Death and chores unite!

There's talk of showing the video of Saddam being hanged on TV. I must admit, I'd probably watch it, even while feeling conflicted about it. There's a morbid curiosity I think we all have when it comes to watching someone die or get hurt. It wouldn't matter if it was Saddam Hussein or Clay Aiken: people would watch it, either way. Now, if it was Rachel Ray hanging from the gallows......Sorry, wishful thinking.

A few years ago, someone at work was online and asked me if I wanted to watch a beheading. I gave it about three seconds thought and told I would. The beheading in question was performed by Iraqi insurgents on an American civilian. You probably remember it. Anyway, a few of us gathered around the monitor and watched as men with bandannas covering their faces stood behind the American, who was blindfolded and on his knees, his hands tied behind his back. One of the masked men pulls out a serious looking knife and proceeds to cut their hostage's head of. It was a grisly sight, to be sure. I'd seen some horrific footage before without it affecting me, but watching this left me feeling bleak for hours after.

I remember driving home a couple of hours later and feeling like I was on a bad Robitussin high. I couldn't rid myself of the image of the man slowly having his head sliced off. Needless to say, I had regrets about watching it. Since then, before I watch anything that involves pain being inflicted on someone, I give it more than three seconds thought. I have to ask myself how I benefit from watching stuff like that. Do I come out of it a better person? Am I enlightened somehow? No and no. It doesn't matter though, because we're spellbound by the dark underbelly of life. Look at our myths, our fairy tales; our fascination with death is everywhere. As well it should be: it might be different if only a percentage of us die, but the fact that all of us owe a life, makes the topic of death central to our concerns. And since it's a bummer having death at the forefront of our live, we bury it a bit so that we can continue living.
---

I came home from the gym today and looked at the messy condition my apartment is in. I was tempted to roll up my sleeves and go to town on the place, but thought better of it. Why should I always be the one cleaning up the place, especially since most of the mess is not mine? I think the situation is ironic, considering I'm more Oscar Madison than Felix Unger, but I don't like living in filth. I've lived here over six months and I've done most of the cleaning. Spira's done some--- more than Bob TV, who by my count, has cleaned the bathroom maybe once and given the top of the stove the once over last week---but nothing is done consistently, meaning hardly ever.

When I moved in, my only request as far as general upkeep goes, was that we keep the common areas of the house clean. Do whatever you want in your bedrooms, but out of respect to each other, keep the rest of the house clean. Both agreed with me, but nothing came out of it. Near the end of the summer, frustrated and looking for a solution, I sat them both down and once again stated my request that we all chip in and keep the house clean. And this time I suggested we make a chore list to make it easier delegating responsibilities. They agreed. Spira stuck to it for a couple of weeks, and Bob TV didn't do anything. I even did some of their chores to help things along, but to no avail. So no more chore list.

As it stands, I prefer staying in my room and not hanging out downstairs, and a good part of that is because I don't like seeing the mess all around me. It's actually pretty humorous because I'm the guy who used to hate cleaning my room when I was younger, hated cleaning in general. And now I'm the one fed up at the squalor that's around me. You know, it just occurred to me that much of this blog is like a Dear Abby letter. Hey, that's an idea.

In a flash

I got a few gift cards as gifts the other day and today I redeemed a couple of them. They were both from book stores ---Borders and Barnes & Noble---and after all was said and done, I'm now three books heavier. For a while now, I've been interested in reading George MacDonald Fraser's Flashman books but have never seen them around. Last week at Porter Square Books I happened upon Flashman, the first book in the series. I was broke and couldn't afford to buy it, but I was content knowing that I'd be able to find the book in the future. So, what do you think I got today? I got that book and the one that follows it, Royal Flash. I also got Glen Cook's Black Company.

I'm fifty pages into Flashman and so far it's deserving of the hype. The book was written in the sixties and follows the adventures of Harry Flashman, a coward, thief, and whoremonger, circa 1839. In spite of his flaws, he ends up becoming a hero in the military and lucks his way into major historical events. Already, in the first fifty pages, he's been kicked out of school for being "beastly drunk", had sex with his father's mistress, had sex with a fellow soldier's mistress, and cheated at a duel. Not a very nice guy, but the story is damn funny, nonetheless.

A holly jolly Christmas

I had a wonderful Christmas, I'm happy to report. Spira and I exchanged gifts in the morning, something we'd never done before. After that, I headed to my parent's house for gifts and brunch. I played with my nieces and drank eggnog. Everyone was in good spirits.

