Monday, November 29, 2010
Umm...
Okay, now I know it's time to head further south. I'm sitting outside Starbucks, smoking, and there's a guy pushing a stroller around in this weird holding pattern. The stroller contains one toddler-sized child, and it's wearing a snowsuit. That's not good.
You have no idea
Or maybe you do.
Do you guys know how fucking hard it is to force yourself to sit down and work on a piece of writing that you can't even read without wanting to pass out? It's like trying to dead lift a weight ten times heavier than you're physically capable of even moving. Just opening the file is like scooping out your eyeballs and actually inserting a cursor is like willing yourself to spontaneously combust. Speaking from experience, it makes suicide look about as emotionally challenging as ordering coffee.
I'm just saying.
Do you guys know how fucking hard it is to force yourself to sit down and work on a piece of writing that you can't even read without wanting to pass out? It's like trying to dead lift a weight ten times heavier than you're physically capable of even moving. Just opening the file is like scooping out your eyeballs and actually inserting a cursor is like willing yourself to spontaneously combust. Speaking from experience, it makes suicide look about as emotionally challenging as ordering coffee.
I'm just saying.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
A few things
1. I killed my battery last night. Left the inverter on. It's supposed to have an automatic shut-off when the battery gets low, and it did shut off, but apparently not soon enough. I borrowed the "jump box" (which is apparently what they call the portable battery charger) from Wal-Mart's auto department, but maybe it didn't have enough juice either, because it didn't work. As such, I was able to utilize my AAA membership for the first, but certainly not the last - I'm sure - time. I waited about a half an hour, he jumped me (so to speak), told me my battery should be replaced soon, that my alternator was fine and so was my starter. He also told me that one of my headlights is out. Shit. Anyway, waiting for AAA is a lot more pleasant when you're waiting in the closest thing you have to a house.
2. I've decided to go to Florida. I know, I know... But it's getting cold even here. Below 40 is just too fucking cold for vanning. So I'm gonna drop down to the Everglades or somewhere around there. I'll have to wait out the cold there. If it's as awful as I fear it will be (I have an irrational yet highly convicted distaste for Florida - maybe it's Disney World), I'll have to revisit the issue. For now, though, I think it's the best move.
3. I watched a movie yesterday called Primer. I think I could watch that movie 100 times and still not understand it. Time travel has never seemed so complicated - which is probably good, because actual time travel would probably be extremely complicated. (I think maybe Back to the Future dumbed it down for us a little.) A few months ago I saw TimeCrimes, which was similarly complicated, but far more understandable. Not as good, though. Primer dealt with some relatively interesting subject matter - interpersonal relationships, ontology, moral and ethical responsibility... you get the idea. And these themes come through even without a solid grasp of the plot details. I looked it up online to try and find a simple explanation of the story, but it doesn't exist. There are some people out there who really dig this film and spend a lot of time trying to work it out, and even they have a lot of unanswered questions. I downloaded a couple of timeline charts that people have made. They make corporate organization charts look like a diagram of a square. I'm watching it again with these timelines in tow. If it kills me, I will understand this movie.
4. And in case you give a shit, writing is going slow, but I'm putting my efforts toward organization and focus, so I don't mind so much the lack of output. (That's only partly a lie.)
2. I've decided to go to Florida. I know, I know... But it's getting cold even here. Below 40 is just too fucking cold for vanning. So I'm gonna drop down to the Everglades or somewhere around there. I'll have to wait out the cold there. If it's as awful as I fear it will be (I have an irrational yet highly convicted distaste for Florida - maybe it's Disney World), I'll have to revisit the issue. For now, though, I think it's the best move.
3. I watched a movie yesterday called Primer. I think I could watch that movie 100 times and still not understand it. Time travel has never seemed so complicated - which is probably good, because actual time travel would probably be extremely complicated. (I think maybe Back to the Future dumbed it down for us a little.) A few months ago I saw TimeCrimes, which was similarly complicated, but far more understandable. Not as good, though. Primer dealt with some relatively interesting subject matter - interpersonal relationships, ontology, moral and ethical responsibility... you get the idea. And these themes come through even without a solid grasp of the plot details. I looked it up online to try and find a simple explanation of the story, but it doesn't exist. There are some people out there who really dig this film and spend a lot of time trying to work it out, and even they have a lot of unanswered questions. I downloaded a couple of timeline charts that people have made. They make corporate organization charts look like a diagram of a square. I'm watching it again with these timelines in tow. If it kills me, I will understand this movie.
4. And in case you give a shit, writing is going slow, but I'm putting my efforts toward organization and focus, so I don't mind so much the lack of output. (That's only partly a lie.)
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Buy me a chai?
Okay, guys. It's the end of the month, and so it's begging season. With seven days to go, I have enough money for only ONE chai-chai-latte. If you love me, maybe you want to buy me a chai. Maybe you don't, but it'd be a whole lot cooler if you did... If you aren't down with PayPal, Emily's collecting cash-cash-greenbacks and forwarding it on to me. My love is unconditional though, so don't feel like you have to.
That said.
I don't know if the confusion surrounding the official status of Pluto as a planet or a not-planet is confined to people over the age of... twenty or so, but I know that I'm never sure exactly where things stand. I know that popular informed opinion says no, but I'm not clear on the "official" position. What are children being told about this controversial issue? Is the general public's uncertainty being passed on to the next generation, or are kids being given a clear yes or no?
I'm not sure. BUT, here's what I do know: Barnes & Noble offers for sale a model of the solar system as an overhead light - the role of the sun, of course, being played by the light itself and the planets attached to radiating spokes that rotate around said solar substitute. It is not, in case you're interested (as I was), to scale, which makes sense, as the proportions of our corner of the galaxy - as far as I know (which isn't especially far) - do not lend themselves to practical, space-sensitive applications. (Space as in area, not space as in outer-.) But I digress. The point is that this model comes complete with... wait for it... eight planets.
Problem solved, and a hearty thanks to Barnes & Noble, for clearing that up.
That said.
I don't know if the confusion surrounding the official status of Pluto as a planet or a not-planet is confined to people over the age of... twenty or so, but I know that I'm never sure exactly where things stand. I know that popular informed opinion says no, but I'm not clear on the "official" position. What are children being told about this controversial issue? Is the general public's uncertainty being passed on to the next generation, or are kids being given a clear yes or no?
I'm not sure. BUT, here's what I do know: Barnes & Noble offers for sale a model of the solar system as an overhead light - the role of the sun, of course, being played by the light itself and the planets attached to radiating spokes that rotate around said solar substitute. It is not, in case you're interested (as I was), to scale, which makes sense, as the proportions of our corner of the galaxy - as far as I know (which isn't especially far) - do not lend themselves to practical, space-sensitive applications. (Space as in area, not space as in outer-.) But I digress. The point is that this model comes complete with... wait for it... eight planets.
Problem solved, and a hearty thanks to Barnes & Noble, for clearing that up.
Leo (July 23 - Aug.22):
Verbal volleyball often puts the ball in your court. Since you are fast on your mental feet, this is a good time to discuss relationships, handle computer chores or immerse yourself in technologies.
This wisdom thanks to StarNews: North Carolina's News Leader Since 1867
WHAT THE FUCK?! Fast on my mental feet I may be, but not fast enough to figure out what the fuck that horoscope is supposed to mean.
This wisdom thanks to StarNews: North Carolina's News Leader Since 1867
WHAT THE FUCK?! Fast on my mental feet I may be, but not fast enough to figure out what the fuck that horoscope is supposed to mean.
Friday, November 26, 2010
I'm speechless
No, I'm not. I lied.
Listen, I'm as much of a consumer as the next American. Really. I like shopping; I like buying things that I don't need and won't even want by the time the receipt is in my hand. I do my part to bolster the economy - inasmuch as my limited income allows - and I do it happily (inasmuch as my brain allows).
But I've never seen anything like I saw last night.
I've been camping out in the Wal-Mart parking lot since being evicted from Wrightsville Beach, and while it lacks something in the way of ambiance, it gets the job done well enough (it's not a terribly challenging job). Last night I spent most of the night there - what with the holiday and all; everything being closed and me without a lot of options - and while it struck me that it might be a little more crowded than usual as it got late, I had no idea what was actually happening.
I took the dogs for a fairly long walk around 11:00.
