I search still, I have been searching my entire life for that thing to allow me to take deep calm breaths, to feel ease within my birdcaged heart. I look far and near for a carrot to chase, a bullseye to aim for, a goal line to cross that may provide recognition that I have at last made it Home. In equal earnestness I search for a hook upon which I can hang this 'gift' of adoration, heavy and smothering, a large rough yoke I carry with me everywhere I go, in mind's eye composed of leather and brass with many buckles and straps, old and sweatstained. I know I will drop where I stand one day, made a jument of my want. Gifted or cursed, I do not know which I am set upon by my feelings as if by a buzzing cloud of gnatflies on a hot summer day or a flock of beautiful birds, are they not sometimes needed? Welcomed? Beautiful in their own way then, like the birds that land upon the backs of elephants or other great beasts unable to tend to themselves such is their bulk, and keep them clean or free of some parasitical elements? My wants winged and feathered, beaked and beady-eyed? Of simple mind, and in simple minds grow stronger desire, if for no other reason than constriction of purpose and resource makes these same longings more focused, as if poured through a funnel and collected in a deep bowl. A reptilian brain thus trumps mammalian ponderings when it comes to elements of want and hunger, rapacious needs far easier to satisfy than self-aware logic and emotion.
Like the beacon in the top of a lighthouse, my attention is broadcast in a bright unbiased beam in every direction, full 360 degrees, again and again. A warning or an appeal? Depending on which receives this signal, freighter or vessel adrift, beetle or bat, one desiring solitude and one solace, both suffering some degree of need, for both depend on the will of another even if strangers they yet be.
Rocky cliffs send stones tumbling into cold gray water day and night, but only in the light of day can you see the frothy splash, the rising of tiny bubbles escaping their aquatic bondage tracing the path of the sinking rock, falling slower now submerged than before airborne, landing on the sea floor to roll back and forth with the waves and tides, unseen, as generations of your family are born and die, born and die again and again, forever towards some impossible end. Your bloodlines surely lost, names forgotten as that stone remains unaware of you or your existence and you of it's.
Just as easily you may pick up a rock spat upon the sand and guess it's name, or lacking the manners to ask it what it calls itself you may give it one of your own creation. You may throw it back into the sea or bash out the brains of your lover with the thing, swinging low and threatening tethered to the end of a stick, or join it with like kind chosen for their appearance, or knowledge of their strength, or both in some construction of your design. It is patient and loyal and it can wait. It's only vice is it's inability to deny gravity or momentum, a sucker for inertia, otherwise it is an unreasonable thing although it does not make untoward demands. Unlike me and you.
I've seen a bird carry a rock away from beside a still lake, wings flapping, carrying the unsuspecting object somewhere beyond my line of vision but not beyond the reach of my imagination, and on that subject I reckoned and wondered and still sometimes do. Can a piece of the Earth feel fear? Does it have a pulse that defies discovery so slow it beats, and as a result so long it persists? What of that bird, what was it's plan? What need was satisfied? Did they ever learn each others' names? Suspended in the air the cold weight of the rock finally matched by the desperate lift of beating wings, and for a few moments they exist on opposite sides of an equal sign. Whose will was stronger? Whose need? How long were they able to harmonize? Separately just single notes each, lingering in the air for such a brief time and begging to be joined by the other like the ends of a magnet, and even when fortunate enough to find another with which to resonate creatively for a moment, entire symphonies will lay undiscovered in each half, unable to be complete ever again as are pieces of a broken window pane, as there is never enough dirt beside the grave to fill it whole again.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
My recent interview with the KING OF HIP-POP
The following is a recent interview I conducted with Marshall Mathers, AKA Eminem, about the release of his latest album, 'Recovery' and subsequent mind-boggling NINE Grammy Award nominations for that same album. I was lucky enough to be granted this interview with the multi-platinum selling artist because my literary agent (who is a friend of Eminem's agent) sent him an advance copy of my upcoming book "Things You Should Know About Me: Breaking down the myths of America's favorite megalomaniac automotive repairperson" . He was impressed enough with the book to want to meet with me in person to discuss the possibility of working together on his autobiography. I happened to be in Los Angeles for a few days and our schedules were such that it was convenient to meet at the Chateau Marmont in Beverly Hills. This is what happened when we met each other to see if we 'clicked' for a future project :
I arrived ten minutes early, as is my custom for formal or business occasions. The valet palmed my generous $5 tip and gave me a nod of thanks as he pulled away in my rental car. I walked into the iconic Hotel there on the Sunset Strip and informed the maitre d' that I had arrived. I was surprised to learn that the rap star had already been seated, and was waiting for me in a far corner of the room. As I was escorted to our table, I noticed he was chewing something frantically and stuffing some paper wrappers into the pocket of his oversized ski jacket. I felt a little nervous, and stood beside the table even after the maitre d' had left, waiting to be invited to sit. Mister Mathers was wearing prescription glasses that made him look sort of bookish. I was not expecting that.
He held up one finger in the air - wait a sec- with a guilty grin on his face, still chewing and then swallowing, before standing up to shake my hand. He was shorter than I had imagined him being.
MM (wiping his mouth with a fancy napkin) : Fuck man! You're EARLY. Caught me eating a 7-layer up in this bitch!
ZM (confused, nervous) : Oh. Hi! Yes. I'm here. I mean, YOU'RE here. 7 layer?
MM (trying to keep a low profile) : Sit the fuck down! Yeah, 7 layer. I thought I'd grab a snack at Taco Bell before I headed over for this thing. The service here sucks my dick. It's going to be FOREVER before we eat shit.
ZM (Sitting, pleased, excited, unslinging army-surplus messenger bag from shoulder and settling in): Oh, yeah. I've never been here before, myself. I've seen it in a lot of movies though.
MM (glancing over his shoulder to make sure he is not being detected by strangers): See that bitch over there? The one pouring that fucking wine? SHE sucked my dick. So did that other bitch way over there, that one takin' those dinner rolls to Richard Gere and his bitch. You know Richard Gere?
ZM (taking it all in, trying to think of something amusing to say): Richard Gere? Ummm... NO. Didn't he have a thing with a gerbil once or something?
MM (Suddenly getting upset): THAT'S what I'm talkin' bout, man! You all write your shit and read your shit and that's all it is - SHIT! That tabloid shit! Bunch of fucking LIARS! You can all come over here and SUCK ON MY BALLS.
ZM (shocked, desperately trying to fix things): NO! I don't believe or read any of those things, I would NEVER..
MM (Happy again, chuckling, cutting Zak off short): Fuckin' with you man! I know that shit. Shit, RICHARD GERE sucked my dick once! HA! (elevating fist over table, waiting for return 'pound' from Zak)
ZM (slowly getting it, not really amused, reluctantly tapping fists): Oh. Ha. Hey, do you mind if I get my tape recorder out? We could start the interview? By the way, and I hate to ask, but who is going to pay for this? Wanna' do dutch?
MM (Surprised at sudden appearance of microphone tethered to large gray plastic tape recorder): Well, usually, the INTERVIEWER buys the INTERVIEWEE their shit.
ZM (Opening wallet, taking inventory, doing some math in his head): Okay... That's fine. (points microphone a few inches away from Mr. Mather's face and presses the red 'record' button on the tape recorder, the wheels inside of which begin to turn) So, what do people usually call you? Marshall? Eminem?
MM (looking over shoulder again to check if he has been discovered here yet): Nobody calls me Marshall. Em. Call me Em. Where the fucks the waiter? I'm thirsty.
ZM (thinking for just a moment, and then) I prefer to call you Mister Mathers. You don't mind do you?
MM (looking a little upset) Well, I'D prefer if you called me Em. 'the fucks this 'mister' shit? WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT WAITER?
ZM (not feeling comfortable with 'Em', adjusting microphone): I'll get him. Her. Here she comes now Mr. Mathers!
(At this point, Mr. Mathers ordered two seventeen-dollar bottles of oxygenated mineral water (explaining/bragging about his sobriety - AGAIN) and became upset when he could not order a platter of nachos. He compromised instead on something involving a Peruvian Swordfish and tortillas, and an appetizer involving truffles and cream cheese. I stayed with ice water myself, concerned about the quickly-mounting restaurant tab. After waitstaff left us we continued with the interview)
MM: What, you on a diet, bitch?
ZM (Ignoring his comment): So Mr. Mathers, let's talk about your latest album, 'Recovery', is that title symbolic for something?
MM (glaring for a moment, but happy to talk about his music): Symbolic? Recovery? Yeah. I felt like I was... GETTING BETTER. Recoverin'. I'm pretty happy with this album. The whole thing was like, was like... a fucking EXORCISM, man, you know? I had all this shit I had to get out of my head, and I was coming off drugs and...
ZM (interrupting him, excited to have similar experience): Yeah! Like ME in MY BOOK, I had things I wanted to get out of my system, too! It was very therapeutic!
MM (steering interview back to his album): Yeah, so like, the whole fucking thing was like my life, and it was ALL REAL, from the first track through to the last..
ZM (interrupting, being honest): I didn't like the first track.
MM (annoyed, but not sweating it): YEAH? Well the guys at 'Vibe' liked it plenty. That shit is REAL. That's the REAL SHIT! I'm saying, the whole fucking thing, track one through..
ZM (interrupting again, being honest): I didn't like the second track either. In fact, when I listen to that album, I just skip ahead to number five right away.
MM (not believing what he is hearing): Wha? ... You don't like 'On Fire'?
ZM (being honest): No, Not really. No.
MM (a threatening aura beginning to radiate about him): You don't like 'Won't Back Down'?
ZM (unable to bend the truth): No. In fact, I HATE that song. I hate Pink, too. Maybe that's why I hate that song? I REALLY hate that song. And what's that bit about Michael J. Fox vibrating with Parkinson's or whatever? That's not even funny.
MM (glaring without blinking for a full minute, until plates of food are set in front of him, breaking the silent tension): That song's up for ALL KINDS of awards! The guys at Rolling Stone said...
ZM (sensing need to change the subject): I like number five though. That was the first one I liked. Then I REALLY liked number seven, even though it's a little corny. THEN, I went CRAZY for number twelve - '25 to Life'? I LOVE THAT SONG. I had that one song on repeat for about five days, I think. I love it when...
MM (shoveling food in his mouth between swigs of water, happy now, enjoying the compliments): Yehhm! saht's whattum shayyyin! Sss ite! (chewing, swallowing, again, pointing at me with his fork, a bit of fish dangling from the prongs falling back onto his plate) I KNOW! And the best part? That shit is REAL right there! The real shit! Shit wrote itself! (shoveling food in mouth, again) Shhthzz fawwwl mmm mmmnn awwl!
ZM (beginning to feel sycophantic, wanting to talk about his book for a minute): Yeah! I know what you mean. Kind of like when I was writing MY BOOK! All the stuff about suicidal thoughts, and drinking and driving and behaving irresponsibly? All true! It just came right out of my pen with almost no effort! Like that, right?
MM (thirsty, snapping his fingers over his head to get the attention of the waitstaff) Yeah. Like that. 'Cept I don't act like a pussy all the time.
ZM (not sure if he should be offended or not, sipping ice water, analyzing Mr. Mather's evaluation): Pussy?
MM: Yeah. It's sort of funny for a while, but all you do is whine all the time, Yo. You're like this kid I used to HATE in school who was always complainin' about how nobody liked him. Nobody DID like him, 'cause he was complainin' all the time how nobody liked him. Get it, Dog?
ZM (choosing his words carefully): Mister Mathers. First of all, did you just call me a pussy? A whining pussy? Wait. We'll circle back to that. Did you just tell me I remind you of a kid from school you hated? Secondly, Nobody, and I mean NOBODY complains as much as YOU DO in your music! Poor you! Poor YOU trapped in your fame! (on a roll now, going too far, as usual) The business about your mom and Munchhausen's Syndrome? REALLY? You want to kill uh ... Whatshername.. Uh - KIM? Your dead friend, PROOF? THAT'S WHY YOU DO DRUGS, TO ESCAPE YOUR AWFUL LIFE?? HERE! TAKE THIS TO WIPE AWAY YOUR TEARS! (Offering fancy napkin across table to furious rapper)
MM (Slapping napkin out of Zak's hand): You don't know shit. You sure as hell don't know about the REAL SHIT. Don't even talk about Proof, Bitch. Ya'll don't come up in HERE tellin' ME about my shit! Don't rattle my shit, Punk. Punk Bitch! You don't know!
ZM (not quite done): And what kind of name is that anyway, 'Proof'? PROOF? What does that mean? - AND, BY THE WAY, speaking of Proof, You rhymed 'bulletproof' with 'Proof' in that one song. I NOTICED. Isn't that cheating or something? That's not even a rhyme, technically, is it? And why do you insist on talking like a negro?
MM: (food falling out of slack jaw): Negro?
ZM (suddenly uncomfortable, but unable to backtrack): Yeah. You know, a .. a.. COLORED PERSON. (avoiding looking in the direction of Will Smith who is seated not-far-away, and now in a whisper;) you know what I mean, Jesus! Forget it.
MM: .
ZM: So. Anyway... It sure has been raining a lot! Especially for LA. Does it rain a lot in Detroit?
MM: .
ZM: (trying desperately now) : I like that song with Rihanna a lot too. Even The Helper likes that one! She sure is cute. Right? Rihanna, not The Helper, I mean. Do you guys know each other or something? Are you finished eating? Would you like some more water or something?
MM (finally pulling a soft taco deluxe out of his jacket, unwrapping it): These things are alright. I like the drive-thru.
ZM (relieved, confused): Taco Bell? What is that? A taco?
MM (after chewing and swallowing): Yeah, Taco Bell. They have the drive-thrus. I can't even go in 'em anymore 'cause I'm so famous and shit. Can't even go to Taco Bell! How you like that shit? Ain't that about a bitch?
ZM (learning to bend the truth, finally): Yeah. That sounds terrible.
MM (after making two selections from the dessert tray): Yeah, so MY ALBUM, I feel like I've, like, GROWN A LOT since the last few albums, you know? I've grown, and made CHANGES in my life, I've been going through all these CHANGES in the last couple of years, you know?
