the day before.
He silently wished that he'd landed a job in the actual warehouse, lifting boxes and taking orders. But they wanted him on the front lines; Chas knew an able-bodied salesman when he saw one, and even Matt knew that much about himself-- that he could be mighty persuasive when need be, and that he possessed a sterling silver tongue.
Matt stepped outside for a cigarette. He was followed by a young man in a three-piece suit that his grandfather must have been married and buried in, because it didn't look contemporary by any means and fit quite badly on the lanky man's frame.
"Gotta light?" the man asked Matt.
"Yes," Matt replied, and flicked his lighter for the man.
"Name's Joe," the man said.
"Matthew."
"Nice to meet you, Matthew," Joe said, eyes darting furtively. "You been here long?"
"First day."
"Mine too."
Matt lit himself a cigarette and paused to savor the flavor. "What do you think they'll have us do today?"
"I dunno... that Chas guy, he said we were ready to hit the streets. I don't think I am, but I'll give it a try. Shit, anything's better than collecting unemployment right now, ya dig?"
Joe had a Southern twang in his voice, and Matt noticed he was missing a lot of his front teeth. "I dig," Matt answered.
"Gotta move out of my dad's place, ya know?" Joe was sucking down his cigarette in record time. "Me and the wife, it was only temporaries, see? Weren't sposed ta be there longer'n a month... but times, they're tough."
"I'm in the same boat," Matt said. "I'm living at h--"
"This job here, I hope I makes a lotta money on it, 'cause I'm goin' crazy dealing with all the stress," Joe said, unfazed by his interruption of Matt. "But I thank I can dew it. I thank I got the knack. It just takes hustle."
"I'm not so sure I have what it takes," Matt said.
"Aw, man, don't say that. I don't wanna hear that, man!" Joe was petulant.
"I'm not trying to be a downer... I mean, I want to do good. I want to make money. But if I'm no good at it, then... I'll just walk away." Matt finished his cigarette as Joe pulled out another and motioned for another flame from Matt's lighter.
"See, I ain't a quitter," Joe said, as he dragged on the butt. "I sticks it out, no matter what. Even if it kills me, I'ma sell somethin'..."
"That's awesome," Matt said, in a tone that belied the statement. "I wish you the best of luck, Joe. You deserve it."
"Thank ya," Joe said. He seemed sheepish and shy now, possibly excited that Matt had wished him well.
"I think Chas is here," Matt said, as he looked inside the office and saw the rest of the men congregating in a circle. "Let's go in."
*/*
Chas, decked out in a fine black Italian suit and loafers, whistled loudly and motioned for everyone to stand in a circle around him, in that charming Irish brogue he loved to exploit.
"Okay, papal, gather ron, gather ron, ah goat ta brief ya befar whey tek tew da streets..."
Mat surveyed the room: a collection of lowlifes, losers, unlovable lugs and louts, all stuffed into tight-fitting monkey suits that projected respectability but couldn't suppress the sleaze beneath...
Chas took the center stage and proved why he was at the top of this particular pyramid:
"Yer oll here for won reason, roight? Won reason and only won reason: ta mek munney, no? Orange ya tired of wekkin' up in da marning, yer back is knockin' from slaypin on a beaten mattress? Ya git up and ya goat no shoes own ya feet? Ya got no car, no automobile, and ya gotta tekk the measly buss? Iddin dat a drag?"
The crowd of men agreed vocally.
"I cand 'ear ya! Ah no it's marnin' boat ya gotta sound off like ya gotta pear!"
The men got louder, more riled up.
"Dat's betta. Ya gotta have big bolls if ya wanna make enny munney oaf dis gig, boys. Ya gotta have big, fat, red-hot elephant nuts!"
The men laughed. Matt chuckled at the spectacle, at Chas' choice of words.
"Look at me, boys. I wes jess like yew once. I was broke as a joke, eaten Top Ramen out da bag wit no water, holes in me shoes from walking, no girlfriend, no house of me own, nothin' but me bolls, gentlemen. Cos like Tony Montana says, 'I only got ma word and mah bolls, an' I brake dem far no one!'"
This got a huge laugh, especially from Matt, who found it surreal that he was up at the crack of dawn, listening to an Irish/Scottish bloke with a heavy accent do his impression of Al Pacino's Cuban accent in Scarface.
"In a few moments we're going to go down tha list, tha things yew need to no when I set ya loose on the streets, peddlin ya wares ta customers and potential buyers. Ahm gonna tell ya wot ta do and wot NOT ta do, ya get me?"
They all nodded in unison. Chas then split the group up into smaller groups, so that the experienced pros could give pointers to the newbloods.
Matt was accosted by a well-dressed, firmly-cologned man named Johnny. He was wearing a gold chain and some nice rings on his fingers.
"Hey, you... show me your pitch!"
Matt was a bit dumbfounded. "My... my pitch?"
"Your pitch, man! Your sales pitch. Let me see what you got!"
Rather than standing there explaining to Johnny that he'd never pitched before, Matt instead played along instinctively. Johnny pretended to be walking down the street, setting himself up to be solicited.
Matt walked up to Johnny and started to speak but before he could get a word in edgewise Johnny blurted out, "Not interested!" and briskly walked away. Then, he stopped, broke character, and walked back to Matt.
"See how easy it was for me to brush you aside?" Johnny said to Matt. "Now let's switch!"
"Okay," Matt said, as he walked back down the hall a bit, turned around, and walked towards Johnny.
"Excuse me, sir--"
Matt tried to do the same thing Johnny did to him. "Not interested".
"--I know you're a busy man and hate to be bothered but if I can have one minute of your time to show you exactly what it is you're missing, I promise it will be worth every second I'm asking. Is that okay, sir? I won't be very long."
Matt, against his own will, acquiesced to the opening line. Johnny went halfway into his pitch and then stopped.
"See how I got my foot in with you? I just kept on talking until you heard me. Maybe you knew I was a salesman when you saw me, but I got you to stop and listen. And that's half of it, kid. If you can do that, then you're on the right track."
Matt said, "I gotta admit-- you made me stop and listen."
"One more time. Try it on me again, kid. " Johnny walked down the hall and looked at Matt, but this time with a gleam in his eye, like he'd just discovered new talent and was giving it some sort of a litmus test. Then, Johnny began to walk.
"Hello, sir, how are you doing today?"
"Whatever it is, buddy, I'm not interested."
"You look like a fair-minded person, I know you're in a hurry to stay on schedule, I'm a busy man myself, but I can tell you'd be interested n this item because it's for serious-minded individuals such as yourself..."
Johny stopped and looked at Matt. "That was pretty good, kid. Where'd you learn words like that?"
"Words like that?"
"Yeah, you know... 'serious-minded' and 'individual'... that shit works. In fact, if you don't mind... I'm gonna use it in my pitch today, see how it goes!"
"Go right ahead, bro," Matt said, unaware that Johnny was nicknamed 'The Fisher', not just because he was good with casting out lines, but because he liked to practice his pitch with others so that he could poach their best lines.
"Is this your first day, kid?"
"Yeah, first day."
"Hold on for a minute."
Johnny walked over to Chas, who was busy giving orders to the office associates. Johnny bent Chas' ear for a bit, motioned over to Matt, and then Johnny walked back over to where he left Matt standing.
"I talked to Chas about you, man. He's putting you on with Ugly Greg."
"Ugly Greg?"
"Greg's the best. You're gonna learn from The King!"
Matt tried to smile but his stomach, upset from sugary donuts and watered-down coffee, wouldn't let him.
*/*
Ugly Greg was not unattractive at all-- in fact, he was quite handsome for a man, with a passing resemblance to James Mason in his younger days. Ugly Greg was tall, well-dressed, and charismatic, but he was far from ugly.
He gained the nickname for two reasons: One, his last name was Feo, which means 'ugly' in Spanish; Two, and most tellingly, he was the resident sales champion of XYZ Inc., and anyone who went up against him in a contest of sheer numbers ended up eating the humblest of pie. Greg was so determined to be the best that it often "got ugly", with rival salesmen getting angry at Greg's seeming invincibility. Add to all that the fact that Greg always rang the bell early, scooping up every bonus that XYZ offered as an employee incentive, and it became clear that Ugly Greg was the Alpha Male, the Big Dog, the Man To Beat.
Greg was the only "wholesale contractor" (the euphemism that the salesmen implemented for themselves) who had his own office upstairs. Johnny personally escorted Matt to Greg's office and knocked on the door.
"Yes?"
"Greg, it's Johnny. Open up."
Ugly Greg opened the door to his office. The decor inside was chaotic and messy, with papers strewn every which way. Greg welcomed them into the office with a hearty smile and a warm demeanor.
"Greg, this is Matt Desmond. He's a newblood. Matt, this is Ugly Greg."
"Nice to meet you, Matt." Greg extended his arm and caught Matt's hand with a firm shake.
"Nice to meet you too," Matt said.
"Greg, you know I don't bother you for no reason, man, but this kid... I think he's got potential."
"Really?" Greg looked Matt over, trying to find his angle. "What makes you say that?"
"He's articulated, bro," Johnny said.
"Articulated?" Greg raised an eyebrow.
"You know, well-spoken... he sounds like a news anchor!"
"How old are you, Matt?"
"Nineteen."
"No shit? Are you in school?"
"No sir."
"Did you graduate from high school?"
"Yes, I did."
"I bet you like to read."
"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact."
Johnny started guffawing. "Hear that, man? 'As a matter of fact'... that's his deal! That's his angle. Kid's got a vocabulary!"
Greg put his arm around Matt. "Well, if Johnny here says you're good to go, then I'll take you under my wing. Normally, I don't do this shit-- God knows how many losers these boys tried to pawn off on me-- but I can tell you're smart, Matt. You could be long-term, for sure."
Greg then looked back at Johnny. "Is Chas cool with it?"
"Oh, yeah," Johnny replied, "I ran it by him before I brought him up here."
"Cool," Ugly Greg said. "Welcome to XYZ, Matt. I'm gonna show you the ropes!"
Chas whistled again, and gathered his private congregation, his fledgling flock, around him once more for the final briefing of the morning. In his hand was a cheap 35mm camera.
"Today, we're gettin' rid of dees cameras. We paid three dullahs far dem, so we recommend ya sell dem far four and a haff. Of carse, the price ya set is oll up ta yew, gentlemen, so go ahead and stop buy the warehouse and grab yer merch and git ta sellin'!"
The warehouse was swarming with fashionably-dressed testosterone, each filling out forms and grabbing boxloads of cameras and other merchandise-- 'merch', as Chas referred to it --to sell throughout the day.
After Matt grabbed his own box, Greg told him to meet him ouside of the building so they could get on their way. Matt was a bit underwhelmed when he saw Greg's car, a Datsun B-210 with severe body damage and an interior that looked like a grizzly bear had eaten a man alive behind the wheel.
"What happened to your car, Greg?"
"It was stolen, then used in a high-speed chase."
"No shit!"
"I was at home watching TV when they interrupted the news. At first I was all like, 'check it out, another car chase' but then I realized it was MY car!"
"That's crazy."
"Yeah, but what can you do, eh?"
Greg took Matt to his favorite spot for selling merch: Santa Monica Blvd and Bundy.
"I always have good luck here," Greg said. "If you ask me, it's not about the pitch, or the words you use, or the way you look-- none of that matters, Matt. Location-- that's what matters."
They parked the car and got out, each holding enough merch to carry comfortably.
"Okay, Matt, how do you wanna do this-- you wanna stick by me and watch me work, or do you wanna go out on your own for a bit and see how you do?"
Matt's answer was obvious, given his independent nature: "I wanna go off on my own for a bit."
Greg smiled. "Johnny was right. You got it. And hey, if you don't do that well, remember that it's just your first day."
Matt and Greg agreed to meet back at the car in an hour. They synchronized their watches and set off on their own separate ways.
After an hour, Matt had done pretty good for himself: he sold three cameras, each for five dollars each. This came out to a personal profit of six dollars, and it didn't take much for Matt to sell them. His pitch, although unrefined and lacking in punch, was enough to convince two old ladies and a college kid waiting for the bus to give him money for the cheap Taiwanese cameras.
He waited for Greg back at the car. Greg showed up five minutes late, with a hot dog in his hands and nothing else.
"How'd you do?" Greg asked in between bites.
"I sold three cameras."
Greg was surprised. "Three cameras? How much did you sell 'em for ?"
"Five each."
Greg smiled. "Way to go! That's awesome! One hour's work and you've already sold three!" He gave Matt a high five with his free hand.
"Where's your stuff?" Matt asked.
"Sold it all," Greg said. "The whole case."
Matt's face screwed up into an incomprehensible grimace. "That quick?"
Greg finished the hot dog and showed Matt the money. "I usually do better."
"Damn," Matt said. "I don't know if I'll ever get that good..."
"Ah, don't worry about it," Ugly Greg said. "Your first day, three cameras in one hour? That was better than my first day."
"Really? How long you been with XYZ, by the way?"
"About three years," Greg said. "I didn't make any real money until a month into it. You're doin' great, Matt! I predict that you'll make at least $50 by the day's end."
This encouraged Matt. The rest of the day, he divided his time between selling his own wares and watching Greg work his magic on the streets. By the end of the day, when the two men had returned to the warehouse at sundown, Matt had made $75 in take-home cash, and Ugly Greg had sold every box he grabbed from the warehouse that morning, for a grand total of $500 in personal sales. Greg had even swept up the incentive bonus by lunch time, a feat that both amazed and fascinated Matt to no end.
Riding home on the bus in the evening, Matt was excited about this new job. If I keep this pace up, he thought to himself, I can have a gang of money by the end of the week...
He saw Joe, the man who'd bummed a cigarette off of him that morning, in a seat near the back of the bus. Figuring he had the right to talk to him as a friend and a co-worker, Matt walked up to him and sat down next to him.
"Hey, Joe!"
"Hey, what's up, man?" Joe looked tired, drained.
"I made $75 today. How'd you do?"
Joe was silent for a spell. Then he said, "Ahm quittin'."
"What?" Matt felt very bad-- maybe Joe had done badly and didn't want to hear from someone else who had done well.
"Ahm quittin'... this ain't fer me. I ain't got what it takes."
"How can you say that? It's only been one day. I thought you were going to give it a shot, no matter what."
"Yeah, I said them thangs, an' takes it back. Ahm gonna go down to EED tomorra and get my unemployment check."
"Oh, well.. sorry to see you go, Joe."
"Don't mention it, buddy. Hey, good for you, right? I ain't tryin' to bring you down, man. Ahm happy that you did well, believe me. I just wish I was a better salesman, you dig?"
"I dig."
Joe rang the bell for the next stop, got up from his seat and exited the bus. Three more stops and Matt would be home as well. Matt sat there, feeling bad for rubbing it in with Joe, but then again he had no idea that Joe was so discouraged.
This didn't affect Matt negatively, however-- if anything, it gave him the impetus to go home, iron his clothes for the next day, and strike out on his own once again, to try and make some money so that he could move into his own place and start running his own life.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
late bloomer
My homie Down Low is having female troubles.
A little background on Down Low: In his sophomore year of high school his parents, newly divorced, decided that it would be in his best interest if he was shipped off to a reform school. They tricked him into going, using the old "we're taking a day trip" scenario.
What was boneheaded about this decision was that Low was 17 at the time, and after a year he would be able to leave the reform school on his own. In order for that particular reform program to work, a teenager would have to have been there for at least two to three years.
His parents basically threw money away by sending him off. The program had no effect upon him in terms of rehabilitation: his only vice was smoking marijuana, although Low himself has speculated that his stay at the reform school might have saved him from getting into methamphetamines, a phenomenon that rushed in and took over his former classmates nearly overnight.
But the real effect the program had on Low was that it alienated him from his family and also set back his maturation greatly. He missed out on a lot of things because of this "time out" that he was grudgingly handed.
One of those things was the normal rites and passages of horny high school kids who are beginning to date and have intimate relationships. Low never had a real girlfriend, and reform school only thwarted this goal.
So now, he has female troubles-- specifically, he is dealing with a girl who is just as immature and melodramatic as he is. And because he cares about her, he finds that he cannot simply write her off and go onto the next conquest...
*/*
I frequently talk with Low over breakfast at Andre's, and most of the time I am chewing his ear off about my various love interests. He has always been a good listener and gave me valuable feedback many times. Now it is my turn to return the favor.
