My Daily Routine (Or "Everything You've Ever Wanted to Know About Monotony But Were Afraid to Ask")

6:57 on my alarm clock, which is 24 minutes fast (6:33 in real life) -- hit snooze button;

7:06 on my alarm clock, which is 20 minutes fast (6:42 in real life) -- hit snooze button;

7:15 on my alarm clock, which is 20 minutes fast (6:51 in real life) -- hit snooze button;

7:24 on my alarm clock, which is 20 minutes fast (7:00 in real life) -- finally turn off alarm and get up;

7:00-7:14 -- pee, get dressed, brush teeth, try to comb mop of hair;

7:14-7:16 -- grab pop and possibly lunch from fridge, put on shoes, leave;

7:16-7:34 -- drive to work;

7:34+ -- load up computer, fill up bottle with water, get tea;

7:45+ -- check email, update blog;

9:00 -- eat nutragrain bar;

9:00-10:30 -- work and slack and email;

10:30 -- drink diet pop;

10:30-12:00 -- work and slack and email;

12:00-12:55 -- go over to cafeteria with folks for lunch, watch Adam fidget incessantly while Dave acts droll and Eric randomly bursts into song;

12:55--3:30 or so -- work and slack and email;

between 3:30 and 4:00 -- go sit outside with Eric for a while and bullshit;

4:00 -- stare at the clock and wish it was 5:40 already;

4:00-5:40 -- work and check out the internet and slack and email (but not quite so much since almost everyone I normally email has gone home);

5:40 -- bust the hell outta here;

5:40-6:00 -- drive home and curse at traffic;

6:16 -- scrounge up dinner;

6:44 -- eat dinner while watching a super-staticky THAT 70s SHOW or the news;

7:00 -- watch Seinfeld;

7:30-9:05 -- shag my man-slaves;

9:05-9:15 -- shower and clean off all the man-juices;

9:15-10:00 -- read;

10:00-11:00 -- watch some shitty CSI show while exercising on my sweet cardio-equipment thing;

11:00-11:30 -- shower long and languidly with Francois, my butler/man-slave;

11:30 -- set out clothes for next day;

11:30-12:15 -- read or fart around or engage in more man-slave-lovin';

12:15-12:20 -- read the day's poem from my poetry book;

12:20 -- have Francois set my alarm and turn out the light;

12:21 -- fall into blissful, wet-dream-filled sleep.

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Dear Diary, Part II

Thank god for little kids: yesterday I was having one hell of a shitty-assed day. I swung over to Eleven's after work. As I was coming into his apartment building, some little kid was trying to get out the door. I waved at him through the window on the door, waiting for Eleven to buzz me in. He waved back. His mom went and got her mail. As I was headed down the hallway towards Eleven's apartment, I hear the kid shouting, "HI! HI!" behind me. Then he starts lurching down the hallway in that way that little kids have who aren't in complete control of their leg functions yet, barreling down it like a runaway train... I turn around to smile down the hallway at him and see that his mom is running full speed after him and is not able to catch up. So I stop so I can grab him for her before he gets past. He lurches right up to me and wraps his pudgy little arms in a big hug around my legs and starts cooing. His mom finally catches up and starts apologizing and laughing simultaneously because he won't let go. He waves at me when she finally extracts me from his grip and lurches down the hallway towards his apartment.

These are the moments when I can actually understand why people pop out babies the way they do.

* * * *

As I mentioned yesterday, I was looking through my diary from middle and high school again just the other day, which got me thinking about the ridiculous amount of people (lame-ass people and not too terribly lame-ass people) that I've had crushes on over the years, all of which have thankfully come and gone...

Here is an abridged list of them for your entertainment (sorta in alphabetical order):

Adam Oberlin,

Adam Szabo,

Barry Leone,

Brandon Something-or-Other,

Clint Luikart,

The Cowboy Dude from the coffee-shop whose name I can't remember,

Danny Wagner,

Marlini,

Mike Thrane,

The One-F Man,

Rob L. from OU,

Stoner kid from my astronomy class whose name I think began with an A,

Terry Tesmer,

Walter Lapchynski.

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Gifted... In More Ways Than One (*Wink Wink Nudge Nudge*)

Last night I sat down and started re-reading my teenage diary again. I'd lost the diary for a long while, but then my sister Lisa recovered it about a year ago. I'd tried sitting down and working my way through it before, but weirdly enough, I had to stop reading because it was upsetting me. Not any of the events that it recalled or anything like that. Moreso the way I talked about stuff--I was a VERY neurotic kid. And it makes me unhappy to remember that.

Originally I intended to read some more of The Satanic Verses yesterday. And I succeeded for about 50 pages. But then my brain got preoccupied with worrying about my sister (she is apparently having some sort of crisis but I don't know what it is, and as she is often my center of gravity, knowing that she's going through something that I can't help her out with at all is throwing me for bit of a loop) and I was too distracted to make my way through the dense text.

So I decided to pull out my diary again and give it another shot. The diary encompasses (sporadically) the time of my life between 6th grade and about 9th or 10th grade. I made it the whole way through finally last night, and it was a strange strange experience--like a time-warp back to my awkward adolescent years... So the topic of my diary may very well be a recurring one over the next few days.

The most bizarre part of reading it was when I stumbled across an infamous event from my past, one that weirdly enough (despite it now being about 13 years after the actual event) finds its way back into my writing on occasion, and more often into my brain. And one which I hadn't even realized I'd immortalized in writing at the time--everything I'd always remembered about it was restricted to sheer memory until last night...

Let me give a little bit of background to this tale...