From there we went to my grandmother's house. Apparently we were a bit late, and there seemed to be a little tension in the room, but it faded quickly, though, and everyone enjoyed each other's company. I don't think I've ever missed a year of going to my grandmother's house for Christmas. She's approaching ninety and it's possible yesterday was the final time Christmas would be spent at her house. It was sad to think of it.

I completed my day at Luke Warm's house. Five of us --- myself, Spira, Luke, Peppy and his girlfriend Alice--- had an amazing dinner. Spira had prepared most of the food earlier in the day, and it was one of the best meals I've had in a long time. Spira's Greek, so much of what she made reflected that. I had baked some cornbread the night before, Peppy made an eggnog pound cake, and Luke whipped up some scallops and sweet potatoes. After dinner, we watched The Return of the King in the living room, with mugs of coffee in hand.

We have plenty left overs and I think I might heat up some spinach pie. I love the holidays.

Rachael Ray must be muzzled for the betterment of mankind

They were showing Rachael Ray's dumb cooking/chat-fest on the TV at the gym this morning and as much as I tried not looking at her jaw open and close in an unceasing monologue, I couldn't help but watch. At least the sound was off, so I didn't have to deal with the massive discomfort her loud, obnoxious, bullhorn of a voice would assault me with. Though I wish the opposite were true, I couldn't take my eyes off her. Curse you, Rachael Ray!

Tetsuo: Iron Man

I showed up at Luke Warm's house the other day and he was watching the visual equivalent of a Robitussin/meth high on his tv. It was a frantic, surrealistic nightmare in black and white. And Japanese. I'd never seen anything like it; the closest comparison I could come up with was Eraserhead . The film was called Tetsuo: Ironman, and Luke Warm informed me that the director was influenced by David Lynch, which accounted for the similarity to Eraserhead.

It was an engaging, if stressful,experience watching the film. I had a similar reaction the first time I heard Trout Mask Replica; it wasn't a smooth ride, but it sure as hell was stimulating.

After doing a bit of research, I've discovered there's a sequel of sorts to Tetsuo. I wonder if it's as insane as the first one.

I'll have a blue Christmas without you (the rest can fuck themselves)

Christmas is almost here and whether I'll be filled with its inherent merriment remains to be seen. In some ways I think I've arrived at the bare bones of the holiday, it's true meaning. Because of my pathetic financial situation, I haven't been thrown into the lemming-like sea of shoppers this year as much as I have in years prior. While still feeling strongly, maybe even more so, the societal pressure that deems it necessary that I buy and buy and buy, until my knees buckle under the literal and metaphoric weight of my purchases, I have, because of my situation, escaped the effects of its black arts.

Though I'm sometimes plagued with thoughts of shame, guilt, and embarrassment over not being able to participate fully in Christmas this year, I've come to realize these thoughts are just residue from an outdated paradigm, and have no power over me. No longer muddle-headed, I've seen clearly what I've only ever known as as concept: Christmas, at it's root, is about fellowship. I am fully in the sphere of this because, in spite of my financial difficulties, I'm having what's shaping up to be the most meaningful Christmas I've ever had .

Throughout this holiday season, I've fought pitched battles against regiments of defeating thoughts. I've come out on top every time, though the fighting has often been ugly and messy. I have the people in my life to thank for that (my coming out on top, not the fact the the fighting was often ugly and messy). I've been humbled in many ways this year and faced some cold truths. And through it all, my friends and family have held my sagging frame upright. To some, what I'm saying here may be a little too sugary, and I'm not going to argue that it's not, except to say that my sentiments are heartfelt. And know that I've come at this truth from the inside out and will not be deterred from it. There's not a gift under any tree in the world that offers the same rewards that fellowship does. It's taken me over thirty years to really my get my head around that, but better late than never. And if that's too sugary, so be it. I'm not trying to acquire any new friends here, just speaking in praise of the ones I have.

Tomorrow I'll go to my parents house in the morning and I'll feel the cold breath of inadequacy, but I'll shrug it off and enjoy myself. Then I'll go to my grandmother's house and feel that cold breath again---this time more pronounced--- and I'll shrug it off and enjoy myself. From there, I'll return to the city and go to Luke Warm's house, where the cold breath of inadequacy will not show its face and I'll sit with my friends and enjoy myself.