(Our route, incidentally, took us past an Old Navy, where an enormous line had been forming for what I suppose must have been quite a while, since the people at the front were equipped with camping chairs and the like. No tents, thank God - that would've been more thai could handle. Anyway, I asked, but unfortunately I didn't receive a particularly satisfying answer. It was clear that the store was going to open at midnight, and the man pointed to a poster that said something about a dance party, but I wasn't able to gather the relationship between dancing, Old Navy and Black Friday.)
By the time i got back to Wal-Mart, the parking lot was full. And I mean, it was fucking full. I was parked in the furthest corner of the lot and Bubba was surrounded. I was beside myself.
(Okay, I'm sorry, but I can't listen to this anymore without saying anything and there's no one here to say it to, so I'm saying it here. There are three women sitting at the table in front of me. From what I can gather, two are mother and daughter and the third is a friend of the daughter. These women have been talking about the mother's diamond rings for twenty minutes - at least. Well, when she got married she only had this big a diamond and her husband spends all this money on golf and when she made a jokey little remark that if he was going to spend all that on golf, where was her carat? And can you believe it?! He said we could get it when he came back!! They got it on base [I think that's what she said], so it was tax free, but it was a very expensive ring. And this, of course, was after her first upgrade to a half carat. She was going to pass the rejected half-carat to her daughter, but the daughter doesn't care for gold, and blah blah blah. And then she started in on her pearls. Jesus Christ.)
Right, so anyway. I had to see what was going on, so I went inside. Holy shit.
(Oh my God. Now they're discussing the number of times that the mother "took a belt to" the daughter. The daughter is, maybe... 25. Where the fuck am I that people still hit their children with belts for Christ's sake? It would be one thing if it were some sort of secret family abuse secret, but clearly this is just chit-chat. I swear, by the time I get out of this state I'll be adding PTSD to my primary diagnostic axis.)
There were so many people!! They were gathered in these enormous clusters, just standing there like cattle; one huge crop of them (pardon my mixed metaphor) had these enormous boxes in their carts - trampolines, a closer look revealed. It took me ten minutes of wandering around to figure out that they were clustered around pallets of merchandise that wasn't being made available (its shrink-wrap cut open, that is) until midnight on the nose. I guess they chose whatever they wanted most and just hovered there, waiting. At 12:00 a voice came over the speakers, requesting that people remain calm and orderly, etc. and the frenzy began. I swear it was like they thought these things were going to disappear from the planet if they didn't get them into their carts right now. The checkout lines were obscene. Carts overflowing with gigantic boxes - televisions and basketball hoops and bicycles. It was a humbling demonstration of radical - or should I say fanatical - consumerism. Extremely entertaining. I just wandered around the store with a slack-mouthed, incredulous half-smile.
But.
They had a really good deal on a portable DVD player, and it hadn't occurred to me, but that was exactly what I needed. My laptop and monitor just require too much juice. They drain my extra battery in under two hours. The electronics sale didn't start until 5am though, so I went to sleep, figuring if I woke up before 11:00 and they had any left, I'd call my mom and ask for the money. I did, they did and she did. I almost had one of those shopping frenzy fist fights though.
The scene looks like this:
There's a kiosk in the electronics section - you know, the one with the cameras all around it - and people are forming a line along the counter. At the front of the line is a register, and just before you hit the register, there's someone to get your item. So you tell this first person what you want, then the person at the register rings you out. I'd been standing in line for... ten minutes maybe, waiting for the old lady who was supposed to be getting the item to determine whether or not they had any more of some particular camera that the person in front of me wanted. So we were at a standstill, just watching her while she looked around helplessly - not looking on the shelves or anything, you understand. She was just spacing out. While this is going on, I'm scanning the products behind the counter to see if they have what I want and I see one. Of course, right? One.
And then some woman walks up to the register from the other direction and I hear her ask for the "7-inch portable TV". The employees are confused, but I know perfectly well what she means and this bitch is not getting my DVD player. It took them a few minutes (while Grandma continues to wander aimlessly), but they figured it out eventually and the one remaining player was produced. "Ahem... Pardon me, but I've been waiting in line for that product..." I got ready to battle, but the woman at the register just said "Yeah, that's true," and that was the end of it. I would've gone to the mat for that baby, I'll tell you what. Not because I wanted it that badly - it just would've made a really good story. Anyway, anyone who doesn't know the difference between a TV and a DVD player doesn't deserve the outstanding bargain I got on it.
I'm pretty excited. It'll be nice to have something to do before I go to sleep other than play solitaire. (And anyone with a solitaire comment can just keep it to themselves.)
One last thing:
This is a really, really long post and I'm not going back over the whole thing to look for typos, errors, broken rhythms and the like. Deal with it.
Listen, I'm as much of a consumer as the next American. Really. I like shopping; I like buying things that I don't need and won't even want by the time the receipt is in my hand. I do my part to bolster the economy - inasmuch as my limited income allows - and I do it happily (inasmuch as my brain allows).
But I've never seen anything like I saw last night.
I've been camping out in the Wal-Mart parking lot since being evicted from Wrightsville Beach, and while it lacks something in the way of ambiance, it gets the job done well enough (it's not a terribly challenging job). Last night I spent most of the night there - what with the holiday and all; everything being closed and me without a lot of options - and while it struck me that it might be a little more crowded than usual as it got late, I had no idea what was actually happening.
I took the dogs for a fairly long walk around 11:00.
(Our route, incidentally, took us past an Old Navy, where an enormous line had been forming for what I suppose must have been quite a while, since the people at the front were equipped with camping chairs and the like. No tents, thank God - that would've been more thai could handle. Anyway, I asked, but unfortunately I didn't receive a particularly satisfying answer. It was clear that the store was going to open at midnight, and the man pointed to a poster that said something about a dance party, but I wasn't able to gather the relationship between dancing, Old Navy and Black Friday.)
By the time i got back to Wal-Mart, the parking lot was full. And I mean, it was fucking full. I was parked in the furthest corner of the lot and Bubba was surrounded. I was beside myself.
(Okay, I'm sorry, but I can't listen to this anymore without saying anything and there's no one here to say it to, so I'm saying it here. There are three women sitting at the table in front of me. From what I can gather, two are mother and daughter and the third is a friend of the daughter. These women have been talking about the mother's diamond rings for twenty minutes - at least. Well, when she got married she only had this big a diamond and her husband spends all this money on golf and when she made a jokey little remark that if he was going to spend all that on golf, where was her carat? And can you believe it?! He said we could get it when he came back!! They got it on base [I think that's what she said], so it was tax free, but it was a very expensive ring. And this, of course, was after her first upgrade to a half carat. She was going to pass the rejected half-carat to her daughter, but the daughter doesn't care for gold, and blah blah blah. And then she started in on her pearls. Jesus Christ.)
Right, so anyway. I had to see what was going on, so I went inside. Holy shit.
(Oh my God. Now they're discussing the number of times that the mother "took a belt to" the daughter. The daughter is, maybe... 25. Where the fuck am I that people still hit their children with belts for Christ's sake? It would be one thing if it were some sort of secret family abuse secret, but clearly this is just chit-chat. I swear, by the time I get out of this state I'll be adding PTSD to my primary diagnostic axis.)
There were so many people!! They were gathered in these enormous clusters, just standing there like cattle; one huge crop of them (pardon my mixed metaphor) had these enormous boxes in their carts - trampolines, a closer look revealed. It took me ten minutes of wandering around to figure out that they were clustered around pallets of merchandise that wasn't being made available (its shrink-wrap cut open, that is) until midnight on the nose. I guess they chose whatever they wanted most and just hovered there, waiting. At 12:00 a voice came over the speakers, requesting that people remain calm and orderly, etc. and the frenzy began. I swear it was like they thought these things were going to disappear from the planet if they didn't get them into their carts right now. The checkout lines were obscene. Carts overflowing with gigantic boxes - televisions and basketball hoops and bicycles. It was a humbling demonstration of radical - or should I say fanatical - consumerism. Extremely entertaining. I just wandered around the store with a slack-mouthed, incredulous half-smile.
But.
They had a really good deal on a portable DVD player, and it hadn't occurred to me, but that was exactly what I needed. My laptop and monitor just require too much juice. They drain my extra battery in under two hours. The electronics sale didn't start until 5am though, so I went to sleep, figuring if I woke up before 11:00 and they had any left, I'd call my mom and ask for the money. I did, they did and she did. I almost had one of those shopping frenzy fist fights though.