ZM (wanting to keep him talking): Oh. Like that song you wrote - 'Going Through Changes'? Sort of like that?
MM (Happy again): Yeah, that was real shit right there, too. I think that's one of the best songs on the whole fuckin' album. I put all that shit in it, you know - truth, positive thoughts, metaphors, similes, symbolism, fuckin' rhymes, fuckin' beats, fuckin' Ozzy.. That shit is TIGHT right there! Some TIGHT SHIT, right?
ZM (likes song, but finds no symbolism or metaphors in it, AT ALL): Sure! 'Changes' are like you, CHANGING, right? Because YOU'RE going through changes, and so is ... Mr. Osbourne? Or, do you mean, like, LIFE is full of CHANGES too? Everything is changing all the time, right? I see.
MM: Black Sabbath.
ZM: Excuse me?
MM: The sample in that fucking song. It isn't Ozzy Osbourne, it's Black Sabbath. Ozzy's too new.
ZM (confused, again, trying to tread lightly): Yeah, but isn't Mr. Osbourne the singer for Black Sabbath? Too new?
MM (looking over each shoulder to make sure his secret is not overheard): Samples. Those fucking samples have to be 25 years old, AT LEAST, or we have to pay for them. Ozzy's too new. Black Sabbath is over 25 years old. PLUS, fucking song is about fucking CHANGES anyway. ain't nothin' wrong with that song. Or Ozzy. I put a shout in the notes for his ass, anyway. Not payin' no FIFTY GRAND to use no three second sample! Dre'll do that shit, not me. If HE wants to pay it, I say let the Negro go and pay the fifty fucking grand. I'M not the one to...
ZM (triumphant, interrupting, honest again, pointing): HA! THERE!
MM (momentarily confused, then understanding, then indignantly rolling eyes): *I* can say that shit. YOU can't say it. MY BEST FRIEND WAS A NEGRO. Negroes love me! Do negroes love YOU? HOW MANY GRAMMY AWARDS YOU UP FOR? Snap! (then snaps his fingers in my face)
ZM (not wanting to explore this topic further, beaten, then looking through messenger bag for notes): Yes. Quite. Ummm... I have some questions I wanted to ask you. They're here somewhere in my bag. A notebook. It should have a green cover. (pulling items out of messenger bag; batteries, gum, pens, the wrong notebooks, protein bars) It's in here somewhere...
MM (getting bored, picking remnants off of his plate with his fork): You been to the Playboy Mansion yet? They got a Taco Bell on the way up there...
ZM (Triumphantly waving green notebook over head): There it is! Alright now... Let's see... (papers falling out of notebook on floor, stuffing them back in, thumbing through pages, finally giving up and winging it) ... I'll remember them, I swear. OH, I know! I've got one!
MM (watching with more than a little contempt, wishing he was in a Taco Bell drive-thru): Yeah? What?
ZM: Well, I noticed this last album marked a departure for you from your little skits between songs, most notably the skits Lampooning Superman. Christopher Reeves. You seemed to have some sort of bone to pick with the man. Even after his passing, you continued to poke fun, and I know some people found it offensive. Why? Why HIM?
MM (Interested in talking about himself again, and appreciating the intelligent question, but must ask): 'Poke Fun'? What are you, fifty or somethin'? ANYWAYZ , Well, Superman is like, SUPER, right? He's got all these superpowers and shit, right? But then the REAL Superman falls off a horse and gets his shit all fucked up and can't even walk! Ever see that sucker blow into that straw to move his chair around? You don't think that's funny? What's wrong with you? You need to get laid more! Let's roll on up to the mansion and see Hugh.
ZM (ignoring MM's accurate estimation of frequency of sexual accomplishment): Funny? Maybe. A lot of people may take offense to that though. And you did it for like... (looking through notes in green notebook).. FIVE albums. Why did you stop doing that this last album?
MM (getting serious, introspective, NOT thinking about Taco Bell for a minute): Well, like, my best friend Proof died, right? We was BROTHERS, man. I didn't get a chance to say 'goodbye' or nothin' like that, just POOF! and Proof was gone. That shit put my ass in a.. a... self-loathing state, you know? I got to thinkin' and shit, thinkin' about Proof dyin' , and I was GOING THROUGH CHANGES and shit, right? I realized that people dyin' ain't funny. Even Christopher Reeves. Even Superman dies, and it don't have to be funny, you know? Proof didn't have no wheelchair either tho'. Still, I don't think death is so funny anymore.
ZM (taking a moment to let the somber tone of this admission pass): Well. I see. Most people don't think death is funny, Mr. Mathers. Or wheelchairs. A lot of people don't think Parkinson's Disease is funny either, but you 'make cracks' at Mr. Fox two...no, THREE times on your new album. What if Proof had had Parkinson's? Would it be funny then?
MM (considering this for a moment): No. But Proof DIDN'T have Parkinson's.
ZM: No.... But IF he did? It wouldn't be funny to you then? A lot of people have Parkinson's disease and don't think it's funny.
MM (confused): Yeah, but PROOF didn't have Parkinson's... What are you saying? Are you saying Proof DID have Parkinson's Disease?.. Fuck are you sayin' about Proof, Yo?
ZM (trying to bring things back to manageable condition, AGAIN): No. Nothing about Proof, nothing. Just that making fun of other people's disabilities and misfortunes is not always funny. To everyone. (making important point now) EVERYONE is SOMEBODY'S PROOF. (pausing for a moment to let this brilliant insight sink in, then) Let's talk about something else. Something happy, Okay? (looking through notebook, remembering question) Oh! I see you did one track with old-time collaborator 'Dr. Dre' - who has been credited with 'discovering' you and who also produced your first three albums. How long have you known Mr... Mr... ANDRE , uh... Mr...
MM: Young? Dre? Andre Young? That who you mean?
I arrived ten minutes early, as is my custom for formal or business occasions. The valet palmed my generous $5 tip and gave me a nod of thanks as he pulled away in my rental car. I walked into the iconic Hotel there on the Sunset Strip and informed the maitre d' that I had arrived. I was surprised to learn that the rap star had already been seated, and was waiting for me in a far corner of the room. As I was escorted to our table, I noticed he was chewing something frantically and stuffing some paper wrappers into the pocket of his oversized ski jacket. I felt a little nervous, and stood beside the table even after the maitre d' had left, waiting to be invited to sit. Mister Mathers was wearing prescription glasses that made him look sort of bookish. I was not expecting that.
He held up one finger in the air - wait a sec- with a guilty grin on his face, still chewing and then swallowing, before standing up to shake my hand. He was shorter than I had imagined him being.
MM (wiping his mouth with a fancy napkin) : Fuck man! You're EARLY. Caught me eating a 7-layer up in this bitch!
ZM (confused, nervous) : Oh. Hi! Yes. I'm here. I mean, YOU'RE here. 7 layer?
MM (trying to keep a low profile) : Sit the fuck down! Yeah, 7 layer. I thought I'd grab a snack at Taco Bell before I headed over for this thing. The service here sucks my dick. It's going to be FOREVER before we eat shit.
ZM (Sitting, pleased, excited, unslinging army-surplus messenger bag from shoulder and settling in): Oh, yeah. I've never been here before, myself. I've seen it in a lot of movies though.
MM (glancing over his shoulder to make sure he is not being detected by strangers): See that bitch over there? The one pouring that fucking wine? SHE sucked my dick. So did that other bitch way over there, that one takin' those dinner rolls to Richard Gere and his bitch. You know Richard Gere?
ZM (taking it all in, trying to think of something amusing to say): Richard Gere? Ummm... NO. Didn't he have a thing with a gerbil once or something?
MM (Suddenly getting upset): THAT'S what I'm talkin' bout, man! You all write your shit and read your shit and that's all it is - SHIT! That tabloid shit! Bunch of fucking LIARS! You can all come over here and SUCK ON MY BALLS.
ZM (shocked, desperately trying to fix things): NO! I don't believe or read any of those things, I would NEVER..
MM (Happy again, chuckling, cutting Zak off short): Fuckin' with you man! I know that shit. Shit, RICHARD GERE sucked my dick once! HA! (elevating fist over table, waiting for return 'pound' from Zak)
ZM (slowly getting it, not really amused, reluctantly tapping fists): Oh. Ha. Hey, do you mind if I get my tape recorder out? We could start the interview? By the way, and I hate to ask, but who is going to pay for this? Wanna' do dutch?
MM (Surprised at sudden appearance of microphone tethered to large gray plastic tape recorder): Well, usually, the INTERVIEWER buys the INTERVIEWEE their shit.
ZM (Opening wallet, taking inventory, doing some math in his head): Okay... That's fine. (points microphone a few inches away from Mr. Mather's face and presses the red 'record' button on the tape recorder, the wheels inside of which begin to turn) So, what do people usually call you? Marshall? Eminem?
MM (looking over shoulder again to check if he has been discovered here yet): Nobody calls me Marshall. Em. Call me Em. Where the fucks the waiter? I'm thirsty.
ZM (thinking for just a moment, and then) I prefer to call you Mister Mathers. You don't mind do you?
MM (looking a little upset) Well, I'D prefer if you called me Em. 'the fucks this 'mister' shit? WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT WAITER?
ZM (not feeling comfortable with 'Em', adjusting microphone): I'll get him. Her. Here she comes now Mr. Mathers!
(At this point, Mr. Mathers ordered two seventeen-dollar bottles of oxygenated mineral water (explaining/bragging about his sobriety - AGAIN) and became upset when he could not order a platter of nachos. He compromised instead on something involving a Peruvian Swordfish and tortillas, and an appetizer involving truffles and cream cheese. I stayed with ice water myself, concerned about the quickly-mounting restaurant tab. After waitstaff left us we continued with the interview)
MM: What, you on a diet, bitch?
ZM (Ignoring his comment): So Mr. Mathers, let's talk about your latest album, 'Recovery', is that title symbolic for something?
MM (glaring for a moment, but happy to talk about his music): Symbolic? Recovery? Yeah. I felt like I was... GETTING BETTER. Recoverin'. I'm pretty happy with this album. The whole thing was like, was like... a fucking EXORCISM, man, you know? I had all this shit I had to get out of my head, and I was coming off drugs and...
ZM (interrupting him, excited to have similar experience): Yeah! Like ME in MY BOOK, I had things I wanted to get out of my system, too! It was very therapeutic!
MM (steering interview back to his album): Yeah, so like, the whole fucking thing was like my life, and it was ALL REAL, from the first track through to the last..
ZM (interrupting, being honest): I didn't like the first track.
MM (annoyed, but not sweating it): YEAH? Well the guys at 'Vibe' liked it plenty. That shit is REAL. That's the REAL SHIT! I'm saying, the whole fucking thing, track one through..
ZM (interrupting again, being honest): I didn't like the second track either. In fact, when I listen to that album, I just skip ahead to number five right away.
MM (not believing what he is hearing): Wha? ... You don't like 'On Fire'?
ZM (being honest): No, Not really. No.
MM (a threatening aura beginning to radiate about him): You don't like 'Won't Back Down'?
ZM (unable to bend the truth): No. In fact, I HATE that song. I hate Pink, too. Maybe that's why I hate that song? I REALLY hate that song. And what's that bit about Michael J. Fox vibrating with Parkinson's or whatever? That's not even funny.
MM (glaring without blinking for a full minute, until plates of food are set in front of him, breaking the silent tension): That song's up for ALL KINDS of awards! The guys at Rolling Stone said...
ZM (sensing need to change the subject): I like number five though. That was the first one I liked. Then I REALLY liked number seven, even though it's a little corny. THEN, I went CRAZY for number twelve - '25 to Life'? I LOVE THAT SONG. I had that one song on repeat for about five days, I think. I love it when...
MM (shoveling food in his mouth between swigs of water, happy now, enjoying the compliments): Yehhm! saht's whattum shayyyin! Sss ite! (chewing, swallowing, again, pointing at me with his fork, a bit of fish dangling from the prongs falling back onto his plate) I KNOW! And the best part? That shit is REAL right there! The real shit! Shit wrote itself! (shoveling food in mouth, again) Shhthzz fawwwl mmm mmmnn awwl!
ZM (beginning to feel sycophantic, wanting to talk about his book for a minute): Yeah! I know what you mean. Kind of like when I was writing MY BOOK! All the stuff about suicidal thoughts, and drinking and driving and behaving irresponsibly? All true! It just came right out of my pen with almost no effort! Like that, right?
MM (thirsty, snapping his fingers over his head to get the attention of the waitstaff) Yeah. Like that. 'Cept I don't act like a pussy all the time.
ZM (not sure if he should be offended or not, sipping ice water, analyzing Mr. Mather's evaluation): Pussy?
MM: Yeah. It's sort of funny for a while, but all you do is whine all the time, Yo. You're like this kid I used to HATE in school who was always complainin' about how nobody liked him. Nobody DID like him, 'cause he was complainin' all the time how nobody liked him. Get it, Dog?
ZM (choosing his words carefully): Mister Mathers. First of all, did you just call me a pussy? A whining pussy? Wait. We'll circle back to that. Did you just tell me I remind you of a kid from school you hated? Secondly, Nobody, and I mean NOBODY complains as much as YOU DO in your music! Poor you! Poor YOU trapped in your fame! (on a roll now, going too far, as usual) The business about your mom and Munchhausen's Syndrome? REALLY? You want to kill uh ... Whatshername.. Uh - KIM? Your dead friend, PROOF? THAT'S WHY YOU DO DRUGS, TO ESCAPE YOUR AWFUL LIFE?? HERE! TAKE THIS TO WIPE AWAY YOUR TEARS! (Offering fancy napkin across table to furious rapper)
MM (Slapping napkin out of Zak's hand): You don't know shit. You sure as hell don't know about the REAL SHIT. Don't even talk about Proof, Bitch. Ya'll don't come up in HERE tellin' ME about my shit! Don't rattle my shit, Punk. Punk Bitch! You don't know!
ZM (not quite done): And what kind of name is that anyway, 'Proof'? PROOF? What does that mean? - AND, BY THE WAY, speaking of Proof, You rhymed 'bulletproof' with 'Proof' in that one song. I NOTICED. Isn't that cheating or something? That's not even a rhyme, technically, is it? And why do you insist on talking like a negro?