So, with that, I'm going to do some reading and maybe later when Spira gets home, we'll sit by the tree sipping eggnog and watch something Christmas related. Or perhaps I'll be able to convince her to watch Rashoman with me, but I think that's something I'm going to have to go solo on. Just a hunch.

I wish all of you reading this a Merry Christmas. And that extends to non-celebrants; as long as you live and breathe, I offer you good tidings. To those of you who are not having a good go at the holidays this year, I hope things get better. And if they don't, hold fast, because they will soon enough.

Janelle, Gesualdo, and other tales

I'm wondering if I'm going to get sick. I was with Luke Warm the other day and he was in the throes of a nasty cold. And yesterday, Spira came home from school with one of her own that was pulling and prodding at her. I'm not too worried about catching what they've got, because in my mind I was the carrier and won't suffer through the same misery. Maybe next time one of them will be the carrier and I'll be the sick one, but not this time, suckers!

Feast or famine. Some Friday nights it seems like absolutely nothing (say it again) is going on and then there's a plethora of activity on others. That was last night and it was to be expected, given the time of year. There were four options made available to me: I could go to New Hampshire and attend my friends Karen and Aaron's poker game/Christmas party; I could go to my friend Andy's party in Andover with Luke Warm; I could go out and grab a few drinks with a former co-worker of mine; or I could go nowhere and have Janelle come down from New Hampshire and the three of us ---Janelle, Spira, and I---could have dinner together.

I had tentative plans with my co-worker friend, Mike, earlier in the week to go out and grab a beer sometime. He told me he'd get back to me to cement the plans. He never did. I always feel like I'm being pushy or intrusive if I call someone when they specifically told me that they'd be doing the calling. When Thursday night arrived and I still hadn't heard from him, I put aside my apprehension and called him. I got his voice mail and left a message. I still haven't heard back from him. I'm not angry, though; this is how things have gone between us for a while now, though I can't explain why.

That left me open to explore the other options. All were appealing: I know I'd enjoy going to Aaron and Karen's and seeing folks, like Frank, that I haven't seen in a long while. And going to Andy's party would be great for the same reasons. And seeing Janelle is always a pleasure, though rare. So what to do? Well, Spira helped make my decision for me. As I mentioned earlier, she got sick yesterday. The best thing for her to do was to come home from class in the evening and not have to hurry up and get ready to go out somewhere. Janelle coming to our place turned out to be the best option.

I love seeing Janelle. She's one of the smartest and kindest women I know. And she's a looker, to boot. She came to the house around five and we caught up on things while preparing dinner. Janelle had constructed the menu beforehand and brought all the ingredients with her. We had an amazing salad with---christ, I can't remember the name of the grain. It looked like birdseed before it was boiled. Anyway, it had that and black beans and Goddess dressing. Delicious! Another dish was with blanched carrots and feta cheese. For the main course, we had yummy falafel with ---and I know I'm not spelling this right--- tzadziki. Add a bottle of wine and the music of Gesualdo, and you've got a good time on your hands. Though we don't get to see her too often, it's always a pleasure being with Janelle.

After she left, I watched some of Rashoman (by the way, if anyone can tell me why I'm not able to get the italic function to work, I'm all ears). It's the Kurosawa film that really put him on the map internationally, but one I never liked as much as some of his other's. When I watched it last night, though, I enjoyed it more than I ever have. Part of the reason for this is because I paid more attention to the cinematography and editing, which are both are exceptional.

I have loose plans to go to Harvard Sq with Luke Warm and possibly Spira, to do some late Christmas shopping. Considering the fact that both are sick and that it's raining out, I'm not sure if this adventure will happen.

Play with it while you have hands

Years ago, when I was working at a warehouse, a coworker of mine named Nick did something that still makes me queasy when I think of it. Before I go into that, though,allow me to introduce you to Nick.

Nick was a big guy with a jolly, droopy-eyed disposition. His love of food that was nowhere near nutritional was reflected in his enormous gut. He was in his early thirties when I met him, but had the mindset of someone much younger; he still watched cartoons, played with toys, etc. He was a good guy overall, but he had his moments when he could be a real son of a bitch.

One afternoon at work I really needed to use the bathroom and made my way to the only one on the floor. To my dismay, I discovered it was occupied, so I sat on a nearby box and waited my turn.

A few minutes later, Nick came out and said "it's all yours", and hurriedly went on his way. Three things were odd about that:

1. Nick was notorious for making crime scenes out of bathrooms and in most cases would have laughed and said "Dude, I wouldn't go in there without a gas mask", or something to that effect. On this occasion no wisecracks were forthcoming.

