29 – The Other Children Go Home

“We must go down and take a look at our little friends before we do anything else,” said Mr. Wonka.  He pressed a different button, and the elevator dropped lower, and soon it was hovering just above the entrance gates to the factory.
Looking down now, Charlie could see the children and their parents standing in a little group just inside the gates. “I can only see three,” he said, “Who’s missing?”
“I expect it’s Mike Teavee,” Mr. Wonka said. “But he’ll be coming along soon.  Do you see the trucks?” Mr. Wonka pointed to a line of gigantic covered vans parked in a line nearby.
“Yes,” Charlie said. “What are they for?”
“Don’t you remember what it said on the Golden Tickets? Every child goes home with a lifetime’s suppy of candy.  There’s one truckload for each of them, loaded to the brim. Ahha,” Mr. Wonka went on, “there goes our friend Augustus Gloop! D’you see him? He’s getting into the first truck with his mother and father!”
“You mean he’s really all right?” asked Charlie, astonished. “Even after going up that awful pipe?”
“He’s very much all right,” said Mr. Wonka.
“He’s changed!” said Grandpa Joe, peering down through the glass wall of the elevator. “He used to be fat! Now he’s thin as a straw!”
“Of course he’s changed,” said Mr. Wonka, laughing. “He got squeezed in the pipe. Don’t you remember? And look! There goes Miss Violet Beauregarde, the great gumchewer! It seems as though they managed to de-juice her after all. I’m so glad. And how healthy she looks! Much better than before!”
“But she’s purple in the face!” cried Grandpa Joe.
“So she is,” said Mr. Wonka. “ah, well, there’s nothing we can do about that.”
“Good gracious!” cried Charlie. “Look at poor Veruca Salt and Mr. Salt and Mrs. Salt! They’re simply covered with garbage!”
“And here comes Mike Teavee!” said Grandpa Joe. “Good heavens! What have they done to him? He’s about ten feet tall and thin as a wire!”
“They’ve overstretched him on the gum-stretching machine,” said Mr. Wonka. “How very careless.”
“But how dreadful for him!” cried Charlie.
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Wonka, “he’s very lucky. Every basketball team in the country will be trying to get him. But now,” he added, “it is time we left these four silly children. I have something very important to talk to you about, my dear Charlie.” Mr. Wonka pressed another button , and the elevator swung upwards into the sky.

First Comic OR Read it like it’s hot OR October, 12 2008

Audio!

 

I think when we all started passing these blogs around like a cashed out pipe at a frat party there was a “first comic” meme going around that I never took part in.  That’s what this story is now.

 

When I was a child I read everything I could get my hands on.  As the youngest child of 6 I had many willing teachers and stacks of thin children’s books about cowboys, bunnies and the proper way to treat your siblings piled around my bed before I even hit my first class class of kindergarten.  I remember going on trips with my family to the mountains and stuffing my little pink backpack with volumes upon volumes, always a bulging burden that would soon become to much for my little frame, but my father would make me carry it the entire time in attempt to teach me a lesson that no amount of lectures, sore backs or broken zippers ever really managed to get into my head.  I spent hours pouring over the shelves of our house’s small library room.  I remember the smells of oak, musty paper and those thick dusty drapes covering the sliding glass door to the backyard, barred, we weren’t allowed to use it.  I remember the scratchy feel of the rug against my bare feet, and the chill of the hardwood floor, even in summers.  Once in grade school I graduated to the library there, with mad excitement.  The librarian would give me skeptical looks as she stamped due dates on each book in my teetering stacks.  My oldest sister in high school started to share with me the books they were reading:  Fahrenheit451, And Then There Were None, Of Mice and Men.  When she’d run lines with me for play auditions, I’d keep them for a quick read through:  Our Town, Death of a Salesman, Arsenic and Old Lace. I went for bigger volumes in our private collection: Science Encyclopedias (A was my favorite), Collected works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Loved it), Collected works of William Shakespeare (Impenetrable then, but I kept trying) and even SAT Practice Vocabulary workbooks.  When I was in third grade the placement tests put me in the same reading class as my sister two grades above me.  I don’t think she ever forgave me for it honestly; she was self-conscious enough on her own.