MM: (food falling out of slack jaw): Negro?
ZM (suddenly uncomfortable, but unable to backtrack): Yeah. You know, a .. a.. COLORED PERSON. (avoiding looking in the direction of Will Smith who is seated not-far-away, and now in a whisper;) you know what I mean, Jesus! Forget it.
MM: .
ZM: So. Anyway... It sure has been raining a lot! Especially for LA. Does it rain a lot in Detroit?
MM: .
ZM: (trying desperately now) : I like that song with Rihanna a lot too. Even The Helper likes that one! She sure is cute. Right? Rihanna, not The Helper, I mean. Do you guys know each other or something? Are you finished eating? Would you like some more water or something?
MM (finally pulling a soft taco deluxe out of his jacket, unwrapping it): These things are alright. I like the drive-thru.
ZM (relieved, confused): Taco Bell? What is that? A taco?
MM (after chewing and swallowing): Yeah, Taco Bell. They have the drive-thrus. I can't even go in 'em anymore 'cause I'm so famous and shit. Can't even go to Taco Bell! How you like that shit? Ain't that about a bitch?
ZM (learning to bend the truth, finally): Yeah. That sounds terrible.
MM (after making two selections from the dessert tray): Yeah, so MY ALBUM, I feel like I've, like, GROWN A LOT since the last few albums, you know? I've grown, and made CHANGES in my life, I've been going through all these CHANGES in the last couple of years, you know?
ZM (wanting to keep him talking): Oh. Like that song you wrote - 'Going Through Changes'? Sort of like that?
MM (Happy again): Yeah, that was real shit right there, too. I think that's one of the best songs on the whole fuckin' album. I put all that shit in it, you know - truth, positive thoughts, metaphors, similes, symbolism, fuckin' rhymes, fuckin' beats, fuckin' Ozzy.. That shit is TIGHT right there! Some TIGHT SHIT, right?
ZM (likes song, but finds no symbolism or metaphors in it, AT ALL): Sure! 'Changes' are like you, CHANGING, right? Because YOU'RE going through changes, and so is ... Mr. Osbourne? Or, do you mean, like, LIFE is full of CHANGES too? Everything is changing all the time, right? I see.
MM: Black Sabbath.
ZM: Excuse me?
MM: The sample in that fucking song. It isn't Ozzy Osbourne, it's Black Sabbath. Ozzy's too new.
ZM (confused, again, trying to tread lightly): Yeah, but isn't Mr. Osbourne the singer for Black Sabbath? Too new?
MM (looking over each shoulder to make sure his secret is not overheard): Samples. Those fucking samples have to be 25 years old, AT LEAST, or we have to pay for them. Ozzy's too new. Black Sabbath is over 25 years old. PLUS, fucking song is about fucking CHANGES anyway. ain't nothin' wrong with that song. Or Ozzy. I put a shout in the notes for his ass, anyway. Not payin' no FIFTY GRAND to use no three second sample! Dre'll do that shit, not me. If HE wants to pay it, I say let the Negro go and pay the fifty fucking grand. I'M not the one to...
ZM (triumphant, interrupting, honest again, pointing): HA! THERE!
MM (momentarily confused, then understanding, then indignantly rolling eyes): *I* can say that shit. YOU can't say it. MY BEST FRIEND WAS A NEGRO. Negroes love me! Do negroes love YOU? HOW MANY GRAMMY AWARDS YOU UP FOR? Snap! (then snaps his fingers in my face)
ZM (not wanting to explore this topic further, beaten, then looking through messenger bag for notes): Yes. Quite. Ummm... I have some questions I wanted to ask you. They're here somewhere in my bag. A notebook. It should have a green cover. (pulling items out of messenger bag; batteries, gum, pens, the wrong notebooks, protein bars) It's in here somewhere...
MM (getting bored, picking remnants off of his plate with his fork): You been to the Playboy Mansion yet? They got a Taco Bell on the way up there...
ZM (Triumphantly waving green notebook over head): There it is! Alright now... Let's see... (papers falling out of notebook on floor, stuffing them back in, thumbing through pages, finally giving up and winging it) ... I'll remember them, I swear. OH, I know! I've got one!
MM (watching with more than a little contempt, wishing he was in a Taco Bell drive-thru): Yeah? What?
ZM: Well, I noticed this last album marked a departure for you from your little skits between songs, most notably the skits Lampooning Superman. Christopher Reeves. You seemed to have some sort of bone to pick with the man. Even after his passing, you continued to poke fun, and I know some people found it offensive. Why? Why HIM?
MM (Interested in talking about himself again, and appreciating the intelligent question, but must ask): 'Poke Fun'? What are you, fifty or somethin'? ANYWAYZ , Well, Superman is like, SUPER, right? He's got all these superpowers and shit, right? But then the REAL Superman falls off a horse and gets his shit all fucked up and can't even walk! Ever see that sucker blow into that straw to move his chair around? You don't think that's funny? What's wrong with you? You need to get laid more! Let's roll on up to the mansion and see Hugh.
ZM (ignoring MM's accurate estimation of frequency of sexual accomplishment): Funny? Maybe. A lot of people may take offense to that though. And you did it for like... (looking through notes in green notebook).. FIVE albums. Why did you stop doing that this last album?
MM (getting serious, introspective, NOT thinking about Taco Bell for a minute): Well, like, my best friend Proof died, right? We was BROTHERS, man. I didn't get a chance to say 'goodbye' or nothin' like that, just POOF! and Proof was gone. That shit put my ass in a.. a... self-loathing state, you know? I got to thinkin' and shit, thinkin' about Proof dyin' , and I was GOING THROUGH CHANGES and shit, right? I realized that people dyin' ain't funny. Even Christopher Reeves. Even Superman dies, and it don't have to be funny, you know? Proof didn't have no wheelchair either tho'. Still, I don't think death is so funny anymore.
ZM (taking a moment to let the somber tone of this admission pass): Well. I see. Most people don't think death is funny, Mr. Mathers. Or wheelchairs. A lot of people don't think Parkinson's Disease is funny either, but you 'make cracks' at Mr. Fox two...no, THREE times on your new album. What if Proof had had Parkinson's? Would it be funny then?
MM (considering this for a moment): No. But Proof DIDN'T have Parkinson's.
ZM: No.... But IF he did? It wouldn't be funny to you then? A lot of people have Parkinson's disease and don't think it's funny.
MM (confused): Yeah, but PROOF didn't have Parkinson's... What are you saying? Are you saying Proof DID have Parkinson's Disease?.. Fuck are you sayin' about Proof, Yo?
ZM (trying to bring things back to manageable condition, AGAIN): No. Nothing about Proof, nothing. Just that making fun of other people's disabilities and misfortunes is not always funny. To everyone. (making important point now) EVERYONE is SOMEBODY'S PROOF. (pausing for a moment to let this brilliant insight sink in, then) Let's talk about something else. Something happy, Okay? (looking through notebook, remembering question) Oh! I see you did one track with old-time collaborator 'Dr. Dre' - who has been credited with 'discovering' you and who also produced your first three albums. How long have you known Mr... Mr... ANDRE , uh... Mr...
MM: Young? Dre? Andre Young? That who you mean?
Friday, December 24, 2010
A Close Call...
I was roasting a chicken the other day in my oven. It was a nice little Tuesday or Thursday. I forget which exactly, but it was a day with a 'T' in it somewhere, and I had been thinking about a roasted chicken for a few hours before I performed all the steps necessary to make the fantasy become a reality; I went to the store and bought a plump chicken, I soaked the thing in my own special blend of exotic herbs and juices, I ran 60 feet of 10-3 wire from a spanking new 30 AMP circuit breaker I had just bought from Home Depot and subsequently installed in the breaker box, I used the sharp end of a claw hammer to break a hole through a wall in the kitchen in which to mount the proper stove outlet - I did all that and more.
And so it was, only 9 hours after going to the store for a chicken, I was sliding that puppy in the oven. In an hour or so the delicious aroma was was everywhere! Another 15 minutes after THAT, there followed a dense cloud of smoke, which too went everywhere.
I knew I should have returned to Safeway for a drip pan, I just knew it. It's just that by the time the oven was working and the bird was ready, I really didn't want to have to bother with another trip to the store, even if they DO have a self-checkout aisle there now. I fashioned something myself out of tinfoil and an aluminum platter from Sizzler (Alzheimer's be damned!) and put it on a different rack more or less under the chicken, but I guess it wasn't accommodating enough in some respect - size or volume or robustness, I'll never know it's exact shortcoming(s) as it was lost in the resulting fire.
Despite being right in the middle of a very delicate operation under the hood of a Citroen, I had the common sense to investigate where all that smoke was coming from. I suspected it might have something to do with the freshly-installed stove and/or baking chicken, and as usual, my estimations were correct.
Smoke was hemorrhaging at a steady pace from the top of the oven door, and I felt my life actually flash there in front of me for a moment - was my meal going to be ruined? Maybe one side of the bird could be salvaged? I just couldn't tell yet. I stepped cautiously to the oven. I put my hand on the chrome strip which served as a handle. I pulled gently, shielding my face with my other hand and a dishtowel from the fireball I expected to leap at me - and an impressive ball of smoke rolled lazily out and up to be trapped against the ceiling, shrouding the flashing florescent light, but not much else happened.
I turned the stove off. I pulled the chicken out. It was in fact edible. Apparently what had happened was that a great deal of greasy juices had been emitted by the bird and spilled into my makeshift drip-catcher. Some had spilled past my drip-catcher, or it had failed in some way, allowing said liquids to fall onto the actual stove element itself initiating an unrealized burn sequence there at the bottom of the oven. Angry, evil, dark, smoking fluids reflecting the red glow of the heating element, it must have been quite hellish in there. Thank the Sweet Lord there wasn't a spark!
Well, I became far too preoccupied 'testing' the crispiness of the chicken skin, and 'sampling' a breast portion, and in my feeding frenzy I forgot to clean up or remove the drip pan. This was about three days ago.
Flash ahead these last three days - three days of movie-watching, three days of chicken-carcass-creativity, three days of chicken enchiladas, chicken salad sandwiches, finally chicken soup, three days of a chicken's worst nightmare unfolding here at The Shop. Well, that chicken must have put a curse on my oven on it's way out, because all hell broke loose in there today.
I was feeling lazy this afternoon, and so I went to Safeway to buy one of those lasagnas they sell there... or was it a Shephard's Pie? I forget which. I don't think it is important to my story anyway. NO WAIT! It was funny, because it WAS the lasagna, a ghetto Safeway lasagna with a fancy Latinesque name like : 'Il Cocini Primero' or 'Lasagna Bravini' or something amusing like that - pure gibberish - so I was chuckling to myself as I slid it into the oven on the rack above my black and befouled homemade drip pan, and I smugly set the dial to 'Delicious' at 375 degrees before resuming poking around under the hood of a Rover out in the garage. Twenty minutes later, savory aromas. Ten minutes after that, billowing smoke. Really? AGAIN?
I was more confident this time, experienced, jaded even, and just went right up to the oven door and pulled it open without the protection of my dishtowel. Fire belched out of the door and into my face, blinding me temporarily.
Now, I'm an Air Sign, so I can not be bothered with planning for disasters. Wait. Maybe I'm a Fire Sign? Earth Sign? Well, I'm one of THOSE. I am pretty sure I'm not a Water Sign, or I wouldn't get so upset when I have to wait in the line at the post office. Right? The point is: I'm an Air Sign and so I don't hang fire extinguishers all over the place like a certain short-but-imposing Jewish friend I have who shall remain nameless in this story. I am NOT the Safety Guy. And when a ball of fire jumps out of an oven and burns my eyebrows off, I do not remain calm. And what of the lasagna? Would it too remain in an edible state like the poultry before it had done? Would it persevere? Would it be crispy on top?
This is what I was thinking as I slammed the oven door shut and began slapping at my head and face with a used paper bag I found nearby. It seemed to do the trick putting out the hair fire, but it must have been some powerful medicine that baked chicken had administered in my kitchen three days prior, for even after turning the dial to 'off' and waiting a minute or two, still more black smoke came out the crack at the top of the door, and also began to float up out of the four black cold coils of the stovetop as well. This thing was living! Was I done for?
Well, I am typing this to you now, so you can guess I made it through alright myself. The lasagna was a total loss, however. I am still trying to pick up the pieces right now and decide what to do next. The fact that this all happened on the Eve of the birth of The Baby Jesus is not lost on me. I pay attention to the little details! Universal Signals! You should know this about me. I am tuned in to the cosmos. Even so, I just don't know what to do now about Christmas tomorrow - what about the children? I suppose it's back to Safeway for that Shephard's Pie.
It just goes to show you - No day is too sacred for a grease fire.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
A Bit of Nasty Business
I found the bathroom on my own, flipped on the light switch, and lifted the toilet seat to find the abomination lurking, waiting for me there.
This insult was obviously an act of aggression on her part.
This mountain of human shit was left here, not by accident as she would have me believe, but on purpose. I could feel the hostility being broadcast off of this pile of waste in waves. I could sense a swarm of animosity, circling over the toilet bowl and materializing into a hand, and then a finger, pointed straight at me. I would not bear this insult a moment longer.
Unzipping my pants, I began to piss before my cock was even properly aimed at this stinking atrocity, and I felt a stir of satisfaction as I noted a generous portion of my spray actually landed only near, and not entirely in, the toilet. With gritted teeth and acerbic ferocity I pissed for all I was worth on this mass of filth, and my stream was powerful enough to eventually break through this brown matter entirely, severing the pile north to south, and as the halves fell away from one another in slow motion, and slid lazily under the surface of the water, defeated, the only thing that could be heard was my steady stream still. I had beat her. At her own ugly game, I had beat her. My unbiased organ had convincingly played judge, jury and executioner in this sordid business. Justice had been served, and the truth always prevails in such matters.
Shaking the last bit of urine from my sagacious member, I triumphantly tucked myself away, zipped, stood up straight and admired myself smiling back at me from the mirror on the wall behind the toilet. You handsome fucker you, I thought.