2. He was sweating profusely. Though Nick could raze the sturdiest of toilets (he once quipped that after one explosive session, the porcelain on his toilet cracked), he did so effortlessly. Rare was the time when he'd come out of the bathroom looking winded; quite the opposite: he'd come out looking invigorated, triumphant. Everywhere else he was a sweaty guy, but not in his office.

3. Nick never hurried his way through anything.

I entered the bathroom, ready to bury my nose in my sleeve, but there was no stench. I didn't think much of it until I noticed a quarter sized puddle of spunk on the front of the toilet seat. Then it hit me: "There's no stench because the fucker didn't take a shit. He was rubbing one out! And that explains the sweating."

Grossed out, I left the bathroom in a huff and went looking for Nick. I didn't want to embarrass him; all I wanted him to do was clean up his mess. When I found him, I said " I just came from the bathroom and it looks like you missed a spot when you were cleaning up---if you catch my drift---so if you could take care of that, I'd appreciate it." Nick wasn't in a compliant mood.

"I didn't leave any mess. I don't even know what you're talking about. It's probably your mess, anyway."

I confess I didn't see that coming.

"Why would I be trying to get you to clean up my mess?", I asked. "You're not making any sense."

" No, you're not making sense."

I couldn't believe how difficult he was being. I was making this as easy as I could for him and he was being combative. That, coupled with the fact that I needed to use the bathroom more than ever,influenced the way I subsequently handled the conversation. It was time to dispense with tact.

"Nick, I know you were jerking off in there. I'm not looking for a confession and I'm not going to spread this around, just go clean up the mess", I demanded.

"You were the one jerking off in there. You go clean up YOUR mess!" he exclaimed.

An urge to hose-whip him in the eyes and throat surged through me, but I kept it under control. I realized then that there was no getting through to him and that if the matter was going to be resolved, I was going to have to tell our boss. I didn't want to have to do that, so I continued in my attempts to resolve this with Nick.

"Listen, I'm going to go downstairs to use the bathroom. When I come back, I'm going to check this one and it better be clean."

"Well, I'm not going to clean it", he said.

The urge to horse-whip him in the eyes and throat and the knees and spine, which were new additions to the repertoire,welled up in me again.

"Don't clean it, then. I'll just approach everyone who works here and ask them if they'd like to wipe your cum off the toilet seat, because you refuse to do it. I'm sure I'll find a taker."

"Whatever, dude."

Nick didn't look as self assured as he did earlier in the conversation. Needing to pee, I left him and went to the floor below us to use the bathroom. Upon my return, Nick was nowhere to be seen. I walked to the bathroom, hoping he wised up and cleaned up his orgasm. I wasn't thrilled about returning to the scene of the crime, but I wanted to put the baby in the crib and be done with this farce. Despite his earlier childish behavior, I wanted to spare Nick the kind of torment he'd be the recipient of if I ratted him out; so when I saw that the toilet seat was once again unadorned, I let out a sigh of relief.

When I saw Nick a while later, I thanked him for what he did. He frowned and said "I don't know what you're talking about, dude."

That was good enough for me;the issue was resolved, at least for the time being, and peace was restored. Nick would once again go to town on himself and leave his calling card on the toilet seat about a month later, but that's another story for another time.

November's cold chain, made of wet boots and rain

Tom waits is the man during the autumn and winter months. If I was a keeper of statistics, the one concerning my listening habits would reflect a higher volume of Tom Waits between October and March than at any other time in the year. My friends who are fans of his have commented to me before that it's the same for them. I'd be willing to guess this phenomena is widespread, and that Mr. Waits is surely aware of this. I can't think of a time when he's released an album in the summer months. Maybe he never has.

I present this to you not as a revelation --- it should be obvious to anyone with even a passing interesting in his music that Tom Waits does not equal summer fun, the way say, Jimmy Buffett does--- but more as a reminder to myself that the colder seasons have their virtues. And also because I'm sitting at my desk listening to "The Black Rider" and really getting into it. That's all.

