I woke up this morning and had a random thought pop into my head:
During the election, John McCain and his lackeys called Obama some of the following:
- elitist
- friend of Terrorists
- unqualified
- socialist
Barack Obama said electing John McCain would bring four more years of George W. Bush policies.
Barack Obama won.
George W. Bush - worst. president. ever.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Excellence through Materialocity
Yesterday was a red letter day in Yuppiedom for me.
I paid off my car. (it's German!)
I activated my first Blackberry (I can email from my phone and.... stuff!)
And yet it felt completely empty. An anti-climactic non-event.
I hacked my Blackberry to remove the goddamn corporate security policy then checked my car loan on the interweb. Payoff: 0.00. The car is mine. Blackberry, mine. I had a mini panic attack perhaps due to two days without a drink; perhaps due to this newfound acquisition of material goods. I've been trying to simplify, goddamnit, and here I am, with a newfangled phone with more features than I could possibly use, and I car which I have had in my possesion without true ownership.
I should have felt lighter and instead I felt weighted down.
I popped the buds in my ears jammed my eyepod in my hoodie pocket, put on a coat, beanie, grabbed a chai tea, ran the trash down, lit up a smoke, then headed down my dark alley looking for perspective.
As soon as the wheels on the thrash can stopped rolling at the curb I felt the cold sting of freezing rain on my face, realized it was there after the machine like motions that got me to where I was standing. It stung and I hated it and every practical neuron in my brain was firing 'go inside, retard!' and I ignored it and pressed ahead knowing that weather is a blessing from whoever just for the experience, even bad weather reminds you that you are alive.
I walked farther than I thought and crushed the tea and smoked two smokes down to 10th street zig zagging back alley the whole way left behind my Blackberry, my watch, brought the eyepod for its' company and the sensory disconnect it provides. 10th street came back Carson familar road drunks staggering usually me past the normal bars and hot spots and tried to look at everything with a different perspective sober, sober night. No new revelations thoughts feelings of any real break through caliber shit but instead I just walked and was mindful of my breath and my thoughts and the songs and enjoyed the cold night rain in all its simplicity.
I paid off my car. (it's German!)
I activated my first Blackberry (I can email from my phone and.... stuff!)
And yet it felt completely empty. An anti-climactic non-event.
I hacked my Blackberry to remove the goddamn corporate security policy then checked my car loan on the interweb. Payoff: 0.00. The car is mine. Blackberry, mine. I had a mini panic attack perhaps due to two days without a drink; perhaps due to this newfound acquisition of material goods. I've been trying to simplify, goddamnit, and here I am, with a newfangled phone with more features than I could possibly use, and I car which I have had in my possesion without true ownership.
I should have felt lighter and instead I felt weighted down.
I popped the buds in my ears jammed my eyepod in my hoodie pocket, put on a coat, beanie, grabbed a chai tea, ran the trash down, lit up a smoke, then headed down my dark alley looking for perspective.
As soon as the wheels on the thrash can stopped rolling at the curb I felt the cold sting of freezing rain on my face, realized it was there after the machine like motions that got me to where I was standing. It stung and I hated it and every practical neuron in my brain was firing 'go inside, retard!' and I ignored it and pressed ahead knowing that weather is a blessing from whoever just for the experience, even bad weather reminds you that you are alive.
I walked farther than I thought and crushed the tea and smoked two smokes down to 10th street zig zagging back alley the whole way left behind my Blackberry, my watch, brought the eyepod for its' company and the sensory disconnect it provides. 10th street came back Carson familar road drunks staggering usually me past the normal bars and hot spots and tried to look at everything with a different perspective sober, sober night. No new revelations thoughts feelings of any real break through caliber shit but instead I just walked and was mindful of my breath and my thoughts and the songs and enjoyed the cold night rain in all its simplicity.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Dirty Thirty - this is not funny.
I started writing a story tonight for Working Class Zero. The concept was that the gambling industry suffered a global meltdown because I lived until my 30th birthday. I drew parallels between the current economic crisis and the gambling industry in a satirical way, but the krux of the story was that the gambling industry collapsed based on how many people bet on me not making it till thirty.
The whole not-making-it-till thirty thing was a total inside joke between myself and my cousin. It was pretty funny until 30 started approaching... as each day ended, a small part of me wondered if I would make it through the next. Actually, it was pretty hilarious. Black comedy, the greatest. I am a black comedian (not Katt Williams black, but you know what I mean.) So I'm writing this story, and as it's flowing out of me, it gets less and less funny, the balancing beam swings from 'funny' to 'fucking morbid' and I realize how unfunny inside jokes usually are unless you can successfully bring everyone into the joke, and also how unfunny it is to think, let alone joke, about your very own untimely demise.
