That's how long I've been an official Indiana resident. That's how long I have been friendless, a budding alcoholic, focusing on assorted art forms to try and relieve the stress, loneliness and alienation I've been dealing with for the past 120 days or so. It's been rough, I won't lie. Shit, why would I lie, on my own blog that nobody even reads?
<explosion>
My best friend is pregnant to a guy she barely knows who is twice her age. My other best friend's girlfriend cheated on him and, it turns out is kind of a whore, which is an extra blow because I thought she was really such a great person and it turns out she's just another fuckin tramp. All the rest of my friends are in various states of upheaval and I'm sitting alone, 400 miles away. I would give anything to be there in the midst of all their misery instead of here in this shitty patchwork house that is constantly freezing. Hell, I would give anything to just be near a sympathetic ear that wasn't family or a coworker. I hate my job. Well, that's not accurate. I don't hate my job. I just don't think I'm cut out for it. I've gained 30 pounds since moving here. I never do anything anymore except work and drink. I don't even really play guitar very much, except in moments of insomnia where I will pick up my acoustic and strum a few chords and melodies before trying to sleep again. I'm trapped in this house with one functional shower that you have to walk through my parents room to get to. There are boxes fucking everywhere, even four months after moving. The US government seems to be turning into a police state, and instead of spending my last days of freedom doing what I actually want to do, I'm working a job that I don't believe I'll ever fully understand, or that I even care to ever fully understand, friendless and melancholy. It feels like the end of the world is bearing down on my shoulders and I would fucking give ANYTHING to just have someone to hold, to make love to, to be passionate with and forget the sorry state of affairs that's crumbling around me. I seem to be watching everything I've known for so long just fall apart in front of my eyes. And I hate it.
</explosion>
Monday, December 12, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
A Depressing Post Script:
So here's the most upsetting thing that my drunk ass mind can come up with right now:
So I hate hot dogs, usually. They disgust me. But right now, my alcohol addled brain is fucking FOCUSED on hot dogs like you wouldn't believe. We did have a pack in the fridge. Unopened and everything. But I just looked for them, mouth already watering in anticipation of that Ball Park goodness... and nothing. No hot dogs. I'm so pissed. Instead I have to settle for a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
So I hate hot dogs, usually. They disgust me. But right now, my alcohol addled brain is fucking FOCUSED on hot dogs like you wouldn't believe. We did have a pack in the fridge. Unopened and everything. But I just looked for them, mouth already watering in anticipation of that Ball Park goodness... and nothing. No hot dogs. I'm so pissed. Instead I have to settle for a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Adam's Cheap-ass Booze Revue, Whiskey edition.
Welcome to another installment of Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue. In our previous episodes, you may remember I sampled Boxer lager, a beer that costs $13.99 for 36 cans, or to put that in perspective, less than 40 cents per 12 ounces, including the aluminum to make the can said 12 ounces comes in. Tonight, I indulge in Beam's Eight Star Kentucky Whiskey- A Blend. Quoted straight from the label. Blended and bottled by the Clear Spring Distilling Co., this 80 proof whiskey is $4.99 for a 375 ml bottle. As always, I have my trusty emergency vomit expulsion repository system nearby(or EVER system for short), as well as a six pack of Rolling Rock beer for chasing purposes. Due to the relatively tasteless nature of Rolling Rock coupled with its low 4.6% alcohol content insures that my observations on the Beam's whiskey shall remain mostly untainted.
At this moment, is it 9:42 PM, EST. I have already committed my first mistake in smelling the whiskey after cracking the bottle open. It made my stomach turn a little bit. But I must forge onward. Tonight I get drunk FOR SCIENCE!
9:45 PM: My trusty shot glass is washed, shot is poured... It is time.
9:46 PM: All of the hairs on my arms are standing straight up. Surprisingly, the first shot was pretty decent. Kind of like Southern Comfort, if it was strained through the nicest pair of underwear from the Salvation Army donation bin. Just a little off. Which is a shame. I already had some jokes lined up along the lines of "Eight stars? Out of what? Forty? And this is their A Blend? Jesus, I'd hate to try their B blend." I suppose I shouldn't be upset that I just found a tolerable whiskey for $5 a bottle, but god dammit, I thought that was funny. See, it's funny because eight stars out of forty reduces to one out of five.
9:50 PM: Realize that this is the most complex math you will be able to do for the rest of the night.
Shot count: 1.
Beer count: 1.
Smoke breaks: 0
Piss breaks: 0
In the interest of safety, I am only going to do a shot every half an hour until I am sufficiently drunk. In that meantime, I will do my best to be entertaining. Here is a short little story:
When I was a young lad of 14 years, I had some seriously obnoxious hair. It was at least down to my nipples when I pulled it straight, but as I rarely found reason to shower and never ever found reason to brush my hair, through some kind of genetic tragedy and/or dark wizardry, my hair puffed out into this truly spectacular afro. Being a portly young chap with glasses and massively curly dark hair, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Ozzy Osbourne's son Jack. This was something I could accept. "Sure," I reasoned. "I look like a D-list reality TV celebrity. What's so wrong with that?"
Soon I found that it was a curse. Everywhere I went, unevolved knuckle-draggers would look at me and say "HAY! Yew! Has en-e-won ever told yew that yew look just laike that Jack Osbourne feller?"
At first, I simply laughed and said, "Well, yeah, a couple people have mentioned it." and I went about my day. But it just kept happening. Each time I heard that distinctive "HAY!" my hands would ball into fists. My jaws would clamp shut. Grinding my teeth, I turned to face the dipshit accosting me, just dying to tell me how much I resemble Jack Osbourne.
One fine summer day, I was walking to the park, minding my own business. A lady was outside her house, doing some gardening or some other bullshit task. She didn't notice me walking down her street until I was already past her house. Then I hear it.
"HAY!"
"Oh no. Oh fuck no. Not again, you fucking cunt. Not today." I thought. I dug my fingernails into my palms, suppressed the urge to scream, and turned to face her.
"What?"
"Did en-e-won ever tell yew that yew look laike Jack Osbourne?"
I bit down on my tongue so hard that I thought I was going to cut it in half with my front teeth. Then finally, I thought, "You know what? Fuck this." And I said to her:
"Why, no, nobody has ever made that observation before. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Cindy Crawford?"
The woman looked startled and flattered. "Why no, no-one never did say that!"
I glanced back at her. For a moment, I almost had a change of heart.
Almost.
"That's because you don't."
I walked away with a gigantic grin on my face. I still hope that ruined that bitch's day.
10:15 PM: Pouring shot number two. There is a moment of hesitation. I quickly squash this impulse. Real men do not think of consequences!
10:20 PM: I no longer think that this booze is decent. There is a certain bite to it that was not present in the first shot. I threw the shot into my mouth, and my throat instantly closed up. My body was clearly saying "Go fuck yourself, you cheap ass goddamn alcoholic. You're not putting that into me." Well, I showed you, didn't I body? That's right. You'll process this swill and YOU'LL LIKE IT!
Shot count: 2
Beer count: 1
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 0
Lately I have been watching a lot of stand up comedy. The problem with me and every art medium ever is that once I decide I like something, I want to do it myself. So naturally, I now want to be a stand up comedian. Unfortunately, I'm not all that funny. The only joke I have for a potential stand up routine is:
Ever meet any Atheists named Christian?
Yep. That's the extent of my performance. Guess I better stick to writing awful songs.
Oh fuck me. I have to take another shot of whiskey in like, four minutes. Fuck me runnin'.
10:45 PM: I'm really not looking forward to this.
10:47 PM: Coughing, gagging, hating myself a little... But that's another one down the hatch. And that one tasted like Soco even more than the first. Maybe I'm past that threshold of giving a shit about the quality of my alcohol.
Shot count: 3
Beer count: 2
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 1
So. I'm definitely getting tipsy. I'm about a quarter of the way down this whiskey bottle, and I am 100% sure that I can't, or at the very least should not, finish it. So here's the deal. I'm gonna hang out here for one more shot, then I'm going to bed. I... was gonna say that Ilve got shit to do tomorrow, but that's not true, sp what can I say? an;lspo O an done using the backspace button to give you a more accurate idea of what it looks like when a semi drunk kkid uses a keyboard in the dark. I am swaeting a lot. I want to eat EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE. I don;t know. I think I;m gonna go eat chips til I have to tak e another shot.
Really, I'm not that drunk. It's just late and I'm sick of sitting in front of this screen.
11:15 PM: Well fuck. It's that time again, huh? Well, here we go...
11:17 PM: Jesus fuck. That was awful. Almost had to employ the EVER system right there.
Shot count: 4
Beer count: 3
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 2
Conclusions: It's 40% alcohol for $4.99. What do you expect, fucking Chivas Regal? It'll get you nice and drunk, but it'll also go down a lot easier if you murder a few hundred thousand of your taste buds first. I am good and drunk, now I'm gonna go smoke a cigarette, work on finishing my six pack, and pass out. Some other desperate night, I'll bust out the other half of this bottle of Beam's Eight Star Whiskey and get nice and sloshed.
Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue Rating: Just for the fuck of it, 8/10 stars.
That concludes another episode of Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue. We sincerely hope you enjoyed our program and tune in next week when we show you how $6-a-bottle champagne can make an ordinary night...extraordinary. Goodnight, all you classy tightwads.
At this moment, is it 9:42 PM, EST. I have already committed my first mistake in smelling the whiskey after cracking the bottle open. It made my stomach turn a little bit. But I must forge onward. Tonight I get drunk FOR SCIENCE!
9:45 PM: My trusty shot glass is washed, shot is poured... It is time.
9:46 PM: All of the hairs on my arms are standing straight up. Surprisingly, the first shot was pretty decent. Kind of like Southern Comfort, if it was strained through the nicest pair of underwear from the Salvation Army donation bin. Just a little off. Which is a shame. I already had some jokes lined up along the lines of "Eight stars? Out of what? Forty? And this is their A Blend? Jesus, I'd hate to try their B blend." I suppose I shouldn't be upset that I just found a tolerable whiskey for $5 a bottle, but god dammit, I thought that was funny. See, it's funny because eight stars out of forty reduces to one out of five.
9:50 PM: Realize that this is the most complex math you will be able to do for the rest of the night.
Shot count: 1.
Beer count: 1.
Smoke breaks: 0
Piss breaks: 0
In the interest of safety, I am only going to do a shot every half an hour until I am sufficiently drunk. In that meantime, I will do my best to be entertaining. Here is a short little story:
When I was a young lad of 14 years, I had some seriously obnoxious hair. It was at least down to my nipples when I pulled it straight, but as I rarely found reason to shower and never ever found reason to brush my hair, through some kind of genetic tragedy and/or dark wizardry, my hair puffed out into this truly spectacular afro. Being a portly young chap with glasses and massively curly dark hair, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Ozzy Osbourne's son Jack. This was something I could accept. "Sure," I reasoned. "I look like a D-list reality TV celebrity. What's so wrong with that?"
Soon I found that it was a curse. Everywhere I went, unevolved knuckle-draggers would look at me and say "HAY! Yew! Has en-e-won ever told yew that yew look just laike that Jack Osbourne feller?"
At first, I simply laughed and said, "Well, yeah, a couple people have mentioned it." and I went about my day. But it just kept happening. Each time I heard that distinctive "HAY!" my hands would ball into fists. My jaws would clamp shut. Grinding my teeth, I turned to face the dipshit accosting me, just dying to tell me how much I resemble Jack Osbourne.
One fine summer day, I was walking to the park, minding my own business. A lady was outside her house, doing some gardening or some other bullshit task. She didn't notice me walking down her street until I was already past her house. Then I hear it.
"HAY!"
"Oh no. Oh fuck no. Not again, you fucking cunt. Not today." I thought. I dug my fingernails into my palms, suppressed the urge to scream, and turned to face her.
"What?"
"Did en-e-won ever tell yew that yew look laike Jack Osbourne?"
I bit down on my tongue so hard that I thought I was going to cut it in half with my front teeth. Then finally, I thought, "You know what? Fuck this." And I said to her:
"Why, no, nobody has ever made that observation before. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Cindy Crawford?"
The woman looked startled and flattered. "Why no, no-one never did say that!"
I glanced back at her. For a moment, I almost had a change of heart.
Almost.
"That's because you don't."
I walked away with a gigantic grin on my face. I still hope that ruined that bitch's day.
10:15 PM: Pouring shot number two. There is a moment of hesitation. I quickly squash this impulse. Real men do not think of consequences!
10:20 PM: I no longer think that this booze is decent. There is a certain bite to it that was not present in the first shot. I threw the shot into my mouth, and my throat instantly closed up. My body was clearly saying "Go fuck yourself, you cheap ass goddamn alcoholic. You're not putting that into me." Well, I showed you, didn't I body? That's right. You'll process this swill and YOU'LL LIKE IT!
Shot count: 2
Beer count: 1
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 0
Lately I have been watching a lot of stand up comedy. The problem with me and every art medium ever is that once I decide I like something, I want to do it myself. So naturally, I now want to be a stand up comedian. Unfortunately, I'm not all that funny. The only joke I have for a potential stand up routine is:
Ever meet any Atheists named Christian?
Yep. That's the extent of my performance. Guess I better stick to writing awful songs.
Oh fuck me. I have to take another shot of whiskey in like, four minutes. Fuck me runnin'.
10:45 PM: I'm really not looking forward to this.
10:47 PM: Coughing, gagging, hating myself a little... But that's another one down the hatch. And that one tasted like Soco even more than the first. Maybe I'm past that threshold of giving a shit about the quality of my alcohol.
