So I have this problem. It would seem that I am a big giant sappy pussy. I get lovesick, when I fall for someone I fall hard, when... well, you read this thing. You know all about it. So I came across a CD from my 6th grade year that I was fond of.
My friend Carlos Badial, some obsese Latino kid who had a go-kart, 7 full-blooded wolves in his backyard, an uncle with a Lotus, and an aunt that supposedly worked for whatever company came out with Lazer Tag and was in perpetuity promising to bring us each a get-up so we could play in the yard (never happened). Later on Carlos would sucker punch me in the nose and in return I would hit him in the arm with a bat if only to survive as he had a good 100 pounds and 3 wolves at his back.
Well, Carlos had this tape. I loved it initially for the Force M.D.s/ Fat Boys track "The Force M.D.s Meet the Fat Boys." I was (still am) WAY into the Fat Boys, so this was awesome. However, after seeing this in the store the other day for the first time in decades I had to get it and found another forgotten track that, in my 6th grade mind, was the shit, and it probably explains why I am such a sap. The song is "Tender Love" and it slayed me. Even as a Junior Junior I knew that I had to have someone to cuddle on and kiss a lot.
In fact, since my first days of listening to music, I have ALWAYS loved the slow jams. In 7th grade I had Heart's Heart album and could not stop listening to "What About Love" and "These Dreams." And my Dad had an Eddie Rabbit tape that, though I sang along to "I Love a Rainy Night" every time I heard it, I truly and secretly had a soft spot in my heart for "Step By Step," where Eddie tells you, "First step, ask her out and treat her like a lady. Second step, tell her she's the one you're dreaming of. Third step, take her in your arms and never let her go." Man, that shit sends chills down my spine even now. I am going to buy it on iTUNES right after posting this thing. Even back then I KNEW that he spoke nothing but the truth. Sucks I had to wait until I was 19 to even kiss a girl.
So, thanks to the glory of YouTube, I can share this with the 3 of you. Why I am the way that I am. Pop music ruined me.
7.5.08
It's Good To Keep In Mind That Only About 103% Of Everything I Write Is True... The Rest Is All Fiction: Speculative, Wishful, Self-Destructive
4:30 PM, May 7, 2008, I find out that I have a modus operandi. Go figure.
Here’s how it goes (it has happened twice, which for me qualifies as habitual):
I frequent a coffee shop or laid-back restaurant in or in the vicinity of my neighborhood: a mellow place that doesn’t get too busy but is not totally ghetto. A place where the patrons have all of their teeth and can dress themselves, and bathe regularly, but without making it a show-off kind of thing. A kinda hip joint but modest and quiet, an environment that is conducive to chatting with your waitress for lengths of time and ending up on a first name basis, as traffic is slowish (not in a Chapter 11 sort of way) and the volume is quiet.
For me, as per this transmission, it is enough (twice and, coincidentally (but not really (nested parenthesis, TRIPLE nested, suckah!)) in the same restaurant/bar) for me to develop a crush of extra-ordinary magnitude on some tragically adorable waitress who happens to be incredibly easy to talk to. I become a regular for coffee or pints or a gin and tonic on a hot day or a burger or whatnot. One reason for the regularity is due to the fact that I haven’t cooked anything more formidable than an egg, over easy, and toast since early 2007. The other reason is that I end up with a crush and thinking, much to my bank account's chagrin, “Gee, could use a $9 burger and two pints tonight,” which is code for, “Gee, maybe I’ll see that girl tonight.” Tonight, for the record, is code for “every night.”
So I do this and keep doing it until, after an indefinable amount of time, I think, “Gee, two more visits and I am going to get up the bottle to ask her out.” This totally flies in the face of the fact that I have absolutely no idea as to how to ask someone out. Sure, as all guys do, I have some idiotic script in my head that is an amalgamated crib note culled from fifteen different movies and 20 years of pop radio bullshit, but it is rarely, as far as I know, ever actually conjured up from the depths of the brain and brought into the living, breathing world.