A thought just came to me: wouldn't it be a fun exercise to make a list of various artists and bands that I enjoy and match each one with its corresponding season. Well, I don't know how much "fun" it would be for me to dive into that right now; I have other priorities this night, which don't include surfing the net for porn, by the way--- why does everything have to do with sex with you guys? But, because I have a pure heart --- which has no relevance to the matter; I just wanted to point out the fact--- and because it might actually be fun, I'll devote a couple of minutes to the exercise. Here are some match-ups I thought of:


1. Leonard Cohen/ autumn

2. Beach Boys/ summer (duh!)

3. Sea & Cake/ spring & summer

4. Bob Dylan/ autumn & winter

5. Woven Hand/ winter


None of this is brain surgery, which is precisely why I won't go into an in-depth analysis of the significance of the pairings. See, I hold you all in such high regard thatI wouldn't think to insult your intelligence. And with that, I'll end this so I can start trolling the net for some quality porn.

Pigs, they tend to wiggle when they walk

I just spent over thirty minutes at YouTube, checking out all the lame bands that post their songs there. Tonight, I focused on cover songs--more specifically, Led Zeppelin cover songs. There were some decent renditions, but I was more interested in the god-awful ones. I used to have a fascination that bordered on disgust, with bad poetry. Ivan Brunetti, the creator of the great comic book "Schizo" put a bunch of poems people had written about Kurt Cobain's suicide on the back of one it's issues, and I was in Heaven. I wish I had it before me; there were some real gems. Poetry is a delicate art and should only be allowed to be written by those who know what to do with it. Even with "legitimate" poetry, the kind grown-ups write, I'm hard-pressed to find any I think is effective. But when it works it works, and the result is transcendent.As I write this, millions of people are being irresponsible with their pens and filling their journals with writing that should be seen only by the bottom of a garbage can. But these so-called poets like to share their "gift" with all and sundry. And that is a good thing, because people like me, who can't help but be fascinated with the horrors these villains produce, don't have to look far to get their fix; it's readily available on the internet. But alas, watching shitty bands butcher their own and other people's songs on YouTube has, for me, surpassed reading bad poetry . It was starting to get played out, anyway. Give me a bunch of seventeen year old hippies jamming to "Kashmir" in their parents garage any day over some kids poem with "I drift in a meaningless cavern of despair" as it's first line.

I met a girl across the sea, her hair the gold that gold can be

I just received word that Allen Iverson has been traded to the Denver Nuggets. No first ballot hall of famer for the Celtics. Oh, well, I had a feeling my Christmas wish wouldn't come to fruition. I'll have to put all of my energy into my consolation wish, which is for all the fighting in Iraq to end and for fighting to begin in Norway. Because, you know, Norway always gets out of hosting these events and it's about time they showed an interest.
---

A night hasn't gone by, since I've lived in my apartment, that hasn't included the mournful, repetitive cry of some animal outside my window. I suspect it's a cat, but I can't be sure. Whatever it is, it's creepy and disruptive. Fortunately, the animal, or whatever it is, keeps its vocalizations on the short side;they never last longer than a minute. But when you're quaking under the blankets, praying for God to exorcise this demon from your surroundings, a minute feels like an hour.
---

My dad called me this morning and left a voice-mail about Christmas. The plan is to meet at my parents house in the morning for brunch and when that's done, head to my grandmother's house for dinner. As each year goes by, I enjoy Christmas less and less. This year finds me unemployed through the holidays, and it doesn't look like I'll be able to afford many presents for people. It's embarrassing, but I can't do much about it right now. I do, however, have understanding friends and family; they're always there for me no matter what my life situation is, and for that, I'm grateful. I haven't sunk to the Scrooge level yet, though it wouldn't be so bad--- that fucker was rich; I could use some of his bling right now---and I have been engaging in some festive activities, like decorating the tree and baking gingerbread cookies. I even bought some eggnog. It's not so bad. Don't worry, St. Nick, the Man hasn't yet drained me of everything I hold dear.

Your cheating heart

Luke Warm is a great friend because I can present any hypothetical situation to him, no matter how outlandish, and he'll treat it with respect. It's a unique gift he possesses; many of my friends will roll their eyes and dismiss a scenario I present to them because they think I'm just being silly. Luke Warm hears me out and gives what I have to say serious thought. On one occasion I'd been thinking about degrees of loyalty in a friendship, and whether there is such a thing as being too loyal. With that in mind,I presented Luke Warm with the following.

"What would you do if, after finding out your girlfriend was cheating on you, I went over to her place and beat the crap out of her?" I asked him. (Please note this is not something I would actually do)

"Well, I'd be doubly shocked: shocked that I was being cheated on, and shocked that your idea of defending my honor would be to beat up my girlfriend."

