Monthly Archives: June 2009

Oh, man…

When I was a dorky little kid, 6 or 7 years old, I used to sit in front of my mother’s turn table on the floor and put on my favorite 2 records. Yeah, that’s right, I said “records”. Hell, I only owned 3, the last of which was Twisted Sister and not very appealing to a 6 year old ear.

I would sit and listen for hours on end as I stared at the album covers. I was always mesmerized by the brilliantly white socks on one, and the neon red sign on the other. I would daydream and the album I was listening to would have finished 5 minutes ago, but there I was, off in la-la land.

When I realized I’d been sitting in silence all that time, I’d flip the album or try to find my favorite song on the particular side I just left off on. This would go on for what seemed like hours at a time, although it was probably only about 1 to 2 hours at most.

Those were blissfully forgetful moments that I spent in front of the record player. You could forget that your parents were going to beat each other senseless later that night, that the kids down the street wanted to beat you up because of your color or weird demeanor, that you were hungry or bored or upset or anything. You could just lose yourself in the music and the pretty pictures in your head.

Several years later when I was 12, I used to listen to my best friend’s favorite album and choreograph dances with her. She was so slender and pretty, that you could just have her walk through a room really and it would be beautiful, but I used to come up with even more smooth, graceful motions for her to execute, and watching our work in her, I would again be taken back to those blissful moments of forgetfulness.

And so, to a certain extent, you gave me oblivion, Michael, and for that I thank you.

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Nasus Meus

How wonderful you all have it. Walking around without a care in the world. No soggy tissues bunched up in your hand or your back pocket. No trickle of snot draining slowly, inconveniently slowly, from your swollen sinuses. No cotton mouth from breathing all day long with your jaw agape.

In a nutshell: how wonderful it must be to breathe through your unfettered nose!

I haven’t been able to breathe through my left nostril in going on 7 days now! I’m sick of it! I shove wads of tissue up my nose to make sure that there’s a reason for not breathing through it–because just being clogged up is NOT a good enough reason!

I’ve taken Mucinex, Zyrtek, Zicam, Sinusilam, Claritin, Benadryl, Afrin. The only thing that works to open my passages is Afrin, but all that snorting is getting to my lungs, and you’re only supposed to use it for 3 days! Mucinex made my nose a friggin’ waterfall of mucus, and I figured I might as well just go to bed on a towel as miserable as I was with the uncontrolled leakage coming through my face. And the other stuff worked for 2 days then quit. Benadryl of course just made me go to sleep, so that’s not really a solution.

“I want to breathe like you-hoo-hoo! Whatsamatta with me-hee-hee? Why can’t I learn to be, like someone, like you-hoo-hoo!”

Vehicular Temporicide

Sit and kill some time in your car every once and a while–it builds a bond between the two of you. Builds character in the machine and a dent in the seat unique to your bottom–and this is the only way you’re ever going to get to know her well enough to name her, you know.

Beetles often go by the name of Daisy or Jane, Beamers go by Jenny or Vikki; some like Sandra for Lexuses, and alternately some pick Tara for a Mercedes. This is frequently related to the first girl that got in their car, or their best friend in grade school. I call my car Rabbit or Jackie (for Jackalope). Doesn’t really relate to anything except the hindquarters of the vehicle–looks like a rabbit’s.

I have a cache of books in my trunk–books for every type of mood I might find myself in should I take off down the road for Vegas or Mexico one day. Come to think of it, I ought to add some more fiction and a quart of tequila for this purpose. Eh, maybe when I get closer to feeling like leaving for the dusty road…

The problem with leaving anything in your vehicle is the goddamned heat. Can’t leave deodorant, can’t leave sticky liquids or foods, can’t leave anything that can’t withstand 120 degree weather. Books can handle it, but not the direct sunlight; that’s why I keep them in the trunk, along with several liters of water, a flashlight, and a small box of tools. Wish I could keep some deodorant in the car. And beef jerkey.

You begin to realize after the 2nd hour that you really need tinted windows. If you had tinted windows you’d just about have yourself a home. Tinted windows and a bathroom, of course. That’s one thing, however, I’m content to use a reststop for.

Flesh Rending

I have a habit that most of society probably wouldn’t look well upon–several of those really–but the one I am specifically referring to is that of pinching off little nips of flesh from my body. It’s always for a reason–ingrown hairs, comedones, itchy bumps, embedded splinters, fangs, cactus needles, fiberglass… I just like to get things out that don’t belong there.

Some people find my medieval means of removal appalling; I find it a practice unworthy of comment–simply because it is an end to achieving a simple, necessary goal: removal of the unwanted.

Plato, or perhaps moreso his mentor, Socrates, once likened the democratic entity of Athens unto a human body. If that analogy could be put in reverse with my body as a point of comparison, I wonder what that society would look like?

What other things that cause the body harm or useless, meaningless discomfort do you think we could perhaps get rid of with a similar simplicity and with not an ounce of regret?

Michigan Memorial


You were layin’ on the carpet,
Like you’re satin in a coffin.
Y’said, “Do you believe what y’re say’n?”
Yeah, right now, but not that often.
Well you disappeared so often,
Like you dissolved into coffee.
Are you here now or are there
Probably fossils under your meat?