This is not as easy as it seems. Low has never pontificated at length on any girls in the past, so it is surprising to hear him express profound emotions for someone. He talks so much about her that we don't talk about anything else. I get annoyed by this, but then I remember all the times I vented about Amy Coates or Eve or Monique or even Mary Jane, and I take a deep breath and open up my ears.
He quit smoking pot and cut down on cigarettes; he has started writing love songs on his 12-string guitar-- Low is a brilliant guitarist but has never been able to write a decent song... until now.
He is a late bloomer, and this is the first true love he has ever found. He met this girl online, and their initial relationship was far from romantic: they collaborated on an X-rated webcam site and made a lot of money getting credit card charges from lonely rich men who paid to masturbate to pretty girls on the Internet.
Somewhere along the line, Low and this girl became friends, then lovers, and now... now they have that love-hate ambivalence that passes for passion in this day and age.
*/*
I don't know how helpful I have been, but suffice it to say that I've had my share of crazy girls wrecking my world, and so I speak to him from experience and not just macho posturing.
He felt like a "pussy" for calling her after he said he wouldn't. I reminded him of my troubles with Eve earlier this year, how she wasn't talking to me for weeks and I still kept leaving messages on her answering machine, letting her know that (whenever she was ready to talk) I was sorry for being an ass and I wanted to make sure she was OK.
Low's girl is taunting him with threats of another guy who will treat her right. All this means is that she found a simp who has a lot of money and will spend it on her. But she knows that this guy doesn't love her the way Low does, and Low knows that she is using this sucker to make him mad.
Meanwhile, Low is still seeing other girls, who are less drama but don't compare to the feelings he has for this one girl. It's like a Smokey Robinson song come to life.
It seems so simple, doesn't it? All they have to do is lay down their respective arms and embrace each other. But it's never that simple, and that's because human emotions cloud our reasoning. It becomes a power trip with both sides refusing to roll over.
I told him he needs some time away from her, that he will know her for a long time and they will never be too far from each other. I think of how Eve spent nine years with a guy that she fell out of love with two years into it; I think of Amy Coates, who is married with a child but who will never forget the impact I had on her; I think of all these women that I have known and loved, and how I never really stopped loving them-- I just moved on to other people when the romance ran out.
Low hasn't had the opportunities to explore a meaningful relationship and its attendant baggage. But if you ask me, he's actually growing up a bit. A year ago, Low wouldn't have shed a tear over any girl. I don't see his soul-searching as a negative thing at all.
Painful, yes, but negative? Hardly.
In fact, it confirms what I've always suspected about him: that underneath all the bluster and braggadoccio, Down Low (like me, like many of my friends) has a heart, and hides it to protect it from the slings and arrows of this heartless era. But ultimately, he is an old-fashioned Romantic, and he is an artist, and he has deeper feelings than just the standard "Findum Fuckem And Flee" mentality that pervades the landscape of the male psyche these days.
They'll be OK, because they are decent people, despite their taste for the lowlife and all that entails. Who says pornographers and drug dealers don't have soft sides? They're human beings too, and their plights are no different than that of a respectable young married couple or the affairs of the upper-class power elite.
We all bleed, we all cry, we all feel joy when the person we love is in our arms... we all wear different uniforms and march to the individual beats of various drummers, but we all share that longing for love, that yearning for something that feels real, something that transcends the present, something that lasts forever and burns eternally...
Today is the first day of Autumn. It is the beginning of The Fall...
A little background on Down Low: In his sophomore year of high school his parents, newly divorced, decided that it would be in his best interest if he was shipped off to a reform school. They tricked him into going, using the old "we're taking a day trip" scenario.
What was boneheaded about this decision was that Low was 17 at the time, and after a year he would be able to leave the reform school on his own. In order for that particular reform program to work, a teenager would have to have been there for at least two to three years.
His parents basically threw money away by sending him off. The program had no effect upon him in terms of rehabilitation: his only vice was smoking marijuana, although Low himself has speculated that his stay at the reform school might have saved him from getting into methamphetamines, a phenomenon that rushed in and took over his former classmates nearly overnight.
But the real effect the program had on Low was that it alienated him from his family and also set back his maturation greatly. He missed out on a lot of things because of this "time out" that he was grudgingly handed.
One of those things was the normal rites and passages of horny high school kids who are beginning to date and have intimate relationships. Low never had a real girlfriend, and reform school only thwarted this goal.
So now, he has female troubles-- specifically, he is dealing with a girl who is just as immature and melodramatic as he is. And because he cares about her, he finds that he cannot simply write her off and go onto the next conquest...
*/*
I frequently talk with Low over breakfast at Andre's, and most of the time I am chewing his ear off about my various love interests. He has always been a good listener and gave me valuable feedback many times. Now it is my turn to return the favor.
This is not as easy as it seems. Low has never pontificated at length on any girls in the past, so it is surprising to hear him express profound emotions for someone. He talks so much about her that we don't talk about anything else. I get annoyed by this, but then I remember all the times I vented about Amy Coates or Eve or Monique or even Mary Jane, and I take a deep breath and open up my ears.
He quit smoking pot and cut down on cigarettes; he has started writing love songs on his 12-string guitar-- Low is a brilliant guitarist but has never been able to write a decent song... until now.
He is a late bloomer, and this is the first true love he has ever found. He met this girl online, and their initial relationship was far from romantic: they collaborated on an X-rated webcam site and made a lot of money getting credit card charges from lonely rich men who paid to masturbate to pretty girls on the Internet.
Somewhere along the line, Low and this girl became friends, then lovers, and now... now they have that love-hate ambivalence that passes for passion in this day and age.
*/*
I don't know how helpful I have been, but suffice it to say that I've had my share of crazy girls wrecking my world, and so I speak to him from experience and not just macho posturing.
He felt like a "pussy" for calling her after he said he wouldn't. I reminded him of my troubles with Eve earlier this year, how she wasn't talking to me for weeks and I still kept leaving messages on her answering machine, letting her know that (whenever she was ready to talk) I was sorry for being an ass and I wanted to make sure she was OK.
Low's girl is taunting him with threats of another guy who will treat her right. All this means is that she found a simp who has a lot of money and will spend it on her. But she knows that this guy doesn't love her the way Low does, and Low knows that she is using this sucker to make him mad.
Meanwhile, Low is still seeing other girls, who are less drama but don't compare to the feelings he has for this one girl. It's like a Smokey Robinson song come to life.
It seems so simple, doesn't it? All they have to do is lay down their respective arms and embrace each other. But it's never that simple, and that's because human emotions cloud our reasoning. It becomes a power trip with both sides refusing to roll over.
I told him he needs some time away from her, that he will know her for a long time and they will never be too far from each other. I think of how Eve spent nine years with a guy that she fell out of love with two years into it; I think of Amy Coates, who is married with a child but who will never forget the impact I had on her; I think of all these women that I have known and loved, and how I never really stopped loving them-- I just moved on to other people when the romance ran out.
Low hasn't had the opportunities to explore a meaningful relationship and its attendant baggage. But if you ask me, he's actually growing up a bit. A year ago, Low wouldn't have shed a tear over any girl. I don't see his soul-searching as a negative thing at all.
Painful, yes, but negative? Hardly.
In fact, it confirms what I've always suspected about him: that underneath all the bluster and braggadoccio, Down Low (like me, like many of my friends) has a heart, and hides it to protect it from the slings and arrows of this heartless era. But ultimately, he is an old-fashioned Romantic, and he is an artist, and he has deeper feelings than just the standard "Findum Fuckem And Flee" mentality that pervades the landscape of the male psyche these days.
They'll be OK, because they are decent people, despite their taste for the lowlife and all that entails. Who says pornographers and drug dealers don't have soft sides? They're human beings too, and their plights are no different than that of a respectable young married couple or the affairs of the upper-class power elite.
We all bleed, we all cry, we all feel joy when the person we love is in our arms... we all wear different uniforms and march to the individual beats of various drummers, but we all share that longing for love, that yearning for something that feels real, something that transcends the present, something that lasts forever and burns eternally...
Today is the first day of Autumn. It is the beginning of The Fall...
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
clickety-clack
According to this link, the sounds of fingers typing on a keyboard can be transposed and "decoded", for lack of a better term.
The article states that this can be construed as a "security risk"...
This spells trouble for me: I type extremely loud, and have been reprimanded for my noisiness whilst typing.
In my old blog, I had a piece about being at the library and having a neighboring computer user complain about my typing. This is not an isolated incident by any means.
I think I type louder than the average typist because I only use my index fingers. I don't use that high school typing class method... and it's a good thing, because I NEVER get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, even as I type for hours upon hours...
That's all for now. Maybe more later...
The article states that this can be construed as a "security risk"...
This spells trouble for me: I type extremely loud, and have been reprimanded for my noisiness whilst typing.
In my old blog, I had a piece about being at the library and having a neighboring computer user complain about my typing. This is not an isolated incident by any means.
I think I type louder than the average typist because I only use my index fingers. I don't use that high school typing class method... and it's a good thing, because I NEVER get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, even as I type for hours upon hours...
That's all for now. Maybe more later...
Monday, September 19, 2005
scabs
As a kid I was constantly in the dirt, kicking it up, getting it on the tip of my nose, cutting and bruising myself in the relentless pursuit of good times and high adventure.
I did a lot of stupid things: jumping off of rooftops, climbing trees and falling to the ground, jettisoning from swingsets at the park while in mid-air, riding my bike down trails that were not meant for cyclists, hiking in the park, playing Flag Football (or Touch Football in the streets, with plays interrupted by the passing of traffic) and generally covering my skin with scabs and scrapes.
I never broke any limbs or got seriously hurt. No hospital visits, no trips in the ambulance. My physical feats were actually run-of-the-mill childhood rituals. Taking the falls and tumbles toughened me up.
One thing I used to do, however, was pick my scabs. I had a lot of them on me, and they were always irritating. The way the skin stretched as the black, shapeless mass of coagulated blood held to the surface caused me to scratch my scabs before they were fully formed.
Of course, this did nothing to facillitate the healing process-- it only delayed it further.
There's something in the back of a young boy's mind, where he actually would like to see the scab come apart while picking at it, so as to discover that the wound is fully healed underneath and that there is no need to pick anymore because the scab is gone. My impatience, however, would lead me to pick away when the scab was 90% ready. What would be left after the unsightly spot was cleared away would be a small, infection-prone red spot, a pinpoint in comparison to the original wound but still open to all sorts of discomfort and irritability. That little red spot would end up scabbing over itself, and then I'd have to wait until that tiny little scab fully formed and was able to be stripped away...
Now, let's speak metaphorically for a second...
Suppose that all the past pain and tragedy that I have had in my life is a scab. If this is the case, then it can be argued that (like my younger self) I am still picking away at the scabs before they can do their work.
Only recently have I seen the results of letting them fall off on their own. The healing process, when unfettered by my prying fingers, is much more efficient. The scabs disappear and after a while I forget that I even had a cut or a scrape.
I have been holding myself to this thought: From now on, no more scab-picking.
Let the healing process take as long as it needs to take. I am in no hurry. I would rather have it done and over with than to prolong the painful interim of dealing with newer and fresher scabs born from my obsessions with the old ones.
See what I'm getting at?
btw: I won $90 at a craps table in Primm Valley on Saturday. I quit while I was ahead. I was too tired to press my luck and raise my bets. I was content to have had a decent run, which helped me to understand the game and grasp some concepts I'd been unsure about prior to this weekend.
This week looks like it's going to be pretty interesting. Don't ask me how I know-- I don't have the slightest explanation for this gut feeling.
I did a lot of stupid things: jumping off of rooftops, climbing trees and falling to the ground, jettisoning from swingsets at the park while in mid-air, riding my bike down trails that were not meant for cyclists, hiking in the park, playing Flag Football (or Touch Football in the streets, with plays interrupted by the passing of traffic) and generally covering my skin with scabs and scrapes.
I never broke any limbs or got seriously hurt. No hospital visits, no trips in the ambulance. My physical feats were actually run-of-the-mill childhood rituals. Taking the falls and tumbles toughened me up.
One thing I used to do, however, was pick my scabs. I had a lot of them on me, and they were always irritating. The way the skin stretched as the black, shapeless mass of coagulated blood held to the surface caused me to scratch my scabs before they were fully formed.
Of course, this did nothing to facillitate the healing process-- it only delayed it further.
There's something in the back of a young boy's mind, where he actually would like to see the scab come apart while picking at it, so as to discover that the wound is fully healed underneath and that there is no need to pick anymore because the scab is gone. My impatience, however, would lead me to pick away when the scab was 90% ready. What would be left after the unsightly spot was cleared away would be a small, infection-prone red spot, a pinpoint in comparison to the original wound but still open to all sorts of discomfort and irritability. That little red spot would end up scabbing over itself, and then I'd have to wait until that tiny little scab fully formed and was able to be stripped away...
Now, let's speak metaphorically for a second...
Suppose that all the past pain and tragedy that I have had in my life is a scab. If this is the case, then it can be argued that (like my younger self) I am still picking away at the scabs before they can do their work.
Only recently have I seen the results of letting them fall off on their own. The healing process, when unfettered by my prying fingers, is much more efficient. The scabs disappear and after a while I forget that I even had a cut or a scrape.
I have been holding myself to this thought: From now on, no more scab-picking.
Let the healing process take as long as it needs to take. I am in no hurry. I would rather have it done and over with than to prolong the painful interim of dealing with newer and fresher scabs born from my obsessions with the old ones.
See what I'm getting at?
btw: I won $90 at a craps table in Primm Valley on Saturday. I quit while I was ahead. I was too tired to press my luck and raise my bets. I was content to have had a decent run, which helped me to understand the game and grasp some concepts I'd been unsure about prior to this weekend.
This week looks like it's going to be pretty interesting. Don't ask me how I know-- I don't have the slightest explanation for this gut feeling.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
thoughts on sorrow
Kurt Vonnegut was on The Daily Show earlier this week. Here's a website that has a video of his appearance.
Vonnegut's books saved my life. Reading Breakfast Of Champions at age 15 made me realize that I wasn't the only person in the world who was suffering. Rather, it seemed like the entire universe was suffering, along with me, and Vonnegut's prose provided me with a release, a way of easing the pain of existence.
I can tell you this with no trace of irony or pathos: sometimes I feel like I've had enough. Sometimes I see the news and can't watch what's going on in Iraq, in New Orleans, or anywhere else; sometimes I wish that someone would put bullets through the heads of some of our world leaders;and often times I feel like I could put a bullet in my own temple.
But I never get around to it, and it's because I've found a way to keep my balance in this world. Reading people like Kurt Vonnegut is one way.
Another way is to open my heart to another living creature. Last night a friend dropped off a six week-old kitty cat at my apartment. Eve and I named him 'Marvin'. I instantly fell in love with this tiny creature, this mewing, jumping, furry ball of energy that scampers around my humble abode, innocent and wide-eyed.
My cat Otis is, of course, jealous. But I raised Otis to be a lover, not a fighter, and in due time he will accept Marvin as his buddy. It helps that I am being fair and showing both of them equal amounts of love, because Otis has been with me through lean times in the past six years, and I figured I owe it to him to give him a companion for those times when I'm not home.
The company of another human being makes the sorrow in my heart fade momentarily. Eve made dinner last night, and we watched a bunch of X-Files episodes that I have not yet seen. She also fell in love with Marvin-- in fact, she suggested the name after seeing him scuttle across the carpet like Marvin the Martian from the old Warner Bros. cartoons --and for an elongated moment there was peace in my mind.
*/*
Today is Monique's birthday. I called her to wish her a happy 27th. She is 3,000 miles away, somewhere in the southeast United States. The last time I saw her was in May, when she and I were together. I never mentioned her in this blog because it is a complicated story, one compounded by the fact that she and I were only friends until her last visit to town.
We shared a passionate interlude that lasted the entire two weeks she was in town. I'd never known that she felt this way for me, even though I knew that I had a big crush on her. She was housesitting for her former boss while he was away on vacation, and so I found myself spending almost every night of that two week period with her.
When she left, she promised that she would return, but now she has misgivings because her five year-old brother will miss her if she leaves. Monique wants to move her family out here because she cannot stand it where she is at.
Since she left, I have bedded down with a few girls here and there, but I keep thinking of her. If she came back, I think I would make an effort to be with her... that is, if she wanted me in the same way. I am pretty sure she has had a few lovers out on her end-- she is very beautiful and desirable. I don't mind it, because I understand-- even if your heart belongs to one person, your body might want to wander somewhere else.