Shot count: 3
Beer count: 2
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 1
So. I'm definitely getting tipsy. I'm about a quarter of the way down this whiskey bottle, and I am 100% sure that I can't, or at the very least should not, finish it. So here's the deal. I'm gonna hang out here for one more shot, then I'm going to bed. I... was gonna say that Ilve got shit to do tomorrow, but that's not true, sp what can I say? an;lspo O an done using the backspace button to give you a more accurate idea of what it looks like when a semi drunk kkid uses a keyboard in the dark. I am swaeting a lot. I want to eat EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE. I don;t know. I think I;m gonna go eat chips til I have to tak e another shot.
Really, I'm not that drunk. It's just late and I'm sick of sitting in front of this screen.
11:15 PM: Well fuck. It's that time again, huh? Well, here we go...
11:17 PM: Jesus fuck. That was awful. Almost had to employ the EVER system right there.
Shot count: 4
Beer count: 3
Smoke breaks: 1
Piss breaks: 2
Conclusions: It's 40% alcohol for $4.99. What do you expect, fucking Chivas Regal? It'll get you nice and drunk, but it'll also go down a lot easier if you murder a few hundred thousand of your taste buds first. I am good and drunk, now I'm gonna go smoke a cigarette, work on finishing my six pack, and pass out. Some other desperate night, I'll bust out the other half of this bottle of Beam's Eight Star Whiskey and get nice and sloshed.
Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue Rating: Just for the fuck of it, 8/10 stars.
That concludes another episode of Adam's Cheap-Ass Booze Revue. We sincerely hope you enjoyed our program and tune in next week when we show you how $6-a-bottle champagne can make an ordinary night...extraordinary. Goodnight, all you classy tightwads.
Monday, October 3, 2011
My second follower on Twitter is a porn bot, and other (semi) related stories.
So Twitter is turning out to be pretty alright. It's kinda like Facebook for people with short attention spans. I think one of the things I love about it is that practically nobody even knows I have one, leaving me the freedom to throw every single asinine thought that passes through my head onto the internet for the enjoyment of strangers. Much to my surprise, a day or two after setting up my account, I got myself a follower in the form of Brian Russell, who makes a webcomic called The Underfold. Just now, I got a second follower. The title should tell the rest of that story for me.
One of my very favorite things about having a blog is seeing what kind of searches bring people in. Not that I draw all that many people in or anything. Some people find my blog using mundane keywords like "graffiti on bridge" or "ebola skin", but my favorite, up until very recently, was some English person googling "tales of the boner" and somehow ending up here. But this week, I got a new favorite. Someone from India found my blog by typing "responsible fucking" into Google and hitting search. I'm surprised nobody has found this site by typing "lesbian" into a search engine. Maybe they've tried and got distracted by all the porn.
In other news, I'm still working on writing the songs for a new album. So far, I have 6 finished, 2 more waiting for that final spark of inspiration that will finalize them, and one that I want to write, though I have no music or words so let's not count that one for now. Titles are as follows:
Infidelity
When it Rains
In Your Car (Tuesday Night Rainstorm)
Menthol Memories
Another Bottle
Artificial Euphoria
Incomplete:
Burning Leaves
Song for Syd
I might just call it at that, release an EP instead of a proper album. I'm debating whether or not to do a cover on this one. If I do, I'm thinking either Octopus by Syd Barrett, Sister Golden Hair by America, or My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. We'll see what happens.
One of my very favorite things about having a blog is seeing what kind of searches bring people in. Not that I draw all that many people in or anything. Some people find my blog using mundane keywords like "graffiti on bridge" or "ebola skin", but my favorite, up until very recently, was some English person googling "tales of the boner" and somehow ending up here. But this week, I got a new favorite. Someone from India found my blog by typing "responsible fucking" into Google and hitting search. I'm surprised nobody has found this site by typing "lesbian" into a search engine. Maybe they've tried and got distracted by all the porn.
In other news, I'm still working on writing the songs for a new album. So far, I have 6 finished, 2 more waiting for that final spark of inspiration that will finalize them, and one that I want to write, though I have no music or words so let's not count that one for now. Titles are as follows:
Infidelity
When it Rains
In Your Car (Tuesday Night Rainstorm)
Menthol Memories
Another Bottle
Artificial Euphoria
Incomplete:
Burning Leaves
Song for Syd
I might just call it at that, release an EP instead of a proper album. I'm debating whether or not to do a cover on this one. If I do, I'm thinking either Octopus by Syd Barrett, Sister Golden Hair by America, or My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. We'll see what happens.
Monday, September 26, 2011
No more games.
So my last, oh two dozen posts have been stupid self-indulgent whining. Well, no more of that! I recently came across a notebook that I kept sporadically in high school, like between 2004 and 2006, and it's the most depressing thing I think I've ever read. I had just gotten out of a two month relationship, and you know at fifteen two months feels like forever and your hormones trick you into thinking that you're madly in love and have been since first sight. So there's lots of terrible ranting in there, as well as the lyrics to the first dozen or so songs I ever wrote. It's an interesting piece of my history, but man did I cringe a lot while reading through it.
And in other news, I have a twitter account now. So you can follow my every thought.You know, if you're into that kind of thing.
Enjoy.
And in other news, I have a twitter account now. So you can follow my every thought.You know, if you're into that kind of thing.
Enjoy.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Some lyrics, and also some venting.
I've been trying to feel better about things lately. Namely, my love life, or lack of one, or more appropriately, the series of bad decisions and near misses that passes for a love life for me. I'm realizing that I have so much more to be worried about than some girl four hundred miles away. I should be focusing on working, getting my driver's license, or a million other things. However, I notice that it's almost always my bad luck with love that drives my lyrics and my songwriting, so maybe it's a good thing in a way. Since returning from a visit back to Pennsylvania about a week or so ago, I've written six songs, and all but one of them has at least a little bit to do with the aforementioned girl. My favorite of the bunch is a track called Menthol Memories, and the lyrics of which are as follows:
Two reflections briefly converge then fade
From the corner outside my window pane
It stings my eyes and it shortens my breath
Like the taste of those menthol cigarettes
That we would smoke outside,
Feeling young and alive,
Killing ourselves a little bit
With each and every hit.
The sweetness masked the pain
But not the nicotine stains
That formed upon our fingers and our lips.
The buildup was too slow
For us to ever know
Just where it would lead.
Oh, the twists and turns of memory!
Won't you save all your miserable thoughts for me?
I'll gladly keep safe
All that you wish to erase.
Killing myself a little bit
With every small secret.
Now back to what I was originally saying. There are so many other things I should be focusing on at this point in my life. I was given an opportunity to completely change my life when I moved out here to Indiana. Now I need to decide what I want to change, and more importantly, find the motivation to change. I know I want to escape the drugs. This has been the easiest part by far, namely because I have no idea where to buy them here. But the real test will come the next time I am presented with the opportunity to get high, and I can't say with any kind of certainty that I will be able to refuse. I'd like to think I could but well.... We'll see.
Other than that, I have wanted to get back to work. I have done that, though not nearly as often as I would like. Currently, I am working part time repairing powdered metal presses. I do like the work, but I would like it more if it were full time. I would go pick up a second job, but the nature of my current one is such that I could be called tomorrow and told that I need to go spend a week in North Carolina working in the field and I really don't think my hypothetical other employer would be very happy about that. If I could, I would work 60+ hours every week. I need it to keep my mind occupied. Not to mention the money would be fantastic. If I were working that much every week and I saved a quarter of each paycheck, within two years I could probably pay cash for a house.
The other thing I've wanted, and the thing I want the absolute most, is my driver's license. I should have gotten the damn thing six years ago. SIX fucking YEARS I could have been driving on my own. And here I sit, 22 years old, dependent on my parents to go anywhere except the local liquor store. I fucking HATE IT. To that end, I've gotten my Indiana learner's permit and got my car registered, but my car needs tires and quite frankly, I'm broke because I've been off work for the past three weeks. And because of my inability to (legally) drive myself anywhere, I'm not going to be able to go to a sweet concert in Indianapolis tomorrow night. Asking my parents to drive me anywhere is like pulling teeth. And asking my mother in particular to drive me into the city is just a waste of time.
Heh... You know, I didn't want this blog to ever turn into anything that even faintly resembles my old one, yet here I am, bitching and moaning yet again. This is stupid.
Two reflections briefly converge then fade
From the corner outside my window pane
It stings my eyes and it shortens my breath
Like the taste of those menthol cigarettes
That we would smoke outside,
Feeling young and alive,
Killing ourselves a little bit
With each and every hit.
The sweetness masked the pain
But not the nicotine stains
That formed upon our fingers and our lips.
The buildup was too slow
For us to ever know
Just where it would lead.
Oh, the twists and turns of memory!
Won't you save all your miserable thoughts for me?
I'll gladly keep safe
All that you wish to erase.
Killing myself a little bit
With every small secret.
Now back to what I was originally saying. There are so many other things I should be focusing on at this point in my life. I was given an opportunity to completely change my life when I moved out here to Indiana. Now I need to decide what I want to change, and more importantly, find the motivation to change. I know I want to escape the drugs. This has been the easiest part by far, namely because I have no idea where to buy them here. But the real test will come the next time I am presented with the opportunity to get high, and I can't say with any kind of certainty that I will be able to refuse. I'd like to think I could but well.... We'll see.
Other than that, I have wanted to get back to work. I have done that, though not nearly as often as I would like. Currently, I am working part time repairing powdered metal presses. I do like the work, but I would like it more if it were full time. I would go pick up a second job, but the nature of my current one is such that I could be called tomorrow and told that I need to go spend a week in North Carolina working in the field and I really don't think my hypothetical other employer would be very happy about that. If I could, I would work 60+ hours every week. I need it to keep my mind occupied. Not to mention the money would be fantastic. If I were working that much every week and I saved a quarter of each paycheck, within two years I could probably pay cash for a house.
The other thing I've wanted, and the thing I want the absolute most, is my driver's license. I should have gotten the damn thing six years ago. SIX fucking YEARS I could have been driving on my own. And here I sit, 22 years old, dependent on my parents to go anywhere except the local liquor store. I fucking HATE IT. To that end, I've gotten my Indiana learner's permit and got my car registered, but my car needs tires and quite frankly, I'm broke because I've been off work for the past three weeks. And because of my inability to (legally) drive myself anywhere, I'm not going to be able to go to a sweet concert in Indianapolis tomorrow night. Asking my parents to drive me anywhere is like pulling teeth. And asking my mother in particular to drive me into the city is just a waste of time.
Heh... You know, I didn't want this blog to ever turn into anything that even faintly resembles my old one, yet here I am, bitching and moaning yet again. This is stupid.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
"I'm turning into someone that I never thought I'd have to be again."
I've noticed more patterns with my stupid heart. It always begins when the girl in question starts being nice to me. I begin falling in love. As soon as the girl says "I love you Adam", I'm hooked, even if that statement is rooted in a totally platonic, friendship-only kind of way. Then there's this giddy period of about two weeks where she is my entire world. I'm high on love, high on hoping that finally I've found what I've been looking for. And after that two weeks, I start turning mean and resentful when we aren't together. It becomes an all-consuming obsession, her face on my mind every hour of the day, keeping me from sleeping even.
I try talking this out with the girl in question, and all I end up doing is scaring her away or becoming more bitter about the whole situation. I tell her that I'm madly in love with her, and all that does is breed pity in some cases, and chases her away in others.
So. I've identified the pattern. But where's the root of the problem? Is it that I want love so badly that I fall hard and fast for any girl that shows me the slightest bit of attention? Is it that I'm looking too hard, or is it that what I'm looking for doesn't really exist? I've always wanted that fairy tale kind of love. It's the only definition I really accept.
I guess part of my problem is that deep in my heart, I truly believe that the only reason people don't find a perfect love is that they don't really look for it, that they settle for less and suffer for it. I've been looking for a long time. Four times now, I've thought I've found it. Four times, I've been dead wrong. Four times, I've torn myself to pieces worrying that I'll never find someone that's right for me that I'm right for too. Four times, my bitterness with the whole business has increased exponentially.
I am not a patient person. This might have something to do with why these situations always turn sour. As soon as I think I see something deep and real and amazing, I jump all over it and smother it. I need to learn patience. This, I think, might be the crux of the whole issue. Given the opportunity and the proper circumstances, everything else about me would make an excellent partner. Patience. Forgiveness. Understanding. These are the things I need.
I try talking this out with the girl in question, and all I end up doing is scaring her away or becoming more bitter about the whole situation. I tell her that I'm madly in love with her, and all that does is breed pity in some cases, and chases her away in others.
So. I've identified the pattern. But where's the root of the problem? Is it that I want love so badly that I fall hard and fast for any girl that shows me the slightest bit of attention? Is it that I'm looking too hard, or is it that what I'm looking for doesn't really exist? I've always wanted that fairy tale kind of love. It's the only definition I really accept.
I guess part of my problem is that deep in my heart, I truly believe that the only reason people don't find a perfect love is that they don't really look for it, that they settle for less and suffer for it. I've been looking for a long time. Four times now, I've thought I've found it. Four times, I've been dead wrong. Four times, I've torn myself to pieces worrying that I'll never find someone that's right for me that I'm right for too. Four times, my bitterness with the whole business has increased exponentially.