The scene looks like this:
There's a kiosk in the electronics section - you know, the one with the cameras all around it - and people are forming a line along the counter. At the front of the line is a register, and just before you hit the register, there's someone to get your item. So you tell this first person what you want, then the person at the register rings you out. I'd been standing in line for... ten minutes maybe, waiting for the old lady who was supposed to be getting the item to determine whether or not they had any more of some particular camera that the person in front of me wanted. So we were at a standstill, just watching her while she looked around helplessly - not looking on the shelves or anything, you understand. She was just spacing out. While this is going on, I'm scanning the products behind the counter to see if they have what I want and I see one. Of course, right? One.
And then some woman walks up to the register from the other direction and I hear her ask for the "7-inch portable TV". The employees are confused, but I know perfectly well what she means and this bitch is not getting my DVD player. It took them a few minutes (while Grandma continues to wander aimlessly), but they figured it out eventually and the one remaining player was produced. "Ahem... Pardon me, but I've been waiting in line for that product..." I got ready to battle, but the woman at the register just said "Yeah, that's true," and that was the end of it. I would've gone to the mat for that baby, I'll tell you what. Not because I wanted it that badly - it just would've made a really good story. Anyway, anyone who doesn't know the difference between a TV and a DVD player doesn't deserve the outstanding bargain I got on it.
I'm pretty excited. It'll be nice to have something to do before I go to sleep other than play solitaire. (And anyone with a solitaire comment can just keep it to themselves.)
One last thing:
This is a really, really long post and I'm not going back over the whole thing to look for typos, errors, broken rhythms and the like. Deal with it.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Stupid holiday
Having little else to do, I'm going back to the beach to walk the dogs. I hope they're grateful.
But, in the spirit of the holiday (annoying though it may be) much love to all you guys (some more than others, of course...). I miss you and love you and am thinking about you (again, some more than others).
;P
But, in the spirit of the holiday (annoying though it may be) much love to all you guys (some more than others, of course...). I miss you and love you and am thinking about you (again, some more than others).
;P
Guess what?
I just realized that my North Carolina Starbucks has the same leather chairs as HQ. Is it sort of pathetic that that cheered me up a little? I don't care. Nothing like flopping into the comforts of home, even if the comforts are a long way from home.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Weird... so weird...
I slept through yesterday. It happens.
I slept through yesterday, so
(Am I the only one around here that gets happy when Neko Case's cover of Buckets of Rain comes on?)
I didn't get a chance to tell you about Monday night. Here's the deal: I was at Wal-Mart (or as I like to call it, home), walking the dogs before sleepy-time, when I saw a cop pull into the parking lot. My instinct was "No way..." and then I told myself not to be ridiculous. It's true I've been getting lots of attention, but surely not every police officer in eastern NC is obsessed with me. Right? So I watched him pull in, and when he failed to turn down my aisle I told myself "Told ya'." I continued to watch while he drove the length of the aisle he had turned down, without stopping, and my eyebrows went up slightly when he turned back toward me. Within seconds it became clear that, yes, he was indeed looking for... that's right... me. Unbelievable.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" (Why, of course you can. How can I help you?) I'm still pretty foggy from my 36 hours of sleep, so the details elude me, but he took my license, ran it along with my plate number, and made it clear that he'd been in contact with the security team here at Mayfaire (the mall wherein is located my current Starbucks as well as my current Barnes & Noble). He made reference to the dogs barking -
You know what? Fuck it. It doesn't even matter. The point is that he was checking on me. I am officially (or possibly unofficially, but still obviously) a person of interest to the Wilmington Police Department. The Wrightsville Beach Police Department seems to have fallen back - presumably because I haven't been there in a couple of days, but at this rate I can't imagine that making much of a difference...
Okay, listen. I don't know what I'm saying. I'm really fucked up/foggy. I'll try to make more sense later. Suffice it to say, they keep on coming. I guess this is what it means to be a vagrant. I'm used to being harassed - as most of us are aware - but I have a breaking point, you know? It comes all at once, usually. Everything is very entertaining until it isn't, and as soon as it isn't, it becomes instantly unbearable. Monday night came close to unbearable, but maybe the extra sleep put some extra padding on my buffer zone. We'll see, I guess.
But for realzies, I'm not doing anything different here than I do at home. Can you imagine if Gene went after everyone at Starbucks that hung out for more than a couple of hours a day? Jesus Christ...
I slept through yesterday, so
(Am I the only one around here that gets happy when Neko Case's cover of Buckets of Rain comes on?)
I didn't get a chance to tell you about Monday night. Here's the deal: I was at Wal-Mart (or as I like to call it, home), walking the dogs before sleepy-time, when I saw a cop pull into the parking lot. My instinct was "No way..." and then I told myself not to be ridiculous. It's true I've been getting lots of attention, but surely not every police officer in eastern NC is obsessed with me. Right? So I watched him pull in, and when he failed to turn down my aisle I told myself "Told ya'." I continued to watch while he drove the length of the aisle he had turned down, without stopping, and my eyebrows went up slightly when he turned back toward me. Within seconds it became clear that, yes, he was indeed looking for... that's right... me. Unbelievable.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" (Why, of course you can. How can I help you?) I'm still pretty foggy from my 36 hours of sleep, so the details elude me, but he took my license, ran it along with my plate number, and made it clear that he'd been in contact with the security team here at Mayfaire (the mall wherein is located my current Starbucks as well as my current Barnes & Noble). He made reference to the dogs barking -
You know what? Fuck it. It doesn't even matter. The point is that he was checking on me. I am officially (or possibly unofficially, but still obviously) a person of interest to the Wilmington Police Department. The Wrightsville Beach Police Department seems to have fallen back - presumably because I haven't been there in a couple of days, but at this rate I can't imagine that making much of a difference...
Okay, listen. I don't know what I'm saying. I'm really fucked up/foggy. I'll try to make more sense later. Suffice it to say, they keep on coming. I guess this is what it means to be a vagrant. I'm used to being harassed - as most of us are aware - but I have a breaking point, you know? It comes all at once, usually. Everything is very entertaining until it isn't, and as soon as it isn't, it becomes instantly unbearable. Monday night came close to unbearable, but maybe the extra sleep put some extra padding on my buffer zone. We'll see, I guess.
But for realzies, I'm not doing anything different here than I do at home. Can you imagine if Gene went after everyone at Starbucks that hung out for more than a couple of hours a day? Jesus Christ...
Monday, November 22, 2010
What I eat
What don't I eat? Well, lots of things actually. My diet - my van diet, that is - consists mostly of bread and bread-like foods. Crackers, chips, cookies, etc. And apple juice. For some reason I've been drinking a lot of apple juice. Oh, and chicken. A few times I've made it a point to locate and consume some sort of food-like food substance. This has come to mean (mysteriously) chicken. I don't know why.
Unless I do. Chicken feels relatively safe. We're talking fast food here, and fast food can be tricky. I guess the problem is that it sucks, and there are certain foods that, when sucky, suck more than others. Burgers are kind of hit-or-miss. Maybe it's because I eat more burgers than chicken that I'm fussier about them, but it's hard for me to find an acceptable cheeseburger at a fast food restaurant. McDonalds is of course a tragedy. I'm not one for making promises, but I think it highly unlikely that I will ever again consume a McDonalds cheeseburger. Every couple of years I'll do the fries, but that's where I draw the line. Even I have some standards.
Burger King isn't as bad. At least theirs have a pleasant flavor. But still, they're so gross. All slimy and nasty. Just... no. Ditto on Wendys. Those are actually the only fast food burger joints with which I'm familiar. At home, I'm a Tom Wahls fan. I like their crinkle-cut fries, too. Because they're crinkle-cut. And fries, which is all it takes for me. But there's no Tom Wahls here, and I just don't have much faith that I'll somehow blindly fall into a positive fast food burger experience.
I'm not even going to discuss fish.
But chicken... chicken is easy. How bad can it be? I mean, I won't eat KFC, but that's just psychological. When I look at a fast food chicken restaurant I think: Eh... why not? So twice I've eaten at a place called "Bojangles" and two nights ago I went to Chik-fil-A for what I thought was the first time, but my mother says no. She said we used to go in Atlanta when I was a kid. Who knew? (By the way, I've known about Chik-fil-A for a lot of years. I've driven by many hundreds of them on many road trips, I've just never gone in. So fine. But the thing is: I only worked out within the last couple of years that it's meant to be pronounced "chick filet". I never knew. I always wondered, but I never knew. In my head, it sounded like "chick fill uh", and I knew it couldn't be right, but I couldn't think how else to say it. I'm an idiot.) They put pickles on their chicken sandwiches at Chik-fil-A. Did you know this? I thought it strange, but you know me - I like to go with the flow, so I ordered one. A sandwich, I mean, not a pickle (although, as I said, the pickle comes with the sandwich). It was good. I liked it. It was chicken. How bad can it be?
