Know what’s really getting to me? Picking out expensive things to fill up a wedding registry. I barely give a hoot about kitchen appliances. I enjoy cooking but I have stuff to cook with. How much better can new pots cook macaroni and cheese? I want a hiking backpack and a jet boil. Maybe a circular saw. All the rest can sleep soundly beneath the shadow of my indifference.
It’s Friday, nerds, and that means stay up late watching Letterman. Or maybe Jerry Springer cause they only play it late at night where I come from. All the crazies come out on Friday and that’s why I’m staying in. If the phone rings, I’ll let my mom get it but before she does, I’ll get very scared that it’s for me. If I do get summoned, sometimes I lie and say I have plans. After this happens, I want to bury my face is a pillow and wheeze my last nasaly breath with my glasses pressed against my eyelids and no friends in the world. It’s the aimlessness really. What’s the point? Maybe we’ll end up cruising Broadway scoping out a drag race or find some coffee shop and do headstands. What else is there to do? Is tv watching not just as pointless? Just without other people? That’s where logic fails me and I turn to Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves or something – something to burn my skull from the inside. Oh Baseketball. Oh sweet Panic Room.
The problem with throwing centerpiece fruit into the trees at your friends’ wedding reception is that it might get eaten by a horse. Who the hell knows what happens after that? Maybe the horse gets a stomachache and falls down dead. Maybe fruit loving hyenas catch the scent from Africa and attack your friend’s horse, who is now sweating citrus. Maybe a girl horse gets frightened by the bright colors and some well-meaning boyfriend horse sees the fear as a weakness and forces the other horse to eat the fruit as a means of overcoming her phobia thereby cementing what was once at most a wariness into a full blown experiential terror at the sight, smell or taste of papaya.
I don’t know about any of this; it’s all just possibilities. All I know is drop kicking a lemon is just about the worst way to not get your pants dirty.
Do blogs have feelings? What if I were to not write on one for a while? How would it feel? Would it reformat my charts? Would it unexpectedly quit many times over? If you prick a blog, will it not eat your documents? Oh blog of mine, forgive a lowly blogger for his blogless blog blog.
When you are unemployed, one day you will go visit some friends’ wedding for a weekend in Tennessee. The mead will flow and by doing so, anoint your virgin petals with the sweet nectar of hearty re-acquaintance. Brothers and Sisters from another life will climb the heights to greet you and through the lens of their life-moves will you judge worthy your endeavors and strike to achieve them once more. All your demons will rear and retreat while the whispy and transient ghost of prospect will wholly substantiate.
And so, while the oppressive palm of doubt may press slowly but strongly from the reaches of your mind, forcing questions and negating answers, you, heartened, are able to win fortitude and bravery by minding timeless memories and witnessing warmth in the genuine smiles on the faces of the dear and hopefully soon-to-be-near.
Macker and I are the proud owners of a spinning bookshelf. We bought it from the Virgin Megastore that’s going out of business on Union Square. I haggled for it. 100 dollars to 75 dollars. I picked it up with my Plymouth. It required disassembly to fit in my backseat. I had to scoot my seat way up like I imagine a Smart Car is normally situated. There it sits beneath our clock. I feel lucky we have a TIME magazine subscription. It gives our room the feel of a bookstore. Like a café in a bookstore because it’s so close to the kitchen. There’s a slot for a plaquard on top that may soon exclaim, “Book Shelf.” There are several slots for further signage that may soon describe, “Eric’s Books” or “Mackenzie’s Books” or “Our Books.” It’s kindof blocking the door buzzer, a wall socket, and the thermostat but it’s a small price to pay for the benefits of a spinning bookshelf.
If you did not know, a West Point cadet is not honor bound to snap your neck if you step onto the parade ground lawn unbidden. This was just one of the things I learned when I went to share in the graduation celebrations of West Point’s class of 2009 yesterday. My cousin is a member of this class and he took time out to help me and more of his family get acquainted with his life on base.
We saw train ups, boot camps, beast teams and salutations from many summer cadets. We took cookies from an event we weren’t invited to. We joked about snipers on the roofs and argued about whether the big chain that was once stretched across the Hudson was meant to keep the British out of Manhattan or keep them in. Six plaques dedicated to this chain could not grant us a winner.
Also, skipping rocks on an army lake is almost as easy as anywhere else, but skipping bark here is nearly impossible.
After reading The Lords of Discipline, I was surprised to learn that West Point upper-classmen are not allowed to put broomsticks behind your knees and make you squat until you pass out. They are allowed to make you paint many wrought iron things however.
The blocky, masculine buildings stand out in my mind as different from any I’ve seen before. This “West Point” of the Hudson River is indeed worth the hour and a half trip from NYC if you get a chance. And if you get a chance with your family and a West Point graduate, then you’re in for a real treat.