I am not a patient person. This might have something to do with why these situations always turn sour. As soon as I think I see something deep and real and amazing, I jump all over it and smother it. I need to learn patience. This, I think, might be the crux of the whole issue. Given the opportunity and the proper circumstances, everything else about me would make an excellent partner. Patience. Forgiveness. Understanding. These are the things I need.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
I'm in love with everybody's girl
I've observed it for awhile, but this might be the first time I've put it in writing; I have a nasty habit of falling in love with my friends' girlfriends. The last two girls I've been crazy about have both been dating guys I've known for at least six or seven years. Really good friends of mine. And I still desired their women, even thought to myself that they didn't deserve the good fortune of dating these amazing girls. Maybe in some respects, I'm right. But for the most part, I just feel like a petty thief. I fucking hate it. I hate it because not only is it awful on my part to want to be with someone a good friend of mine is dating, but it makes me a terrible person because I'm silently hoping that their relationship will blow up in their faces so I have a chance. I don't want them to work out their problems. I know, it's rotten of me, right?
But at least, I'm pretty sure I'm not falling for these girls simply because my friends are dating them... I'd like to believe that it's just because we have similar tastes. I don't know. There aren't any easy answers. I fall too hard for girls all the time, and when it doesn't work out for one reason or another, I just get extremely bitter. It's terrible. I almost wish I couldn't fall in love.
Now that's a terrible thing to wish upon yourself.
In less depressing news, I did in fact get my learner's permit. So I can start practicing driving again, and hopefully have my license by the middle of September. I might even drive the van part of the way up to Wisconsin tomorrow. It'd be good practice.
But at least, I'm pretty sure I'm not falling for these girls simply because my friends are dating them... I'd like to believe that it's just because we have similar tastes. I don't know. There aren't any easy answers. I fall too hard for girls all the time, and when it doesn't work out for one reason or another, I just get extremely bitter. It's terrible. I almost wish I couldn't fall in love.
Now that's a terrible thing to wish upon yourself.
In less depressing news, I did in fact get my learner's permit. So I can start practicing driving again, and hopefully have my license by the middle of September. I might even drive the van part of the way up to Wisconsin tomorrow. It'd be good practice.
Friday, August 19, 2011
S c a t t e r b r a i n e d
"I don't feel down for attachment for awhile"
...Well shucks. Doesn't get much clearer than that, does it? The message I received that included the above line didn't exactly pertain to relationships, but I think it speaks volumes. It kind of upsets me, but I need to stop worrying about it. She has her own shit to work through, and I have no business being in love with her anyway, if I am being honest with myself.
I got an incredibly awesome letter in the mail today from Sammi. It was wonderful, and probably the highlight of my day. She drew me a fantastic White Ninja comic about her experience with Sheetz' frozen green tea lattes, and it made me laugh pretty damn hard.
I am drinking beer right now. Sam Adams beer, to be precise. And sitting on my bedroom floor, because my computer is still set up on my dresser because my desk is covered in random boxes and other assorted bullshit. I should be studying the Indiana driver's manual so I have a better chance of passing my permit test tomorrow, but quite frankly, all I feel like doing is getting hammered and wallowing in self-pity and wild speculation. Both of these impulses are wrong. I haven't gotten drunk since I've been here, and I've been off of weed for at least a week and a half. And you know what? Sobriety is fucking AWESOME. And I mean that. As for the other impulse... eh. These things shouldn't be getting me down to the point that I wanna drink all alone until I pass out. Instead, maybe I should be talking with her about what's going on with me, but I get the feeling I should probably just give her space for awhile. Maybe this impulse is wrong too. Goddammit, why is everything so hard sometimes?
I started working this past Monday. Spent three days in Michigan standing around, occasionally fetching tools and taking notes while my father taught some people how to set up Cincinnati presses. And for this, I got paid $15 an hour. I feel like a thief. Maybe I should wear a ski mask when I go to pick up my paycheck. Sunday I am leaving again to spend a week between Wisconsin and Illinois, for what my dad estimates will be a 70 to 75 hour work week, inspecting presses to decide what needs repairs on them, and more importantly, how much said repairs will cost. It's going to be a long week. And I know that 30 or 35 hours of overtime sounds like a total bitch, but the fact that I'll be making $22.50 an hour that whole time eases the pain.
I'm trying to get better at playing slide guitar. I sat out on my front porch and ripped out some Bayou sounds while some little neighborhood kids danced across the street. It was beautiful, in its own warped way.
I think I'm never moving back to DuBois now. With this great job I would be a total fool to give up, surroundings that are always humming with seven different kinds of action at once, and the half-remembered familiarity of scenery I haven't seen since I was 6 years old, I honestly feel like I'm finally home. I miss people I left behind, but mostly not as much as I feel I should.
I found out today that when I was a baby my dad got a job offer in L.A. that he turned down. I could have grown up in the shadow of Los Angeles. Boy, that would have been something.
This is doing nothing to ease my mind. Time to drink another beer and put in The Shining, and hope that I fall asleep too quickly to dwell on other things.
...Well shucks. Doesn't get much clearer than that, does it? The message I received that included the above line didn't exactly pertain to relationships, but I think it speaks volumes. It kind of upsets me, but I need to stop worrying about it. She has her own shit to work through, and I have no business being in love with her anyway, if I am being honest with myself.
I got an incredibly awesome letter in the mail today from Sammi. It was wonderful, and probably the highlight of my day. She drew me a fantastic White Ninja comic about her experience with Sheetz' frozen green tea lattes, and it made me laugh pretty damn hard.
I am drinking beer right now. Sam Adams beer, to be precise. And sitting on my bedroom floor, because my computer is still set up on my dresser because my desk is covered in random boxes and other assorted bullshit. I should be studying the Indiana driver's manual so I have a better chance of passing my permit test tomorrow, but quite frankly, all I feel like doing is getting hammered and wallowing in self-pity and wild speculation. Both of these impulses are wrong. I haven't gotten drunk since I've been here, and I've been off of weed for at least a week and a half. And you know what? Sobriety is fucking AWESOME. And I mean that. As for the other impulse... eh. These things shouldn't be getting me down to the point that I wanna drink all alone until I pass out. Instead, maybe I should be talking with her about what's going on with me, but I get the feeling I should probably just give her space for awhile. Maybe this impulse is wrong too. Goddammit, why is everything so hard sometimes?
I started working this past Monday. Spent three days in Michigan standing around, occasionally fetching tools and taking notes while my father taught some people how to set up Cincinnati presses. And for this, I got paid $15 an hour. I feel like a thief. Maybe I should wear a ski mask when I go to pick up my paycheck. Sunday I am leaving again to spend a week between Wisconsin and Illinois, for what my dad estimates will be a 70 to 75 hour work week, inspecting presses to decide what needs repairs on them, and more importantly, how much said repairs will cost. It's going to be a long week. And I know that 30 or 35 hours of overtime sounds like a total bitch, but the fact that I'll be making $22.50 an hour that whole time eases the pain.
I'm trying to get better at playing slide guitar. I sat out on my front porch and ripped out some Bayou sounds while some little neighborhood kids danced across the street. It was beautiful, in its own warped way.
I think I'm never moving back to DuBois now. With this great job I would be a total fool to give up, surroundings that are always humming with seven different kinds of action at once, and the half-remembered familiarity of scenery I haven't seen since I was 6 years old, I honestly feel like I'm finally home. I miss people I left behind, but mostly not as much as I feel I should.
I found out today that when I was a baby my dad got a job offer in L.A. that he turned down. I could have grown up in the shadow of Los Angeles. Boy, that would have been something.
This is doing nothing to ease my mind. Time to drink another beer and put in The Shining, and hope that I fall asleep too quickly to dwell on other things.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
I love being in love; I don't care what it does to me.
So, here I am. Ingalls, Indiana. It's nice. I do really like it here; there's so much to do around here it's not even funny. But at the same time, I feel like this move was really ill-timed. Ah well... Distance makes the heart grow fonder, right?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Horrible tattoo ideas, part one:
1) Shave your head. Get something horrifying (Tubgirl, goatse, Ron Jeremy sucking himself off) tattooed on the back of your head. The kicker here is to let your hair grow back over this tattoo, at which point you and a friend go to a barber shop. You explain to the stylist that you lost a bet, and now you have to get your head shaved. For bonus points, have a friend snap a picture of the stylist's reaction when they see the awful, awful way you've desecrated your body.
Of course, I have no idea if hair even grows over tattoos, so you might just be stuck with a revolting image permanently drawn on your patchy, mangy head.
2) Scuff off the first two layers of skin on the insides of your elbows. Pour ink on one side, then close your elbows. With any luck, you'll have perfect rorschach blots! But most likely, no. You'll just have an infection.
3) Get 50 to 100 metal tipped darts. Have a friend dip the points in ink, while you stand bent over with your pants around your ankles. Hilarity ensues. For added fun, divide the darts evenly among multiple friends. Assign each person their own color of ink. The person with the tightest grouping of dots wins a case of beer.
4) Find the characters for "Pretentious American Asshole" in Mandarin Chinese. Go to a Chinese tattoo artist and ask him to put this on your body. Tell him you're pretty sure it means "Freedom and Prosperity". See if he corrects you.
5) For the ladies: A nice, simple trickle of blood down your thighs. Fellas(Or ladies, I guess), how about a river of brown running down the back of your legs?
6) If you never wanna have sex again, get nasty sores tattooed on your naughty bits. Sure to freak people right out!
Of course, I have no idea if hair even grows over tattoos, so you might just be stuck with a revolting image permanently drawn on your patchy, mangy head.
2) Scuff off the first two layers of skin on the insides of your elbows. Pour ink on one side, then close your elbows. With any luck, you'll have perfect rorschach blots! But most likely, no. You'll just have an infection.
3) Get 50 to 100 metal tipped darts. Have a friend dip the points in ink, while you stand bent over with your pants around your ankles. Hilarity ensues. For added fun, divide the darts evenly among multiple friends. Assign each person their own color of ink. The person with the tightest grouping of dots wins a case of beer.
4) Find the characters for "Pretentious American Asshole" in Mandarin Chinese. Go to a Chinese tattoo artist and ask him to put this on your body. Tell him you're pretty sure it means "Freedom and Prosperity". See if he corrects you.
5) For the ladies: A nice, simple trickle of blood down your thighs. Fellas(Or ladies, I guess), how about a river of brown running down the back of your legs?
6) If you never wanna have sex again, get nasty sores tattooed on your naughty bits. Sure to freak people right out!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
4 days: SUPER PANIC!
So it's finally really hit me that I'm moving, and now I feel kinda frenzied in my attempts to get everything done. I finally took all of my posters down off my bedroom walls, but there's still so much to do and I'm kinda freaking out. Factor in all my friends wanting to hang out with me before I leave and I'll be surprised if I can even find the time to sleep.
Jesus creeping shit! What am I doing writing a blog post when I need to be packing?! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!
...Anyway, my next update shall come from a different state.
Jesus creeping shit! What am I doing writing a blog post when I need to be packing?! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!
...Anyway, my next update shall come from a different state.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
13 days: Holy shit!
Album of the day: Marcy Playground's self titled. If all you've ever heard from these guys is their single Sex and Candy, you owe it to yourself to listen to the rest of the album. It's beautiful 90's alt-rock.
On another note, returning to the title of this post- Holy shit. Less than two weeks until I move. This is getting crazy. Even more of the house is being stripped of its usual comforts, simple things like curtains on windows. It's amazing how different the place looks.
I'm still really excited to leave though. A change of scenery is going to do me a world of good. Or maybe I'll just be depressed and lonely, being away from my friends. I guess we'll see?
In other news, the chances look good that the Frozen Idols album will get finished. I still don't have money for wire, so I dunno how I'm gonna make these necklaces I owe people, but I'll figure something out. The garage is a total and utter catastrophe, as well as my bedroom(which I STILL haven't packed up...), but most everything else in the house is well on its way to being done. Yet panic still creeps its way up my spine as the deadline looms ever closer.
On another note, returning to the title of this post- Holy shit. Less than two weeks until I move. This is getting crazy. Even more of the house is being stripped of its usual comforts, simple things like curtains on windows. It's amazing how different the place looks.
I'm still really excited to leave though. A change of scenery is going to do me a world of good. Or maybe I'll just be depressed and lonely, being away from my friends. I guess we'll see?
In other news, the chances look good that the Frozen Idols album will get finished. I still don't have money for wire, so I dunno how I'm gonna make these necklaces I owe people, but I'll figure something out. The garage is a total and utter catastrophe, as well as my bedroom(which I STILL haven't packed up...), but most everything else in the house is well on its way to being done. Yet panic still creeps its way up my spine as the deadline looms ever closer.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Social networking blows.
Facebook, Twitter, Google+, I don't care which, they're all fucking stupid. Facebook is quickly becoming the new Myspace, and I don't mean that in a good way. I look through the posts that people make, and aside from the odd interesting link or two, only four words keep running through my mind, steadily louder and louder;
FUCK
YOUR
STUPID
BULLSHIT.
The way we use technology disgusts me, even if I'm guilty of doing the exact same thing I'm bitching about right now. I don't care if I'm a hypocrite. I'm sick of it and it seems just a tad too passive aggressive to go posting this directly to my (sigh, yes, I have one) Facebook. Needed to vent.
Hey, thanks, blank white screen! I feel loads better. Same time next week, doc?
FUCK
YOUR
STUPID
BULLSHIT.
The way we use technology disgusts me, even if I'm guilty of doing the exact same thing I'm bitching about right now. I don't care if I'm a hypocrite. I'm sick of it and it seems just a tad too passive aggressive to go posting this directly to my (sigh, yes, I have one) Facebook. Needed to vent.
Hey, thanks, blank white screen! I feel loads better. Same time next week, doc?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
17 days: panic!