The fucked up thing is I never really thought I would make it until thirty. I've lived every day like it was my last after reaching a point in my early twenties when I realized I had lived, loved, and lost and was ready for what the future held for me, be it death, destruction, or glory. I mostly hedged on the early death part, which as I write, is fucked up to read. I never invested in the future, set down an established me, prepared for the future much beyond a short term plan (with a few exceptions, notably toward white picket fence 2.5 kids mini van suburban hell that has been touched upon before and undoubtedly will be again.)
Carpe Diem, bitches!
And as I round over the hump that is thirty, I'm realizing I should perhaps plan ahead. Aim a thoughtful eye at the future with the child like perceptive wonder I have tried to observe every day with.
I had a short sleep night last night and a long day of mindless MS word at work today which allowed my brain to wander as I copied, pasted, formatted, re-formatted, checked and re-checked. My brain was racing through a variety of schemes and dreams as it often does, many good ideas, some I thought were so great I had the feeling of hope well up in my stomach as I thought them. At some point, I believe around 4pm, the flash of the discussion Scott's brother and I had one late drunken night in Virginia crashed through my head - we were talking about intelligence and its' impact on personal success, and we exchanged IQ numbers, and he told me we both fell into the sub-genius category, a sort of excellence through mediocrity purgatory filled with drunk almost-been failures. Those in the sub-genius range rarely excel; the greatest minds are in the true genius category (160IQ+) and those below but above simple above average have ridiculous rates of suicide, substance abuse problems, depression, mental health issues, plane jane real deal fuck all bullshit. Those who are true geniuses, 160+, typically get into crazy research jobs, become professors, intellectuals, etc. Those of average to slightly above average intelligence become managers, CEOs, politicians, and white collar Johns. Those in our cursed, blessed, range, have the potential to do great but rarely do. We are rarely recognized for our sub-genius because it doesn't shine as brightly as the true, rare genius. We lack the focus or the specialization to succeed in one field because our interests are scattered, our skills above average but diverse. Hard drugs and hard lives often follow. Excellence through mediocrity. Jerks of All Trades.
I heard this conversation in my head for the millionth time and still I will acknowledge my fate, wink at it, and continue trying to do something great.
The whole not-making-it-till thirty thing was a total inside joke between myself and my cousin. It was pretty funny until 30 started approaching... as each day ended, a small part of me wondered if I would make it through the next. Actually, it was pretty hilarious. Black comedy, the greatest. I am a black comedian (not Katt Williams black, but you know what I mean.) So I'm writing this story, and as it's flowing out of me, it gets less and less funny, the balancing beam swings from 'funny' to 'fucking morbid' and I realize how unfunny inside jokes usually are unless you can successfully bring everyone into the joke, and also how unfunny it is to think, let alone joke, about your very own untimely demise.
The fucked up thing is I never really thought I would make it until thirty. I've lived every day like it was my last after reaching a point in my early twenties when I realized I had lived, loved, and lost and was ready for what the future held for me, be it death, destruction, or glory. I mostly hedged on the early death part, which as I write, is fucked up to read. I never invested in the future, set down an established me, prepared for the future much beyond a short term plan (with a few exceptions, notably toward white picket fence 2.5 kids mini van suburban hell that has been touched upon before and undoubtedly will be again.)
Carpe Diem, bitches!
And as I round over the hump that is thirty, I'm realizing I should perhaps plan ahead. Aim a thoughtful eye at the future with the child like perceptive wonder I have tried to observe every day with.
I had a short sleep night last night and a long day of mindless MS word at work today which allowed my brain to wander as I copied, pasted, formatted, re-formatted, checked and re-checked. My brain was racing through a variety of schemes and dreams as it often does, many good ideas, some I thought were so great I had the feeling of hope well up in my stomach as I thought them. At some point, I believe around 4pm, the flash of the discussion Scott's brother and I had one late drunken night in Virginia crashed through my head - we were talking about intelligence and its' impact on personal success, and we exchanged IQ numbers, and he told me we both fell into the sub-genius category, a sort of excellence through mediocrity purgatory filled with drunk almost-been failures. Those in the sub-genius range rarely excel; the greatest minds are in the true genius category (160IQ+) and those below but above simple above average have ridiculous rates of suicide, substance abuse problems, depression, mental health issues, plane jane real deal fuck all bullshit. Those who are true geniuses, 160+, typically get into crazy research jobs, become professors, intellectuals, etc. Those of average to slightly above average intelligence become managers, CEOs, politicians, and white collar Johns. Those in our cursed, blessed, range, have the potential to do great but rarely do. We are rarely recognized for our sub-genius because it doesn't shine as brightly as the true, rare genius. We lack the focus or the specialization to succeed in one field because our interests are scattered, our skills above average but diverse. Hard drugs and hard lives often follow. Excellence through mediocrity. Jerks of All Trades.
