Tra-la-la

This morning I ended my week of being mostly isolated and trapped inside, by my own power and discretion.

I'm not sure why, I just didn't leave the apartment much at all.

I ended up being a menace to my four-track recorder, and unleashed off-the-cuff songs in high quantities, low qualities. Here are two!

Waves of Metre
Paragraphs

It was really fun, though. I am very bad at playing guitars! But there is no end to your output when you can go into the closet and pull out four or even five teenage notebooks chock full of pretentious phrases that rhyme sometimes... Plus, my curious faux-British singing accent is developing nicely. Sweet!

-

My parents are coming in to visit me today, for a couple of days. Their names are Ronald James and Cathy Jean, and then they have the same last name as me. They haven't come to visit in lots of years. Not since I moved here. Which was a long time ago.

But they can only stay like a day and a half, because I have to go to Galveston on Monday for more innane work meetings and bullshit. I don't know why we can't at least go to a place that has a beach that's not full of crude oil.

Oh well.

I hope someone nice makes a new employee out of me very soon. My job is going to get really busy soon, and I'm not supposed to even have it anymore. I'm supposed to be unemployed right now. But I guess it's good that I'm not.

Gosh, I need to go pick up my parents.

Peace out?

-Tim.

"Guys, where are the fucking balloons??"

Haha. The only two times I've ever heard the f-word on regular television have both been on CNN.

Somehow, the telecast got patched in to the walkie-talkie of the guy that was giving the order to release the balloons and confetti  after Kerry's speech at the DNC. And the balloons weren't coming fast enough. And the dude was pissed. And he didn't know he was being broadcasted by CNN. And CNN didn't, either, apparently. I don't know how that happens...

So. John Kerry: The Good Enough candidate?

I don't know. He's no perfect replica of me, but he seems like an intelligent and capable individual, and it seems like he has excellent character, and it seems like he listens to people and gives thought to their input, and does not make dire decisions without the proper weighing, and he seems like he cares about the average citizen.

So even if he's faking it, he's faking it better than the dreaded incumbent, who does not have a capable bone in his body. (In the future, I suggest that it would be a good criteria to insist that at a minimum, the person who is going to be the president of the United States should at least have gotten straight-A's in high school. AT A MINIMUM, mind you.) (OK, so Dubya probably did get straight A's in high school. Even though it's hard to tell. So alright: what if we said that the president must have the capability to communicate with other human beings?) (BLAM!) 

I think Kerry might just might be the best president we've had in a long, long time.  But that's me, the eternal optimist.

And I guess that only happens if the rest of the country has a election day of uncommon brilliance and decides that a change of leadership might be a good idea. We'll see.

Most of the dumb citizens are too caught up in what party they're in. The whole Republican/Democrat thing is horseshit. Just vote for the better candidate, for fuckssake. You don't have to carry on a conversation with them over coffee every morning or anything. You don't even have to meet them. They just have to be able to administer to the needs of the USA in a somewhat competent manner. For instance, Joe Lieberman isn't a better choice than John McCain just because you're a registered democrat. Unless you really think Joe Lieberman is awesome, I guess. I don't think that, so. So I guess that's why I wrote it.

But how about that Obama(-lama-bing-boom) guy? He's got to be a president, someday.

Hopefully, a president of the United States.

I am up way too late.

From Mexico, WITH HATE!

OH, Jalapeño Pepper, you are so tasty;
But you are so evil.

This indigestion is Satanic.

I shake my clenched fists into the air at you! You may not be present!But it is the gesture itself that lends itself to exhibiting my displeasure! Wherever you are, Jalapeño Pepper, I shake my angry clenched fists at you!

Your ambitions are Satanic, Jalapeño Pepper.

Your ambitions are Satanic!

threading the threshold & told to take on the thriving alive

I don’t know if it’s true, but I believe that it hasn’t stopped raining in days. That the sky has been a perpetual shade of chalk, and the wet collects on tree branches and attacks underwalkers en-masse.

