captain bastard mcbastardface of the good ship u.s.s. bastard
"You never meet a woman is isn’t a piece of something; ass, work, trouble or art”
Come on, man! Read a book, see the movie, jerk off, or tell someone a story already, right? I want martini lunches. I want big dreams and long nights. This graveyard shift’s all in my head at this point. Sitting behind that desk is the same as staring down a dirty shotgun barrel in my garage forty years from now with twenty unfinished novels and three failed marriages. I loved them, but hey — love is a losing game. That’s a song. By a dead girl. It’s a pre-existing condition. You’re born and they shove you behind the wheel of this crazy car you don’t know how to drive and tell you the gas and brakes are out and put a gun to your head and start laughing. You ask, “Why?” and they say “Because we can shoot you at any time!”. It’s a miracle any of us sleep.
I don’t sleep well — that’s why I’m going crazy. Maybe that’s why I’m writing so much lately. Hey, at least you guys are profiting from the entertainment, right? You guys. You voyeurs. All the late comers in the balcony seats. Maybe when they bring the house lights up it’s empty. Thank god it’s the internet. Just one more confused fuck on a keyboard at the silver screen.
Where’s the equilibrium, right?
Maybe it’s not real. Spend an afternoon sitting on a park bench trying to figure out what’s actually there. Then go get laid. Probably the best combination of stripping down the gears and then stripping off the clothes you can get. If you meet God, get naked. That’s how He originally preferred it, apparently. And kill the Buddha. Obviously.
Holy shit, am I lonely.
That’s what this graveyard shift has taught me. That I can throw money at any problem, that I want to get out of here, and that all the ground and footing I thought I’d made can be undone by finding a four-year-old bus pass in my pocket — but I’m just lonely, you know? I do need somebody. It’s a sad weakness but it’s true. I want someone to do things with, someone to see naked, and someone who I can appreciate. There’s enough people out there in that fucked up world who appreciate me in their own way — but I’m craving that kind of attention that comes from a partner. Both in crime and in the sack.
Oh I’ve tried to get into relationships and I’ve tried to just date and I can meet anyone and do anything and I’m just cute enough and charming enough and clever enough to get in and out of so much but holy shit, I keep faltering. I stumble. I get in my own way. It’s not even like being nervous, it’s like being unable to breath. I remember being in love like it was being a wild animal.
No one is touching me lately. I haven’t had a goodnight kiss in forever. It’s a weird world where I can get the beautiful girls naked but I can’t stay awake or fall asleep. It’s like I can’t get it up in any sense, anymore.
Or is it not that weird? I feel like a lot of guys my age, after a certain point, go “holy shit, I have to ask this girl out, then we have to do the cool things while we make the motions, then we have to do the other things, then things, things, things, then we’re actually a couple — can’t I just buy a skin mag or party? Can’t I just do my job? Can I find something to love before I find someone?”
Then, it seems like everyone’s getting married. I want to sit in a kitchen and read my paper and check out my wife’s ass like everyone else. I want to recognize someday we will both be old and the inevitable slip of our hands on the wheel, the bullet to the side of the face — maybe we crash that jeep together, right?
How does it end?
For now, there’s me — then there’s this hotel room — then there’s the job. And hey, who needs to grow up when you’re doing the same motions, right? Just make it home intact. It’s gonna be a long time, I guess. I think it’s gonna be a long, long time…until touchdown brings me around. I’m not the man they think I am at home, oh no no no —
Vicodin and beer and almost late to work last night. I arrived in a disheveled shirt already tired. I ordered myself a sandwich while the pretty girl with too many tattoos introduced herself as Aurora. “I know a rather fetching Aurora myself,” I said. She commented on the rarity of the name, and I agreed. I’m a Daniel, which is relatively common. I used to work with several Daniels, and we all got funny, slightly racist nicknames. Working-class grown-ups. This Aurora’s mother was driving all the way from Sacramento to pick her up. She gave me a slice of cheesecake in return for being nice to her daughter.
The shift dragged from there.
