When was it? Tuesday night, September 29th... Went to help a friend from Starbucks move to his new apartment. As I left my place to get there, a black cat crossed the path of my car. Now, I'm a brighter bulb than most, and I know fact from superstition, but damn if the coincidence of it didn't linger with me. Kept me a bit more hyperaware, especially in his new neighborhood. Devon and Western is a bit more ghetto than most. We get done and he invites me in to chill. There's no parking for blocks around, so he allows me to park in the building's space, this gated-in little piece of driveway instead of the dozens of tiny garages that line the alleyway. As I maneuver Hermann in to the cramped gated nook, my tire catches the iron latches and digs them right into this minute tear in my sidewall, puncturing and deflating my rear driver side tire with a quick, classic PFFFFFT!
As bad as that was, I was able to chuckle it off, which is good because things got worse before better.
Marcos, my buddy, and his roommates came out to help with the tire, but none of us could get it off. First, the jack was not cooperating with the ground beneath it, its handle jamming into stones every second revolution. Once a replacement jack was found and Herman lifted, no one could get the lug nuts off. They had rusted on too tight. I attempted to call a tow truck but the dude couldn't speak English well enough, so I balked. The guys allowed me to crash there that evening and we'd deal with it in the morning.
It's funny; the things I'll do for weed when I can't afford it.
After a lopsided night on a folded futon, the morning went better than expected. There was an auto mechanic nearby, two blocks away via alleys, so I could take my time and not block traffic while riding my rim at 2 miles an hour. Even with a torque gun the tire was nigh-impossible to get off, but with some lube, a half-hour wait, and $20 later the spare sat comfortably on the rear axle. I was an hour late than I was scheduled at the Block Museum, but I volunteered to come in on my day off to cover hours, so it ended up being win-win. 6 extra hours of pay, and I was able to explain my new job situation and scheduling issues in person. I believe they will make concessions for me. Then off to Peter Pan rehearsal, mindful to steer clear of expressways, and nailed dance practice so well they changed choreography to accomodate me.
Crisi-tunity incarnate.
I think that was probably the best outcome to that situation.
----------------
Now playing: Death Cab For Cutie - No Sunlight
02 October 2009
07 September 2009
Citation Needed?
I did something that needed to be done.
Proofread, anyone?
Entropy
The Secret Integration
Thank you.
Go read Inherent Vice.
Proofread, anyone?
Entropy
The Secret Integration
Thank you.
Go read Inherent Vice.
24 August 2009
Year of the Hangover
I haven't seen the movie Kids since college when it was first released. Still haven't seent it since, but I remember the last line of the film. It's always resonated with me.
After the scenes of skateboarding teens, of awkward latchkey survival, of late-night hideaways and social explorations, of drunken drug-crazed basements of iniquity, of lonely boys wailing in bathtubs and perky girls squealing like adults, of cock-slappingly snuff-induced violations of AIDS-infested statutory pedophilic fun, our infected adolescent serial cherry-popping antihero shakes his hazy head on the morning after and mutters:
"Jesus Christ, what happened?"
Welcome to 2009.
After last year's self-aggrandizing vacation, the wheel of fortune hath spun another turn and now demands remittance. This isn't to say that progress hasn't been made or joy not achieved, but in light of last year the price has increased exponentially.
2009 has become the Year of the Hangover.
Not literally.
But you know the feeling.
I won't bore you with specifics or mealy-mouthed self-pity, but it's kinda, sorta like this:
As you set to scale a prodigious rock formation, you dream of the challenge, the bite of stone cutting your ankles and the numb callus that will soon become your hands, all made with gusto just to claim the jutting apex of the mountain for yourself, the champion taste of mineral saline ringing your lips and searing the scrapes on exposed skin when, without warning, the elevated climb cuts short, abrupt and violently placid, s,ooth and expansive, planar and monotonous, your marathon-stride muscles downshift unexpectedly to victory lap as you crawl upon the top of the plateau, its still oxygen-rich air filling your lungs with crestfallen awe as you stare at the towering peaks around you, proud and respectable, iconic and taunting, still a distant desire, leaving you behind on this plateau, this stable and routine plateau, its tabletop stretching on an on into an unrugged, dependable, predictable, no-nonsense, self-maintained, milquetoast flatline.
Perhaps this is a good thing.
It certainly isn't bad.
But I want MOAR.
The sky's the limit.