From primary school through freshman year of high school, I was in gifted classes. This involved being taken out of regular classes either once a week or occasionally during the day to "exert my gifted powers" among other gifted students. It was fun in primary school. It got lame as time progressed.

Anyways, I was 14 and just starting high school and I had been dragged into the high school gifted program as well. It was lame as expected. But in the fall, they scheduled a weekend trip for all us students to go to Salt Fork for a weekend murder-mystery kinda deal. We were all expecting it to be the lamest of the lame, and for the most part it was... But we were inventive children, and so on the first day there, we came up with some creative ideas of how to occupy our time...


Excerpts from my diary:

11-10

...After that we had dinner, the guys cooked pizza. Yes, we did wear our togas. Then after we changed our togas and went back to their cabin, it got heavy (it was great)! Kristen Jordan kiddingly said we should play strip poker. So of course the guys took her up on it. It was Mike, me, Terry, Nicole, and Kristen (I think) for the first game. Oh, and Jen. Jen took her pants off and Mike told her to put them back on, so she dropped out. Then I got down to my tank top, bra, leggings, and undies. I lost. Nicole looks at me and says "I'll take my top off if you take off yours." We did. When I was down to my undies and bra, Terry was down to his jockie shorts. He looked over at me and told everybody "If Lauren's quitting, so am I." I quit. Then we got Andy P___, and Clint comin in too. We started a new game. It was even better. I was sittin between Nicole and Andy P____. Joe was dealing. This time I did better, I got to keep my pants and my bra on. Andy got totally nude, but he covered himself, thank god. Then Joe (who is I think 19 or 20) told me I had a nice "set." Well, finally we had to leave because it was almost time to go on the hayride. On the way out, Joe gives me this big hug (I don't know why) and goes "I love you." We just fuckin' missed Mrs. Spencer. Gettin on the bus to go to the hayride, all the guys were whistlin at us...

after getting back to our cabins, we got back to the guys cabin. We all got sittin down to play another game but their wasn't enough room so I didn't play. (I did want to though) Terry and I (Joe and Anthony) sat around on the couch. I read tape covers and Terry complained how bored he was. Then he said we could either be bored here or go in another room and "be bored." So we stayed in the living room and played Tetris and, guess what, Mrs. Spencer came up and caught them playin Strip Poker. Everybody ran. After sittin through a very long lecture, we had to go around and tell everybody what she had said. Terry was pretending to french a cup or something. Then after freakin' out and everything we finally went to bed.

It was a great day!

* * * * *

This goofy minor event, this stepping-stone of my adolescence and sexually-realized self, was a strange one... But thankfully a lot more mild-tempered then SOME of the crap that brings females into the world of sexuality.

And yet it's one that still haunts me to this day. I've written an essay about it (which I DID in fact try to scrounge up but couldn't locate on a disk) and it's also come up (though metamorphosized a bit) in my poetry:



Strip Poker

past the garish smirks of kings and queens, past tidy piles of shirts and bras and jeans, past four-pair of high school freshmen hunched in their puberty, averted eyes and sometimes stolen looks: the squeak and squeal of the garage door rising, parents returned home early, then every movement echoes this, the clang and collision of swinging genitals, the bounce and jingle of unleashed tits as gawky bodies fumble for the right clothes, for corners to hide in, grown timid beneath the knowing glare of discarded royalty, yes, they’ve seen this all before, the way of the young, and

here is me: naked as a fist
unclenched, this blur of curves, this flash of breasts,

and yet I fail to understand the weight of my own flesh.

still I am frozen here
suspended in the scent of
almost sex, purple-nippled, goose-fleshed,
the night given shape by the
same sweet fumbling of later

back-seat rendezvous that go
not much further than this. furtive
glances, nervous lips. it is
only years later
when:

I learn just how
to clench
this fist.



But what's most unsettling about all of this event's manifestations in my life is that they all seem to somehow be tip-toeing around the truth. I don't know what this means exactly, but each time the event manifests itself in a retelling, it never seems to be quite as honest as it should be. So reading any of them, recalling the incident, all of it is very unsettling to me.

I don't regret it. And it makes for amusing dinner party stories. And it's part of who I am in a big way, part of my sexuality, part of my personality, part of my way of dealing with males. And that I wouldn't trade in for a million dollars.

But weirdly, I guess my event is probably not so unique. It all sorta comes back to this for each and every one of us: an event that has worked its way into every single adolescent's life as the stepping stone for their maturation and their sexuality, just manifested in a different disguise for each one of us...

Question of the day:
What was your stepping stone into the world of sex?

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Eye See You...

This morning I dreamt that I woke up and rolled over, and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that was suddenly right next to my bed, I had turned into Billy Idol.

Now I have that stupid "White Wedding" song stuck in my head.

Motherfucker!

Anyways...

* * * * * *


I once convinced a friend of mine that I had a glass eyeball. This amused me to no end.

It will also be just one of the many reasons why I'm going to end up in hell.



Anyways, the reason that I decided to convince this fella that I had a glass eye is because the first few months that I knew him, I could never quite tell when he was being facetious about something or telling the truth. Like pretty near all of my friends (weirdly enough), he has a very deadpan way of pulling your leg. So he had it coming I would suppose.

He also had a penchant for concocting weird elaborate stories in the presence of strangers--one time he convinced a few folks we were shooting pool with that he was a film-director of some low-budget movie and that we'd met when I was acting in a porno or something to that effect; he even gave them a lengthy description of the movie's plotline and his film-history--so I figured we'd both have a good laugh in the end.

