Stillness is the move

Here they are, the much anticipated, and pined for, year end awards! On a scale of 1 to ten, 2009 was a vomited upon, steaming mound of fecal matter floating idly in a cess pool. Yeah, it stunk, but I'm hoping it will prove to be a blessing in disguise; the presentiment, the seed of positive, healthy changes. Ear to the ground, I'm hearing similar sentiments from more than a few others, at least the part about the year being a foul one. You know, a lot of fine things happened this year, I don't want to forget about that. Perspective, people, is a good muscle to flex.

Enough of my meanderings, let's hand out some awards.

Best BFF (canine)

Baby Boy Z. Poochey Bottoms. Poocherific. Zicolicious. Licious. Super Dog. Whatever the name he happens to be going by, Zico is the only game in town. I defy you to spend five minutes with him and not fall in love with him. You'll want to be BFFs with him, but you can't because I'm his BFF, son! But you can still hang out, the two of you, that will be allowed.

Blockbuster News Item I Can't Get Real Worked Up Over

The whole Tiger Woods scandal. Yawn. I grant you, it's good copy. Just doesn't interest me.

Favorite Album

It arrived at it late, but better late than not at all: Bitte Orca, by The Dirty Projectors. First of all, it's got lovely and intricate female harmonies throughout. My favorite kind. And the musicianship, especially the guitar playing, is top notch. The best thing about the album is the songs. What craftsmanship! I've listened to it about ten times and am still digesting it, still discovering morsels of greatness. The implied influences are all over the map, but taken together make one cohesive, refreshing, and unique collection of songs. I hear Yes, King Sunny Aid, Captain Beefheart, Aliyah, Neil Finn, Paul Simon, Slint. But when I do, it's passes quick, a wisp in the wind.

Favorite Album (Runner Up)

Actor, by St. Vincent. Much of the same qualities I like about Bitte Orca are shown here. I love her voice, I love her songs, I love her musicianship.

Let's make this award a tie. Marnie Stern's latest, which I won't name here because it's would take up a paragraph to do so. She comes off like a cheerleader on speed with a sinister streak who grew up on Van Halen and math rock. Her teaming up with Zach Hill on drums reminds me of Joni Mitchell's pairing with Jaco Pastorious on at least two records. That is a good thing.

The "I'm Not Done With You Yet, You Little Piece Of Shit!" award

2009. Driving through Cambridge earlier, I was going about four miles per hour, maybe less -- through the driving snow -- and slid into the car in front of me. The most gentle tap you could imagine. Seriously. We got out of our cars, inspected the damage, which was nonexistent, and this is what followed.

Me: Looks fine to me. I can't even tell where I hit you.

Him: Well, I'd like to exchange insurance information, just in case.

Me: (wanting to get this over with because we're in the middle of the road at a stop light with people skidding out all around us) Here, I'll write down my license plate # and....

Him: Let me do it, I can read my own writing better. (He goes into his car to get his own pen. Guess mine wouldn't have done the trick. He comes back with a stack of papers -- his whole insurance policy) Can I see you insurance information?

Me: I don't have any, per se. I can tell you the name of the company.

Him: Why don't you have insurance.

Me: I do. I just don't have any documentation with me (A brief aside. Am I the only one who doesn't keep his insurance info - a card or what not -- in his car? Should I have this? Is there a card everyone carries around? )

Him: (shakes his head) Well, how am I going to get your information.

Okay, I'm agitated now. There wasn't even superficial damage to either of our cars, and this guy's making a big deal about this. I finally say, "Look, if you really want to delve deep into this, really flesh this thing out, then I suggest we meet somewhere safer than the middle of a snow covered, busy, road. Otherwise, I'm leaving. You've got enough of my information." He got in his car, turned around and headed the opposite way. I didn't follow him. As I drove away, I saw that he had pulled over into a parking lot. Guess he wanted to explore the matter further. I kept going. Fuck him! I'd still be there now with him, most likely, filling out paperwork, undergoing a thorough psychological profile, and most importantly, having my time wasted. Over less than a scratch .Glad I got hooked up with this anal son of a bitch. Oh, 2009, you do surprise!


Well, this is getting lengthy. Looks like the rest of the awards will have to spill over into another post. Have a happy and safe New Year's Eve, readers. I'm not sure what I'm doing yet. I might just end up spending it by myself. We'll see.

Fall in love and fall apart, things will end before they start

Since I had yesterday off, today was my Monday. Work went well enough. Getting in my car to come home, my door wouldn't close. Seat belt must be in the way, I thought. Nope. My coat? Nope. Oh, so the door's fucked up? Yup. With all the troubles my car has had, I did not expect this one. The drive home was interesting. I'll leave it at that. When I got home, I managed to shut the door. I'll be coming and going through the passenger side for a while until I can figure out what's going on.

The comedy of errors continued when I got home, but I don't want to relive any of it, if you don't mind. Trying not give energy to unpleasant things. It wasn't so bad, but one thing on top of the other.... you know how that can go. And, it's fucking cold, son!

I called my grandmother earlier. Her hearing aid is on the fritz. Here's a sample of our conversation.

Me: The door wouldn't shut

Nana: You've had enough?

Me: No, the door, the door to my car, it wouldn't shut

Nana: You're in your car?

Me: THE DOOOOOORR WOULD NOOOOT SHUUUUTT.

Nana: You shut the door?

Me: No, um, anyway, how are things with you?

Poor woman can't hear or see very well anymore. Yet she's getting around and looks good, better than she did a couple of years ago when I thought she was going to die.

Been meditating and trying to see, in my every day life, how rampant my thoughts are. Verdict: they are rampant. Been reading The Power Of Now, which has been very instructive and a treat to read (thanks, Janellio for letting me borrow it). One thing Tolle states eloquently and succinctly in the book is that time is an illusion. When you think about it, you realize it truly is. The past does not exist, except in memory and the future does not exist except in our fantasies of what we think or hope it will be. So, if you take away the past and the future, you're left with only with the present, which is Now. All we truly have is Now, the rest is illusion.

Concurrently, I'm reading Lynne McTaggart's The Intention Experiment, her follow up to The Field, which delves into the mysteries of quantum physics and the power of intention. Great stuff.

At work today, Tim, one of the Attorneys, told a few of us about a book he was reading about a nineteenth century expedition to Antarctica. I asked him if it was about Shackleton. He said it was fiction, more supernatural, like a Stephen King novel. I knew right away he was talking about Dan Simmon's book The Terror, a book I've been meaning to read for awhile. Tim's copy of the book was a limited edition from Subterranean Press, a small Sci Fi/ Fantasy publisher. I'm dying to ask him about the authors he reads. I always get excited when I meet someone with similar reading tastes, especially when they're of the Fantasy variety.

Even though Tolkien was arguably the greatest and most influential author of the last one hundred years, the genre he virtually created, Fantasy, has never been taken seriously in so-called literary circles. To me, a good story is a good story, no matter how it's labeled. Even some of the genre's authors try to distance themselves from it by calling their work Speculative Fiction. Ridiculous. All fiction is more or less speculative and since it's not "real", it's all fantasy anyway. Geez! I digress. Let's finish this post.

It's true: Dirty Projectors are incredible!

Ok, time to get my Tudors on.

Unchained, nothing stays the same

I could be on the verge of a cold. Last night I got the scratchy throat; it's still here. We'll see what happens. Despite not knowing what I'm doing on New Year's Eve, I'd rather not be sick during it.

I was looking forward to seeing Avatar today with Spira, but that fell through. How it did I won't get into except to say I don't think it had much, or anything to do with me. Kind of sad, the whole experience. And unfair to me, I think. I've moved on from it. Seems she ended up seeing the movie anyway with someone else. Guess our energies don't match up well these days. I'll see the movie with Janelle and whoever wants to join us in a few days. I will be very disappointed if I don't see it in the theater.

Some things don't progress the way you think they might. There's been a bit of that going around lately. Not a bad thing, necessarily, but maybe a little disappointing. To quote Mr. Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."

While Janelle's in New York, me and the Baby Boy Z have christened the abode Man Town. We've been having fun. We've been playing, cuddling, napping, and taking walks. I'm thinking about getting us matching tattoos to commemorate our time together -- maybe something tribal -- but I have a feeling Janelle might not appreciate coming home to find her dog's face has been tattooed.

Going to watch me some Tudors. I love this show so much! Everything about it. So, on that note....

Before this dance is through, I'm going to love you, too

I had a nice Christmas, in case you were wondering. If you were, well I feel positively shameful that it has taken me this long to enlighten you. You can relax now; go heat up your coffee, put on some loose-fitting clothes, sit before your computer and settle in to what is going to be a very satisfying reading experience. Go ahead, I'll wait.