"Would some part of you feel grateful?"

"I think so. I wouldn't agree with the lengths you took, but a part of me would appreciate the gesture."

"The tough thing would be to feel appreciative without condoning my actions. Would that even be possible?", I asked.

"I don't know. I hate violence and I know you do, too. The fact that you would take such drastic measures to show your loyalty would definitely please me a bit,but I think I'd be more disappointed with you than anything else."

"And confused."

"Definitely. Now, would her cheating come as a total surprise to me?"

"You wouldn't see it coming.", I said.

" Damn, my life would be turned upside down. Two of my closest companions would have,using different methods, acted contrary to my expectations of them in a dramatic way. So, at the very least I'd be confused."

"And everything would get piled onto that foundation."

"Anger, disappointment, sadness, humiliation, pride--- I'd be an emotional wreck. By the way, how bad would you beat her up?"

"Enough to express my displeasure with her, but not enough to leave her within an inch of her life."

" Jail time?"

" Oh,yeah."

" How about for me? Wouldn't I be suspected of having you commit the crime on my behalf?"

"Probably. Even if I prefaced the beating with a disclaimer that made it explicitly clear that you had nothing to do with what was about to go down, you'd still be a suspect."

"That nugget of appreciation I felt over you defending my honor would shrink substantially, in that case."

"Probably would", I responded. "You're so ungrateful."

The waiting is the hardest part

Bob TV has the uncanny ability of figuring out when I need to use something in the house (e.g. kitchen, bathroom). I know this because seconds before I go to use the bathroom or make dinner, he lays claim to the spot before I do. As I mentioned in a previous post, he occupied the bathroom just as I was ready to make my way there, and he did the same damn thing earlier today. He hadn't been home in a few hours --- he was doing re-shoots on a short film he's making --- and Spira was in her room doing homework; I thought I had a more than decent shot at finding the bathroom available. I was primed and ready to go --- I had just finished my morning coffee and there was no turning back. Of course, just as I was ready to make my way to the privy, Bob Tv enters the apartment with members of his film crew in tow. And sure enough, the first thing the son of a bitch does is head right for the bathroom. Again, I was at his mercy.

A few minutes ago, I decided it was time for dinner, but of course Bob TV had the same idea, moments before I did. So, I sit here now, cranky and hungry, waiting for him to finish making his meal. I suppose I could share the kitchen with him, but that would entail me having to endure a ceaseless monologue. Better to wait.

I can't even get upset with him for foiling my plans on a consistent basis, because if I did I'd have to believe that not only did he possess foreknowledge of my intentions, he also sought to prevent me from acting on them. Bob TV is not cruel like that, and as far as I know, he doesn't have the gift of foretelling.
---

I ended up not going to Scott's party in the bowels of New Hampshire last night.I contented myself with staying in and hanging out with Bob TV and Spira. A little after six, while I was in the middle of making dinner, Luke Warm called me and asked if I was going to the party. He said Kreg was a few minutes away from his house and if I wanted to go I'd have to head over his house immediately. "I thought Kreg didn't want to give you a ride because he was giving someone else one and thought it would be "awkward" with you in the car", I said. (I'm not sure why Kreg thought the experience would be awkward, but that's what he had said.) Luke Warm explained to me that Kreg had changed his mind and decided to give him a lift. If I had known about this development earlier, I probably would have tagged along. But at the time of the call, I hadn't even showered yet and, as I noted, was in the middle of making dinner. No wild Saturday night for me.
---

I think it's safe for me to make dinner. I'd tell you what I'm planning to make, but I've got to keep some things to myself.

She's my Coney Island Baby

After exiting the grocery store yesterday, I approached my car while casually attempting to unlock its doors using the remote on my key chain. It didn't work. When I got to the car, I tried again. Still nothing. I wasn't too concerned; sometimes, for reasons beyond my understanding, the power locks act stubborn in certain areas. So, I tried unlocking the door the old fashioned way, and still nothing. Now I was concerned. Not too concernedto notice the attractive young woman walking by me, though. She was looking my way and had a tiny frown on her face. Maybe she thought my surreptitious stare wasn't very surreptitious. It was after she passed by that I noticed I was parked in a handicapped spot. Well, that explained the frown .I never park in handicapped spots and finding myself in one genuinely puzzled me. I tried the key again, feeling the weight of angry stares from people walking by, and still no luck. Finally, I figured out why I was having so much trouble: it wasn't my car I was trying to get into---same make and model, but someone else's. The whole experience was embarrassing on a number levels. The only thing that would have made it worse is if the owner of the car came out of the store and caught me trying to get into his/her car. Car thieves are a lowly sort, but car thieves who steal cars from handicapped people are the worst.
---