And so I have neglected to mention it in these blog pages because it is perplexing to think of what I am doing: for the first time in my life I have a wealth of options when it comes to love. I haven't committed to anyone so I am not cheating, and I am careful in my affairs (protection and whatnot). No one has made any demands upon me to be their one and only, so I am treading softly in this alien terrain, trying to figure out where I fit in.
I haven't had any kind of romantic relationship with Eve, because we already went through that earlier this year. Eve made the holidays bearable, and lately she and I have been really connecting on an amazing level of friendship. I will always love her, no matter what, but I owe it to myself to explore other options. Likewise, I don't expect Eve to put her life on hold for me-- I am sure she has had a few flings on the side, and I am mindful to not ask about them. Frankly, I don't want to know, and I'm sure she doesn't want to know about my dalliances either.
*/*
So can you see why I have been hush about it all? Can you see why I have been hesitant to report on my activities throughout the summer?
I am not even sure I know what it all means. But what I do know is:
--This has been an extraordinary summer, filled with new friends, old acquaintances, and lots of creative synergy...
--I am entering my thirties with a renewed sense of the purpose of my life...
--This year has more than made up for the love drought I experienced after breaking up with Jeanie in 2000. The spell was broken late last year...
After Monique left, I met Dotty, a blues singer; Dharma, a former lawyer and now aspiring actress; and then I recently ran into Nicole, a girl who used to go to my high school... who now teaches at the very same high school!
This is all new to me. I've never been a "player" but I've always had female companionship, and now... now I seem to be reaping the benefits of my unorthodox lifestyle. I really don't know where this road is going to take me, but at least I understand why I am in the middle of this.
I am avoiding sorrow.
I have spent almost two decades of my life courting it, and now it is time to leave it alone. Sorrow needs no help from me to invoke it-- look around you, it comes about on its own, motivated by millions of external factors.
We cause our own sorrows and need no help from outside forces. Sometimes we bring sadness and despair upon ourselves as we are pursuing what we think is "happiness". I think the reason why my summer has been loving and exciting is because I finally made up my mind to go where I'm wanted... No more chasing after elusive prey-- from now on, I only keep company with the ones who seek me out, the ones who like what I have to say and don't want me to change.
This has reduced the Drama Quotient in my lovelife drastically.
Ten years ago, I ran after the ones who didn't want me, the ones I felt like I could never have. That was bunk. If I'd known then what I know now-- that there's a reason why those kinds of relationships never pan out --then I think my twenties would've been an epic love session for me. Not that my twenties were bad... I've been very fortunate to have loved and been loved in return... but now that I know what I want, I think I can keep up the momentum of this summer as the season fades into the Fall and its attendant weather.
*/*
Today also happens to be Peter's birthday. His brother Purple Paulie is taking him out to Hooters and we're all invited, but before I join them I have to drive home and check up on Marvin and Otis.
I suspect that I'll be spending more time at home with the cats, reading and writing and painting and playing music and working on the computer.
And that's good, because it's cold outside.
I have a side job making graphic designs for a print shop. I also played a gig with Metalhead, the cover band, on Sunday. It went OK. Friday night, another Ninefinger show will cap off my week, and then this Saturday I travel with my family to State Line, on the outskirts of Vegas.
I am busy, but I don't feel tired.
Vonnegut's books saved my life. Reading Breakfast Of Champions at age 15 made me realize that I wasn't the only person in the world who was suffering. Rather, it seemed like the entire universe was suffering, along with me, and Vonnegut's prose provided me with a release, a way of easing the pain of existence.
I can tell you this with no trace of irony or pathos: sometimes I feel like I've had enough. Sometimes I see the news and can't watch what's going on in Iraq, in New Orleans, or anywhere else; sometimes I wish that someone would put bullets through the heads of some of our world leaders;and often times I feel like I could put a bullet in my own temple.
But I never get around to it, and it's because I've found a way to keep my balance in this world. Reading people like Kurt Vonnegut is one way.
Another way is to open my heart to another living creature. Last night a friend dropped off a six week-old kitty cat at my apartment. Eve and I named him 'Marvin'. I instantly fell in love with this tiny creature, this mewing, jumping, furry ball of energy that scampers around my humble abode, innocent and wide-eyed.
My cat Otis is, of course, jealous. But I raised Otis to be a lover, not a fighter, and in due time he will accept Marvin as his buddy. It helps that I am being fair and showing both of them equal amounts of love, because Otis has been with me through lean times in the past six years, and I figured I owe it to him to give him a companion for those times when I'm not home.
The company of another human being makes the sorrow in my heart fade momentarily. Eve made dinner last night, and we watched a bunch of X-Files episodes that I have not yet seen. She also fell in love with Marvin-- in fact, she suggested the name after seeing him scuttle across the carpet like Marvin the Martian from the old Warner Bros. cartoons --and for an elongated moment there was peace in my mind.
*/*
Today is Monique's birthday. I called her to wish her a happy 27th. She is 3,000 miles away, somewhere in the southeast United States. The last time I saw her was in May, when she and I were together. I never mentioned her in this blog because it is a complicated story, one compounded by the fact that she and I were only friends until her last visit to town.
We shared a passionate interlude that lasted the entire two weeks she was in town. I'd never known that she felt this way for me, even though I knew that I had a big crush on her. She was housesitting for her former boss while he was away on vacation, and so I found myself spending almost every night of that two week period with her.
When she left, she promised that she would return, but now she has misgivings because her five year-old brother will miss her if she leaves. Monique wants to move her family out here because she cannot stand it where she is at.
Since she left, I have bedded down with a few girls here and there, but I keep thinking of her. If she came back, I think I would make an effort to be with her... that is, if she wanted me in the same way. I am pretty sure she has had a few lovers out on her end-- she is very beautiful and desirable. I don't mind it, because I understand-- even if your heart belongs to one person, your body might want to wander somewhere else.
And so I have neglected to mention it in these blog pages because it is perplexing to think of what I am doing: for the first time in my life I have a wealth of options when it comes to love. I haven't committed to anyone so I am not cheating, and I am careful in my affairs (protection and whatnot). No one has made any demands upon me to be their one and only, so I am treading softly in this alien terrain, trying to figure out where I fit in.
I haven't had any kind of romantic relationship with Eve, because we already went through that earlier this year. Eve made the holidays bearable, and lately she and I have been really connecting on an amazing level of friendship. I will always love her, no matter what, but I owe it to myself to explore other options. Likewise, I don't expect Eve to put her life on hold for me-- I am sure she has had a few flings on the side, and I am mindful to not ask about them. Frankly, I don't want to know, and I'm sure she doesn't want to know about my dalliances either.
*/*
So can you see why I have been hush about it all? Can you see why I have been hesitant to report on my activities throughout the summer?
I am not even sure I know what it all means. But what I do know is:
--This has been an extraordinary summer, filled with new friends, old acquaintances, and lots of creative synergy...
--I am entering my thirties with a renewed sense of the purpose of my life...
--This year has more than made up for the love drought I experienced after breaking up with Jeanie in 2000. The spell was broken late last year...
After Monique left, I met Dotty, a blues singer; Dharma, a former lawyer and now aspiring actress; and then I recently ran into Nicole, a girl who used to go to my high school... who now teaches at the very same high school!
This is all new to me. I've never been a "player" but I've always had female companionship, and now... now I seem to be reaping the benefits of my unorthodox lifestyle. I really don't know where this road is going to take me, but at least I understand why I am in the middle of this.
I am avoiding sorrow.
I have spent almost two decades of my life courting it, and now it is time to leave it alone. Sorrow needs no help from me to invoke it-- look around you, it comes about on its own, motivated by millions of external factors.
We cause our own sorrows and need no help from outside forces. Sometimes we bring sadness and despair upon ourselves as we are pursuing what we think is "happiness". I think the reason why my summer has been loving and exciting is because I finally made up my mind to go where I'm wanted... No more chasing after elusive prey-- from now on, I only keep company with the ones who seek me out, the ones who like what I have to say and don't want me to change.
This has reduced the Drama Quotient in my lovelife drastically.
Ten years ago, I ran after the ones who didn't want me, the ones I felt like I could never have. That was bunk. If I'd known then what I know now-- that there's a reason why those kinds of relationships never pan out --then I think my twenties would've been an epic love session for me. Not that my twenties were bad... I've been very fortunate to have loved and been loved in return... but now that I know what I want, I think I can keep up the momentum of this summer as the season fades into the Fall and its attendant weather.
*/*
Today also happens to be Peter's birthday. His brother Purple Paulie is taking him out to Hooters and we're all invited, but before I join them I have to drive home and check up on Marvin and Otis.
I suspect that I'll be spending more time at home with the cats, reading and writing and painting and playing music and working on the computer.
And that's good, because it's cold outside.
I have a side job making graphic designs for a print shop. I also played a gig with Metalhead, the cover band, on Sunday. It went OK. Friday night, another Ninefinger show will cap off my week, and then this Saturday I travel with my family to State Line, on the outskirts of Vegas.
I am busy, but I don't feel tired.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
more scientific quizzes
I just can't get enough of these...
| Your Hidden Talent |
 Your natural talent is interpersonal relations and dealing with people. You communicate well and are able to bring disparate groups together. Your calming presence helps everything go more smoothly. People crave your praise and complements. |
Monday, September 12, 2005
power outage
At first I thought it was the faulty circuit breaker, since my apartment was built in the '40's and similar instances have occurred in my short time living there.
But, I didn't have a lot of electrical appliances on, and everyone else's power was out too.
I decided to drive to work, because we have a back-up generator. Radio keeps on moving forward, no matter what. Short of an electro-magnetic pulse, nothing stops our broadcasts.
My commute was a lawless cruise through a Valley with no working traffic lights, a paucity of traffic cops, and people talking on their cel phones as the lanes piled up.
I drove on the median, in the left turn lanes, down side streets and alley ways. I started to like it.
By the time I got here, things were returning to normal. But I feel like I was in the right place at the right time, and I didn't panic.
I am not afraid of anything.
But, I didn't have a lot of electrical appliances on, and everyone else's power was out too.
I decided to drive to work, because we have a back-up generator. Radio keeps on moving forward, no matter what. Short of an electro-magnetic pulse, nothing stops our broadcasts.
My commute was a lawless cruise through a Valley with no working traffic lights, a paucity of traffic cops, and people talking on their cel phones as the lanes piled up.
I drove on the median, in the left turn lanes, down side streets and alley ways. I started to like it.
By the time I got here, things were returning to normal. But I feel like I was in the right place at the right time, and I didn't panic.
I am not afraid of anything.
Friday, September 09, 2005
KATRINA
I've been holding off on commenting on New Orleans, because it is really crazy. Crazier than 9/11. Crazier than anything I've ever seen in my life.
I never went to New Orleans. I had a friend who went to school in Tulane and she always invited me to go down and visit. I never did. I regret it now.
New Orleans-- I never knew you, your beauty, your ugliness, your music and your food, your zydeco music and Cajun culture, your vampires and your shallow graveyards, your voodoo vibe...
Goodbye. It ended before it ever began for me and you...
Oh, and impeach President Bush NOW...
(for all you hip-hop heads: Mos Def has a track in response to what he sees going on down there)
TRY to have a nice weekend...
I never went to New Orleans. I had a friend who went to school in Tulane and she always invited me to go down and visit. I never did. I regret it now.
New Orleans-- I never knew you, your beauty, your ugliness, your music and your food, your zydeco music and Cajun culture, your vampires and your shallow graveyards, your voodoo vibe...
Goodbye. It ended before it ever began for me and you...
Oh, and impeach President Bush NOW...
(for all you hip-hop heads: Mos Def has a track in response to what he sees going on down there)
TRY to have a nice weekend...
Thursday, September 08, 2005
my inner european
Your Inner European is Dutch! |
 Open minded and tolerant. You're up for just about anything. |
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
serendipity
I started the XYZ story out of bordeom and whether or not I will actually finish it largely depends on my linearity, but suffice it to say it is based upon true memories and therefore will not go anywhere or become anything outside of me, so I have time...
I have been busy investigating serendipities aloud to the bemused chagrin of my peers and friends, disordering my mind in preparation for the New Routine and Subtle Changes I am undergoing currently.
I am bored with commercial music. I play it for hire but unlike a whore I still derive pleasure from the act. However, I am itching to give birth to something wholly new and unattainable, the kind of monument that notetakers crib for posterity, unable to process it until their thievery skills are up to par...
A new painting was begun over the weekend. I was in an in-between moment and shed my clothes to keep the paint from tainting them, and I brushed in my boxer briefs until I was seeing visions, withdrawing and extracting images from my brain using Dali's "paranoiac-critical method", and before me the countenace of a grimacing clown surfaced from the canvas and gave way to the rush of comic-book apparitions and iconic heroes in blurry outline sketches...
With the cruel wind whipping mercilessly across the desert plains, I tuned in to frequencies atop a mansion in the hills, the smell of barbecue smoke wafting over the city and its haze, songs reverberating in the crawlspace between my ears, the abstract rehearsal space where ghosts convene to compose the songs that serenade my heart.
I am breaking down my rational barriers. They have handicapped me for far too long. The only mistake I have been making is not one of going too far, but not going far enough. Embracing shallow depths and surface pretensions to unmask their lures, it has been a rejuvenating adventure into avant-garde horse radish.
More to come, for sure..
I have been busy investigating serendipities aloud to the bemused chagrin of my peers and friends, disordering my mind in preparation for the New Routine and Subtle Changes I am undergoing currently.
I am bored with commercial music. I play it for hire but unlike a whore I still derive pleasure from the act. However, I am itching to give birth to something wholly new and unattainable, the kind of monument that notetakers crib for posterity, unable to process it until their thievery skills are up to par...
A new painting was begun over the weekend. I was in an in-between moment and shed my clothes to keep the paint from tainting them, and I brushed in my boxer briefs until I was seeing visions, withdrawing and extracting images from my brain using Dali's "paranoiac-critical method", and before me the countenace of a grimacing clown surfaced from the canvas and gave way to the rush of comic-book apparitions and iconic heroes in blurry outline sketches...
With the cruel wind whipping mercilessly across the desert plains, I tuned in to frequencies atop a mansion in the hills, the smell of barbecue smoke wafting over the city and its haze, songs reverberating in the crawlspace between my ears, the abstract rehearsal space where ghosts convene to compose the songs that serenade my heart.
I am breaking down my rational barriers. They have handicapped me for far too long. The only mistake I have been making is not one of going too far, but not going far enough. Embracing shallow depths and surface pretensions to unmask their lures, it has been a rejuvenating adventure into avant-garde horse radish.
More to come, for sure..
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
XYZ INC.
Matthew Desmond never dressed up, not even for a wedding, or a funeral. He detested suits of any kind: they were restrictive, stifling, claustrophobia-inducing, the corporate equivalent of a strait jacket. The tie was akin to a noose around the neck, so on those occasions when he was required to wear a tie Matthew kept the fit very loose.
He didn't even know how to tie one properly, so the end result was a lopsided knot that caused the sides of the length of his father's tie to kink uncontrollably. And yet, despite the irregular fit of the borrowed tie, despite the untailored sleeves and the wrinkled slacks, despite the mismatched jacket and the scuffed-up shoes, Matthew looked elegant.
As he sat in the waiting room of a prospective employer, Matthew couldn't wait for the interview to be over. The suit was itchy and ill-fitting, and he wanted to get home as quickly as possible so that he could change into his normal "uniform": ripped blue jeans, bruised leather jacket, dirty Doc marten boots, and a bootleg T-shirt he bought outside of a Fugazi concert years ago. This was the kind of attire that Matt (he hated to be called Matthew but tolerated it as much as he could) felt comfortable wearing, as if it were a natural extension of his own skin.
Regardless of his somewhat sophisticated appearance, Matt felt anything but elegant.
A woman peered her head through the waiting room door and looked over at Matt. He was the only one sitting in the room.
"Matthew Desmond?"
"Yes," he said nervously.
"Mr. Scott will see you now."
Matt rose from his seat and walked into the room, determined to show some confidence. He didn't know what kind of job he was applying for-- he only knew that it was in a warehouse. He figured it might require some heavy lifting and some hard hours, but at 19 Matt was healthy and hale, and he didn't care how difficult the job would be: he needed to have something to tell his father about by the end of the week or else it was going to get ugly.