So here's the list of things I need to do before I leave the state of Pennsylvania:
Record a 13 track CD with my band Frozen Idols
Make at least three necklaces for friends
Play four gigs: One this coming Monday, two the following weekend, and the last, July 30th, just before I leave town.
Pack.
Recording starts tomorrow. If I had the wire, I could probably bang out all three necklaces in a day. The gigs, not such a big deal aside from the fact that they will be time consuming, and time isn't something I have a whole hell of a lot of anymore. Packing won't take long either, once I just fucking DO IT. But I'm having my same old problem. I can't say no to people, especially people that I'm not likely to see again until next summer, maybe even later than that. They all keep wanting to hang out, sapping away even more of my precious time. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends and I'm gonna miss the hell out of them... Actually, that's the problem. I love them too much to just say "No, I can't hang out tonight, I'm busy".
I'm still excited to move; I've scouted out the internet a bit, researching some of the bands and bars and other attractions that Indianapolis will offer me. I found a place that sounds promising, Locals Only, a place that bills itself as a music/art pub. It's only a half hour from my new home as well. I'm excited to go back to work, to live a responsible, sensible life. Hell, I might even pick up two jobs while I'm out there. I do have a zombie movie to finance, after all.
Shit. It's 2:30 AM. I need to sleep.
Record a 13 track CD with my band Frozen Idols
Make at least three necklaces for friends
Play four gigs: One this coming Monday, two the following weekend, and the last, July 30th, just before I leave town.
Pack.
Recording starts tomorrow. If I had the wire, I could probably bang out all three necklaces in a day. The gigs, not such a big deal aside from the fact that they will be time consuming, and time isn't something I have a whole hell of a lot of anymore. Packing won't take long either, once I just fucking DO IT. But I'm having my same old problem. I can't say no to people, especially people that I'm not likely to see again until next summer, maybe even later than that. They all keep wanting to hang out, sapping away even more of my precious time. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends and I'm gonna miss the hell out of them... Actually, that's the problem. I love them too much to just say "No, I can't hang out tonight, I'm busy".
I'm still excited to move; I've scouted out the internet a bit, researching some of the bands and bars and other attractions that Indianapolis will offer me. I found a place that sounds promising, Locals Only, a place that bills itself as a music/art pub. It's only a half hour from my new home as well. I'm excited to go back to work, to live a responsible, sensible life. Hell, I might even pick up two jobs while I'm out there. I do have a zombie movie to finance, after all.
Shit. It's 2:30 AM. I need to sleep.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
A collection of events from today, twitter style.
Explored some crumbling mostly underground concrete structures today. Think I found a perfect location for a zombie movie.
Almost got attacked by a snake while swimming. Well, it swam near us, anyway.
Tried to clean the basement up today. Lots of cobwebs everywhere!
Only twenty more pages to write for the zombie script I started a few months back!
Dollar Lion's head bottles at the Friendly Tavern tonight! Cheap and delicious.
Almost got attacked by a snake while swimming. Well, it swam near us, anyway.
Tried to clean the basement up today. Lots of cobwebs everywhere!
Only twenty more pages to write for the zombie script I started a few months back!
Dollar Lion's head bottles at the Friendly Tavern tonight! Cheap and delicious.
19 days: Stressing out
Album of the day: Veckatimest by Grizzly Bear.
Good calm music, reminiscent of Mumford and Sons with a dash of The Polyphonic Spree thrown in there for good measure. Dear Pitchfork media: Is that sentence good enough for me to get a job with you? Most music reviews don't do a lot to describe the feeling behind music. Instead, it's a never ending avalanche of adjectives attempting to capture the sound. The sound may be what the music boils down to, but it still seems like a sterile way of talking about music. Grizzly Bear, in that respect, evokes contemplation from me. It is soothing, enticing, and beautiful in its own warped way.
Eh. Getting better, I guess.
It's less than three weeks til I move. The house is slowly but surely showing signs that it will soon be vacant; boxes strewn all about, tons of trash bags on the back porch, full of useless old things. To be totally honest, I have not done nearly enough packing. The attic and basement are totally cleared out, but my bedroom is total disarray, and so's the garage. It won't take long to do these things, but it's just a matter of getting started, you know? Motivation is hard to come by these days, but as August 1st looms closer and closer, I think it'll be a little easier to find.
On top of that, I'm going to be playing a lot of music this month, it looks like. Both of my bands, 40$ Boner and Frozen Idols have two more gigs each over the next three weeks. If that weren't enough to do, Frozen Idols is going to start recording a 13 track CD this Thursday, with hopes to have it done by the following Thursday. The following Friday is the start of STONEFEST '11, a three day music festival that we organized, with 20+ bands on the bill, Frozen Idols' last show for a good long while. I'd like to finally have some CDs to sell people. It's really hard to type and eat a banana at the same time, by the way.
The very last show I'll be performing in DuBois is going to be July 30th, at the Battle of the Bands in the city park. We're going to have to play really early in the day, because that happens to be the day we're taking off in the U-Haul for Indiana. It's going to be kind of a surreal experience, playing a last show then disappearing off to Indiana within the hour.
So, there's lots to do, and my window of time for doing them is getting much smaller.
Good calm music, reminiscent of Mumford and Sons with a dash of The Polyphonic Spree thrown in there for good measure. Dear Pitchfork media: Is that sentence good enough for me to get a job with you? Most music reviews don't do a lot to describe the feeling behind music. Instead, it's a never ending avalanche of adjectives attempting to capture the sound. The sound may be what the music boils down to, but it still seems like a sterile way of talking about music. Grizzly Bear, in that respect, evokes contemplation from me. It is soothing, enticing, and beautiful in its own warped way.
Eh. Getting better, I guess.
It's less than three weeks til I move. The house is slowly but surely showing signs that it will soon be vacant; boxes strewn all about, tons of trash bags on the back porch, full of useless old things. To be totally honest, I have not done nearly enough packing. The attic and basement are totally cleared out, but my bedroom is total disarray, and so's the garage. It won't take long to do these things, but it's just a matter of getting started, you know? Motivation is hard to come by these days, but as August 1st looms closer and closer, I think it'll be a little easier to find.
On top of that, I'm going to be playing a lot of music this month, it looks like. Both of my bands, 40$ Boner and Frozen Idols have two more gigs each over the next three weeks. If that weren't enough to do, Frozen Idols is going to start recording a 13 track CD this Thursday, with hopes to have it done by the following Thursday. The following Friday is the start of STONEFEST '11, a three day music festival that we organized, with 20+ bands on the bill, Frozen Idols' last show for a good long while. I'd like to finally have some CDs to sell people. It's really hard to type and eat a banana at the same time, by the way.
The very last show I'll be performing in DuBois is going to be July 30th, at the Battle of the Bands in the city park. We're going to have to play really early in the day, because that happens to be the day we're taking off in the U-Haul for Indiana. It's going to be kind of a surreal experience, playing a last show then disappearing off to Indiana within the hour.
So, there's lots to do, and my window of time for doing them is getting much smaller.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
21 days to go; lethargy sets in
Yesterday, I dog/house sat for a very good friend of mine while he and his new wife traveled to Pittsburgh for the night. It was an okay time; his dog is an awesome labrador/italian greyhound/jack russel terrier mix that is sweet, well tempered and extremely playful. Plus, his wife has one of the most impressive Goosebumps collections I've seen since the late 90's. You bet I was all over that. In the course of 24 hours, I read at least five of them. Not that that's any great feat or anything. Each one of those books is 150 pages, tops.
I trudged home at about 3:30 this afternoon to clean out all the junk in the basement. It smells like wet death down there. A bookcase full of catalogs and other remnants from my father's ill-fated business came crashing to the floor some months ago, they all got wet, nobody bothered to clean them up until today... I'm sure you know where that's going. In case you don't, two words: Black mold.
Healthy, right?
My family hasn't ever been the neat freak type. I think it's a habit we need to grow into though, me especially. My bedroom has been a consistent mess pretty much all my life. When I lived on my own, I usually kept things pretty clean. I had pride in my home, because it was mine. The dishes might pile up once in awhile and my roommate and I probably didn't vacuum as much as we should have, but overall it was a pretty respectable home. When my dad's business took a nose dive and funds ran short, I had to move back in with my parents. That was two and a half years ago. Ever since, I haven't cared much what my room looks like, and I couldn't really clean the rest of the house even if I'd wanted to, because it wasn't a simple matter of my stuff being out of order. There were piles of old mail all over the kitchen table and by the microwave, countless other things scattered everywhere that I had no idea what my parents wanted to do with... But maybe that's just an excuse for my laziness. I'm pretty good at excuses.
However true that may be(thanks for the grammar lesson, Emily), I don't want this to ever happen again. When we moved into this house, it was kind of a rushed affair. We just put things away as fast as we could. As I'm going through my old belongings, I'm doing a great purge. I want to take only the absolute essentials with me when we move. I'm taking a couple of boxes of things that have sentimental value, but only two. The majority of the boxes I've filled are nothing but books, movies and CDs. I'm getting rid of lots of old clothes; anything that I owned while still in high school goes straight to the trash or the bottom of the ferret cage. I guess what I'm getting at is I'm trying to cut my possessions in half. The less stuff I have, the less my new house can get cluttered up. Seems like sound logic to me.
But it's Saturday night and I'm in one of those states of mind where I'm absolutely torn by loneliness and a desire for solitude. I don't want to do anything really, but I also don't want to do nothing. Guess that's why I'm writing right now. I don't have much to say, but it gets rid of the loneliness a little. I'm talking to myself, essentially, only it doesn't feel like that so much.
Maybe I should reach out and try to actually talk to someone. Or maybe I should go work on the zombie movie some more. I should do anything at all, other than talk in circles here on this blog.
I trudged home at about 3:30 this afternoon to clean out all the junk in the basement. It smells like wet death down there. A bookcase full of catalogs and other remnants from my father's ill-fated business came crashing to the floor some months ago, they all got wet, nobody bothered to clean them up until today... I'm sure you know where that's going. In case you don't, two words: Black mold.
Healthy, right?
My family hasn't ever been the neat freak type. I think it's a habit we need to grow into though, me especially. My bedroom has been a consistent mess pretty much all my life. When I lived on my own, I usually kept things pretty clean. I had pride in my home, because it was mine. The dishes might pile up once in awhile and my roommate and I probably didn't vacuum as much as we should have, but overall it was a pretty respectable home. When my dad's business took a nose dive and funds ran short, I had to move back in with my parents. That was two and a half years ago. Ever since, I haven't cared much what my room looks like, and I couldn't really clean the rest of the house even if I'd wanted to, because it wasn't a simple matter of my stuff being out of order. There were piles of old mail all over the kitchen table and by the microwave, countless other things scattered everywhere that I had no idea what my parents wanted to do with... But maybe that's just an excuse for my laziness. I'm pretty good at excuses.
However true that may be(thanks for the grammar lesson, Emily), I don't want this to ever happen again. When we moved into this house, it was kind of a rushed affair. We just put things away as fast as we could. As I'm going through my old belongings, I'm doing a great purge. I want to take only the absolute essentials with me when we move. I'm taking a couple of boxes of things that have sentimental value, but only two. The majority of the boxes I've filled are nothing but books, movies and CDs. I'm getting rid of lots of old clothes; anything that I owned while still in high school goes straight to the trash or the bottom of the ferret cage. I guess what I'm getting at is I'm trying to cut my possessions in half. The less stuff I have, the less my new house can get cluttered up. Seems like sound logic to me.
But it's Saturday night and I'm in one of those states of mind where I'm absolutely torn by loneliness and a desire for solitude. I don't want to do anything really, but I also don't want to do nothing. Guess that's why I'm writing right now. I don't have much to say, but it gets rid of the loneliness a little. I'm talking to myself, essentially, only it doesn't feel like that so much.
Maybe I should reach out and try to actually talk to someone. Or maybe I should go work on the zombie movie some more. I should do anything at all, other than talk in circles here on this blog.
Monday, July 4, 2011
A post, written in an exceptionally foul mood:
Drama drama drama, oh how I love thee. Let me count the ways.
Actually, I'd rather not. Suffice to say, it's been a shitty weekend.
So I can't really help myself, it turns out. Last night, I went to a birthday party that quickly turned into the birthday girl crying her sweet little drunken heart out, breaking down after holding in so many things, and I couldn't help. On top of that, the party consisted of three happy couples, one single girl, and one single guy, me. The single girl was in a bad mood because she's single, and kept being passive-aggressive about it towards me, dropping half hints and all sorts of other bullshit. Finally, when single girl was good and wasted, she said something to me about how I had no balls. So I strode over to where she was sitting and kissed her. I said, "Better?" And she said "Not really. You should act like you want me." as if me walking over to her and kissing her wasn't an indicator that I was interested. She then goes on to talk about how guys should do all the work in starting relationships and blah blah blah. I don't know what else she said because at that point I was fucking furious and walked away. I overheard her shortly after talking about how all guys are douchebags, which pissed me off even more. Ever since I was a young boy, it's been a serious goal of mine to not act like other guys, to not be the stereotypical asshole that only wants sex, and here this fucking cunt was, lumping me in with all the other dickheads of my gender. Fuck that, and fuck her if that's how she wants to think. If she's that goddamn negative, I don't need her in my life anyway.
Tonight I went to another party. More drama, in that one of our friends thought that we weren't treating her new boyfriend nicely enough. This made her all pissy, and I couldn't even enjoy a fucking conversation with people I hadn't talked to in months because EVERYFUCIKINGTHING HAD TO BE ABOUT HER FUCKING PROBLEMS.
I'm so sick of this goddamn place and the petty assholes in it. I can't fucking wait to move away, and maybe I won't come back after all.