I watched my hand hover for a moment, reflected in the chrome handle with which one push I could send this stinking mess all to hell. Wait. No. That’s right. Slowly, I let my hand fall back to my side, and took one last good long look at myself, adjusted my hair pretty, then rifled through her medicine cabinet looking for something, anything, to help me make it through this day.
This insult was obviously an act of aggression on her part.
This mountain of human shit was left here, not by accident as she would have me believe, but on purpose. I could feel the hostility being broadcast off of this pile of waste in waves. I could sense a swarm of animosity, circling over the toilet bowl and materializing into a hand, and then a finger, pointed straight at me. I would not bear this insult a moment longer.
Unzipping my pants, I began to piss before my cock was even properly aimed at this stinking atrocity, and I felt a stir of satisfaction as I noted a generous portion of my spray actually landed only near, and not entirely in, the toilet. With gritted teeth and acerbic ferocity I pissed for all I was worth on this mass of filth, and my stream was powerful enough to eventually break through this brown matter entirely, severing the pile north to south, and as the halves fell away from one another in slow motion, and slid lazily under the surface of the water, defeated, the only thing that could be heard was my steady stream still. I had beat her. At her own ugly game, I had beat her. My unbiased organ had convincingly played judge, jury and executioner in this sordid business. Justice had been served, and the truth always prevails in such matters.
Shaking the last bit of urine from my sagacious member, I triumphantly tucked myself away, zipped, stood up straight and admired myself smiling back at me from the mirror on the wall behind the toilet. You handsome fucker you, I thought.
I watched my hand hover for a moment, reflected in the chrome handle with which one push I could send this stinking mess all to hell. Wait. No. That’s right. Slowly, I let my hand fall back to my side, and took one last good long look at myself, adjusted my hair pretty, then rifled through her medicine cabinet looking for something, anything, to help me make it through this day.
Chapter 8(a) - I like Jeff Goldblum.
Earlier in the day when I had shown her the pictures of them on Craigslist, looking mossy and messy and shabby in their hand-painted camoflauge colors, I was surprised to discover in her reaction true excitement, and she began to yibble about how much she liked these vehicles, and 'had always wanted one', and weren't they cool? It makes me happy to witness enthusiasm firsthand, and to play any part in it at all I consider a cosmic gift, not to mention I am easily swept along with the enthusiasm and excitement of others, so I brought out the cash box and started counting out hundreds and fifties to see how much we had, and if this purchase would even be possible. I had been saving for another Citroen station wagon, and had just made the budget this week. I was going to have to put that off for a while to buy these Rovers, but this type of reaction to a ragged vehicle for sale was rare here, and I wanted to go with it, to do my part to maintain positive momentum with the excitement. We had enough money, I told The Helper. I also told her to get the camera, a notebook, and a new manila folder and write 'ROVER 109s' across the tab, then get in the car and wait for me there. She performed all duties as instructed, and without a hitch as far as I know. I did my part and got the money, my wallet and keys, and we were off. It was getting cold outside, so I grabbed a coat for myself, and another for her in case she didn't already have one with her.
There was a tense standoff earlier that morning when I called the owner of the Rovers, Jim, who lived about an hour and a half away near the coast. The ad had just come out that morning, and there was already another party headed out to look at the trucks. Tessa and I had to go into a holding pattern for about an hour to wait to see if the other guy was going to buy the things. During this time I told her what a great deal they were, and YES we could keep one, and how rare they are, and how neat it will be to have a car with the steering wheel on the other side from where we are used to seeing them, and as a result we were getting more excited. We had become frothy in a near-frenzy of want. After calling Jim again, we learned that the First Guy passed on the Trucks and so we were free to go look at them, unthreatened by the possibility of them being sold out from under us while we were driving.
We were both in pretty great moods. This was The Good Stuff. Good Times. Fun. I was driving her car, and we were just sampling some new Eminem album that had just come out, and to the shame of us both, we were soon bouncing and singing along in the car. I had an envelope fatly stuffed with American currency in the crack between our seats. There was an electrical charge of adventure hanging there in the car with us. I could feel it in the hairs on my arms. Things are happening now! Roadbound! I was going to go buy great big broken heavy things with engines and wheels, which could be convinced to roll once again, helped by my wise hands. Great motorized distractions, ready to be thrust into the center of my vision and resources, pushing all other obligations and reasonable thought out of the spotlight, if only for just a few days. A week or two maybe, TOPS that I would lose all interest in doing anything else but fiddling with these new projects. We were feeling great, and I could tell she could acknowledge and was reacting perfectly to the high spirits we were dancing with this fine day, instead of short-circuiting or raining down on them with black pessimistic opinions like so many before her had done. She had come around! She was part of it! She was feeding the monster too!
Speaking of feeding the monster, I faked an impending need for gasoline as an excuse to pull into a convenience store only fifteen minutes into our trek. I knew this particular store to sell deviled eggs and deep-fried chicken parts as well as dozens of varieties of jerky products, and I'll tell you this about my helper: She's an eater. I know she considers herself an eater of healthy foods, perhaps even possessing fine culinary standards, and maybe she does, but know ye this: with only the tiniest bit of suggestion she will sit and eat an entire 12 piece bucket of KFC - WITH SIDES - , or polish off a banana cream pie with an extra can of Reddi-Whip. I've seen her do it. More than once. This is one of the major reasons she is still my helper after all this time. I need someone like her by my side as much as possible to deflect my food guilt. Because, when I go on a roadtrip I'm buying some road snacks, and I don't want to feel weird or uncomfortable about it. I need to employ the Buddy System in situations like this. I need a Snack Buddy . Not to prevent me from buying crap and eating it, but to encourage and help me do so. She does.
We pulled in at the gas station and I bought $25 worth of regular-grade, then went into the store. I dropped about $16 on chicken strips, deviled eggs, her corn dog, my chap stick and a couple bottles of water. The car was soon fairly stuffed with the excitement of the impending vehicular purchases, as well as the odor of fried chicken. The food was gone before the second song finished playing on the CD player. I could have eaten more. I regretted not buying more chicken strips, or maybe she had the right idea with the corn dog? Mix it up a little? A corn dog would have made it a REALLY festive occasion, put it over the top so to speak. A corn dog can go places (and I'm talking metaphorically here) that chicken strips just can't go. Not only can they go special places, but they can take you to to special places too. I'm not just talking about the ditch beside the freeway, you on your hands and knees while your stomach heaves again and again, either. I'm talking about being taken to visit memories of the State Fair from childhood, I'm talking about lost memories of long-gone concession stands during SPECIAL EVENTS, those happy days dredged up from some forgotten pit in your mind by a mouth full of corn batter and processed meat, all steaming hot, covered in mustard and ketchup and eaten off of a stick. Fond Memories! I debated turning the car around at the next exit, or just cruising casually across the grassy median to merge with the traffic going back in the opposite direction, but then thought better of it. There was business to conduct soon, and we would be going back by that gas station in just a couple of hours. But could I wait that long?
Exercising uncharacteristic self-control, I kept driving forward, towards our goal for a change. I was feeling quite satisfied with myself and skipped the CD player back to the start of the current song again, one which was growing on me quite a bit. It would have been the third time the song would have been played in a row, and Tessa began to protest - first with a groan and eye rolling - and then she actually leaned forward, and with her pointed finger skipped ahead two songs to the song SHE liked most so far. This initiated a lively debate for a while about the pros and cons of each particular song, and soon judgments were passed between us regarding each others knowledge of music, or tastes. The tone soon began to turn dark and personal, and I tried to override any further argument by reminding her I was paying her, and therefore should have the last word regarding musical choices during business hours, especially on business trips! She made a compelling counter, reminding ME that we were in HER car. I became confused myself at this point, and found it difficult to establish which rules would supersede which here. I briefly considered adding my overwhelming seniority to the matter as well as the proximity of my recently passed birthday in a bid to appeal to her human side, or or her sense of justice, but thought better of it. My birthday was something I was trying to avoid thinking or talking about still, and I thought it best not to mention my age any more than necessary. I begrudgingly conceded she should have last say in the matter considering we were putting extra miles on her vehicle, and we finally agreed that under these particular circumstances, in the event that a democratic solution could not be reached, one of us would have to suffer an autocracy at the will of the other. Right is right, and fair is fair. I resisted the urge to mention that they were MY CDs which were brought along for our entertainment, as I felt at this point it would only confuse matters.
So , we skipped ahead to the song she liked, which, being honest with you, I liked too.
The rest of the journey was more or less uneventful. We listened to the entirety of the CD twice, making comments and notes here and there. The Helper pointed out a huge log-cabin-looking building on the side of the road, which she told me was a restaurant, and she claimed they served excellent ribs. I in turn made a note of THIS and skipped ahead an hour or two in my mind, and imagined us pulling in there, parking the car, and eating again. In what seemed like no time at all, we were off of the main road, and snaking about on a two-laner with no painted stripes, passing decrepit mobile homes and derelict vehicles left out in the moist coastal air to rot. Every now and then we passed a nice-looking house, but in the dank dark environment we were in, all had green mossy roofs like one would imagine seeing in Scotland or in a fairy tale about elves, tucked back into thickets of trees, every brick chimney issuing smoke, suggesting a warm cozy interior.
I found the address easily enough, and we crossed a narrow home-made wooden bridge over a tiny stream before coming to the clearing where we saw the tiny shed with the Land Rovers parked beside it. It was all misty and green and wet and beautiful, but not the sort of place you want to leave a car sitting for six years as these had been left to do.
I pulled up, nose to nose with one of the trucks parked under an awning attached to the little workshop. Tessa made some noise to indicate she was excited, and I admit I was excited too. I love to find old broken cars. I do. You should know this about me. We got out of the car and looked at each other over her car roof. She looked happy. I felt happy. I controlled my urge to go straight over to the trucks and begin poking about, and instead responsibly went to the workshop door, and before I could knock, it was opened before me.
A man, Jim, mustached, stood in the open doorway telling me to go look at the Rovers. I did. Tessa joined me there.
They were rustic, rusty, ruined, but for some reason Tessa liked them. I hesitated. She maintained. I folded. She was right, and she was cute. These trucks were cool enough to buy. We did. We bought them, and paid full price for the opportunity. You. Dude.
So, we had to have a tow truck go out and pick the things up, absent of our persons, at a later time. They did. We did. All was well though. I went to 11.
Something else I wrote 20 years ago, This time when I was supposed to have a job
2/16/90 - RELATIONSHIP FOLLY
It was a usual Friday night at work for me. There I was, manipulating the "Energy-Mizer 2000" dishwashing machine like the old pro that I was. I was seeing the usual things- dirty dishes, dirty cups, dirty silverware. They bring it to me, and I make them clean again, but that's a different story.
So, there I was, washing dishes when one of the managers sailed through the swinging doors like Columbus, with a bead on me.
The manager, looking half-tired and half angry said "Zak - There's someone here to see you."
"That's odd," I thought. "Who would be visiting me? Especially at work?"
"Make it quick", said the manager, who then swaggered back out by the front counter to do manager things.
I shut off the Energy-Mizer, dried off my hands, took off my sopping apron, and left the dish room to see who this surprise visitor might be. When I saw who it was, I was surprised. It was her.
Extremely happy to see her, but also still hurt and angry at her, I felt it necessary to feign disconcernment.
"Hello." I said. "What?"
She looked as if she had been crying. "Zak-" She half-sobbed. "I've got to talk to you..."
I felt a stirring in my gut in addition to a stirring in my pants. She was beautiful, and she wanted to talk to me. It looked important, but I had to be careful. She inadvertantly hurt me before, only days before; so I was going to proceed with caution.
"About what?" I said, not quite as unconcerned as humanly possible, but close.
"Well," She began, "I left him, Zak. I left my boyfriend..."
This was exciting, indeed. I felt a huge surge of excitement but didn't want her to know - Hey, she looked upset and I couldn't look like a dick. So nicer, I said: "Yeah? So? Why?"
She looked at me in disbelief for a moment, then looked like she was going to start crying again. She spun away from me and began to mosey over by the salad bar. As she was walking away from me I thought I heard her say "Ah - Choo". Not a sneeze, but stating "Ah - Choo". I became aware that several of my co-workers were watching us now, but pretending to fill salt shakers or dust the floors, or clean the bus tubs, but they were all watching, amazed. "What is that beautiful woman doing talking to Zak?" I could hear them think. I liked being in the spotlight.
"Excuse me?" I asked her. "What did you say?" I was standing just behind her now. She was beginning to sob. Jesus.
"For you", she wailed. "For you. Ever since you left the other day - (gasp) - all I could think about was you - (gasp) and - and- and - and - I've been missing you and Jeff got mad and kept bothering me about it - (Gaaaaasssspp!) and I made up my mind and told him to leave. I didn't want to see him anymore. I only want to see you - (gasp, gasp, sob -) and now I don't know if you even want anything to do with me!" She began to cry, and was really making quite a scene, flailing and sobbing like that in front of the of ranch dressing and all. One of the managers approached me.
"Zak. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
I looked at her and said briefly - "Give me a minute, ok??"
The manager got a dark look on her face and sat back down at a table to watch. She was pissing me off.
"What?" I asked Jennifer, shocked. "You did what?"
"I left him!" She continued, "To be with you. Oh, I'm so confused!" Boo-hoo-ooo-oo -- Boo-hoo-ooo-oo."
"Hey, hey, calm down." I was saying, and put a hand on her shoulder.
A very old man in a yellow polyster suit, a Myrtlewood Owl bolo tie, and a large cowboy hat saw that I was in my uniform and approached me oblivious to reality.
"Hey there, son - You're out of beets!"
"Sorry." I said to the man.
"Well, can you go get some?" He croaked. "I like them beets, boy!" -
It was now my turn to be shokced. "No." I said.
"What?" Said the man. "You out or something?"
"No, I'm just busy - Go ask someone else."
"Boy, I spent four dollars for this salad, and by God I'll have my beets or I'll know why not, by God!"
I ran into the back, opened a 5 pound can of beets, and returned to the salad bar in short order. I promptly poured the beets onto the man's tray (which was being held out expectantly), and onto the floor.