Anyway. Chicken. Fast food chicken has become my nod to healthy eating. I guess that was my point. Pretty gross.
I'm hungry.
Unless I do. Chicken feels relatively safe. We're talking fast food here, and fast food can be tricky. I guess the problem is that it sucks, and there are certain foods that, when sucky, suck more than others. Burgers are kind of hit-or-miss. Maybe it's because I eat more burgers than chicken that I'm fussier about them, but it's hard for me to find an acceptable cheeseburger at a fast food restaurant. McDonalds is of course a tragedy. I'm not one for making promises, but I think it highly unlikely that I will ever again consume a McDonalds cheeseburger. Every couple of years I'll do the fries, but that's where I draw the line. Even I have some standards.
Burger King isn't as bad. At least theirs have a pleasant flavor. But still, they're so gross. All slimy and nasty. Just... no. Ditto on Wendys. Those are actually the only fast food burger joints with which I'm familiar. At home, I'm a Tom Wahls fan. I like their crinkle-cut fries, too. Because they're crinkle-cut. And fries, which is all it takes for me. But there's no Tom Wahls here, and I just don't have much faith that I'll somehow blindly fall into a positive fast food burger experience.
I'm not even going to discuss fish.
But chicken... chicken is easy. How bad can it be? I mean, I won't eat KFC, but that's just psychological. When I look at a fast food chicken restaurant I think: Eh... why not? So twice I've eaten at a place called "Bojangles" and two nights ago I went to Chik-fil-A for what I thought was the first time, but my mother says no. She said we used to go in Atlanta when I was a kid. Who knew? (By the way, I've known about Chik-fil-A for a lot of years. I've driven by many hundreds of them on many road trips, I've just never gone in. So fine. But the thing is: I only worked out within the last couple of years that it's meant to be pronounced "chick filet". I never knew. I always wondered, but I never knew. In my head, it sounded like "chick fill uh", and I knew it couldn't be right, but I couldn't think how else to say it. I'm an idiot.) They put pickles on their chicken sandwiches at Chik-fil-A. Did you know this? I thought it strange, but you know me - I like to go with the flow, so I ordered one. A sandwich, I mean, not a pickle (although, as I said, the pickle comes with the sandwich). It was good. I liked it. It was chicken. How bad can it be?
Anyway. Chicken. Fast food chicken has become my nod to healthy eating. I guess that was my point. Pretty gross.
I'm hungry.
Ech.
My life is utterly pointless and I'm completely useless.
Am I overstating it? I don't think so.
Probably.
But my knees hurt and I feel sleepy.
I didn't take my meds today.
Or yesterday.
Are these things connected? I don't think so.
Definitely.
Am I overstating it? I don't think so.
Probably.
But my knees hurt and I feel sleepy.
I didn't take my meds today.
Or yesterday.
Are these things connected? I don't think so.
Definitely.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Shit to say
My schedule here in Wilmington is pretty straightforward. It's roughly twice as complex as my schedule in Rochester. There, I woke up, went to Starbucks, went home. Here, aside from the fact that I'm always home, I wake up, go to Starbucks, leave and go to Barnes & Noble, then go... well, to the parking lot. Spending so much time in Barnes & Noble, I've come to recognize a sort of feeling-thought. A feeling, that is, based on a sub-conscious thought. The feeling is something like being overwhelmed, and it has an undercurrent of indignant irritation. I've decided that the driving thought goes something like this:
People got shit to say, yo.
Between the lines living between the covers of all these many thousands of books is one demand:
Listen to me, bitches. I know things.
And there are so fucking many of them. I mean, seriously. People got shit to say!!
I got shit to say, too. I'd better get to sayin' it.
People got shit to say, yo.
Between the lines living between the covers of all these many thousands of books is one demand:
Listen to me, bitches. I know things.
And there are so fucking many of them. I mean, seriously. People got shit to say!!
I got shit to say, too. I'd better get to sayin' it.
I have needs
Primary among them is a set of noise-reducing headphones. Or rather, I need a really good set of earplugs. How am I supposed to think with this fucking music? It's so loud!! And it sucks! You wouldn't believe how much it sucks! Okay, they played one good song a while ago. But since then? All garbage. It's not that I can't hear myself think; I can't think at all! (I mean, you know, more so than usual.)
Rebel without a clause
So last night I went back to the beach. Not to sleep, just to walk the dogs, and maybe a little bit to shove Bubba in the faces of the rich. What? You're surprised that I'm petty and childish? Please. So, it worked.
I took the dogs for a long walk - about a mile down the beach - and when I got back to the van (parked exactly where I'd been parking it all last week), there were... wait for it... four cop cars waiting for me, and one crazy-looking under-cover SUV full of what looked to me like surveillance equipment. Jesus Christ.
I put the dogs in the van (not yet completely sure they were there for me - just pretty sure) and one of the cops walked up and asked me for ID. I gave him the license I'd picked up that morning from the post office and told him that they'd been down talking to me a couple of nights ago. He walked away with my license while another cop cooed over the dogs (who were, thank God, behaving). Half a minute later he came back, returned my ID, told me to have a nice night and formed a huddle with the other cops, each confirming that they were satisfied that all was well. I left, happy to have disturbed the peace in my own peaceful way.
I think I'll go back tonight. Maybe I'll take up night fishing. I hear it can be very relaxing.
I took the dogs for a long walk - about a mile down the beach - and when I got back to the van (parked exactly where I'd been parking it all last week), there were... wait for it... four cop cars waiting for me, and one crazy-looking under-cover SUV full of what looked to me like surveillance equipment. Jesus Christ.
I put the dogs in the van (not yet completely sure they were there for me - just pretty sure) and one of the cops walked up and asked me for ID. I gave him the license I'd picked up that morning from the post office and told him that they'd been down talking to me a couple of nights ago. He walked away with my license while another cop cooed over the dogs (who were, thank God, behaving). Half a minute later he came back, returned my ID, told me to have a nice night and formed a huddle with the other cops, each confirming that they were satisfied that all was well. I left, happy to have disturbed the peace in my own peaceful way.
I think I'll go back tonight. Maybe I'll take up night fishing. I hear it can be very relaxing.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Ahhhh...
I disabled whatever it was that was disallowing anonymous comments. You shouldn't have to reference any account now in order to post. Man, this shit is complicated.
No, it isn't.
No, it isn't.
What the...
Don't complain, don't explain. The person who really cares will be willing to forget and forgive, but this isn't the time to test how far you can go. Understanding and compassion can create a buffer zone.
This is my horoscope for today, according to the local (Wilmington, NC) paper. Does anyone even know what it means? This paper has the worst horoscopes. Every day it's something either bizarre, or so bizarre that it's completely nonsensical. Also, and this isn't fair, but it is true: the font they use is really big - like 12 pt. at least - and it really takes a chunk out of the credibility. Like large-print books. It could be War and fucking Peace, but if it's in large print it looks like something from the young adult section. So I guess what I'm trying to say is... people with bad vision look stupid when they read. Which is a bummer, because most of us rely on books to make us look smarter.
By the way, if any of you guys want to read my going away essay (predictably titled Off the grid) let me know and I'll send it to you. Remember the rule though: if you read it, you have to give me at least some feedback. Email me. (Some of you have it already, in which case you should of course disregard.)
This is my horoscope for today, according to the local (Wilmington, NC) paper. Does anyone even know what it means? This paper has the worst horoscopes. Every day it's something either bizarre, or so bizarre that it's completely nonsensical. Also, and this isn't fair, but it is true: the font they use is really big - like 12 pt. at least - and it really takes a chunk out of the credibility. Like large-print books. It could be War and fucking Peace, but if it's in large print it looks like something from the young adult section. So I guess what I'm trying to say is... people with bad vision look stupid when they read. Which is a bummer, because most of us rely on books to make us look smarter.
By the way, if any of you guys want to read my going away essay (predictably titled Off the grid) let me know and I'll send it to you. Remember the rule though: if you read it, you have to give me at least some feedback. Email me. (Some of you have it already, in which case you should of course disregard.)