For some reason, I became fixated on the idea of pens as fingers — first as a writing tool, how it would be cumbersome at first, but once you became learned, experienced, you could create miracles. Then, what if we had metallic arms, grafted tools all over ourselves, gears, bolts, levels, engineering — what if we crossed that stage? Where is the border? All the science fiction never really answers the question because we don’t know what alive is. Closest we come is warm breath steaming in the air in winter. How about a phone in our skin, a pop-up menu in our eye, a few subroutines in our brains to keep the screams down? Fuck pills, fuck booze, fuck religion, fuck god, fuck our parents — Tin Man all of us up. Who needs a heart when you have animatronic eternity to rattle some electricity around in, right? Or maybe we need that heart. How would we appreciate Soul Coughing albums? Why would we waltz? If I’m going to live forever, I want a reason to waltz.
Could we have our cake and eat it too, with our awkward cyborg implant bodies? Would the voice of the machine let us?
Who knows — I just know Aurora is something else, and my phone does some almighty weird shit I don’t understand. I have to wake up in a few hours to catch a train. The light that shines down between the two buildings near where my window is looks silver, this morning, and everything in my room looks like an old movie when I turn off the lamp.
Sometimes a girl will tell me to listen to a song that she says reminds her of me, and I’ll listen to it, and it’s total crap, and also about something like a trumpeter who decides to move to Brooklyn and then I’m like, “okay, you’re insane” and then the girl is like “no, it’s about how the song FEELS” and I’m like “I will no longer listen to any more of your recommendations and resume listening to Morphine.”
Then there is shouting.
I have eleven pages of notes towards a new novel. But I don’t have an opening line. That’s the depressing part. What am I writing. Fuck. Fuck?
The buttons and fabric on this white dress shirt tore. For awhile, I wore nothing but black jeans and white dress shirts, untucked. I sailed through the world, a macabre business casual. But we all have to grow up — and I started putting the ties back on. There’s a lesson in that, for someone, no doubt. Not for me. I just knot the ties lazily, barely looking. I ask people, of course — “is my tie on straight?” — but that’s just a conversation piece. Like the awkward book on the coffeetable. Look at my tie. It’s beautiful. Striped. Polka dot. Full block pattern. I can look like a hitman, a lawyer, an english teacher, a confused professor. It’s a big, scary adult world. But sometimes I want to untuck the white dress shirt and walk around, you know?
when you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer
Say it with me now; “I am…”
What are you? What’s the first word to follow? Why is, of all things, that the first word? You’re not even a word. You’re a collection of carbon, electrical fields, biological impulses and a complicated sensory apparatus that, in order to distract you from the overwhelming information you deal with on a regular basis, provides a compensatory inner faculty for you to escape. Also known as “thinking”.
You are matter, energy, complication. A monkey with physics. A baby with loaded guns. You control language but you establish no parameters. You exist, perhaps, on multiple levels of unbelievable metaphysical spirituality, or perhaps you exist on none at all and everything is a delusion. Kepler-22b could be like Detroit for all we know. You have to trust science or religion at some point because there’s no reason to get out of bed otherwise. You arrange your faith in something, someone, or somehow. It has to be better than this, right? Better than lying around all day in bed waiting for time to stop?
What is bed, anyway? What if beds are hallways? What if hallways are beds? You can sleep in a hallway and you can walk on a bed. Everything is tied up in language, arrangement. The way we live makes the world unlivable, into a toxic explosion of media and environmental damage, but, there’s no other way to do it. I want that burrito, I want that DVD, and I would eat a centaur if I had a chance. Freaky horse-man cannibalism. Fuck the haters. Tom Hanks can play me in the adaptation. I’m so conflicted! But I’m also hungry.
Maybe everything is thunder. Shit, I don’t know — I talk a good game, but I get fired from three jobs a year, I haven’t lived anywhere for more than five months straight in half past forever, and I’ve been single for going on four years. I’m not that smart. Maybe it’s time to settle down, look God or my father (and what is the difference) in the eye, and say, what the fuck, man? All the smells in the world were in the vents of my father’s car. It held every season. Are we our father’s ambulatory churches, walking around, spreading His word?
I’m sure reason and profound, objective causation exist somewhere. Well, I’d like to be sure. I don’t believe in god, and I don’t believe much in science, and I’m pretty sure my father’s an asshole. Looking back, all the “because” and “see” in my life feel flat.