My friend Scott is hosting a party at his house tonight and I'm debating whether I want to go. H e lives way up in New Hampshire and it would probably be at least an hour drive for me. Normally, I wouldn't mind the drive, but I'm a poor-ass lately and my car has been acting funny. I don't know, I guess I'll figure out what to do as the day progresses. Spira and I spoke briefly a while back about throwing a party at our apartment, but we never followed through on the idea. I'll bring it up again. It would be nice not having to drive all over the place for once.
---

Yesterday, Doug posted a clip of a zombie fighting a shark and I think I've watched it at least eight times. It's utterly fascinating! The fact that it's a real shark in the fight makes the viewing experience even more worthwhile. But there's a deeper significance to the fight and I haven't figured out what it is yet, and if and when I do, I'd be hard pressed to express it in words. All I know is that when I watch the fight, some archetypal mechanism is activated within me and for the life of me I can't figure out why. I need help. That aside, just on the superficial level, a shark fighting a zombie= gold, pure gold.
---

I'm thinking of heading over to Davis Sq today and checking out what Goodwill has in the way of books. For 75 cents a book, you can't go wrong. Maybe I should forgo the trip and read from a book I already own. Ah, that sounds better.

So Toshiro Mifune, Bob Tv, and Rachael Ray walk into a bar...

To illustrate how nerdy I can be, last night I chose a movie to watch by pulling its name out of a hat. I've been in an Akira Kurosawa state of mind lately, and there were three of his films I had an equal desire to watch, so I wrote out their names and plopped them in a hat. (I'm having second thoughts about classifying that action as nerdy; I'll stick with it, though, because it's close enough to what I meant and who cares, anyway). The three films were Stray Dog, High & Low, and Yojimbo. Though the reason for the whole hat business was because I couldn't decide which film to watch, I found myself rooting for Yojimbo. I wanted to finish what I started --- something I don't do enough of, generally speaking--- so I reached into the hat and pulled out the lucky winner: Yojimbo. Briefly, I questioned whether I unconsciously influenced the results, but I wasn't of the mind to get into all of that, so I plopped the movie in my dvd player and marveled at how lucky I was that the movie I rooted for was the one that was chosen. The movie started and about ten minutes into it, I wasn't feeling it anymore. I have no idea why. And after all that build up! Sounds like some some people's sex lives. Not mine, though--- just wanted to state that for the record. So, Yojimbo was a bust. I'll try again some other time and with less fanfare.
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I was surfing the internet last night while nursing a mug of coffee when I was stricken with the need to use the bathroom. I held off heading downstairs to the bathroom because I was in the middle of reading an article and I was doing a fair job of holding it in ( No.'s 1 and 2, for those of you who are detail minded). When it became too much to bear, I wrapped up what I was doing and was about to head downstairs when I heard the bathroom door close. As far as I knew, I was the only one home, but it was now obvious I wasn't. I looked at the clock. It was a little after six, precisely the time when Bob TV comes home from work. Fuck! Before panic settled in, I calmed myself with some deep breathing and summoned the necessary will that would enable me to hold on a bit longer. Luckily, Bob TV didn't stay in the bathroom long, but it didn't matter because from the bathroom he made a bee-line up to my room and asked me if I had a few minutes to spare. He wanted to discuss the problems he'd been having with our other roommate, Spira. I was curt with him for obvious reasons, but I had some of that will left over, so I decided to hear him out, with the caveat that it would have to be short and sweet.