I heard this conversation in my head for the millionth time and still I will acknowledge my fate, wink at it, and continue trying to do something great.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Life
I have rapid fire ludicrous speed approached my 30th birthday through a clusterfuck mine field of life and only now feel like things are slowing down so I can realize I blew the fuck past the planet where the Princess and Lonestar are at. That makes so little perfect sense to me right now.
I am so sick and tired of the negativity, the day to day bullshit, beating myself up over decisions that had to be made, medicinal self-destruction I have been putting myself through.
I started reading a book on Buddhism. Saw a bunch of fucking rainbows. Went on the craziest road trip I have ever gone on with some of the craziest motherfuckers. I can't say I found god. I can't say I found Buddha. I can say I found myself again. Welcome home, dipshit.
I am so sick and tired of the negativity, the day to day bullshit, beating myself up over decisions that had to be made, medicinal self-destruction I have been putting myself through.
I started reading a book on Buddhism. Saw a bunch of fucking rainbows. Went on the craziest road trip I have ever gone on with some of the craziest motherfuckers. I can't say I found god. I can't say I found Buddha. I can say I found myself again. Welcome home, dipshit.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
fun police
I was riding through PPG plaza today. It has been a great day. Vonnegut used to quote his Uncle Alex, who, while sipping lemonade on his back porch, would remark 'if this isn't great, I don't know what is.'
That's how I felt today. My pedals spun with synchronicity through the city. The clouds were high and wispy. Everything was flowing, everything was, for lack of a better word, clicking. (Clicking sounds too harsh, too mechanical for the fluidity of the day.)
I was riding through PPG plaza and I saw the same lonesome security guard I have seen on several occasions now. Hands clasped behind his back. Blank stare at the fountain. It is this man's job to prevent people from running, swimming, dancing in the fountain.
Fun Police.
No one gets hurt in the fountain. I mean, not traditionally. Perhaps, but, for the most part, it is pure fun. And this poor man is making a poor man's wage to stand guard over this fountain, and prevent fun. There are a couple fucking dinosaurs noone is fucking with in the plaza. His only possible job is to stop yinzers from frolicking.
And I wonder when this man goes to sleep at night what burdens he carries.
That's how I felt today. My pedals spun with synchronicity through the city. The clouds were high and wispy. Everything was flowing, everything was, for lack of a better word, clicking. (Clicking sounds too harsh, too mechanical for the fluidity of the day.)
I was riding through PPG plaza and I saw the same lonesome security guard I have seen on several occasions now. Hands clasped behind his back. Blank stare at the fountain. It is this man's job to prevent people from running, swimming, dancing in the fountain.
Fun Police.
No one gets hurt in the fountain. I mean, not traditionally. Perhaps, but, for the most part, it is pure fun. And this poor man is making a poor man's wage to stand guard over this fountain, and prevent fun. There are a couple fucking dinosaurs noone is fucking with in the plaza. His only possible job is to stop yinzers from frolicking.
And I wonder when this man goes to sleep at night what burdens he carries.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Scream With Me
I was at the laundromat tonight.
The least sketchy one on the South Side. They're all pretty sketchy, but this one is my kind of sketch.
Plus, the have attendants that walk in sometimes to scope things out and scare the thugs away.
Plus, there is a bar catty-corner. (Some people say 'kitty-corner' I always thought that was weird.)
Jaggerbush, which is yinzer as fuck. (the bar is called Jaggerbush)
So I'm that laundromat. I am struggling with my basket, my laundry bag, my Vonnegut, soap, drier sheets, and these weird voo-doo drier balls my mom bought me, trying to get through the door, when this nubile angel opens the door for me. I smile as I try to shift the weight from my arms and focus it up through to my chest and muffle out a 'thanks' and a half smile. As she breezes by I notice a little half-sleeve, working girls, same coverage as mine. Nice.
She has her hair pulled up in a bun. Tight. Perfect complexion. No make-up and still a knock-out, so you know she's great to wake up next to.
I loaded my laundry and tried to limit my eye contact. Didn't want to stare, didn't want to mouth to gape.
I ran home and did a whole lot of nothing for 28 minutes. I returned to the laundromat. As I approached the drier with my dry-ables, I noted her fine behind staring at me. I followed the fine path of her body from bottom, to feet, up her long, lean legs, and up through her wife beater when I came to a gem -
'Scream
With
Me'
tattooed on her neck. I instantly invisioned fistfulls of hair, furious sex, sweat, cursing, and screaming in that wonderfully carnal synchronous harmony that can only occur during great sex. I quickly forced my thoughts back to laundry laundry laundry. I walked to the machine next to hers, loaded my dry-ables, and tried not to stare.