 

My love of libraries never lost wind with age.  My mother would drop me off on Saturdays with a library card and a quarter in my pocket to call her when I was ready to come home.  That wouldn’t be for hours to come, usually closing time.  I would creep slowly through each aisle, every aisle.  While I loved fiction, that’s not all I wanted to read.  I wanted to know everything.  In my stacks Ray Bradbury and Edgar Allen Poe would cozy up with Fromme’s guides to New York City and Recognizing North American Birds.  Spanish textbooks and Sketching instruction manuals snuck into my piles of Choose Your Own Adventure Novels, and somehow Mayans, Saudia Arabia and World War II seemed to get their play each and every weekend.

 

Libraries were more than just a place to obtain books.  They were my sanctuary.  They were my entry into a world that my staunchly religious parents not only refused to tell me of, they didn’t know their fair share of it themselves.  I thank my luck everyday, that while other forms of media were closely monitored, books were always a free part of academia to them.  I had free reign to learn about sexuality, violence, drugs and atheism.  That’s why I never bothered with the catalog, never went to a certain section.  Always I wandered and let the topics come to me.

 

Eventually, it had to happen.  Eventually I had to walk down an aisle and have a tall collection poke out like a beam of light was shining on it from the heavens.  I pulled it out from the shelf and held within my hands, for the first time, the dejected faces of Harvey Pekar and R. Crumb staring at thick womanly thighs squeezed into spandex and black boots, propelling forth heaving breasts and a resolute face: a classic crumb beauty. I didn’t have to flip through the pages to know I was checking that book out today, but I did.  They were dense, dark and inky, filled with massive bubbles of monologues that exuded anxieties from Harvey’s pained face before I even read their content.  They were words that were written around the time I was born, but they smacked me in my face like the pair was sitting in front of me at that very moment.

 

By this time I could drive and I visited every library in town and walked straight to that portion of the Dewey Decimal system, to see what they had to offer.  At this time the offerings were paltry, never filled more than one shelf.  While I devoured all ten volumes of Akira and it’s masterfully cinematic art quickly, the Manga craze hadn’t hit and it was the only offering of it’s kind in my fair city; there were certainly no trades, no capes, no cowls.  What was there was offerings from Top Shelf and Fantagraphics, smatterings of independent comics and nothing remotely suitable for children.  It was brilliant.

 

Whenever I move to a new town, go to a new school the library is still the first place I visit.  The Public Library behemoths in both Chicago and New York literally brought me to tears, something that no monument in this dark city had done before and has never managed to do again.  That indistinguishable smell of stale paper and plastic protective covers reminds me of home, an amusing dichotomy of childhood and loss of innocence, both the garden and the desolation.  The library was my Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and books that sweet juicy apple.

 

It took me years to walk inside a comic book store.  While I now pick up around 30 monthly titles my love for independent books has never waned; superheroes still remain a minority on my pull list.  A recent visit to the library (every Saturday) leaves me with a pile, none of which are from the big two and only one being from one of the “little two”, Dark Horse.  This year my first visit to a comic convention, New York Comic Con in April, found me time and time again shirking panels and big names to wander in artist alley and the adjacent lanes of booths where I shyly bought the self-published babies of a smattering of struggling artists and writers.  Some shined brighter than others, but they were all undeniably genuine.  I treasure the sketches, the handwritten notes on hand stapled pages and I wish them all the best of luck.  (I don’t know how any discussion of a dying industry can exist when at it’s feet is this much passion.)  I will always have my deep down preference for the strange, the personal and the unique.

 

And I will always love the library.

The Great Chicago

Audio!

It all passed so quickly. 

 

I finished my in flight movie, six dollars and I don’t even get to watch the commentary, when I looked out the window and I see under a smattering of cloud coverage a vast expanse of lights.  A mass of humanity reduced at this height to twinkling dots and lines among the surrounding darkness.  The size of that stretch of shimmer could only be boasted by a few cities in this country, only one of which I was passing on this route: Chicago. 

 

Direct flight: Salt Lake City to JFK.  The returning trip from my sister’s wedding.  It was a beautiful ceremony I’m sure, not that I could tell you personally.  Mormon weddings happen in their temples, card carrying members only.  I haven’t been in one for 5 years, and haven’t been in with clear conscious for a few years more than that, but I was still eager to see my family.  The incoming flight was anti-climatic.  I didn’t realize till I was in the air how much I wanted to see Chicago.  Yet, we passed to far south, cutting across Indiana and southern Illinois, no where near The Black City.  I kept my eyes on the flight route on the screen embedded into the seat in front of me.  I craned my neck to get some sort of view when we were in the area, but to no avail.  So on the return, the happy return to my home of Brooklyn, I assumed we’d be on the same route and didn’t even give it a thought.