I can't remember what instigated the conversation, but I believe we were making fun of each other about deformities or something. He was making fun of me for being blind as a bat, and THAT'S when the idea suddenly popped into my head. I curtly responded by telling him it's not nice to make fun of someone who has a glass eye.

He didn't buy it of course. But I offered up a lengthy explanation about the corneal ulcers that I once had (which actually WAS true). I then explained that they had eaten away enough of my cornea that the only thing they could do was remove my eye otherwise it would cause damage to the nerves in my face. I described the lengthy process of cleaning the glass-eye and I offered to come over there and pop it out for him if he didn't believe me... I threatened a bit, telling him that once he saw my gaping eye socket, he'd never look at me the same again.

But he still seemed a bit suspicious. And eventually the conversation took off in another direction, leaving me thinking to myself, Ah, well. I tried. But apparently I am not a very good liar.

I had forgotten about the whole incident until a few days later... I bumped into him while opening the door to the third floor at work. He was leaving as I was coming in. And for a second, a split hesitant second, I caught him looking just a LITTLE too closely at my eye. Suddenly I realized that he really DID still believe that I had a glass eye.

This just busted me up.

I played it up for a while, telling him I'd noticed him trying to catch a glimpse of it and threatening to pop it out next time I walked by him. It was much too much fun.

And then I started to feel bad. Damnable conscience! So I finally 'fessed up and revealed that I didn't actually have a glass eye after all.

He wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the week.

Moral of this story:

It is fun to make up stories about glass eyeballs. If given the opportunity to do so, jump at the chance. You're probably gonna end up sucking on shit in the asshole of hell anyways.

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Good Morning, My Brothers and Sisters of Rock!

So I watched AMERICAN BEAUTY... again... this weekend. I've seen it about a handful of times, and yet (much to my dismay) I still kinda like it, despite being resistant to how geeked out people get about it. Anyways, I DO however think it has two major flaws in it, and I'd like to share 'em with you today and ruin your perception of the movie as a perfect gem.

BEWARE OF SPOILERS. If you have not seen this movie yet, you will probably not want to read this.



First off, let me start with what I like about the movie. One of my favorite aspects of it, and weirdly enough I only noticed it this time through, is the comedic timing of some of the scenes. Strangely, the timing often makes it feel like dialogue from an old Abbott and Costello episode or something. Not the CONTENT of the dialogue, of course. But the timing. This is particularly noticeable in the bedroom scene where Lester is caught masturbating by his wife. Their exchange RINGS with the timing of some old-fashioned comedy. And this is particularly interesting to me because old comedies such as Abbott and Costello or the Three Stooges completely drip in stereotypes. The characters aren't developed at all, they're just stagings for the next joke or pratfall.

Which fits in perfectly with what I really like about the movie: each of these characters starts out as a sort of stereotype, a mask or facade. You have the blond slut of a cheerleader, the father going through a mid-life crisis. But the unhappiness of each of these individuals unravels them as complicated individuals and removes their masks in the end, revealing that they are much more than the sum of these stereotypes.

This is good.

HOWEVER, this leads into one of my big pet peeves about the movie: Chris Cooper's character, Col. Frank Fitts. I really really like Chris Cooper as an actor, and despite being peeved by his character, I think he does a good job acting as usual. But what bothers me about his character is this: the unraveling of his facade/stereotype only leads into ANOTHER stereotype. We find out that he is a Colonel, a military-man, and a rigid and abusive man as well. This stereotype unravels itself to reveal the root of his unhappiness to be... the fact that he secretly has homosexual urges that he is disgusted with and doesn't know how to deal with. His mask is removed to reveal an EVEN BIGGER STEREOTYPE which is inconsistent with the revelatory nature of all the other characters. This does not COMPLICATE his character. It just makes it even more flat and silly. Perhaps if he were fighting with these urges but NOT a military-man, I might be able to swallow this. Or perhaps if he were a military-man dealing with his own abusiveness WITHOUT the extra ingredient of his latent homosexuality, I might be able to swallow it as well. But the combination of BOTH these characteristics is so goddamned silly to me. And inconsistent within the movie as well.

My OTHER major pet peeve with the movie is that it is set up as a sort of mystery. The first scene of the movie consists of Janie (Lester's daughter) discussing with her boyfriend how they should kill her father. DUN DUN DUNNNNN. Immediately after, Lester reveals in a voice-over that he will die within the next week. Writer Alan Ball sets this up so that we are left wondering how he will die and whether it will be his daughter who kills him. But then this mystery is tossed to the wayside for nearly ALL of the movie until it is brought up again near the end. We are given a variety of possibilities as to who might be his killer: the enraged wife taking shooting practice who has the gun sitting next to her on her carseat? The disgusted daughter who earlier contemplates her father's death? The boyfriend of said girl who agrees (jokingly) to murder him for her? None of the above! It ends up being Fitts, the next-door neighbor with the newly-discovered penchant for penis.

I don't even really object to the fact that it ends up being Fitts. It's a little bit silly given his character and given that his homosexuality leads to him killing someone... But fine. I can deal with that.

What bugs me is that the movie is framed within some sort of mystery. A whodunit kinda deal. And this really doesn't seem to fit or enhance what the movie is all about... It does not develop any important themes nor does it enlighten us at all in any sort of way.

It just seems to be a cheap means of moving the plot along: "If we set up the movie as a mystery at the beginning, the audience will be left wondering who the killer is. And then we can turn the movie into what it REALLY is--a commentary on people and unhappiness and, in turn, happiness--while still keeping the attention of those who could care less about "touching" movies with "themes" and "commentaries" about the sad state of modern man. We can give them the illusion that they're watching a mystery at least."