Friday, November 19, 2010
'Bout time
So I finally ran into some trouble. It was, I'm sure we can all agree, only a matter of time. Last night at the beach house I was innocently watching a documentary about a child abducting homicidal maniac on Staten Island when I heard the distinct radio-chatter of official inquiry outside the van (this was around 11). Ever pro-active, I popped my head out, assuming it was me and my enormous, hideous (mostly) green van (Bubba, after much deliberation) that they were interested in, as indeed it was.
They wanted to know what I was doing (I wish I knew), and so I told them, with as much honesty as I could muster, that I was doing... nothing; that my dogs were inside; that they were a lab mix and a pit bull (who was watching TV); and that no, I was not - so far as I knew - on America's Most Wanted. They informed me that it was not, unfortunately, legally permissible to sleep in one's vehicle.
(Now. I would be lying if I said that I was surprised by this information. However. Outside of Barnes & Noble the other day I happened to witness a small police action and when it was over I accosted one of the straggling officers with calls of "Hey! Mr. Police Dude!" When I got his - not entirely thrilled - attention, I asked him whether or not it was legal to... yes, to sleep in one's vehicle. He told me that it was. I was surprised. And pleased. It was with this information in mind that I abandoned my plan to move my car from place to place at night in an effort to avoid unnecessary and unwelcome attention. The street I'd grown most fond of was Charlotte St., because there's an unsecured Wifi signal in the area and this was allowing me to watch Netflix on my iPad before going to sleep. I was still moving the car during the day, but I returned each night to the same general area, expecting to draw an eventual police interaction, but also expecting that I would be left alone once it had been determined that I wasn't scoping out potential opportunities for theft.)
When I told the inquiring officer of the information I'd gathered, he told me that while my information might be correct in the city of Wilmington, it was not correct in the city of Wrightsville Beach. Again, I wasn't surprised. The houses in the area aren't all mansions, but I'm sure they're all extravagantly expensive, and I can only imagine that the owners do not want homeless people parking their Bubbas in their front yards.
So I was told that I was more than welcome to park in the area; to use the beach and what-have-you, but that I couldn't sleep there. So I moved. (First I walked the dogs, then I used the free Wifi for an hour - just to draw out my presence a bit.) I drove to the mall where I've been camping during the day, patronizing both Starbucks and the aforementioned Barnes & Noble. I drove around the lot, knowing that (bizarrely) there are apartments in the complex and that there might therefore be overnight parking. What I found was a back lot filled to the brim with cars. The lot was near the movie theater, but it was midnight, and there were so many cars, I assumed they weren't all theater patrons. I don't know if I was correct in that assumption, but at 9:30 the following morning I got a knock on the van. Security. No, I was not allowed to park in their lot overnight. Private property and the like. He had been going to tow the van, but the dogs... Anyway, he was very nice (asked me if I was homeless and while technically the answer to that is either yes or no, I told him I was on the road, effectively avoiding the question), but still, I can't park there overnight. He had seen my van around for the last week or so, etc., etc. Still not surprised. This is a problem I anticipated from the earliest stages of my VanPlan. We parted on good terms.
Later in the day, returning to Starbucks after a short walk, I saw him lingering in the vicinity of the van. Apparently there have been complaints about my taking up customer parking. "But I am a customer" I whined. He knows that; I'm fine; but if I'm just hanging out in the van, I should park it "over there", in the back of the lot. There's also a nice area back there to walk the dogs. Also, if anyone bothered me, he said, let them know that we'd spoken and that I was behaving appropriately; was a paying customer, etc., and he gave me his card.
I like him.
He likes me, too.
He also likes my dogs.
I like my dogs, too.
You meet nice people on the road, even if they are telling you to beat it.
Tomorrow I'm going to do some recon. Gotta find a new home. I'm not giving up on the beach, though. South of here there are a lot more beaches. I'll play it safe this time. I don't need internet. When you're homeless, you learn to do without.
I haven't showered in 2 weeks.
They wanted to know what I was doing (I wish I knew), and so I told them, with as much honesty as I could muster, that I was doing... nothing; that my dogs were inside; that they were a lab mix and a pit bull (who was watching TV); and that no, I was not - so far as I knew - on America's Most Wanted. They informed me that it was not, unfortunately, legally permissible to sleep in one's vehicle.
(Now. I would be lying if I said that I was surprised by this information. However. Outside of Barnes & Noble the other day I happened to witness a small police action and when it was over I accosted one of the straggling officers with calls of "Hey! Mr. Police Dude!" When I got his - not entirely thrilled - attention, I asked him whether or not it was legal to... yes, to sleep in one's vehicle. He told me that it was. I was surprised. And pleased. It was with this information in mind that I abandoned my plan to move my car from place to place at night in an effort to avoid unnecessary and unwelcome attention. The street I'd grown most fond of was Charlotte St., because there's an unsecured Wifi signal in the area and this was allowing me to watch Netflix on my iPad before going to sleep. I was still moving the car during the day, but I returned each night to the same general area, expecting to draw an eventual police interaction, but also expecting that I would be left alone once it had been determined that I wasn't scoping out potential opportunities for theft.)
When I told the inquiring officer of the information I'd gathered, he told me that while my information might be correct in the city of Wilmington, it was not correct in the city of Wrightsville Beach. Again, I wasn't surprised. The houses in the area aren't all mansions, but I'm sure they're all extravagantly expensive, and I can only imagine that the owners do not want homeless people parking their Bubbas in their front yards.
So I was told that I was more than welcome to park in the area; to use the beach and what-have-you, but that I couldn't sleep there. So I moved. (First I walked the dogs, then I used the free Wifi for an hour - just to draw out my presence a bit.) I drove to the mall where I've been camping during the day, patronizing both Starbucks and the aforementioned Barnes & Noble. I drove around the lot, knowing that (bizarrely) there are apartments in the complex and that there might therefore be overnight parking. What I found was a back lot filled to the brim with cars. The lot was near the movie theater, but it was midnight, and there were so many cars, I assumed they weren't all theater patrons. I don't know if I was correct in that assumption, but at 9:30 the following morning I got a knock on the van. Security. No, I was not allowed to park in their lot overnight. Private property and the like. He had been going to tow the van, but the dogs... Anyway, he was very nice (asked me if I was homeless and while technically the answer to that is either yes or no, I told him I was on the road, effectively avoiding the question), but still, I can't park there overnight. He had seen my van around for the last week or so, etc., etc. Still not surprised. This is a problem I anticipated from the earliest stages of my VanPlan. We parted on good terms.
Later in the day, returning to Starbucks after a short walk, I saw him lingering in the vicinity of the van. Apparently there have been complaints about my taking up customer parking. "But I am a customer" I whined. He knows that; I'm fine; but if I'm just hanging out in the van, I should park it "over there", in the back of the lot. There's also a nice area back there to walk the dogs. Also, if anyone bothered me, he said, let them know that we'd spoken and that I was behaving appropriately; was a paying customer, etc., and he gave me his card.
I like him.
He likes me, too.
He also likes my dogs.
I like my dogs, too.
You meet nice people on the road, even if they are telling you to beat it.
Tomorrow I'm going to do some recon. Gotta find a new home. I'm not giving up on the beach, though. South of here there are a lot more beaches. I'll play it safe this time. I don't need internet. When you're homeless, you learn to do without.
I haven't showered in 2 weeks.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
What day is it?
No, seriously. Is it Wednesday, or Thursday? I thought it was Wednesday, but then my watch said Thursday, and I have no reason to doubt it... But I just noticed my last post was recorded as Wednesday. What the fuck day is it?! Am I losing my mind?
Okay, wait though... Emily said she had yoga tonight... And she has yoga on Wednesday. So my watch must be wrong... Unless I'm wrong and she has it on Thursday...
I think it's almost definitely Wednesday. It is, right? Oh, God.
Okay, wait though... Emily said she had yoga tonight... And she has yoga on Wednesday. So my watch must be wrong... Unless I'm wrong and she has it on Thursday...
I think it's almost definitely Wednesday. It is, right? Oh, God.
Now here's something...
...truly fucked up. As you may (or, I suppose, may not) know, the desire for a cigarette, like all desires, is triggered by particular sensory stimuli. These triggers are, to a certain extent, personal, but obviously there are a few universals among them. Observing another person smoking almost inevitably inspires (in smokers) a desire to... you know, smoke. So fine. On TV, in person, in a photograph... hell, sometimes you can hear a person smoking over the phone and want to light up. That's normal (I think). But how's this for a weird one? I was watching a movie - Blue Velvet, if you happen to give a shit - and the sight of a guy's trachea tube made me want a cigarette. It's nice, isn't it, that after 34 years I can still surprise (and repulse) myself? Oh yeah.