And then it happens, during conversation on that deciding visit, when I have vowed that two more $9 cheeseburgers (or that epic beet salad with pine nuts, gorgonzola cheese and a raspberry vinaigrette dressing) from now I am going to ask this girl with a billion dollar smile out somehow, she drops in one way or another that she has a boyfriend or a partner. Now, it’s not in a way that indicates that she is trying to head my impending boobery off at the proverbial pass. It just comes out in casual waitress-to-friendly-regular conversation.
And there is an internal and silent, and yet another, crack in the heart, a small fissure in a terminal fault line that will someday realize its full potential and just erupt and drop my heart into the Pacific Ocean as if it were the California that jealous people from other states fetishize in an apocalyptic wet dream that will never come to fruition (you, yeah you, will never, EVER, have coastal property in Arizona. You’ll just sweat and curse and become more and more like a sun-burnt piece of beef jerky until you die of old age at 35 or drop dead from a scorpion sting).
Now this is where things get absurd(er). I don’t know if it is a retroactive thing or if my heart and brain exist on two different planes of reality or if my heart has some fleshy Flux Capacitor that I am not aware of, but I suspect, so much so that I would testify against myself in court if it ever came down to it, that this whole “two more $9 burgers and then I am asking her out” plan/vow is never actually realized until AFTER I learn that said waitress is involved with someone.
I know, it hurts my head too. I can’t quite figure it out in any precise manner—it is more of a feeling. It’s as if I get some weird amnesia… no, that’s not it.
It’s as if my brain, upon hearing this new tidbit of information, goes back in time without my knowledge and erases any thing contrary, and plants a notion, post-revelation, that I was GOING to ask this woman out, when in reality, I was just waiting to hear what I already suspected, justifiably or not, which is that she was already taken by a man bolder and faster than me. If this is to any degree true, then it is a defense mechanism that is, pretty much every minute of every day, trying to keep me from crumbling under the knowledge that I am, for lack of a better word, a twat (let's use the British pronunciation, rhymes with “hat.”).
And I go through all of this, and the little fissure in the heart is totally, though unconsciously (but not really) premeditated and, depressingly, wholly welcomed with open arms. I knew all along that, short of said and adorable waitress up and tackling me, I was never ever ever ever ever ever going to say anything to her about the fact that I thought she had a million dollar smile, that I wanted to feel her arms around me, that I wanted to spend an evening somewhere other than her work where we could dedicate all of our attentions to one another… and thank Christ for that as she had a boyfriend or whatnot.
Whew.
And these are my days and nights. For better or for worse, one could say it builds character, and if that is true, then I am up to my nostrils in character.
At least I can stop subjecting myself to $9 burgers for the time being.
Here’s how it goes (it has happened twice, which for me qualifies as habitual):
I frequent a coffee shop or laid-back restaurant in or in the vicinity of my neighborhood: a mellow place that doesn’t get too busy but is not totally ghetto. A place where the patrons have all of their teeth and can dress themselves, and bathe regularly, but without making it a show-off kind of thing. A kinda hip joint but modest and quiet, an environment that is conducive to chatting with your waitress for lengths of time and ending up on a first name basis, as traffic is slowish (not in a Chapter 11 sort of way) and the volume is quiet.
For me, as per this transmission, it is enough (twice and, coincidentally (but not really (nested parenthesis, TRIPLE nested, suckah!)) in the same restaurant/bar) for me to develop a crush of extra-ordinary magnitude on some tragically adorable waitress who happens to be incredibly easy to talk to. I become a regular for coffee or pints or a gin and tonic on a hot day or a burger or whatnot. One reason for the regularity is due to the fact that I haven’t cooked anything more formidable than an egg, over easy, and toast since early 2007. The other reason is that I end up with a crush and thinking, much to my bank account's chagrin, “Gee, could use a $9 burger and two pints tonight,” which is code for, “Gee, maybe I’ll see that girl tonight.” Tonight, for the record, is code for “every night.”