And there you have it. My two big pet peeves with the movie, two pet peeves that could easily be changed without losing ANY impact of the stories or characters in the movie...

Alan Ball, I think it's time for a rewrite.

-------

BOO!

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Unspoken Thanks

So many varieties:

the kind that lies silent because to say thanks, to show the slightest nod of gratitude, would be to hopelessly embarrass the other person (and/or yourself);

the kind of seething wistfulness and nostalgia;

the kind of missed opportunity;

the kind you avoid speaking because to say it would require way more of an explanation than anyone really wants to hear;

the kind that you just plain-old didn't get the chance to say;

the kind that you hold so close to your heart that to speak it would be to destroy it.

And so a bit of random thanks:

For the time you were drunk and thus in an uncharacteristic mood of absolute frankness, so you wrapped your arms around me and said, "I miss you"--like winning the lottery, three words I'd never expected you to 'fess up to and which I'm sure you'd deny viciously if you haven't already blocked them out of your memory.

For a shared bed flecked with crunchy bodies of lady bugs and the closeness of good friends.

For the hand squeezing affectionately and teasingly just a little too high up above my knee just when I needed to be reminded that I can be wanted and desired.

For holding me without expecting anything else.

For trusting me enough to let me into the closely-guarded mysteriousness that is your home, your life, your secrets.

For being there for me to look up to and grittily admire, despite the fact that you're younger than me but (thankfully) oftentimes much wiser.

For risking your life to help push my car to the shoulder on I-480 when my car broke down and I was trapped inside like a sardine.

For playing along, just to make things easier on my end.

For the infinite fantastic and gut-breaking mixes.

For the child-like smittenness of notes written on paper-plates.

For playing the role of my protective brother.

For stopping on a frigidly cold night (cold enough that I had to lend you my stretch-gloves) to help my friend Perky change her flat tire.

For that first poem you ever wrote about me and how it made me blush and feel scared yet excited all rolled into one.

For renewing my lame romantic indulgence in the idea of fate.

For leaving me with cute, sweet, heart-breaking memories of you chewing in your sleep.

For that song that filtered its way into my apartment for two days, and for the opportunity to finally get to see you break your way into the daylight.

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Hari Kiri

I like to write. Obviously.

I like to read even moreso. There is something, spiritual/transcendent/etc. about the act. Like dreaming. That bridging of the line between realities.

I think writing-ability is one of the most magnificent and impressive talents a person can possess, god-like I might even venture to say. Like being a dream-master, a weaver of someone's thoughts and visions. Or like being a cult-leader. Being able to drive someone to an alternate-reality, to get them consumed with it to the point that their own reality slips to the wayside like some crisco-doused condom. To have them arrive at each word as though it were a shimmering glass of water after a long trip through desert-heat.

And people big and not so big do it. And they do it so lovely.

Which makes it all the more intimidating.

Because goddamn is the act of writing frustrating. And yet people make it look all sweet and innocent when really it's some child molester leering away from inside an ice cream truck.

I walk around a hundred times a day thinking about weird shit, shit that perhaps might be worthy of a poem or a short story or even just some random blurb of something. Sometimes I jot it down. Sometimes it transforms itself into something nice--usually a poem or, sometimes, a dorky blog entry. But more often than not, it gestates in my brain and, being the lazy shit that I am, stays there, rotting away and seeping its rank juices into my skull.

Why is this? Why the hell don't I just suck it up, get off my lazy ass, and WRITE THE GODDAMN THINGS DOWN? Well, for various reasons. One of which is that the transformation from thought to written word that takes place for me usually resembles that of Playdoh placed into some sorta food-making template and squishing out like spaghetti squiggles on the other end. It starts out promising but ends up looking like some sorta putrid kiddie-mess.



And so this possible outcome always looms in front of me when I go to write, haunting me, taunting me, whipping out its boobies and distracting me.

A putrid kiddie-mess. Especially when I force it. If it's not something that spills out of me like some hari kiri-inspired intestinal-slippage, it usually doesn't work too well.

And the problem is, these hari kiri moments are few and far between lately. What does this mean? Do I need a change of venue or something to shake my mortal coil and get me needing to write? I think this may be the case. I at least need a new job, one that doesn't leave me drained by the end of the day and in no creative spirit to write. I need to shake things up, frighten myself, pull the rug out from underneath me, SOMETHING.

Come on, fellas! Somebody offer to run off to Vegas with me, get drunk, and end up married in some Shaft-themed wedding! You know you wanna!

Anyways, this looming fearful thing is kinda why I dig the whole blog-thang. There's not the pressure of writing anything life-altering and substantial. And I can write how I think--in long, winding, nonsensical, distracted, constantly getting off the topic and segueing into equally random and unrelated topics (such as whether the word "segueing" IS in fact a word and, if so, whether I'm spelling it right) kinda ways with excessive usage of metaphors if I so please and sudden bursts about nothing and everything and little things and smelly things and... all... of... that.

It's not as shlocky and cumbersome as a diary where you feel compelled to make your life look good or at least worthy of shlupping down in some otherwise pretty and frilly blank book. And it's not as intimidating as some mealy-muscled piece of scratch paper begging you to write the next poet-laureaute poem on it.

It's like the act of talking to yourself... Or the act of writing just to write and exercise those muscles... It ain't scary, it ain't frustrating, and it makes me feel yummy every once in a while.

And it's my blog so I can do and write and say whatever I want whenever I want. I can even end abruptly and with no wrap-up, just because I can.