"You want beets? There!" I was saying triumphantly when the manager ran up again grabbing my arm and trying to tug me into the back. "In the back, Zak!" She was yelling. I tugged my way free and said "Let me go. Shut up." The old man was bellowing about the beet juice on his yellow suit, and the manager was both apologizing to the old man, sitting him down, and firing me at the same time. I was mad, but shocked, and pissed. "Fuck you." I muttered. I had just lost my job.
I directed my attention back to Jennifer who was still sobbing, but subsiding by the salad bar.
"Hey, hey - It's ok." I said.
She spun around and grabbed my arms. Looking deep into my eyes she said, "Yeah?? You will still be with me??" I of course nodded. This was good. "Oh, Zak, you're the greatest." She smiled and buried her face into my maroon polyester blend corporate-issued shirt.
From over her hair I could see the manager calming down the senior citizen at his table. She looked up and nailed me with an icy stare. I put my arms around Jennifer and held her close. The manager looked away and continued her placation.
Jennifer looked up at me again, beaming with her blue eyes. I smiled back.
"Well," I said. "What now?"
"Kiss me, you fool." Was her answer.
We fell into each other's arms and she pressed me back into the the salad bar, my ass in the lettuce as we shared the most incredible kiss of recent memory. Her hair was hanging past my face and into the cherry tomatoes all of her weight centered in her crotch on top of mine. I had found profound peace at work, finally.
Everyone had stopped eating, or working as the case may be, to watch over our little scene.
As we separated, untangling the green, leafy vegetables from our hair and clothes, several people began to applaud.
For some reason, I said to Jennifer, "Happy Valentine's Day!" This struck us as eternally funny and we began to laugh. Two managers were now tugging my arms, trying to pull me into the office. I was still laughing. "Leggo." I laughed, freeing my arms.
"Zak, you better leave now." They were saying. My laughter began to subside, but Jennifer's was raging on, still. God! She was beautiful, especially when she was laughing. I stopped my own snickering to admire her roaring laughter.
She was still laughing. Soon, she began to point at me also, laughing. Something wasn't correct. No, not at all.
"What?" I asked. The managers had left me alone. To call the police, I presume. I was feeling rushed and confused. "What?" I asked again.
She was trying to talk and laugh at the same time. "I'll... flly-... Oy... Hahaha."
"What?" I inquired again.
She was gaining control. Now, wiping her eyes and buttoning her coat she looked at me and said, "Silly boy. Poor, silly boy!" She was shaking her pretty head.
"Huh?" I managed.
"I can't wait to tell Kelly." She said, shaking her head. "I won the bet! Wait till she hears about this! It was great!" At this, she turned around and walked out the door. My mind was blank. I didn't know what to do or think. I watched as she got into her car and saw the lights turn their arc on the way out of the parking lot. I though I could still hear her laughing.
One of the managers was back. "Get out." she said. "You can get your check on Monday."
So I left.
Outside, I looked up into the clear, starry winter night and felt very, very foolish and lonely. As I turned my key in the ignition of my rig, I made a promise to never, ever be had by some dame again. But deep down, I mean really deep, deep down in the core of my being I knew that wasn't possible. Pulling out of the parking lot, I just thought about how beautiful she looked while she was laughing. So very beautiful.
It was a usual Friday night at work for me. There I was, manipulating the "Energy-Mizer 2000" dishwashing machine like the old pro that I was. I was seeing the usual things- dirty dishes, dirty cups, dirty silverware. They bring it to me, and I make them clean again, but that's a different story.
So, there I was, washing dishes when one of the managers sailed through the swinging doors like Columbus, with a bead on me.
The manager, looking half-tired and half angry said "Zak - There's someone here to see you."
"That's odd," I thought. "Who would be visiting me? Especially at work?"
"Make it quick", said the manager, who then swaggered back out by the front counter to do manager things.
I shut off the Energy-Mizer, dried off my hands, took off my sopping apron, and left the dish room to see who this surprise visitor might be. When I saw who it was, I was surprised. It was her.
Extremely happy to see her, but also still hurt and angry at her, I felt it necessary to feign disconcernment.
"Hello." I said. "What?"
She looked as if she had been crying. "Zak-" She half-sobbed. "I've got to talk to you..."
I felt a stirring in my gut in addition to a stirring in my pants. She was beautiful, and she wanted to talk to me. It looked important, but I had to be careful. She inadvertantly hurt me before, only days before; so I was going to proceed with caution.
"About what?" I said, not quite as unconcerned as humanly possible, but close.
"Well," She began, "I left him, Zak. I left my boyfriend..."
This was exciting, indeed. I felt a huge surge of excitement but didn't want her to know - Hey, she looked upset and I couldn't look like a dick. So nicer, I said: "Yeah? So? Why?"
She looked at me in disbelief for a moment, then looked like she was going to start crying again. She spun away from me and began to mosey over by the salad bar. As she was walking away from me I thought I heard her say "Ah - Choo". Not a sneeze, but stating "Ah - Choo". I became aware that several of my co-workers were watching us now, but pretending to fill salt shakers or dust the floors, or clean the bus tubs, but they were all watching, amazed. "What is that beautiful woman doing talking to Zak?" I could hear them think. I liked being in the spotlight.
"Excuse me?" I asked her. "What did you say?" I was standing just behind her now. She was beginning to sob. Jesus.
"For you", she wailed. "For you. Ever since you left the other day - (gasp) - all I could think about was you - (gasp) and - and- and - and - I've been missing you and Jeff got mad and kept bothering me about it - (Gaaaaasssspp!) and I made up my mind and told him to leave. I didn't want to see him anymore. I only want to see you - (gasp, gasp, sob -) and now I don't know if you even want anything to do with me!" She began to cry, and was really making quite a scene, flailing and sobbing like that in front of the of ranch dressing and all. One of the managers approached me.
"Zak. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
I looked at her and said briefly - "Give me a minute, ok??"
The manager got a dark look on her face and sat back down at a table to watch. She was pissing me off.
"What?" I asked Jennifer, shocked. "You did what?"
"I left him!" She continued, "To be with you. Oh, I'm so confused!" Boo-hoo-ooo-oo -- Boo-hoo-ooo-oo."
"Hey, hey, calm down." I was saying, and put a hand on her shoulder.
A very old man in a yellow polyster suit, a Myrtlewood Owl bolo tie, and a large cowboy hat saw that I was in my uniform and approached me oblivious to reality.
"Hey there, son - You're out of beets!"
"Sorry." I said to the man.
"Well, can you go get some?" He croaked. "I like them beets, boy!" -
It was now my turn to be shokced. "No." I said.
"What?" Said the man. "You out or something?"
"No, I'm just busy - Go ask someone else."
"Boy, I spent four dollars for this salad, and by God I'll have my beets or I'll know why not, by God!"
I ran into the back, opened a 5 pound can of beets, and returned to the salad bar in short order. I promptly poured the beets onto the man's tray (which was being held out expectantly), and onto the floor.
"You want beets? There!" I was saying triumphantly when the manager ran up again grabbing my arm and trying to tug me into the back. "In the back, Zak!" She was yelling. I tugged my way free and said "Let me go. Shut up." The old man was bellowing about the beet juice on his yellow suit, and the manager was both apologizing to the old man, sitting him down, and firing me at the same time. I was mad, but shocked, and pissed. "Fuck you." I muttered. I had just lost my job.
I directed my attention back to Jennifer who was still sobbing, but subsiding by the salad bar.
"Hey, hey - It's ok." I said.
She spun around and grabbed my arms. Looking deep into my eyes she said, "Yeah?? You will still be with me??" I of course nodded. This was good. "Oh, Zak, you're the greatest." She smiled and buried her face into my maroon polyester blend corporate-issued shirt.
From over her hair I could see the manager calming down the senior citizen at his table. She looked up and nailed me with an icy stare. I put my arms around Jennifer and held her close. The manager looked away and continued her placation.
Jennifer looked up at me again, beaming with her blue eyes. I smiled back.
"Well," I said. "What now?"
"Kiss me, you fool." Was her answer.
We fell into each other's arms and she pressed me back into the the salad bar, my ass in the lettuce as we shared the most incredible kiss of recent memory. Her hair was hanging past my face and into the cherry tomatoes all of her weight centered in her crotch on top of mine. I had found profound peace at work, finally.
Everyone had stopped eating, or working as the case may be, to watch over our little scene.
As we separated, untangling the green, leafy vegetables from our hair and clothes, several people began to applaud.
For some reason, I said to Jennifer, "Happy Valentine's Day!" This struck us as eternally funny and we began to laugh. Two managers were now tugging my arms, trying to pull me into the office. I was still laughing. "Leggo." I laughed, freeing my arms.
"Zak, you better leave now." They were saying. My laughter began to subside, but Jennifer's was raging on, still. God! She was beautiful, especially when she was laughing. I stopped my own snickering to admire her roaring laughter.
She was still laughing. Soon, she began to point at me also, laughing. Something wasn't correct. No, not at all.
"What?" I asked. The managers had left me alone. To call the police, I presume. I was feeling rushed and confused. "What?" I asked again.
She was trying to talk and laugh at the same time. "I'll... flly-... Oy... Hahaha."
"What?" I inquired again.
She was gaining control. Now, wiping her eyes and buttoning her coat she looked at me and said, "Silly boy. Poor, silly boy!" She was shaking her pretty head.
"Huh?" I managed.
"I can't wait to tell Kelly." She said, shaking her head. "I won the bet! Wait till she hears about this! It was great!" At this, she turned around and walked out the door. My mind was blank. I didn't know what to do or think. I watched as she got into her car and saw the lights turn their arc on the way out of the parking lot. I though I could still hear her laughing.
One of the managers was back. "Get out." she said. "You can get your check on Monday."
So I left.
Outside, I looked up into the clear, starry winter night and felt very, very foolish and lonely. As I turned my key in the ignition of my rig, I made a promise to never, ever be had by some dame again. But deep down, I mean really deep, deep down in the core of my being I knew that wasn't possible. Pulling out of the parking lot, I just thought about how beautiful she looked while she was laughing. So very beautiful.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
I need some new headphones/Happy New Year.
Howdy. I just got back from a nice little stroll across the bridge. Note to self (#1) : It is important to get out of the shop once in a while. Really. I didn't think about jumping off the bridge at all, not even for an instant, not even when looking over at The Pink Building. It felt good, being outside and walking, watching cars and faces go by.
I am not kidding you : I do not think I have left the building in about three weeks now. Excepting foot trips to Safeway, The Liquor Store, ... The Gym. I forgot about that. Once or twice, with the helper in the last few weeks. Symbolic gestures, those. They were not enough to combat the recent lethargy I am afraid. I don't think I have really seen or spoken to anyone in all this time too, excepting the helper, of course. She is gone now for a week or so, and I have more time to reflect on the current conditions. I remember now : It is important to get out every day! The only bad thing about my walk was this: My 'good' headphones, the ones with the ear clips? They finally gave up the fight a couple of weeks ago, no amount of jiggling with the plug would get them to play consistently in both ear holes. I have about 4 sets of ear BUDS, including a fancy set an awfully good friend gave me once a year or two ago, but I have learned the hard way that no ear buds will fit in my ear canals and stay there. (Note to Self (#2) - BUY NEW HEADPHONES.) I am not exaggerating, and I dabble in mechanical repair - remember that before you start telling me I don't know how to install earbuds - I'm telling you : I tried all the included extra bud cozies, engineered I assume to fit all available ear holes, and none of them fit. I take that back. Once or twice I was given the impression the ear buds fit, but once my person initiated movement, they quickly fell out, or lost their 'sound seal' and laid belly up there near my ear hole emitting tiny tinny sounds. After about 12 minutes of this, I did, for just one brief moment consider flinging myself off of the bridge. Instead, I flung the ear buds and came back, returning with no musical accompaniment. Which allowed me to think some more. I felt good.
Some of you may know this, but I DREAD, and I mean REALLY DREAD New Year's Eve, and here it comes! This weird week or two around Christmas, The Holidays, they are called - all culminating with some drunken event you are expected to attend with a date, or to find a date at, and get all excited that the horizon of a new year passes by overhead to the sound of noisemakers and popping Champagne corks and hugs and maybe a kiss, and you are expected to be in a good mood for all of this. I KNOW, I KNOW. It probably would be fun. I just, historically, don't have this experience. ANYWAY, I'm getting off of my point. I was thinking about this during my walk this morning, and decided I am just going to go ahead and have my own New Year's Eve tonight, just get it over with. I'm ready to start working on my resolutions NOW, and I don't want to have to wait another week or whatever. I already put up my new calendar and everything. So, tonight at midnight, I would be in my back yard squeezing off a few .45 rounds into the air (My arresting officer called them 'Shots of Joy'), but my HK was confiscated and destroyed, and I have not had room in the budget yet for a new piece. Yes, I am naked over here. It is not a reassuring feeling. ... What was I saying? OH YES - New Year's Eve. Mine is tonight. Sort of like the way Friday is my Tuesday, but that is another story altogether.
I am not going to get wasted tonight, I don't feel like drinking at all actually. For a few months. Speaking of which:
2011 is going to be my year, remember; you heard it here first. The even numbered years can come over here and shampoo my crotch. The odd numbers are the good ones, and '2011' just looks cool, anyway. I have a strong sense of goals right now, already. This is a good start.
First of all, I just want to get through this Winter. I just have to keep my nose to the grindstone, the work is here, paying work, I just have to knock out the projects one-by-one , which I have been doing pretty successfully so far this last month or two. I just have to maintain momentum, push these things out, follow the recipe, stash some more money, and next thing I know it will be Spring. I am going to England for a couple of weeks. Buying a car, shipping it back with some extra, and rare, engines in the back. While I am there, I may as well drive around and look at some castles / Stonehenge / soggy gray coastal towns / fried fish / et cetera. The helper may go with me. I don't know if that really matters or not anyway. This first quarter of the year is the 'FIRST PUSH' to getting out of here. The remainder of Spring and Summer will be spent selling the engines mentioned as well as the vehicle brought back, and by that time the Red Bull project will be well underway, if not completed, at which point I go on another trip for cars and a little exploration. There will be writing performed during this entire time. In fall there is a road trip (Time permitting, otherwise a flight) to moist, tropical Mexico - Yucatan, Chiapas, Quintana Roo - Somewhere warm and cheap, and outside of any major population of expatriates. If possible.