My Christmas:

My day began at my parent's house. I arrived early, around ten, so that I could trouble shoot some issues they were having with their computer. Their main problem was that they couldn't log on to their Yahoo account. That took less than twenty eight seconds to remedy. I helped them with a couple more things and then, because they were interested, I showed them the wonderful and mysterious world of Facebook. Their interest was generated from my mother's conversation with one of her coworkers, who told her how much fun she had playing Farmville on the website. Perusing Facebook with my parents was a tiny bit surreal, like worlds colliding, but mostly it was fun giving them the guided tour, which, as I conducted it, made me realize how cool the site is.

My sister and her family arrived shortly after our Facebooking. Kids everywhere, screaming with Christmas exuberance. My four year old niece, Colleen, was given a camera. She stood in the middle of the room while the rest of us opened presents and ran down a list of the people she wanted to gather before her and pose for a picture. My name was absent from the list. My dad picked up on it and kept asking her "What about Kevin?". To which she replied, in a dismissive tone, "No, just the girls". Considering there were three males on her list, I found her reply to be unacceptable. Funny, my sister's kids have a way of shunning me throughout the early portions of our encounters. Maybe she's poisoning them against me. If she is, it's not working: her kids always end up glued to my side, basking in the light of my pure heart.

My parent's gave me a GPS. I was surprised, but thankful. It may turn out, God forbid, that the GPS will be useless to me if my car shits the bed. I guess I could carry it in my pocket as I walk everywhere. Ah, let's hope this scenario does NOT come to pass.

After my parent's, we headed to my grandmother's house, where there were more children, maybe eight in total. My sister and I watched them all running around and reflected on how most of the adults in the room used to be those little kids, doing the same things in this very house. Won't be much longer, I'm sad to say, that we celebrate holidays there.

I'm not going to lie to you, I ate my fair share of food that day, most of it not necessarily good for me. So what, that's what you do on Christmas. I brought food home, so did Janelle. As far as I can tell, there's no way to get rid of it except to eat it. We've got our work cut out for us.

Overall, it was a good Christmas. Always nourishing being around friends and family.

Yesterday, I went to Spira's for breakfast. Her friends Ava and Hiyanne (sp) ate with us. Eggs, bacon, spinach pie, coconut coffee, more bacon = yum! I caught Ava looking at me at one point and, after telling me she liked my energy,she asked me what sign I was. I gave her three guesses but she couldn't figure out I was Cancer. She thought I had more of an edge than most Cancers. I told her it had more to do with my pure heart. Ok, I didn't tell her that.

Hung out with Mara last night. We watched Doubt, a film we both enjoyed. Want to see incredible acting? No, really, do you? Ok, well, go watch this movie -- now! Meryl Streep, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, or Phil Hoffman, as I call him because we're pretty much best friends -- that's an all-star lineup.

Today, I drove to Burlington and burned through some gift cards. I picked up a Lyn McTaggert book, a new blouse and a pair of dungarees, some groceries. Not all at the same store, you understand. I shelled out about three dollars for the book and clothes after redeeming my gift cards. I like it when that happens.

I also used up a gift card at Newbury Comics and picked up the latest Animal Collective cd, which, after one listen, is very good, and the latest offering by the Dirty Projectors, which is very, very good. I'm positive it will be a favorite of mine for a long, long, long, long time to come. That's a long time, son!

And tomorrow, I'm seeing Avatar at the Omni theater in Reading. I'm pretty excited about this one.

I suppose I need to get rolling with the year end awards before the year ends. Stay tuned, you're going to LOVE it.

All I want for Christmas is you

It is Christmas Eve, though it doesn't feel like it. I spent most of the afternoon watching Dexter, not exactly holiday fare, to be sure, but I enjoyed it. It was a quiet day, overall. I did some yoga, went for a run, took a nap. Simple and nourishing. No sexy adventures. Just a quiet day.

I emailed holiday greetings to some of my contacts at work yesterday. In all but one, I wished the recipient a Merry Christmas. I debated whether I should offer up a "Happy Holidays" greeting instead, lest I offend or alienate anyone, but decided against it. Know why? Because all I'm doing is offering them a Merry Christmas. If someone is offended by my peaceful greeting, then they're overly sensitive, in my estimation. There is such a thing as being too politically correct, and even though most people are so because of good intentions, but I don't need to tell you what the road to Hell is paved with.

The one person I spared the "Merry Christmas" greeting I was pretty sure was Jewish. Judging by her reply, which was laden with references to Christmas and Jesus, I was wrong on that count.

Upon finishing up my yoga session yesterday, I realized it was the perfect time to set up my prank on Janelle, who hadn't come home from work yet. I had decided a few days ago that I was going to fashion some pillows and blankets on our futon in the shape of a body to fool Janelle into thinking someone was napping. I got to work and was proud of the finished product. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if a slight individual, most likely a woman, was side sleeping on our futon.

To sweeten the pot, I broke out a couple of wine glasses, poured a tiny bit of wine in each and left them on the dining room table. The entire time I laughed insanely at the prospect of Janelle coming home, seeing the wine glasses and then the sleeping person, and wondering how it all came to be. Meanwhile, I'd be up in my room, giggling like a school girl. I thought about leaving a condom wrapper on the floor where she could see it, but decided to keep it simple.

She'd been home for a bit before I came downstairs. I realized I had two ways of approaching the prank. I could tell her the sleeper was someone I took home with me. I didn't go too far with that line of thought because I knew whatever story I concocted would crumble before I got two sentences out. There was no way I'd be able to keep a straight face. The other approach was to tell her I had no idea who the individual was, that I came home to the same scene she did. That would mean Rich was the one having the afternoon party.

I ended up fessing up pretty quickly that it was a prank. When Janelle asked me who was sleeping on our futon, I couldn't contain my smile. All I could manage was to tell her the person was with me and that she should follow me into the other room to see who it was. I bent over the "body", shook it, and then pulled off the blankets to reveal the truth. Oh, it was fun seeing Janelle's face.

I tucked in the sleeper again, hoping to get more legs out of the prank with Rich. I have no idea what he thinks. I was in the kitchen with him last night, on the phone. All of a sudden, he interrupted my conversation and said, "Hey, uh, I'm going into work early tomorrow - it's the last day I'll have to go in that early -- and, uh, could you, uh, just, you know, keep that in mind, uh, not that you've been noisy at night, but, you know, just keep that in mind. You don't, you know, have to, uh, tip toe, around or anything, but, uh, you know, I just want to make sure I, uh, you know, uh get enough sleep."

It took what seemed about three minutes for him to get that out. The only reason I can think that he interrupted my conversation to tell me something he knew I already knew was because of the "sleeper" in the other room. Maybe he thought the house was gonna be rocking late into the night, or something. Anyway, the sleeper is still sleeping and, as far as I know, Rich is unaware that it's not a real human under the blanket. If he does think it's a person, one thing is for sure: he or she is a champion sleeper. Or dead.
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I'm going to my parent's house early in the morning before my sister and her family arrive so I can help my parents with their computer. From there, it's off to my grandmother's house. I hope it'll be a good day. I think it will be.

Despite it being a rather shitty holiday season for me, I think it may prove to be one of the more fruitful ones. I believe I'm on the verge of some positive changes, in fact I've already instituted one or two. I feel good, more hopeful than I've been in a while. Clearer. Stronger. Things are getting better.

Merry Christmas, readers.

There I will be, under the peach tree

I was due for something good. It came this weekend, unexpected. I'll savor it, even if it doesn't flower. I think I'd like it to, though. I am due. I'm being vague, yes, but only because I feel it's the right course of action, for now at least. It's enough to know my spirit was warmed, gifted with a glow that hasn't waned yet. I sit and savor.

I'm fixing a hole, where the rain gets in

Silent night, holy night....

I woke up periodically throughout the night, Christmas songs on auto play in head. Until I put some Gesualdo on, I was hearing them all morning while making breakfast, during my morning ablutions, and while I tried meditating on the ways of the universe. Craig had it right: I am a more sensitive listener because I'm a musician. Most everyone at work is able to tune the music out. If you wanted to take the piss out of me, you could suggest that if I actually focused on my work, I wouldn't be having this problem.

Just hear them sleigh bells ringing, ring ting tingling, too...

As far as Christmas spirit goes, I have zero. Nada. Nothing. I feel no connection with the holiday, not this year. Last year wasn't terrific, but there was still a spark. That is not to say I'm in a terrible state -- I'm not in a good one, to be sure, but I'm taking measures to improve my lot. It's just the timing of everything collapsing and the general makeup of my life that prevents me from grabbing that eggnog and caroling 'round the Christmas tree.

It is too bad. Perhaps tragic, that it's come to this. Maybe some day I'll regain the spirit. And regain is the operative word here. It wasn't so long ago that I had a panoply of Christmas spirit. Some of my best, warmest, most cherished memories center around the holiday. It's almost sinister how things turned out. I guess you can chalk it up to the loss of innocence most of us go through the older we get. And you can also chalk it up the absence of a significant other and a family of my own; the gradual dwindling of friendships; being so poor that I can't afford to buy gifts; my car on it's death bed; and the Christmas songs I once adored now more annoying and intrusive than horse flies.