The winter of my father’s death I spent alone with my kooky Aunt Joan in the confines of my cousin’s country cottage. Not so much a cottage as a mini-mansion isolated far off in the sticks, but seeing as how it was a house situated in the sticks…well, you get the picture. And not so much my biological father as my well-meaning heroin-addicted step-father, but seeing as how he was the only father-figure in the last 7 out 11 years of my tragic little life…well, you get that picture too.

Now picture mid-January in mid-Michigan: beautiful, isn’t it? And not so much beautiful as just pristine white blankets of snow on every even partially horizontal surface in any direction you look. Man, the SMB vanilla board on NES doesn’t even look this good. Awww…I wish I had my NES here, not the stupid SEGA my cousin gave his kids for Christmas-—they’re like 4 anyway-—what good would any game console do them?

God, I shouldn’t be thinking about games right now. I’m horrible. My mother and my brother are down there in Philly weeping over his dead body, his dead body donning a red satin suit, lying rigid in a crème satin-lined coffin. I should be weeping. I should be there. I should care. But I didn’t want to go. I didn’t feel bad; I didn’t feel anything.

Does that make me a bad person?

Crescendo

Feels like we’re building up to something in life. Like it’s all going to come to some sort of spectacular head any minute now and blow its load all over the world. Initially, I was hoping that apex would be televised with 5 little while balls floating in a drum and me fainting from the fright of sheer, unadulterated joy.

The only thing that’s blown is the lightbulb next to my bed. I can’t read at night now, unless its backlit by this laptop, and I was just getting back into reading again.

But I don’t think we’re building up to anything, or at least, I’m not aware of building up to anything. Hope there’s a climax. Hope it’s a surprise. Hope it’s a good surprise. One that doesn’t involve blood or pain or wet balls of lint, cigarette butts, or someone’s ripped out weave.

It doesn’t take much to surprise me though; I’m surprised when I wake up and still have a job, or a client does what they’re supposed to, or we don’t have to fight amongst ourselves at the site. Yet I’d like a different kind of surprise for once, one that’s good in a positivist sense and not just a novelty in that it’s not absolute shit anymore.

After all: Who doesn’t love a surprise without blood, pain, lintballs, or weave remnants?

Last Call

“My love for you, is twisted and ever-ending.”
“And mine for you, consistent as a flame.”
Illuminata
, Tuturro

It’s a crisp, bright Sunday at 6 a.m., late August, turn of the century, and we are at the airport, bidding adieus on your last day on the east coast. We are Sean, Jen, and Dione, a conglomerate mess of 3 days spent in the same jeans, shirts, and possibly underwear. We’re still jittery and jaw clenching from the effects of all the ecstasy, Coke, coke, and any and all pills we happen to have happened upon in the various nightclubs we’ve graced during this 3-day Bon-Voyage Binge. We haven’t slept or bathed since Thursday, and I’m quite sure it shows. We are truly, in every sense of the word, ripped.

Still under the influence of god-knows-what pills we popped before packing the Z300, the lot of us are poorly navigating the airport, with you about to get on a plane with a picnic basket full of houseplants and salvia divinorum, a hallucinogen we lovingly potted the night before. This, in a classic picnic basket complete with flip-lids and plaid liner, on a transnational flight. Carry-on. God, we must’ve been ripped. Luckily, this is a carefree Sunday sometime before September 11th with few security measures, because if it weren’t they’d probably still have us locked up in Guantanamo Bay to this day.

We’re huddled near the gate and running out of things to say. I ask again why you have to go, and you tell me I already know the answer in that weird way that makes me feel like I’m missing something obvious. So my half-baked brain is scrambling for reasons—and it’s not easy to glean your meaning on even the best of days—and all it can come up with is that both Sean (your boyfriend) and I (your girlfriend) are completely un-fucking-reliable characters with no sense of propriety, as we have on 2 separate occasions gotten so totally wrecked that we blacked out and had mind-blowing sex without you. Seems like a pretty good reason; drastic reaction moving 3,000 miles away, but understandable.

(And you know, the blacking out thing is perhaps only partially accurate and certainly only partially excusable, because if you wake up fucking someone and don’t stop upon your reentry to consciousness, then you’re pretty much playing an accomplice to yourself.) But that’s neither here nor there right now, and I figure it doesn’t matter if I discern your mystical assertion at this point, because you’ve got your plane ticket, the plants, and a plan—-what else is there to stay for? What else is there to say?

In truth, there is so very much to say, but at the time I was not in my right mind, and I ask you to forgive me for that, Jennifer. Weeks before, I should have said, “No—you can’t go! If you go, I’m going with you! I love you!” but I figured by the last week you would change your mind and stay. Even 3 days before, I still thought you might back out, and we thus partied for 3 days straight, each day thinking in the back of my head you might still change your mind. But here we are, at PHL Int’l, about to watch you leave for Seattle. Ever the resolute one, weren’t you?

They’re boarding now, and we’re getting a little delirious with the reality before us: you’re about to be gone forever. We squeeze one another’s hands; our palms are sweaty. You put your finger on that crook at the bridge of my nose and remind me that I am to come out in 3 months’ time. I don’t speak for fear of bleating like a lovelorn calf. We kiss softly, briefly, and you walk into the tunnel. You do not look back.

It’s been nearly 10 years now, and I still think of you as my golden girl. I will perhaps never fall in love with another woman, but at the very least I am proud to say that I once was. I failed and kissed her, more than once for each, and I saw her off with a fantastic farewell party, but never once did I do what she needed: show her my love fully, unfalteringly, and without restraint.

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