I have not been able to elude the effects. The city is dreary and reminiscent of home. Which sucks.

There are also constant sirens and whistles outside, as if the city is in danger at all times, and perhaps a state of emergency has been declared, and I would know this if only I would turn on the television.

I believe it hasn’t stopped raining or drearying in many days, and it feels like it’s taken pains to have an effect.

I ate half a bag of cheetos and a coke for lunch. I repeat: my lunch was half a bag of cheetos and a coke.

I felt slightly ill for the rest of the day.

I was about to throw up my hands, and give up. I had laid against the floor with headphones and listened to "Awaken" and felt nothing, which has never happened. I must be getting tough. And then I let the record run out and I stared at the ceiling in silence for awhile. And then I peeled the shrinkwrap off of "Lost In Translation" and I inserted it into the digital video disc player, and I pressed play.

And then the phone rang and it was Lindsay with Nora, and I went to Shockoe Bottom to see a very young man play the hell out of his keytar.

Rumor has it, they played a theme from Castlevania. Chic!

I could have danced, because I was wearing my new green sneakers. But I did not dance. Instead, I leaned against sturdy things and placed my hands into my pockets. Because that’s just what I do.

After the keytar, some dudes who were dressed like leprechauns and bunnyrabbits came out with ukuleles, and they sang two songs in a row about whiskey, and so we left.

I had a piece of carrot cake and two cups of coffee at the 4th street café. The coffee is why I am still up, I think.

Lindsay also pointed out that everyone seemed to take for granted that the Jaws shark which was burning with ferocity on the television screen above the grills of the diner was not burning the way you would expect a big wet shark fish animal to burn, and was in fact burning much more like a robot shark might burn, if the robot shark were made out of hellgasoline, octane-2000, or something. Everyone in the film was simply revelling in their hopelessly short-term hopes of the shark posing no further threat. And so, were not considering the long-term implications of superignitable robotsharks.

I apologize if the previous paragraph was too much for you to endure. It happens, sometimes.

Also, we should re-cap my choice of foods for Saturday: half a bag of cheetos, one can of coca-cola, a piece of carrot cake, and two cups of coffee.

Maybe I should buy an apple.

I will make up for it on Sunday, because I am going to eat Thai for lunch. It’s like a second date, or a continuation of the first date from last weekend. It was like pulling teeth, to get the second date. I am not usually one to press for results, but somehow I pressed for results in order to get the dumb second date. I almost wish that I hadn’t’ve bothered. Because I felt like I was being a bother. Or maybe I’m considering it all wrong. Or wait, who cares?

Other miscellaneous things that I did on Saturday:

1. Wiped accumulated condensation out of my toolbox.
   
2. Pressurized a soccer ball.
   
3. Drew a picture of a tree (leafless) in charcoal, with surrounding grasses in watercolour.
   
4. Recorded a song with words that make no sense.
   
5. Contemplated purchasing additional clothes hangers.
   
6. Avoided eighteen of twenty questions submitted by my mother via AIM.
   
7. Shipped a Moody Blues cassette to the United Kingdom. And maybe that’s where it will finally find happiness.
   
8. Admired a young Peter Gabriel, just for being really weird.
   
9. Put more old things into newer shoeboxes.

My little field service engineer's club

There are a few co-workers that I have enjoyed the company of(:) in my tenure, who are not ignorant rednecks, and one of them is Josh, who is also in Orlando doing this session that I am a part of.

Josh is genuinely better at what we do than I am, and he is only 25.

I will not admit being worse at what I do than someone else too very often, but in this case, I will. Because it is true, in this one rare occasion.

Josh has been the engineer on the opposite shift of me on many many jobs in the last couple years, and he always has the answers I was wondering about, when 7AM shift turnover rolls around.

Plus, Josh has a lazy eye and he slaps you like the bitch you are, if you're accidentally talking to him while looking at the wrong one. I always liked that.