Matt shook Mr. Scott's hand and sat down in his office. Mr. Scott was thin and tall, impeccably dressed in an Armani suit. His hair was neatly cropped and slicked back. He resembled the famous basketball coach Pat Riley, but without the telltale age lines or the intense grimace.
"Hello, Matthew. Do you prefer Matthew or Matt?" Mr. Scott spoke in a brogue that skirted between Irish and Scottish accents. Matt could never tell the difference between the two.
"I prefer Matt," he replied stoically.
"All right, Matty. You can call me Chas." Chas smiled, a ridiculously toothy grin formed from immaculate enamel. Too clean to be real, Matt thought. Maybe the accent's fake too...
"OK, Chas."
Chas Scott looked at Matt's resume. All it listed in the way of experience was Matt's scholastic path: private schools, advanced placement programs, special accelerated learning programs, very little in the vein of extracurricular activities or honors, and no post-high school accomplishments.
"Let me tell yeh wot wey do hear, Matty," Chas began, turning on the charm and gesticulating with his hands as he spoke. "XYZ Inc. specializes in deh wholesale warehouse game. Wey buy overstoke from other, moor established cumpanies, and wey hire independent cone-tractors to sell deh merchandise-- or, as wey refer to it, 'merch'-- at a coast that they decide apone. Their own-ly oh-bligation to XYZ is ta pey uss bach the wholesale coast of each item sald."
Matt was somewhat mesmerized by Chas' accent. He drifted off and stopped paying attention to his words-- the way they sounded was far more interesting than what Chas actually had to say.
"Thot means, yew are ya own boss, Matty! Isn't that grand?" Chas gave that winning smile again.
"Yeah, that's... awesome."
"Yew set yer ours, yew set yer pierce-onal goles... Oll wey care abat is gettin' money bach on our initial investment. Example: Wey give yeh a cah-mera that coasts us four and a quarter, yew sell it far five and oop... owt of thot five or whoteveh, wey tek the coast of $4.25, an' deh rest is yoze!"
"No kidding?"
"No kidding. No bullshitting. Thot's our motto here at XYZ!" Chas then pointed to a Xeroxed poster tacked to the wall. It was a red circle with a line through it, and in the middle behind the red line was a picture of a cartoon bull caught in the act of relieving itself.
Matt chuckled.
Chas suddenly became very serious, with minute undertones of that toothy smile creeping beneath. "Sew tell meh, Matty... Wot do yeh wont ta dew with yer loif? Wot interests a fine young man such as yerself?"
"Well," Matty said, matter-of-factly, "since we're not into bullshitting here... the bottom line is, my dad is getting pissed at me because I'm not going to school and I'm not working. He told me to find a job by the end of the week or I'm out on my ass. This is the first place that called me back for an interview. I've never sold a thing in my life, but I don't think it will be very hard. I'm good with words-- one day I'd like to be a writer. So I guess I could be a salesman. I'll do whatever you want, hard labor, sales, whatever. I need to make some cash, and this looks like as good a start as any, you know?"
The very definition of a shit-eating grin appeared on Chas' face as Matt finished his statement. "Matty, Matty, Matty!" Chas exclaimed, as if he'd found his soul mate or a kindred spirit sitting right before him. "I loik deh wey yeh think! There's no loying in yew, Matty..." Chas swung around in his big leather chair and pointed to another poster in his office.
This time, it was a poster of Al Pacino in the movie Scarface.
"Ever seen thot movie, Matty?" Chas pointed at the poster with pride.
"Are you kidding? I love that movie. I can quote every line."
Chas kept on smiling. "Sew can I. And there's thot line, when Sew-sah tells Tony Moan-tonnah thot he loiks him because there's no loying in him... Ya no it, roight?"
"Yeah, right before he hangs F. Murray Abraham from a helicopter!"
"Right-o!" Chas got up from his chair, dizzy from the vibe that he was getting from Matt. "Same with yew, Matty! No loying in yeh..."
Chas quieted down and approached Matt as if he were an old friend-- an arm around the shoulder, his voice dropping down a decibel or two.
"Ya no, paypull think yew have to be a gud loyer in order to sell. Note true, ma boy. Note true. A gud sellsman tails deh truth. No mottah wot he's selling or who hey's sellin' it tew, a gud sellsman oll-ways tails deh truth."
Matt didn't know how to respond to Chas, who seemed like he was a bit demented in his own right. But Matt knew what Chas wanted to hear. He put on his best Tony Montana impersonation.
"Like that line in Scarface... 'Ah always tell th' troof... even when I lie!'"
Chas exploded into laughter, the smile now taken to a dimension further than anyone could have ever expected from the human mouth.
Chas extended his hand to his newest hire. "Matty, Oy think yew'll work out jess fine here! Walcolm ta XYZ!"
Matt returned the vigorous handshake, all the while wondering what lay in store for him in the next few weeks.
*/*
Matt didn't have a car. His parents never bought him one, because they were too busy getting a divorce to settle upon a model. Not that Matt minded it-- not having a car allowed him to stave off things like responsibility for car payments. That meant that he never had to work a job to keep up with his friends. All of his buddies had cars, so he got rides when he needed them. And then, there was the craziness of the bus lines that ran through the San Fernando Valley: so many colorful characters on the bus. They all liked to single Matt out and talk his ear off. Something about Matt's face spoke to them, offered them a refuge from their respective inner storms... maybe it was youthful sincerity, or maybe it was a feature of his eyes that tipped off chronic talkers that they were in the presence of a world-class listener.
Matt was able to listen to anyone prattle on about anything at any given time. Because he aspired to write, he dedicated a lot of his time and focus on listening to what people were saying. But the downside was, he often spent a disproportionate amount of time listeing to the way they said it as opposed to what they were actually saying.
Of course, this never bothered the people on the bus, who didn't care if anyone really heard them. As long as they acted like they understood, that's all that mattered. And Matt Desmond was a master at acting as if he understood every word: he knew when to nod his head, when to register surprise, when to blink, when to do a double take, when to inteject with a "so then what happened" or a "you don't say" or any number of qualifiers that helped the story move along.
Matt heard the entire life story of a homeless man as they both rode the bus out to Northridge. The man moved to California from Florida with his wife and kids. The wife cheated on him and ran off with another man, taking the kids. This caused the homeless man to slide into an abyss of alcohol and drug abuse. He spent a lot of time on Skid Row but made enough off of panhandling to get by.
Of course, the homeless man never once asked Matt where he was going or what he was doing. And if he had stopped to ask him, Matt would've replied quite simply: "I'm going to meet the one I love."
The one he loved was Mary Jane Paris, his high school sweetheart. She was two grades below Matt, and therefore she still had two more years of high school to complete. Matt was absolutely smitten with her, and even after he graduated from high school their relationship continued. The way Matt figured it, he wasn't interested in going to college or traveling out of state, so it didn't make sense for the two of them to part ways.
Mary Jane, for her part, was just as crazy about Matt as he was for her, and she would stay up late on weeknights, waiting for him to walk up to her window and rap on the pane. Then, she would sneak out of her window for an hour and they would walk over to the steps of the elementary school across the street from her home and sit and talk and smoke cigarettes and make out for a while before she had to be back in her room.
Matt had called earlier in the evening and notified Mary Jane that he was going to be stopping by around midnight. Mary Jane waited patiently by her window until she heard the signature raps on the window glass.
As they walked to the steps of the school, Matt revealed the good news to Mary Jane.
"So, what's the special occasion? Why are you all dressed up in a suit?"
"I got that job I was telling you about!"
"Really?"
"Really." Matt was smiling from ear to ear.
"That's so cool, Matt! Congratulations!" Mary Jane kissed him sweetly on the lips.
"Thanks!" Matt was beaming with pride.
"How's it feel?"
"Weird."
Mary Jane giggled. "Now you have responsibility!"
"Yes, I do."
"Still gettin' used to it?"
"Yeah, still getting used to it... You should see this guy, Chas. He's a real character. He talks with a Scottish accent. He's the funniest guy."
Matt re-enacted his interview with Chas Scott for Mary Jane's amusement. She laughed as he impersonated Chas' speech, his mannerisms, the way he quoted lines from Scarface...
"Sounds like fun. When do you start?"
"Tomorrow. I have to wear this suit every day. That's one down side, I suppose."
"Welcome to the real world, Matt."
"I'm not so sure I'm there yet," Matt replied, unsure of himself.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... it's not what I want to do with the rest of my life, obviously. But what if I get good at it and decide to stop pursuing my dreams? What if this becomes my job for the next thirty years?"
"If I know you, Matt, then you won't let this take you over. I think you'll be fine."
"I know... I just keep thinking of what you told me your dad said when I met him for the first time. Remember that?"
"How can I forget?"
For the record: Mary Jane Paris' father, after meeting Matthew Desmond for the first time, said to Mary Jane, "He's a good kid. He reminds me of me, before I received my first paycheck."
"No offense to your father, Janie, but I don't want him to be right."
"I understand, Matt. Really, I do. My father lost his enthusiasm a long time ago. He married young, he had me and my brother before he was 25 years old... He never had a chance to live it up."
"Same with my parents," Matt said. "MY mother was barely 20 when she had me, and I was the second oldest."
"WE don't have to repeat the mistakes of our parents, Matt. We can be whomever we want to be, if we're just careful."
Mary Jane kissed Matt and they embraced for a long time. They made out for a short while, and then Mary Jane had to get back inside her room.
"Good luck tomorrow," she whispered to Matt as he pushed her back inside her window.
"Thanks, sweetie," Matt said. She reached out through the window one last time to give him a peck on the cheek. Then, Matthew Desmond turned around and walked toward the bus stop. It was late, and the buses at this hour came sporadically, but he would be home within the hour and with just enough time to get some sleep before he started his first day at XYZ Inc.
He didn't even know how to tie one properly, so the end result was a lopsided knot that caused the sides of the length of his father's tie to kink uncontrollably. And yet, despite the irregular fit of the borrowed tie, despite the untailored sleeves and the wrinkled slacks, despite the mismatched jacket and the scuffed-up shoes, Matthew looked elegant.
As he sat in the waiting room of a prospective employer, Matthew couldn't wait for the interview to be over. The suit was itchy and ill-fitting, and he wanted to get home as quickly as possible so that he could change into his normal "uniform": ripped blue jeans, bruised leather jacket, dirty Doc marten boots, and a bootleg T-shirt he bought outside of a Fugazi concert years ago. This was the kind of attire that Matt (he hated to be called Matthew but tolerated it as much as he could) felt comfortable wearing, as if it were a natural extension of his own skin.
Regardless of his somewhat sophisticated appearance, Matt felt anything but elegant.
A woman peered her head through the waiting room door and looked over at Matt. He was the only one sitting in the room.
"Matthew Desmond?"
"Yes," he said nervously.
"Mr. Scott will see you now."
Matt rose from his seat and walked into the room, determined to show some confidence. He didn't know what kind of job he was applying for-- he only knew that it was in a warehouse. He figured it might require some heavy lifting and some hard hours, but at 19 Matt was healthy and hale, and he didn't care how difficult the job would be: he needed to have something to tell his father about by the end of the week or else it was going to get ugly.
Matt shook Mr. Scott's hand and sat down in his office. Mr. Scott was thin and tall, impeccably dressed in an Armani suit. His hair was neatly cropped and slicked back. He resembled the famous basketball coach Pat Riley, but without the telltale age lines or the intense grimace.
"Hello, Matthew. Do you prefer Matthew or Matt?" Mr. Scott spoke in a brogue that skirted between Irish and Scottish accents. Matt could never tell the difference between the two.
"I prefer Matt," he replied stoically.
"All right, Matty. You can call me Chas." Chas smiled, a ridiculously toothy grin formed from immaculate enamel. Too clean to be real, Matt thought. Maybe the accent's fake too...
"OK, Chas."
Chas Scott looked at Matt's resume. All it listed in the way of experience was Matt's scholastic path: private schools, advanced placement programs, special accelerated learning programs, very little in the vein of extracurricular activities or honors, and no post-high school accomplishments.
"Let me tell yeh wot wey do hear, Matty," Chas began, turning on the charm and gesticulating with his hands as he spoke. "XYZ Inc. specializes in deh wholesale warehouse game. Wey buy overstoke from other, moor established cumpanies, and wey hire independent cone-tractors to sell deh merchandise-- or, as wey refer to it, 'merch'-- at a coast that they decide apone. Their own-ly oh-bligation to XYZ is ta pey uss bach the wholesale coast of each item sald."
Matt was somewhat mesmerized by Chas' accent. He drifted off and stopped paying attention to his words-- the way they sounded was far more interesting than what Chas actually had to say.
"Thot means, yew are ya own boss, Matty! Isn't that grand?" Chas gave that winning smile again.
"Yeah, that's... awesome."
"Yew set yer ours, yew set yer pierce-onal goles... Oll wey care abat is gettin' money bach on our initial investment. Example: Wey give yeh a cah-mera that coasts us four and a quarter, yew sell it far five and oop... owt of thot five or whoteveh, wey tek the coast of $4.25, an' deh rest is yoze!"
"No kidding?"
"No kidding. No bullshitting. Thot's our motto here at XYZ!" Chas then pointed to a Xeroxed poster tacked to the wall. It was a red circle with a line through it, and in the middle behind the red line was a picture of a cartoon bull caught in the act of relieving itself.
Matt chuckled.
Chas suddenly became very serious, with minute undertones of that toothy smile creeping beneath. "Sew tell meh, Matty... Wot do yeh wont ta dew with yer loif? Wot interests a fine young man such as yerself?"
"Well," Matty said, matter-of-factly, "since we're not into bullshitting here... the bottom line is, my dad is getting pissed at me because I'm not going to school and I'm not working. He told me to find a job by the end of the week or I'm out on my ass. This is the first place that called me back for an interview. I've never sold a thing in my life, but I don't think it will be very hard. I'm good with words-- one day I'd like to be a writer. So I guess I could be a salesman. I'll do whatever you want, hard labor, sales, whatever. I need to make some cash, and this looks like as good a start as any, you know?"
The very definition of a shit-eating grin appeared on Chas' face as Matt finished his statement. "Matty, Matty, Matty!" Chas exclaimed, as if he'd found his soul mate or a kindred spirit sitting right before him. "I loik deh wey yeh think! There's no loying in yew, Matty..." Chas swung around in his big leather chair and pointed to another poster in his office.
This time, it was a poster of Al Pacino in the movie Scarface.
"Ever seen thot movie, Matty?" Chas pointed at the poster with pride.
"Are you kidding? I love that movie. I can quote every line."
Chas kept on smiling. "Sew can I. And there's thot line, when Sew-sah tells Tony Moan-tonnah thot he loiks him because there's no loying in him... Ya no it, roight?"
"Yeah, right before he hangs F. Murray Abraham from a helicopter!"
"Right-o!" Chas got up from his chair, dizzy from the vibe that he was getting from Matt. "Same with yew, Matty! No loying in yeh..."
Chas quieted down and approached Matt as if he were an old friend-- an arm around the shoulder, his voice dropping down a decibel or two.
"Ya no, paypull think yew have to be a gud loyer in order to sell. Note true, ma boy. Note true. A gud sellsman tails deh truth. No mottah wot he's selling or who hey's sellin' it tew, a gud sellsman oll-ways tails deh truth."
Matt didn't know how to respond to Chas, who seemed like he was a bit demented in his own right. But Matt knew what Chas wanted to hear. He put on his best Tony Montana impersonation.
"Like that line in Scarface... 'Ah always tell th' troof... even when I lie!'"
Chas exploded into laughter, the smile now taken to a dimension further than anyone could have ever expected from the human mouth.
Chas extended his hand to his newest hire. "Matty, Oy think yew'll work out jess fine here! Walcolm ta XYZ!"
Matt returned the vigorous handshake, all the while wondering what lay in store for him in the next few weeks.
*/*
Matt didn't have a car. His parents never bought him one, because they were too busy getting a divorce to settle upon a model. Not that Matt minded it-- not having a car allowed him to stave off things like responsibility for car payments. That meant that he never had to work a job to keep up with his friends. All of his buddies had cars, so he got rides when he needed them. And then, there was the craziness of the bus lines that ran through the San Fernando Valley: so many colorful characters on the bus. They all liked to single Matt out and talk his ear off. Something about Matt's face spoke to them, offered them a refuge from their respective inner storms... maybe it was youthful sincerity, or maybe it was a feature of his eyes that tipped off chronic talkers that they were in the presence of a world-class listener.