I'm just saying: I have plans. If I am going to stay in a building and fix things day in and day out, I want something to look forward to as a goal. OR, I'd like it to be warm when I leave that building at night, or even warm INSIDE the building? Is that too much to ask?
In the meantime, I want to do the things now I thought I would do if I lived in Portland - I want to wander around downtown in the dark of night, and I do not mean going to bars in The Pearl. I mean walking around in parks and alleys, hiding in dim doorways and making threatening eye contact with sinister looking strangers. Walking around at night, at least. Bundled up, warm, amongst the trunks of buildings.
I am NOT manic right now, by the way.
So, HAPPY NEW YEAR!
True F-ing Grit just opened today at the local movie theater. I sure do want to go see it.
Thanks for reading. Somehow saying it out loud (or whatever proxy this is) makes it seem more real.
I am not kidding you : I do not think I have left the building in about three weeks now. Excepting foot trips to Safeway, The Liquor Store, ... The Gym. I forgot about that. Once or twice, with the helper in the last few weeks. Symbolic gestures, those. They were not enough to combat the recent lethargy I am afraid. I don't think I have really seen or spoken to anyone in all this time too, excepting the helper, of course. She is gone now for a week or so, and I have more time to reflect on the current conditions. I remember now : It is important to get out every day! The only bad thing about my walk was this: My 'good' headphones, the ones with the ear clips? They finally gave up the fight a couple of weeks ago, no amount of jiggling with the plug would get them to play consistently in both ear holes. I have about 4 sets of ear BUDS, including a fancy set an awfully good friend gave me once a year or two ago, but I have learned the hard way that no ear buds will fit in my ear canals and stay there. (Note to Self (#2) - BUY NEW HEADPHONES.) I am not exaggerating, and I dabble in mechanical repair - remember that before you start telling me I don't know how to install earbuds - I'm telling you : I tried all the included extra bud cozies, engineered I assume to fit all available ear holes, and none of them fit. I take that back. Once or twice I was given the impression the ear buds fit, but once my person initiated movement, they quickly fell out, or lost their 'sound seal' and laid belly up there near my ear hole emitting tiny tinny sounds. After about 12 minutes of this, I did, for just one brief moment consider flinging myself off of the bridge. Instead, I flung the ear buds and came back, returning with no musical accompaniment. Which allowed me to think some more. I felt good.
I am not going to get wasted tonight, I don't feel like drinking at all actually. For a few months. Speaking of which:
2011 is going to be my year, remember; you heard it here first. The even numbered years can come over here and shampoo my crotch. The odd numbers are the good ones, and '2011' just looks cool, anyway. I have a strong sense of goals right now, already. This is a good start.
First of all, I just want to get through this Winter. I just have to keep my nose to the grindstone, the work is here, paying work, I just have to knock out the projects one-by-one , which I have been doing pretty successfully so far this last month or two. I just have to maintain momentum, push these things out, follow the recipe, stash some more money, and next thing I know it will be Spring. I am going to England for a couple of weeks. Buying a car, shipping it back with some extra, and rare, engines in the back. While I am there, I may as well drive around and look at some castles / Stonehenge / soggy gray coastal towns / fried fish / et cetera. The helper may go with me. I don't know if that really matters or not anyway. This first quarter of the year is the 'FIRST PUSH' to getting out of here. The remainder of Spring and Summer will be spent selling the engines mentioned as well as the vehicle brought back, and by that time the Red Bull project will be well underway, if not completed, at which point I go on another trip for cars and a little exploration. There will be writing performed during this entire time. In fall there is a road trip (Time permitting, otherwise a flight) to moist, tropical Mexico - Yucatan, Chiapas, Quintana Roo - Somewhere warm and cheap, and outside of any major population of expatriates. If possible.
I'm just saying: I have plans. If I am going to stay in a building and fix things day in and day out, I want something to look forward to as a goal. OR, I'd like it to be warm when I leave that building at night, or even warm INSIDE the building? Is that too much to ask?
In the meantime, I want to do the things now I thought I would do if I lived in Portland - I want to wander around downtown in the dark of night, and I do not mean going to bars in The Pearl. I mean walking around in parks and alleys, hiding in dim doorways and making threatening eye contact with sinister looking strangers. Walking around at night, at least. Bundled up, warm, amongst the trunks of buildings.
I am NOT manic right now, by the way.
So, HAPPY NEW YEAR!
True F-ing Grit just opened today at the local movie theater. I sure do want to go see it.
Thanks for reading. Somehow saying it out loud (or whatever proxy this is) makes it seem more real.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
A sweet mechanical symphony
No. The only way those engines can sound smooth is at a moderate throttle setting, 3000 or more RPM, in which case you can detect the increased volume of the load on accelerator pedal. These engines are incapable of sounding smooth AND silent at the same time. This is why, when walking tonight, I heard the sharp low hum of exhaust behind me, I had to turn around because something SPECIAL had to be approaching.
It was getting dark, but even at two blocks away I could tell the headlights were extra low to the ground and incredibly far away from each other. Immediately I thought Ferrari or Lambroghini - but in this neighborhood? I actually stopped walking to wait for the thing to approach and pass. It did.
A relatively pedestrian Ferrari 512 drove by, and they look 'cliche' or 'boring' in pictures maybe, the customary Ferrari look which you have seen three hundred times already, but in person, burbling by, they are quite unusual. Low. Impossibly wide, barely fitting in their traffic lane. The boxer engine is perfectly timed and balanced, and breathing through tiny silencers, so the sound is a sharp one - but still even and pleasant. Like the rolling of a Latin 'R' through a tin can, it is a warm and calming sound while presenting a latent threat. You know if the driver were to mash the gas pedal to the floor, there would be an immediate scream and screech, a cloud of white/blue smoke issuing from the rear tires. You do not have to be a car person to detect this.
BLAH BLAH BLAH, I know. Oh, Fuck it. I was trying to make something technical and boring interesting. I give up.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Something I Wrote 20 Years Ago When I Was Supposed To Be Writing A Paper For Psych 303
"Yeah boss, here dat beef chunk." Said Freddy, the small black servant. He thought the man was crazy. Who cares if you can make the dogs salivate with a bell?
"Don't let them see it yet, you fool!" Shouted Pavlov. "I must prepare the apparatus first."
Freddy involuntarily swung the steak behind his back, to hide it. He shook his finger at the dogs, who were watching him hungrily. "Yo dogs did'n see dat beef did ya? No sir, yo dogs are hungry tho sho nuff. Yo wan this beef chunk, but cain have it 'til da boss hooks dem wires up in yo mouths." Freddy then addressed his employer: "Yo goin' to be shockin' they mouth? They aint' goin' to be eatin' they chunk if you be shockin' they own mouth..."
"Shut up Freddy!" Screamed the scientist while kneeling by a caged dog, fiddling in it's mouth with a sensor. Pavlov stood up up and began to explain for the untillionth time. "How many times do I have to tell you?? I am not SHOCKING the dogs. I am RECORDING the salivation process. THIS: (as he yanked a wire out of the nearest dogs mouth) is a sensor. A SEN-sor. It SENSES. This is not a live wire, not a shock-producing unit. A sensor!" Fuming now, the doctor glared at Freddy for a good 45 seconds, until his underling was shuffling rather uncomfortably, and finally satisfied he put the wire back into the dog's mouth.
Freddy watched the man in the white lab coat insert the wire again, still holding the steak away from the dogs. What a Triflin' Fool, thought Freddy. He was going to give this good meat to those dogs. Why, Freddy had half a mind to just walk out. Just walk right on out of this barn and down to his little shack, and just fry this meat right on up. Yeah, wouldn't that be tasty? This here meat and some potatoes, maybe some greens? yessir! Ol Doc here wouldn' like DAT, no. Freddy continued to watch as this white devil was fiddling with the big machine that all those wires were going to. Man, this was crazy.
"Cut up the steak, Freddy." Ordered Pavlov over his shoulder. "Into 8 equal portions. Remember, Don't let the dogs see it yet."
'Yessir, ain't gonna' show nuthin' to nobody' Freddy quietly complained as he sat down on the wood floor his back to dogs and Doc, took out his pocket knife, and began to divvy up the meat.
Pavlov was at the master recorder. All 8 channels were working fine. There were 8 dials on the front of the big, black box, about the size of a refrigerator, which Pavlov didn't know about yet, it being 1887 and all, so let's say about the size of several stacks of encyclopedias which Pavlov knew plenty about.
"Yes, yes." He was muttering under his breath. Conditioning. He would CONDITION the dogs to salivate. He would CONTROL them. This was just the tip of the iceberg! They all laughed at him back at the pub only a few days ago. "Make 'em start droolin' at a bell?? Ha ha ha ha!! Get out of here you crazy old coot! Hahaha - Droolin' at a bell..." The local neanderthals and imbeciles chided, as usual. He had stormed out, white lab coat snapping at his legs as he ran the entire 3/10ths of a mile to his manor here on the hill. He swore he'd prove them all wrong. They would see! They would be forced to reckon with his genius one way or another! He swore to himself, as Freddy mentally notarized the oath secretly from behind a cage and dog he was teasing before the doctor had burst into the room, thus surprising him.
But now, it was finally time. It had been storming all night. The lantern - lit room was whistling as the wind blew through the cracks in the walls.
A bolt of lightning flashed, lighting up every gap and breach in the modest barn, and caught, shimmering, on a shiny object on top of the big black box. The professor looked at this object for a moment, and thought that he himself may begin to salivate. As his hands closed around the silver, cold metal bell, thunder tore through the sky. He shuddered with all the power he felt clutched in his sweaty grip. His eyes closed as he relished this, his moment of near victory.
Freddy, growing impatient with all this nonsense, finally asked "Hey boss, whatca' goin' ta do? Fiddle around over they all nite? These dogs goin' right ta sleep."
With a terrible roar, Pavlov threw a lever on the black recorder, and the machine began to spit out a stream of paper, 8 needles scratching away in a frenzy on the sheet.
"Don't let them see it yet, you fool!" Shouted Pavlov. "I must prepare the apparatus first."
Freddy involuntarily swung the steak behind his back, to hide it. He shook his finger at the dogs, who were watching him hungrily. "Yo dogs did'n see dat beef did ya? No sir, yo dogs are hungry tho sho nuff. Yo wan this beef chunk, but cain have it 'til da boss hooks dem wires up in yo mouths." Freddy then addressed his employer: "Yo goin' to be shockin' they mouth? They aint' goin' to be eatin' they chunk if you be shockin' they own mouth..."
"Shut up Freddy!" Screamed the scientist while kneeling by a caged dog, fiddling in it's mouth with a sensor. Pavlov stood up up and began to explain for the untillionth time. "How many times do I have to tell you?? I am not SHOCKING the dogs. I am RECORDING the salivation process. THIS: (as he yanked a wire out of the nearest dogs mouth) is a sensor. A SEN-sor. It SENSES. This is not a live wire, not a shock-producing unit. A sensor!" Fuming now, the doctor glared at Freddy for a good 45 seconds, until his underling was shuffling rather uncomfortably, and finally satisfied he put the wire back into the dog's mouth.
Freddy watched the man in the white lab coat insert the wire again, still holding the steak away from the dogs. What a Triflin' Fool, thought Freddy. He was going to give this good meat to those dogs. Why, Freddy had half a mind to just walk out. Just walk right on out of this barn and down to his little shack, and just fry this meat right on up. Yeah, wouldn't that be tasty? This here meat and some potatoes, maybe some greens? yessir! Ol Doc here wouldn' like DAT, no. Freddy continued to watch as this white devil was fiddling with the big machine that all those wires were going to. Man, this was crazy.
"Cut up the steak, Freddy." Ordered Pavlov over his shoulder. "Into 8 equal portions. Remember, Don't let the dogs see it yet."
'Yessir, ain't gonna' show nuthin' to nobody' Freddy quietly complained as he sat down on the wood floor his back to dogs and Doc, took out his pocket knife, and began to divvy up the meat.
Pavlov was at the master recorder. All 8 channels were working fine. There were 8 dials on the front of the big, black box, about the size of a refrigerator, which Pavlov didn't know about yet, it being 1887 and all, so let's say about the size of several stacks of encyclopedias which Pavlov knew plenty about.
"Yes, yes." He was muttering under his breath. Conditioning. He would CONDITION the dogs to salivate. He would CONTROL them. This was just the tip of the iceberg! They all laughed at him back at the pub only a few days ago. "Make 'em start droolin' at a bell?? Ha ha ha ha!! Get out of here you crazy old coot! Hahaha - Droolin' at a bell..." The local neanderthals and imbeciles chided, as usual. He had stormed out, white lab coat snapping at his legs as he ran the entire 3/10ths of a mile to his manor here on the hill. He swore he'd prove them all wrong. They would see! They would be forced to reckon with his genius one way or another! He swore to himself, as Freddy mentally notarized the oath secretly from behind a cage and dog he was teasing before the doctor had burst into the room, thus surprising him.
But now, it was finally time. It had been storming all night. The lantern - lit room was whistling as the wind blew through the cracks in the walls.
A bolt of lightning flashed, lighting up every gap and breach in the modest barn, and caught, shimmering, on a shiny object on top of the big black box. The professor looked at this object for a moment, and thought that he himself may begin to salivate. As his hands closed around the silver, cold metal bell, thunder tore through the sky. He shuddered with all the power he felt clutched in his sweaty grip. His eyes closed as he relished this, his moment of near victory.
Freddy, growing impatient with all this nonsense, finally asked "Hey boss, whatca' goin' ta do? Fiddle around over they all nite? These dogs goin' right ta sleep."