Josh is getting married in two weeks. He has a house and he enjoys working on crappy trucks and motorcycles, and he is actually very mechanically inclined, which is fitting, since he is a mechanical engineer.

I have a mechanical engineering degree, but I'm not very mechanically inclined. Or actually, I sort of am, except I have not taken an out-and-out interest in my ability to be mechanically inclined, because I am too busy collecting records and finding meaning in Holden Caufield and just generally being questionably masculine.

But Josh is a mechanically-inclined mechanical engineer. He is looking for a new job, too. He says that he can't think of anyone in our little group who ISN'T looking for a new job. Which gave me the courage I needed to apply to two more companies, today.

And just like anybody, Josh likes a good deal.

We went to eat at Hop's for dinner. And the waitress absolutely recommended the $19.99 for two steak dinners and dessert. It was agreed by all three of us, that this was truly a good deal.

I think I nodded a Daffy Duck sort of nod.

We got the good deal.

But after the steaks, the dessert was a medium-sized key lime pie, placed strategically in the center of the table, with one spoon given to me, and one spoon given to Josh.

Josh's slightly agape jaw was hinting to me that he did not like the idea of romantically sharing a key lime pie.

I was going to ask him if he would like me to spoon delicious mouthfuls onto his waiting tongue, but I wasn't sure if he would laugh. Plus, the dude's getting married in a few weeks, so...

I asked the waitress to fetch us two smallish plates, in my feat of assertiveness for the day, and blamed the whole thing on silliness, and the key lime pie ended up being delicious!

Josh, I raise my pint of delicious Hefeweizen to you, in a sort of beer-ovation of workerly respect! You will be one of five or six people that I will remember from this job with fondlingliness. Or fondness. Oops.

Huzzah!

..gives way to shakey movements & improvisational skills..

On Sunday, I was not killed in a tragic innertube disaster on the James River. I was never even close to being killed, except for the incident with the pack of gangster cows.

There was a pack of gangster cows at the riverbank, and some even took a sip (from the river). They were hanging out, and I floated very nearby, and more than a few of the gangster cows stared me down coldly, and their faces were absent of any expression. I waited for one of the staring gangster cows to give the order to charge, to send the pack of gangster cows rampaging into the river, where they would bludgeon my body with hooves and cowmouths and more hooves, and maybe some udders, and they would drag my carcass back to the riverbank and commence feeding on my flesh.

But they just stared and chewed and sipped and not much of anything else. And so I was not tragically killed in a tragic river tragedy. And I did not steal a calf, because there was not enough room aboard my vessel.

Plus, I did not see any calves that I regarded to be worthwhilest of specimen.

I would recommend floating on rivers to anyone, including people who have already done it before, or people who are doing it right now. I would stand on a riverbank and watch people float by, and I would hearken unto them "I highly recommend the act of floating on rivers, my brothers and sisters!!" and they would probably stare and chew and sip, and act generally confused.

The rest of my expedition team was made up of Lisa, Matt, Caitlin, Patrick, Susan, and Chad. They were all sloppy drunk. They were drunk on life and Appalachian drainage. It was hard to blame them.

-

It was a thoroughly uncathartic weekend, full of reasons to have ambition and soul. I wishd I was up to the tasks, but then my eternal fires of Good Enough warmed the helms.

I think I had a date on Saturday afternoon. I met a girl for lunch. I guess I will regard it as a date, because I can't think of many great reasons not to, and also because I secured the right to regard happenings as I choose in the Treatise of November, 1994, wherein the text clearly demonstrates my freewill & testament and its discretion to act as it felt necessary in a society of chaos and eternal precedentlessness. Incidentally, I only needed to give up my youth and innocence. I bet they wish they could have that one back...