So I do this and keep doing it until, after an indefinable amount of time, I think, “Gee, two more visits and I am going to get up the bottle to ask her out.” This totally flies in the face of the fact that I have absolutely no idea as to how to ask someone out. Sure, as all guys do, I have some idiotic script in my head that is an amalgamated crib note culled from fifteen different movies and 20 years of pop radio bullshit, but it is rarely, as far as I know, ever actually conjured up from the depths of the brain and brought into the living, breathing world.
And then it happens, during conversation on that deciding visit, when I have vowed that two more $9 cheeseburgers (or that epic beet salad with pine nuts, gorgonzola cheese and a raspberry vinaigrette dressing) from now I am going to ask this girl with a billion dollar smile out somehow, she drops in one way or another that she has a boyfriend or a partner. Now, it’s not in a way that indicates that she is trying to head my impending boobery off at the proverbial pass. It just comes out in casual waitress-to-friendly-regular conversation.
And there is an internal and silent, and yet another, crack in the heart, a small fissure in a terminal fault line that will someday realize its full potential and just erupt and drop my heart into the Pacific Ocean as if it were the California that jealous people from other states fetishize in an apocalyptic wet dream that will never come to fruition (you, yeah you, will never, EVER, have coastal property in Arizona. You’ll just sweat and curse and become more and more like a sun-burnt piece of beef jerky until you die of old age at 35 or drop dead from a scorpion sting).
Now this is where things get absurd(er). I don’t know if it is a retroactive thing or if my heart and brain exist on two different planes of reality or if my heart has some fleshy Flux Capacitor that I am not aware of, but I suspect, so much so that I would testify against myself in court if it ever came down to it, that this whole “two more $9 burgers and then I am asking her out” plan/vow is never actually realized until AFTER I learn that said waitress is involved with someone.
I know, it hurts my head too. I can’t quite figure it out in any precise manner—it is more of a feeling. It’s as if I get some weird amnesia… no, that’s not it.
It’s as if my brain, upon hearing this new tidbit of information, goes back in time without my knowledge and erases any thing contrary, and plants a notion, post-revelation, that I was GOING to ask this woman out, when in reality, I was just waiting to hear what I already suspected, justifiably or not, which is that she was already taken by a man bolder and faster than me. If this is to any degree true, then it is a defense mechanism that is, pretty much every minute of every day, trying to keep me from crumbling under the knowledge that I am, for lack of a better word, a twat (let's use the British pronunciation, rhymes with “hat.”).
And I go through all of this, and the little fissure in the heart is totally, though unconsciously (but not really) premeditated and, depressingly, wholly welcomed with open arms. I knew all along that, short of said and adorable waitress up and tackling me, I was never ever ever ever ever ever going to say anything to her about the fact that I thought she had a million dollar smile, that I wanted to feel her arms around me, that I wanted to spend an evening somewhere other than her work where we could dedicate all of our attentions to one another… and thank Christ for that as she had a boyfriend or whatnot.
Whew.
And these are my days and nights. For better or for worse, one could say it builds character, and if that is true, then I am up to my nostrils in character.
At least I can stop subjecting myself to $9 burgers for the time being.
29.4.08
22.4.08
Sound Advice?
I bought a banana the other day at Whole Foods down in the Pearl. I was hungry, it would do the trick, and it's the only place you can get a banana that wasn't picked and put in the produce aisle 3 months before it was ready to eat.
So I was eating it out front and some tweaker-type guy (you know the type: 45-years old on a kids BMX bike, perpetual greyed whiskers and a cigarette in the mouth, mesh cap, some faded and crusted t-shirt) was unlocking his child bike and looked at me and said, "Never let your father see you eat a banana."
I just looked at him, half a mouth of unchewed banana in my mouth. I had no idea what he was talking about. Did he think my dad had a potasium allergy, a phobia to the color yellow, a... OH!
Then it struck me as he pedalled away. All I could offer as a come back or a resonse was a stupefied, "Huh?"