It may be hard to believe, judging by the tone of the above and my last few posts, but I'm really trying to get past this, and by this I'm also referring to other matters that are on par with my car situation, just as shitty but too embarrassing to write about. I don't want to be in this situation, I hate how I arrived at it. I'm trying to grasp hold of anything positive. I feel I'm on the verge of discovery, the likes of which I've tried to grasp over the years but could never quite understand. It took being at the lowest point of my life to understand it better. It has to do with intention, the plasticity of our universe, a transformation away from the muck and the grime into something greater than I've ever imagined. The potential is there.
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Books:

I'm almost through The Brothers Karamazov. Profound is the only way to describe it.

Reading from The Field, a book I put down over the summer when it became too dense. Now, I can't put it down. It may be my salvation.

The Pillars Of The Earth. I'm getting there. Big fuckin' book.

Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance. This one I've had kicking around for years, whether in my head or physically. I found a copy at the Good Will in Davis Sq. a couple of years ago. I've used it as a buffer between my a/c and windowsill. It's pretty beat up. Needing something positive, I picked it up the other night. Only got through a chapter or two, but it helped. I like the way it's written. I'll finish it one day.

TV/Film:

Last week I watched Dog Day Afternoon. It was good. Also saw Roman Polanski's debut Knife In The Water. Reminded me a bit of L'Aventura, a film I disliked. This was better, though. I just thought it would be a lot better. Still, I'd watch it again.

I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe last night....

Quiet, you!

Watched a few episodes from Season 3 of Dexter. Everyone has been going ape shit over Season 4's finale. Damn, I wish I was caught up!

But there's The Tudors, a show I'd been curious about, but because of some crappy reviews, avoided. When I saw that the first season was on Netflix's Watch Instantly, I decided to give it a try. Hollah! Love it! It's right up my alley. Looks great (one of my favorite periods of history), well acted (Sam Neil, enough said), political intrigue, action, sex, and tennis. Yes, they were playing tennis back then. Right inside the palace. Wonderful show.

I just received the movie Doubt in the mail. Perhaps I'll get to it today.

I'm tired of being a spokesman for every tired thing

These days have been hard. It's not just my car; I wish it was it was only that. It's been hard, unbearable at times, so much so that at times, just to maintain, I've had to summon all sorts of will to stay focused in the moment, to not let despair have it's way. I feel like I'm about to die almost all of the time, which I can mostly attribute to my car feeling terribly unsafe at the moment (Visions of my tires collapsing, car swerving into other cars, breaking glass, crushing metal, screams, horror, dismemberment!). I am about to die, at least in the metaphoric sense. May have already. Life is change. This could be good. Or bad. We'll see.

What's important is that I at least make an effort to institute some kind of positive change. My life is not what I want it to be. I can make it better. I believe I will. Can you tell I'm working on my affirmations?

I'm rambling, aren't I? Perhaps not, but I feel like I am. I should end this. Before I do, let me tell you how fucked it is listening to Christmas music all day long when I'm going through this nonsense. Oh, really, it's the most wonderful time of year? Thanks for rubbing it in, Slick. What's worse than all that cheer is hearing so much of it. All day, everyday. Even some of my favorite songs I wouldn't want to hear four times a day. During the fourth -- yes, that's right, fourth -- pass of Feliz Navidad today, I said the following to Sharon:

"You know, at Abu Grahib, when the prisoners were being routinely tortured, one thing the guards would do was blast the same crappy music over and over every night. Problem was, the prisoners actually got into a lot of the music. The guards played hard rock, prisoners loved it; they played rap, prisoners loved it, they played oldies, prisoners loved it. What finally got to them was contemporary country. Made them go nuts. I think I know a little something of what that must have been like."

She laughed. " I don't mind if you change the station."

I told her I was trying to be a good soldier and put up with it; there are others in the office who just adore the music, no matter how redundant it gets. I'm not sure I'll make it to Christmas; I may end up judo chopping the radio with my face.

Time for a spiritual renaissance.

Rocking the Paradise

There looks to be a microscopic break in the clouds, I hope it widens. I need it to, I really, really do.

Anyway, here's the link to my new blog. Hope you enjoy it.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

My week was a disaster. After dropping money on my car on Wednesday, my ride to work the following day was marred by the recurrence of the same problem. Yes, my engine light went on again as my car struggled to accelerate. Wonderful.

For the reasons of not wanting to miss anymore work, having lost faith in my mechanic, and the fact that I was nearing Andover, I took my car to Sam's garage. Another day was spent in anxious anticipation, wondering what the damage would be. Sam called me in the afternoon and told me I needed a coil replaced and another spark plug. With labor, it would run me about $250.00. I told him to go ahead and do it.

I picked my car up after work and, guess what? Same fucking problem occurred on my way to work the following day. Oh, good. Took my car to Sam again, this time fucking pissed. He and his mechanic told me the steps that were taken to fix my car, beginning with my mechanic in Somerville were necessary. This time he put fuel injector cleaner in it, and told me that if that didn't work, to get a new car. "I'm telling you this as a friend", he said. So I dropped a ton of my into my car for it to come to that. Unbelievable.

I was already stressed out, especially after talking with my parents the night before. They didn't stress me out, but talking with them brought all my problems to the forefront. I can't remember feeling so helpless, so defeated. Other events occurred that added to my misery, but I don't want to get into them. Basically, I'm fucked in many ways and can't see a way out.

I was so spent on Friday, that I felt like going to bed the minute I came home. Somehow, Mara convinced me to attend this fucked up crafting event in Davis Sq. we were both invited to by separate people. I had a good time and for a few hours forgot about my troubles.

Foley was there, and he was pretty lit. I hung out with him for most of the night. We cheered Leesa on as she played her set and had some beers. It was funny seeing worlds collide. My friends on one side, and Mara's on the other. I don't think Mara likes Foley very much, mostly I think because their only interactions have been when Foley was drunk. It was funny watching them interact. At one point, Foley said to me, "I wasn't sure before, but now I'm positive she's not the one for you." I told him it was a moot, but apt, point since we're not a couple anymore.

I think she finds some of my friends too boisterous. I don't, but that's why they're my friends. She definitely didn't know what to make of Leesa, though they have friends in common. It's okay, some of her friends are a little too square for my tastes. Regardless, it was a fun night. There was crafting, live music, a gangsta rap video about crafting, beer, dancing, and more crafting. This is why I like living in the city.

Maybe later today, I'm going to post a link for the new blog. Hope you enjoy it.

Oh, the weather outside is frightful

Late morning, I walked to the garage to pick up my car. More than once the wind nearly blew me off my feet. I had a tiny umbrella for protection and the weather abused it so much I thought it was a goner. It remained intact.

My car. Among its numerous issues, one of them was getting worse by the day. My engine had taken up the practice of misfiring, at first only up steep hills, then when it rained, and finally all the time. On my way up to Nashua yesterday, my car barely made it up a hill and the engine light went on. And stayed on. At the registry, I called Marcy and told her I'd be heading back to Somerville, provided my car made the trip, and was going to drop it off at the garage I go to. My reasoning was sound: I would drop the car off - by that time it would be late afternoon- and the mechanic could look at it then or in the morning. Either way, my plan was to pick up the car and head to work after the snow had done its thing. And that's what I did. Oh, like I suspected, I needed new spark plugs, plus filters. A cool $350.00. For those of you keeping track, that's $450.00 in less than a week. And I'm not done yet. No, sir. There's always more. Hopefully not for a while. Ah, but I still have affection for the old girl.
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Last night Foley stopped by with some rum and eggnog and helped decorate the tree. I'm pretty sure he was tipsy when he showed up (don't worry, he didn't drive; he live a couple of blocks away). We had fun. Rich even joined in the festivities. He even got to do the thing most dear to him in the whole wide world: weather proof the windows with plastic.

Once we were finished with the tree, two things were apparent to me: 1. Foley was beyond tipsy and 2. Foley wanted him some Janelle. No doubt in my mind about the latter. The signs were there in full bloom. The thing I'm not so sure about is whether he's about to do the ol' full court press when it comes to vying for her affection. Is he over his current crush now that she's made it evident that she's not interested? I don't know. It all remains to be seen. He's in love with love. That much I know. And in this age of disillusionment, that's not necessarily such a bad thing.

The best, and creepiest, part of the evening was discovering Janelle's Santa ornament. I've never seen anything like it. It's rubber, with bendable parts; skinny, bordering on anorexic; face blood red, including the beard and most of its head; and the coup de grace: beady eyes, black as the day is long. I've never seen a more Satanic rendering of anything in my life. Janelle placed it atop the tree. Our star, it is. And fucking evil. I can't stop thinking about the little demon.

The new blog is set up. Putting the final touches on the first entry. Maybe a day or two longer. I know, I know: you're absolutely dying to lay your eyes on it. Patience, dear readers, patience.