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I Was a Library Whore

When I was little, my mom used to take us to the library ALL the time. It is one of my fonder childhood memories and is probably why I'm such a book-whore nowadays.

Anyways, these are a smidgen of some of my favorite childhood books:


Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs
by Judi and Ron Barrett



The Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark Series
by Alvin Schwartz

(This book scared the living crap out of me as a child. I mean, look at the illustrations--they still creep me out even NOW.)







Bunnicula
by James and Deborah Howe




The Amelia Bedelia series
by Peggy Parish




The Encyclopedia Brown Series
by Donald J. Sobol


Random Question of the Day:

What are your favorite kids' books?
(And what the hell is the name of that book where the teacher "vanishes" and is replaced by this really mean and witchy-looking teacher that's actually the vanished teacher but the kids don't know it and she's trying to teach them a lesson about how they should appreciate her? That one's good too.)

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Percentages

--Michelle Tea

i can't even try to get past
a sky like this one.
like a duck or a kid in a
plastic rain jacket i move
through morning.
it sucks that everyone is up,
people should sleep more,
wake easy like a tide that carries you
to the shore of your bed,
no alarms to scare your dreams away.
once i was always awake
in the cold, damp morning,
with coffee and a greasy croissant
i thought i had to work the whole day,
i was so scared of falling into
prostitution.
so i sat at a computer
and then at a desk.
every day,
little snack in between.
hateful coworkers.
now i sleep til ten
but not today
today i'm part of the special club,
privy to the secrets of 8 AM
mission rain
good morning
says my curbside grocer
need anything
oh yes oh i do if only,
if only, a long thin needle
to plunge into my heart's
sore muscle oh it has just been
beating forever, pop it
like a wet balloon,
lay me back on my bed
this horrible morning
i hunt bagels like
small animals, sometimes
i feel so primitive, my teeth,
illogical hair between my legs,
claws at the tip of my fingers
oh yeah i'm an animal
that's why i liked to sniff
your head, roll you over
and jump on your back.
here i am in the wet
and rainy jungle with all
the other animals, the big sad
ocean of humanity
making us soar above bowls
of frothy coffee,
drafty tables.
sometimes i love myself so much
i shake with it, an extension
of the street's gorgeous garbage
sometimes i miss people i
don't know so much i cry
in my french fries,
my sweet sweet juice.
i am so sad today,
i am beautiful with it
really feeling my heart,
the real thing the muscular one,
not the vague poetic heart
or even the common dull ache.
a true quick burning as it
raised its strong back
like a whale in the sea and
spit steam for just a second.
and then i was just a regular body,
wet-eyed and tortured by
a brush with something beautiful.
i want to ride in this sadness
like a car that takes me deeper
into the place i live, more green
and sun, round things
like hills.
i will sit in the back
in a cool pair of shades,
flicking my ashes in an empty
can of coke, strung out,
leaning my head into
the loud, loud radio
feeling great, crying behind
my dark plastic eyes.
it's that active kind of sadness
that moves me through the outdoors
where the sun has finally arrived
but too late, the morning sky
has stained my back.
today i am learning about learning,
in a room with all these non-profit people,
stream people AIDS people
runaway homeless youth people.
i am the tree people
woodland creature people
i hold the elevator door
so it doesn't snap
on all the different people.
like holden caulfield
i want to stand here forever,
leaning on the jerking jaws.
so, do you want to know
how adults learn.
one percent is smell, that's
the animal part, picking up
the subtlest most ancient waves
like invisible strings that tug
at your brain,
my nose in your hand.
one point five percent is touch,
now that's hard to believe
the whole landscape of skin
hardly worth more than a nose.
but i've made a mistake --
one percent of learning is taste
not smell
smell is a whopping three point five percent
edged out by hearing with eleven percent
and because the eyes are the most
ambitious part of the brain,
tunneling out into the world like
watery slugs nesting in bone
humans learn eighty-five percent by sight.
if you add all this up it equals
i don't really know you at all
yet here you are
oh the drama oh the pain
oh the slow drags of the cigarette
some cigarettes let you know
they're killing you, how they
rake your throat
and leave you stinking
but some are more about
their hot and burning tip,
a slow smolder you can eat.
when humans learn through a blend
of telling and showing
they can recall sixty-five percent
three days later.
i made a friend
she went away
and already i've lost
thirty-five percent of who she was.
like the smoke on my cigarette,
into the air and gone.

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Ghostbusters

Yesterday on NPR, they spoke with a ghost hunter. He discussed hauntings a bit and how children are more receptive to the paranormal.

At one point he said, "A psychic once told me an interesting trick. Find a toddler and ask them 'tell me about when you were big.' She said that maybe one in about eight will tell you about stuff they could not have known, suggesting a previous life."

I find this both easily explainable and yet intriguing.

Random question of the day:
Doth ye believe in ghosties?

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"Wrong? What could be wrong with our child, Robert?"

When I was younger, I used to think I was bad luck. I'm not quite sure why this was, probably mainly because I seemed to notice weird or bad things happening around me that I attributed to being a consequence of my proximity. Illogical? Probably so. There's a billion and one bad or weird things that any given person sees on an annual basis. But then again, I also thought you could only see bridges when you were driving on them. So I wasn't the most logical of children.