The least sketchy one on the South Side. They're all pretty sketchy, but this one is my kind of sketch.
Plus, the have attendants that walk in sometimes to scope things out and scare the thugs away.
Plus, there is a bar catty-corner. (Some people say 'kitty-corner' I always thought that was weird.)
Jaggerbush, which is yinzer as fuck. (the bar is called Jaggerbush)
So I'm that laundromat. I am struggling with my basket, my laundry bag, my Vonnegut, soap, drier sheets, and these weird voo-doo drier balls my mom bought me, trying to get through the door, when this nubile angel opens the door for me. I smile as I try to shift the weight from my arms and focus it up through to my chest and muffle out a 'thanks' and a half smile. As she breezes by I notice a little half-sleeve, working girls, same coverage as mine. Nice.
She has her hair pulled up in a bun. Tight. Perfect complexion. No make-up and still a knock-out, so you know she's great to wake up next to.
I loaded my laundry and tried to limit my eye contact. Didn't want to stare, didn't want to mouth to gape.
I ran home and did a whole lot of nothing for 28 minutes. I returned to the laundromat. As I approached the drier with my dry-ables, I noted her fine behind staring at me. I followed the fine path of her body from bottom, to feet, up her long, lean legs, and up through her wife beater when I came to a gem -
'Scream
With
Me'
tattooed on her neck. I instantly invisioned fistfulls of hair, furious sex, sweat, cursing, and screaming in that wonderfully carnal synchronous harmony that can only occur during great sex. I quickly forced my thoughts back to laundry laundry laundry. I walked to the machine next to hers, loaded my dry-ables, and tried not to stare.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Elliott Sinclair the III
So about a month after killing Hugh (R.I.P, buddy) a new unwelcome guest decided to make our home his. He made no attempt to hide himself, either; typically an unwanted guest will hang low so as to not inflame the true inhabitants. Hugh was good for that. He was timid. We would occasionally see him streak across the floor, a flash of grey and feet, but that was it.
The following story tells a bit more about the arrival, triumph, and ultimate defeat of Hugh:
Pink Mold
Elliott Sinclair the III, is a different breed than Hugh was. He's bold. He'll stand in the middle of our living room floor and give you hard looks.
Whenever we first christened Elliott Sinclair the III, we assumed with a name like Elliott Sinclair the III he was sure to be a classy character - he's a BLUE BLOOD, for fucks sake, same sort of pedigree as a Carnegie or a Rockefeller. Educated at Cornell, studied overseas, knows which fork to use with salad and which to use with steak (medium-rare, always with red wine.)
Elliott Sinclair the III, a true renaissance man.
I honestly thought our relationship with Elliott Sinclair the III was going to be different. The staring contest I could handle. I thought he was simply making his presence known, kind of a weekly debutante ball, except he was a dude. And a mouse.
The time finally arrived when we decided Elliott Sinclair the III had worn out his welcome. The debutante balls were increasing in frequency, making guests uncomfortable. He was pooping on the floor. He's a mouse.
I bought the, as the gentleman at Busy Beaver so eloquently described them as, 'Tom and Jerry' mouse traps. $1.49 for 2, what a sad way for someone with so much potential to go out.
I set the traps out, both armed with a peanut butter covered cracker.
Then.... nothing.
Elliott Sinclair the III had vanished!!! To the hamptons, I surmised, to party with Paris, Nicole, and those douchebag twin guys who are in that really shitty band.
Cheers Elliott! Like a true blue blood, you knew when your welcome was worn out!
A week passed.
Two.
The mousetraps stayed armed and dangerous, but still no sign.
I arrived home from work one day to find one of the mousetraps had been sprung; there was no cracker in sight; no dead mouse in sight.
The following day, the other mouse trap was sans cracker, but otherwise undisturbed.
'Elliott Sinclair the III!!! You have shown your true colors, my friend! The rich become rich by freeloading off the poor, you ivy-league fuck-tard!' I screamed at the top of my lungs.
I loaded the mouse trap with a carefully placed potato chip so as to not set the trap.
The following day, the potato chip was gone again! Crafty son of a bitch! I re-loaded the trap with a peanut.
I came home from work today to find the peanut had been snatched.
'This is WAR, Elliott! Motherfucking class war!" I screamed, for once eclipsing the sound of the crazy Russians arguing in the computer store downstairs.
I carefully loaded the trap with yet another peanut. I sat, watched the Penguins game, and ate dinner.