Actually, I'd rather not. Suffice to say, it's been a shitty weekend.
So I can't really help myself, it turns out. Last night, I went to a birthday party that quickly turned into the birthday girl crying her sweet little drunken heart out, breaking down after holding in so many things, and I couldn't help. On top of that, the party consisted of three happy couples, one single girl, and one single guy, me. The single girl was in a bad mood because she's single, and kept being passive-aggressive about it towards me, dropping half hints and all sorts of other bullshit. Finally, when single girl was good and wasted, she said something to me about how I had no balls. So I strode over to where she was sitting and kissed her. I said, "Better?" And she said "Not really. You should act like you want me." as if me walking over to her and kissing her wasn't an indicator that I was interested. She then goes on to talk about how guys should do all the work in starting relationships and blah blah blah. I don't know what else she said because at that point I was fucking furious and walked away. I overheard her shortly after talking about how all guys are douchebags, which pissed me off even more. Ever since I was a young boy, it's been a serious goal of mine to not act like other guys, to not be the stereotypical asshole that only wants sex, and here this fucking cunt was, lumping me in with all the other dickheads of my gender. Fuck that, and fuck her if that's how she wants to think. If she's that goddamn negative, I don't need her in my life anyway.
Tonight I went to another party. More drama, in that one of our friends thought that we weren't treating her new boyfriend nicely enough. This made her all pissy, and I couldn't even enjoy a fucking conversation with people I hadn't talked to in months because EVERYFUCIKINGTHING HAD TO BE ABOUT HER FUCKING PROBLEMS.
I'm so sick of this goddamn place and the petty assholes in it. I can't fucking wait to move away, and maybe I won't come back after all.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Jumbled thoughts on moving
It is 9:55 PM on a Friday night as I start writing. I have a wedding to attend tomorrow at 3 PM. I tried getting ahold of Paul, the first person I met when I moved to Pennsylvania in the summer of 1999. We were supposed to hang out today, but he never responded so I'm spending this night packing boxes and reading Harry Potter. For the first time since I've had to seriously consider the fact that I'm only spending another month and a half in this house, it hit me just how much has transpired in this place. I was packing cds into a box when I realized that I had lived here more or less for five years. I've written and recorded my two latest albums in this house. Hell, I even lost my virginity here. This is the first big move that I've undertaken in almost 12 years.
That being said, I don't feel all that sad about leaving this house, or even this area. Memories don't fade just because you're no longer in the same place that you made them.
And what follows is simply a wishful-thinking kind of to-do list, for after I move.
1) Become a licensed driver
2) Quit smoking cigarettes
3) Drop about fifty pounds
4) Become a morning person
5) No more fried foods
6) Become more outgoing in social situations
7) Play some open mic nights in the Indianapolis area
8) Continue learning how to sing and play piano
9) Stay in touch with all of my Pennsylvania friends, as well as my Texas friends
10) Learn some responsibility
11) Save up four or five grand to take my parents and I on a fishing trip to Canada
12) Remember what it's like to be sober
13) Save up two grand of my own, and keep it that way
14) Meet the girl of my dreams
15) Continue writing songs
16) Don't go crazy
17) Catch some really awesome concerts
18) Finish the screenplays I've started
19) Successfully adapt myself to a new environment with all new people
20) Meditate regularly
21) Stay happy
That being said, I don't feel all that sad about leaving this house, or even this area. Memories don't fade just because you're no longer in the same place that you made them.
And what follows is simply a wishful-thinking kind of to-do list, for after I move.
1) Become a licensed driver
2) Quit smoking cigarettes
3) Drop about fifty pounds
4) Become a morning person
5) No more fried foods
6) Become more outgoing in social situations
7) Play some open mic nights in the Indianapolis area
8) Continue learning how to sing and play piano
9) Stay in touch with all of my Pennsylvania friends, as well as my Texas friends
10) Learn some responsibility
11) Save up four or five grand to take my parents and I on a fishing trip to Canada
12) Remember what it's like to be sober
13) Save up two grand of my own, and keep it that way
14) Meet the girl of my dreams
15) Continue writing songs
16) Don't go crazy
17) Catch some really awesome concerts
18) Finish the screenplays I've started
19) Successfully adapt myself to a new environment with all new people
20) Meditate regularly
21) Stay happy
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Really? You could only muster one sentence for this post?
Out of all the mixed feelings I have about moving to Indiana, right now the most prevalent is the sort of sweet triumph in knowing that come August 1st, I won't be living in a slanting, crooked ass, ant infested sweatbox of a house.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
I'm sorry if you read this.
I was going to write about my day on here, leading up to a sort of epiphany. Not really a life-altering realization or anything, just the summation of a lot of scattered thoughts; a sigh of relief as if finding the answer to a complex puzzle. And I've built it up too much already, so I'm just going to say it.
I'm always falling in and out of love with you.
.....
That isn't a good way to end a blog post. I thought I was going to stop being a whiny bitch on the internet.
So let me explain a bit. Of course, that's about my first real love. I've always been infatuated with the idea of love, growing up watching romance movies. But I've written about that all before in my past, no need to re-hash. Returning to point, I've maintained a good relationship with this girl that I dated five years ago. I know, right? Five years. And I'm still writing about this same girl.
Maybe it's because I haven't really found anybody else in those five years, but sometimes when I talk to her, some tone of voice or simple unconscious gesture will remind me that once, we loved each other. And when I say that I'm always falling in and out of love with her, I mean that when she laughs, for a brief second or two my heart melts a little bit, but then the spell is broken. I remember that we are better as friends than lovers. There really isn't any resentment in that statement. I understand and accept that this is how we are. I wish it could have been different, but then I would be different too. We literally took two different paths in life after the break up. I worked and partied while she went to college. Had I stuck with her, that wouldn't have been my life. I probably would have went to college too, and we probably would have broken up at some point anyway.
I don't regret the person I've become, because I'm constantly becoming a new person. Some of my lessons have been hard won, but that's life. I'll never know who else I could have become, but maybe I can see the person I am yet to become. Our love, that was a lesson for both of us, whatever it meant. For me, that answer is constantly changing and I can't ever fully pin it down. Not when I keep falling in and out of love with you.
There. That's better.
I'm always falling in and out of love with you.
.....
That isn't a good way to end a blog post. I thought I was going to stop being a whiny bitch on the internet.
So let me explain a bit. Of course, that's about my first real love. I've always been infatuated with the idea of love, growing up watching romance movies. But I've written about that all before in my past, no need to re-hash. Returning to point, I've maintained a good relationship with this girl that I dated five years ago. I know, right? Five years. And I'm still writing about this same girl.
Maybe it's because I haven't really found anybody else in those five years, but sometimes when I talk to her, some tone of voice or simple unconscious gesture will remind me that once, we loved each other. And when I say that I'm always falling in and out of love with her, I mean that when she laughs, for a brief second or two my heart melts a little bit, but then the spell is broken. I remember that we are better as friends than lovers. There really isn't any resentment in that statement. I understand and accept that this is how we are. I wish it could have been different, but then I would be different too. We literally took two different paths in life after the break up. I worked and partied while she went to college. Had I stuck with her, that wouldn't have been my life. I probably would have went to college too, and we probably would have broken up at some point anyway.
I don't regret the person I've become, because I'm constantly becoming a new person. Some of my lessons have been hard won, but that's life. I'll never know who else I could have become, but maybe I can see the person I am yet to become. Our love, that was a lesson for both of us, whatever it meant. For me, that answer is constantly changing and I can't ever fully pin it down. Not when I keep falling in and out of love with you.
There. That's better.
Friday, June 17, 2011
An early goodbye.
It looks like I'm moving to scenic Ingalls, Indiana at the beginning of August. My father put a down payment on a house there, and as I am currently living with my parents, I have two options:
A) Get a job, find a roommate, get my license, and live paycheck to paycheck here when they leave, or
B) Get my license, move with them, find a job there, save up a bunch of money, and eventually come back.
Option A wouldn't be so bad. It would be a necessary change in my life, a catalyst that I'm so desperately in need of. I would still be living among friends, and I would be mostly happy, I think.
But as always, there's a catch. My dad might be back to work now and all, but he still had a heart attack like exactly two months ago. While he's recovering, I need to stay with my parents and help any way I can. On top of that, returning to the idea of a catalyst, I would be moving to a place that's maybe a half an hour from Indianapolis. I've never lived near a city, except when I was very young and lived in Beech Grove, Indiana. I guess ultimately I feel that being uprooted and forced to adapt to a new environment would do me some good. I'd have time to reflect, grow up a little bit, and hopefully improve myself.
I hate to feel like I'm abandoning everyone I know, but it's only a seven hour drive from Ingalls to Dubois. I can be back to visit at least once a month, because my first priority when I get out there is being able to drive. I'll still be in touch. Eventually, I know I'd be moving back. I just feel like I need some time away from this place while I'm still young.
A) Get a job, find a roommate, get my license, and live paycheck to paycheck here when they leave, or
B) Get my license, move with them, find a job there, save up a bunch of money, and eventually come back.
Option A wouldn't be so bad. It would be a necessary change in my life, a catalyst that I'm so desperately in need of. I would still be living among friends, and I would be mostly happy, I think.
But as always, there's a catch. My dad might be back to work now and all, but he still had a heart attack like exactly two months ago. While he's recovering, I need to stay with my parents and help any way I can. On top of that, returning to the idea of a catalyst, I would be moving to a place that's maybe a half an hour from Indianapolis. I've never lived near a city, except when I was very young and lived in Beech Grove, Indiana. I guess ultimately I feel that being uprooted and forced to adapt to a new environment would do me some good. I'd have time to reflect, grow up a little bit, and hopefully improve myself.
I hate to feel like I'm abandoning everyone I know, but it's only a seven hour drive from Ingalls to Dubois. I can be back to visit at least once a month, because my first priority when I get out there is being able to drive. I'll still be in touch. Eventually, I know I'd be moving back. I just feel like I need some time away from this place while I'm still young.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Two passing thoughts:
One-
Hey person from England that found my blog by searching "Tales of the boner" in Google with safesearch off- High fives! You are a classy individual indeed. I just wish you would have commented or something. I'm dying to know what you were really looking for when you stumbled across my ramblings, but in any case I'm sure it wasn't a story about the time my band played in Connecticut.
Two-
I'm not sure why, or even when this really started, but recently I've developed a habit where I flip off my computer every time I close a window. It's kinda stupid but I just can't stop. It's like, "Fuck you computer, I have better things to do. Um... now that I'm done using you."
That kinda makes me feel bad, now that I think of it. Dear lovely computer, I promise to get up early tomorrow and take you out to breakfast. So you know I really care about you, and I'm not just using you for my own selfish purposes.
Hey person from England that found my blog by searching "Tales of the boner" in Google with safesearch off- High fives! You are a classy individual indeed. I just wish you would have commented or something. I'm dying to know what you were really looking for when you stumbled across my ramblings, but in any case I'm sure it wasn't a story about the time my band played in Connecticut.
Two-
I'm not sure why, or even when this really started, but recently I've developed a habit where I flip off my computer every time I close a window. It's kinda stupid but I just can't stop. It's like, "Fuck you computer, I have better things to do. Um... now that I'm done using you."
That kinda makes me feel bad, now that I think of it. Dear lovely computer, I promise to get up early tomorrow and take you out to breakfast. So you know I really care about you, and I'm not just using you for my own selfish purposes.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
A momentary lapse in emotional coordination.
It's strange, the way I can hear your voice in my head as I read your words; decoding every syllable, adding in all the complex emotional inflections almost by reflex. I can see your mouth forming the words, almost feel the hum of your vocal cords in your throat as you push air through them, the muscles of your face and throat and mouth in intricate motion that transforms thoughts into sounds. I can hear the sound of your lips parting into a smile, a slippery kind of breaking suction announcing your radiance shining out into the void. That I can definitely feel. Your smile is as tangible and real as sunshine.
I see analogues for you and I in nearly every book I read, and I hate it. I read Hemingway, watching drunk expatriates through his eyes but interpreted by my mind, I note the way that Jake Barnes hopelessly holds on to Lady Brett Ashley, and the way that she holds on to him, and it's sick. Sadistic. Such pain, such longing, they have no rightful place in the world. Poor impotent Barnes. With only the ghost of a complicated love left in his heart, he fills his days with wine, bullfights, trout fishing and various acquaintances. He seems happy enough through most of the story, yet I can feel the undercurrent of melancholy that flows throughout. His half hidden bitterness taints every experience, as Brett swings in and out of his life like some kind of heart wrenching pendulum. I feel all these things because they are my own personal experiences. I know how Barnes feels because he and I are kindred spirits.
But Jake Barnes and I only have ourselves to blame for our misery. We both hold on to things from our pasts not so much because we can't leave them behind, but because we don't want to. Something about those memories comforts us at the same time it drives us into depression. Maybe it's just some form of trickery, something related to the way emotions can twist and warp an otherwise logical mind. Maybe it's because those memories are something real and tangible, to us and us alone. A special, infinitely precious secret to be guarded and kept forever, even if it makes you sad. Or maybe you were right all along. Maybe you really don't ever forget your first love.
I see analogues for you and I in nearly every book I read, and I hate it. I read Hemingway, watching drunk expatriates through his eyes but interpreted by my mind, I note the way that Jake Barnes hopelessly holds on to Lady Brett Ashley, and the way that she holds on to him, and it's sick. Sadistic. Such pain, such longing, they have no rightful place in the world. Poor impotent Barnes. With only the ghost of a complicated love left in his heart, he fills his days with wine, bullfights, trout fishing and various acquaintances. He seems happy enough through most of the story, yet I can feel the undercurrent of melancholy that flows throughout. His half hidden bitterness taints every experience, as Brett swings in and out of his life like some kind of heart wrenching pendulum. I feel all these things because they are my own personal experiences. I know how Barnes feels because he and I are kindred spirits.