On that note, going to watch another episode of a show I'm not sure I like very much, but one I can't seem to stop watching: Californication. Mara had it right when she said watching the show was like eating candy. True dat.

Movies on the horizon:

1. Knife In the Water

2. Barry Lydon

3. Let The Right One In

4. Land Of Silence And Darkness

5. Dog Day Afternoon

6. Point Blank

7. College

8. La Vie En Rose

9. Point Blank

10. Half Nelson

And these are just the ones on Netflix Watch Instantly. I better start watching some movies or....or I don't know what will happen. Probably nothing.
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I'm just a station on your way, I know I'm not your lover

Today flew by. I had plenty to do and didn't stop working until quitting time. I was so busy that I never got around to changing the radio station from the Christmas music we've been hearing non stop since Thanksgiving to ....well, anything would have sufficed. Sharon and I have both expressed our desire to hear substantially less Christmas music, but haven't pressed the issue because we know Therese really enjoys listening to it. And, for the record, I don't mind it so much, except that we hear the same songs at least three times a day. I don't know about you, but hearing anything fifteen times a week can get a bit redundant. But when it's the likes of The Chipmunks spreading the holiday cheer, it's downright agonizing. One thing is for sure: this will not go on much longer. We'll be listening to The River soon enough. Bring on The Spin Doctors!

My dad saw the dog again and called its owners. He got in touch with someone who turned out to be a friend of the theirs. He was told they've been flooded with calls from all over town, which may explain why they never called me back. Apparently, this dog hasn't been easy to catch. Seems he likes his independence. And why not? According to the woman my father spoke to, the dog is being fed twice a day by a family that lives a few streets away from my parents. Not only that, but the pooch has been courting a dog on another street. The only shitty aspect to his life is the fact that he chose to run away from home in November. Should have waited until Spring. But still, he's living the dream.

I've been lucking out with movies lately, particularly ones that have been beautifully shot. I've already expressed my admiration for The Gospel According To Saint Matthew. Last night I watched about half of Kobayashi's Kwaidan and was highly impressed. The film is a collection of centuries-old Japanese ghost stories and, man are they something to watch. Everything was shot on sets, which gives everything a dream-like feel. It's like the film was shot inside a painting. Kobayashi is my new favorite director. Samurai Rebellion was incredible and now this. Tonight, I watch the rest. I am about to embark on a Kobayashi film festival. Come join me.

Another film I saw was the Czech director, Jan Svankmajer's Alice, a bizarre take on Alice In Wonderland. It's filmed mostly with stop-motion animation and is pretty damn surreal. Worth checking out if you're looking for something different.

I finally finished watching Six Feet Under. What a ride it was! Sad, saying goodbye. Moving on, I watched a few episodes of Californication, a show that has been recommended to me by several people. As far as I can tell, the show is pretty much about David Duchovney's character, a washed up writer, fucking every single woman he comes in contact with, barring his daughter and ex -wife, though that's a sure bet down the road. It's just him fucking. Constantly. He's sitting in traffic. A hot blond pulls up beside him and throws a piece of paper with her name and phone number into his lap. Next scene: he's fucking her. I don't mind fucking, in fact I'd like to be doing more of it, but c'mon now, the show has to be about something more than that! Ah, but I give it too little credit. There is nuance, and the writing is crisp, and I am finding, with subsequent episodes, that there is more substance than I initially thought there would be.

Breaking news: I have a new blog in the works. I've called it Subterranean Hills and it will be a landing spot for stories, lyrics, poems, rants, you name it. Once I complete the first entry, I will post a link. Are you excited? Me, too.

Cigarettes, ice cream, figurines of the Virgin Mary

The weekend didn't begin well. On Friday, I noticed steam wafting up from my the hood of my car. I was in Nashua at the time and wondered if I'd make it back to Andover. I did, and took my car to Sam's for him to diagnose the problem. I figured I'd run out of transmission fluid or something like that. Nope, turns out I had not one, but two, leaks. The first was an oil leak, which he fixed for about a hundred dollars. The second was a transmission fluid leak, which he did not fix, thankfully, because it was a four hundred dollar job. "It's a slow leak", he said, "but you need to attend to it down the road." Well down the road, I thought. I'm not exactly raking in the bucks.

I watched The Gospel According To Saint Matthew later that night. Been wanting to see it for a couple of years. Who wouldn't want to see an Italian-Neo realist-homosexual-atheist-Marxist's take on Jesus? Despite what you may think, given that pedigree, Pasolini imbued the film with more passion, truth, and transcendence than most other films I've seen depicting Jesus. The cinematography is breathtaking! The soundtrack features Mozart and Beethoven and the spiritual "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child" is peppered throughout the film. It's uncertain who sang it, sounded a little like Nina Simone, but whoever it was, pulled it off beautifully. If you have Netflix, you can see this movie on Watch Instantly.

Yesterday was ok, but frustrating on the whole. I got my car inspected earlier in the day, and from there I ventured down to Union Square to visit Spira and Janelle, who were exhibiting their wares, in the local craft fair. Took me about a half hour to get there. A shit load of traffic and a ton of lights were the culprits. The trip, ordinarily, should have taken about ten minutes.

Somehow, in the heart of Union Square, I managed to find a parking spot. About twenty feet away, there were tables and booths set up. Ah, this must be where the fair is, I thought. I took a look around -- no Spira and Janelle. Then I spied a sign stating more vendors were downstairs in The Precinct. Once downstairs, I snaked my way through the various rooms filled with people and still no sign of my friends. I asked a vendor if there was another craft fair going on. "No, this is it", he replied.

I called Janelle. She informed me she was on the other side of Union Square. I walked over and met up with her, Spira, and Foley, who had arrived there in a similar manner that I did. I hung out for a while and got back to my car before the meter ran out. It only took me twenty minutes to get home.

Got together with Mara later on. A frustrating experience that I don't want to get into. And, upon my arrival home, a couple of other frustrating experiences, one of which involved having no Internet.

You make the best of things, though. I've been trying to be more proactive in my life and, soon, I hope, my experiences will be more fruitful, carry more weight. Ahead, I see significant changes in the works. The old regime is crumbling, time to make way for the new.

I'm taking the time for a number of things, that weren't important yesterday

I still feel like I'm on the brink of a cold. If I am, it sure is taking its time about it. Achy flesh, fatigue, scratchy throat: I've had each of these symptoms, but at various intervals and barely felt. Hmmm.... maybe I just need to start taking vitamins.

I wept for about an hour straight last night while watching Six Feet Under. I already revealed plot points on Facebook and won't do so again here, lest I reveal too much to the uninitiated. Let's just say it was a sad, sad episode. I thought about it all day today. That, my friends, is what Art should do. I'm near the end of the series. I'll miss the show dearly.


Speaking of Facebook, what an odd thing it is to see people from different areas of your life appear in the same thread. What a melting pot. I love it! Here's a question: which website has had more of an impact: YouTube or Facebook. Too easy - don't even know why I posed the question - the answer, hands down, is Facebook. Maybe some of you feel differently. If so, share your thoughts. I'd love to hear them.

As concerns Baby Boy Z, Janelle and I dote over him in such a fashion you'd either think we were mad or hilarious or both if you witnessed it. Janelle started it and I followed suit. I'll expand on this in a future post. It deserves one of its own, I think.

Bought some chicken hearts at the market the other day. I asked Doug what to do with them. He suggested I add some salt and pepper and grill the little devils. Eat 'em like popcorn, he told me. I think I will.

On that note, I'm off to watch another episode -- might be the last one, not sure --and will probably weep some more.

Goodies for the table with a fable on the label

On my way to the Nashua registry I stopped, as I often do, to get some groceries at the Market Basket in Andover. I used to get off the highway and hit the one in Chelmsford, but this one is even more on the way. Because I needed a good amount of groceries, I was in the store longer than I intended, despite my efforts to be speedy. This meant I would be arriving in Nashua about fifteen minutes later than usual. Not a big deal --they never make me account for every minute I'm away from the office -- but, even though I don't plan on stopping this behavior, I don't want to take advantage too much.

I got on 495. Up ahead, the exit for Rte 3 was blocked. I drove past it, got off the highway in Chelmsford, picked up 495 in the opposite direction and attempted to pick up Rte 3 from there. That exit was blocked, too. I was forced to take the Lowell Connector and got off by the Cross Point building. I called work to let them know about the trouble I was having. Marcy checked online and discovered an accident had occurred near where I was. That was evident, judging by all the helicopters, police cars, and ambulances that were afoot.

While the situation was a grave one, I now had an alibi, if pressed, about the lost time. Didn't make me feel much better, though; my thoughts were with whoever was involved in the accident. I still don't know what happened. I managed to get onto Rte 3 from Drum Hill in Chelmsford. By the time I arrived in Nashua, I'd been on the road over an hour.
--

Yesterday, I could barely hear out of my left ear. Been happening off and on over the last several months. Usually, as the day progresses, my hearing returns to normal, but not yesterday. In fact, my other ear started to clog up. By the end of the day, my head felt numb and like it weighed sixty pounds.