Short and sweet are words Bob TV has never joined together, I suspect. He's an interesting guy, but he tends to take the long way around a point when he speaks. Maybe it's' because he's from the south. Anyway, since Spira and I are very close, he figured I'd be able to clue him in as to why she hardly ever speaks to him. If I was brutally honest, I would have told him that she flat out doesn't like him, but that would have been cruel and tactless. I ended up telling him that she's had a lot on her mind lately and that he shouldn't interpret her behavior as having to do with him. I don't know if he was satisfied with that assesment, but I didn't care at that point because the enemy was at the gate. I ended our conversation and excused myself to go the bathroom. I was just in time.
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It dawned on me this morning that there's nothing a golden retriever can do to make me afraid of it. I know that would offend some of the more macho retrievers out there, but it's the truth. They're too damn cute to be threatening. And while I'm at it, I want to get something off my chest that may ruffle some feathers: I think puppies and kittens are much cuter than babies. That's not to say that there aren't any cute babies out there, but c'mon, if you put a puppy with a little bow around its neck next to a baby in diapers, the puppy wins every time. Every time!
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I'm off to Luke Warm's house to watch the Celtics game. I'm still holding out hope that Iverson will be traded to Boston, but it doesn't look like that will happen. Luke Warm lives down the street from me and it sure beats driving half an hour to his house like I used to do when I was living in Chelmsford.
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I don't know much about Rachael Ray, but I have a strong dislike for her. Part of the reason may be that I see her face everywhere I look. There's not a cracker box, magazine cover, billboard, or tv ad that doesn't have Rachael Ray all over it. Plus, hearing her talk annoys the hell out of me. I don't think I'd be able to last five minutes in a room with her. Am I in the minority or are there others like me out there? Like I said, I don't know too much about her and I almost feel bad for feeling this way, for pre-judging her, but it is what it is, I guess.
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Before I sign off, I want to thank Doug, and everyone else who left a comment, for welcoming me to the site. It was much appreciated. They'll regret the kind gesture, though, when they realize what a hateful person I am.

Start me up

Ahh, the first entry. I suppose, before I get started, I should offer up the reason why I'm here in the first place . I've always enjoyed writing, but over the years I've found myself discussing it more than doing it. In an effort to reverse that trend, I began posting blog entries on MySpace. I considered it nothing more than an exercise to help strengthen my writing chops. As a result, I posted a lot of slop, but it didn't bother me much because there was some good stuff, too. As more time passed, I noticed I had a small, but fairly loyal readership. Though it was nice knowing there were at least a few people out there who enjoyed my writing, it was also fairly daunting. I worried that with an audience in mind, I'd be more inhibited. And I was for a bit, I think, but I worked through it and returned to the level of mediocrity I was accustomed to.

I'd been reading Doug's Monkey blogs on this site for a few months and thought it would be advantageous for me to make the move here, but I never got around to it --- until the other day. I had finished writing a blog I was proud and it got erased when I tried posting it. This upset me because it had happened several times before (in the interest of full disclosure, at least a couple of those times were my fault.). I wrote another blog describing the incident and Doug left a comment suggesting I come to this site. Well, here I am. Fuck MySpace!

So what can you expect from me? Here's a list, because everyone likes lists:

1. Some days it will seem you're reading something you shouldn't, like you've snuck into my room and are browsing through my diary (for the record, I've never, ever kept a diary. What kind of Nancy-boy do you think I am? You'll find out soon enough). Those entries will be personal, but not too personal, and will mostly consist of me complaining . You'll discover, however, that as much as I reveal about myself, I'll still maintain a modicum of privacy. It won't matter, though, because I'll spill enough of my guts to keep you satisfied. Fortunately for all of us, this style of writing will not be the norm. I don't know about you, but I can only take so much whining, especially when it's coming from me.

2. You'll come to know the people in my life. Characters like Bob TV , Spira, Luke Warm, and the Kremlin will get their due in these writings and you'll grow to love or loathe them, depending on your disposition. I'll divulge as much as I feel comfortable about my friends and family, but will not go too deeply into their lives, unless they're okay with it. I'm not in the business of hurting those I love.

3. I will discuss the arts often. In addition to being a gifted writer (don't worry, I'm laughing too), I'm also a musician (guitar, vocals, spoons). And I love watching films. Notice I didn't write "movies"; true devotees of cinema would never stoop so low as to refer to them as that. So, anyway, I love watching movies, foreign and domestic. I've always been an active reader, too. Movies, music, books: I'll cover all three.

4. I think this world is far stranger than it's portrayed to be and I'll provide examples of this from time to time. Secret societies, UFO's, ancient mysteries, etc, will be touched upon. Fret not, I'm not too out there. Unless you want me to be (pin the tail on the masochist).

5. What else? Oh, a whole bunch of stuff that I don't think I need to go over. For all I know, I'll disregard everything I said I was going to write about and focus solely on Japanese/U.S. trade relations. It could happen, you know. Stay tuned.

Enough with the list and enough with me. I'm spent. Next entry I'll delve into something more interesting. Or not. Who am I to say? And with that, I'm out.