Smoke 'em if ya' got 'em, friends.
Smoke 'em if ya' got 'em, friends.
Monday, November 15, 2010
One more thing
The Stieg Larsson novels getting so much attention? I think the titles are getting markedly worse. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo? That's good shit. I want to know about the girl with the dragon tattoo. What about the girl with the dragon tattoo? Why does she have this dragon tattoo? What does the dragon tattoo look like? Is the story connected to the dragon tattoo? (It's not, actually, which is pretty disappointing.) (Unless of course it is and I don't know about it because I only saw the movie.)
So next comes The Girl Who Played with Fire, which isn't as good, but is still mildly intriguing. I mean, lots of people play with fire. Does she literally play with fire, or is it just a bad metaphor? But still, why does she play with fire? And what sort of play, exactly? Playing with fire doesn't seem nearly as cool as having a dragon tattoo, but maybe the story will support it sufficiently to excuse the mediocre title. (It doesn't, by the way. At least not in the movie, which, again, is the only format in which I've experienced it. I could be wrong.) (But I'm not.)
The third title is just ridiculous. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest? Come on... It sounds like a chapter in Winnie the Pooh, for Christ's sake. Kicking a hornets' nest is stupid. There's no good reason to kick a hornets' nest, there's certainly no interesting reason to kick a hornets' nest, and I couldn't care less about whatever reason the girl might have had to kick a fucking hornets' nest. What's worse (insofar as book sales are concerned), is that I couldn't care less about the hornets' nest kicking girl herself - whoever she is. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest is a very bad title. Seriously, it's like he just stopped caring.
All that said, I heard somewhere (I have excellent sources) that the author - this Larsson character - was extremely dissatisfied with the English translations of his books. So maybe it's not his fault. Who knows? But let's be honest. If he's familiar enough with the English language to critique the translation, it seems like he might have weighed in before they went to press. Am I wrong? (No, I'm not.) (And we both know it.)
So next comes The Girl Who Played with Fire, which isn't as good, but is still mildly intriguing. I mean, lots of people play with fire. Does she literally play with fire, or is it just a bad metaphor? But still, why does she play with fire? And what sort of play, exactly? Playing with fire doesn't seem nearly as cool as having a dragon tattoo, but maybe the story will support it sufficiently to excuse the mediocre title. (It doesn't, by the way. At least not in the movie, which, again, is the only format in which I've experienced it. I could be wrong.) (But I'm not.)
The third title is just ridiculous. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest? Come on... It sounds like a chapter in Winnie the Pooh, for Christ's sake. Kicking a hornets' nest is stupid. There's no good reason to kick a hornets' nest, there's certainly no interesting reason to kick a hornets' nest, and I couldn't care less about whatever reason the girl might have had to kick a fucking hornets' nest. What's worse (insofar as book sales are concerned), is that I couldn't care less about the hornets' nest kicking girl herself - whoever she is. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest is a very bad title. Seriously, it's like he just stopped caring.
All that said, I heard somewhere (I have excellent sources) that the author - this Larsson character - was extremely dissatisfied with the English translations of his books. So maybe it's not his fault. Who knows? But let's be honest. If he's familiar enough with the English language to critique the translation, it seems like he might have weighed in before they went to press. Am I wrong? (No, I'm not.) (And we both know it.)
Have you heard...
...the joke that goes something like this:
If you've been here five minutes and you haven't been insulted, you're being ignored.
I've always liked that joke, and I always associate it with Maine; I'm not sure why. I think the guy who told it to me claimed to have heard it in a bar somewhere up there. Anyway, it occurs to me that it might be especially apt for our little coffee shop. And probably for anywhere I am.
(I mention this only because I've been reading - for the last ten minutes anyway - a Stephen King novel, and as we all know, 99% of his stories take place in Maine, this one being no exception. So you can see my train of thought.)
Right... well... I guess that's all.
If you've been here five minutes and you haven't been insulted, you're being ignored.
I've always liked that joke, and I always associate it with Maine; I'm not sure why. I think the guy who told it to me claimed to have heard it in a bar somewhere up there. Anyway, it occurs to me that it might be especially apt for our little coffee shop. And probably for anywhere I am.
(I mention this only because I've been reading - for the last ten minutes anyway - a Stephen King novel, and as we all know, 99% of his stories take place in Maine, this one being no exception. So you can see my train of thought.)
Right... well... I guess that's all.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
The thing is...
...when you tell people you spent the day at home, and you actually live in a home, it sounds pleasant and relaxing. When you tell people you spent the day at home and you live in a van, it sounds weird and pathetic.
But hey, I did sit on the beach and watch the suffers for a little while.
I'll tell you, the two things these people love are surfing, and malls. I've never seen so many people in the water or at a mall in my life. And actually, the two have one thing in common. Because the mall here is outdoors, they both demand that everyone pretend it's much warmer than it actually is, which they also seem to really enjoy. I was standing there shivering in my sweater, and some crazy bitch was swimming in a bikini. At least the surfers have the brains to put on wetsuits for Christ's sake.
But hey, I did sit on the beach and watch the suffers for a little while.
I'll tell you, the two things these people love are surfing, and malls. I've never seen so many people in the water or at a mall in my life. And actually, the two have one thing in common. Because the mall here is outdoors, they both demand that everyone pretend it's much warmer than it actually is, which they also seem to really enjoy. I was standing there shivering in my sweater, and some crazy bitch was swimming in a bikini. At least the surfers have the brains to put on wetsuits for Christ's sake.
Where are they?
I haven't identified a single lesbian so far in all of North Carolina. Of course it's true that I haven't actually been to most of North Carolina, but still. Where are they? How will I ever get over Emily if I can't drown my pain in meaningless sex? (I know. Just... don't say it.)
Also, is it paranoid to think two people might be talking about you when one of them holds a binder in front of her face so as to block her entire head from your view - in a way that no one would if they were actually reading the contents of said binder - then whispers something to her companion, who then looks directly at you? Because it doesn't feel paranoid. It feels like reasonable deduction.
I get the feeling that I'm a little bit of a phenomenon around here. I picture little cartoon thought bubbles over people's heads: "Hey maw! Look there yonder! Is that there one of those, uh... whaddya call um... uh, lez-bee-annes? Damned if she don't look just like a fella!"
I don't sense any hostility, just curiosity, I guess. Confusion, and maybe a little derision. It's an odd feeling, but not entirely unfamiliar. In any case, I'm pretty sure that one girl said something about me. It's probably not fair to say they were talking about me, though. The second girl didn't seem particularly interested in whatever the first one said, and didn't actually make any verbal reply. Whatever.
Also: I need a sticker for my van that says "MY OTHER VAN IS A BEACH HOUSE". I don't know what it means, but I like the sound of it.
Also, is it paranoid to think two people might be talking about you when one of them holds a binder in front of her face so as to block her entire head from your view - in a way that no one would if they were actually reading the contents of said binder - then whispers something to her companion, who then looks directly at you? Because it doesn't feel paranoid. It feels like reasonable deduction.
I get the feeling that I'm a little bit of a phenomenon around here. I picture little cartoon thought bubbles over people's heads: "Hey maw! Look there yonder! Is that there one of those, uh... whaddya call um... uh, lez-bee-annes? Damned if she don't look just like a fella!"
I don't sense any hostility, just curiosity, I guess. Confusion, and maybe a little derision. It's an odd feeling, but not entirely unfamiliar. In any case, I'm pretty sure that one girl said something about me. It's probably not fair to say they were talking about me, though. The second girl didn't seem particularly interested in whatever the first one said, and didn't actually make any verbal reply. Whatever.
Also: I need a sticker for my van that says "MY OTHER VAN IS A BEACH HOUSE". I don't know what it means, but I like the sound of it.
Friday, November 12, 2010
It's time you knew the truth
I'm hopelessly in love with Emily Wise. She broke my heart - mine and a thousand others - and I saw no other escape - I had to leave. I only hope I'll find the strength one day to return and face the depth of loss that drove me from my friends and my home.
I don't blame her. It was my own foolish heart that led me so far astray. And this in spite of all the truth my wiser mind tried to make me see, and all the honesty she was brave enough to offer me.