Follow me again; “I am not…”, this time. What aren’t we? The infinite, resplendent, majestic internalizations of a biochemical reproductive machine designed to find god to spread group alturism and survive various threats?
Hell — I don’t know. I just want another white mocha. It’s delicious.
“I say it’s a beautiful woman you’re going to end up with because only beautiful women have dealt with the constant insanity, bottomless depraved male attention, and weird power fantasies to the Nth degree their entire lives, which you somehow single-handedly produce.”— Clover
Philip K. Dick; extaordinary writer, bit of a wacko, plenty of movies both shitty and excellent based on his works. Thanks to the imminent release of “The Adjustment Bureau”, which I’ll probably see just because I see all Philip K. Dick movies in the end, I felt compelled to wiki him to see what else was on the release, and then onto the Philip K. Dick article as a whole.
But I discovered something profoundly disturbing, quoted here;
”Dick was recreated by his fans in the form of a remote-controlled android designed in his likeness. In February 2006, an America West Airlines employee misplaced the android’s head, and it has not yet been found.”
Not yet been found.
Which means for four years, the robotic, disembodied head of Philip K. Dick has roamed the earth. Stalking the shadows of the night. Spouting metaphysics. Crawling teeth-up into impossible places to shout quotes from his own novels. Eyes spinning, circuits burning, singing sad songs of dead galaxies as the moon arises. Taking his nourishment from the rare low-built electrical outlet. Crawling below the span of the eye. Never seen, but eerily heard in his rasping, wild, machine voice. Talking about colors we never saw, men who were never there, creatures lurking around the corner of nothing and nowhere, waiting for a misstep into our reality.
Fucking creepy, man. Late at night, in the deep darkness of nothing — is that voice you hear, that unfortunate turning of gears, the grinding of science fiction gods — is that the voice of the lost machine head of Philip K. Dick?
“Misplaced the android’s head, and it has not yet been found.”
A girl I dated for awhile told me the weirdest part about dating me was so many of her friends thought I was a fictional character, some fake boyfriend she made up out of desperation — some antagonistic, maudlin, wild, drunk in a suit with a hard-on for girls in glasses and saying whatever came to mind. I told her “I learned everything I know about life from old movies”, and she said “it shows”.
We didn’t last very long — not because of that, mostly since I rarely pick up the phone and she was one of those talkers who examined every detail of her day by vicariously sharing it in vivid detail. If I was an old movie, she was a tabloid. The two were never meant to mix. Bogey didn’t fuck Bigfoot. That could be a mantra. Bogey didn’t fuck Bigfoot.
Personally, I thought she was going to go after my near-clairvoyant insight towards interpersonal deduction with her friends I never met, which always made her furious, or the fact that I could nonchalantly walk away from anything and everything. She detested nihilism, and moreover she detested that for all my (sometimes questionable) knowledge of the psychic underpinnings in the gutter of the soul, and how sometimes predictable I found people — that I didn’t help, that I didn’t want to help. I explained to her it wasn’t my place. I tried to explain to her that I prefer people go to hell once in awhile, that it’s good perspective, but I guess she had a better heart than I did. Or perhaps just a more coddling one. Heart, after all, is just another word for pain tolerance. How well you go toe-to-toe with the ravages of the world. I say if you don’t end up in hell once in awhile, heaven would seem just like purgatory. But I’m not a theologian. Mountaintops and scrolls hold no appeal for me. I’d just like some coffee, please. Extra dark.
Walking up the street to my hotel room today, I stumbled over a bundle of rags. In my confusion, I thought it was just a tiny hobo, but the blanket peeled away to reveal a pile of leaves. Perhaps that tiny hobo was a wizard, who finally got his wish. There were no trees anywhere around, and I looked up, and wondered where the leaves had come from, and then I left.
“I must be dead for there is nothing but blue snow and the furious silence of a gunshot.”
- the first sentence of “Kiss Me, Judas”, Will Christopher Baer
I highly recommend this book. One of the best books I’ve read in the past five years, and I don’t hand out positive recommendations for things very easily. A sort of dazed, poetic neo-noir description of loss and lust. Incredible in imagery, beautiful in savagery, and almost dazing in the depiction of insanity and the sadly furious lines between bitterness and mere history.