Confessions of a Damien Child

The Zoo Episode:

When I was little, very little, my parents decided to be nice, kind, lovely parents and take their wee daughter to the Akron zoo. While we were standing in front of one of the predatorial cat's cages, the two tigers/panthers/something predatorial and cat-like began to mate. Parents dragged off their puzzled kids. Not unusual, I know now. However, within an hour, we are standing in front of a couple cages of bears. In one cage, there is a small, baby kinda bear. In the other cage is a big and mean-looking bear. The small baby bear is obviously feeling playful and keeps poking at the big bear's cage. It pokes. It bobbles around. It pokes some more. It shakes the fencing. It wobbles. It makes noises at the bear. Suddenly the large bear very calmly and swiftly reaches under the fencing separating the two and grabs the little bear by the scruff. He then drags the squealing bear underneath the fencing, the rough edges gouging his furry hide. Once on the other side, the large bear begins to whip the baby bear back and forth, beating him into the ground and ripping off either a limb or its head (I can't remember exactly which), leaving the baby dead and bloody on the ground. All this happens in a matter of seconds. My parents and other parents all gawk in completely amazed horror. My parents tell me that through it all, I am looking completely obliviously at some birds in a bush nearby.

It's all for you, Damien!

That Whole Gun Episode:

Read here for a refresher.

He must DIE, Mr. Thorn!

The Pier Saga:

Back early on in high school, Becky, my best friend at the time, decided she was gonna drag me along on vacation to Florida with her family. Never having BEEN on vacation, I was thrilled. We spent the week sun-bathing, bopping around to little souvenir shops, etc. Towards the end of the week, her parents dragged us out to some pier with them. We stood around, watching the beautiful view of the ocean. Folks were fishing. Little kids were playing. Lovers were embracing each other. I leaned and the rail and let the salty wind catch my hair. A couple little kids were chasing each other--playing tag or something--behind me. They were giggling and having a blast. The one little kid comes running towards me, looking over his shoulder and laughing at the little boy who's chasing him, and--RUNS STRAIGHT OFF THE PIER. He's literally an arm's length away from me but there's nothing I can do. He is the exact right height to run beneath one of the protective wooden railings and he is now doing a Wile Coyote mid-air next to me. His legs pump in the air and then he drops straight down--and what a drop it is. This is an ENORMOUS pier, so he flails about in the air for at least 20 feet until he hits the water. People are too shocked to react, and then suddenly it's all screams and pandemonium. A couple guys tear off their jackets and leap over the edge. The little boy is floating on his back, his face and body submerged in the water, his mouth making fish-like movements, as he stares up at me, slowly running out of oxygen. Luckily the two men grab him and are able to pull him out of the water before he drowns.

Have no fear little one... I am hear to protect thee.

The Infamous Squirrel Incident:

I'm walking to class down in Athens, a typical early-morning routine. This particular day the sky is a fierce blue and the sun is shining. It catches the dew just right, making it sparkle like jewels. I'm humming to myself and the day's not looking too bad. There's a bit of a bounce in my step. Everyone I pass is cheery. The scent of spring fills the air. I get to a grassy area that I trek across every day, and there's cute little squirrels frolicking all around. I smile and cut across. One lone squirrel is perched in front of me, holding a nut. I praise the day for being so lovely. The birds are singing. The flowers are smiling and blowing in the breeze. The squirrel pauses as I near it. I grin. Slowly, it turns its head towards me to reveal THAT IT ONLY HAS ONE EYE. *Cue the tubular bells from John Carpenter's HALLOWEEN* Its other eye is completely disfigured and I swear I can see it smirking at me. Blood red clouds move in on the sun. The air picks up and is as sharp as a knife blade. I hang my head knowing this ain't gonna be a good day.


When the Jews return to Zion
And a comet fills the sky
And the Holy Roman Empire rises,
Then You and I must die.
From the eternal sea he rises,
Creating armies on either shore,
Turning man against his brother
'Til man exists no more.

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CSI: MIAMI

Any typical episode of CSI: Miami goes as follows:

A crime is committed.

David Caruso appears on the scene and they fill him in on all the details.

Caruso looks around smugly, pulls down his shades, looks off in the distance, and then says something smugly intense and/or witty (i.e. "They mess with one cop, they mess with us all"). Cue the intro music and credits.

Caruso talks to someone without looking at them, staring off intently into the distance.

Something happens in slo-mo.

They shoot a gun over and over for ballistics.

They magnify a picture to absurd points to find out a license-plate number or what the little fleckle of dust on some chick's ring finger in the VERY VERY VERY background is composed of.

Caruso says something stoically.

The cute blond chick smiles and says something sassy. (*Sidenote: For some reason I really dig the cute blond--she annoyed me at first but she is one of the only non-annoying characters on the show.)

Rory Cochrane furrows his brow as he accidentally slips into reminiscing about his good ol' days as the kick-ass Slater in Dazed and Confused.

Caruso looks off in the distance again and says something smugly.

Caruso chides a criminal that he is "going to take down."

Some funky, pseudo-hip modern music starts playing during a stimulating scene of ballistics testing, DNA testing, or autopsy.

Someone's calm exterior is broken by something that touches him/her, moving them into emotions and revealing that, yes, they ARE indeed human.

The criminal is captured.

Caruso says something witty and smug and bad-ass to said criminal as they drag him off in cuffs.

Caruso says something else wise and/or witty and then looks off intensely into distance while either the closing music swirls in or they pan out into a shot of good ol' Miami.

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More Random Randomnesses

Uplifting Message from a Fellow Resident's Bumper Sticker:

Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.

The History of My Career Timeline:

Babysitting: '91-'95

McDonald's: '93-'95/'96

The Ritter Library at B-W: '95-'99

K-Mart: '95-'96/'97

Record Exchange: '96-'97

Taco Bell: '97-'98

The Writing Lab at B-W: '98-'99

The Berea Branch of the Cuyahoga County Public Library: '98-'99

TA at Ohio University: '99-2001

An internet surfer for some company whose name I don't remember--at this job I got laid off before I even made it into work on my first day: 2000-2000

Temp: 2001-2001

Thomson West (bane of my existence): 2001-current

Random Question of the Day:
What's the worst job you've ever had?