I guess the biggest turn around for me is the All-State guy. He used to play the bad mo fo president on 24 but now he is on about 50 All-State Insurance commercials. I never see the same one twice. It’s amazing. Way back when, Jack Bauer had this guy’s back and he didn’t get scared of puss filled, boily hands or nukes and always admitted Jack Bauer’s calls but now he’s forever pattering on about very serious, somber and ‘I don’t care about’ stuff. He makes me sad. And the soft music. And the tag line. He’s like, “You know what” - big dramatic build up…it’s revelation time…something smart…anything cool…a gun perhaps? – “You’re in good hands with All-State.” Looks into the camera as it fades out. AHHH! I hate you ex-President 24 All-State guy. You make me wish I were in TV so I could write you out of the plot line of those commercials.
Ahh, the luxury of a fine Persian area rug. Shades of green and tan and black. Octagonal in shape. Small enough to rest your feet on and hold your rock band drum set in place but not so large as to rest under the furniture. Carpet is so easily cleaned it mocks the hard wood floor by picking up its dust and holding it on display. It is the envy of the room. Its swirly, vaguely Chinese designs and its symmetrical splendor delight. It’s borders are always open. A constant companion for the apartment. For what more could we hope in the world?
I think there are bugs in my bed and they bite me at night. I’ve found two. One looked like a cricket and the other I looked up on the internet and learned it is called a house centipede. They have 15 sets of legs and an overall scary-ass appearance (see picture).
I’m no stranger to bug bites at night as I’ve spent a combined year, maybe two, of my life sleeping in cabins or tents. After most nights out there, I wake up, start scratching and then get really tingly, like the bug venom/bacteria is distilling with my blood and testing its defenses. After a time, I calm down and get on with my life but I don’t think I’m the same person. I’m part bug now. And the bugs are part me.
I spent the last hour and a half walking around my neighborhood and looking in the garbage by the street. It’s not the first time I’ve done it. I hope it’s not the last. In fact, I usually bring stuff home – that’s the whole point. Here’s a list of the stuff I saw.
I asterisked (*) the things I thought about bringing home.
I ampersanded (&) the things I touched.
I money symboled ($) the things I think are funny.
2 Baby Seats - no baby padding/dirty baby padding
*Latching Suitcase - full of Christmas décor
Zipping Suitcase - red
Blue Double Mattress - stained
*& 2 Filing Cabinets – Repainted glossy black/standard
*Dog Carrying Case – disassembled
4 Vacuum Cleaners – Various states of disassembly
Rolled-Up Carpets – 1 shag, 3 shortish Persianish
*$ Carpet Square – gray, muddied
*$ Barstool – no seat
Drawers – bottom drawer had no bottom
Wooden Chair – no seat
*& Grill - nasty
Futon Frame – black, no mattress
$ 5 TVs – various sizes 24-42 inches
3 Computer Monitors
*$ 1 Old Computer – Monitor CPU and keyboard as one – Apple IIE style
Cabinets
3 Bed Frames
2 Ironing Boards
2 Cot Springs
*$ Hose Wheel – in clear plastic reclycling bag
$ Undetermined metal object
3 Love Seats
1 sink and counter top – still assembled
*Baby Walker
Drying Rack
*Hat Rack?
1 Exercise Machine – horse-like
*Poster Frames – gold metal
*$ Gold picture frame pieces
Maybe I’ll do this some more. I didn’t bring anything home today but don’t lose hope. They do trash around here every Tuesday and Friday and the weather’s starting to get better. Can you feel it? Papa needs a new area rug.
When you have no job, there will be a point when you will be eating cereal and you will drip milk in your beard. Your fingers will not be enough to sop it up. Your tongue is not long or porous enough to get at it and will in fact act like a watercolor brush, creating avenues through which the milk will spread. As you no longer take showers daily, the offending liquid will wreak havoc on the life you’re leading, discouraging kisses from you fiancée and wasting hours searching for trash smell. Dandruff and milk flakes will coat the childhood t-shirts you wear and that you think separate you as an individual but actually broadcast your inability to think of yourself as an adult. (Wear a collar). Alas your beard will go unshorn, unwashed and unkempt, though suspicion should lead you to it, and small colonies of utter-based bacteria will congregate and reproduce for all eternity.
If I were going to be in the Army, I’d appreciate an assignment like go watch this hill or stay still and don’t get noticed. If I had a job to go clear out an enemy building or win a war, I wouldn’t probably get much done. For the fear, you know? The fear? No?
Knowing me, the most likely job I’d have would be to either talk on the radio all day about coordinates and minutes and clicks and things or have to break people’s noses. “You! Go break this guy’s nose like we made you do before!” My nickname would either be Jean Claude Van Radio or Ricky the Nose. At some point I’d be asked to break a guy’s nose and then break the guy’s nose again. It wouldn’t work unless there was about six months in between. Nobody would understand. I might be sent away.
I’d take pleasure in having my picture taken. I’d wear my uniform and pose with a gun in front of flags. I’d smoke cigarettes and drink whiskey from a heavy glass and think about all the latitude and longitude that could have been different. All the cartilage. All the muck. All the grassland.