With a terrible roar, Pavlov threw a lever on the black recorder, and the machine began to spit out a stream of paper, 8 needles scratching away in a frenzy on the sheet.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Smoke signals are not the same thing as DISTRESS SIGNALS
I used to be a Drunk Dialer, it is true. It is not a pretty fact, I know, nothing to be proud of or brag about. TO be honest, I am probably still a Drunk Dialer, but I no longer have a phone. Wait. That is not entirely true, and you know how I like to tell the truth, don't you? Well, I OWN a telephone, but I have the good sense to hide it from myself when I bring the bottle out. By the time my fingers are itching to make contact, tell a recently-remembered-amusement , ask you 'WHY!?' something-or-other somethinged, or I just want to wax lyrically on and on and on and on singing my many praises for my Helper, I can not locate the telephone. Where did I put it? I can't remember. If you are one of the three people who has tried to call me in the last three months and I didn't answer, this is the reason why. I was not screening my calls. Had I of known you were actually calling me, I would have pushed the keyboard (or razors, or microwave burrito, or Safeway cake, or road atlas) away from me and answered the phone in an amusing manner. Trust me, it would have been amusing, if not outright funny. I'm good that way. Unless it was YOU, in which case I would have tried to sound flat and pretend like I didn't know who it is when I answered the phone. For a minute, maybe less, before I began to act in an entertaining fashion.
I just can't help myself.
SO. I may no longer be able to be accurately labeled a Drunk Dialer, but I sure am a Drunk Emailer. Not that I am drunk all the time, mind you. This does not mean if you have received an email from me, I was drunk when I sent it. OH NO! Only if the email was sent sometime after 11 or 12 o'clock at night (a 2:30 in the morning email would be a good money bet for drunk-emailing behavior) and if the email contains many mis-spellings, and if there are numerous references to 'My Throat' or the spelling out of some irreverent number (Twenty-seven , fourteen hundred and three, NINE) instead of just typing the number like this: 27, 1403, 9 ... It would be better than even money that I had been hitting the sauce before hitting the SEND button.
The benefit, in my mind, to drunk emailing VS drunk dialing is that I can try to appear less drunk when I type. I may even , in my drunken condition, go against everything I stand for and actually attempt to proof my email and correct spelling errors - I KNOW! I KNOW! I would usually not stand for such Ninny Nancy behavior. Forgive me though - I had been drinking. Another advantage is being able to (with any luck) remember what I wanted to tell you when I began the email. Back in the days of the telephone, the phone would ring, ring, you may answer it, and then there I would be all 'Huh? Who is this? What do you want?!' And if I did realize it was *I* who called YOU , I would just go off on some tangent, being funny and charming as usual, eventually building up to some screaming fit where you are forced to hang up on me, and as I stand there in my shop alone, laughing, still holding the phone to my ear and eventually pull it away to point at it, imagining I am pointing at YOU with my other hand, LAUGHING UNTIL I AM CRYING, I realize I forgot to ever tell you what I wanted to tell you when I called you in the first place and I am forced to hit the redial button, wiping the tears off of my cheeks and trying to regain my speaking voice.
Are there more advantages to emailing?
I think so. There must be. OH YES! Sometimes, after composing a brilliant yet flawed email, I do have the option of NOT SENDING IT AT ALL (Which rarely occurs) and I let it sit stillborn in my email outbox, to possibly be discovered the next day, in which case I usually fairly glow with pride at not having sent the thing. I sure am smart when I'm drunk! I can't believe I didn't send that thing last night! I sure do have my shit together! YES, sometimes I edit and send. It hurts me to even think about editing. So wrong, so weak! Usually I do the 'Raw Thing' and send it out , flawed, unreadable, ranting and without order or direction. I do this when I am sober though, too. Just not at two in the morning.
What-EVER! Believe it or not, there are people out there WHO WISH they received emails from me, regardless of time or mental state from whence they were born. Precious little jewels, these. The emails I'm talking about here, not the people. Precious little jewels to be studied, examined, measured and sent to some special folder. Maybe the 'Restraining Order Evidence' folder. I don't know. My goal is to ultimately alienate EVERYONE I know, or even barely know. I'm doing pretty good so far! Not too many more to go! A lot of you have been pretty easy marks though. One or two of you I can't seem to shake. I don't know what I would ever have to do to actually, finally, REALLY alienate Edward. It will take a lot of work, so I'm saving him for last. I may have to resort to the telephone again, multiple calls at all hours of the night and morning. Calls from the police station, calls from the hospital, calls from various pay phones, hunched under tiny awnings in the dark and the rain outside of 24 hour convenience stores, pretending to be someone else. I don't think he would ever turn his ringer off, he is not constructed that way. What if there were a Situation up the street with MOTHER? HIS RINGER WILL ALWAYS BE TURNED ON. Know this about Edward: In the opera or ballet, out to dinner with Fancy People, in France, on a boat, in temple, whilst in the woods or SCUBA DIVING, his phone is TURNED ON and WITHIN EASY REACH. He does not lose his phone. This is important to know because when I really, and I mean REALLY hit the bottom, I am going to blow that fucker's phone RIGHT THE FUCK ON UP. I'll make him change his ring tone, or turn it down, or I'll die trying.
So, let's go have some fun now! I just thought you should know these things, they seemed important at the time, when I started typing them, about twenty-six minutes ago.
IT IS SUNDAY MORNING. Do the math.
My throat hurts.
I just can't help myself.
SO. I may no longer be able to be accurately labeled a Drunk Dialer, but I sure am a Drunk Emailer. Not that I am drunk all the time, mind you. This does not mean if you have received an email from me, I was drunk when I sent it. OH NO! Only if the email was sent sometime after 11 or 12 o'clock at night (a 2:30 in the morning email would be a good money bet for drunk-emailing behavior) and if the email contains many mis-spellings, and if there are numerous references to 'My Throat' or the spelling out of some irreverent number (Twenty-seven , fourteen hundred and three, NINE) instead of just typing the number like this: 27, 1403, 9 ... It would be better than even money that I had been hitting the sauce before hitting the SEND button.
The benefit, in my mind, to drunk emailing VS drunk dialing is that I can try to appear less drunk when I type. I may even , in my drunken condition, go against everything I stand for and actually attempt to proof my email and correct spelling errors - I KNOW! I KNOW! I would usually not stand for such Ninny Nancy behavior. Forgive me though - I had been drinking. Another advantage is being able to (with any luck) remember what I wanted to tell you when I began the email. Back in the days of the telephone, the phone would ring, ring, you may answer it, and then there I would be all 'Huh? Who is this? What do you want?!' And if I did realize it was *I* who called YOU , I would just go off on some tangent, being funny and charming as usual, eventually building up to some screaming fit where you are forced to hang up on me, and as I stand there in my shop alone, laughing, still holding the phone to my ear and eventually pull it away to point at it, imagining I am pointing at YOU with my other hand, LAUGHING UNTIL I AM CRYING, I realize I forgot to ever tell you what I wanted to tell you when I called you in the first place and I am forced to hit the redial button, wiping the tears off of my cheeks and trying to regain my speaking voice.
Are there more advantages to emailing?
I think so. There must be. OH YES! Sometimes, after composing a brilliant yet flawed email, I do have the option of NOT SENDING IT AT ALL (Which rarely occurs) and I let it sit stillborn in my email outbox, to possibly be discovered the next day, in which case I usually fairly glow with pride at not having sent the thing. I sure am smart when I'm drunk! I can't believe I didn't send that thing last night! I sure do have my shit together! YES, sometimes I edit and send. It hurts me to even think about editing. So wrong, so weak! Usually I do the 'Raw Thing' and send it out , flawed, unreadable, ranting and without order or direction. I do this when I am sober though, too. Just not at two in the morning.
What-EVER! Believe it or not, there are people out there WHO WISH they received emails from me, regardless of time or mental state from whence they were born. Precious little jewels, these. The emails I'm talking about here, not the people. Precious little jewels to be studied, examined, measured and sent to some special folder. Maybe the 'Restraining Order Evidence' folder. I don't know. My goal is to ultimately alienate EVERYONE I know, or even barely know. I'm doing pretty good so far! Not too many more to go! A lot of you have been pretty easy marks though. One or two of you I can't seem to shake. I don't know what I would ever have to do to actually, finally, REALLY alienate Edward. It will take a lot of work, so I'm saving him for last. I may have to resort to the telephone again, multiple calls at all hours of the night and morning. Calls from the police station, calls from the hospital, calls from various pay phones, hunched under tiny awnings in the dark and the rain outside of 24 hour convenience stores, pretending to be someone else. I don't think he would ever turn his ringer off, he is not constructed that way. What if there were a Situation up the street with MOTHER? HIS RINGER WILL ALWAYS BE TURNED ON. Know this about Edward: In the opera or ballet, out to dinner with Fancy People, in France, on a boat, in temple, whilst in the woods or SCUBA DIVING, his phone is TURNED ON and WITHIN EASY REACH. He does not lose his phone. This is important to know because when I really, and I mean REALLY hit the bottom, I am going to blow that fucker's phone RIGHT THE FUCK ON UP. I'll make him change his ring tone, or turn it down, or I'll die trying.
So, let's go have some fun now! I just thought you should know these things, they seemed important at the time, when I started typing them, about twenty-six minutes ago.
IT IS SUNDAY MORNING. Do the math.
My throat hurts.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
The things I have to say to you :
I had a special area to explore just now .... what was it? Yours? NO. I know that. SO : What was it?
My throat screeches in protest. I have to explain about that Old Lady. I have to, I need to, for it to make any sense. That really happened! I was young, a teenager, she befiled my parts. I attempt to cultivate understanding here, but none may exist. I have very harsh interpreters. Violent. Unfair. Lovely though.
Am I really here right now? The yellow light? The hair of your pet? I fall behind the curve, I slip, the wheels run over me shaking the carriage, you can feel this jostling in your spine.
Not many of you know this, but I have plans! I do! They are realistic and about to be realized. This is the sweet stuff. Finally. This is the fiction zone made flesh. This is going to be lightning hitting Dr. Frankenstien's mess of meat, zapping it into action. Twitch. Twitch!
I love her, I think I do. The world today? The puzzlement? Sudoku. Four Thousand.
I am finished. I am., I know it. I'll tell you more later, BUT, know ye this : I can harmonize on any number of octaves. I can do it. I have skills to fit my way in. If I can't do it naturally, or fake it convincingly, I can make a purchase, cash or trade for labor.
I have to check back soon. Thank you.
My throat screeches in protest. I have to explain about that Old Lady. I have to, I need to, for it to make any sense. That really happened! I was young, a teenager, she befiled my parts. I attempt to cultivate understanding here, but none may exist. I have very harsh interpreters. Violent. Unfair. Lovely though.
Am I really here right now? The yellow light? The hair of your pet? I fall behind the curve, I slip, the wheels run over me shaking the carriage, you can feel this jostling in your spine.
Not many of you know this, but I have plans! I do! They are realistic and about to be realized. This is the sweet stuff. Finally. This is the fiction zone made flesh. This is going to be lightning hitting Dr. Frankenstien's mess of meat, zapping it into action. Twitch. Twitch!
I love her, I think I do. The world today? The puzzlement? Sudoku. Four Thousand.
I am finished. I am., I know it. I'll tell you more later, BUT, know ye this : I can harmonize on any number of octaves. I can do it. I have skills to fit my way in. If I can't do it naturally, or fake it convincingly, I can make a purchase, cash or trade for labor.
I have to check back soon. Thank you.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Small details in big places
I love examining maps.
A few years ago, I could just sit still on a couch or at my desk poring over a Rand McNally atlas of the entire United States, any particular state, even maps of cities. My interest is still easily captured and maintained, but now there is Mapquest online with satellite images, the actual mountains and plains the real thing, shrunken down to fit my computer screen. It causes a sense of awe and wonder in me.
I have driven across the USA several times, and always try to find a route upon which I had not previously driven. My goal is too see every town and city possible, cross every freeway and highway, often even sticking to smaller roads in an effort to see as much as possible. My anxiety usually prevents me from getting out of the car too often during these trips, I feel like I need to get back to The Shop to deal with whatever lingering obligations are waiting me, the emails, the phone calls, the bills. I don't get out of the car a lot. I drive slowly though, and my field of vision always sweeps left and right like a radar dish on top of a warship, I don't miss much visually.
My point is, and I am not bragging right now, but I have seen a lot of America from the road through a windshield or open front window. I can not honestly say I have seen MOST OF or more than you, or more than most people, but I have seen a lot, and I pay attention to what I see. I file details - skylines, smells, temperature, vegetation, roadkill littering the sides of the roads, these are all lodged away in my memory. - MY POINT IS - When I look at a map or Mapquest, or a satellite photo of an area, I can look at most anywhere in the USA and a lot of southwestern Canada now, and imagine exactly what it would feel like there, what it would smell like, who lives where, what the bridge over that tiny blue line of river would look in actual real life and 3D, what gas station has what to eat, what the people who work there look like, if they were nice or not.
I often sit with an atlas open (or now, the computer representations) and squint, and maybe trace with a finger, and can spend HOURS imagining what it would be like on the ground wherever I happen to be investigating, what I would see from the road, I remember what a mountain looked like off in the distance that I can see on a map now, a dark green fold, maybe denoted with a black dot and a name. I know what it may look like to drive around it, in full three hundred and sixty degrees, it may take hours to get around them, it probably does if you can see it on a map. There are similarities between the maps and real life. This is probably obvious, the map an expression of the actual physical world, but it goes further than that.
Once you are able to look at a map and be able to picture yourself right there in it, on the ground inside that map, looking up at one of those green points , and able to judge the distance in the satellite picture from how far away from the road (your point of reference) and the point you were - ? You know what a peak looks like from, say, twenty miles away, you look at the map at all the reference points you have memorized, and if you have enough of them memorized in many different areas, and you can match them to the map which you are examining, you can begin to make accurate guesses about how other places you have NOT been to yet may look. And, if you have enough previous experience, you will be pretty close to accurate.
This may not be interesting or surprising, but it allows me to study a map for hours and hours, breathless and near tears imagining the places I want to go. I can imagine the smells, the humidity, the air pressure, the wind, even what the people will sound like when they speak to me in the gas stations. This makes this particular diversion extremely interesting for me. Enjoyable. Educational.