It was a slow day. If I were quicker on the draw I could have thrown back the fact that he probably sucked on a cigarette more than I chewed on bananas. Let's hope I never get into a line of work where I have to deal with hecklers.
So I was eating it out front and some tweaker-type guy (you know the type: 45-years old on a kids BMX bike, perpetual greyed whiskers and a cigarette in the mouth, mesh cap, some faded and crusted t-shirt) was unlocking his child bike and looked at me and said, "Never let your father see you eat a banana."
I just looked at him, half a mouth of unchewed banana in my mouth. I had no idea what he was talking about. Did he think my dad had a potasium allergy, a phobia to the color yellow, a... OH!
Then it struck me as he pedalled away. All I could offer as a come back or a resonse was a stupefied, "Huh?"
It was a slow day. If I were quicker on the draw I could have thrown back the fact that he probably sucked on a cigarette more than I chewed on bananas. Let's hope I never get into a line of work where I have to deal with hecklers.
16.4.08
Not merely "WTF?" but a Full Blown "What the Fuck?!"
Man, I have seen some bloody, effed-up movies before but this one trumps them all. If Eli Roth and Sam Peckinpah had a love child, this would be it. And when it emerged all covered in afterbirth, blood, and shit it would turn to its two fathers (Eli Roth would be the one with the womb. Even he would agree.) and call them pussies and walk away from them with a look of disgust on its face, never looking back.
This movie had me tilted back in the desk chair, donning a look of mortification at every turn during the last 40 minutes or so. It was rude. More blood than a Minnesota slaughterhouse. Really. The thing goes from drama to thriller to splatter to a brief whiplash-inducing turn to "rage virus/zombie" film.
The French have been on top of the game these days, from the incredibly disturbing Sheitan, a film filled with more truly uncomfortable moments than I have ever seen before, and which gives Deliverance a run for its money.
Also, Them (aka Ils) was a great thriller, edge of the seat, alone in the country and things go white-knuckle and shitty-type film. And, sadly though predictably, I saw a preview for an American version with Liv Tyler that will probably be OK, but looks way to obvious as it appears to ditch the element of unknown that the original wallowed in. But hey, tormentors in masks are better than tormentors you can't see, right?
Anyhoo, go rent Inside. Just don't try to eat while watching it.
And all said, for all of the blood and wrongness, it doesn't come off as excessive or unnecessary. How they did that, I haven't the foggiest.
12.4.08
DEAR DIARY: The Deleted Scenes
-February 15, 2008-
I am struck with the urge to go out and paint the town red, but not really. The fact of the matter is that out of the blue the phrase just pops into my head. I don’t understand the saying, literally. Yeah, I get the meaning but the origins of the phrase confound me. And besides, it has never been a saying that I have been fond of, aesthetically speaking. It just sounds, well, lame.
But it sticks, regardless. Sadly, being an introvert pretty much guarantees that bringing this late night urge within the boundaries of reality is an impossible notion. I don’t even really know what one would have to do, when you get right down to it, to paint a town red.
What I do do is this:
I go to the garage, lured by hazy memories of some forgotten paint cans in a back corner. Yes, there is a red one… well, maroon really, but let’s not be sticklers.
I can paint myself red.
On second thought the paint looks old. What are the possibilities that it is lead based? And I do have to work in two days. I doubt that I could adequately remove a coat of paint from my body by then. So, in light of that, I opt to paint my hand red instead. Well, actually I just dip it into the can after prying the lid off with my house key—my only key. I feel like I can make excuses for bringing a red hand to work.
The paint is thick and cold and I have to push through a skin that has formed on the surface, like when you heat up milk on the stove.
Now I have a painted hand. How long is this going to take to dry? I go out to the lawn and whip the excess paint off of my hands. It looks more brown than red.
After two minutes of blowing on my hand I get bored and I get the urge to search for a Ron Popeil infomercial on the T.V.
My hand is still wet so I stick it in a plastic grocery bag and go inside.