 

Then it was under me, glowing in the dark night.  I looked on with equal measures of excitement and skepticism.  Maybe it wasn’t Chicago?  That was all silliness though, it was unmistakable, gleaming next to the inky black of Lake Michigan pocked with bright piers, notably Navy Pier jutting into her cautiously like a child’s toe testing the waters.  This was my Chicago.  I pressed my forehead against the small porthole and watched.  Tears rolled freely down my cheeks as we drifted by.

 

It all passed so quickly.

 

I sat back in my seat.  My fevered head left a damp spot against the thick plastic window.  I didn’t particularly bother to hide my sniffling nose, I’d been making good use of my Kleenex box the entire trip anyhow.

 

I lived in Chicago for one year and four months, I always round it to a “couple years” when I’m telling people of my travels.  It does generally strike me as odd how fondly I remember the city.  The time that I spent in the city itself was abysmally small in comparison to the time I spent dwindling in its southern suburbs, amongst the cornfields and the city’s lower class outcasts.  The trip to the city was an hour on the commuter train, The Metra, as it snaked through government protected woods and dilapidated lots scattered with broken glass glistened in the sun like diamonds.  You were just as likely to see a buck foraging in the fallen leaves as you were a domestic disturbance.  The train didn’t see either, it moved along steadily to the heart of the black city, the windy city, the great Chicago.  The throngs would hurriedly dissipate amongst the dark towering buildings and the air would chill as if this area code were a separate plane of existence, all its own.  Walking through the center of the city, The Loop, at night I would look at the gothic towers and wonder how this wasn’t the real inspiration for Gotham.  The grimacing, crumbling faces of gargoyles staring through you; the overwhelmingly foreboding presence made by the deep blackness of her tallest towers; the swell of her river and the chill of her lake; the roar and sparks from the teetering elevated trains that cut through the scenery of even the most elegant neighborhoods and blocked sun from our lonely eyes; the prison that unsuccessfully tries to remain non-descript, but climbs above it’s neighbors and makes passer bys wonder whose eyes are peering through those slits of windows.  Chicago: a skeleton once the dark comes, when the commuters have left to their homes, but she still speaks at night.  Tales carried on the wind, she whistles in your ears and chills you to the bone.

 

I loved that city.  It was clean, it was vibrant, it was beautiful.   I cried the first time I saw the skyline coming towards me, the Sears Tower stood solidly at the center of it all, easily half of it’s bulk covered by the cloudy day, but still instantly recognizable.  I remember coming out of classes late at night tired and defeated at the thought of being up early in the morning for a full day or work and then more classes.  Then I would see the lights beaming on the bold, gothic eagles adorning the corners atop the giant stones that make up the grand and towering Chicago Public Library and it would set my heart on fire.  I could feel it beating in my chest as if stabbed by a shot of adrenaline.  I remember walking in the streets under the shadow of the elevated train tracks and looking to the sky as snow drifted down between the buildings.  I remember winds that chilled me so deeply I though perhaps my ears and face would never fully return to normal use.  I remember my dog seeing snow for the first time, romping around excitedly for so long his paws would hurt and we’d have to carry him back into the house.  I remember my cat touching that white drift and recoiling as quickly as possible back to the warmth of the house.  I remember Kyle.  I remember coming to the city with all the hope in the world for our future together.  I remember leaving it with a 4 year relationship fully extinguished.

 

I can’t help but think of him as I pass over.  After long unappreciated days in business casual and business bullshit, he works part-time delivering sandwiches.  He pines for a married woman, who still lives 2000 miles away and may never move for him.  He dreams of a future that is constantly being pushed out of his grasp by excuses, whether his own or from the people who are close to him.  Every night as he lays alone under the sheets it hurts.  Feelings of frustration, failure and heart ache.  I still care and I still worry.  We talked at first.  It was different certainly, but held a certain comfort.  Now I know he doesn’t want to talk any longer, whether it’s his own hurt or something deemed necessary by his new love I don’t know, it doesn’t frankly matter.  I respect his wishes as my stomach turns and my heart aches for that old city of Chicago.