So I will regard it as a date, and for most extents and purposes, I will consider it my first date ever. I will regard it this way, because I'm pretty pretty sure that a big dumb relationship is a potential possibility, but not a foregone conclusion. Anything before that, which may have had the symptoms of a date were not, because they did not meet these criteria (i.e. there was no possibility for a big dumb relationship, or else a big dumb relationship was most definitely a foregone conclusion) .

Also, I think I'm probably seen as more interesting when I am nervous and flippant and the observer knows very little about me.

It was simple and nice, and I had shrimp kababs with lots of rice, and it was very tasty, especially the tiny little tomatoes, which should be pronounced to-mah-toes, to set them apart as unique in comparison to the big regular ones.

I forgot to ask if she wanted a ride back home, instead of walking the three blocks, so I had to call and apologize for forgetting to ask, and I think that ended up being a point in my favor. But who knows.

-

There was more, but I am going to Orlando in a few hours. And I must pack. Not only must I pack, but I must break through to the dungeons of my closets, and I must obtain slacks(!), a sort of mythical non-jeans pant made of woven fibers, suitable for donning over legs and crotch areas within the offices of uptight businesses.

Last I knew, hungry moths had devoured the last of my suitable office pants, but I will not lose all hope.

No, I am not going to DisneyWorld.

I am going to work.

Ugh.

I am going to meetings. A session of sorts. A meeting of young and ripe minds, and also Me.

I feel like I could take a nap, even though I just got up a few hours ago.

Camel Stalker

With the levels of desperation rising, and my never-failing desire to find employment in the local area, I have finally come to it:

I have applied for a job at Phillip-Morris.

All of my Adbuster magazines shake their magazine-heads in shame. They will scorn me for the rest of my weak-willed days.

I might just as well go buy a sack full of cigarettes and stand outside the door to Kindergarten class. And wait for school to get out.

May's well. I'm that evil.

Revile me.

Six colored pictures (all in a row) of a marigold

I keep at it, telling myself: "My philosophy-meandering should not be considered intimidating. Or profound. Or philosophical."

I wonder about the implications of stacking remote controls neatly on the coffee table without realizing that I am doing it. I am either OCD, or bored. Or both.

I have completed a phase transition. I can tell because I am now constantly cleaning and organizing my apartment. Cleanliness and organization takes priority in all tasks.

An unneeded wrapper or piece of foil can not be placed on the table until a more convenient time, no. It will be taken to the most appropriate trash receptacle at this or that very moment.

A blown bulb in my corner lamp? I am off to Home Depot immediately. 300w will not be necessary. A 150w bulb will provide more than 2,000 lumens, and that's plenty.

After the bulb is replaced, I get to bolting the two matching bookcases together. Into one bookcase which is twice the size. Of course, I will require bolts and nuts and washers. It's off to Home Depot!

When I get back, I find that holes will need to be drilled to facilitate bolt installation. It's off to Home Depot!

New holes make dust. Wield thy vacuum!

Later, I am slicing strawberries that have been in the refrigerator for nigh on two weeks. Most of the strawberries are covered in fuzzy mold. I found that I can wash off the mold, and cut off any brown parts, and the remaining bits of red strawberry are fine, and not tasting the least bit poisonous.

Though if I'm not heard from for a few days, maybe someone should send an ambulance.

Yes, it's clear I have become a homemaker.

-

Anchorman is the most comedy I have observed at the movie theatre in a very long time. There is no hope, without Will Ferrell. Will Ferrell, you are our only hope.

-

As an original purveyor of 80's thrash metal, I was impressed on a quick check-in with Slayer's latest. Here is a clip:

payback

Holy shit. Are you kidding me?

Mister Araya is angrier than ever! They haven't changed in twenty years! These dudes are going on fifty!

Metallica is like two steps away from letting that guy from Matchbox 20 sing a song with them, and Megadeth is probably playing Dio covers at the Medina Canal Festival.

But Slayer... Slayer is still keepin' it real. I salute you, Slayer. God Hates Us All, indeed.