Matt was able to listen to anyone prattle on about anything at any given time. Because he aspired to write, he dedicated a lot of his time and focus on listening to what people were saying. But the downside was, he often spent a disproportionate amount of time listeing to the way they said it as opposed to what they were actually saying.
Of course, this never bothered the people on the bus, who didn't care if anyone really heard them. As long as they acted like they understood, that's all that mattered. And Matt Desmond was a master at acting as if he understood every word: he knew when to nod his head, when to register surprise, when to blink, when to do a double take, when to inteject with a "so then what happened" or a "you don't say" or any number of qualifiers that helped the story move along.
Matt heard the entire life story of a homeless man as they both rode the bus out to Northridge. The man moved to California from Florida with his wife and kids. The wife cheated on him and ran off with another man, taking the kids. This caused the homeless man to slide into an abyss of alcohol and drug abuse. He spent a lot of time on Skid Row but made enough off of panhandling to get by.
Of course, the homeless man never once asked Matt where he was going or what he was doing. And if he had stopped to ask him, Matt would've replied quite simply: "I'm going to meet the one I love."
The one he loved was Mary Jane Paris, his high school sweetheart. She was two grades below Matt, and therefore she still had two more years of high school to complete. Matt was absolutely smitten with her, and even after he graduated from high school their relationship continued. The way Matt figured it, he wasn't interested in going to college or traveling out of state, so it didn't make sense for the two of them to part ways.
Mary Jane, for her part, was just as crazy about Matt as he was for her, and she would stay up late on weeknights, waiting for him to walk up to her window and rap on the pane. Then, she would sneak out of her window for an hour and they would walk over to the steps of the elementary school across the street from her home and sit and talk and smoke cigarettes and make out for a while before she had to be back in her room.
Matt had called earlier in the evening and notified Mary Jane that he was going to be stopping by around midnight. Mary Jane waited patiently by her window until she heard the signature raps on the window glass.
As they walked to the steps of the school, Matt revealed the good news to Mary Jane.
"So, what's the special occasion? Why are you all dressed up in a suit?"
"I got that job I was telling you about!"
"Really?"
"Really." Matt was smiling from ear to ear.
"That's so cool, Matt! Congratulations!" Mary Jane kissed him sweetly on the lips.
"Thanks!" Matt was beaming with pride.
"How's it feel?"
"Weird."
Mary Jane giggled. "Now you have responsibility!"
"Yes, I do."
"Still gettin' used to it?"
"Yeah, still getting used to it... You should see this guy, Chas. He's a real character. He talks with a Scottish accent. He's the funniest guy."
Matt re-enacted his interview with Chas Scott for Mary Jane's amusement. She laughed as he impersonated Chas' speech, his mannerisms, the way he quoted lines from Scarface...
"Sounds like fun. When do you start?"
"Tomorrow. I have to wear this suit every day. That's one down side, I suppose."
"Welcome to the real world, Matt."
"I'm not so sure I'm there yet," Matt replied, unsure of himself.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... it's not what I want to do with the rest of my life, obviously. But what if I get good at it and decide to stop pursuing my dreams? What if this becomes my job for the next thirty years?"
"If I know you, Matt, then you won't let this take you over. I think you'll be fine."
"I know... I just keep thinking of what you told me your dad said when I met him for the first time. Remember that?"
"How can I forget?"
For the record: Mary Jane Paris' father, after meeting Matthew Desmond for the first time, said to Mary Jane, "He's a good kid. He reminds me of me, before I received my first paycheck."
"No offense to your father, Janie, but I don't want him to be right."
"I understand, Matt. Really, I do. My father lost his enthusiasm a long time ago. He married young, he had me and my brother before he was 25 years old... He never had a chance to live it up."
"Same with my parents," Matt said. "MY mother was barely 20 when she had me, and I was the second oldest."
"WE don't have to repeat the mistakes of our parents, Matt. We can be whomever we want to be, if we're just careful."
Mary Jane kissed Matt and they embraced for a long time. They made out for a short while, and then Mary Jane had to get back inside her room.
"Good luck tomorrow," she whispered to Matt as he pushed her back inside her window.
"Thanks, sweetie," Matt said. She reached out through the window one last time to give him a peck on the cheek. Then, Matthew Desmond turned around and walked toward the bus stop. It was late, and the buses at this hour came sporadically, but he would be home within the hour and with just enough time to get some sleep before he started his first day at XYZ Inc.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
peace in the plaza
In the plaza where I work, Ben & Jerry's did a promotion. "Peace In The Plaza" or something like that. They gave away free ice cream bars and other goodies.
Employees of companies that are located in the plaza received complimentary "tickets" to procure a free ice cream bar. It was hot out today, so I took them up on their offer.
A man dressed like Austin Powers was accosting young girls in the line. A hippie girl handed me one of those "slap-on" wrist bracelets. I said "Right on." She looked at me, fully in character, and said, "Yes, brother-- right on."
I smirked.
The old Chinese lady next to me traded me her orange stress ball for my pink one. Then, right before we cashed in our ice cream tickets, we each received another gift: a multi-colored slinky.
Normally, this cheap exploitation of the Sixties would make me fume self-righteously. It would cause me to rail against phoniness and crass commercialism. Hell, the Jimi Hendrix impersonator with the Fender Strat was right-handed, for fuck's sake!
But...
It was about free ice cream. And peace. It was about peace.
In fact, the last gift I received was a rainbow-shaded peace symbol that can be worn around the neck.
A DJ spun hits from the Sixties, and they were NOT protest songs. It was stuff like "Sugar Sugar" by The Archies, or Fab Four-era Beatles tunes.
I guess I'm getting old, or happier, or a bit of both, because I let it all slide, ate my ice cream, and formed my fingers into a V.
PEACE... and have a nice weekend!
Employees of companies that are located in the plaza received complimentary "tickets" to procure a free ice cream bar. It was hot out today, so I took them up on their offer.
A man dressed like Austin Powers was accosting young girls in the line. A hippie girl handed me one of those "slap-on" wrist bracelets. I said "Right on." She looked at me, fully in character, and said, "Yes, brother-- right on."
I smirked.
The old Chinese lady next to me traded me her orange stress ball for my pink one. Then, right before we cashed in our ice cream tickets, we each received another gift: a multi-colored slinky.
Normally, this cheap exploitation of the Sixties would make me fume self-righteously. It would cause me to rail against phoniness and crass commercialism. Hell, the Jimi Hendrix impersonator with the Fender Strat was right-handed, for fuck's sake!
But...
It was about free ice cream. And peace. It was about peace.
In fact, the last gift I received was a rainbow-shaded peace symbol that can be worn around the neck.
A DJ spun hits from the Sixties, and they were NOT protest songs. It was stuff like "Sugar Sugar" by The Archies, or Fab Four-era Beatles tunes.
I guess I'm getting old, or happier, or a bit of both, because I let it all slide, ate my ice cream, and formed my fingers into a V.
PEACE... and have a nice weekend!
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
FUCK THE AMERICAN LEGION
Yes, I said it: FUCK the American Legion.
I say FUCK the American Legion because of this link, which connects to an article about how they have declared war on anti-war protestors.
Who the fuck do these assholes think they are, Brown Shirts? Talk about narcissists out of control-- if these dumbfucks really believed in freedom, why aren't they overseas fighting against the insurgents?
Oh, I know why-- because they're fucking COWARDS who prefer to beat up on pacifists in their own counry.
So one more time: FUCK THE AMERICAN LEGION.
I won't take it back until I hear a formal apology in the news.
This is going to piss off the Seattle anarchists, who are already on the fringe when it comes to their special brand of "protesting". I wouldn't be surprised if American Legion Halls start getting bombed... not that I advocate that. I can just see it coming is all.
When a group like the AL decides it's open season on protesters, it becomes obvious to me that they assume that all anti-war protesters are weak and docile. Not so. Some of them are mean hombres, brother.
Like the Minutemen on the U.S./Mexican border, the AL is comprised of a bunch of useless has-beens who have nothing better to do than try and even the score against people like Jane Fonda.
And of course, our President secretly endorses the AL's actions. What a scumbag.
Whatever terrorist actions befall this country in the next three years should be laid squarely on the shoulders of President George W. Nixon. I swear to you, if I ever get a chance to meet this man, I will spit in his face and take the jail time like a man.
This country is dogshit now. What a fucking tragedy.
And as for the AL: I dare you to try and make a move on anti-war protesters exercising their First Amendment rights to brand you and yours utter assholes. I Double Dog Dare you.
I say FUCK the American Legion because of this link, which connects to an article about how they have declared war on anti-war protestors.
Who the fuck do these assholes think they are, Brown Shirts? Talk about narcissists out of control-- if these dumbfucks really believed in freedom, why aren't they overseas fighting against the insurgents?
Oh, I know why-- because they're fucking COWARDS who prefer to beat up on pacifists in their own counry.
So one more time: FUCK THE AMERICAN LEGION.
I won't take it back until I hear a formal apology in the news.
This is going to piss off the Seattle anarchists, who are already on the fringe when it comes to their special brand of "protesting". I wouldn't be surprised if American Legion Halls start getting bombed... not that I advocate that. I can just see it coming is all.
When a group like the AL decides it's open season on protesters, it becomes obvious to me that they assume that all anti-war protesters are weak and docile. Not so. Some of them are mean hombres, brother.
Like the Minutemen on the U.S./Mexican border, the AL is comprised of a bunch of useless has-beens who have nothing better to do than try and even the score against people like Jane Fonda.
And of course, our President secretly endorses the AL's actions. What a scumbag.
Whatever terrorist actions befall this country in the next three years should be laid squarely on the shoulders of President George W. Nixon. I swear to you, if I ever get a chance to meet this man, I will spit in his face and take the jail time like a man.
This country is dogshit now. What a fucking tragedy.
And as for the AL: I dare you to try and make a move on anti-war protesters exercising their First Amendment rights to brand you and yours utter assholes. I Double Dog Dare you.
Monday, August 22, 2005
jerry & elaine (instant winners)
"It's exhausting being with you."
--Elaine Benes to Jerry Seinfeld, "The Red Dot", Seinfeld (Third Season)
I have come to realize, in the midst of my Seinfeld jones, that Eve and I have become Jerry & Elaine.
We dated a long time ago, it didn't work out, we went our separate ways, and now that we are both adults with our own separate lives... we're best friends.
And there's always that underlying tension...
*/*
I stumbled upon the Jerry & Elaine connection over breakfast on Sunday. Bro Man and I had just finished making avant-garde music a la Captain Beefheart and decided to grab a bite to eat at Andre's. I'd called Eve and asked her if she wanted to join us.
As we sat inside (an unusual arrangement for us, but all the tables outside were taken by one big hungry family) Bro Man and I talked about my Seinfeld obsession. Bro Man has always been a fan of the show, and he was gleefully volunteering Seinfeld-related trivia when Eve showed up and sat down next to us.
"Hey, you made it!"
"Yeah, I got your message..."
"We were just talking about Seinfeld."
"Oh, I can't watch that show," Eve said.
"You don't think it's funny?" Bro Man asked.
"No, it's just that... it's painful to watch sometimes. The whole lying thing..."
"That's what makes it funny," I said.
Suddenly, I took a big step back from our table in my mind, and I realized something that could conceivably be the gist of an episode of Seinfeld.
"Hey guys," I said. "Do you realize that we could be stand-ins for the Seinfeld cast?"
Bro Man and Eve looked at me and smirked. This was the kind of stuff that I liked to come up with, and they then looked at each other and smirked some more.
"All we need is a Kramer. Maybe I should've called Down Low."
Bro Man suddenly figured out what I was implying. "Oh, so I'm George, huh?"
"Of course you are," I said. "I'm Jerry, Eve's Elaine, and you're George. You're the black George."
Eve giggled. Bro Man gave me a "yeah yeah yeah" kind of look but it didn't bother him to be compared to Mr. Costanza. After all, he loves the show and has watched it longer than I have.
But then I thought about Eve and I, and how the Jerry & Elaine thing really is quite an accurate description of our current relationship.
I ordered my usual breakfast order and made small talk with my friends.
*/*
Later on in the evening, after Bro Man went home, Eve came by and we watched TV, ordered pizza, and shot the shit about life in general.
As of late, she and I have been hanging out, spending down time with each other. She gets lonely, I get lonely, we cleave to each other's lonliness and we also keep our affection and passion at an arm's length, lest we give in to lust and find ourselves back in the same situation as in January of this year.
I always wondered why Jerry and Elaine could never make it work, and after watching the show regularly for the past few months, I see it is because they are both immature.
They have so much in common, and yet they cannot reconcile themselves to each other. Eve and I are the same way: we can make things work with other people for long periods of time, but we cannot merge together and work as a functioning couple for the life of us.
She was in a relationship with Dick for nine years, and it worked out because Dick never had any motivation or ideas of his own. He was content to take the backseat to Eve, and she was more than willing to run the show.
I, however, am fiercely independent, and sometimes I am scared when Eve feels the need to take the controls and call the shots. In turn, she sometimes feels like I don't take her seriously, that I see her as a piece of ass, or nothing but a pretty face.
While I have learned (over time) to defer to Eve in certain respects, I also find that it is almost necessary for me to be there, to take over for her in case she drops the ball. She used to resent this aspect of my personality, chalking it up to my need to always be right as opposed to my need to be helpful. Nowadays, she is more willing to let me call some shots, so long as I am not leading her down some insane path that only I can tolerate.
Last Friday we went out to see my old guitarist Mikey play at The Troubador. Mikey is now a singer, and his band is a cross between Oingo Boingo, System Of A Down, and Mr. Bungle. I asked Eve if she wanted to come with me, and she agreed.
We had a great time, watching the band, talking with Mikey's girlfriend afterwards as she informed us of her mission to save all the bunny rabbits in L.A. County. Eve liked the band so much she asked for a CD. She and I have never been out on the town like that, and it felt great.
Of course, feelings do rise to the fore, emotions of love and trust, of hurt and betrayal, and we have our petty jealousies and grievances. I think she tends to get overly embarrassed whenever I start talking in conversations because she thinks I am constantly joking; conversely, I sometimes feel like less of a man when she demands to pay for drinks and food.
We have our issues.
*/*
One thing that I've always loved about Eve: extraordinary things seem to happen when she and I are alone.
The following may not seem that extraordinary, but in the proper context it is definitely noteworthy:
The pizza guy came with an order for us, but he forgot to give us two sodas. He only gave us one, and we decided to split it.
Eve opened the cap on the 1-liter bottle and said, "Hey! We won a free liter of Coke!'
"Get out of here," I said. "Really?"
Eve showed me the cap. Indeed, we were instant winners.
"In all of my years of drinking sodas, I have NEVER won anything from the cap," I said. "Seriously-- this is the closest I've ever come to that."
"Same here," she said, excited by such a random event.
"Here, you keep it in your purse. You can redeem it at any retailer."
Eve read the label and figured out that the odds of winning are one in five.
She and I are always at odds with other people, and when we work as a team she and I can accomplish so much. And yet, our emotions make us complicated, our feelings for each other are confused and sincere and utterly tragic.
I recall once, long ago... she and I were out late-- I had snuck her out of her house on a school night. We walked the streets of Northridge near her house, and she flicked a finished cigarette butt into the air. It landed on the ground in a most unusual manner: vertically, as if placed on the uneven pavement of the road by human hands, standing up and pointing to the sky. It was not a shared hallucination or a flight of fancy-- this was real, and we were the only ones around to witness it.
I guess that's what love is and what it can be: a conspiracy of two, with only the other person's word to verify and back up any claims made.
*/*
I wonder what will become of us. Will she eventually meet a man (or a woman) who will satisfy her every need? Will I meet Ms. Right and settle down? And if we do, will she and I still be friends? Will the tension still be there?
Or, will we end up discovering that there is no one else out there who can reach either of us, and that we are better off with each other than apart?
I am reminded of an episode of Seinfeld that left me speechless. It's the one where Jerry's current girlfriend decides to make him mad, just to see him show an honest emotion. This leads to Jerry exploring his emotions and getting in touch with them. He has a conversation with Elaine and tells her everything he has ever felt about her. This jars her, and she takes some time to think it all over.