But Jake Barnes and I only have ourselves to blame for our misery. We both hold on to things from our pasts not so much because we can't leave them behind, but because we don't want to. Something about those memories comforts us at the same time it drives us into depression. Maybe it's just some form of trickery, something related to the way emotions can twist and warp an otherwise logical mind. Maybe it's because those memories are something real and tangible, to us and us alone. A special, infinitely precious secret to be guarded and kept forever, even if it makes you sad. Or maybe you were right all along. Maybe you really don't ever forget your first love.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Stretching Myself Thin
Sometimes, I look at all the projects I've started(or in some cases, want to start) and I feel a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. I'm playing in two bands, working on three separate movies at once, not to mention all the necklaces I haven't taken time to sit down and make. Then there's my oldest project, a novel I started exactly four years ago today and still haven't gotten anywhere close to finishing. I mean, I could finish all of the necklaces in one day and be done with them, and the bands really don't take up that much of my time, but even if I just shit out the scripts for the films, those take a LOT of time, energy and money to make. And I want to make three of them.
In a way, it's nice having so many different things to work on. If I lose inspiration for one of them, like the novel, I can abandon it for two years or so, work on other things, then come back to it when I've got a different perspective. But on the other hand, I feel like this approach means I'll never actually finish any of the projects I've started. It takes a lot of discipline and time management to do a thing like this properly.
In a way, it's nice having so many different things to work on. If I lose inspiration for one of them, like the novel, I can abandon it for two years or so, work on other things, then come back to it when I've got a different perspective. But on the other hand, I feel like this approach means I'll never actually finish any of the projects I've started. It takes a lot of discipline and time management to do a thing like this properly.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
An update:
Everything seems to be fine now. I am back home in Pennsylvania, and my dad is out of the hospital and slowly recovering. I don't really have anything to say tonight, but it seemed kind of weird that I would leave the last post up without some kind of resolution. Other than what's been covered in the previous posts, I've really been wanting to start making movies. I keep thinking about it, getting ideas for films. Also I had a dream where I did cocaine in an apartment with George W. Bush, who then asked me to kill the owner of the apartment by burning the place down. That's about all I have to say tonight.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Highs and Lows
Greetings from scenic Greenfield, Indiana. I've been traveling like crazy this week, as evidenced by my previous entry about Niagara Falls. This trip wasn't nearly as happy though.
I had just gotten some fast food at about 7 on Friday, and I was in the car with my mom about to go play some songs at a local coffeeshop when my sister called us to say she was taking my father to the emergency room. I abandon my original plans, and we had no sooner walked through the door of our house than she was calling back. The news was not good. My dad was having a heart attack. So we threw some clothes into bags, put the dogs in the car, and took off on the 7 hour drive to Indiana.
My sister continued to call us on the drive down, and each time, I was full of dread when the phone rang. After we had been driving nearly an hour, we found out that he had six blockages in his heart: One 100%, one 90%, a 40%, a 70%, and two 65%. They were taking him in to give him a balloon angioplasty, which opened up the 100% and 90%.
They're going to give him an MRI soon to get a better look at his heart and decide if they need to do open heart surgery to fix the remaining blockages. I'm fucking terrified and I hate being here, but there's nothing I can do. I just have to wait and watch.
I had just gotten some fast food at about 7 on Friday, and I was in the car with my mom about to go play some songs at a local coffeeshop when my sister called us to say she was taking my father to the emergency room. I abandon my original plans, and we had no sooner walked through the door of our house than she was calling back. The news was not good. My dad was having a heart attack. So we threw some clothes into bags, put the dogs in the car, and took off on the 7 hour drive to Indiana.
My sister continued to call us on the drive down, and each time, I was full of dread when the phone rang. After we had been driving nearly an hour, we found out that he had six blockages in his heart: One 100%, one 90%, a 40%, a 70%, and two 65%. They were taking him in to give him a balloon angioplasty, which opened up the 100% and 90%.
They're going to give him an MRI soon to get a better look at his heart and decide if they need to do open heart surgery to fix the remaining blockages. I'm fucking terrified and I hate being here, but there's nothing I can do. I just have to wait and watch.
Friday, April 15, 2011
I wrote a song this morning.
And here are the lyrics. It's based on a dream I had two nights ago, thought that one was actually about a Goodwill owned by the devil. I decided that title was a little too ambiguous. I mean, really, The Devil's Goodwill? Sounds like a totally different song. So here you have it, the first song I've written in over a year that was completed in a single setting.
The Devil's Pawn Shop
I found half a screenplay
in a row of dusty typewriters.
It read like something I'd seen
a million times before on every TV screen.
The clerk spoke up from across her desk.
She said "You should read the rest.
Yeah, you should read the rest.
Oh, it will take your breath away
and shake you to your core
with what it has to say."
Then she flashed me the wickedest of smiles
And I caught a glimps of the devil that dwells inside her.
But I knew I had to read the end.
So she bared her yellowed fangs again
and said "Do we have a deal my friend?"
The Devil's Pawn Shop
I found half a screenplay
in a row of dusty typewriters.
It read like something I'd seen
a million times before on every TV screen.
The clerk spoke up from across her desk.
She said "You should read the rest.
Yeah, you should read the rest.
Oh, it will take your breath away
and shake you to your core
with what it has to say."
Then she flashed me the wickedest of smiles
And I caught a glimps of the devil that dwells inside her.
But I knew I had to read the end.
So she bared her yellowed fangs again
and said "Do we have a deal my friend?"
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Life's unexpected little adventures
Yesterday at 5 PM, I was sitting in my favorite local bar with my best friend Andy, drinking a couple of beers and bullshiting after a jam session. It was a good time, one that I've had more times than I would care to count. As I'm watching South Park on the television, wrapped up in reading the subtitles, Andy is reading a text message from his girlfriend on his phone. He looks over at me.
"Hey man, wanna go to Niagara Falls?"
"...What? You're serious?"
"Yeah, Jess wants to go."
I look up at the clock. It's somewhere around 6:30, on a dreary Monday evening that was threatening rain and thunder. I thought about it for a moment, weighing my options. I could either go visit a gigantic waterfall, or I could leave them to have a fun road trip and stay home playing video games and watching movies I've seen a dozen times over.
"Alright. Let's do it."
At this point, I had been up for a little over thirty five straight hours. I wasn't really tired, but I figured if I had to, I would sleep in the car. We finish our beers, pay up, and go outside to wait.
Jess pulls up to the bar and picks us up. We drive around, making preparations for our journey; picking up cds, grabbing a bottle of Captain Morgan's pre-mixed Long Island Iced Tea and a case of water, and picking up Jess's friend Laura. These things done, we hit the road right around 7.
The rain had finally come, pattering down softly on the car as we whisked our way through the gathering darkness, passing many familiar places and playing stupid car games like the Punchbug game. We have modified the game to include many other reasons to hit our fellow passengers, like Cruiser Bruiser, Grand Am Slam, and the dreaded Mitsubishi Punchy-Pinchy. We passed all the familiar landmarks that I know from my trips up to the Seneca casinos in Salamanca, NY: Ridgway, Johnsonburg and its awful paper mill, Lantz Corners, Bradford's Zippo lighter museum/factory. Andy and I were taking pulls from the bottle once in awhile, but the girls decided against it.
The road into New York is very distinctive for me. As soon as you cross the border on Rt. 219, the road immediately falls apart, riddled with potholes and large cracks in the pavement. We stopped at the gas station where my parents buy cigarettes to use the bathrooms and stretch our legs. At this particular gas station, there are wooden Indian statues, and Laura insisted on getting her picture taken with them. Andy bought a carton of non-filter Heron brand cigarettes, Jess bought a pack of Monarch menthols and a lighter leash, and as we were leaving, two drunk men were talking to us about how Andy and I should be paying for the things the girls were buying. "You know, if you're with them, you should buy their stuff." I didn't catch the rest of the conversation as I decided to go to the bathroom at that point. When I came out, my companions had left the store already, so I went outside to find the two drunk men standing around a dollar bill on the ground. I looked at it and said "Hey, you dropped something."
"Oh, it's not ours. It's hers." One of them points over to Laura. "I don't want it!" She says as she gets in Jess's car. Jess takes the dollar from him and we get in the car. Once we were on the road again, I find out the rest of the story. The bill had been sticking out of Laura's back pocket. One of the guys tells her about it and says that it's going to fall out. So she pulls it out and throws it on the ground. I smiled. It seemed like something I would have done if I were in a certain playfully apathetic mood.
Around this time, we start playing twenty questions to pass the time in a way that wasn't just staring off into the darkness in silence. It turns out that I'm not very good at that game, but it was definitely enjoyable. I stumped everyone by choosing to be nothing, and with sixty questions they couldn't figure it out. We stopped at a cemetery to find a tombstone that looked like a tree, then drove on. By now we were past the casinos and the road had become unfamiliar to me. I was beginning to get excited.
We finally arrived somewhere around midnight. Andy poured the rest of the Captain into a water bottle and we stepped outside into the chilly unfamiliar city around us. We went into a hotel to use the bathroom again, and Andy, Laura, and Jess went into the gift shop and bought matching hoodies that said New York across the front. I looked down at my dirty yellow and black Stearns rain jacket and felt kind of left out. There was another wooden Indian statue in this hotel, so Laura and Jess took another picture while I bought a one dollar lottery ticket. It wasn't a winner, so I tore it up and threw it away.
We left the hotel and walked to a park by the river, following the trail that led to the falls. Once we were within a few hundred feet of them, I began to feel the spray hitting me in the face, cold and refreshing. Once we were in view, it was beautiful. The water roared and rushed past us on our left, the Canadian side of the border's many tall buildings glittering beyond. Directly in front of us, the American side's tall buildings glittered back. I kept imagining it as if it were a part of Fallout 3, in ruins. Somehow, I feel like it would have been even more breathtaking that way.
It was around this time that I really began talking to Laura. While Jess and Andy were off making out or something, we stuck together talking about all sorts of things. She told me a little about growing up in Paris Island, North Carolina and I told her about stomping my sister's pet bird to death. We had made our way to another area of the falls, and right then, I was happy. I mean, here I was, five hours by car from home. In a new place, talking to a new person, loving the experiences I was having. I felt good. It was almost like I was a normal person.
Finally, we decided to head back to the car. For awhile, we couldn't remember where we parked. Then we caught sight of the hotel where I bought the lottery ticket, and from there it was a breeze. We drove to a nearby Denny's to get some food. Our waiter was an extremely cool black man whose name I didn't catch, but he was very patient with us in our near-delirious state.
We were laughing like jackals almost the entire time we were in the restaurant. I ordered two slices of toast, Jess got a grand slam, Andy got a double bacon cheeseburger, and Laura ordered pancakes. I sat there, drinking my coffee and smiling while they all talked about one thing or another. Jess and Andy got up to go to the bathroom, leaving Laura and I to look at each other from across the table. She picked up the creamer container and looked at Andy's coffee, contemplating. "I just wanna pour it all in there." she said.
"Go for it."
"Do you think he'll notice?"
"No, just do it."
So she does. We laugh about it, then I grab a little bit of salt from the shaker and dump it in. Shortly, Jess and Andy come back. Our food arrives, and the waiter gave me four slices of toast instead of two. When I tell him that he gave me too much, he just smiles and says "I know, I gave you extra." We continue talking and laughing while we eat. We start talking about Canada and how we wish we had our passports so we could cross the border. At one point, I remember saying something like "Yeah, stupid Canadians, calling ham bacon and stuff. I hear they even put salt in their coffee." Laura starts cracking up. I look at her calmly and say "What are you laughing about?"
We finish our food, leave the awesome waiter an $8 tip, Laura pays for my toast and coffee, then we start the long journey home. I tried very hard to stay awake the whole time, but at some point I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up to us pulling into a Country Fair shaped like a barn and Andy telling Jess an awful joke that our friend Mason had told, centering around a play on words with Uganda as you're gonna. Andy and Jess go inside, leaving me with Laura again. I found out that we had both pretty much woken up at the same time, with the Uganda joke. We talk a lot, until Andy and Jess come back, then the conversation pretty much stops. I begin noticing a trend, where we have great conversations when we're alone, then it's basically silence when anyone else is present. I ponder this as we leave.
The rest of the ride home, I didn't say much. I was too worn out, drunk, sleep deprived, whatever. Jess, Laura and Andy were talking a lot, and the girls were reliving old memories as I thought to myself that I am basically just an observer, there to absorb the tragic stories of others. As we passed Lantz Corners again, I thought about telling everyone about how that's where my brothers died, but decided against it. I sing along to most of Everything Went Numb by Streetlight Manifesto, and just drift around my head until we arrive back in Reynoldsville to drop Laura off.
As she's exiting the car, I thank her again for paying for me at the Denny's. She slaps me on the arm and says "No problem. We're friends now." She shuts the door and we drive off into the night. Fifteen minutes later, I am being dropped off in front of my house. I thank Jess and Andy for a great time, then go inside to pass out.
Part of me didn't want to go, when Andy first mentioned going to Niagara Falls. I don't really know why, in retrospect, but I almost turned him down on the offer. I am very glad I didn't. This is the kind of thing that I need more of in my life. I need to get out there, do new things, go to new places, talk to new people. Long story short, I need to live. And yesterday, I did just that.