My dream last night was a winner. I had built a space ship out of I don’t know what and set it up in the backyard of my old house. It looked a lot like a NASA shuttle but was not so sturdy or well designed. Maybe it was just the matte paint on what looked like cardboard. There was a big assembly of my family and friends there to watch me blast off and they were all standing much too close. I didn’t say anything. I was more concerned about the durability. For instance, when my dad jumped in the strange sack-like compartment meant to hold a passenger and which trailed like a handkerchief at the end of a stick slung off a hobo’s back, I thought the thing might break off. The ship lurched and moaned but it held up.
While I was preparing to leave, I was mighty worried about the fire situation too. My paper mache-like craft seemed indeed strong but could it make it into space with the force needed to get through the atmosphere? And not burn up by the fire it created or the heat it encountered? I didn’t know. That’s what worried me most. I supposedly had built this thing there in my backyard but I didn’t remember building it at all. The worst was when I finally got into the hanging hobo sack thing and couldn’t figure out how to close it. No zipper or ziplock or buttons or rubber seal. No nothing. I fiddled with the uneven seams for a little and then just gave up on it. They hung there flapping in the wind. It didn’t stop me from wanting to take off though. Either I didn’t think I’d make it into space or I wanted to save face in front of everybody and pretend I designed it that way.
I guess this dream means I’m really determined?
Oh hello. It’s me. That carrot you just ate. I’m digesting in your stomach. I’m now you. Parasitic little you taking what you can from what was once not you and making it you. I don’t mind. I’m a vegetable. I’m orange. You’re a vegetable. You have things wrong with your stomach. I saw earlier. I guess I do too. Now I’m in an intestine. Is this anatomy description possible? I do have eyes even though I’m a carrot. Cause I’m also a human. How tricky I am.
Far away, many thousands of miles, there is the planet Mars. It has bears on it much like the bears on Earth but these bears are as small and as numerous as Mackenzie’s sneezes. Which is to say, they are very small and very numerous. Mackenzie thinks that every time she sneezes a new bear pops into existence out there on Mars but I know that there are as many bears on mars as there ever was and ever will be. They are immortal and should not be approached from behind. Otherwise they will swarm like a plague and knaw your face through to your brains because that’s how the bears roll on Mars. They ask questions later if you know what I mean.
I enjoy cleaning when I can see a real result. Viz.
1. I cleaned my hardwood floor and little carpet that sits in the middle of the floor yesterday and filled up my trashcan with rocks, dirt and dust bunnies.
2. Picking at my fingernails where, if I have not scratched under there recenty, little collections of crud come away, is a great pick me up.
3. Flossing is much more satisfying if you get bits of food that taste like lemon juice out from between your teeth. Swishing afterward and spitting out reddish, speckled water trumps spitting out bit-less, clear water any day, too.
There’s a website called www.PerhapsPostcards.com where I make art, shrink it onto stationary of all kinds and then try to sell it. I’m satisfied with it generally, despite its lack of sales or tangible results. Yesterday, I had an idea about naming another website www.PerhapsNoPostcards.com where there would be no selling of anything but instead, general attempts at humiliation and put-downs about nobody ever buying anything from Perhaps Postcards. I would enjoy pitting the two against each other (it would satisfy my need for balance) and then riding the tide of battle, sprung from my own conceit, out into the murky waters of the unknown.
I would give control of the new website over to the evil genius side of my personality whose petty insults and unhappy terrorism would both oppress and disturb. The bright and cheerful simpleton now running Perhaps Postcards would be hard pressed to respond, patiently enduring then finally erupting in a terrible and uncontrolled onslaught where nothing is sacred, postcard or otherwise, and where none could wish to escape unmarred. There would be war between the two sides, yes war, and the small part of me that retained any notion of decency would sit uncomfortably, alone and lonely, in a cave of doubt and regret contemplating, waiting.
Barbs of wrath would sing like shrapnel. Shards of misery would fly unmercifully. Destruction becomes self.
Exhausted and encumbered from the toil of attack, my consciousness would look upon the strife, seeking no repose, and fight. Unbidden, some small important part of myself would undoubtedly slip and a small spontaneous giggle would titter forth from some depth, some vein of disorder buried within, that would build to frenzy. My body would involuntarily take up this mania and from my lips would spring a howl of laughter so saturated with wretchedness and rife with hatred that the last breath of life and promise I held within would be stolen away with it. My empty and wrecked body would crumple down, near-silently, to the floor and lay solid, never again to feel the blows that killed it.
I just got the Netflix but we can’t get the mailman to deliver us the right adapter to fit my computer into my television. We’re stuck watching the computer on a box on a chair from the couch. The first time, he delivered the wrong adapter. A week later, he delivered two wrong adapters. The third time hasn’t happened yet but I’m hoping he doesn’t deliver me a toaster or some other wackiness. I’ve been thinking about rewarding him with a movie to give him some positive reinforcement kind of thing, if he gets it right, but punishment might take precedence.