Clover: so I was reading your tumblr Me: Oh god damn it Clover: no, it’s cute Clover: but it needs a good breakdown if you’re going to market this philosophical rambling poetic changed man routine Clover: and once again the team and I have commissioned a chart Me: God damn it Clover:
Clover: now there’s a certain margin of error Me: GOD DAMN IT
I touch many-handed the stray feelings that other damaged men have broken-bottled into dark sense of your new nature, I try to orchestrate less slighted wet eyes as you cry all over my suit, but when you go back to screw him, I jerk off in my room, wondering if the night sky fogs over, if this city will ever experience new seasons
Instigated personally by your rejection, I hope for an insertion between spring and summer, an antagonist of heat and cold with wretched edges to crowd the dive bars, I can still feel you sitting on my lap while tomorrow pulses with afflictions overlapping somehow this misplaced philosophy unbandages my facial evolutions, gaunt but not like the excess of wastelands
Bottled up, I taste the aftermath of your sly mouth on the tequila, as we pass it around, you kiss me goodnight on the cheek while my ghost fucks the wall
Every do often when a friend of mine on Facebook gets on one of those empowerment-feminism “all women are beautiful” kicks and posts pics of creepy fat chicks with weird slogans, I want to just up and say “yeah, but the hot ones are way MORE beautiful”.
Daniel Vaccerelli Reviews "McCartney II" In A Post-Ironic Non-Ironic Irony
Paul McCartney’s “McCartney II” is often as well received as a flesh wound and generally classified as a synth-folk avant-funk experimental style-pop prog-wave album, which makes it sound like whoever classified it was schizophrenic or perhaps just a pretentious bore. In an attempt to catch a bit of that leftover soft and fuzzy Chuck Klosterman-ironic era pussy, I decided to review the album with no touch of irony or hipster-cred modifications to my belief in any worthiness.
Unfortunately, to my cost, I discovered the album was a labyrinth of experimental pre-hipster nonsense softened somewhat by an odd likability to the music itself. There’s a certain genius in it, somewhere, but it’s buried in the avalanche of madness. Some of this sound predates the genres it mimics significantly, some it just confuses all the senses, like coming home and finding your dog has turned into a dragon and fucked your couch.
WIthout further ado, here is my track-by-track rundown;
Track 1. “Coming Up” Sounds like: Bar-Kays stuck in a room with a bunch of white people Could be used for: Opening titles to a stoner buddy movie.
Track 2. "Temporary Secretary" Sounds like: FUCKING NOTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD Could be used for: Confusing your friends at parties.
Track 3. “On The Way” Sounds like: Bobby Blue Bland doing hair metal Could be used for: Getting that slightly obsessive Beatles retro-indie fan in the sack.
Track 4. "Waterfalls" Sounds like: Andrew Bird’s suicide note Could be used for: Andrew Bird’s suicide note.
Track 5. “Nobody Knows” Sounds like: When Charlie Feathers did a duet with Johnny Cash on cough syrup and painkillers Could be used for: Making Stevie Wonder mad.
Track 6. “Front Parlor” Sounds like: A sad machine alone on a deserted planet banging a metal head against the wall Could be used for: Communication with alien species.
Track 7. “Summer’s Day Song” Sounds like: An artsy anglophile movie about to cry. Could be used for: Banishing the Devil from innocent children.
Track 8. “Frozen Jap” Sounds like: Steve Winwood’s worst nightmares Could be used for: Plugging the reactor leaks in nuclear submarines.
Track 9. "Bogey Music" Sounds like: The day after Charlie Feathers and Johnny Cash came down from all that cough syrup and painkillers Could be used for: That song you use to confuse the rich kids when you have the dance-off to save the rec center.
Track 10. "Darkroom" Sounds like: Missy Elliot’s tears. Could be used for: “Getting ur freak on” (paraphrased) in a darkroom.
Track 11. “One Of These Days” Sounds like: Paul forgot how to play instruments. Could be used for: Involuntary committal.
Track 12. "Check My Machine" Sounds like: The Prodigy’s unfortunate Bollywood phase. Could be used for: Sterilization of distant sheep farms for strategic castration purposes.
Track 13. “Secret Friend” Sounds like: Ten and a half minutes of indecisive unfinished techno about to fall off Could be used for: A significantly superior Postal Service record.