 

Yet, my stomach leaped as I felt the plane start to descend. My home is now New York.  The distinct shimmering grid let me easily smile down on my neighborhood.  My heart is warmed, but only just enough.  That’s the dichotomy of this city, the mixture of disdain and fierce loyalty.  I know it will only be a matter of time till I move on.  Till yet another plane brings me to a fresh destination that will become my home.  Then this grid will be a no more than an ache in this ailing heart, a warm tear on this cheek as I pass over.

 

But that time is not now.  So until then, hello New York, I’m home.

Audio!

 

Two boys, both around the age of twelve.  Identical twins.  From their carefully shabby haircuts to the grey socks peeking from the toes of their sandals, they were alike.  Their plaid shorts blended one pair into the other as they seated themselves next to each other, across from me, on the train.  Their sandy shirts betrayed the faux unique design of each other as the paint on both matched perfectly, splatter for splatter.  In turn both boys laid on the ground perfectly alike black swiss army bookbags, adorned with identical keychains hooked on the same zipper handle of each bag.  Two slim wrists jangled with slightly oversized silver watches attached to two hands holding two cups, both speared with straws filled with the same pearly orange substance, identical flavors.  The only difference between them was the pair of glasses perched on the face of the boy on the left.  Otherwise, they were perfectly the same, as far as one could tell from a look at least.

 

Yet, the longer I took in their sameness the more it was blatantly obvious how different they were.  Not just the eyeglasses of the left, though surely that had been a marker used by many people in their lives past and present.  No, moreso it was their gazes.  Right furrowed his brows as he surveyed the scene of the train car around him, then he busied himself with the cup and straw he grasped in his small hands.  He sucked the thick liquid with gruff gulps.  Left took a different approach.  His eyes were wide and wandered, drinking in every bit of his surroundings.  His curiosity was nearly palpable.  He noticed me watching them immediately and instead of showing clear annoyance as Right had done, he then took my smile as a clear welcome to watch me in return.  He looked about but would always return and watch me as my face was distinctly unable to hide it’s glee at the situation before me.  He watched as my toes wiggled and my fingers tapped; as my eyes darted away from the words in the book before me that was very much being forgotten at this point as my mind raced with delightful interpretations.  He watched as I pulled out my pen and my pad and he watched as I began to write about him.  He craned his neck casually, wistfully trying to get a peek at the words on my pad as his mouth pursed to carefully suck up his drink, almost with a distinct femininity about him.  He watched and I watched; kindred spirits of curiosity.  And every moment until they left at their mother’s silent beckoning was sheer brilliance.

A Toast

Oh precious, precious life. 

Here’s to life.  Here’s to never, never stopping.  Here’s to dreams and love and friends and strangers.  Here’s to music. Here’s to other worlds and things fantastic in this one.  Here’s to the amazing and the mundane, because both fill our lives with color.  Here’s to our hearts.  That lump of beating flesh in our chests, providing us life blood but also representing our hopes and dreams.  The hunk of meat and tissue that represents love.  That precious, fickle and oh so breakable organ.  Here’s to when it’s beating so hard it feels as though it might burst through our ribs and here’s to when it’s broken.  Here’s to each and every tear in it’s delicate membrane and the fact that they will never really heal.  Here’s to the earth beneath our feet and the sky above our heads and the endless universes both beyond the skies and between our ears, playful static in our gray matter.  Here’s to me. and you. And this very moment.  Here’s to existence, because that’s all we can know and may we never take it for granted again.

Happy Fourth of July

Audio

He woke me up with a start when his arm around me started to twitch. Then his other and his chest. His eyes flickered. It reminded me of my dog starting and whimpering in his sleep as he chases imaginary rabbits. Then it got more violent and my mind crashes into the thought… he’s a Marine. I know what he’s thinking even before his hand starts slapping his his chest and thigh as he murmurs, “Where’s the magazine, where’s the magazine…” I’m absolutely shattered. No debate, no documentary, no news story has hit me harder than this. He’s 24 years old. I don’t know if I should wake him, I’m at a complete loss. Without thinking I take his searching hand and I hold it. I feel my face getting hot. A few hours ago I didn’t know this man from Adam, I don’t even remember his name. But a tear rolls down my cheek as I witness this unconscious and overwhelmingly intimate and horrible moment. His movements start to back down to twitches and eventually his eyes flutter open. He snaps his head back and forth and looks at me, lost.