Still, I had a good time playing guitar with Craig last night. We played some Beatles songs, a sampling from Jesus Christ Superstar, and other stuff. We should do it more often.

My hearing is fine today; my head unclogged. Ahhh. That notwithstanding, I wasn't sure whether I was coming down with something. Beginning yesterday, I've felt like I've been on the brink of a cold. I'd been around enough sick people since Thanksgiving for it to be likely. Before leaving work today, I felt tired and achy, but I'm proud to report that after some yoga and a delicious salad for dinner, I feel hale and ready to fuck some shit up, son!

Off to watch some Six Feet Under (I'm in the final stretch), watch a little Celtics action, play some music, read some Sherlock Holmes. I better get started.

With your pockets well protected at last, and your street car visions which you place on the grass

Didn't do much of anything yesterday, socially speaking. Actually, there was zero socializing, partly by design, partly because the one person I hang out with consistently was in New York. I've commented plenty in this blog about the disappearing act my social life has undergone and I won't do so again here, except to say I've come to terms with it, will no longer question how I ended up in this position, and am taking measures to pursue other social avenues.

One way to do that is to start playing out. I've got to get off my fanny and start booking shows. I keep waiting for the clubs to call me, but so far nothing. Maybe I'll wait a bit longer, you know, give them another chance. I'm reminded of something my former coworker, Ellen, once said when she was referring to a client who was notoriously hard to work with. "You know it's him calling when the phone doesn't ring." I know of which she spoke.

It's Saturday and I still haven't heard back from the couple who lost their dog. What's that about? Either they haven't checked their phones yet, or they're taking their time getting back to me, provided they ever intend to. Maybe they're on safari in Africa and are out of cell phone range. No, I have a feeling at least one of them has checked their phones by now. And even if when I called they had already found their dog, they still could have called me back letting me know that. I can't believe they don't care about their pet -- they had signs posted all along the street -- but what the fuck? Ah, we'll see how this plays out. Maybe they have been on safari.

Took a break from reading the convoluted and weighty Reaper's Gale and have been reading some Sherlock Holmes, A Study In Scarlett, to be exact. I've started at the beginning. Great seeing how Watson and Holmes met.

I spent hours yesterday clearing space on my computer. It had been running so slow that I was beginning to miss the days of dial-up. There were occasions when it would take several minutes for a page to load. So, I did a little research and found a web site someone put together that illustrated in simple terms how to get your computer functioning at a reasonable pace.

My computer is still running kind of slow, but not nearly as bad as before. I'm glad I decided to be proactive instead of just sitting in front of the monitor cursing and sputtering. I had had enough, I think. Almost everything I own that runs on gas or electricity has been malfunctioning. My alarm clock still works fine, however. There is that.

Ok, on with the day. Still want to see A Christmas Carol; maybe I'll walk down to Davis for a viewing. Antichrist is playing there, as well. Maybe I'll see that, instead. Nah, not quite ready for that one.

Oh, I'm adrift and can't see the shore.

When I was alone, you promised a stone from your heart

Atypically, I was wide awake last night up until 3:30, when I forced myself to hit the hay. Even then, with the lights out and me under the blankets, I stayed awake, actively listening to Werner Herzog's commentary over Encounters At The End Of The World. Most often, I fall asleep within ten minutes of whatever I'm listening to, whether it be director's commentary or a podcast, no matter how riveting it is. Not last night.

I woke up around seven thirty and couldn't get back to sleep. It wasn't my thoughts that kept me awake, but something else, something below the surface that I couldn't identify. Maybe the anticipation of seeing the family, who knows. What was odd, was that I'd slip into the makings of a dream and right at the point when it was about to inhale me completely, I'd wake up. This happened a lot. Don't know why.

I decided to take 93 to my parent's house( This is the first year of my life having Thanksgiving anywhere other than my grandmother's house. She's almost 92 and just wasn't up to having it at her house) The highway was a parking lot. I thought it would take me forever to get to my parent's house, but, fortunately, the traffic abated a bit and I was only a few minutes late. I even beat my sister and her family to the house.

When they showed up, the house errupted in coughing and hacking. My sister's entire family was sick; they were barely up to a meal. They also weren't going to my grandmother's house in Lexington for dessert like the rest of us.

The meal was delicious; my mother did an exemplary job. Before we ate, my father pointed out a dog walking in the woods behind the house. I looked, but couldn't see it. He said the dog was back there yesterday. He figured it had gotten away from its owners. My sister heard him say that and mentioned seeing fliers pinned to several telephone poles on the street. They reported a missing dog.

I ran outside and read the flier. I took a long look at the picture -- it looked to be a chocolate lab pit bull hybrid. I went back inside and had my dad describe the dog. He described the dog in the photo. I ran back outside and called the first of two numbers listed on the flier. No answer. I called the second number. No answer. This time I left a message.

After we ate, I took some turkey and a roll, put in a bag and ventured out into the woods to see if I could locate the dog. Being out there brought back memories. I used to frequent those woods when I was younger, especially in my teens. I'd bring Mandy, the dog of my youth, and we'd enjoy the peace and quiet. It was good therapy, which I often needed. I often dream of running between the trees, soundless in the soft night of my subterranean soul.

I went deep into the woods, but no sign of the dog. I needed to find it. I prayed to nothing in particular to guide me to the dog or it to me. It was Thanksgiving, I was meant to find the dog and return it to its family. The flier had gone up a week or so ago, I was told; it saddened me to think this poor dog was lost and alone for all that time. It was probably hungry and cold. I needed to find it.

I kept checking my phone to see if the dog's owners had called back. They hadn't. Initially, my hope was that they would have answered when I called or at least called me right away so they could have joined me in the search. Alas, it was just me, and the dog was nowhere to be found.

On my return to the house, I heard a commotion coming from one of the houses at the edge of the woods opposite my parent's house. Several men in polo shirts and sweaters poured out onto the deck, one of them gesturing wildly in my direction. "Hey, there's someone in the woods" he bellowed.

I was mystified. Did I really just hear him say that? The men called out to me, but I couldn't tell what they were saying. I was about a hundred yards away from them, a solitary figure walking in the woods minding his own business trying to find a dog, and I've got a bunch of guys yelling at me for it. I could see if I was back there with a gun trained on the house or was peering into their windows with a pair of binoculars, but all I was doing was walking, something I used to do all the time back there. Pricks.

I returned to my parent's house dog-less with muddy feet. I was disappointed, but I still have hope the dog will be seen again. I left the owner's numbers with my parents. It's eleven thirty and neither of the dog's owners has called me back. Pricks.

Not a full house at my grandmother's place, but it was still nice seeing my relatives. I tried convincing my Uncle and one of my cousins that my father has been watching Glee every week and is a big, big fan. Whether they believed me or not, they gave my dad shit about it as he look dumbfounded. He had no idea what Glee was.

But I do. Mara convinced me to watch an episode with her the other night. I shan't being watching any others.

I will, however watch something tonight. That is, if I don't decide to work on a new song that I'm really digging. It's in heavy rotation in my mind. And so are you. Yeah, you know who you are.

Been listening to a lot of Syd Barrett lately. Heard Opel for the first time last night. Haunting, that.

I've been developing an idea for a TV show called Law & Order: Animal Kingdom. The premise is animals being tried by humans for their crimes against other animals.

"Is it true, Mr. Lion, that before you killed the gazelle, you told several members of your pride that you were going to do it?"

"Yes, that is correct"

"And isn't it also true that you ate the gazelle after you murdered it?"

(Gasp from the jury)

"Why, yes I did. That was the whole point of killing it."

"You are a sick individual, Mr. Lion. Do you realize that?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? I was hungry!"


I'm hoping the show will be picked up and aired right after Glee, my father's favorite show.

Oh, baby, my hair's on end about you

Ever awake to the fact that a good chunk of the people in your life are no longer in your life in any tangible way? Hey, it happens. That's what Thanksgiving is for, though: to acknowledge how fucking alone you now are. Wait, maybe I've got that wrong...

Let's move on. Today dragged. I got out of work at three, but it felt like I was there forever. I did go in an hour earlier, but still, it wasn't like it was a long day. Chalk it up to the anticipation of four days off.

I went to work an hour earlier yesterday and was tired all day. Wanting to avoid another day like that, I went to sleep around eleven thirty last night. Early for me -- I usually hit the hay around one thirty -- but late for most working folk. I got eight hours of sleep and still felt tired all day. I think, even if I got twelve hours of sleep, I would have been sleepy today. And why is that? Well, my theory is that it's not how much sleep I get, but when I wake up that determines my level of energy. Sure, I'll allow there are other factors involved, but I think I'm on to something. If I went to bed at six in the morning and woke up at ten, I bet I would have had more energy. Don't think so? Maybe you're right. I never said it was a well thought out theory.
--

During my run last night, I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. I couldn't see anyone, but I knew I'd encounter the culprit up ahead. I continued to run, suffering through the pungent aroma, and, sure enough, there was a woman about ten yards in front of me smoking a butt. I held my breath as I ran by her.