Track 14. “Goodnight Tonight” w/Wings Sounds like: That time Michael Jackson touched you inappropriately Could be used for: A lawsuit.
"I’m always ready to learn, although I do not always like being taught." - Winston Churchill
Maybe I should start another beard rather than just perpetual stubble. My last one was a fiasco of biblical (jewish) proportions, mostly due to it having equal parts grey and red in it. I have weird (terrible) hair and no, ladies, I will ignore you when you say it’s fine.
Maybe I should stop feeling emotionally, spiritually, and interpersonally unmoored lately. I’m adrift, though. I spend a lot of time thinking circular thoughts about my relationships (lack thereof), and space and god, and death and life. And none of it helps me establish any sort of solidity or meaning. There’s time and space and death and we’re all in the tiny places inbetween. With this in context, I tend to look down on the terrible and wonderful things I and other people I know do as inherently meaningless, even when saturated with meaning. Why scurry around the universe for the sake of scurrying? What is conviction if we’re already convicted to a mutual universe?
If everything we do (or could do) is the railing on a bus, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, most of us simply grab on and use that stretch of rail under our fingers to hold steady. That stretch of rail is the range of potential for action, morality, consideration, interpersonal relationships, everything. If you’re consistent, internally an externally, and true to yourself — then there are limits, borders to your soul and beliefs. You hold onto your section as everything moves forward just as everyone around you holds onto theirs. It keeps you standing and it defines you, and in the case of sudden stops and starts, you hold on tightly. But if you spend a lot of time looking at the floor, the ceiling, and at other people, you see that one section of pole is essentially the same as any other. The bus is headed to the same place for everyone in the end, and if the ride is smooth, you can move your hand to wherever on the rail is comfortable for you, to whatever gives you the easiest balance during turns and bumps. Okay, I’m done with that extended metaphor, but what I’m saying is that when you’re unmoored, it’s easy to see how fluctuating your identity will keep you more comfortable, but the lack of definition will keep you uneasy in today’s everyone-has-fifty-labels society.
Maybe I just need to talk to more smart, lonely, aggressively probing people who have a slightly better grasp on things than me. Even though, as a rule, they depress the shit outta me. It’s weird for me to see high-octane intellect cope. Most of my dangerously intelligent friends are basically insane. So when someone is dazzlingly clever yet fits comfortably into the outside world, I generally think it’s either a sham, or fucking impressive.
Well. Love is universal. Or so I keep telling myself, so I don’t sit in my room all day and night.
The black door opened and Dadfog Englishfuck, executive executor of the Ministry of the Improbable, stepped into the fresh night with a dapper suit and polite smirk.
"Good evening," he said to everyone he almost bumped into. "Oh, pardon," he would say to others, sheepish grin playing on his face. He was in a hurry, his smart brown case in hand bumping into errant evening passerby.
He reached the launchfield in time, and there sat the silent helicopter. It wasn’t actually silent, just very quiet, but the Ministry of Invention did so love their toys. Dadfog came from a long line of established Englishfucks (his father, Grandfog, had been the Premier of the Ministry of Openings) and his work as the executive executor had finally culminated in this — his first diplomatic mission, up in the sky.
The silent helicopter took off with a sound like a congested honeybee, lightly ruffling the end of Dadfog’s coat. He had gotten the coat as a gift from his grandfather, Greatfog, before leaving for the Academy of Incredible, and he wore it as tribute. Greatfog hadn’t lived to see him graduate, and Dadfog regretted that. Tragically, Greatfog had died in a car accident, surrounded by a pack of snarling bridges and traffic violations. Greatfog had died with honor, and a statue of him was being commissioned to be sunk into the Sea of Tribute.
The Embassy of the Sky loomed ahead, the silent helicopter pushing aside clouds to reach it. An empty plateau of air, they landed on nothing and Dadfog opened the side door to the stillness and cold.
"Tea?" He brought out two cups, pouring steaming liquid into each. He extended one to the sky, but the sky declined, letting it drop several thousand feet. Impolite, thought Dadfog, but not unexpected.
Negotiations were going smoothly until the talk of territory came. Dadfog had smoothed everything out until he mentioned the need for more space. “You see,” said Dadfog, warm smile and calm tone, “buildings are getting taller. We’re expanding. We’re growing up. We’re moving up.”