But the road stopped rising to meet me.
And I grow weary of waiting.
Ow, my fucking head hurts.
I had a year like this in high school: 1994. Many bittersweet memories. Had lost some weight and took the only school picture I've ever been proud of. But my grades were the worst that year. Got chosen for my first mainstage play, but I had no lines and died in the first scene. My grandmother died that year to bone cancer and her brother, my great-uncle, died months later. Both were fixtures in my childhood. Threw off everything I knew about myself. I remember drawing labyrinthine sketches with signs for the next year above every way out.
So, on the plus side, I'm so geared up for 2010. It's gonna be a year of opportunity.
----------------
Now playing: Bob Dylan - Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
After the scenes of skateboarding teens, of awkward latchkey survival, of late-night hideaways and social explorations, of drunken drug-crazed basements of iniquity, of lonely boys wailing in bathtubs and perky girls squealing like adults, of cock-slappingly snuff-induced violations of AIDS-infested statutory pedophilic fun, our infected adolescent serial cherry-popping antihero shakes his hazy head on the morning after and mutters:
"Jesus Christ, what happened?"
Welcome to 2009.
After last year's self-aggrandizing vacation, the wheel of fortune hath spun another turn and now demands remittance. This isn't to say that progress hasn't been made or joy not achieved, but in light of last year the price has increased exponentially.
2009 has become the Year of the Hangover.
Not literally.
But you know the feeling.
I won't bore you with specifics or mealy-mouthed self-pity, but it's kinda, sorta like this:
As you set to scale a prodigious rock formation, you dream of the challenge, the bite of stone cutting your ankles and the numb callus that will soon become your hands, all made with gusto just to claim the jutting apex of the mountain for yourself, the champion taste of mineral saline ringing your lips and searing the scrapes on exposed skin when, without warning, the elevated climb cuts short, abrupt and violently placid, s,ooth and expansive, planar and monotonous, your marathon-stride muscles downshift unexpectedly to victory lap as you crawl upon the top of the plateau, its still oxygen-rich air filling your lungs with crestfallen awe as you stare at the towering peaks around you, proud and respectable, iconic and taunting, still a distant desire, leaving you behind on this plateau, this stable and routine plateau, its tabletop stretching on an on into an unrugged, dependable, predictable, no-nonsense, self-maintained, milquetoast flatline.
Perhaps this is a good thing.
It certainly isn't bad.
But I want MOAR.
The sky's the limit.
But the road stopped rising to meet me.
And I grow weary of waiting.
Ow, my fucking head hurts.
I had a year like this in high school: 1994. Many bittersweet memories. Had lost some weight and took the only school picture I've ever been proud of. But my grades were the worst that year. Got chosen for my first mainstage play, but I had no lines and died in the first scene. My grandmother died that year to bone cancer and her brother, my great-uncle, died months later. Both were fixtures in my childhood. Threw off everything I knew about myself. I remember drawing labyrinthine sketches with signs for the next year above every way out.
So, on the plus side, I'm so geared up for 2010. It's gonna be a year of opportunity.
----------------
Now playing: Bob Dylan - Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
23 June 2009
Right Now...
My life has changed drastically in the past few weeks.
I recently moved all my business to Evanston and work and life are all centralized.
New location's a 20-minute walk from my place.
I can walk to the beach on my breaks.
And pass by kudzu-covered mansions.
Even scored myself a second position.
At Northwestern University.
At the Art Museum.
I know. Me neither.
It's small and part-time, but has such great potential.
Especially their cinema program.
It's all almost like starting school all over again.
Good and bad.
All the friends and acquaintances I've built up for years are gone.
Again.
My once magnetic personality doesn't appear to be attracting anyone.
At work or in town.
I'm so busy I rarely get a day off anymore.
And when I do I don't want to do anything.
And the 19-year-old I've been kinda, sorta seeing for the past few months
Dropped me to be with one of her old friends.
*chuckles*
Happy New Moon
I recently moved all my business to Evanston and work and life are all centralized.
New location's a 20-minute walk from my place.
I can walk to the beach on my breaks.
And pass by kudzu-covered mansions.
Even scored myself a second position.
At Northwestern University.
At the Art Museum.
I know. Me neither.
It's small and part-time, but has such great potential.
Especially their cinema program.
It's all almost like starting school all over again.
Good and bad.
All the friends and acquaintances I've built up for years are gone.
Again.