“What day is it?”

“Sunday… Sunday morning? The 6^th?”

He looks at his watch, “July.” He lays back and shakes his head softly whispering to himself, “It was real.” After a few moments he gets up and stares at something on his dresser. He picks up a photo and tosses it next to me on the bed. I pick it up and see him arm and arm with another guy about his age. He mutters an explanation, seemingly to me, but it’s very quiet and bitter. “He was my best friend in the world. He shot out like a bottle rocket.” A few moments of silence. He picks up the picture and replaces it on the dresser, then he comes and lays back down next to me. “I was driving.”

He alternates between staring at the ceiling and looking into my eyes. I stare back and I place my hand on his sandpaper cheek. I can tell his heart is still racing. I see his pulse barreling through his neck. “I don’t want to sleep.” He says softly, but firmly. I nod and I hush him with a kiss.

We fuck twice. It’s hard and fast and he does fall asleep again, but sleeps like a log. I drift away eventually as well. When we awake later he apologizes over and over. I shouldn’t have had to see that. I shouldn’t have had to see that. I just lay my head on his chest and don’t say anything, I can’t really. It would all seem hollow. He puts his arms around me and as we both start to drift off yet again. He says under his breath, “Any other girl would’ve ran away.”

Eventually after who knows how long of alternating light sleep and moments of fooling around he notices his watch and shoots up. Then falls back down on the bed, defeated. “I have a flight in two hours.”

I take my queue and start to get dressed. He lays there for awhile, but eventually staggers up and pulls on some clothes as well. As I’m putting on my shoes he sits next to me on the bed and says to the floor, “I hate North Carolina.” I coo empathetically. But what else can I do? The night is over. In two hours he’ll be flying there. In two days he’ll be back at camp. In two months he’ll be back in Iraq. Back at the bar he said it’s his last tour and he’s out. All I can think is, “hopefully.”

He walks me to the door. We say nothing and he kisses me on the forehead.

My day on the train

Audio! (Apologies on the sound.  I left my fan on like a pussy.)

This is a mushy mush of three different subway inspired rants.  Enjoy.

I have a great disdain for yarmulkes. Again, AGAIN I must express that I am not anti-semitic. But just imagine seeing someone very attractive walking down the street then they unzip their hoodie to reveal a shirt that says “I will never fuck you. In fact, you may as well consider myself a eunuch, because you have no chance.” It’s kind of buzz kill. It’s even worse than a wedding ring. They aren’t entirely and completely off limits if your morals will allow. And with our divorce rate you don’t even have to settle with being the secret floozy. Just wait. A wedding ring says, “You have at least a fifty percent chance of fucking me in the future.” But no. A yarmulke says, “I’m not just Jewish by heritage. I don’t just have cute dark hair and a come hither nose. No. I don’t eat fucking shrimp. I make a whole holiday dinner about eating with my invisible friend. And I don’t. Date. Outside my religion.” Fuck you jews.

But no. Other than hating jews on the subway I often find myself looking at what everyone’s wearing. Sometimes I wonder where I get off criticizing people’s fashion, in my head… I’m not a total dick, when I’m such an avid t-shirt and jeans girl myself. It seems a little hypocritical. But then I remind myself that just because you have they eye, doesn’t mean you have the body, wallet and time. Okay, take it back. I must be a dick, that was certainly a dick thing to say… I’m alright with hat I think. Regardless of guilt or snobbery, if you’re entering the summer wearing a brown dress with a brown jacket with a brow bag, brown fucking shoes and to top it all off the mousey brown hair of your sadly misguided genetics? Then your wallet, body and time have gone to waste, girly. There was one stripe of turquoise running down the line of the dress like a lost string of taffy being stretched through Wonka’s frothy chocolate river. But that’s only a reprieve on the dress designer part and not the uninspired automaton who is running under the, mistaken, impression that she can dress herself in the morning.

In defense of this catty diatribe, I really only give such thought to those who are trying. There’s a language in fashion and so often the only words it knows how to speak in human is, “I think I’m better than you.” Followed closely by, “I cost way to fucking much.” I’m not going to mentally berate the middle aged woman in her stretch waist jean capris and oversized Tweety bird t-shirt. She’s doing her thing and that’s fine with me. I merely match condescension with condescension.