The sky rumbled indignantly.
"There, there," said Dadfog. "Industrialization is natural! Progress, my friend. We’ll be the future, together."
He extended a palm towards the sky.
A lightning bolt, shocking in the fluffy clouds, jolted towards the silent helicopter, rocking it gently.
Dadfog’s expression slipped like an icicle in the spring melt, shattering at his feet. The Englishfuck temper. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “But tomorrow will be somebody’s, and it may as well be ours.”
He gestured to the pilot, and the silent helicopter departed. Dadfog reached into the console and withdrew the talk-phone and dialed several numbers, giving several clearances.
"Fire," Dadfog said.
Turrets on the ground, great cannons pointing to the sky, opened fire. The hills rang with mournful detonations echoing upwards as great shells and missiles vomited out.
Dadfog shook his head. His smart brown case, across the seat, yawned open at him, full of his paperwork for the rest of the day.
"Sir," the pilot spoke through the radio, "there’s a problem."
Dadfog looked out the window. The sky was returning the great shells and missiles, streaking back down towards the earth. He reached for the talk-phone again and stabbed his finger at the numbers.
"Quick," said Dadfog Englishfuck, "get me the Ministry of Gravity. We have a serious problem."
you know what I haven’t done with a girl in forever is mundane things. grocery shopping. arguing over bills. talking about clothes in a non-fashion-oriented sense. then again, I haven’t been on a date-date in forever. generally, it seems the only thing that happens is I get awkward drinks, or I occasionally get laid. and I kind of get laid half on my unrelenting sorta-charm and half on the fact that apparently now everyone in san francisco knows I have a huge cock. everyone. it probably helps that I have friends who broadcast this more than I do, which is impressive in an odd sort of way. basically, women talk to me at a bunch of parties and eventually I bump into them at a bar/show and we end up making out and then go back to her place to fuck and then there you go. it’s nerve-deadening after a certain point. admittedly, couldn’t be my place, I live in a hotel room that’s covered in suits. admittedly, I don’t do well on dates, as I talk too fucking much and completely turn them off. admittedly, most of the time I just want to argue albums, except for a city full of “hipsters” there’s not that much variety — you have the whatever-wave kids, the punk kids, the indie kids, and the pop-crap kids. where’s the eclectic spirit the hipsters claim to have, man? I don’t care about your fucking radio-whatever-head-zero b-sides, I wanna hear some weird shit.
maybe I should hang out with more musicians, except musicians and writers fucking hate each other unless they’re quite drunk.
a girl last night said to me “the worst is that you’re not even phased that you hurt me a bit”. I thought to myself, “that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it”. I need to get out of here. I thought California could redeem me, but it just jaded me further. love in the apocalypse, Phi said one time. I guess he was more right than he knew. what I need is a dame who can appreciate my mixture of appalling crudeness and old-style charm. maybe. maybe I just need a sandwich. maybe I need to stop focusing on all the “maybes” and start hard-hitting until life throws up some “actually”. it’s a boxing match between me and the emotional back-taxes. I’m a scrappy underdog, but I got a killer left hook.
Though he’s ruined god knows how many dates I’ve been on, pissed off every one of my friends, insulted every comedian I know, and broke so much of my stuff I could’ve maxed an insurance policy on his collisions alone.
Maybe that’s why I miss him - never knew where he was gonna turn up and make shit crazy.
"Do you love her?" "No. But she’s mine." - Shortcut Man, p.g. sturges
I strangle myself with a tie and head for the tea shop and can’t stop noticing how my shoes click really loudly. It’s like Lee Marvin in the hallway in Point Blank. Click click click click click. Even the hobos are staring. I’m transmitting to some elder sewer gods.
A telegram from my feet.
What’s it saying? That it’s foggy and warm, but I can still see my breath? That the side of my face where I got punched still hurts? Do they care? What do elder sewer gods want to know from me? Maybe I should get less eldritch shoes.