My once magnetic personality doesn't appear to be attracting anyone.
At work or in town.
I'm so busy I rarely get a day off anymore.
And when I do I don't want to do anything.
And the 19-year-old I've been kinda, sorta seeing for the past few months
Dropped me to be with one of her old friends.
*chuckles*
Happy New Moon
01 June 2009
Blackout
I was meeting a friend for lunch. The weekend with Melissa was a bust. So glad that's over. Sorta been skipping out on this friend for months, so I thought I'd finally man up and chat with him. We were headed to the Yard House, patio, nice sunny Sunday. After he arrived and the waitress started paying attention (Mmmm... a tall, thready blonde with a sharp sense of humor and a cute swagger), we started in on the first of a good half-dozen pints, after only four in did we add on Jim Beam shots. This is good, I thought, as I was still murky from the weekend's hangover, a twelve pack of Amstel Light Melissa and I shared. Mostly me. The alcohol unhazed and loosened up everything. Dude and I teared through a stacked-up California roll, let the stories drip from our tongues, and sweet-talked every waitress we could (who all turned out to be lesbians; amazing how a guy can do that to a girl). I was feeling no pain and no worry. Why should I? Got a $50 in my wallet to pay the bill and 10 singles for a fresh pack of smokes. We got there at 2 and I remember checking the clock at some point and seeing we had been there for 4 hours. Dude had a basketball game to go to, but he chose to stick around. We had to step away from the patio to smoke and end up making our scene at the fire hydrant outside the movie theaters. Little Miss Thready Sharp-Tongued Blonde starts telling us that the giraffe we were hanging around actually got run over by some driver before. It's hot but it's breezy and I don't wear my hat in the shade, sorta counterintuitive I guess, but I like the way my bald head fee-
I remember waking up. It felt time to. Faint thunder rattled the pane, and I saw the clock read 4:13. Dark. Early. I'm laying face up in my bed, completely tucked in.
I am fully clothed.
My shoes are off.
I can only shift slightly but notice I'm laying on my wallet. Inside are a $10 dollar bill and an ATM receipt for $62.75 at 8:11pm.
Next to my bed is a fresh unopened pack of Camel Ultra Lights.
Inside the apartment everything that's supposed to be unplugged is.
In the bathroom my face is beet red, my jaw hurts, and I find the receipt for the cigarettes and a charge of $1.95 for Groceries from the corner gas station blocks from me, last oasis before returning home. Receipt says I was there 8:13 last night.
There's a can of energy drink on my dining room table.
I remember that there's tree pruning going on this morning on the street out front. Can't park out there, or you'll get towed. I put on a sweatshirt and head out the door. And it was locked.
And it was locked.
I step outside my building and realize I have no idea where I parked. Nor how I even got home. But the car's not where it's not supposed to be. I walk very awkwardly around and find Hermann expertly tucked behind an SUV next block over, within allowed parking signs, not needing permits, no tickets left on him.
Not a scratch of new damage either.
On my passenger side floor is a spent package of Strawberry Nilla Wafer Cakesters, pricemarked $0.99.
*shudder*
I remember waking up. It felt time to. Faint thunder rattled the pane, and I saw the clock read 4:13. Dark. Early. I'm laying face up in my bed, completely tucked in.
I am fully clothed.
My shoes are off.
I can only shift slightly but notice I'm laying on my wallet. Inside are a $10 dollar bill and an ATM receipt for $62.75 at 8:11pm.
Next to my bed is a fresh unopened pack of Camel Ultra Lights.
Inside the apartment everything that's supposed to be unplugged is.
In the bathroom my face is beet red, my jaw hurts, and I find the receipt for the cigarettes and a charge of $1.95 for Groceries from the corner gas station blocks from me, last oasis before returning home. Receipt says I was there 8:13 last night.
There's a can of energy drink on my dining room table.
I remember that there's tree pruning going on this morning on the street out front. Can't park out there, or you'll get towed. I put on a sweatshirt and head out the door. And it was locked.
And it was locked.
I step outside my building and realize I have no idea where I parked. Nor how I even got home. But the car's not where it's not supposed to be. I walk very awkwardly around and find Hermann expertly tucked behind an SUV next block over, within allowed parking signs, not needing permits, no tickets left on him.
Not a scratch of new damage either.
On my passenger side floor is a spent package of Strawberry Nilla Wafer Cakesters, pricemarked $0.99.
*shudder*
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