Then, George decides to reveal to Jerry everything inside of him. The intensity of George's revelations (which are never shown on screen) shock Jerry so much that he reverts back to his repressed, smug little self.
Elaine shows up near the end of the episode and says to Jerry, "Let's go for it. You were right, everything we ever wanted is right here in front of us. Why not?"
And, of course, Jerry callously shrugs it all off. Elaine is disappointed. Jerry goes back to the comfortable insularity of being Jerry Seinfeld.
My jaw was open when I saw that episode. I was horrified. It was so devastating and cruel. And yet, it was entirely realistic in its blackly humorous depiction of shallow people who choose to hide their feelings in order to protect themselves from rejection and failure. Jerry is painted as returning to a "normal" state of mind, but really-- he regressed and stepped backward instead of forward.
For that one moment, I hated Jerry Seinfeld. And then, I realized that I hate him because I can relate to him. I have done that, I have been in that situation, and there but for the grace of God go I.
I wonder if Eve and I will ever go through something like that again. Lord knows, we've already had our respective moments with each other. Both of us have rejected and been the rejecter. I think we are evenly matched, but maybe it's time for us to lay down our arms.
It's easier said than done. And until it gets done, I am content to watch DVDs with her while eating pizza, smoking cigarettes, and making conversation.
I mean, even if we can't bring ourselves to admit we care for each other, maybe we can make our moments together worthwhile anyway.
The odds are in our favor on that one...
--Elaine Benes to Jerry Seinfeld, "The Red Dot", Seinfeld (Third Season)
I have come to realize, in the midst of my Seinfeld jones, that Eve and I have become Jerry & Elaine.
We dated a long time ago, it didn't work out, we went our separate ways, and now that we are both adults with our own separate lives... we're best friends.
And there's always that underlying tension...
*/*
I stumbled upon the Jerry & Elaine connection over breakfast on Sunday. Bro Man and I had just finished making avant-garde music a la Captain Beefheart and decided to grab a bite to eat at Andre's. I'd called Eve and asked her if she wanted to join us.
As we sat inside (an unusual arrangement for us, but all the tables outside were taken by one big hungry family) Bro Man and I talked about my Seinfeld obsession. Bro Man has always been a fan of the show, and he was gleefully volunteering Seinfeld-related trivia when Eve showed up and sat down next to us.
"Hey, you made it!"
"Yeah, I got your message..."
"We were just talking about Seinfeld."
"Oh, I can't watch that show," Eve said.
"You don't think it's funny?" Bro Man asked.
"No, it's just that... it's painful to watch sometimes. The whole lying thing..."
"That's what makes it funny," I said.
Suddenly, I took a big step back from our table in my mind, and I realized something that could conceivably be the gist of an episode of Seinfeld.
"Hey guys," I said. "Do you realize that we could be stand-ins for the Seinfeld cast?"
Bro Man and Eve looked at me and smirked. This was the kind of stuff that I liked to come up with, and they then looked at each other and smirked some more.
"All we need is a Kramer. Maybe I should've called Down Low."
Bro Man suddenly figured out what I was implying. "Oh, so I'm George, huh?"
"Of course you are," I said. "I'm Jerry, Eve's Elaine, and you're George. You're the black George."
Eve giggled. Bro Man gave me a "yeah yeah yeah" kind of look but it didn't bother him to be compared to Mr. Costanza. After all, he loves the show and has watched it longer than I have.
But then I thought about Eve and I, and how the Jerry & Elaine thing really is quite an accurate description of our current relationship.
I ordered my usual breakfast order and made small talk with my friends.
*/*
Later on in the evening, after Bro Man went home, Eve came by and we watched TV, ordered pizza, and shot the shit about life in general.
As of late, she and I have been hanging out, spending down time with each other. She gets lonely, I get lonely, we cleave to each other's lonliness and we also keep our affection and passion at an arm's length, lest we give in to lust and find ourselves back in the same situation as in January of this year.
I always wondered why Jerry and Elaine could never make it work, and after watching the show regularly for the past few months, I see it is because they are both immature.
They have so much in common, and yet they cannot reconcile themselves to each other. Eve and I are the same way: we can make things work with other people for long periods of time, but we cannot merge together and work as a functioning couple for the life of us.
She was in a relationship with Dick for nine years, and it worked out because Dick never had any motivation or ideas of his own. He was content to take the backseat to Eve, and she was more than willing to run the show.
I, however, am fiercely independent, and sometimes I am scared when Eve feels the need to take the controls and call the shots. In turn, she sometimes feels like I don't take her seriously, that I see her as a piece of ass, or nothing but a pretty face.
While I have learned (over time) to defer to Eve in certain respects, I also find that it is almost necessary for me to be there, to take over for her in case she drops the ball. She used to resent this aspect of my personality, chalking it up to my need to always be right as opposed to my need to be helpful. Nowadays, she is more willing to let me call some shots, so long as I am not leading her down some insane path that only I can tolerate.
Last Friday we went out to see my old guitarist Mikey play at The Troubador. Mikey is now a singer, and his band is a cross between Oingo Boingo, System Of A Down, and Mr. Bungle. I asked Eve if she wanted to come with me, and she agreed.
We had a great time, watching the band, talking with Mikey's girlfriend afterwards as she informed us of her mission to save all the bunny rabbits in L.A. County. Eve liked the band so much she asked for a CD. She and I have never been out on the town like that, and it felt great.
Of course, feelings do rise to the fore, emotions of love and trust, of hurt and betrayal, and we have our petty jealousies and grievances. I think she tends to get overly embarrassed whenever I start talking in conversations because she thinks I am constantly joking; conversely, I sometimes feel like less of a man when she demands to pay for drinks and food.
We have our issues.
*/*
One thing that I've always loved about Eve: extraordinary things seem to happen when she and I are alone.
The following may not seem that extraordinary, but in the proper context it is definitely noteworthy:
The pizza guy came with an order for us, but he forgot to give us two sodas. He only gave us one, and we decided to split it.
Eve opened the cap on the 1-liter bottle and said, "Hey! We won a free liter of Coke!'
"Get out of here," I said. "Really?"
Eve showed me the cap. Indeed, we were instant winners.
"In all of my years of drinking sodas, I have NEVER won anything from the cap," I said. "Seriously-- this is the closest I've ever come to that."
"Same here," she said, excited by such a random event.
"Here, you keep it in your purse. You can redeem it at any retailer."
Eve read the label and figured out that the odds of winning are one in five.
She and I are always at odds with other people, and when we work as a team she and I can accomplish so much. And yet, our emotions make us complicated, our feelings for each other are confused and sincere and utterly tragic.
I recall once, long ago... she and I were out late-- I had snuck her out of her house on a school night. We walked the streets of Northridge near her house, and she flicked a finished cigarette butt into the air. It landed on the ground in a most unusual manner: vertically, as if placed on the uneven pavement of the road by human hands, standing up and pointing to the sky. It was not a shared hallucination or a flight of fancy-- this was real, and we were the only ones around to witness it.
I guess that's what love is and what it can be: a conspiracy of two, with only the other person's word to verify and back up any claims made.
*/*
I wonder what will become of us. Will she eventually meet a man (or a woman) who will satisfy her every need? Will I meet Ms. Right and settle down? And if we do, will she and I still be friends? Will the tension still be there?
Or, will we end up discovering that there is no one else out there who can reach either of us, and that we are better off with each other than apart?
I am reminded of an episode of Seinfeld that left me speechless. It's the one where Jerry's current girlfriend decides to make him mad, just to see him show an honest emotion. This leads to Jerry exploring his emotions and getting in touch with them. He has a conversation with Elaine and tells her everything he has ever felt about her. This jars her, and she takes some time to think it all over.
Then, George decides to reveal to Jerry everything inside of him. The intensity of George's revelations (which are never shown on screen) shock Jerry so much that he reverts back to his repressed, smug little self.
Elaine shows up near the end of the episode and says to Jerry, "Let's go for it. You were right, everything we ever wanted is right here in front of us. Why not?"
And, of course, Jerry callously shrugs it all off. Elaine is disappointed. Jerry goes back to the comfortable insularity of being Jerry Seinfeld.
My jaw was open when I saw that episode. I was horrified. It was so devastating and cruel. And yet, it was entirely realistic in its blackly humorous depiction of shallow people who choose to hide their feelings in order to protect themselves from rejection and failure. Jerry is painted as returning to a "normal" state of mind, but really-- he regressed and stepped backward instead of forward.
For that one moment, I hated Jerry Seinfeld. And then, I realized that I hate him because I can relate to him. I have done that, I have been in that situation, and there but for the grace of God go I.
I wonder if Eve and I will ever go through something like that again. Lord knows, we've already had our respective moments with each other. Both of us have rejected and been the rejecter. I think we are evenly matched, but maybe it's time for us to lay down our arms.
It's easier said than done. And until it gets done, I am content to watch DVDs with her while eating pizza, smoking cigarettes, and making conversation.
I mean, even if we can't bring ourselves to admit we care for each other, maybe we can make our moments together worthwhile anyway.
The odds are in our favor on that one...
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
shallow
I've been obsessed with Seinfeld ever since March.
A co-worker made a copy of some of the recent DVDs from the first season, and shortly after that TiVo was installed in my office, allowing me to catch up on the hit TV show in reruns on TBS.
I liked the show when it was on the air but I never got too into it. The shows were always funny but something about its tone caused me to shy away from being an avid viewer.
But in the wake of my recent epiphanies about narcissism, Seinfeld has proven to be highly entertaining and relevant.
First, there's Jerry Seinfeld himself: relentlessly snide, smug, hypercritical and neurotic. He is shallow and vain, amused by his own wit and bemused by the world around him. Jerry, as a comedian, gets points for self-deprecation, but it is a symptom of his insecurity and not done as a healthy ego check. He is solipsistic and petty, and yet he also comes off as relatively normal when compared to the likes of...
George Costanza, the narcissist's narcissist, a pure and complete example of the self-centered persona-projecting egotist. George goes into a rage if his sense of self is violated in any way; he takes insults personally and plots revenge for the pettiest of reasons; his only pursuit in life is to gratify his many selves.
Elaine Benes, Jerry's ex, is just as vain and shallow as Jerry, which is why they were involved in the first place... and it also explains why they are no longer a couple, being that they are so much alike. This met-my-match chemistry keeps their relationship tense, as if the two are locked in a draw and both are unwilling to lay down their arms.
Finally, there's Cosmo Kramer, who doesn't appear to be a grade-A narcissist like the other three, until a close examination of his motives is performed. Kramer's insensitivity and singlemindedly maniacal pursuits are the proof we need to confirm that he is merely a variation on the type of immature ego that drives his friends to act out their weird psychodramas as they do.
Watching Seinfeld in the wake of my recent narcissistic forays has helped me to see what my main problem is: I have too much ego attachment. I function best when I put my ego to the side. I am a better person for letting petty grievances pass, for ignoring the silly absurdities that cause people to snap into ego defense mode, as if their very honor depended on the outcome of some insignificant row.
I still possess a massive ego, but I've gotten better at detaching myself from it when I need to, and usually I need to detach myself from my ego quite often. Social situations, one-sided conversations, misunderstandings, online communication... I've improved my tactics and streamlined my philosophy so that I can minimize my outrage over any sort of affront to my sense of self.
These are narcissistic times, and this is a narcissistic city. I feel like I am now more comfortable with my shallow side. I used to abhor being seen as shallow until I realized that, in several key respects, I am shallow.
A deep person would not have let an online stalker derail his progress. No, a deep person would've recognized immediately what was going on, and would've made decisions according to what would eradicate the conflict as opposed to fueling it.
I'm a smart guy, but I'm not wise. Solipsists and narcissists are often extremely intelligent but lack any sense of wisdom, of having learned a lesson. Well, I feel like I've learned my lesson for sure. I have proof of it, but rather than exploit it for the sake of a blog entry, I will keep it to myself. Suffice it to say, life is strangely balanced, and my theory that my personal existence unfolds like a novel in progress has been proven to me once again by the cosmos.
I have Seinfeld to thank for helping me come to terms with my shallow side. One of the few episodes I saw during the original run was the infamous last episode. I think that episode changed my view of the show and has allowed me to embrace it in reruns.
Of course, diehard fans hated the last episode, which saw our four protagonists getting their comeuppance for their pathetic lives and the damage they've inflicted upon everyone within range. I loved it, absolutely loved it. And watching the reactions of fans as they railed against the final episode the next morning was very rewarding.
I think that, with me, it's all about building up my ego so that I can tear it down. I think I subconsciously get off on it. And when someone like my online stalker eggs me on, it's out of a love for the fenceplay that goes with certain conflicts that I consent to getting mixed up with such folk.
I am OK with tearing down my own ego, but I'm only OK with someone else tearing it down if it toes my personal party line. Usually, to reclaim my own sense of self, I resort to self-deprecation but (as with Seinfeld himself) it's only a defense mechanism to help repair the damaged image in the mind.
I think I'm making some progress. I'll never be a completely selfless person, but I also think there's hope for a scoundrel such as myself.
Wish me luck.
A co-worker made a copy of some of the recent DVDs from the first season, and shortly after that TiVo was installed in my office, allowing me to catch up on the hit TV show in reruns on TBS.
I liked the show when it was on the air but I never got too into it. The shows were always funny but something about its tone caused me to shy away from being an avid viewer.
But in the wake of my recent epiphanies about narcissism, Seinfeld has proven to be highly entertaining and relevant.
First, there's Jerry Seinfeld himself: relentlessly snide, smug, hypercritical and neurotic. He is shallow and vain, amused by his own wit and bemused by the world around him. Jerry, as a comedian, gets points for self-deprecation, but it is a symptom of his insecurity and not done as a healthy ego check. He is solipsistic and petty, and yet he also comes off as relatively normal when compared to the likes of...
George Costanza, the narcissist's narcissist, a pure and complete example of the self-centered persona-projecting egotist. George goes into a rage if his sense of self is violated in any way; he takes insults personally and plots revenge for the pettiest of reasons; his only pursuit in life is to gratify his many selves.
Elaine Benes, Jerry's ex, is just as vain and shallow as Jerry, which is why they were involved in the first place... and it also explains why they are no longer a couple, being that they are so much alike. This met-my-match chemistry keeps their relationship tense, as if the two are locked in a draw and both are unwilling to lay down their arms.
Finally, there's Cosmo Kramer, who doesn't appear to be a grade-A narcissist like the other three, until a close examination of his motives is performed. Kramer's insensitivity and singlemindedly maniacal pursuits are the proof we need to confirm that he is merely a variation on the type of immature ego that drives his friends to act out their weird psychodramas as they do.
Watching Seinfeld in the wake of my recent narcissistic forays has helped me to see what my main problem is: I have too much ego attachment. I function best when I put my ego to the side. I am a better person for letting petty grievances pass, for ignoring the silly absurdities that cause people to snap into ego defense mode, as if their very honor depended on the outcome of some insignificant row.
I still possess a massive ego, but I've gotten better at detaching myself from it when I need to, and usually I need to detach myself from my ego quite often. Social situations, one-sided conversations, misunderstandings, online communication... I've improved my tactics and streamlined my philosophy so that I can minimize my outrage over any sort of affront to my sense of self.
These are narcissistic times, and this is a narcissistic city. I feel like I am now more comfortable with my shallow side. I used to abhor being seen as shallow until I realized that, in several key respects, I am shallow.
A deep person would not have let an online stalker derail his progress. No, a deep person would've recognized immediately what was going on, and would've made decisions according to what would eradicate the conflict as opposed to fueling it.
I'm a smart guy, but I'm not wise. Solipsists and narcissists are often extremely intelligent but lack any sense of wisdom, of having learned a lesson. Well, I feel like I've learned my lesson for sure. I have proof of it, but rather than exploit it for the sake of a blog entry, I will keep it to myself. Suffice it to say, life is strangely balanced, and my theory that my personal existence unfolds like a novel in progress has been proven to me once again by the cosmos.
I have Seinfeld to thank for helping me come to terms with my shallow side. One of the few episodes I saw during the original run was the infamous last episode. I think that episode changed my view of the show and has allowed me to embrace it in reruns.
Of course, diehard fans hated the last episode, which saw our four protagonists getting their comeuppance for their pathetic lives and the damage they've inflicted upon everyone within range. I loved it, absolutely loved it. And watching the reactions of fans as they railed against the final episode the next morning was very rewarding.