The tea shop is warm and the creepy tattoo guy is talking to some hot blonde who’s blowing him off. He can’t see it but it telescopes around him like shitty horoscopes. He leaves and Will sits me next to her. I smell like cigarettes and I’m rude and awkward and clumsy. She gives me the wide-eyed look a lot of pretty girls do when they can’t figure out if I’m hitting on them or if I’m just strange. She’s hot, but not my type, and I’m just tired, the words falling out of my mouth in ugly arrangements. The tall tea girl swings by with her dad and I make a crack about her getting her looks from her father, and the conversation jumps the rails entirely and crashes into the ground. She slams the door shut in my face and starts talking to Will. The other tea girl snickers.
This morning I was in a coffeeshop and the gorgeous latin girl with the enormous brown eyes told me she liked my pants. That’s an unconventional compliment for you. I don’t know what I like latin women so much, besides tits, ass, black hair, great skin, gorgeous features, and a temper that keeps things interesting. I’m still stumped. Maybe they’ll make an episode of Sherlock about it. Benedict Cumberbatch can be lighted so he doesn’t look like an oiled onion and Martin Freeman can shrug a lot.
Work meetings are tiring. They give me the weirdest moments. It’s only when confronted with simplicity I understand how neurotic and insecure and undefined I am. My internal landscape collides with my myopic inability to look at myself. Too many of my actions are arbitrary because I try to refute consequences. Too much of what I do is entrenched in chaos because I believe in rationality but don’t understand how to apply it. “Tell me us about yourself,” they say in the meetings. I’m a new employee. I guess it’s all small talk, but then I have to act like the social and moral plots of my soul have been sewn and grown, rather than frequently trodden into dust by the conflict and occupied by weeds. In other words, there’s the crowded outward me, and then there’s the unfurnished inner me that I really am. Morphine wrong a song about empty boxes — I think it was called “Empty Box”.
Boy, I dragged that bullshit out. I may as well be a teenager again. Or dead.
I'll get back to the creepily over-extended writing soon just you watch
there’s something fundamentally off about falling asleep around nine and waking up at four. mostly since that’s more sleep than I ever normally get. fortunately, who needs an alarm clock when I have the crackheads next door with a piano.
tonight my micromanaging boss is staying on for my shift to give me my “review”. won’t that be the most fun that’s ever happened in the history of human civilization. first I’ll get my review, which will be her telling me I fucked up, then she’ll rag me my whole shift for not doing everything according to procedure. then the next day she won’t be there and things will be back to normal. probably.
Sometimes in a good book there’ll be a bad sentence that I read several times. I’m used to direction, a sentence’s purposeful movement, a sort of volatile explosion propelling things along to the next collection of words that we append meaning to. Then there comes along a sentence like a plastic wrapper on the side of the road and I have to stop and re-read and hope the chemicals are kicking in, but nothing. Like clicking the fake remote at the cardboard in a furniture store it just won’t work. Nothing. Sometimes it’s close to coherence, a tantalizing view, but nothing again. I slide past it, fill it in with my own meaning, and move on. Maybe I’m afraid of those sentences. The noise. Maybe I’m afraid of empty phrases rattling around otherwise flawless prose. I like being alternatively impressed and horrified, not reminded of the void.
Fuck it, maybe all writing is just the gravel on the road. I’ve been reading a lot more lately and it blurs together. The book I bought yesterday about the dominatrix wasn’t that funny, or that interesting. Maybe I’ve been in San Francisco too long. Everyone’s into some kinky shit. I don’t even bat an eye at public BDSM. It’s just there, y’know? Like traffic. I think I see more public BDSM than traffic, to be fair, because I stay away from busy roads. My friends post dubstep songs to their facebooks and I listen for a bit to give them a chance but it’s never really good. They post acoustic stuff and metal and strange vintage pop too, but it’s been a lot of dubstep lately and it’s never really been interesting. Maybe they all posted the same song and didn’t know it, and I didn’t notice. I wasn’t looking at the titles. They weren’t pyrotechnic — remix names are often dumb and pointlessly sensational, like a death in a Palahniuk novel or a Showtime drama season cliffhanger.
I’m still tired. I’m still pill hazy. I can’t stay in bed all day, though, I’m going to go out and look cute and haggard in a tie. It works, apparently. I’ll go get a donut and bagel and some steaming black coffee and the pretty girl next to me with the monroe will be like “that’s a nice tie” and I’ll reply with “I know, that’s why I bought it” and she won’t talk to me again.