My room came with a T.V. and I have never turned it on. It has been plugged in for the 6 months that I have been here but has been transformed into a piss-poor version of a shelf that has a knack for dropping the things I put on top of it all over the floor…usually when I am asleep.
It boasts a set of antennae of the telescoping variety that I fear will one day put out an eye. I turn on the television and it responds with a spray of static. No amount of antennae manipulation will get me anything more than a hazy representation of the local FOX affiliate.
Does Ron Popeil even do infomercials anymore?
Maybe on Nick at Night?
It has become apparent that I probably don’t get Nick, night or day—or at an unreasonable time of morning, as some would refer to this particular moment in time.
What now?
I go back to the garage, following the paint drippings from my first dunking back to the scene of the crime. I dunk my other hand because it is 3 AM and I have nothing else to do. Taking the bag off of my other hand I find the paint tacky and splotchy so I re-dunk it and then go sit on the patch of grass between the sidewalk and the street to dry and think about what it is I have become.
I wake up at dawn cold and shivering, hands covered in grass clippings and small bugs. It would appear that I rolled from the lawn to the sidewalk, in the process covering myself in maroon paint smears.
Paint the town red, indeed.
I am struck with the urge to go out and paint the town red, but not really. The fact of the matter is that out of the blue the phrase just pops into my head. I don’t understand the saying, literally. Yeah, I get the meaning but the origins of the phrase confound me. And besides, it has never been a saying that I have been fond of, aesthetically speaking. It just sounds, well, lame.
But it sticks, regardless. Sadly, being an introvert pretty much guarantees that bringing this late night urge within the boundaries of reality is an impossible notion. I don’t even really know what one would have to do, when you get right down to it, to paint a town red.
What I do do is this:
I go to the garage, lured by hazy memories of some forgotten paint cans in a back corner. Yes, there is a red one… well, maroon really, but let’s not be sticklers.
I can paint myself red.
On second thought the paint looks old. What are the possibilities that it is lead based? And I do have to work in two days. I doubt that I could adequately remove a coat of paint from my body by then. So, in light of that, I opt to paint my hand red instead. Well, actually I just dip it into the can after prying the lid off with my house key—my only key. I feel like I can make excuses for bringing a red hand to work.
The paint is thick and cold and I have to push through a skin that has formed on the surface, like when you heat up milk on the stove.
Now I have a painted hand. How long is this going to take to dry? I go out to the lawn and whip the excess paint off of my hands. It looks more brown than red.
After two minutes of blowing on my hand I get bored and I get the urge to search for a Ron Popeil infomercial on the T.V.
My hand is still wet so I stick it in a plastic grocery bag and go inside.
My room came with a T.V. and I have never turned it on. It has been plugged in for the 6 months that I have been here but has been transformed into a piss-poor version of a shelf that has a knack for dropping the things I put on top of it all over the floor…usually when I am asleep.
It boasts a set of antennae of the telescoping variety that I fear will one day put out an eye. I turn on the television and it responds with a spray of static. No amount of antennae manipulation will get me anything more than a hazy representation of the local FOX affiliate.
Does Ron Popeil even do infomercials anymore?
Maybe on Nick at Night?
It has become apparent that I probably don’t get Nick, night or day—or at an unreasonable time of morning, as some would refer to this particular moment in time.
What now?
I go back to the garage, following the paint drippings from my first dunking back to the scene of the crime. I dunk my other hand because it is 3 AM and I have nothing else to do. Taking the bag off of my other hand I find the paint tacky and splotchy so I re-dunk it and then go sit on the patch of grass between the sidewalk and the street to dry and think about what it is I have become.
I wake up at dawn cold and shivering, hands covered in grass clippings and small bugs. It would appear that I rolled from the lawn to the sidewalk, in the process covering myself in maroon paint smears.
Paint the town red, indeed.
4.4.08
Uhh...
If I was writing a dictionary, and I needed a picture for the "creepy" entry, this would be it.
I promise to write something for the next blog spittle.