I zoom in, I zoom in more, I squint, I calculate, I zoom once more, and I can actually see the rocks where I watched you leave some of the ashes of your dead mother. I can feel just the same as I did that day, and even if it was not an easy day, my memories of it are entirely pleasant and I revisit that day often, it makes me feel good to think of that time. I can also zoom in on the river that flows out of the Smoky Mountains and down into Chattanooga, with a little work I can see the blue snaking water where we pulled the car over at a wide spot, still in the mountains, and stripped naked, waded and swam, my hands tracing the hollows in the riverbed, fingers sifting the silt resting there, looking for gold or a precious stone. You stood, swam, laid out there naked beside me not far from the thin traffic passing on the road past our parked car, Kudzu vines hanging from all the trees around us, looking like a jungle from some old Tarzan movie. Much later that same day we wound up in a bathtub in Alabama. The next morning was your first time going to a Waffle House. Scattered, smothered and covered - an excellent morning beside yet another freeway.
I watched turtles moving much more quickly than you are led to believe they can, move, sprinting, across the 4-lane highway in Louisiana, in my rearview mirror I saw one run over by a trailer, I backed our car up, a tenth of a mile or more, to check if it was alright - It's five gray/green reptilian extensions remained pinioning slowly out of the brilliantly shattered shell. Hopeless and heartbroken, I pulled back into traffic, back to 75MPH, heading West once again.
After what was probably our best dining experience together, EVER, in West Monroe, LA - We continued west. You were falling asleep in the passenger seat as we crossed the state line into Texas. I drove most of the night, admiring the skyline of Dallas off in the distance twinkling. I drove, I kept driving. Eventually, hours and hours later I was close to the western border. I grew tired, and vision failing, had to pull over. We slept together in the car in a rest stop not too far from Amarillo. I listened to a book-on-tape of some Sherlock Holmes story you bought as I fell asleep upright in my seat.
We drove all of the next day off of the freeway, on secondary roads, across the rest of Texas, into New Mexico, up up up into the mountains gradually, and without knowing it we were climbing into The Rockies,11,000 feet of elevation, the car running funny in protest at the lack of available oxygen there. A thunder storm erupted that night. Before it got dark we could see the flashing black clouds off in the distance and could tell we were driving right into them. As it became night, vivid bolts of lightning were hitting not far away from us as I pulled into Raton, NM and desperately searched for a place for us to pull in out of the storm. A cheap but cozy motel. We ate mediocre enchiladas and tacos up the street before showering and crawling into bed together, the thunder and lightning gone now, but the sound of heavy rain pounding on the roof making me even more glad to have you near me.
I fiddle with cars. I enjoy them. I enjoy machines in general, they do not give confusing messages. They work or not, they are yours or not, objects. Property. I enjoy trafficking across states in my cars. I am usually alone. Sometimes not though.
Recently?
A few years ago, I could just sit still on a couch or at my desk poring over a Rand McNally atlas of the entire United States, any particular state, even maps of cities. My interest is still easily captured and maintained, but now there is Mapquest online with satellite images, the actual mountains and plains the real thing, shrunken down to fit my computer screen. It causes a sense of awe and wonder in me.
I have driven across the USA several times, and always try to find a route upon which I had not previously driven. My goal is too see every town and city possible, cross every freeway and highway, often even sticking to smaller roads in an effort to see as much as possible. My anxiety usually prevents me from getting out of the car too often during these trips, I feel like I need to get back to The Shop to deal with whatever lingering obligations are waiting me, the emails, the phone calls, the bills. I don't get out of the car a lot. I drive slowly though, and my field of vision always sweeps left and right like a radar dish on top of a warship, I don't miss much visually.
My point is, and I am not bragging right now, but I have seen a lot of America from the road through a windshield or open front window. I can not honestly say I have seen MOST OF or more than you, or more than most people, but I have seen a lot, and I pay attention to what I see. I file details - skylines, smells, temperature, vegetation, roadkill littering the sides of the roads, these are all lodged away in my memory. - MY POINT IS - When I look at a map or Mapquest, or a satellite photo of an area, I can look at most anywhere in the USA and a lot of southwestern Canada now, and imagine exactly what it would feel like there, what it would smell like, who lives where, what the bridge over that tiny blue line of river would look in actual real life and 3D, what gas station has what to eat, what the people who work there look like, if they were nice or not.
I often sit with an atlas open (or now, the computer representations) and squint, and maybe trace with a finger, and can spend HOURS imagining what it would be like on the ground wherever I happen to be investigating, what I would see from the road, I remember what a mountain looked like off in the distance that I can see on a map now, a dark green fold, maybe denoted with a black dot and a name. I know what it may look like to drive around it, in full three hundred and sixty degrees, it may take hours to get around them, it probably does if you can see it on a map. There are similarities between the maps and real life. This is probably obvious, the map an expression of the actual physical world, but it goes further than that.
Once you are able to look at a map and be able to picture yourself right there in it, on the ground inside that map, looking up at one of those green points , and able to judge the distance in the satellite picture from how far away from the road (your point of reference) and the point you were - ? You know what a peak looks like from, say, twenty miles away, you look at the map at all the reference points you have memorized, and if you have enough of them memorized in many different areas, and you can match them to the map which you are examining, you can begin to make accurate guesses about how other places you have NOT been to yet may look. And, if you have enough previous experience, you will be pretty close to accurate.
This may not be interesting or surprising, but it allows me to study a map for hours and hours, breathless and near tears imagining the places I want to go. I can imagine the smells, the humidity, the air pressure, the wind, even what the people will sound like when they speak to me in the gas stations. This makes this particular diversion extremely interesting for me. Enjoyable. Educational.
I zoom in, I zoom in more, I squint, I calculate, I zoom once more, and I can actually see the rocks where I watched you leave some of the ashes of your dead mother. I can feel just the same as I did that day, and even if it was not an easy day, my memories of it are entirely pleasant and I revisit that day often, it makes me feel good to think of that time. I can also zoom in on the river that flows out of the Smoky Mountains and down into Chattanooga, with a little work I can see the blue snaking water where we pulled the car over at a wide spot, still in the mountains, and stripped naked, waded and swam, my hands tracing the hollows in the riverbed, fingers sifting the silt resting there, looking for gold or a precious stone. You stood, swam, laid out there naked beside me not far from the thin traffic passing on the road past our parked car, Kudzu vines hanging from all the trees around us, looking like a jungle from some old Tarzan movie. Much later that same day we wound up in a bathtub in Alabama. The next morning was your first time going to a Waffle House. Scattered, smothered and covered - an excellent morning beside yet another freeway.
I watched turtles moving much more quickly than you are led to believe they can, move, sprinting, across the 4-lane highway in Louisiana, in my rearview mirror I saw one run over by a trailer, I backed our car up, a tenth of a mile or more, to check if it was alright - It's five gray/green reptilian extensions remained pinioning slowly out of the brilliantly shattered shell. Hopeless and heartbroken, I pulled back into traffic, back to 75MPH, heading West once again.
After what was probably our best dining experience together, EVER, in West Monroe, LA - We continued west. You were falling asleep in the passenger seat as we crossed the state line into Texas. I drove most of the night, admiring the skyline of Dallas off in the distance twinkling. I drove, I kept driving. Eventually, hours and hours later I was close to the western border. I grew tired, and vision failing, had to pull over. We slept together in the car in a rest stop not too far from Amarillo. I listened to a book-on-tape of some Sherlock Holmes story you bought as I fell asleep upright in my seat.
We drove all of the next day off of the freeway, on secondary roads, across the rest of Texas, into New Mexico, up up up into the mountains gradually, and without knowing it we were climbing into The Rockies,11,000 feet of elevation, the car running funny in protest at the lack of available oxygen there. A thunder storm erupted that night. Before it got dark we could see the flashing black clouds off in the distance and could tell we were driving right into them. As it became night, vivid bolts of lightning were hitting not far away from us as I pulled into Raton, NM and desperately searched for a place for us to pull in out of the storm. A cheap but cozy motel. We ate mediocre enchiladas and tacos up the street before showering and crawling into bed together, the thunder and lightning gone now, but the sound of heavy rain pounding on the roof making me even more glad to have you near me.
I fiddle with cars. I enjoy them. I enjoy machines in general, they do not give confusing messages. They work or not, they are yours or not, objects. Property. I enjoy trafficking across states in my cars. I am usually alone. Sometimes not though.
Recently?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Cripple/ Becoming
He spent years pretending to need aluminum braces to walk. He would sit on the bus and roll his eyes back into his skull so only the whites would show out to those siting around him. He created an unsavory external expression of himself to project, so when rejected he did not have to feel like the 'real he' was rejected.
Like I said, he did this for many years, first as an experiment, then out of spite, later out of habit or addiction to the behavior, and finally because it was the 'real he' who he became. This was an important lesson he never forgot : Pretend something long enough, and it will become real, will become who and what you are.
Some people who met him avoided him because of his apparent disability, others were drawn to him, wanting to help him, or to elevate their own opinion of themselves. Some people DID help him. Most people were transparent at first, their motivations cliche, and later all lazily lumped into some category according to hair color and physical height.
People to him were no longer mysterious at all, his 'condition' would allow them to lower their own defenses and egos, and the 'real them' could spill forth. After years of being treated to people's uninhibited behaviors and actions, he could predict the scant several categories of displayed behavior before it ever began.
He once was on a train in St. Louis Missouri, and became convinced he could make lightning appear in the sky by closing his eyes, wishing hard enough and clenching his lying hands. Three times in a row he tried to do it, three times in a row it worked. He began to feel he had an extraordinary gift the first time this afternoon. He looked left and right to his sides to see if anyone noticed his power. They did not, but they noticed the lightning displayed through the windows of the coach, and this was a satisfying enough start for him.
Another time in Chicago, he discovered a dead man in an alley, apparently homeless and expired from some non-violent means and he knelt over the body and laying his crutches down on either side of the dead man, leaned his face in close to see if he could feel breath issue from his nose or mouth. He touched the cold cheek and knew. He opened the half-closed eyes all the way and looked in them earnestly, trying to find some answer. He tried to will life back into this body, but he could not. He closed his eyes, wished, and clenched his cheating hands. Nothing changed, the body remained still. He quickly stood up and installed the braces again and shuffled quickly along his way. He tried to forget this episode of impotence.
There were times he would begin to enjoy a person, enjoy their company, and he would teeter on the edge of telling them his secret, he would want to make this particular connection 'special' with his admission. He came close once or twice, but as luck would have it, something would go wrong soon before he followed through. Long lean necks and throats pulsed within inches of him so many times and he could feel a naked honesty there, carrying oxygen-rich blood to the cortex, voices - the expression of thoughts and wants - issued from those narrow tunnels of vessels, cartilage and glowing skin. He felt that place was an especially reverent one in these humans. A fragile tube ferrying life and truths (and sometimes lies) and often so wonderful to admire and fantasize of caressing.
His fingers ached for something more than his soul told him he could ever have. This was his future which was fortified almost everyday. HE began to wonder if his actual vision was necessary anymore, maybe it was becoming a disadvantage. Should he wear an eye patch? Thumb out his vision? Wrap his head in gauze like the end of a Q-tip?
Beauty was a curse, he always believed this, even before. To have things given too easily was to ruin the recipient. People are lazy. People take too much for granted. People should experience as much pain as possible, to provide a contrast for when things are good. When things ARE good, you should be anticipating 'the catch', bracing for the floor to fall out away from under you, never get too comfortable, these are the things he believed.
Like I said, he did this for many years, first as an experiment, then out of spite, later out of habit or addiction to the behavior, and finally because it was the 'real he' who he became. This was an important lesson he never forgot : Pretend something long enough, and it will become real, will become who and what you are.
Some people who met him avoided him because of his apparent disability, others were drawn to him, wanting to help him, or to elevate their own opinion of themselves. Some people DID help him. Most people were transparent at first, their motivations cliche, and later all lazily lumped into some category according to hair color and physical height.
People to him were no longer mysterious at all, his 'condition' would allow them to lower their own defenses and egos, and the 'real them' could spill forth. After years of being treated to people's uninhibited behaviors and actions, he could predict the scant several categories of displayed behavior before it ever began.
He once was on a train in St. Louis Missouri, and became convinced he could make lightning appear in the sky by closing his eyes, wishing hard enough and clenching his lying hands. Three times in a row he tried to do it, three times in a row it worked. He began to feel he had an extraordinary gift the first time this afternoon. He looked left and right to his sides to see if anyone noticed his power. They did not, but they noticed the lightning displayed through the windows of the coach, and this was a satisfying enough start for him.
Another time in Chicago, he discovered a dead man in an alley, apparently homeless and expired from some non-violent means and he knelt over the body and laying his crutches down on either side of the dead man, leaned his face in close to see if he could feel breath issue from his nose or mouth. He touched the cold cheek and knew. He opened the half-closed eyes all the way and looked in them earnestly, trying to find some answer. He tried to will life back into this body, but he could not. He closed his eyes, wished, and clenched his cheating hands. Nothing changed, the body remained still. He quickly stood up and installed the braces again and shuffled quickly along his way. He tried to forget this episode of impotence.
There were times he would begin to enjoy a person, enjoy their company, and he would teeter on the edge of telling them his secret, he would want to make this particular connection 'special' with his admission. He came close once or twice, but as luck would have it, something would go wrong soon before he followed through. Long lean necks and throats pulsed within inches of him so many times and he could feel a naked honesty there, carrying oxygen-rich blood to the cortex, voices - the expression of thoughts and wants - issued from those narrow tunnels of vessels, cartilage and glowing skin. He felt that place was an especially reverent one in these humans. A fragile tube ferrying life and truths (and sometimes lies) and often so wonderful to admire and fantasize of caressing.
His fingers ached for something more than his soul told him he could ever have. This was his future which was fortified almost everyday. HE began to wonder if his actual vision was necessary anymore, maybe it was becoming a disadvantage. Should he wear an eye patch? Thumb out his vision? Wrap his head in gauze like the end of a Q-tip?
Beauty was a curse, he always believed this, even before. To have things given too easily was to ruin the recipient. People are lazy. People take too much for granted. People should experience as much pain as possible, to provide a contrast for when things are good. When things ARE good, you should be anticipating 'the catch', bracing for the floor to fall out away from under you, never get too comfortable, these are the things he believed.
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