Ppilloww

I was definitely going to sleep. I was in bed with my eyes closed, just a moment ago. But I kept thinking, and not drifting. I dwelled on late February, 1998. I don't dwell on real things very often, old things that happened. I will write it down.

There was the girl on my bed, the bed that was really a sofa, that I always kept opened up into its bed state, in my little tiny apartment. And that girl was there in my shrinking bit of reality, where the girl who was officially forgetting was relatively far away. The girl sitting on my bed was there, now. A touch on the shoulder was something I initiated, without prompts. That's the most initiation I've ever given, I think. Before or since? It was enough to feel guilty about. A way to be very small. Finally, I was realizing that nobody is very interested in me. Just an unwelcome touch on the shoulder.

That was all of it, and I guess it's not very interesting to the general populace.

I will fit together in clumps.

In the present day, I write in blank books: "I do not have to be remembered fondly, or at all" over and over again, and what an enormous burden that seems to lift.
I can be a year or two of scenery, and then disappear to other settings.

Memories seem like fiction to me, most of the time. Only the present is real to me. It's like I stop believing in the moments once they are passed. They are faint images and faint feelings, and that's all. Sanctified by the notion that they never seemed to have happened. Holy infernal memories. Most of them have sunk out of comprehension. There are only scraps here and there.

In the Spring of 1998 I wrote down the word "amnesoid".

Starting then, two more people that do not remember me fondly or at all. I figured that was the way to go.

-

Or I am tired and delirious. On the edge of sleep, sometimes I remember things that never happened. There is a pressure in my throat like guilt. There is no word for that pressure.

All of these things are unrelated, for a split-second I think it is winter outside.

None of which were mine

This morning I saw Ani Difranco. At first, I wasn't sure whether it was Ani Difranco or not, but then I was certain. She was like maybe forty people ahead of me in the line for airport security, leading up to the metal detectors. We were all getting out of Buffalo. And I knew she had played a free concert in front of Buffalo City Hall on the 4th. It was Ani and the Goo Goo Dolls. The only two popular-music entities that the Buffalo area can be proud of, even though no one told them that they shouldn't be proud of one of them.

I didn't say "Hi Ani!" to Ani, or anything like that. Because it's not my style. And never has been my style. In fact, to say "Hi" to anyone at all has never been my style, unless the other person says it first.

So I just admired Ani Difranco from thirty or forty people back, and "Firedoor" ran through my head, instead of the hideous oldie that had been there before.

Ani was very short, with her dreadlocks, of course, and she bore an amazing resemblance to an ordinary disenfranchised youthful slacker. She didn't look too out of place, like I think that someone who's famous (to me) should look like. Like, 6-foot-five and encircled by a luminescent halo. There was none of that. And no one seemed to recognize her. But then again everyone in the line was old and crusty, just like all of WNY has been getting for years, now. And so they wouldn't have had the vague-est idea who she was. Except, there was one outcastic-looking girl who got the courage to strike up a conversation with her. The rest of us just stayed quiet and pretended not to care, I guess.

I also saw Ani Difranco wave a feverish goodbye to an older guy that was probably her Dad. Her Dad looked like a former hippie, like a thin version of what Ben & Jerry must look like, sort of, and so it all fit together.

Or maybe it wasn't her Dad, after all. What do I know?

I haven't seen a relatively-famous person in reallife since Elizabeth Dole, I guess, back in my Reidsville hotel when she was campaigning for senator a few years ago. And before that it must've been Sarah Slean, I guess, or Jeff Martin from the Tea Party, or I dunno, or John Tavares from the Bandits, or Dave Ellett from the still-mesmerizing 1993 Toronto Maple Leafs, who only scoffed at me as I asked the simple question.

Anyway, Ani flew somewhere, and I flew to Baltimore.

I sat next to a very old woman on the flight, and I'm sure she was letting loose some of the most noxious farts imaginable (they were horrifying), but I didn't let it detract from my new David Sedaris book, which is hilarious and hardcover.