The incident brought forth the realization that this month marks my four year anniversary of quitting smoking. I don't remember the exact date, but I know it was early in the month. A momentous occasion? Sure, I guess. I'm happy I'm not smoking anymore, and it's great that it's been four years, but, frankly, I'm glad I almost forgot it's been four years. It indicates that smoking cigarettes is truly a thing of the past. So much so, that it's strange to think I ever smoked.

Almost everyone I know who used to smoke, no longer does. Spira quit a month or two before me, Luke warm a month or two after. Who else? Foley, Heath, my mom, Mike (he's in the early stages, but I'm adding him because I think he'll stick with it), Shane. There are more, but that's a good list: seven people. And these were full time smokers.

My mother quit years ago. I used to listen to her coughing all the time and worried she wouldn't be around much longer. It took catching pneumonia to get her to quit. It was the only time in her tenure as a smoker when she absolutely could not smoke (One of the insidious ways smoking takes a hold of you is when you smoke while ill. I had bronchitis in conjunction with a nasty case of strep throat one year and, though I couldn't smoke as much as I usually did, I still lit up). I never thought she'd quit, but she did. She looks better now, over a decade later, than she did when she smoked.

And then there's Heath. There's a guy I never -- let me capitalize that-- NEVER thought would quit smoking. He smoked up to three packs a day and probably would have smoked more if he didn't have to pause to eat, speak, and sleep. He was so associated with cigarettes, that one year Tracy replaced candles with lit cigarettes on his birthday cake. It was a funny sight, especially seeing salivate more over the "candles" than the cake. Another time, a few of us went to the City Room for breakfast, and there was Heath, and his then girlfriend, Marissa, sitting at a table outside, an ash tray overloaded with butts between them. I don't even think it was ten o'clock at that point.

I never thought Heath would live long past thirty, especially when I'd hear him cough. But, he quit smoking. And he stuck with it. Unbelievable! Now, when I talk to him, he tells me about his running routine, his martial arts training, and other healthy pursuits. He looks great. If anyone ever needed convincing that quitting smoking is not impossible, all they to do is look at Heath.

My first cigarette was between eighth and ninth grade. It was up in Maine, at my grandparent's summer place. My friends Steve, and his little brother, Mike, were frequently bored and smoking seemed like the perfect elixir. We enlisted the aid of Jaimie, the older kid a few houses up the road, to initiate us into the ways of smoking.

He started us on Marlboro reds. I'll never forget the dizziness and the foul taste. You have to really want to smoke, I believe. It doesn't possess you right away like they say heroin does. It took a while for me to enjoy the act of smoking.

It wasn't until I was a junior in high school, fuck, maybe it was earlier, that I became a full time smoker. I smoked at least a pack a day, never much more than that, and didn't even think about quitting until my twenties.

I never thought I'd be a career smoker. I'd hear people say they'd been smoking for fifteen or twenty years, and I'd think to myself, "How can anyone smoke that long?". To me, that was the territory of the hard core smokers. I couldn't see myself reaching that level. I always envisioned a smoke free, healthy life for myself somewhere down the line. One day, it hit me: I'd been smoking for over a decade. I'd graduated to the elite level of smoking.

My first real attempt at quitting (I'd made a few weak passes beforehand that don't bear mentioning) lasted about a year. I started up again during a camping trip in Vermont. If my memory serves, it was my first smoke-free camping trip. Sitting lazily around the fire next to people smoking was too much. I asked Spira for a drag of her cigarette. It wasn't long after that I asked for a cigarette all to myself. Don't worry, I told myself, and everyone who saw me with a cigarette, I'm just proving to myself that I don't like cigarettes anymore, that I now find them gross because it's been a year since I've had one and yada, yada, yada.

Well, I hated the gross taste of cigarettes so much that upon my return home from the camping trip I bought a pack of them. And then another, and another, and another. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to put into practice how much of a non smoker I'd become by smoking cigarettes. Ah, how we rationalize.

Another attempt at quitting didn't last long. I had the bright idea to stop smoking regular cigarettes and replace them with clove cigarettes. The reasoning for it was that I'd smoke less of the clove cigarettes because they're unfiltered and last longer and eventually I'd wean myself off of them. Didn't work. I ended up smoking nearly as much of the cloves as I did the regular cigarettes. All I remember from that period is the sweet smell of cloves and constantly coughing and feeling sluggish. I don't recommend this method of quitting.

My friend Rachel quit smoking by weaning herself off cigarettes. Every day, she'd smoke a little less until eventually she didn't smoke at all. I tried that method. A couple of times. Never worked. What would happen is this: I'd go most of the day having smoked only a few cigarettes, but when I'd get home from work or school, I'd light up like it was going out of style. No matter what, I'd always end up smoking a pack.

My addiction to cigarettes, like with most chronic smokers, was all-encompassing. I'd smoke anywhere to feed the habit. If it was twenty below zero outside I'd be out there smoking if I couldn't inside. When I was living at my parent's house for a while after leaving Nashua, I'd smoke in my bedroom, despite telling my mother I wouldn't. I'd stick my head out of the window as far as I could, even when it was raining or snowing, and blow the smoke as far away as I could. She could always tell I was smoking, though. And not just from looking at her yellow-stained curtains. It broke my heart that I was so weak that I couldn't abide by my mother's wishes, but I continued smoking in the bedroom.

It was around that time when I really gave my habit some serious thought. Even though every smoker knows all the reasons not to smoke -- it's why I used to hate it when people would educate me about the dangers of smoking -- it wasn't until I took a stark look at how it was affecting my life that I took measures to quit.

One realization that stuck with me was that no matter how I rationalized it, I was a slave to my addiction. I asked myself, "How do you feel about about not only being a prisoner to something, but paying money to be one?" And the fucked up thing about being a prisoner, being shackled to my addiction, was that the key to loosen the shackles was in my hand the entire time. All I had to do was insert the key, twist, and I'd be free. I make excuse after excuse as to why, despite that truth, I couldn't quit. But, still, no matter what, the truth was the truth.

And it finally set in.

I knew right away that there was no turning back, that I was going to quit. It felt right. No excuses, no "Once I finish this pack, I'm going to quit", no "When the next full moon hits, that's when I'll quit."

A day or two into quitting, my car broke down on Rte 16 in Cambridge in rush hour traffic. My car was towed to a gas station and I sat inside the small shop waiting for a ride. I looked behind the counter at all the packs of cigarettes stacked on the shelves. I smiled to myself and thought, "This is when I should succumb to the stress of the situation and buy a pack, but I won't because I'm not feeling the urge".

And I didn't buy a pack. Haven't since. Early on, my mantra was that I was a non smoker. I didn't look at myself as someone who used to smoke but is now in recovery. I didn't look to former smokers for inspiration; for that I looked to people who never smoked. If I viewed myself as someone overcoming an addiction, I'd always have that hanging over my head like an albatross. Someone overcoming an addiction may be prone to relapsing. A non smoker has nothing to relapse to.

Spira, bless her, has smoked cigarettes since quitting. She's been able to do it here and there and not stumble back into a habit. I made sure never to have another cigarette, not ever; not because I'd be afraid that I'd start back up again if I did, but because, and here's the distinction, a non smoker doesn't smoke. Period.

There's been no looking back for me. It's why I almost missed my anniversary. I used to smoke, but that was a different me. In order for me to quit, I had to become a non smoker and not someone who's overcoming an addiction. It's worked for me; I never, ever think about smoking. In fact, it grosses me out to be around cigarettes. It offends my senses when I'm around someone smoking, especially when I'm exercising.

Every smoker knows they're in the grips of a bad habit, one that will most likely kill them, and painfully, some day. And every smoker knows they're a slave to their master, Lord Cigarette. They know this on paper, and by that I mean to say they know it from a logical perspective, but the knowledge hasn't reached their gut. When it does, they will quit. Simple as that.

I could regale you with all sorts of smoking stories -- they are legion -- and everyone of them makes me look weak willed and ridiculous. That's fine with me: I don't want to have any fond memories of smoking. That is not to say that while I smoked, I didn't enjoy myself. In hindsight, I can say that my enjoyment was just a manifestation of my sinister addiction, but at the time, well, I didn't know any better. I was a smoker, to be sure. A full timer. But now I'm not. And most of the people I know who smoked no longer do. That is something to be thankful about.

And on that note, happy Thanksgiving, dear readers.

Well, I might take a train, or sail at dawn, might take a girl, when I move on

Had a decent weekend, though it began with me spending a good portion of Friday night in the bathroom. Know what I'm saying? No? Well, what I was afflicted with sounds very similar to "bad idea", which indeed it was.