"Hey man, wanna go to Niagara Falls?"
"...What? You're serious?"
"Yeah, Jess wants to go."
I look up at the clock. It's somewhere around 6:30, on a dreary Monday evening that was threatening rain and thunder. I thought about it for a moment, weighing my options. I could either go visit a gigantic waterfall, or I could leave them to have a fun road trip and stay home playing video games and watching movies I've seen a dozen times over.
"Alright. Let's do it."
At this point, I had been up for a little over thirty five straight hours. I wasn't really tired, but I figured if I had to, I would sleep in the car. We finish our beers, pay up, and go outside to wait.
Jess pulls up to the bar and picks us up. We drive around, making preparations for our journey; picking up cds, grabbing a bottle of Captain Morgan's pre-mixed Long Island Iced Tea and a case of water, and picking up Jess's friend Laura. These things done, we hit the road right around 7.
The rain had finally come, pattering down softly on the car as we whisked our way through the gathering darkness, passing many familiar places and playing stupid car games like the Punchbug game. We have modified the game to include many other reasons to hit our fellow passengers, like Cruiser Bruiser, Grand Am Slam, and the dreaded Mitsubishi Punchy-Pinchy. We passed all the familiar landmarks that I know from my trips up to the Seneca casinos in Salamanca, NY: Ridgway, Johnsonburg and its awful paper mill, Lantz Corners, Bradford's Zippo lighter museum/factory. Andy and I were taking pulls from the bottle once in awhile, but the girls decided against it.
The road into New York is very distinctive for me. As soon as you cross the border on Rt. 219, the road immediately falls apart, riddled with potholes and large cracks in the pavement. We stopped at the gas station where my parents buy cigarettes to use the bathrooms and stretch our legs. At this particular gas station, there are wooden Indian statues, and Laura insisted on getting her picture taken with them. Andy bought a carton of non-filter Heron brand cigarettes, Jess bought a pack of Monarch menthols and a lighter leash, and as we were leaving, two drunk men were talking to us about how Andy and I should be paying for the things the girls were buying. "You know, if you're with them, you should buy their stuff." I didn't catch the rest of the conversation as I decided to go to the bathroom at that point. When I came out, my companions had left the store already, so I went outside to find the two drunk men standing around a dollar bill on the ground. I looked at it and said "Hey, you dropped something."
"Oh, it's not ours. It's hers." One of them points over to Laura. "I don't want it!" She says as she gets in Jess's car. Jess takes the dollar from him and we get in the car. Once we were on the road again, I find out the rest of the story. The bill had been sticking out of Laura's back pocket. One of the guys tells her about it and says that it's going to fall out. So she pulls it out and throws it on the ground. I smiled. It seemed like something I would have done if I were in a certain playfully apathetic mood.
Around this time, we start playing twenty questions to pass the time in a way that wasn't just staring off into the darkness in silence. It turns out that I'm not very good at that game, but it was definitely enjoyable. I stumped everyone by choosing to be nothing, and with sixty questions they couldn't figure it out. We stopped at a cemetery to find a tombstone that looked like a tree, then drove on. By now we were past the casinos and the road had become unfamiliar to me. I was beginning to get excited.
We finally arrived somewhere around midnight. Andy poured the rest of the Captain into a water bottle and we stepped outside into the chilly unfamiliar city around us. We went into a hotel to use the bathroom again, and Andy, Laura, and Jess went into the gift shop and bought matching hoodies that said New York across the front. I looked down at my dirty yellow and black Stearns rain jacket and felt kind of left out. There was another wooden Indian statue in this hotel, so Laura and Jess took another picture while I bought a one dollar lottery ticket. It wasn't a winner, so I tore it up and threw it away.
We left the hotel and walked to a park by the river, following the trail that led to the falls. Once we were within a few hundred feet of them, I began to feel the spray hitting me in the face, cold and refreshing. Once we were in view, it was beautiful. The water roared and rushed past us on our left, the Canadian side of the border's many tall buildings glittering beyond. Directly in front of us, the American side's tall buildings glittered back. I kept imagining it as if it were a part of Fallout 3, in ruins. Somehow, I feel like it would have been even more breathtaking that way.
It was around this time that I really began talking to Laura. While Jess and Andy were off making out or something, we stuck together talking about all sorts of things. She told me a little about growing up in Paris Island, North Carolina and I told her about stomping my sister's pet bird to death. We had made our way to another area of the falls, and right then, I was happy. I mean, here I was, five hours by car from home. In a new place, talking to a new person, loving the experiences I was having. I felt good. It was almost like I was a normal person.
Finally, we decided to head back to the car. For awhile, we couldn't remember where we parked. Then we caught sight of the hotel where I bought the lottery ticket, and from there it was a breeze. We drove to a nearby Denny's to get some food. Our waiter was an extremely cool black man whose name I didn't catch, but he was very patient with us in our near-delirious state.
We were laughing like jackals almost the entire time we were in the restaurant. I ordered two slices of toast, Jess got a grand slam, Andy got a double bacon cheeseburger, and Laura ordered pancakes. I sat there, drinking my coffee and smiling while they all talked about one thing or another. Jess and Andy got up to go to the bathroom, leaving Laura and I to look at each other from across the table. She picked up the creamer container and looked at Andy's coffee, contemplating. "I just wanna pour it all in there." she said.
"Go for it."
"Do you think he'll notice?"
"No, just do it."
So she does. We laugh about it, then I grab a little bit of salt from the shaker and dump it in. Shortly, Jess and Andy come back. Our food arrives, and the waiter gave me four slices of toast instead of two. When I tell him that he gave me too much, he just smiles and says "I know, I gave you extra." We continue talking and laughing while we eat. We start talking about Canada and how we wish we had our passports so we could cross the border. At one point, I remember saying something like "Yeah, stupid Canadians, calling ham bacon and stuff. I hear they even put salt in their coffee." Laura starts cracking up. I look at her calmly and say "What are you laughing about?"
We finish our food, leave the awesome waiter an $8 tip, Laura pays for my toast and coffee, then we start the long journey home. I tried very hard to stay awake the whole time, but at some point I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up to us pulling into a Country Fair shaped like a barn and Andy telling Jess an awful joke that our friend Mason had told, centering around a play on words with Uganda as you're gonna. Andy and Jess go inside, leaving me with Laura again. I found out that we had both pretty much woken up at the same time, with the Uganda joke. We talk a lot, until Andy and Jess come back, then the conversation pretty much stops. I begin noticing a trend, where we have great conversations when we're alone, then it's basically silence when anyone else is present. I ponder this as we leave.
The rest of the ride home, I didn't say much. I was too worn out, drunk, sleep deprived, whatever. Jess, Laura and Andy were talking a lot, and the girls were reliving old memories as I thought to myself that I am basically just an observer, there to absorb the tragic stories of others. As we passed Lantz Corners again, I thought about telling everyone about how that's where my brothers died, but decided against it. I sing along to most of Everything Went Numb by Streetlight Manifesto, and just drift around my head until we arrive back in Reynoldsville to drop Laura off.
As she's exiting the car, I thank her again for paying for me at the Denny's. She slaps me on the arm and says "No problem. We're friends now." She shuts the door and we drive off into the night. Fifteen minutes later, I am being dropped off in front of my house. I thank Jess and Andy for a great time, then go inside to pass out.
Part of me didn't want to go, when Andy first mentioned going to Niagara Falls. I don't really know why, in retrospect, but I almost turned him down on the offer. I am very glad I didn't. This is the kind of thing that I need more of in my life. I need to get out there, do new things, go to new places, talk to new people. Long story short, I need to live. And yesterday, I did just that.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Returning to writing
I don't know how much this applies to everyone, but whenever I am particularly struck by a work of art, be it music, a book, a film, a painting, I want to emulate it. I don't want to outright copy the work, or even take little pieces of it and reassemble them into something "new". I want to create something that will strike someone like I was struck. I want to make an impact, to say or do or show something that will make someone stop and think.
I still remember reading The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman for the first time, and how much I loved it. I had always loved reading, mostly Goosebumps books and things of that nature. But The Golden Compass was something different, the way that it resonated with me. I was eleven years old. So I began writing. I never really finished anything I started, being so young, but I remember showing my sister a page or two of something I was calling A Heart Blackened. It was some generic murder story that actually began with the phrase "It was a dark and stormy night..." She read it and told me that it was good. This was all the encouragement I needed, and so I continued. I never finished the story, but I kept writing.
I became sidetracked from writing for a long time once I began playing music, though I did finally manage to finish a story when I was sixteen. I still wrote, but that was mostly in the form of keeping an angst-filled blog. Music had become my passion, and I wanted to affect people the way that the music of others had affected me. I started a novel two months after I turned eighteen, wrote twenty pages of it, then forgot all about it for four years. I recently rediscovered it, thought about the plot again, and decided to start writing it again. Work is slow while I go back and fix the pages I had already written, but it's coming easily again. I don't know if there will be anyone who reads it and connects with it the way that I connected with the work of Philip Pullman, but I don't care so much at this point. I certainly hope it does, but it's not the main motivation behind my writing.
Music is still a major driving force for me, but the other night I watched Pulp Fiction for the first time in years. I saw it through new eyes, appreciating all sorts of new things about it that went by completely unnoticed when I was a teenager watching it. It was somewhere around the time that Bruce Willis was running down Ving Rhames that I decided that I wanted to write a movie. So that's what I'm doing now; Working out a first draft of a screenplay for a Lovecraftian horror film with psychological overtones, tentatively titled The Obelisk. It's an interesting medium to work in, requiring a little less description, more dialogue based. I have been enjoying it quite a bit. I doubt that it will ever be filmed, but I may get enough ambition to one day assemble some actors and some cameras, and put things into motion.
So yes, dear reader, I am still writing. In fact, much more than I have in years. But none of it is ready to see the light of day. When it is, perhaps I'll post some of it.
I still remember reading The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman for the first time, and how much I loved it. I had always loved reading, mostly Goosebumps books and things of that nature. But The Golden Compass was something different, the way that it resonated with me. I was eleven years old. So I began writing. I never really finished anything I started, being so young, but I remember showing my sister a page or two of something I was calling A Heart Blackened. It was some generic murder story that actually began with the phrase "It was a dark and stormy night..." She read it and told me that it was good. This was all the encouragement I needed, and so I continued. I never finished the story, but I kept writing.
I became sidetracked from writing for a long time once I began playing music, though I did finally manage to finish a story when I was sixteen. I still wrote, but that was mostly in the form of keeping an angst-filled blog. Music had become my passion, and I wanted to affect people the way that the music of others had affected me. I started a novel two months after I turned eighteen, wrote twenty pages of it, then forgot all about it for four years. I recently rediscovered it, thought about the plot again, and decided to start writing it again. Work is slow while I go back and fix the pages I had already written, but it's coming easily again. I don't know if there will be anyone who reads it and connects with it the way that I connected with the work of Philip Pullman, but I don't care so much at this point. I certainly hope it does, but it's not the main motivation behind my writing.
Music is still a major driving force for me, but the other night I watched Pulp Fiction for the first time in years. I saw it through new eyes, appreciating all sorts of new things about it that went by completely unnoticed when I was a teenager watching it. It was somewhere around the time that Bruce Willis was running down Ving Rhames that I decided that I wanted to write a movie. So that's what I'm doing now; Working out a first draft of a screenplay for a Lovecraftian horror film with psychological overtones, tentatively titled The Obelisk. It's an interesting medium to work in, requiring a little less description, more dialogue based. I have been enjoying it quite a bit. I doubt that it will ever be filmed, but I may get enough ambition to one day assemble some actors and some cameras, and put things into motion.
So yes, dear reader, I am still writing. In fact, much more than I have in years. But none of it is ready to see the light of day. When it is, perhaps I'll post some of it.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
I AM A RESPONSIBLE FUCKING ADULT!
...proclaims the 21 year old with no job, no driver's license, and is currently living with his parents. But it's 2 PM local time, and I've already cleaned my bedroom, done the dishes, and cleaned out my ferret's cage. So I didn't cure cancer or anything spectacular, but baby steps, people. Baby steps. Considering I've spent the past 3 months in a lazy stupor, I feel pretty good about myself. Hell, some days I wouldn't even be awake yet.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
More Embarrassing Stories From Childhood
1) I AM MORTAL COMBAT!
I was something like four and a half years old when Mortal Kombat came out and boy, did I love it. For a few months, I was glued to my Sega controller, shedding the blood of every opponent on the Easy difficulty setting. I ate, slept, and breathed Mortal Kombat. My favorite characters were Scorpion and Johnny Cage, and when one of my siblings managed to pry me away from the TV, I would pretend to be fighting Liu Kang and Goro in our backyard. Sometimes I would be Scorpion, but mostly I was Johnny Cage. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Mortal Kombat, the character Johnny Cage had a special move where he would do a split and punch his enemy in the groin. One day my dad saw me in the backyard, doing my best to imitate this particular move. He found it amusing to the point that he actually encouraged me to perform this attack on one of his coworkers at a company picnic.
Everyone(except the guy I punched in the dick) laughed uproariously, and I thought that I had genuinely just done something awesome. From that point on, I became the scourge of the household. My sister's male friends were all afraid to come over because they knew I would be lurking behind the couch or in the stairwell, just waiting to do my Johnny Cage impression.
2) First Blood.
This is another story I have no recollection of. I am told that when I was two years old, my sister had a pet parakeet named Kiki. Anyhow, Kiki was my sister's pride and joy. He would sit on her shoulder while she took showers, chirping things like "Kiki pretty bird?" over and over with more indignance until you finally answered him. Kiki was also kind of a bastard, and hated every member of the household but my sister.