Excerpt...
So I just finished an internet book called John Dies in the End. It was pretty damned good, full of just the right amounts of riduculous humor and left-field horror/weirdness. The writer, David Wong writes for Cracked magazine, of all things. Anyhoo, it's good and if you don't have $16 to spend on the book, and care nothing for your eyesight, and have a sweet ergonomic chair, I would recommend it. I just started his unfinished sequel and thought I'd give an excerpt as I can do nothing but agree 1000% with his words here. This bit really has nothing to do with the story... I mean, it does, but it doesn't relay any pertinent info. It is just a great passage that resonated with me as he put into words something I have always thought, but never sat down to actually scribble out before, and had I, it would have not been nearly as accurate as this.
As you may guess from this, I have a deep-seated terror of any spider that weighs in at over half-a-pound:
There exists in this world a spider the size of a dinner plate, a foot wide if you include the legs. It's called the Goliath Bird-Eating spider, or the "Goliath Fucking Bird-Eating Spider" by those who have actually seen one. It doesn't eat only birds - it mostly eats rats and insects - but they still call it the "Bird-Eating Spider" because the fact that it can eat a bird is probably the most important thing to know about it. If you run across one of these things, like in your closet or crawling out of your bowl of soup, the first thing somebody will say is, "Watch it, man, that thing can eat a fucking bird." I don't know how they catch the birds. I know the Goliath Fucking Bird-Eating Spider can't fly because if it could, it would have a different name entirely. We would call it "Sir" because it would be the dominant species on the planet. None of us would leave the house unless a Goliath Fucking Flying Bird-Eating Spider said it was okay.
So, go read it, and watch out for big fucking spiders...
2.4.08
Better Late than Never
So, I spent Christmas in Kenya with some friends and friends of friends. We made our way to the coast and had an amazing time that was packed with beaches and beers and sea food and laughter and the tragic death of a kite... a kite surfer's kite.
All was well and we were only aware at this point, in Malindi, that elections were taking place, looming, and there was a minor possibility that things could go quickly to shit.
But we weren't concerned with that. It was all sand and sun and pineapples and avocado sandwiches. The mess didn't break out until after Christmas, which led to the space betwixt Christmas and New Years being spent in a few different hotels in Kenya's old capital city, Mombasa, wondering if we were ever going to be able to get back to Nairobi, and from there, back to Uganda. All transport was shut down and the streets were dead. Lots of Scrabble was played, lots of news was watched, and lots of beer was downed as we watched everything go to shit.
But...BUT, Christmas day in Malindi was another beach day and driving on some bumpy little dirt track that went from the paved road to the beach we passed up this place, Scary McNasty's. Everyone agreed upon seeing it that if we did not stop there for a Christmas drink then it would be an unforgivable offense.
Turns out it is a hotel/bar that some Scottish guy opened up. How he came up with the name we will never know. T'was a nice little place though with an above-ground pool that I would never go in and the place had a gate that was tended by some guy in full Masai gear. The bar was panelled with squares of dead and abandoned flip-flops which there is no shortage of from what I have seen in the 5 African countries I have been in.
So here it is, Scary McNasty's. Thanks to that crazy Scot, and thanks to Sarah, Jenny, Craig, and Carly for making this a most memorable Christmas.
Love you all and I hope that all is well wherever you may be.
Cheers!
WTF?
So I was walking down Greely the other day, a fairly well-traveled stretch of road that gets crowded during rush hour. I make better time than cars whilst walking home, sometimes passing the same car three or four times (see Amanda, didn't use the dreaded numerals...) in a 15 (whoops, dropped that ball pretty quick) block stretch as they get through a signal and get jammed up at the next. This road wasn't meant for such traffic, but as Portland gets bigger these small two lane roads surpass their intended capacity as commuters find "short cuts".What I am trying to get at is that this is no quiet, secluded length of road where weird things can lay unmolested in the middle of the street for hours or days.