While we’re on the subject. Men. If you ever find yourself in the position of being successful and requiring a suit of some kind remember this. On par with ol’ Augustus Gloop over here is the high powered business men/lawyer/executive/insert corporate title here who looks like he’s playing dress up in his daddy’s clothes. Tailors. Please!

Fashion criticism aside, a ride on the train generally has no shortage of life lessons. A few seats away from me there’s a man, demonstrating the importance of life’s little pleasures. He’s jovially munches on his breakfast. The look on his face is as if that small brown paper sack holds his dearest treasures. And each time his hand dips within it and pulls out a luscious chunk of blueberry bagel slathered in cream cheese! It’s a triumph! A triumph that is deposited into his grinning maw and chewed ever so gingerly. I would hazard a guess that half the people on this train have not experienced such jubilance in weeks as this man enjoys as part of his daily morning ritual. He then retrieves from his crinkled depths a plastic cup of frothy orange. He sucks it down like a wanderer through the desert coming upon a juicy oasis. Just like that the meal is finished. The bag is empty, but the memories remain with him as he settles back into his seat with a contented sigh. Is this the happiest moment of his day or does he attack all activities in his life with such fervor? I might be forced to guess the former because the man’s face has now fallen into line with the other work week drones. Must’ve been a good fucking bagel.

Still kickin’

Audio!

The weekend looms near. I haven’t even had the chance to explain why that makes me just a little bit nervous. It’s a good story. But another obvious reason is the paltry sum of bills in my wallet that comprises the only money I have to last me till next Friday. The rest remains under lock and key for upcoming bills. Away in my bank account. Bills that I will only be able to cover by the skin of my teeth mind you. And it’s not just my happy beer money that’s in my wallet. No this needs to cover groceries and any other household expense that comes along (Such as… Oh shit running low on shampoo… and god damn I need to do laundry.) Certainly I’ve had moments. Moments where I feel that miniature population of me’s running the brain inside my head gets a little restless. Tired of manning that super computer of impulses and logic that I seem to ignore no matter how hard they try to steer me the right way. Yes the chief administrator of levers in sector 72 of my brain he’s… he’s just lost it entirely. He’s pounding on the inside of my skull as I look worriedly over my budget sprawled across an excel spreadsheet. He’s screaming what are you DOING? Meanwhile, my left eye hasn’t blinked in 3 hours since he abandoned his post.

I laid in bed last night, and by bed I mean mattress. More really… it’s a mat. A mat on the floor. My new guitar, bought on credit, laying on my right side. A small fan from my roommate blowing on me on the left (Air Conditioning? Ha!) I thought about the numbers I’d just stretched and pushed so that I would be able to pay rent come July 1^st. I thought about the realization I’d made that on the salary I just accepted Monday, it wouldn’t be much better next month. Or the month after that. And so on and so forth. And as I’m prone to do my brain began to crunch the possibilities. Moving home was one. Make no assumptions about what sort of viability it had in my mind though, even in the middle of the night; yet, I have to admit that there was a small thought of, “Wow. How much easier would it be to be free of a few bills while I pay down my debt.” My debt is from previous moves by the way. When you’re job hunting for a month in a new area those things can kinda creep up on you.

Yet, every time I find myself walking the streets of this city my heart breaks. I stroll through some of my favorite books and movies everyday here. I’m fulfilling a childhood dream.

So please don’t misconstrue any of this as complaining. My struggles are generally of my own design. I don’t a grudge for becoming a New York transplant stereotype. It’s perfect. Would I be ever so much happier if I was making more money? Living in a place of my own drinking chilled Pellegrino, stroking the head of my fuzzy lap dog. Well. Maybe. I do love pretentious water and ugly dogs. But I’m pretty happy being a kid, being stupid, being a bit of a rat. That’d explain why I keep moving whenever I start to get settled anywhere. And hey, there’s not much else for a 22 year old to do, unless I’d rather just start storing up my resentment for life right now. I certainly don’t want it to be in short supply when my hair starts turning grey, it’s all I’ll have to hold onto.