Elliott Sinclair the III came out for his debutante ball, dressed in his finest fur.
I merely shook my fist at him.
He scurried away, then within minutes, I heard snap! and say the mouse trap flipping about.
"I got you, swine!" I swore under my breath.
Alas, no Elliott Sinclair the III. He had merely sprung the trap, trying to steal the peanut from under my nose.
I will defeat you yet, Elliott Sinclair the III.
The following story tells a bit more about the arrival, triumph, and ultimate defeat of Hugh:
Pink Mold
Elliott Sinclair the III, is a different breed than Hugh was. He's bold. He'll stand in the middle of our living room floor and give you hard looks.
Whenever we first christened Elliott Sinclair the III, we assumed with a name like Elliott Sinclair the III he was sure to be a classy character - he's a BLUE BLOOD, for fucks sake, same sort of pedigree as a Carnegie or a Rockefeller. Educated at Cornell, studied overseas, knows which fork to use with salad and which to use with steak (medium-rare, always with red wine.)
Elliott Sinclair the III, a true renaissance man.
I honestly thought our relationship with Elliott Sinclair the III was going to be different. The staring contest I could handle. I thought he was simply making his presence known, kind of a weekly debutante ball, except he was a dude. And a mouse.
The time finally arrived when we decided Elliott Sinclair the III had worn out his welcome. The debutante balls were increasing in frequency, making guests uncomfortable. He was pooping on the floor. He's a mouse.
I bought the, as the gentleman at Busy Beaver so eloquently described them as, 'Tom and Jerry' mouse traps. $1.49 for 2, what a sad way for someone with so much potential to go out.
I set the traps out, both armed with a peanut butter covered cracker.
Then.... nothing.
Elliott Sinclair the III had vanished!!! To the hamptons, I surmised, to party with Paris, Nicole, and those douchebag twin guys who are in that really shitty band.
Cheers Elliott! Like a true blue blood, you knew when your welcome was worn out!
A week passed.
Two.
The mousetraps stayed armed and dangerous, but still no sign.
I arrived home from work one day to find one of the mousetraps had been sprung; there was no cracker in sight; no dead mouse in sight.
The following day, the other mouse trap was sans cracker, but otherwise undisturbed.
'Elliott Sinclair the III!!! You have shown your true colors, my friend! The rich become rich by freeloading off the poor, you ivy-league fuck-tard!' I screamed at the top of my lungs.
I loaded the mouse trap with a carefully placed potato chip so as to not set the trap.
The following day, the potato chip was gone again! Crafty son of a bitch! I re-loaded the trap with a peanut.
I came home from work today to find the peanut had been snatched.
'This is WAR, Elliott! Motherfucking class war!" I screamed, for once eclipsing the sound of the crazy Russians arguing in the computer store downstairs.
I carefully loaded the trap with yet another peanut. I sat, watched the Penguins game, and ate dinner.
Elliott Sinclair the III came out for his debutante ball, dressed in his finest fur.
I merely shook my fist at him.
He scurried away, then within minutes, I heard snap! and say the mouse trap flipping about.
"I got you, swine!" I swore under my breath.
Alas, no Elliott Sinclair the III. He had merely sprung the trap, trying to steal the peanut from under my nose.
I will defeat you yet, Elliott Sinclair the III.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
the quick glance
1.)
Joy blew out the flame on her Sterno and settled into her saggy futon to enjoy her can of beans. She always felt like a bit of a hobo on bean night. 'A bottle of Thunderbird in a paper bag would make this night perfect' she said to herself. She felt that cold, empty feeling, wishing for a second that she did indeed have a bottle of Thunderbird.
Fred Rogers wasn't rolling too bad tonight. The extra aluminum foil she had put on her antenna seemed to really help pull in 'QED. Speedy Delivery came on and she laughed so hard beans flew out of her mouth. Joy finished her meal and quietly sang along to 'won't you be my neighbor?'
A single tear ran down her face as she finished the song. A good neighbor was all she ever wanted to be. She wanted to be everyone's neighbor.
Joy threw the can away and shook the Sterno to make sure she had enough fuel for the next meal. She turned off the TV. A loud 'click' and the picture shrunk smaller and smaller than made a quiet 'pop' noise. It was an old 19" with a rotary dial that she dumpster dove for. It was someone else's garbage but to her it was golden.
She gathered up what little change she had from her various hiding places throughout the flat and organized them into neat piles by coin type on her nightstand/kitchen table/countertop. She pulled the crumpled wad of bills from her pocket, flattened them out and counted up her funds. $9.55 would be enough to get food for at least 4 or 5 days if she stretched it.
Joy walked over to her mirror, found on another dumpster dive, and looked at herself. A beautiful 25 year old woman with long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin, eyes from heaven, and a knockout smile looked back.