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Random, Relatively Minor Pet Peeves of the Week

Time's cover story:
The maker of Fahrenheit 9/11 heats up the election year with a new kind of political weapon. Is this good for America? MICHAEL MOORE'S WAR.



1. First off, I finally must agree with Eleven that Michael Moore is starting to become a shameless self-promoter. I mean, look at the cover picture: he looks like a sad-eyed starving child on one of those Christian-sponsors commercials, looking at us with his big doe-eyes, holding out the American flag, begging us to see it his way.

2. Fahrenheit 9/11 as a political weapon? Doubtful. The only people who are gonna take the time to actually go see this movie are people who already despise George W. and/or already see eye-to-eye with Moore. Maybe it'd be more accurate to refer to Michael Moore and his work as a sheep-herding tool rather than a weapon. Do you really think that ultra right-wing conservatives are going to be flocking to the theaters to see a movie about something that is against every fiber of their being? Doubtful. At best, they'll flock the theaters just so they have more ammunition against Michael Moore, more reason to despise him and his deviant ways. If Michael Moore is actually able to convince even one or two right-wing conservatives to rethink their ways, if his movie is able to get them to completely discard their prior ideologies and vote AGAINST Bush, then he deserves a medal of honor.

Newsweek's cover story:
The New Infidelity:
From Hester Prynne to Emma Bovary, female adultery was associated with desperation and shame. But now the workplace and the Internet are giving rise to more cheating, less guilt and more complex consequences. For women today, is straying still a sin, a badge of independence--or both? [DUN DUN DUNNNNNNN.]



Dammit, I was really gonna spout off about this one--things along the line of "NEW fidelity? What bubble have YOU been living in, Newsweek writers?" and something about double-standards and whatnot. But then my stupid internet shut down and I lost everything I'd typed up for today. Now I'm outta steam, but feel free to add your OWN two cents to this topic in my comments section. And once you get me going, I'll gladly jump in again.


Yesterday, I saw a commercial for a refrigerator THAT HAS A TELEVISION ON THE DOOR.

Why, God, why?!?

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Float On

One of my favorite songs at the moment is Modest Mouse's "Float On." (If you haven't yet heard it, you can click here to listen to a clip or click here to watch the video on your Windows Media Player.) Why do I like it so much? Well, it's just a fucking good song to listen to when you're feeling shitty because the music and lyrics make life sound like it can't head anywhere but up. Its mood is contagious and it seems to be able to turn any upside-down day right-side up again.



It's one of those songs that'd be perfect for an uplifting (and preferably uncheesy) movie soundtrack. Which in turn makes it one of those rare songs that, if your life had a soundtrack (as everyone's really SHOULD in my opinion), would fit very snugly and perfectly into many given moments in this soundtrack.

That being said...

Relatively Believable Soundtrack-Moments for "Float On" in My Daily Life

I'm just reaching the apex of a hill on my way to work when the sun bursts over the horizon with a punch like Muhammed Ali. The fella to my right sings loudly to some horrible 80's song with his window cracked just enough that I can make out each terrible word and a man in the car to the left of me grins at me and throws me a wink. Suddenly Monday doesn't seem QUITE so bad. *CUE SONG*

I've just spent the last of this week's money and have no spare cash on hand. I flop down on my couch, dejected. My hand slips into the crack and *VOILA* I pull out a $20--just enough to get me that small crack-rock my body's been itching for all week. My right eye twitches eagerly once and then twice. *CUE SONG*

Maura, one of my closest friends, has spent the evening with me, slowly sipping away at some bad-ass margaritas while ripping into each others hearts and heads like very few other people seem able to do. It's 1 am and she has a long drive back home, but we're both brimming with an eagerness to meet the upcoming day--feeling centered and like everything WILL in fact be ok, despite how hard things feel at times. We wrap our arms around each other in a long hug--the kind where you're almost afraid to let the other person go because it just feels too damn nice. I open the door and let her out. From out in the hallway she tosses back, "We REALLY have to do this again FUCKING SOON, dammit!" right as I blurt out the exact same sentiments. We *CUE SONG* both grin and wave goodnight. I go back inside, smiling and sit down to write.

It's been a really long day at work--the Man's been bringing me down. I'm to the point of tears and Eleven offers to treat me to sushi at Pacific East. We're sitting at the table, sipping on some plum wine. He's smiling at me softly and speaking to me quietly. His freckles dance delightfully across his cheeks. I place a bit of avocado sushi on my tongue... *CUE SONG*

Perhaps Slightly Less-Believable Soundtrack Moments

I am adrift in the Pacific Ocean for the 45th straight day--no water, no food, and yet somehow I've managed to survive. About thirteen sharks have made it their weekly entertainment to circle under me and the sun glints off their tail-fins as it creeks its spindly fingernails across my already badly burnt flesh. My tongue is bloated and swollen to the point that I'm wheezing with each breath. *CUE SONG*

Tripping on acid, I suddenly see Ronald McDonald leering at me from my bedroom. I scream as he lurches through my door. The Fry Guys are at each of his sides. They're weilding machine guns. I scramble towards my front door. Suddenly the three of them explode into a rain of soft rose petals that float gently to my floor. I begin to laugh maniacally. *CUE SONG*