I know I'll heal in time, but for now I'm seeking comfort in the unfamiliar; in the faces of strangers and the unknown streets of places far from the haunting pain that plagued me every time I met her shining eyes and felt the warmth of her beautiful smile.
Pray for me; for my strength and my peace, and pray that I might see my way to a life beyond the agony of my shattered, unrequited love.
I don't blame her. It was my own foolish heart that led me so far astray. And this in spite of all the truth my wiser mind tried to make me see, and all the honesty she was brave enough to offer me.
I know I'll heal in time, but for now I'm seeking comfort in the unfamiliar; in the faces of strangers and the unknown streets of places far from the haunting pain that plagued me every time I met her shining eyes and felt the warmth of her beautiful smile.
Pray for me; for my strength and my peace, and pray that I might see my way to a life beyond the agony of my shattered, unrequited love.
Chronic Town
This is the lost post from a few days ago. I'm presenting it to you unedited, so try to put yourself back into whatever mindset you may have been experiencing, say... this past Sunday.
So I'm lost in Virginia, but that's not important. What is important is a smoke shop in State College called Chronic Town. Other things are also maybe important, but they're probably not as interesting. Or else they are, but I don't know about them. I do know (a very little) about Chronic Town. Subtly located (not to say hidden) between a Qdoba and a Starbucks (how do you think I found it?) on East (or possibly West) College Rd., (not that it matters) it announces itself... actually, it doesn't announce itself at all. All it offers is a lonely, generic glass door, through which you see only a short hallway apparently going nowhere, and an ugly white sign above it. But, once you get inside and make your way down the steps you just discovered at the end of the aforementioned hallway, you discover before you a veritable den of wonders (a den of no small proportions at that). Check it out: They have a generous (in a manner of speaking) supply of hideous, shellacked wooden furniture - the kind that's meant to look like you just pulled it out of the forest and threw it in your living room (think Adirondack lodge) - booths and chairs and side tables and the like; you know, lounge furniture, but uncomfortable looking. The furniture is spread throughout the space, with some in front of a small stage (bands I guess?), more next to a fistful of old-school stand-up video games; they have a coffee bar (you know, an actual bar, that you can sit at), a small retail counter with pipes and tobacco and shit, and another counter covered with about a million hookahs, all shiny as shit (well, shinier than shit, actually), made of brightly colored glass and looking generally awesome. So I'm told that you're meant to go in and choose your tobacco and order your drinks, and they set you up at a table with one of these hookahs, fixed with the appropriate number of tubes (or whatever they're called) and you sit there reveling in your brief but meaningful visit to a place that actually celebrates the joys of culturally sanctioned suicide. I'm telling you, it positively warms your heart; makes you feel glad to be alive. It also doesn't hurt that they sell pouches of American Spirit for six measly dollars. I bought two.
Chronic Town, friends. Unexpected joy in a den of football-obsessed Pennsylvanians. Who knew?
So, yeah. That was the Chronic Town post that I thought I'd lost forever. I suppose it would have been just as well, but I did spend something like ten minutes writing it, and I was never going to get that time back, you know? At least now I have something to show for it. Time is money, people.
(Get it? Loser humor.)
So I'm lost in Virginia, but that's not important. What is important is a smoke shop in State College called Chronic Town. Other things are also maybe important, but they're probably not as interesting. Or else they are, but I don't know about them. I do know (a very little) about Chronic Town. Subtly located (not to say hidden) between a Qdoba and a Starbucks (how do you think I found it?) on East (or possibly West) College Rd., (not that it matters) it announces itself... actually, it doesn't announce itself at all. All it offers is a lonely, generic glass door, through which you see only a short hallway apparently going nowhere, and an ugly white sign above it. But, once you get inside and make your way down the steps you just discovered at the end of the aforementioned hallway, you discover before you a veritable den of wonders (a den of no small proportions at that). Check it out: They have a generous (in a manner of speaking) supply of hideous, shellacked wooden furniture - the kind that's meant to look like you just pulled it out of the forest and threw it in your living room (think Adirondack lodge) - booths and chairs and side tables and the like; you know, lounge furniture, but uncomfortable looking. The furniture is spread throughout the space, with some in front of a small stage (bands I guess?), more next to a fistful of old-school stand-up video games; they have a coffee bar (you know, an actual bar, that you can sit at), a small retail counter with pipes and tobacco and shit, and another counter covered with about a million hookahs, all shiny as shit (well, shinier than shit, actually), made of brightly colored glass and looking generally awesome. So I'm told that you're meant to go in and choose your tobacco and order your drinks, and they set you up at a table with one of these hookahs, fixed with the appropriate number of tubes (or whatever they're called) and you sit there reveling in your brief but meaningful visit to a place that actually celebrates the joys of culturally sanctioned suicide. I'm telling you, it positively warms your heart; makes you feel glad to be alive. It also doesn't hurt that they sell pouches of American Spirit for six measly dollars. I bought two.
Chronic Town, friends. Unexpected joy in a den of football-obsessed Pennsylvanians. Who knew?
So, yeah. That was the Chronic Town post that I thought I'd lost forever. I suppose it would have been just as well, but I did spend something like ten minutes writing it, and I was never going to get that time back, you know? At least now I have something to show for it. Time is money, people.
(Get it? Loser humor.)
Thursday, November 11, 2010
I'm probably a genius
Per the (I thought) brilliant suggestion of Jake and Emily, I figured out how to put a donation button on here. I hope you're impressed, because you definitely should be. In fact, you should probably be impressed enough to use it, but since I've asked that you keep your expectations low, I'll be according you the same consideration. I'm not too proud to beg (obviously) but I'll save it for my more desperate moments. These moments will be fairly predictable, by the way, falling as they will toward the end of any given month.
That said, far be it for me to expect something for nothing (ha!), so even the most meager donations will be rewarded with, obviously, unbounded love and devotion, but also with... (I'm thinking...) Ah! With particularly affectionate treatment in my writings. I think we all know that this is no small offering (yes it is), and most of you would probably benefit from it. What we also know is that I'm useless without my chai, and for some reason I've yet to ascertain, nobody in North Carolina gives it to me for free. What the fuck?!
Tariq, of course, is relieved, having more than covered his share already.
One more thing: The Barnes & Noble in which I'm presently operating is located in what is essentially an outdoor mall. What's curious about the scenario is that there appear to be apartments located above the storefronts. My question is: who the fuck would want to live in a mall?
That said, far be it for me to expect something for nothing (ha!), so even the most meager donations will be rewarded with, obviously, unbounded love and devotion, but also with... (I'm thinking...) Ah! With particularly affectionate treatment in my writings. I think we all know that this is no small offering (yes it is), and most of you would probably benefit from it. What we also know is that I'm useless without my chai, and for some reason I've yet to ascertain, nobody in North Carolina gives it to me for free. What the fuck?!
Tariq, of course, is relieved, having more than covered his share already.
One more thing: The Barnes & Noble in which I'm presently operating is located in what is essentially an outdoor mall. What's curious about the scenario is that there appear to be apartments located above the storefronts. My question is: who the fuck would want to live in a mall?
Things that made me laugh today
Reuben playing on the beach.
About ten of Emily's cards. I happened upon an especially good selection today.
George W. Bush's new book, the title of which I do not know because Barnes & Noble put their 30% off sticker over every single one. Or rather, the fact that I do not know the title, for the aforementioned reason.
A barista shouting "I've got a red velvet cupcake..." and me thinking "well you don't have to brag about it...". It's not funny at all, which is why it made me laugh. Another paradox for the day. If it had been funny, it wouldn't have made me laugh... Think about it. But don't hurt yourself.
Three games for sale in Barnes & Noble: Equilibrio; Architecto; Tangramino. What the fuck? They sound like ridiculously boring super heroes.
Also, it seems the new plan to get girls interested in science is to appeal to their superficial natures. They've apparently developed "chemistry sets" oriented toward the production of perfumes and spa-related ointments, lotions, tinctures, etc.
And finally...
The word "tinctures".
About ten of Emily's cards. I happened upon an especially good selection today.
George W. Bush's new book, the title of which I do not know because Barnes & Noble put their 30% off sticker over every single one. Or rather, the fact that I do not know the title, for the aforementioned reason.
A barista shouting "I've got a red velvet cupcake..." and me thinking "well you don't have to brag about it...". It's not funny at all, which is why it made me laugh. Another paradox for the day. If it had been funny, it wouldn't have made me laugh... Think about it. But don't hurt yourself.