I think that, with me, it's all about building up my ego so that I can tear it down. I think I subconsciously get off on it. And when someone like my online stalker eggs me on, it's out of a love for the fenceplay that goes with certain conflicts that I consent to getting mixed up with such folk.
I am OK with tearing down my own ego, but I'm only OK with someone else tearing it down if it toes my personal party line. Usually, to reclaim my own sense of self, I resort to self-deprecation but (as with Seinfeld himself) it's only a defense mechanism to help repair the damaged image in the mind.
I think I'm making some progress. I'll never be a completely selfless person, but I also think there's hope for a scoundrel such as myself.
Wish me luck.
Monday, August 15, 2005
absurdity revisited
A few weeks back I posted briefly about Thomas Pynchon and his love of the cowbell, tying it in with smaller issues (The recent SNL-Blue Oyster Cult sketch) and larger ones (switching identities in the Age of Narcissism).
I profess that I myself have always loved the cowbell. It's yet another trend that I started before it became popular, much like ripped jeans as a fashion statement or the stage posturing of Eddie Vedder. I'm always five years ahead of my time, but it took 13 years for the cool factor of the cowbell to come into its own.
Back in high school, I used to practially beg A-Dogg, the drummer in our band at the time, to go into long, drawn-out drum solos that culminated with one lone cowbell shot. It was hilarious to us.
But now, with people sporting T-shirts that say MORE COWBELL, it seems that the cowbell's time has come.
The only use of the cowbell that I disapprove of is by fans of the Sacramento Kings. I hate their team with a passion, and they use the cowbell to distract rival teams during basketball games.
Key to the overnight cowbell craze is Christopher Walken. A frequent SNL guest, he was hosting the show on that infamous eve when the Blue Oyster Cult sketch aired. His character's demand for "more cowbell" was comedic gold.
And now? He's running for President in 2008.
One online forum (World Net Daily, I believe) conducted a poll of who would vote for Christopher Walken. 46% said they would vote for him; 30% said they "gotta have more cowbell"...
Another site (whose link I can't remember) said that, if he is indeed serious, his slogan should be "America needs more cowbell"...
These are absurd times that we are living in, my friends. Truly 'pataphysical, completely absurd times...
I profess that I myself have always loved the cowbell. It's yet another trend that I started before it became popular, much like ripped jeans as a fashion statement or the stage posturing of Eddie Vedder. I'm always five years ahead of my time, but it took 13 years for the cool factor of the cowbell to come into its own.
Back in high school, I used to practially beg A-Dogg, the drummer in our band at the time, to go into long, drawn-out drum solos that culminated with one lone cowbell shot. It was hilarious to us.
But now, with people sporting T-shirts that say MORE COWBELL, it seems that the cowbell's time has come.
The only use of the cowbell that I disapprove of is by fans of the Sacramento Kings. I hate their team with a passion, and they use the cowbell to distract rival teams during basketball games.
Key to the overnight cowbell craze is Christopher Walken. A frequent SNL guest, he was hosting the show on that infamous eve when the Blue Oyster Cult sketch aired. His character's demand for "more cowbell" was comedic gold.
And now? He's running for President in 2008.
One online forum (World Net Daily, I believe) conducted a poll of who would vote for Christopher Walken. 46% said they would vote for him; 30% said they "gotta have more cowbell"...
Another site (whose link I can't remember) said that, if he is indeed serious, his slogan should be "America needs more cowbell"...
These are absurd times that we are living in, my friends. Truly 'pataphysical, completely absurd times...
Friday, August 12, 2005
hangover
The gig last night was a success.
I am very tired.
I've discovered that Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band is the crucial ink between the worlds of visual art and rock music.
I finished a painting and will start another one tomorrow.
My head hurts.
Have a nice weekend.
I am very tired.
I've discovered that Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band is the crucial ink between the worlds of visual art and rock music.
I finished a painting and will start another one tomorrow.
My head hurts.
Have a nice weekend.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
who says you can't fight back?
Cindy Sheehan, the woman who is protesting for the entire month of August outside of President George W. Nixon's Crawford Ranch... you are an American hero.
Give 'em hell, Cindy!
Give 'em hell, Cindy!
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
music to my ears
Finally, a personal post from me!
Not really too personal, not like past entries...
I was looking over some of the old ones yesterday, especially the ones around the holidays last year, and I was somewhat surprised at my candor, my willingness to let people into my world.
This post will be personal, but in an acceptable manner.
*/*
I ran into Evan, our drummer in the Holly Golightly Band, a few months ago. I was at a rehearsal for the now-defunct ICON when he showed up at the rehearsal space. He was there to practice with his new band, Ninefinger. I hung out for a song then went to look for the guys from ICON.
Ninefinger invited me to see their show at the Lava Lounge in Hollywood. I couldn't make it that night but I told them to keep me posted on future gigs. Well, they must've thought I meant it literally, because Evan called me a few days later and asked me to join the band.
The drummer that Evan was filling in for had left, so after the Lava Lounge gig was done the bass player (who was close friends with the drummer) vacated also. Evan brought me in and I got along well with Josh and Mike, the respective guitarist and singer of Ninefinger. We rehearsed and prepared for the show this coming Thursday.
Josh and Mike are big guys, roughly the same age as me, and have been playing as Ninefinger for about three years. Josh moved here from Rhode Island, Mike from Arizona, and they met around the time they both arrived. The music they make is unabashed grunge-era rock: Josh cites Nirvana as his biggest influence and favorite band of all time, "the reason why I started playing guitar in the first place", as he puts it. I'm not sure what Mike's influences are, but his voice has a tinge of Glenn Danzig chased with Scott Weiland from STP.
Because they are not native Angelenos, they have an easygoing demeanor and only want to make music, possibly even get some exposure for it. They don't have egos, they don't have unstable living arrangements, and they are both motivated to get this show on the road.
Oh, and they rock, too. Josh's guitar work is strong without being flashy, and Mike is the kind of lead singer that most bands need: he's good-looking, charismatic, can sing in key, and (most importantly) he's shockingly humble and down-to-earth. He has nine fingers-- he lost his right index finger in a construction accident back in Scottsdale... hence, the name Ninefinger.
They were extremely grateful to Evan for filling in for their absent drummer, but even at the first practice I could see that Evan had not really changed much: he's a cool guy and fun to play with, but takes direction badly and brings his personal dramas into the rehearsals. He never contributes to the band financially, eternally claiming poverty-- yet he has enough money to go to the bars in Studio City every night.
It's a shame, really, because only five months ago I went over to Evan's to grab my DAT machine and noticed a 180 degree turn in his lifestyle. His apartment was clean and well-kept; his attitude was positive, his eyes gleaming... he had his new girlfriend move in with him, and she was laying her feminine touch on him. I was genuinely happy for the guy, and he seemed like he was ready to take life by the horns and do something with his time.
Then, when he asked me to join the band recently, I went over to his place to receive a copy of the songs I needed to learn. The girl was gone-- she'd moved out, and the place was once again a disaster area. He seemed less bouncy, maybe even a tad bitter, and he was extremely scatterbrained.
Oh no, I thought to myself. This isn't good...
*/*
So now Evan is back to his old habits. He isn't a drug abuser or a major alcoholic, but he definitely has a demon inside of him that needs to be exorcised. He is in his mid-thirties and also served in the military during the Kosovo conflict. His stories from his stint in that war are harrowing, as most war stories are, and I suspect that he bore witness to some terrible atrocities that imprinted themselves on his psyche quite firmly. I would go so far to speculate that any post-traumatic stress he is experiencing currently is having a profound effect on his drum playing.
Evan's biggest problem playing the drums is that he speeds up the tempo too much. To be fair, he keeps it steady enough, but he still gets complaints all the time. When we were playing with Holly, the guitarist in that band had it out with Evan on several occasions over his erratic timing. This is a very significant flaw in the minds of the people who are writing the songs we play, because Josh and Mike echo Holly's guitarist's concerns.
Personally, I'm just the bass player. It doesn't affect me. Yes, Evan does speed up, but I don't care. Then again, these aren't my compositions, so obviously it matters less to me than it does to everyone else. And I don't blame the others for expecting Evan to be steadier on the beat.
However, my theory is that something happened to him that scarred his psyche a bit, possibly during the war, that put his sense of timing off in a major way. He's a good drummer-- his fills are exquisite, he has a good sense of how to arrange parts, and he is enthusiastic. But coupled with the financial selfishness and his dissolute roller-coaster of a life, it only makes people like Josh and Mike look elsewhere.
And it doesn't help that he announced to us, last Thursday at rehearsal, that he might not be able to make the show that we're doing two days from today.
*/*
The same issue came up with the hair metal cover band that I am playing with-- the guitarist (who also happened to be the axe-slinger for the late ICON) doesn't have the time to dedicate to music anymore, especially with his weekend off-road racing and his desire to go back to school to learn a computer-related trade.
So Andy (the singer) and Joe (the drummer) let him have it. They really want this to get off the ground. Like Josh and Mike, they are transplants: they're both from New Jersey. Andy has a house in Santa Clarita where we can practice for free, and he only wants to make money playing covers. Not that it's his only goal, but he is hurting for cash, what with a family to feed and payments to make.
Joe is a family guy too, and they clearly love the '80's hair metal that has been on a revival as of late, what with tongue-in-cheek acts like Metal Skool making cash hand over fist. But what's endearing about playing with these guys is that it isn't ironic.
They really do love Dokken, Slaughter, Warrant, Motley Crue, Ratt, Poison, and any number of bands that ruled the airwaves in the late '80's, before grunge came around and devastated the pop cultural wasteland. I used to hate those bands when I was growing up, because I was supposed to hate them: being a half-breed Mexican/Asian kid from the San Fernando Valley meant aligning myself with hard rock, thrash metal, hardcore punk, and gangsta rap. Hair metal was The Enemy.
As I've grown older, I've come to drop my biases against popular music, especially since (now that I can play the bass with modest skill) those kinds of songs are fun to play... there's nothing simpler than a heavy metal bass line, unless it's Iron Maiden or some prog-rock influenced nu-metal group.
And that brings us to Mike, whom I will refer to as Mick so as to distinguish him from the millions of Mikes that I know. Mick is the guitarist Andy called to auditon for us last Sunday. He's pushing 40 but doesn't look a day over 30; he is tatted up and down on his arms, and sports a baldhead and a goatee-- a real goatee, not the Van Dyke cut that everyone calls a goatee nowadays... his facial hair growth is all chin, baby!
The motherfucker is sick when it comes to the git.
We bashed through "Mr. Brownstone" and "Rocket Queen" by G'N'R, we ran through "Living After Midnight" by Judas Priest, and we slammed "Man In The Box" by Alice In Chains down to the ground. Mick was on point, asking us in between songs if we knew this or that song. He played "Hot For Teacher" by Van Halen note for note, but Joe said to hold off on that one because he needed to practice Alex' infamous drum parts a little more.
I know what you're saying: "Those aren't hair metal songs..." And you're absolutely right.
Mick's got energy, enthusiasm, and a wicked style, and his leanings are darker, faster, harder. He played the riff for "Stop!" by Jane's Addiction, and brightened when I threw out the bass riff to "Three Days". He expressed his wish to one day start a Ramones cover band, which echoed my sentiments a year ago. He got down with some Sabbath-- "War Pigs" of course --and jammed with me when I casually slapped the intro bass part to the Chili Pepper's version of "Higher Ground".
I like the dude's style, and so did Joe. Andy dug him too, but I can see a little rough sailing up ahead, mostly because Mick isn't into the soft hair metal stuff that Andy wants to do. He'll play it, I'm sure, but it will have to be balanced with some good old-fashioned grimy-and-gritty rock and roll.
Still, what's a band without some turbulence? I feel bad that the guitarist who brought me into the band can no longer be in it, but this line-up looks like it will be both fun AND profitable.
*/*
A similar thing is happening with Evan. He brought me in, and now (in the wake of his announcing that he will be out of town on Thursday) the others want to get another drummer.
I went one further and suggested getting a fill-in for the show. I called up The Wolf, a mutual friend of mine and Down Low. The Wolf (or Wolfie, as he is known) plays drums, and he plays them hard. About a month ago, he asked me to play bass for a band he was jamming with, a band that wanted to cover The Stooges and The MC5 and New York Dolls. I sat in and had some fun.
Now I was calling Wolfie to return the favor. I didn't have to get very far in my pitch.
"Whatever it is, I'm down to do it."
"Nice. You think you can learn 9 songs by Thursday?"
"Maybe. Is it a paying gig?"
"Yes."
"Fuck, bring it on. Why can't your regular drummer make it?"
"He's claiming that his work wants him to go to Indiana and do a shoot. He works for a film production company. I suspect that he totally blanked on the dates and didn't realize that the gig night was going to conflict with his work, because he asked us to change the night of the gig. When Josh and Mike said they couldn't, he aid he might not be able to do the show at all."
"So what did you say?"
"I straight-up said that I was going to call a drummer to fill in. All of a sudden he starts saying he might be able to fly in the day of the show, but I'm not really comfortable with that. I'd rather you play with us than him at this point, even though he knows the songs better than you."
A little back story here...
You see, in the Holly band, we'd had these types of discussions before concerning Evan. Holly was persistent in the beginning and wanted Evan to play, despite my recommendation to have someone else play the drums. She pulled rank and said it was her band and that she was the boss, so I washed my hands of it.
Months later, after finding out what kind of person Evan was, she was asking me if I would be the one to fire Evan.
I laughed at her and said, "It's your band. You're the boss. You fire him."
She didn't, although she came close to doing it when I was able to bring Buddah, the drummer I'd originally wanted to use, to a rehearsal one day. However, Buddah couldn't make the show we wanted to use him for, so it never happened. We stuck with Evan, and Holly ended up regretting the day she brought him into the group.
After Evan's bombshell, I arranged to have The Wolf rehearse with us. Last night, we drove out to Pasadena to go over the set. Wolfie picked it up fairly fast, although one rehearsal might not be enough for him to be 100%. Josh and Mike really liked The Wolf's playing, though, and so now the dilemma we are faced with is as follows:
If The Wolf wants to be our drummer, then Josh will break it off with Evan. But, who will play on Thursday? If Evan makes it into town tomorrow, then Josh wants him to play with us, but that might insult The Wolf, who is assuming that he will be in on the show Thursday night.
If The Wolf plays with us, then Evan will feel slighted... not to mention that Wolfie is still learning the songs. He is a great drummer but he might not be up to snuff come Thursday evening.
It doesn't matter what happens after Thursday-- Mike is getting surgery on his nose to open up his septum and will be out for a month, so we won't be playing any shows. But it will give us time to get the songs tight, and it looks like Wolfie will be the man for the job. But it all depends on what happens in the next two days.
I dig Evan as a human being, but I fear a repeat of some of the drama that made the Holly Golightly band such a bad trip. Wolfie digs the band and wants to play, but I fear that he will feel put off if we have him practice but not perform with us at the show.
It's up in the air, really.
Ah, music-- so simple, so uncomplicated...
*/*
So that's been what's going on with me lately. No romance, no intrigue, nothing on par with my past exaggerations and anecdotes. Just plowing through the day, running through the motions, with my focus fixed upon the road ahead of me at all times.
I mean, there ARE things happening, but on subliminal levels, intangible tiers of wonder that I am only halfway aware of, smoky wisps of energy emanating from everyone around me...
And yet, it's music to my ears.
Not really too personal, not like past entries...
I was looking over some of the old ones yesterday, especially the ones around the holidays last year, and I was somewhat surprised at my candor, my willingness to let people into my world.
This post will be personal, but in an acceptable manner.
*/*
I ran into Evan, our drummer in the Holly Golightly Band, a few months ago. I was at a rehearsal for the now-defunct ICON when he showed up at the rehearsal space. He was there to practice with his new band, Ninefinger. I hung out for a song then went to look for the guys from ICON.
Ninefinger invited me to see their show at the Lava Lounge in Hollywood. I couldn't make it that night but I told them to keep me posted on future gigs. Well, they must've thought I meant it literally, because Evan called me a few days later and asked me to join the band.
The drummer that Evan was filling in for had left, so after the Lava Lounge gig was done the bass player (who was close friends with the drummer) vacated also. Evan brought me in and I got along well with Josh and Mike, the respective guitarist and singer of Ninefinger. We rehearsed and prepared for the show this coming Thursday.