Which is where this weirdness comes into play. I walked past these wings in the road, saw them, took a few steps, then stopped as what I just glanced at registered in my brain.
This is why I travel with my camera.
As rush hour traffic crept by, right off to the side of it on the asphalt was something that would be more at home in some goth kid's room or an art exhibit, lovingly situated and then photographed in black and white.
Disembodied pigeon wings, or more appropriately, a pigeon minus the body. Is it just me or does it look like it got hit by a car at such a high speed that it knocked the whole fucking body off of the wings? I know there is some obvious explanation, but a lot of the weirdness came from the fact that this was sitting on such a busy road. If it were a sleepy path I would guess that some bored kids scavenged an already dead bird, or iced one themselves as kids are prone to doing before they take that leap into serial killing, and posed it on the sidewalk.
Whatever the case, it caught my eye and threw a bit of oddness into a typically two-dimensional work day.
---------
Listening to:
We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank
Modest Mouse
29.3.08
Why these nights are lonely, and will be for a long time to come...
I looked deep into her eyes, eyes I knew a lot about, but whose deep shimmering blue held a lot more for me to unearth and cherish.
I said,
“Let’s grow incontinent together.”
The second prior to me saying these words and her processing them was the last time she ever looked at me as though I were an adult, a friend, anything resembling a human.
Three minutes prior to that was the last time we had kissed.
Had I known things were going to go sideways, I would have paid more attention to the details:
her breath, her lips, her tongue, her hips in my hands.
All of those little details that take one’s breath away and make the small and wispy arm hairs tingle and rise to the majesty that is exploding all over the brain.
My buddy told me later after I had relayed the story to him that I should probably work on my approach, that my “game,” if you will, could use a little work.
That proved to me that he had a severe neurological disability, possibly even shit for brains, because I have CRAZY game. Of all things in this world, this is the only thing I know for certain. Everything else is merely a sneaking suspicion, a low down dirty feeling, or a flat out fabrication.
And after a day or so of darkness and malt liquor, it dawned on me that she wasn’t the one… “The One.”
Anyone who can’t commit to uncontrollably shitting her pants with me as the years grow long in the tooth obviously isn’t the girl for me.
-------
Currently Listening to:
Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra and Tra-La-La Band
13 Blues for Thirteen Moons
I said,
“Let’s grow incontinent together.”
The second prior to me saying these words and her processing them was the last time she ever looked at me as though I were an adult, a friend, anything resembling a human.
Three minutes prior to that was the last time we had kissed.
Had I known things were going to go sideways, I would have paid more attention to the details:
her breath, her lips, her tongue, her hips in my hands.
All of those little details that take one’s breath away and make the small and wispy arm hairs tingle and rise to the majesty that is exploding all over the brain.
My buddy told me later after I had relayed the story to him that I should probably work on my approach, that my “game,” if you will, could use a little work.
That proved to me that he had a severe neurological disability, possibly even shit for brains, because I have CRAZY game. Of all things in this world, this is the only thing I know for certain. Everything else is merely a sneaking suspicion, a low down dirty feeling, or a flat out fabrication.
And after a day or so of darkness and malt liquor, it dawned on me that she wasn’t the one… “The One.”
Anyone who can’t commit to uncontrollably shitting her pants with me as the years grow long in the tooth obviously isn’t the girl for me.
-------
Currently Listening to:
Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra and Tra-La-La Band
13 Blues for Thirteen Moons
26.3.08
More Motels from Interstate
I was going to put up a pic of the lovely Palms Motel sign but it turns out Portland's own dark disco glamour hounds Glass Candy beat me to it. Neon and cute girls... I could never trump that. Whilst on the subject, I must bring up Glass Candy's label mates (Italians Do It Better records) The Chromatics, a lot moodier and better in my book; almost icy. It triggers a weird nostalgia in me, one that is tied to a past life that I can't recall. Check out the Night Drive song. I have been loving it for months now.
Anyhoo, who is up for a road trip? I bet if we drove through New Mexico or Texas we could find some awesome neon.
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