Friday night's Bowel Bowl notwithstanding, I was able to get some things done music-wise, hang out with Foley on Saturday, which was beautiful, and Mara, later that night. Foley and I went out for coffee and discussed his deep pining for a certain woman. He's entrenched, this one. Hope it works out.

Mara and I went got take out at Zoe's a great Chinese food restaurant near her house. Good stuff. Red bean rolls, spicy scallops and mushrooms, dumplings, rice -- just over twenty smackers. And they didn't skimp on the portions.

We watched some 30 Rock after dinner. If we didn't have almost identical tastes in television shows, we might have stopped hanging out a while ago. Well, maybe not entirely, but less frequently.

Yesterday, I read, watched some Dexter, played music, read, napped, played music. Needless to say, I didn't leave the house much.
--

Went to the Lowell and Nashua registries today. In Lowell, I recorded at the Cambridge satellite office. It is well known that the Registrar in Lowell does not want a satellite office; in fact he shut it down over the summer until people went ape-shit to the point where he had no choice but to prop it back up. I'm of the opinion that as a fuck you to everyone who wants the satellite office, he hired two of the dopiest sons of bitches to operate it. Well played, Mr. Registrar.

I won't go into the details -- to do so would take up at least an entire post -- but I formed my opinion from experience. The level of incompetence is staggering. And the intelligence quotient is bottom of the barrel. Thing is, they're pretty nice guys and, in their fashion, try to do a good job.
I was stuck with them for two hours today. Not because of lines, not because I had a welter of documents to record. Incompetence was the reason for my lengthy stay. Sheer incompetence. Should have taken maybe ten to fifteen minutes to record my documents. Again, I say, well played Mr. Registrar.

My libido was through the roof today. I encountered more than a few attractive women of all shapes and sizes and varying age range. In Nashua, the woman, I think she's in her forties, I'm most attracted to seemed to come on to me a bit.

I usually don't see her much. She's mostly in the computer room and I'm mostly in the copy room. When I do run into her, it's when she comes into the copy room pick up her print outs. And when that happens, I try not to ogle, but I'm sure I do. Something about her just exudes sensuality.

Today, when she came into the copy room, I barely resisted the urge to jump her bones, as it were. She saw that her copies hadn't come out of the printer yet and made a joke about me not walking away with her copies or I'd be in trouble.

Once I had all my copies, I stopped by the computer room on my way out of the building. I told her copies never printed. She turned around and said something like " Oh, really?". She was looking at me in a seductive manner -- really, she was -- and I struggled to think of something else to say.

"You can go through my print outs if you'd like, but Amy said she already did and none of your stuff was there", I said with a smile.

"Well, if it was Amy, then I'm sure everything is all right," she said, but there was another conversation going on that was more intriguing. She never dropped her gaze, which had the twinkle of an inside joke, from mine the entire time.

We were the only two people in the room and somehow I had gotten pretty close to her, in the physical sense. About two feet separated us. I did not expect this type of encounter at all. Maybe some light banter. Maybe. But all this with the looks and wolfish grin? No, I didn't expect that. Suddenly, I felt like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate.

I left with her still looking at me with those seductive eyes. In my car, I wondered if I should have stuck around a little longer, flirted a bit more. I was definitely horny enough, to be sure. Thing is, I was completely thrown off guard and, consequently, couldn't slip into flirty mode very easily. Ah, maybe next time.

If I was prone to masturbating while driving, I most definitely would have taken care of myself on the ride home. I was so amped up, I almost did. Alas, I've never seen the appeal of doing the deed while operating heavy machinery, so I kept both hands on the wheel and listened to sports radio. And tried to calm the fuck down. Was not easy. No, sir.

Hours and hours later, I've finally calmed down. Yoga and a run helped. Oh, and the bowel issues I was having on Friday came back for an encore performance. So, that, too, helped. Unfortunately.

Jane says, I've never been in love, I don't know what it is

Everything, well almost everything, feels like it's coming apart. Well, I've got to take an active role -- no one else is going to do it for me -- to take steps towards positive change. I'm not even going to bother getting into it; been thinking about it too much. The trick is to focus on solutions and not the problems and, this is important, to counter the sour with the sweet at every opportunity. Yoga after work helped. A tasty salad for dinner helped. Watching Sanjuro tonight will help. It's the little things, my friends.

Watching Sanjuro will mark the third night in a row I've watched a Toshiro Mifune film. Last night I watched the magnificent Yojimbo, one of the best films I've ever seen, and the night before was Samurai Rebellion. It was my first viewing. I'd heard about the director, Masaki Kobayashi, before, but never got around to checking his films out. I'm glad I did. It was incredible! I rank it as high as any Kurosawa film. I just received Kwaidan, considered one of Kobayashi's masterpieces, in the mail today. I'm eager to view it.

I think in upcoming posts I'm going to delve into my past and see what I can dig up. I need to do some house cleaning. We'll see how it manifests.

A slow day at work. I found myself paying more attention to The River, the radio station we listen to every day. Here's who gives the station a giant erection:

1. John Mayer - I hear him at least twice a day. I don't mind it so much. He's a professional.

2. U2 - They are playing the fuck out of that I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight, or whatever it's called, single. I'm starting to get sick of it. As with John Mayer, they play at least two of their songs a day.

3. Bare Naked Ladies - Heard the If I Had A Million Dollars travesty today. For the first time, I gave the notion that the song was designed to be hated. In other words, the band consciously crafted the most annoyingly corny song that has muddied the airwaves in the last twenty years. Maybe I just want to believe there was some subversive reason for the song.

4. Counting Crows - At least twice a day. I'm going on record saying I want to strangle Adam Duritz and watch the life slowly drain from his body. No court will convict me because it will be a clear case of self defense.

5. Spin Doctors - Weren't they played out way back in the nineties? So why am I being tortured with "Two Princes" every single god-damned day?

6. Dave Matthews - The River loves them some Dave Matthews. At least twice a day. Every day. To me, he's like Bruce Springsteen: I respect him, but something about him makes me want to slap him in the face.

7. Dishwalla - Tell me all your thoughts on God? Fuck you, you rotten motherfuckers! Fuck you!

8. Nora Jones - Her new song is getting a lot of play. I'm a fan.

9. OAR - "I always turn the car around ". Actually, I wouldn't mind if you just kept going. Really, just keep driving.

10. Snow Patrol - I just read somewhere that they "produce delicately refined pop punk songs". I guess that's just a nice way of saying watered down slop.

11. Jane's Addiction - Only "Jane Says" of course. Fine by me. Perry's voice always gives me good vibes.

Oh, I could keep going, but why bother. Off to watch Mifune fuck with people.

How many wishes can you wish in a day?

Today:

Pulled over for overdue inspection sticker. There goes fifty bucks. Good thing I've got money to waste.

Worked part of the day in Nashua at the Registry of Deeds. I think one of the women in the copy room likes me. Cute, but not my type. My bloated libido is eager to overlook that fact, however.

On my way into Market Basket, I saw an attractive older woman enter the store. "Man, you are hot!", I said in typical man fashion. I view it as an involuntary reaction, the comment, which by no means makes me less of a meat head, but it does serve to deflect the blame a little bit. Anyway, what's important here is that even though I was relatively quiet in expressing my opinion, a woman off to my right looked over at me right after I expressed it. She thought I was talking about her. I most certainly wasn't. With all due respect to the woman, she wasn't very appealing to me. No, sir. I'm sure she's very nice, though, and I hope she did hear me and felt pretty damn good as a result.

Tonight:

Samurai Rebellion, starring Toshiro Mifune. Hell, yeah!

Lyric writing? Hmmm... maybe

Read from Reaper's Gale. It's getting better, this book. The whole series is so dense, I spent about an hour last night perusing forums on various websites devoted to the work, studying up on all the various characters, which are legion, and story arcs. Wow, did I cross the Rubicon into complete and utter nerd-dom, or what?

Sleep and dream. Sleep and dream.

Oh, one more thing. After I got my ticket, I thought I saw the one woman I don't think I'll ever get over, not if I live to a hundred. She was crossing the road, I stopped to let her by. As she neared my car, my heart pulsed rapidly at the growing belief it really was her. We made eye contact. I don't think it was her; there was no recognition in that look. For either of us. Oh, I don't want to start thinking of her again. Better end this post.

And then I see a darkness

Had a dream last night that was mercifully short and it wasn't until later today that I had an inkling as to what it meant. In the dream, I was in a house with a group of people, somewhere between a get together and a party. I knew most of the people, though I can't recall who they were. The impression I got was that they were friends.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time, except for me and a woman I was with. I have no idea who she was, but the two of us were in a room with two scary individuals. They were our captors, had been for some time, it seemed. One of the men was about to drug the woman and, according to him, the only way for the drug, which was in pill form, to be effective, was to crush it in excrement and administer it orally.