Josh and Mike are big guys, roughly the same age as me, and have been playing as Ninefinger for about three years. Josh moved here from Rhode Island, Mike from Arizona, and they met around the time they both arrived. The music they make is unabashed grunge-era rock: Josh cites Nirvana as his biggest influence and favorite band of all time, "the reason why I started playing guitar in the first place", as he puts it. I'm not sure what Mike's influences are, but his voice has a tinge of Glenn Danzig chased with Scott Weiland from STP.
Because they are not native Angelenos, they have an easygoing demeanor and only want to make music, possibly even get some exposure for it. They don't have egos, they don't have unstable living arrangements, and they are both motivated to get this show on the road.
Oh, and they rock, too. Josh's guitar work is strong without being flashy, and Mike is the kind of lead singer that most bands need: he's good-looking, charismatic, can sing in key, and (most importantly) he's shockingly humble and down-to-earth. He has nine fingers-- he lost his right index finger in a construction accident back in Scottsdale... hence, the name Ninefinger.
They were extremely grateful to Evan for filling in for their absent drummer, but even at the first practice I could see that Evan had not really changed much: he's a cool guy and fun to play with, but takes direction badly and brings his personal dramas into the rehearsals. He never contributes to the band financially, eternally claiming poverty-- yet he has enough money to go to the bars in Studio City every night.
It's a shame, really, because only five months ago I went over to Evan's to grab my DAT machine and noticed a 180 degree turn in his lifestyle. His apartment was clean and well-kept; his attitude was positive, his eyes gleaming... he had his new girlfriend move in with him, and she was laying her feminine touch on him. I was genuinely happy for the guy, and he seemed like he was ready to take life by the horns and do something with his time.
Then, when he asked me to join the band recently, I went over to his place to receive a copy of the songs I needed to learn. The girl was gone-- she'd moved out, and the place was once again a disaster area. He seemed less bouncy, maybe even a tad bitter, and he was extremely scatterbrained.
Oh no, I thought to myself. This isn't good...
*/*
So now Evan is back to his old habits. He isn't a drug abuser or a major alcoholic, but he definitely has a demon inside of him that needs to be exorcised. He is in his mid-thirties and also served in the military during the Kosovo conflict. His stories from his stint in that war are harrowing, as most war stories are, and I suspect that he bore witness to some terrible atrocities that imprinted themselves on his psyche quite firmly. I would go so far to speculate that any post-traumatic stress he is experiencing currently is having a profound effect on his drum playing.
Evan's biggest problem playing the drums is that he speeds up the tempo too much. To be fair, he keeps it steady enough, but he still gets complaints all the time. When we were playing with Holly, the guitarist in that band had it out with Evan on several occasions over his erratic timing. This is a very significant flaw in the minds of the people who are writing the songs we play, because Josh and Mike echo Holly's guitarist's concerns.
Personally, I'm just the bass player. It doesn't affect me. Yes, Evan does speed up, but I don't care. Then again, these aren't my compositions, so obviously it matters less to me than it does to everyone else. And I don't blame the others for expecting Evan to be steadier on the beat.
However, my theory is that something happened to him that scarred his psyche a bit, possibly during the war, that put his sense of timing off in a major way. He's a good drummer-- his fills are exquisite, he has a good sense of how to arrange parts, and he is enthusiastic. But coupled with the financial selfishness and his dissolute roller-coaster of a life, it only makes people like Josh and Mike look elsewhere.
And it doesn't help that he announced to us, last Thursday at rehearsal, that he might not be able to make the show that we're doing two days from today.
*/*
The same issue came up with the hair metal cover band that I am playing with-- the guitarist (who also happened to be the axe-slinger for the late ICON) doesn't have the time to dedicate to music anymore, especially with his weekend off-road racing and his desire to go back to school to learn a computer-related trade.
So Andy (the singer) and Joe (the drummer) let him have it. They really want this to get off the ground. Like Josh and Mike, they are transplants: they're both from New Jersey. Andy has a house in Santa Clarita where we can practice for free, and he only wants to make money playing covers. Not that it's his only goal, but he is hurting for cash, what with a family to feed and payments to make.
Joe is a family guy too, and they clearly love the '80's hair metal that has been on a revival as of late, what with tongue-in-cheek acts like Metal Skool making cash hand over fist. But what's endearing about playing with these guys is that it isn't ironic.
They really do love Dokken, Slaughter, Warrant, Motley Crue, Ratt, Poison, and any number of bands that ruled the airwaves in the late '80's, before grunge came around and devastated the pop cultural wasteland. I used to hate those bands when I was growing up, because I was supposed to hate them: being a half-breed Mexican/Asian kid from the San Fernando Valley meant aligning myself with hard rock, thrash metal, hardcore punk, and gangsta rap. Hair metal was The Enemy.
As I've grown older, I've come to drop my biases against popular music, especially since (now that I can play the bass with modest skill) those kinds of songs are fun to play... there's nothing simpler than a heavy metal bass line, unless it's Iron Maiden or some prog-rock influenced nu-metal group.
And that brings us to Mike, whom I will refer to as Mick so as to distinguish him from the millions of Mikes that I know. Mick is the guitarist Andy called to auditon for us last Sunday. He's pushing 40 but doesn't look a day over 30; he is tatted up and down on his arms, and sports a baldhead and a goatee-- a real goatee, not the Van Dyke cut that everyone calls a goatee nowadays... his facial hair growth is all chin, baby!
The motherfucker is sick when it comes to the git.
We bashed through "Mr. Brownstone" and "Rocket Queen" by G'N'R, we ran through "Living After Midnight" by Judas Priest, and we slammed "Man In The Box" by Alice In Chains down to the ground. Mick was on point, asking us in between songs if we knew this or that song. He played "Hot For Teacher" by Van Halen note for note, but Joe said to hold off on that one because he needed to practice Alex' infamous drum parts a little more.
I know what you're saying: "Those aren't hair metal songs..." And you're absolutely right.
Mick's got energy, enthusiasm, and a wicked style, and his leanings are darker, faster, harder. He played the riff for "Stop!" by Jane's Addiction, and brightened when I threw out the bass riff to "Three Days". He expressed his wish to one day start a Ramones cover band, which echoed my sentiments a year ago. He got down with some Sabbath-- "War Pigs" of course --and jammed with me when I casually slapped the intro bass part to the Chili Pepper's version of "Higher Ground".
I like the dude's style, and so did Joe. Andy dug him too, but I can see a little rough sailing up ahead, mostly because Mick isn't into the soft hair metal stuff that Andy wants to do. He'll play it, I'm sure, but it will have to be balanced with some good old-fashioned grimy-and-gritty rock and roll.
Still, what's a band without some turbulence? I feel bad that the guitarist who brought me into the band can no longer be in it, but this line-up looks like it will be both fun AND profitable.
*/*
A similar thing is happening with Evan. He brought me in, and now (in the wake of his announcing that he will be out of town on Thursday) the others want to get another drummer.
I went one further and suggested getting a fill-in for the show. I called up The Wolf, a mutual friend of mine and Down Low. The Wolf (or Wolfie, as he is known) plays drums, and he plays them hard. About a month ago, he asked me to play bass for a band he was jamming with, a band that wanted to cover The Stooges and The MC5 and New York Dolls. I sat in and had some fun.
Now I was calling Wolfie to return the favor. I didn't have to get very far in my pitch.
"Whatever it is, I'm down to do it."
"Nice. You think you can learn 9 songs by Thursday?"
"Maybe. Is it a paying gig?"
"Yes."
"Fuck, bring it on. Why can't your regular drummer make it?"
"He's claiming that his work wants him to go to Indiana and do a shoot. He works for a film production company. I suspect that he totally blanked on the dates and didn't realize that the gig night was going to conflict with his work, because he asked us to change the night of the gig. When Josh and Mike said they couldn't, he aid he might not be able to do the show at all."
"So what did you say?"
"I straight-up said that I was going to call a drummer to fill in. All of a sudden he starts saying he might be able to fly in the day of the show, but I'm not really comfortable with that. I'd rather you play with us than him at this point, even though he knows the songs better than you."
A little back story here...
You see, in the Holly band, we'd had these types of discussions before concerning Evan. Holly was persistent in the beginning and wanted Evan to play, despite my recommendation to have someone else play the drums. She pulled rank and said it was her band and that she was the boss, so I washed my hands of it.
Months later, after finding out what kind of person Evan was, she was asking me if I would be the one to fire Evan.
I laughed at her and said, "It's your band. You're the boss. You fire him."
She didn't, although she came close to doing it when I was able to bring Buddah, the drummer I'd originally wanted to use, to a rehearsal one day. However, Buddah couldn't make the show we wanted to use him for, so it never happened. We stuck with Evan, and Holly ended up regretting the day she brought him into the group.
After Evan's bombshell, I arranged to have The Wolf rehearse with us. Last night, we drove out to Pasadena to go over the set. Wolfie picked it up fairly fast, although one rehearsal might not be enough for him to be 100%. Josh and Mike really liked The Wolf's playing, though, and so now the dilemma we are faced with is as follows:
If The Wolf wants to be our drummer, then Josh will break it off with Evan. But, who will play on Thursday? If Evan makes it into town tomorrow, then Josh wants him to play with us, but that might insult The Wolf, who is assuming that he will be in on the show Thursday night.
If The Wolf plays with us, then Evan will feel slighted... not to mention that Wolfie is still learning the songs. He is a great drummer but he might not be up to snuff come Thursday evening.
It doesn't matter what happens after Thursday-- Mike is getting surgery on his nose to open up his septum and will be out for a month, so we won't be playing any shows. But it will give us time to get the songs tight, and it looks like Wolfie will be the man for the job. But it all depends on what happens in the next two days.
I dig Evan as a human being, but I fear a repeat of some of the drama that made the Holly Golightly band such a bad trip. Wolfie digs the band and wants to play, but I fear that he will feel put off if we have him practice but not perform with us at the show.
It's up in the air, really.
Ah, music-- so simple, so uncomplicated...
*/*
So that's been what's going on with me lately. No romance, no intrigue, nothing on par with my past exaggerations and anecdotes. Just plowing through the day, running through the motions, with my focus fixed upon the road ahead of me at all times.
I mean, there ARE things happening, but on subliminal levels, intangible tiers of wonder that I am only halfway aware of, smoky wisps of energy emanating from everyone around me...
And yet, it's music to my ears.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
no fair
the heartbreak in the air that I spoke of recently is starting to dissipate and crumble into imperceptible dust motes, relating to nothing and swirling aimlessly in summer dusk sunset...
I weep not for the sad maidens with their heads encased in baskets, for they do not lack the ability to lift their arms and remove the wicker masks... they adore being blind, they look forward to the inconsolable night...
deflecting vibrations from every which way, I can see the straight path, the unevenly paved road, the primrose arc winding slow and leisurely, unfurling beneath my feet...
I am seen as shallow by those who are afraid to dip their toes into the river stream of eternity, for fear that they will emerge transformed and unable to reverse the ether flow of entropy, time passing and carrying us away like survivors of a shipwreck wading in tiny life rafts during a storm, these people are not inclined to let their hearts run so deep...
Spectacular and surreptitious these evenings seem, gleaming in the pearl of black atmospheric sky with glistening surfaces, and on the street monastries appear from nowhere, their mirrored windows giving off no glare, my mind crying out in protest, screaming "No fair!"
But it is fair. It's fairer than I care to admit.
I possess plans and agendas, goals and motivations, colored with crimson blood and stranded blue, ribbons unwrapped and rivers untapped for their electricity, waves of sound massaging me from the shoulders down...
(have a nice weekend)
I weep not for the sad maidens with their heads encased in baskets, for they do not lack the ability to lift their arms and remove the wicker masks... they adore being blind, they look forward to the inconsolable night...
deflecting vibrations from every which way, I can see the straight path, the unevenly paved road, the primrose arc winding slow and leisurely, unfurling beneath my feet...
I am seen as shallow by those who are afraid to dip their toes into the river stream of eternity, for fear that they will emerge transformed and unable to reverse the ether flow of entropy, time passing and carrying us away like survivors of a shipwreck wading in tiny life rafts during a storm, these people are not inclined to let their hearts run so deep...
Spectacular and surreptitious these evenings seem, gleaming in the pearl of black atmospheric sky with glistening surfaces, and on the street monastries appear from nowhere, their mirrored windows giving off no glare, my mind crying out in protest, screaming "No fair!"
But it is fair. It's fairer than I care to admit.
I possess plans and agendas, goals and motivations, colored with crimson blood and stranded blue, ribbons unwrapped and rivers untapped for their electricity, waves of sound massaging me from the shoulders down...
(have a nice weekend)
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
the day the laughter stopped
This can't be...
I don't watch a lot of TV. The Simpsons is the only constant... that, and Chappelle's Show.
Well, now it's just The Simpsons: read this link and see what has me more than a little depressed.
Chappelle's Show was, by far, the funniest (and most 'pataphysical) thing on TV since In Living Color... and now...
PLEASE say this is all a hoax! PLEASE!
What about the third season? The sketches were already filmed! Can't they show them, at least?
Oh well... to quote Dave himself:
"Konichiwa, bitches!"
I don't watch a lot of TV. The Simpsons is the only constant... that, and Chappelle's Show.
Well, now it's just The Simpsons: read this link and see what has me more than a little depressed.
Chappelle's Show was, by far, the funniest (and most 'pataphysical) thing on TV since In Living Color... and now...
PLEASE say this is all a hoax! PLEASE!
What about the third season? The sketches were already filmed! Can't they show them, at least?
Oh well... to quote Dave himself:
"Konichiwa, bitches!"
Monday, August 01, 2005
it's only a blog
There was a time, not long ago, when it seemed like I belonged to some little online community, made up of links to other blogs. I communicated with these people daily. It was fun.
It's not like that anymore. I changed templates and fonts a few times, even changed the URL in the wake of the stalker; most of the members of this unofficial blog community have stopped blogging altogether, while some tired of my comapny, and yet others remain unexplained in their absence; even I have cut down considerably on blogging, and not just in terms of quantity but quality-- nothing intimate is being said here nowadays.
Then again, it's only a blog.
But I miss Sahalie and Fishfry and Snake Oils and Blousy Drake and Blue 59 and Violet Butcher...
Some blogs keeps on going. Clay and Zen and Invisible Shoebox and Occult Investigator and Glutter and Grass Under Bare Feet and Ayelet still post sporadically, but not as often as before.
I've made new friends, such as Butterscotch. She reminds me of those days, the spirit of this imaginary online community that existed in my head.
But I wonder why I am reflecting fondly upon it now, when it's only been a few years since I started blogging in the first place. Not only that, but I made deliberate decisions to not get mired in a rut, which is why I changed templates and URLs and went out of my way to alienate fellow bloggers...
I just tried to get personal again, to write the way I used to write in this blog back in the day, but I deleted it all. I always suspect that I jinx myself by writing about things that are going on in my life, and ever since I started keeping my life private, things have been going in my favor.
So I can't jinx it. I just can't.
It's okay, it's only a blog-- there'll be more further down the line. You can count on it.
It's not like that anymore. I changed templates and fonts a few times, even changed the URL in the wake of the stalker; most of the members of this unofficial blog community have stopped blogging altogether, while some tired of my comapny, and yet others remain unexplained in their absence; even I have cut down considerably on blogging, and not just in terms of quantity but quality-- nothing intimate is being said here nowadays.
Then again, it's only a blog.
But I miss Sahalie and Fishfry and Snake Oils and Blousy Drake and Blue 59 and Violet Butcher...
Some blogs keeps on going. Clay and Zen and Invisible Shoebox and Occult Investigator and Glutter and Grass Under Bare Feet and Ayelet still post sporadically, but not as often as before.
I've made new friends, such as Butterscotch. She reminds me of those days, the spirit of this imaginary online community that existed in my head.
But I wonder why I am reflecting fondly upon it now, when it's only been a few years since I started blogging in the first place. Not only that, but I made deliberate decisions to not get mired in a rut, which is why I changed templates and URLs and went out of my way to alienate fellow bloggers...
I just tried to get personal again, to write the way I used to write in this blog back in the day, but I deleted it all. I always suspect that I jinx myself by writing about things that are going on in my life, and ever since I started keeping my life private, things have been going in my favor.
So I can't jinx it. I just can't.
It's okay, it's only a blog-- there'll be more further down the line. You can count on it.
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