She brushed her matted blond hair with a brush half broken and continued to see the past.
Joy took put her money in her right front pocket, the change pocket, for safety.
She clipped her Walkman to her belt, put her headphones on, and slid in her Bel-Biv-Divoe tape. She had dozens of tapes in her flat but always found her self listening to Bel-Biv-Divoe. It reminded her of prom and being crowned queen.
Joy walked the back way to Giant Eagle. Ever since the clubs opened, there were always assholes making comments to her on the main street. She could still be a good neighbor in the back alleys.
She smiled with her mouth closed as the woman rang her out. "Is this it?" the cashier always asked Joy, as if she expected Joy to one day walk in with a hundred or an EBT card and buy pounds of shrimp and steak and milk and everything else rich people by.
"That's all today, Joyce" Joy said through pursed lips. Joy didn't hate Joyce. She was a good neighbor to everyone, Joy was. Joyce just got a little nosy sometimes.
$9.55 bought Joy 4 cans of Cambell's Chunky soup. 4 Cans of baked beans. And an 8 pack of generic hot dogs. That was enough food for 4 days, and 4 days was enough time for Joy to find a job, even an odd one.
She would never take hand outs. Never put her head down. She was a good neighbor, she added to the community. She couldn't name a specific instance when she picked up trash because she did it so often, it was instinct. She occasionally volunteered at the shelters she was eligible to eat at.
"Have a nice night, Joy" leaked through Joy's headphones as 'B.B.D. (I Thought It Was Me)?' whirred on.
"You too, Joyce." Joy kept her head up and walked out into the night.
2.)
The night air burned her lungs a bit, woke her up, and made her feel alive. 'People bitch about the cold!' she said to her neighbors 'I embrace it!' She took deep breaths to match her long strides. Walked right past the alley headed for Carson St, to see her neighbors.
She trucked past 16th street. On the corner of 17th and Carson, she happened exchange a quick glance, a chance glance, that lasted an eternity for Joy.
A kid, no, a man, a man sitting on his skateboard, his face young but his eyes weary from life, exchanged quick glances with Joy.
She smiled slightly in this instant and blinked and saw an eternity.
"How are you doing tonight, beautiful?" he said, and then her life changed from that of rags to theirs of riches. He had a job, insurance, a house, a car, a life, a future. He picked her up, made her feel beautiful again, and spun her around and around without ever letting her touch the ground. She was able to be more than a good neighbor, she got to be a great neighbor, spending her time attending to various charities, helping children, helping friends, families, animals, neighbors. She didn't have to worry about herself because he did; she only had to be a great neighbor.
Her eyes opened and her right foot fell to the pavement followed by the left foot instinctively carrying her forward.
The glance ended and so did her dream.
Joy blew out the flame on her Sterno and settled into her saggy futon to enjoy her can of beans. She always felt like a bit of a hobo on bean night. 'A bottle of Thunderbird in a paper bag would make this night perfect' she said to herself. She felt that cold, empty feeling, wishing for a second that she did indeed have a bottle of Thunderbird.
Fred Rogers wasn't rolling too bad tonight. The extra aluminum foil she had put on her antenna seemed to really help pull in 'QED. Speedy Delivery came on and she laughed so hard beans flew out of her mouth. Joy finished her meal and quietly sang along to 'won't you be my neighbor?'
A single tear ran down her face as she finished the song. A good neighbor was all she ever wanted to be. She wanted to be everyone's neighbor.
Joy threw the can away and shook the Sterno to make sure she had enough fuel for the next meal. She turned off the TV. A loud 'click' and the picture shrunk smaller and smaller than made a quiet 'pop' noise. It was an old 19" with a rotary dial that she dumpster dove for. It was someone else's garbage but to her it was golden.
She gathered up what little change she had from her various hiding places throughout the flat and organized them into neat piles by coin type on her nightstand/kitchen table/countertop. She pulled the crumpled wad of bills from her pocket, flattened them out and counted up her funds. $9.55 would be enough to get food for at least 4 or 5 days if she stretched it.
Joy walked over to her mirror, found on another dumpster dive, and looked at herself. A beautiful 25 year old woman with long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin, eyes from heaven, and a knockout smile looked back.
She brushed her matted blond hair with a brush half broken and continued to see the past.
Joy took put her money in her right front pocket, the change pocket, for safety.
She clipped her Walkman to her belt, put her headphones on, and slid in her Bel-Biv-Divoe tape. She had dozens of tapes in her flat but always found her self listening to Bel-Biv-Divoe. It reminded her of prom and being crowned queen.