Well one day, Kiki got out of his cage somehow and was hopping across the living room floor. Trying to be a helpful little brother, I bent down to pick up the bird and put him back where he belonged, and that's when the trouble started.
My sister was beside herself with rage and grief. Her two year old brother had just stomped her beloved pet bird to death in front of her, so of course she was crying and screaming. "You have to do something about him! He's going to grow up to become a serial killer!" She bawled as she slammed the door to her bedroom.
So far I've managed to make it through life without killing anyone. So eat it, sis.
I was something like four and a half years old when Mortal Kombat came out and boy, did I love it. For a few months, I was glued to my Sega controller, shedding the blood of every opponent on the Easy difficulty setting. I ate, slept, and breathed Mortal Kombat. My favorite characters were Scorpion and Johnny Cage, and when one of my siblings managed to pry me away from the TV, I would pretend to be fighting Liu Kang and Goro in our backyard. Sometimes I would be Scorpion, but mostly I was Johnny Cage. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Mortal Kombat, the character Johnny Cage had a special move where he would do a split and punch his enemy in the groin. One day my dad saw me in the backyard, doing my best to imitate this particular move. He found it amusing to the point that he actually encouraged me to perform this attack on one of his coworkers at a company picnic.
Everyone(except the guy I punched in the dick) laughed uproariously, and I thought that I had genuinely just done something awesome. From that point on, I became the scourge of the household. My sister's male friends were all afraid to come over because they knew I would be lurking behind the couch or in the stairwell, just waiting to do my Johnny Cage impression.
2) First Blood.
This is another story I have no recollection of. I am told that when I was two years old, my sister had a pet parakeet named Kiki. Anyhow, Kiki was my sister's pride and joy. He would sit on her shoulder while she took showers, chirping things like "Kiki pretty bird?" over and over with more indignance until you finally answered him. Kiki was also kind of a bastard, and hated every member of the household but my sister.
Well one day, Kiki got out of his cage somehow and was hopping across the living room floor. Trying to be a helpful little brother, I bent down to pick up the bird and put him back where he belonged, and that's when the trouble started.
My sister was beside herself with rage and grief. Her two year old brother had just stomped her beloved pet bird to death in front of her, so of course she was crying and screaming. "You have to do something about him! He's going to grow up to become a serial killer!" She bawled as she slammed the door to her bedroom.
So far I've managed to make it through life without killing anyone. So eat it, sis.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
TL;DR
Just words tonight, folks. Probably not even any jokes. But I feel the urge to write, and my topic is religion. I grew up in a very non-religious household. So far as I can remember, the first time I stepped foot into a church was for my grandpa Lauren's funeral, when I was not much older than five. I felt nothing while looking at my father's father's lifeless body. I understood that the crying people around me were going to miss this man dearly, and I felt bad for them, but I grew up four hundred miles away from the man and only got to spend a weekend with him in life. I was too young to understand the enormity of what had happened to bring us all together that day, and I certainly did not understand the building we were all congregated in. I spent more time in churches this way over the next six years, at weddings and funerals of relations I never knew, people who shared blood ties with me, but no experiences and no familiarity.
My first stint with religion began on March 15th, 2002. I had turned thirteen only eleven days previous. On that day, my brothers Matthew and Ryan were taken from this earth in a violent one car accident with a drunk at the wheel. I remember being awoken in the small hours of the morning by a knock at the door, two hours after the crash. I found two policemen there, asking to speak with my mother. Matt and Ryan were no strangers to trouble with the law, so I just assumed that they had been arrested, and went back to awaken Mom to this bad news. I went to my bedroom while she talked with the officers. Suddenly, the thought that maybe something more serious had happened crossed my mind, but before I could pursue this line of thought, I heard a terrible, anguished wail tearing out of my mother's throat. In that instant, I knew what happened, and I will never forget that sound.
Suddenly, I was faced with the harsh realities of death. I saw it in the strained, grief-stricken faces of my parents and sister, felt it in the rare, consoling hand of my brother in law. But I was numb. I could not react, one way or the other. I felt nothing in my heart. Occasionally, a stab of grief would pass through me, like when I heard their obituaries being broadcast on the radio, but then some unknown mechanism would clamp shut again, and oblivion settled back into my chest. It wasn't even bad; bad implies that there is something there to be labeled with an adjective, and there wasn't.
It was after the funeral that I "found" Christianity. I had inherited Matthew's leather-bound bible, and I treasured it. I read from it every night, gloried in its onion-skinned pages, and prayed to a merciful God to keep my siblings' souls before drifting into sleep. This lasted maybe a month or so before I left behind my new found piety.
Over the next seven years, I found new gods to worship, and a flock of fellow believers with whom to pray. These gods were music, art, and a thousand other more fleeting notions that I would follow with all the eagerness of the zealot, but none of the substance of the truly holy man. I began to resent all forms of religion as I learned of the atrocities committed in God's name over the centuries, and I don't think I ever forgave God for taking away my brothers before I even had the chance to know them. I was bitter. I shunned the church and all its promises of salvation and eternal life, branding them lies meant to sway the masses into a lull of complacency. I even declared that there was no God. Instead, I focused my time and energy on playing music. My prayers were now in the form of drum beats and guitar riffs, my altar was my guitar amplifier, my saints were men with names like Jello Biafra and Thomas Kalnoky.
I laughed in the face of the ignorant believers, especially the old. I took a sadistic glee in the notion that these people knew their time was almost up, and in desperation they were turning to some mystical force that would forgive their sins and welcome them upon death. I denounced them as fools and sheep, with no inner strength and no sense of accountability for their actions. Just duck into the confessional once a week, and everything was just fine. I continued this ignorance for seven years.
It was death that once again brought me back to religion. On August 15th, 2009, my dear friend of nearly six years, Joshua Michael Giles, was run over by a car and killed in the middle of the night. Finally, death had struck a grievous blow on me. I was devastated, and the merciful numbness that had allowed me to get through the death of my brothers did not return to me.
I was at work that day, a Saturday. It was just me, my father, and my Saudi Arabian boss in the building when I got the call. I ducked outside to hear over the noise of the powder compacting presses, and barely kept my composure while receiving the news. I hung up, and it was when I told my father what had happened that I broke down crying. After giving me a half hour or so to work out my initial grief, I was taken home. Later that night, all of us gathered at his house, and I cannot forget that vigil. I popped the top off of a beer, a Magic Hat #9, and read the fortune: "How did You get like This?"
Again, I was destined to walk into a church for a funeral. It was not this that brought me back to religion; I could never agree with the faith that I had gone so many years of my youth despising. But it was then that I felt death in all his terrible power for the first time, and an aching emptiness welled up inside me such as I never though possible. It was different from the numbness I felt at my brothers' funeral, more acute and much more painful. I dwelt on the fragility of life, its fleeting and brief nature, and it nearly drove me mad. I couldn't stand that we humans had been placed on this planet to lead futile lives brimming with suffering, only to be snuffed out and cause more suffering in that final act.
One day in the middle of September, as I was sifting through a storage room at work in search of oil rags, I came across a box full of books. Among them was the book that changed my life. It was The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, by a man named Sogyal Rinpoche. I took it home, though I did not begin to read it until probably December.
When I finally did get around to reading it, I was blown away. The book begins with Rinpoche as a small child, accompanying his master, Jamyang Khyentse, as they are fleeing Tibet under the Chinese occupation. The journey was hard, and Rinpoche watched two of the monks they traveled with as they died. His description of the deaths of these monks struck such a perfect chord in me that the book had me completely enthralled and eager to learn as much as I could about Tibetan Buddhism. The book goes on to explain basic practices and beliefs of his sect of Buddhism, all of which I drank in with the thirst of a man lost in the desert. The words resonated inside me and filled my heart in a way I had never felt before. I finally found religion, after all those years of disavowing it as society's band-aid. It waited patiently until I was ready to receive it with open arms, and then, by chance or fate, religion had found me at the edge of my blackest despair. I was saved.
I took up the practice of meditation, and through it I have found a measure of peace, that grounding that all religions seek to impart upon their followers. It is fleeting sometimes, and the path I have chosen is a long one, fraught with countless obstacles. But no matter how deep my sorrows, no matter how little distance I have covered on this path, I retain that grounding, and it is my strength. My church is now the Earth, in all of her splendor and mystery, and my God is everything.
My first stint with religion began on March 15th, 2002. I had turned thirteen only eleven days previous. On that day, my brothers Matthew and Ryan were taken from this earth in a violent one car accident with a drunk at the wheel. I remember being awoken in the small hours of the morning by a knock at the door, two hours after the crash. I found two policemen there, asking to speak with my mother. Matt and Ryan were no strangers to trouble with the law, so I just assumed that they had been arrested, and went back to awaken Mom to this bad news. I went to my bedroom while she talked with the officers. Suddenly, the thought that maybe something more serious had happened crossed my mind, but before I could pursue this line of thought, I heard a terrible, anguished wail tearing out of my mother's throat. In that instant, I knew what happened, and I will never forget that sound.
Suddenly, I was faced with the harsh realities of death. I saw it in the strained, grief-stricken faces of my parents and sister, felt it in the rare, consoling hand of my brother in law. But I was numb. I could not react, one way or the other. I felt nothing in my heart. Occasionally, a stab of grief would pass through me, like when I heard their obituaries being broadcast on the radio, but then some unknown mechanism would clamp shut again, and oblivion settled back into my chest. It wasn't even bad; bad implies that there is something there to be labeled with an adjective, and there wasn't.
It was after the funeral that I "found" Christianity. I had inherited Matthew's leather-bound bible, and I treasured it. I read from it every night, gloried in its onion-skinned pages, and prayed to a merciful God to keep my siblings' souls before drifting into sleep. This lasted maybe a month or so before I left behind my new found piety.
Over the next seven years, I found new gods to worship, and a flock of fellow believers with whom to pray. These gods were music, art, and a thousand other more fleeting notions that I would follow with all the eagerness of the zealot, but none of the substance of the truly holy man. I began to resent all forms of religion as I learned of the atrocities committed in God's name over the centuries, and I don't think I ever forgave God for taking away my brothers before I even had the chance to know them. I was bitter. I shunned the church and all its promises of salvation and eternal life, branding them lies meant to sway the masses into a lull of complacency. I even declared that there was no God. Instead, I focused my time and energy on playing music. My prayers were now in the form of drum beats and guitar riffs, my altar was my guitar amplifier, my saints were men with names like Jello Biafra and Thomas Kalnoky.
I laughed in the face of the ignorant believers, especially the old. I took a sadistic glee in the notion that these people knew their time was almost up, and in desperation they were turning to some mystical force that would forgive their sins and welcome them upon death. I denounced them as fools and sheep, with no inner strength and no sense of accountability for their actions. Just duck into the confessional once a week, and everything was just fine. I continued this ignorance for seven years.
It was death that once again brought me back to religion. On August 15th, 2009, my dear friend of nearly six years, Joshua Michael Giles, was run over by a car and killed in the middle of the night. Finally, death had struck a grievous blow on me. I was devastated, and the merciful numbness that had allowed me to get through the death of my brothers did not return to me.
I was at work that day, a Saturday. It was just me, my father, and my Saudi Arabian boss in the building when I got the call. I ducked outside to hear over the noise of the powder compacting presses, and barely kept my composure while receiving the news. I hung up, and it was when I told my father what had happened that I broke down crying. After giving me a half hour or so to work out my initial grief, I was taken home. Later that night, all of us gathered at his house, and I cannot forget that vigil. I popped the top off of a beer, a Magic Hat #9, and read the fortune: "How did You get like This?"
Again, I was destined to walk into a church for a funeral. It was not this that brought me back to religion; I could never agree with the faith that I had gone so many years of my youth despising. But it was then that I felt death in all his terrible power for the first time, and an aching emptiness welled up inside me such as I never though possible. It was different from the numbness I felt at my brothers' funeral, more acute and much more painful. I dwelt on the fragility of life, its fleeting and brief nature, and it nearly drove me mad. I couldn't stand that we humans had been placed on this planet to lead futile lives brimming with suffering, only to be snuffed out and cause more suffering in that final act.
One day in the middle of September, as I was sifting through a storage room at work in search of oil rags, I came across a box full of books. Among them was the book that changed my life. It was The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, by a man named Sogyal Rinpoche. I took it home, though I did not begin to read it until probably December.
When I finally did get around to reading it, I was blown away. The book begins with Rinpoche as a small child, accompanying his master, Jamyang Khyentse, as they are fleeing Tibet under the Chinese occupation. The journey was hard, and Rinpoche watched two of the monks they traveled with as they died. His description of the deaths of these monks struck such a perfect chord in me that the book had me completely enthralled and eager to learn as much as I could about Tibetan Buddhism. The book goes on to explain basic practices and beliefs of his sect of Buddhism, all of which I drank in with the thirst of a man lost in the desert. The words resonated inside me and filled my heart in a way I had never felt before. I finally found religion, after all those years of disavowing it as society's band-aid. It waited patiently until I was ready to receive it with open arms, and then, by chance or fate, religion had found me at the edge of my blackest despair. I was saved.
I took up the practice of meditation, and through it I have found a measure of peace, that grounding that all religions seek to impart upon their followers. It is fleeting sometimes, and the path I have chosen is a long one, fraught with countless obstacles. But no matter how deep my sorrows, no matter how little distance I have covered on this path, I retain that grounding, and it is my strength. My church is now the Earth, in all of her splendor and mystery, and my God is everything.
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