He pulled out a bag of shit and told us it was his own. As revolting as the idea of watching this woman eat shit in order to be drugged was, I held her down as our captor went to work. I was clearly in the grips of Stockholm Syndrome.

I don't remember much of what, if anything, happened after that. Two things were clear: I had been a prisoner of these two men, who were part of a larger network of slave traders, and the people in the house were indifferent to my captivity.

Initially, I chalked the dream up to having read too much about the Franklin Scandal and The Finders, but I think, though that was surely part of it, there was more to it. Or maybe there wasn't more to it, but it did set my thoughts in a certain direction.

On my way home from work today, I was thinking about the dream and then my thoughts shifted to the "dark night of the soul" I had gone through a month or two ago. Though I don't think I'm out of the water yet, I feel I have more perspective and, consequently, hope.

I thought about how difficult it was going through it alone. It was rough not having a support network, something I thought I had in place. Initially, I thought this was due solely to people not giving a shit about my problems. Sadly, this notion was supported during an incident I'd like to forget.

With perspective, I've come to the conclusion that the reasons for the lack of support I felt are multi-fold. And when I say lack of support, I mean it mostly in the general sense. I never felt a global, sweeping, abandonment. Basically, it wasn't just a matter of people having written me off. And, though I felt hurt throughout it all, presently there are no hard feelings, or, to be more accurate, not many hard feelings.

With even greater perspective, I think I'll see that I needed to go through this period without anyone holding my hand throughout it. In order for me to switch from the agonizingly passive approach I take to much of my life to a more proactive one, it has to be that way. And doing it myself does not mean without the aid of people. Far from it.

The nature of my relationships have changed, some more dramatically than others. I've been lucky to have the friends and family I have. Dynamics change -- it's the way of things, I know; I only wish more of the changes were for the better. Still, there are new relationships to be forged, old ones to rekindle. It's not so bad.

It's a beautiful day

My day:

Went to bed late, woke up kind of late. Felt as if I didn't get enough sleep, though.

Ate a small breakfast quickly -- wanted to get to the grocery store before it got crowded.

On my way to the store, my car sputtered and heaved, sputtered and heaved. Must have water in the gas line, I thought. Barely made it to the store, which was packed beyond belief. Got my stuff, drove home. Repeat sputter and heave.

At home in the driveway, I wondered how bad the situation was. Was this a sign of something more serious. Would I make it to work ok? What if I need major repairs? For someone barely getting by week to week, financially speaking, these thoughts carried some weight.

Out of the car, I was met with the deep rumbling staccato of Steve's pressure washer. For the last couple of weekends now, he's been parading the thing out. And not for short amounts of time. "Again with this fucking thing!", I lamented out loud and with some volume. Fucking prick and his noise pollution.

Inside the house, I put my grocery bags down on the table next to the sink. Doing so, I knocked over a cup of water someone left there. Water everywhere. All over my groceries, all over the floor, all over me. I cleaned it up, trying to keep calm. I was mostly successful.

In order to drain all the water that got in my grocery bags, I needed to clear out the pile of dishes in the sink. I put some of them on the counter, some on the table. That accomplished, I went upstairs.

I came back down to get some coffee. As I made my way to the kitchen, I heard Rich slamming dishes and silverware around and muttering to himself like the oft miserable prick he is. I decided not to venture into the kitchen at that time. Though I was maintaining ok, I knew it wouldn't take me much to get into some kind of altercation with him.

I had a minor epiphany. What the fuck does it matter to me that Rich is all worked up about something?As far as I could tell, he was either pissed that there was a bunch of dirty dishes in and around the sink and decided to wash them himself so he wouldn't have to look at them anymore, or he was pissed at me because he thought I was pissed at him at him for all the dishes laying about. Oy, ve! Fucking convoluted.

Anyway, the minor epiphany was all about letting go of shit like that. Let Rich stew in his own juices if that's what he's intent on doing. And let Steve roll out the noise parade every waking hour if that is his wont. It's up to me to decide how I react to things outside my control. And all that psycho babble. But, it's true, though. I tried to take heed.

T'wasnt easy, my friends. In my room not long after, I couldn't find my dvd remote. I'd just used the thing earlier in the morning. I looked under my pillows, in my drawers, on the floor, under my blankets. I practically upended the entire room looking for the thing. It was nowhere to be found. In the process of searching, the crotch in my pants, my favorite, most comfortable, pair, ripped.

I laughed. And not in a sardonic way, which would have been apt. No, I just laughed because everything was going wrong -- sure, mostly minor things, but that's why it was so funny. Was I spreading the kind of energy that engenders negative occurrences? Maybe. I've definitely given the idea some thought, which is rife with nuance. Definitely something for a longer post, not this one.

Once I found my remote (it was on the floor beside my bed - I suspect some gremlin-like inter-dimensional creatures have been fucking with me), I called Mara. On the phone with her, my phone started heating up. That was new. I wondered what would happen next.

Hours later, Steve still had the pressure washer going. Kind of interesting he was using a device with the word pressure in it. I was a feeling a bit of it myself at that point.

The day wasn't terrible, but what the fuck? I've had too many like that of late. I've handled them in good stride, I think. I haven't taken to cutting myself or throwing tantrums. Yet. More days like this one and who knows.

Here's where the story ends

It's about two a.m. Craig just left, Spira an hour or so before him. We had gone out for dinner at the burger place in Davis. Had conch balls for the first time in my life. Not bad. I had eaten a salad for dinner earlier, so I only picked at appetizers while Craig and Spira ate their burgers. We hung out at my place afterward. No A Christmas Carol tonight as we had loosely planned, but I'm sure I'll get around to seeing it soon. Or not.

Two bits of pleasing news: 1. Stephen King plans on writing a new Dark Tower novel
2. A Trader Joe's is opening up in Fresh Pond.

It's safe to say Dexter is one of my favorite shows. Initially, before I knew much about the show, I had little interest in watching it. Then I got around to watching an episode and the rest is history.

Book talk:

About three quarters of the way through The Brothers Karamazov. It's really picked up and I'm getting the impression I may want to read it again some day.

Plugging away at Erickson's Reaper's Gale, a fan favorite but one I'm having difficulty with. I think I want to like it more than I do, but saying that I think the best course of action is to reserve judgment until I finish the book.

It may be that I pick up a new novel this weekend. We'll see. I've got a lot of books on the back burner I could give attention to. No need to spend the money on something new. Still....

I think it's about time I give Hamlet another go. Or Macbeth. Or both.

Been thinking back to how wonderful an experience reading Larry McMurtry was. I'm craving a similar experience but haven't been finding it. Maybe that's why he's one of my favorite authors.

Music:

Been listening to a lot of Pink Floyd. Mostly Dark Side of the Moon and Wish You Were Here. Because I've been learning Shine On You Crazy Diamond and consequently listening to it a lot, it's constantly in my head. I'm not complaining. What a great song.

Whenever the new Nora Jones song comes on the radio, I smile. It's a fine song, and a little different than her usual stuff. I don't smile, and instead furrow my brow and frown, whenever I hear the likes of Bare Naked Ladies, OAR, Red Hot Chili Peppers (anything after the Dave Navarro record. Almost everything after that is limp-dicked and a waste of time. And Anthony Kiedis's voice is horrible when he tries to get all serious and "sing". No, his voice works best over hyper funk), Goo Goo Dolls, .........ok, enough! I'm getting sick to my stomach writing about these bands.

At this moment, I'm sad I don't have a companion. Ah, well I'm sure she's out there, somewhere, and we'll meet and become inseparable until one of us dies. And even then, even then, our bond will hold.

I hope I meet her soon. I'm tired of the single life.

Going to watch Samurai Rebellion at some point this weekend. And at some point, meaning this point, I'm going to end this and try do other stuff before the need for sleep overtakes me.

That's when the hurdy gurdy man came singing songs of love

Had some drinks with Foley earlier. We talked about songwriting for a bit and then he, in True Foley fashion, told me a convoluted and tangled tale of longing, the likes of which I'd only ever seen in romantic comedies. I hope he gets the girl in the end.

Had a dream last night in which I was engaged in some guerrilla-style warfare in my home town. I don't know what war we were fighting, doesn't matter, but at one point in the dream, I heard some news about a surprise attack that was about to occur at my side's hideaway fortress in the woods. I bounded through the woods, which happened to be behind my parent's house (when I was younger, I used to run at full speed down the hill into those woods with my dog, Mandy.) At every step, we were in danger of hurting ourselves, but we ran with grace and precision.

We made it to the fortress. I told everyone within we were about to be attacked. Sure enough, we heard footsteps at the door. I peaked through the cracks in the wall and saw that it was some of my friends outside. They jokingly tried to force their way in, but I wasn't ready to grant them access, fearing they were the enemies I was told were going to attack the fortress. The last thing I remember, I was jabbing a bayonet at them through the cracks in the wall.

Oddly, I view this as a pleasant dream.

Off to work on music.