Three games for sale in Barnes & Noble: Equilibrio; Architecto; Tangramino. What the fuck? They sound like ridiculously boring super heroes.
Also, it seems the new plan to get girls interested in science is to appeal to their superficial natures. They've apparently developed "chemistry sets" oriented toward the production of perfumes and spa-related ointments, lotions, tinctures, etc.
And finally...
The word "tinctures".
Finally, something good
I found the beach. And not just the beach. The beach with free parking just steps away and, if you can believe it, unsecured wifi from one or another of these no doubt insanely expensive beach houses. Something tells me they might not appreciate me as their new neighbor... But in any case, this morning I walked the dogs along the beach, then sat in the sand, watching the waves for half an hour.
This was, as I mentioned previously, Reuben's first trip to the ocean, and I'm pleased to report that the two were well-met. He was so jazzed, watching the water rush up onto the beach in that intense way he has, then prancing backwards with prissy little paws to avoid the foam. He was so excited, all he could do was bounce around in circles, attack Idgy, then bounce some more. Meanwhile, Idgy sat quietly next to me and watched the water...
...and then Reuben peed on Idgy's head.
Also: Mike, I can't think of a drunk copilot I'd rather have at my side.
This was, as I mentioned previously, Reuben's first trip to the ocean, and I'm pleased to report that the two were well-met. He was so jazzed, watching the water rush up onto the beach in that intense way he has, then prancing backwards with prissy little paws to avoid the foam. He was so excited, all he could do was bounce around in circles, attack Idgy, then bounce some more. Meanwhile, Idgy sat quietly next to me and watched the water...
...and then Reuben peed on Idgy's head.
Also: Mike, I can't think of a drunk copilot I'd rather have at my side.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The comforts of home
I finally found a Starbucks in Wilmington, and it only took me 2 days. (That's a lie; it took me about 24 hours. I gave up hope of just running across one this afternoon and stopped at a Howard Johnsons for directions. When in doubt, ask a taxi driver, a hotel desk clerk or, in a pinch, a cop.) This place is ridiculous, though (or else I am). I've driven up and down the main road 17 times and I still can't figure out whether I'm heading into or out of town. The traffic is insane and the dogs are ever blocking my side mirror with their giant heads. I guess the up-side is that when I finally get into the accident that's nothing less than thoroughly inevitable, my tank of a van will probably be no worse for the wear. I might not even notice (I can be pretty oblivious that way).
In any case, I found a Starbucks and a Barnes & Noble (the Wal-Mart hardly needed finding; one thing I've discovered: the Wal-Mart is always right there. Wherever you are, there it is.) These aren't really the places I had in mind, as far as hang-outs on the trip, but they're extremely comforting after wandering around lost all day in a strange city. I stopped at a coffee shop called Port Java (huh?) and ordered a hot chocolate. "Do you want marshmallows and whipped cream?" she asked me. Well, duh... It would've been a reasonably pleasant outing except that a dog happened by, and you can imagine the ensuing chaos. The owner turned around and walked back the way she came, then fifteen minutes later drove up and petulantly informed me that she lived near by and walked her dog that way several times a day, and that she was 8 months pregnant. I'm still not sure what the relevance of her pregnancy might have been, but she seemed to think it very important, because she repeated it several (like fifteen) times. She kept whining until I asked her what, exactly, she wanted me to do, to which she responded that it would be nice if I were to take the dogs across the street when she came by. Sure lady, whatever. I guess I don't blame her for being annoyed (yeah, I sort of do), but I definitely hold her responsible for being a whiny little bitch. I can't imagine what it must be like to know her, or, God forbid, be married to her. "I'm pregnant," must be her constant refrain.
Also, I'm out of papers. I think I saw a tobacco shop somewhere, but I think it highly unlikely that I'll be able to find it again.
Whatever. Tomorrow I'm going to the beach. Reuben's never seen the ocean!
In any case, I found a Starbucks and a Barnes & Noble (the Wal-Mart hardly needed finding; one thing I've discovered: the Wal-Mart is always right there. Wherever you are, there it is.) These aren't really the places I had in mind, as far as hang-outs on the trip, but they're extremely comforting after wandering around lost all day in a strange city. I stopped at a coffee shop called Port Java (huh?) and ordered a hot chocolate. "Do you want marshmallows and whipped cream?" she asked me. Well, duh... It would've been a reasonably pleasant outing except that a dog happened by, and you can imagine the ensuing chaos. The owner turned around and walked back the way she came, then fifteen minutes later drove up and petulantly informed me that she lived near by and walked her dog that way several times a day, and that she was 8 months pregnant. I'm still not sure what the relevance of her pregnancy might have been, but she seemed to think it very important, because she repeated it several (like fifteen) times. She kept whining until I asked her what, exactly, she wanted me to do, to which she responded that it would be nice if I were to take the dogs across the street when she came by. Sure lady, whatever. I guess I don't blame her for being annoyed (yeah, I sort of do), but I definitely hold her responsible for being a whiny little bitch. I can't imagine what it must be like to know her, or, God forbid, be married to her. "I'm pregnant," must be her constant refrain.
Also, I'm out of papers. I think I saw a tobacco shop somewhere, but I think it highly unlikely that I'll be able to find it again.
Whatever. Tomorrow I'm going to the beach. Reuben's never seen the ocean!
Monday, November 8, 2010
Fuck...
I just lost a really long post. Oh well, it wasn't very interesting anyway. And you're not even reading this, are you? Don't lie; I know things.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Lion pride
What I learned in the last 24 hours:
Penn State does not fuck around. These guys are serious about... well, about being Penn State. It wouldn't be enough for everyone - you know, just being a college (sorry, university) - but it's obviously enough for them. I've never seen so many people, in such a small geographical area, so identically attired. Every last body in town - save three or four punk kids, a hippie and myself - was covered head to toe in some kind of blue and white, lion logo, Penn State, Happy Valley, "Go Team!" bullshit fan uniform (fan-iform?). I swear to God they make Red Sox fans look apathetic.
Actually, State College reminds me of Boston; a super-condensed version (just add water and you'll be paying $1200 for a studio overnight). Imagine an aggregate of Harvard, BU and Tufts (and/or every other Boston school) set on a hill above, say, Newbury Street (and/or every other Boston street). With more people. All of the restaurants are overcrowded; all of the stores are overpriced; all of the people are rude or crazy or both.
Or neither. I might be exaggerating. And to be fair, I didn't really speak to anyone. Or go into any of the restaurants. Or any of the stores. But you know - you can just tell.
Actually, I did go into one store, wherein I did speak to one person. I want to tell you about it, but I'm hungry and I want a cigarette, so you'll have to wait. A few minutes at least.
Penn State does not fuck around. These guys are serious about... well, about being Penn State. It wouldn't be enough for everyone - you know, just being a college (sorry, university) - but it's obviously enough for them. I've never seen so many people, in such a small geographical area, so identically attired. Every last body in town - save three or four punk kids, a hippie and myself - was covered head to toe in some kind of blue and white, lion logo, Penn State, Happy Valley, "Go Team!" bullshit fan uniform (fan-iform?). I swear to God they make Red Sox fans look apathetic.
Actually, State College reminds me of Boston; a super-condensed version (just add water and you'll be paying $1200 for a studio overnight). Imagine an aggregate of Harvard, BU and Tufts (and/or every other Boston school) set on a hill above, say, Newbury Street (and/or every other Boston street). With more people. All of the restaurants are overcrowded; all of the stores are overpriced; all of the people are rude or crazy or both.
Or neither. I might be exaggerating. And to be fair, I didn't really speak to anyone. Or go into any of the restaurants. Or any of the stores. But you know - you can just tell.
Actually, I did go into one store, wherein I did speak to one person. I want to tell you about it, but I'm hungry and I want a cigarette, so you'll have to wait. A few minutes at least.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
On the Jersey Shore
So far, being off the Grid is a whole lot like being on the Grid, but with cold toes and a headache. That said, in the last five hours I've been to the Jersey Shore, the Grand Canyon and Burning Man. Okay, that last one is a lie; I would never go to Burning Man. But the other two are true. Sort of. I don't know how they got away with it, but PA seems to have pinched two of our nation's largest tourist attractions. I won't tell, but sooner or later someone's going to figure it out and boy are NJ and AZ going to be pissed.
I don't know what I'm doing yet, but when I figure it out, you'll be the first to know.
I don't know what I'm doing yet, but when I figure it out, you'll be the first to know.
Friday, November 5, 2010
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