I get outside to where my Volkswagon Beetle is parked at the curb and, lo and behold, two assholes have boxed me in. I sit on the curb with my head in my hands. Two body-builders roam over and lend a helping hand. They pick up each end of my car and slide it free of its parking space. I whip out a pack of Mentos and a marching band turns right down the street playing the Mentos song. Suddenly Isaac Brock (lead singer of Modest Mouse) comes flying out of a nearby apartment building and starts stabbing various band members in the side. The Mentos song deflates only to be replaced by "Float On." *CUE SONG*

I'm shagging away on my new futon. It's a humid night, so it's some of that good summer shaggin'. At the moment of orgasm (which happens for both of us simultaneously of course, just like in the movies) my bedroom door flies open and a band marches in *CUE SONG* playing "Float On." Balloons are released out my window, a disco ball starts revolving from my ceiling, bubbles start whipping around the room, and Eleven and I just lay there, laughing and carefree.

It's been a really long day at work and the Man's been keeping me down. Maura's leaving from my apartment, about a dozen sharks circling around her. The marching band is still marching circles around my bedroom but isn't playing music anymore. The acid's wearing off, and I try hard not to slip on any of the rose petals. Isaac Brock is sitting on my couch, calmly holding his bloody knife and smiling. My crack-rock sits in my pocket, its slight bulge against my leg reminding me of good times yet to come. Suddenly the sun breaks over the horizon right behind Maura like a knife-wielding maniac. It slits the throat of the body-builder on her right. The body-builder on her left looks at me and winks. *CUE SONG*

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Zoology

Yesterday I spent the day at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo. The best part (or at least what I thought was the best part) was the primate house. In it I got to gawk at a month-old monkey and its mom for about 15 minutes. I love newborn animal-babies. And I love their mothers as well.

In this particular case, the mother was nursing her babe when we arrived. It was clinging close to her chest and people, unable to see the baby from where they were standing, kept thinking the mother had two tails. Once the babe was finished nursing, it kept trying to run around and explore. But the mother kept hastily snatching it back to her breast. She seemed to be afraid of the other male monkey in the cage. She never let it escape from her view. Not once. And she kept that baby pressed close to her heart the whole time.

I remember when I was little and we used to go to the zoo. Looking back, I realize that my parents had a REALLY good system down. We always started in the same place--with the elephants--and had the same routine each time. Elephants and pachyderms. Then the petting zoo area where we would excitedly lavish our time. And then my younger sibs would stuff into the wagon my dad was pulling with us and he and my mom would drag us all up the hill to the primate-house. And it was a big hill. He usually was the one who pulled us and always covered up his huffing along the way. At the top, we'd spread out and eat a pre-packed lunch from the cooler in the wagon. Then we'd hit the monkey area.

I remember once I was there, I was pressing my face flat against the glass of the baboon area. They were running around crazily as usual. Suddenly, one ran up right to where I was standing, its hemorrhoidic red ass waggling, and began to pound on the glass and wail. This of course sent me erupting into tears.

I've never been a fan of baboons since.

Then we'd wind our way down the huge wooden ramp and head off past the pond to look at the giraffes. From there to the bears. On the way, we'd usually stop underneath the huge bridge where our parents would finally give in and buy us ice cream--here I usually got the rare and cherished chocolate covered frozen banana. Alas, the zoo does not carry these anymore.

In the bear area, we'd always be sure to point out the Kodiak bears (we had a husky named Kodiak for a while and were always gleeful that they shared the same name).

Then from there to the polar bears and the seals. The seals always signalled that we'd nearly reached the end of our zoo adventures, and we'd always stand around and look wistfully at the kids who were allowed to buy fish to throw at the seals.

Then we'd head to the exit, stopping to gawk at monkey island and the zebras along the way.

Being at the zoo makes me think of my parents.

And thinking of my parents just opens a tidal wave of thoughts:

How they'd always shout AROUND THE WORLD! AROUND THE WORLD! when we were eating ice cream as kids, which was a secret-code that our ice cream cones were dripping and that, in order to redeem ourselves and save the day, we had to lick around the dripping mess before it made its fatal fall and left its stickiness all over our palms.

How one of them bought me a safety book for kids that talked about not talking to strangers and all that. How my sister and I always laughed about all the pictures years later. But how I still remember and utilize one of the directions in the book: when walking by yourself, picture a small ball in the center of the area right below your chest. Focus on this area. This will make you walk taller and more certainly, as though you know where you are walking and aren't afraid. Always be sure to do this when walking by yourself.

How our piece of shit station wagon used to break down all the time on important journeys: once on the way to the post office picnic, once right on the exit as we headed to the Akron zoo. The former involved my parents carrying several toddlers while all of us ran across several lanes of the freeway, crawled over a divider, and then ran across several more, climbed down a grassy incline, and stumbled around some neighborhood until someone finally, by the grace of god, let us into their home to use their phone.

The time my best friend Annie and I decided we were going to imprint our hands into the newly-laid street but didn't realize that TAR does not work the same way as CEMENT. And we also didn't realize that TAR won't come OFF once you get it on your skin. My mom's infinite patience as she poured gasoline over our hands and kept scrubbing. How we told her that some bully from down the street pushed us both into the tar and she stomped down the street with my brother in a buggy to chew his mom out.

The time my dad spent hours helping me perfect my California Raisin easter egg that I was going to enter in a school contest (and which, by the way, ended up winning first place)--how I would tell him, "That looks so pretty so far" and he'd retort, "Yeah, pretty--pretty UGLY!!!" and we'd both roar with laughter.

They were good parents. Not infallible ones, and they had their fallible moments that you resent as a kid. But they were good.

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