Joy walked the back way to Giant Eagle. Ever since the clubs opened, there were always assholes making comments to her on the main street. She could still be a good neighbor in the back alleys.
She smiled with her mouth closed as the woman rang her out. "Is this it?" the cashier always asked Joy, as if she expected Joy to one day walk in with a hundred or an EBT card and buy pounds of shrimp and steak and milk and everything else rich people by.
"That's all today, Joyce" Joy said through pursed lips. Joy didn't hate Joyce. She was a good neighbor to everyone, Joy was. Joyce just got a little nosy sometimes.
$9.55 bought Joy 4 cans of Cambell's Chunky soup. 4 Cans of baked beans. And an 8 pack of generic hot dogs. That was enough food for 4 days, and 4 days was enough time for Joy to find a job, even an odd one.
She would never take hand outs. Never put her head down. She was a good neighbor, she added to the community. She couldn't name a specific instance when she picked up trash because she did it so often, it was instinct. She occasionally volunteered at the shelters she was eligible to eat at.
"Have a nice night, Joy" leaked through Joy's headphones as 'B.B.D. (I Thought It Was Me)?' whirred on.
"You too, Joyce." Joy kept her head up and walked out into the night.
2.)
The night air burned her lungs a bit, woke her up, and made her feel alive. 'People bitch about the cold!' she said to her neighbors 'I embrace it!' She took deep breaths to match her long strides. Walked right past the alley headed for Carson St, to see her neighbors.
She trucked past 16th street. On the corner of 17th and Carson, she happened exchange a quick glance, a chance glance, that lasted an eternity for Joy.
A kid, no, a man, a man sitting on his skateboard, his face young but his eyes weary from life, exchanged quick glances with Joy.
She smiled slightly in this instant and blinked and saw an eternity.
"How are you doing tonight, beautiful?" he said, and then her life changed from that of rags to theirs of riches. He had a job, insurance, a house, a car, a life, a future. He picked her up, made her feel beautiful again, and spun her around and around without ever letting her touch the ground. She was able to be more than a good neighbor, she got to be a great neighbor, spending her time attending to various charities, helping children, helping friends, families, animals, neighbors. She didn't have to worry about herself because he did; she only had to be a great neighbor.
Her eyes opened and her right foot fell to the pavement followed by the left foot instinctively carrying her forward.
The glance ended and so did her dream.
Giant Eagle
When he came to he was staring at the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers. It took him a second to get his bearings. His hands were tightly grasping the stale orange handle of a shopping cart that was presumably his. He was leaning with approximately 65% of his body weight on the cart. He was staring at the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers, and past that the dairy aisle.
The trip through the supermarket was mentally walked through in reverse mentally by the man in less than an instant. Kind of chose your own adventure, where you're trying to recall the last 15 minutes of your life.
This was happening more and more often and during the instantaneous recollection of what brought him to staring at the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers he felt a little worried.
He had just looked at the new issue of Thrasher magazine and got a sense of deja-vu, half way through realizing he had leafed through the exact same magazine only days earlier.
Before that, a trip up the cleaning aisle for some dran-o for the fucking toilet that had clogged again that morning via the paper aisle for some tee-pee and tissue paper, all generic, all on sale. Half-gallon of milk and some O.J., Orange Juice on sale, milk was not. Two birthday cards for two birthday boys and before that some fruit from produce.
Bananas. Bananas contain alot of B vitamins and potassium and help keep the liver functioning when you drink a ton of booze.
He heard the clack clack clack clack clackclackclack clickety clack again in his ears as loud as it had been minutes earlier and the muted small talk of the strangers in motion and he felt like he was going to lose it again, the same feeling of being on edge he had while in produce.
3-300 seconds had gone by and he was still staring at the goddamn non-alcoholic beers and the mixers and wondering why the last five minutes of his life had disappeared as soon as he laid eyes on the O'douls, the O'douls in particular.
'The booze?' he thought,' is this some kind of trigger, my brain is so hard-wired to it, that any kind of stimulus puts me into a daze?'
It had been four days since he had a drink and yet here he was, pavlov's dog, losing his mind over the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers.
Neon lights always got him excited.
He pushed his cart back into the sea of anonymity, checked out, and prepared for the next day, same as every other.
The trip through the supermarket was mentally walked through in reverse mentally by the man in less than an instant. Kind of chose your own adventure, where you're trying to recall the last 15 minutes of your life.
This was happening more and more often and during the instantaneous recollection of what brought him to staring at the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers he felt a little worried.
He had just looked at the new issue of Thrasher magazine and got a sense of deja-vu, half way through realizing he had leafed through the exact same magazine only days earlier.