So the plan is to keep on hanging on. Maybe I’ll get a second job. Something nice and decent. Or maybe not so decent. Whatever works. Or maybe I’ll find a way to cut my grocery bill further and spend a couple more hours out on Saturday night drinking a couple more beers to forget about that silly debt thing. But basically… we’ll see how it all pans out. I’m still here. Still kickin’.

SWF–LTRs need not apply

Audio!!

Alright. While I decide what exactly I’m going to share about this weekend without getting myself into trouble, I’ll bring you something from I believe Friday night. I didn’t get the chance to post or record it that night, but I’ve decided to read it as is. Some of this will seem very ironic soon. But without any further ado….

Let’s not beat around the bush anymore. I don’t think it’s self-defeating psychology that makes me think I ruined my last relationship. It’s logic. I did. Here’s to me, as I drink my 4^th beer of the day at quarter to six. That’s glamour right there. And that’s why this is the last beer I’ll drink for the next 30 days, I’ve made that promise to myself. My family tree has a history riddled with addiction, and because the studies of the genealogy for such traits are still hazy, I’d like to play it on the safe side. Addictions are way out of my budget.

But seriously. Mark this as my first, and hopefully last, relationship issue post. Can I admit something? I’m an incredibly amiable, accommodating and overall nice person. I have an extremely active guilt complex and most of my actions run by that hazy code of ethics that I don’t like to fuck people over. Most. I do have my breaking points.

But the problem is that once I’ve reached that lovey dovey comfort zone? The gloves come off and I turn into a selfish beast. Here’s just a few beats of what it’s like to be with me when we’re in a long term relationship.

-I’m pretty lackadaisical on the chore front. I bristle at a schedule and clean things when they look physically dirty. I like to do dishes right away, because the likelihood of me ever doing a sink full of dishes is very very low. Yeah. I might use the same towel for two weeks until I realize it smells kind of stale then I’ll finally replace it. Yes. I don’t do laundry till I run out of underwear even if that means digging a dirty shirt out of the laundry basket. My rank of cleanliness is, “Does it smell or will it attract bugs?” No? Then it’s fine. So I’m basically only one small step above the average college aged male. Small step.

-I don’t cook. I actually have a rather uncanny ability with the spices, but I just don’t like doing it. Sometimes I eat out. Sometimes I have ice cream for dinner. Sometimes I just plain would rather not eat then cook, you’d be straight up surprised how often this happens. I really should be thinner, but refer to the ice cream for dinner part I suppose.

-I do make amazing hot wings. Just want to throw that out there.

-I’m selfish. I just truly am. I work by logic, so if you disagree with me and can’t make an argument for your side that doesn’t include emotions I’m probably just going to think you’re stupid and I’m right. Therefore I’m justified in acting how I want to and ignoring you.

-On the other side of the coin if you argue me and have superior logic, I will apologize and be gracious about it. I have no problems with pride when it comes to apologizing and will readily accept that I’m wrong if proven so.

-I love sex. I truly do. But the problem is I want it when you don’t. Then if you try to get frisky while I’m falling asleep I will bite your head off. I’ve long since chosen sleep over sex. Catch me in the morning. Catch me at lunch time. Catch me while we’re going fucking grocery shopping. I’m down. Just do not try to wake me up for sex.

-I will make fun of your drinking. I love drinking and do so like a fish. You are a pussy and there is no denying this. I will make fun of you in public if you aren’t keeping up. It’s just the way of the world.

-I need my alone time. I just do. I have to watch porn sometimes. I have to sing jazz sometimes. I have to dance around to show tunes sometimes. The amount of what I will do around you, depends on you. But either way I NEED MY ALONE TIME.

-Contradictorily, I can be incredibly needy. If I’m sad I may need some human blanket time. I may need some “tell me I’m pretty” time. I may need some hold me while I’m crying for no discernable reason time.

-I don’t have this unquenchable need to go out everyday. You may even go so far as to call me a “homebody”. Sure I have shit I like to do. But that requires all this like… showering… and dressing? That’s silly. Can’t we just snuggle on the couch and watch a movie? Please? No? Fuck you.

-I sing constantly. I will make songs up about our furniture. I will make songs up about the weather. I will make songs about you and I will make songs about me. Sometimes I will insult you by song, but it will surely be a cheery tune.