I bought a book about a dominatrix in San Francisco, apparently a comedy, and book of correspondence between John Fante and H.L. Mencken. H.L. Mencken being the inspiration for every indignant antihero journalist you ever loved and idolized and John Fante for being the Bukowski before there was Bukowski. Sort of. Drunk writers and chaos.
Also, I spent the evening with my friend Hoffer, who has been avoiding people for a month and a half going through an existential crisis. We talked for hours and hours, and my unrelenting-cynical-yet-hopeful-expectation of the world seemed to cheer him up. I had to remind him we’re all meat machines headed for oblivion, and pretensions otherwise, while the basis of civilization, aren’t to getting worked up over. I’d be a good priest, except I love tits. Maybe a chaplain then?
I told Hoffer about my recent self-improvement kick. I’m trying to fix my karma a bit. A lot. My problem is that ninety-five percent of my identity is wrapped on in cynicism, antagonizing people, and fucking around to prove everything is equally worthless, even if I don’t actually believe that. The other five percent is that almost disconcerting loyalty and love I demonstrate towards my friends. It’s been noted here and there by people I’m surprisingly loyal and helpful when things are actually bad. I’m unresponsive when it’s ephemeral bullshit and you’re being a needy piece of shit over something that could be resolved with a “fuck it”, or, you know, fucking it, but I’m there. I get a phone call in the dark of night and shit is actually going down, I will pay the last of my money to a cab to get there in a hurry. When there’s actually trouble, I have people’s back.
It’s like how my friends recently discovered if they start a fight, I’ll back them up, no matter what. I really wish they hadn’t discovered this, but fuck it — I’m a brother.
It’s like my friendship with Torie — I love her. I love the holy bejesus out of Torie. She’s one of my best friends and I have the simultaneous constant urge to help her, protect her, and make her feel better. I mean, yeah, I want to fuck her too, but shut up, I’m making a point. I’ve tucked her in and bought her liquor by the truckload and listened for hours and hours and just fucking been there when she needed me. Or my friendship with Phil — no matter what crazy shit that jackass gets into, I’m always there with a beer, a smoke, a punch, or whatever’s needed. Phi, too — no matter what hour he’s having some bitter meltdown, I’m there to listen and help. Travis blackout drunk or Cas barely able to walk. Gabe’s break-up rants. Zach lost in the tenderloin or Alexis stranded in the south bay. Or whatever. Fuck, I’m trying to get him to move with me so we can get away from the poison and live again. I love my goddamn friends and if I have to shove a whiskey bottle down their throat or beat the shit out of somebody or listen to the darkest, rusty confession from the gutter of the soul, I’ll goddamn do it. It’s done.
Sure, I fuck up. I’ve hung up at the wrong moment, or been afraid to help, or just been at the wrong spot at the wrong time to deal with somebody. Yeah, I fuck up a lot. But I try for loyalty. Not perfectly — not even close — but I try for the kind of loyalty that transcends friendship and moves to love.
That’s what I have to hold on. I have to expand that to more of me. I have to find something to focus on, and I have to, you know, quit being angry and crazy and bitter and sad all of the time. Sure it’s produced writing and kept life interesting, but I’m going to fucking die and die young if I keep it up.
Time to find some balance, I guess. Time to stand up. A little warmth in the darkness — that’s the most you can hope for in this savage, shallow shithole of a world, but it’s enough to hope, right? Back to basics. I intake carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and ejaculate the future. Crude — but fundamental.
I always write at night about death and love and god and fucking and how remorseless and empty life is. But not tonight. Tonight I’m writing about that moment on the back porch where you click a glass together, or you sit in a car talking shit for three hours straight, or your friend leans on you almost crying from laughing so hard. I think about kittens and double-breasted vests and bacon cheeseburgers and the whole earth’s population staring up into the sky, about technology and the recession being a painful but learning good next step, and hope, and love, and regression towards the mean.
Yeah — I want to tell you, friends, I walked past the bar underneath my hotel, full of unloved, wonderful people laughing and dancing, yet somehow I felt like everything was alright. A gut full of coffee and conversation and water in the puddles, because it had rained.
Of course, it made me think that death, love, god and fucking are alright too. And they are. There it is again. My eyes hurt. Goodnight.