Before that, a trip up the cleaning aisle for some dran-o for the fucking toilet that had clogged again that morning via the paper aisle for some tee-pee and tissue paper, all generic, all on sale. Half-gallon of milk and some O.J., Orange Juice on sale, milk was not. Two birthday cards for two birthday boys and before that some fruit from produce.
Bananas. Bananas contain alot of B vitamins and potassium and help keep the liver functioning when you drink a ton of booze.
He heard the clack clack clack clack clackclackclack clickety clack again in his ears as loud as it had been minutes earlier and the muted small talk of the strangers in motion and he felt like he was going to lose it again, the same feeling of being on edge he had while in produce.
3-300 seconds had gone by and he was still staring at the goddamn non-alcoholic beers and the mixers and wondering why the last five minutes of his life had disappeared as soon as he laid eyes on the O'douls, the O'douls in particular.
'The booze?' he thought,' is this some kind of trigger, my brain is so hard-wired to it, that any kind of stimulus puts me into a daze?'
It had been four days since he had a drink and yet here he was, pavlov's dog, losing his mind over the non-alcoholic beer and the mixers.
Neon lights always got him excited.
He pushed his cart back into the sea of anonymity, checked out, and prepared for the next day, same as every other.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Slowest Printer Ever!
I'm printing out a copy of my novel for submission to Six Gallery Press. They're an indie publishing house here in the burgh. I think if I have a shot with anyone at this point it's with them.
It's kind of disheartening to send out 25 query letters to 25 literary agents and receive 25 rejection letters back. I see why people give up on their hopes and dreams. I'm pretty sure I will never realize my dream of being a writer, making a living off of it, writing what makes me happy (not Technical fucking Manuals).
I feel like I need a change, a spark, something to get the fuck out of this day to day mundacity of work, drink, work, drink, skateboard. I'm rapidly careening toward a life of white picket fences and couples only dinner parties and I don't know what that's going to be like. Sick of it all. Death or Glory? Fuck. The desire that once burned inside, forcing me to try and seek greatness, has dwindled.
It's kind of disheartening to send out 25 query letters to 25 literary agents and receive 25 rejection letters back. I see why people give up on their hopes and dreams. I'm pretty sure I will never realize my dream of being a writer, making a living off of it, writing what makes me happy (not Technical fucking Manuals).
I feel like I need a change, a spark, something to get the fuck out of this day to day mundacity of work, drink, work, drink, skateboard. I'm rapidly careening toward a life of white picket fences and couples only dinner parties and I don't know what that's going to be like. Sick of it all. Death or Glory? Fuck. The desire that once burned inside, forcing me to try and seek greatness, has dwindled.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
So this is the New Year....
2008 was rung in with 320 glasses of Gin N Tonic. Well. I don't know why they call it well. I guess it's legit if they're saying that as in 'tastes like it was pulled from a well' not well meaning good. I puked about 10 times throughout the course of the day. My body was that offended by being fed so much crap it forced an all day purge. Not even Dabney Coleman could help me. He's my imaginary friend. That's my new years resolutin - to have Dabney Coleman as an imaginary friend. I'm pretty F-ing stoked. It's going to be like Cloak & Dagger except I work in a fucking office. So like Cloak & Dagger but the complete opposite.
So what of the new year? What of the old year?
2007 came and went. I can't believe it's 2008. Fucking craziness.
I traveled alot this year. Florida thrice. London twice. Beijing twice. Travelling is not the same as it used to be when there's someone at home waiting. I guess it's lost its' luster. All part of growing up and growing old, settling down and settling in.
I'm changing jobs in April. That is, if they don't lay me off first. Those motherfuckers. I dunno. They dude who's replacing me is starting on Jan the 14th. As long as we get the Vegas monorail contract, things look good for getting back into Mechanical Design. I think going in that direction is the smartest move for me right now. I can't stand manual writing and training anymore. It's driving me fucking nuts. I might have one more trip to Taiwan in April. Boo hoo.
I just realized that blogging is making me depressed.
So what of the new year? What of the old year?
2007 came and went. I can't believe it's 2008. Fucking craziness.
I traveled alot this year. Florida thrice. London twice. Beijing twice. Travelling is not the same as it used to be when there's someone at home waiting. I guess it's lost its' luster. All part of growing up and growing old, settling down and settling in.
I'm changing jobs in April. That is, if they don't lay me off first. Those motherfuckers. I dunno. They dude who's replacing me is starting on Jan the 14th. As long as we get the Vegas monorail contract, things look good for getting back into Mechanical Design. I think going in that direction is the smartest move for me right now. I can't stand manual writing and training anymore. It's driving me fucking nuts. I might have one more trip to Taiwan in April. Boo hoo.
I just realized that blogging is making me depressed.
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