-I reserve sexy dancing time for when I’m alone or potentially at a club (but refer to the homebody comment to know how often THAT happens). The dancing that you will generally be privy to is my over the top ridiculous dancing. The secret is finding one amusing move and just doing it over. And over. And over. I pull a lot of influences from the 80’s and early 90’s. The running man was huge for me. But usually they are of my own absurd design.

-I have to give myself some credit. If you do get out of the house I will have a damn good time. Just. You know. Good luck on that. (though NY and it’s incredibly convenient transportation has helped a great deal.)

-If you like dumb movies prepare for me to bogart the television, because my tastes are clearly superior. And if you want to watch anything besides Office/30rock/lost on Thursday you’re fucking out of luck man. I will physically fight you.

-I get to read Walking Dead first. Sorry that’s how it works.

-I may decide to go to bed at 3am. Maybe 5am. Maybe 9pm. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. These things just happen.

-I cry at all movies and try to hide the fact. Don’t look at me towards the end of the movie. If you do you better damn well be crying too. I’ve actually never known a man to cry, so that would impress me to the nth degree. But I’m not holding out hope on that one.

-I’m to immature to take care of pets. I’ve come to realize this. I’m like the child who wants one so badly, but then when you get them you end up always having to walk them and pick up the poop. But if they ever get sick inside or chew anything up I will take care of it. That’s the silent agreement.

-I’m horrible with children. I’m sorry. I’ve long since decided that I will probably never have them. I’ve considered adoption or fostering, because I love those smart as a whip kids and wouldn’t mind having one of them around to mentor. But the thought of a baby scares me beyond belief.

-I love music. You will either have to put up with my music, or put up with me in headphones. One or the other.

-I have little to no interest in sports. You can watch your crap, that’s fine. I just won’t be around to see it unless it includes soccer or occasionally baseball.

-Some weekends I will want to be out the entire time. Some weekends I will lay in bed reading till 5pm.

This is just a small taste.

I will be alone forever won’t I?

What are you doing?

Audio!!

Well everyone. I got the job. Yes the job with the raise, the office with a view, across the street from Madison Square Garden, the sleep in since it starts at 9, but party because it still gets off at 5 because we get an hour paid lunch, not for profit, music industry magical dream job. That job. I have to admit while I was nervous, I’ve felt on a fucking roll. With the apartment I thought, “This is to good to be true, I’m to in love with it… there’s no way this will work out.” Yet, it did. So when this job came around I thought, “This is to good to be true, I’m to in love with it… but hey it worked for the apartment so I bet it’s gonna fucking work here. “ And it did.

So I sit here in my room with the sun streaming in after two days of rain, a cool breeze playing over my cheek bringing in the fresh smell of a baptized city that I love. I’m living in an ideal.

Yet, as is way of troubled humans, all the pieces aren’t in place. I’m a transplant to this perfect situation. I feel like I’ve entered a pristine white living room through the fireplace and I’m covered in my black sooty baggage. I’m not perfect, I’m not pristine, I’m the square peg and my life is the circle hole.

I know that’s not entirely fair. The idea of luck goes against my personal philosophy. I figured all the dirty details of my move. I got an apartment because I was diligent in my search. I got a job because I’ve cultivated a decent resume, I have good skills, work hard and I killed my interview. There was no magical force or omniscient being handing these things to me. I did it myself. Even still it’s hard to shake the undeserving feeling and I think a large reason why is because I’ve been setting all my ducks in a row outside of myself while my interior is dwindling and deteriorating.

I think I’ve failed if I feel like I need to drink a few beers before I can be myself. I’ve failed if I’m more worried about developing projects for the approval of my peers then for the purpose of actually improving my skills. I’ve failed if when listening to great music I sometimes actually get sad because I’ve squandered my own abilities. I. Have. Failed. If when I lay down at night I don’t have a feeling of satisfaction, but am worried to finally be alone with my thoughts.

So I’m developing some goals, some personal goals. Not to change myself, but to shed the excess that I’ve been piling on for the all the wrong reasons. To get back to who I want to be and who it is that makes me happy when I lay down at night. So, keep your eye out for it.

And don’t me wrong, I’m grateful and I’m incredibly happy. I just don’t want to fall and I don’t want to fail. I want to make the most of this momentum to make the most of myself.

PS – I’d be remiss to not mention dear Graeme who planted the seed for me earlier this week. Definitely a clear inspiration.

Thanks Graeme.