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.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, November 23, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Swan, swan, hummingbird, hurrah!, we are all free now
A productive weekend, music wise. It was slow going, always is when I'm work on lyrics, but I got some stuff done. I also watched a bunch of Dexter episodes. I am truly impressed with the construction of this show. I wish more shows were this well done. I still have a ways to go before I catch up to Mara and Jessica, her roommate, but at the rate I'm going, I'll be ahead of them in no time.
I also watched Ghost Town, which turned out to be pretty good. I wouldn't have rented it if Ricky Gervais hadn't been the lead. Greg Kinnear and Tea Leoni were also in it and were very good. If it wasn't for those three, it would have been slightly less than average. You know who else was in it that was funny was... oh, shoot, she's on SNL....really talented and hot....Kristin Wig? I think that's her name. Anyway, she made me chuckle.
Jessica was asking me about my perverted neighbor Stan. Turns out he has a room right next to her in the Vernon Street studios and has been trying to assemble a group of artists for some reason or other. "Shall we begin with the chronic nudity?", I asked.
It was Open Studios this weekend and I passed Stan's room on my way to visit Jessica. I thought about stopping in, but decided against it. As far as he's concerned, I don't exist. I don't have the necessary accoutrements, so to speak, to garner his attention. Janelle, and all the other women on our block he's taken a perverted shine to, can have him. Sorry, ladies.
I hung with Jessica for a bit. She's a gifted painter and has moved on to weaving. She doesn't fool around, this one. She went out and bought a ginormous loom off someone and assembled it, in all its intricate detail, using only faded polaroid pictures of it put together.
She gave me a tutorial on how to weave. Very interesting. I came to the conclusion, and I'm pretty sure she has to, that, under a different set of circumstances, we'd probably hook up in some capacity. Considering she has a boyfriend and I used to go out with her roommate, not much is likely to happen.
Tonight, I'm going to finish watching High & Low, Kurosawa's adaptation of Ed McBain's novel, Kings Ransom. Great movie. Mifune, like in most every film he was in, rocks the hizzy. Oh, and of course there will be some Dexter.
And, maybe I'll read from Erickson's Reaper's Gale, a book I've returned to after putting it down a few months ago. Even though I'm about seven books into the series, I'm still not sure how I feel about his writing. If I haven't yet, I'm not sure I ever will.
I went to the book store in Porter Square yesterday and almost picked up Bill Simmon's Book of Basketball, but when I saw that it went for thirty smackers, I quickly nixed that idea. Same went for Robert Jordan's The Gathering Storm and Daniel Abraham's The Price Of Spring. I've got enough books to keep me busy for a while. Perhaps when I've got some extra change, I'll shell out the cash. It will be worth it. Reading is good for the mind.
Going to try and assemble some people to go see Scrooge some time this week. If I go, it'll be my first ever 3D movie! Ooh la la.
I also watched Ghost Town, which turned out to be pretty good. I wouldn't have rented it if Ricky Gervais hadn't been the lead. Greg Kinnear and Tea Leoni were also in it and were very good. If it wasn't for those three, it would have been slightly less than average. You know who else was in it that was funny was... oh, shoot, she's on SNL....really talented and hot....Kristin Wig? I think that's her name. Anyway, she made me chuckle.
Jessica was asking me about my perverted neighbor Stan. Turns out he has a room right next to her in the Vernon Street studios and has been trying to assemble a group of artists for some reason or other. "Shall we begin with the chronic nudity?", I asked.
It was Open Studios this weekend and I passed Stan's room on my way to visit Jessica. I thought about stopping in, but decided against it. As far as he's concerned, I don't exist. I don't have the necessary accoutrements, so to speak, to garner his attention. Janelle, and all the other women on our block he's taken a perverted shine to, can have him. Sorry, ladies.
I hung with Jessica for a bit. She's a gifted painter and has moved on to weaving. She doesn't fool around, this one. She went out and bought a ginormous loom off someone and assembled it, in all its intricate detail, using only faded polaroid pictures of it put together.
She gave me a tutorial on how to weave. Very interesting. I came to the conclusion, and I'm pretty sure she has to, that, under a different set of circumstances, we'd probably hook up in some capacity. Considering she has a boyfriend and I used to go out with her roommate, not much is likely to happen.
Tonight, I'm going to finish watching High & Low, Kurosawa's adaptation of Ed McBain's novel, Kings Ransom. Great movie. Mifune, like in most every film he was in, rocks the hizzy. Oh, and of course there will be some Dexter.
And, maybe I'll read from Erickson's Reaper's Gale, a book I've returned to after putting it down a few months ago. Even though I'm about seven books into the series, I'm still not sure how I feel about his writing. If I haven't yet, I'm not sure I ever will.
I went to the book store in Porter Square yesterday and almost picked up Bill Simmon's Book of Basketball, but when I saw that it went for thirty smackers, I quickly nixed that idea. Same went for Robert Jordan's The Gathering Storm and Daniel Abraham's The Price Of Spring. I've got enough books to keep me busy for a while. Perhaps when I've got some extra change, I'll shell out the cash. It will be worth it. Reading is good for the mind.
Going to try and assemble some people to go see Scrooge some time this week. If I go, it'll be my first ever 3D movie! Ooh la la.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Sing a song, don't be long, thrill me to the marrow
The computer is still being attacked by Spyware, probably always will -- it knows my IP address and will keep trying to get in -- but, so far, it's been manageable. Happy that I'm back online again, but it's frustrating.
At least on sports radio, the phrase that has replaced "it is what it is", is "going forward". Not as profound, to be sure, but everyone is saying it. "Going forward, the Red Sox need to sign a pitcher"."Going forward, they'll have to keep an eye on Garnett's knees." "Going forward, someone should think of something different to say when speaking in the future tense, you know, just to mix it up a bit.
I've got at least six or seven new songs that I'm really pleased with. Just finished lyrics for one, which is called " Your Dark Regard", and hope to have a few more finished in the coming days (see, I avoided saying "going forward" -- it's easy). When it comes to writing and performing music, that's when I'm in my element. It's one of the few things I excel at, that I feel confident doing. I think I'm just about as good at it than anyone else, professional or otherwise. Yeah, son!
Attended a dinner party the other night with Mara, two painters, and a scientist. Guess what we talked about? Well, a lot of things, but we spent a good amount of time discussing creative ways to murder people. And, no, I didn't introduce the subject. It was a good time. We had beef fajitas, in case you were wondering.
Reading from The Brothers Karamazov today at lunch, I came to the realization that I'll probably still be reading the book when Christmas arrives. I'm about halfway through it and I started...shoot, I can't remember when I started reading it. Probably a couple of months ago. It's a good read, but man is it dense.
I'm about three quarters of the way through The Franklin Scandal and have been reading from Brett's The Warded Man, which is kind of tough going but I want to finish it. The writing is barely above adequate. Maybe it'll get better as I get deeper into it.
Man, I love Baby Boy Z. He's such a good pooch. And he's one of the lowest maintenance ones I've ever come across. Cheers, Poochy Bottoms!
Enjoying the Celtics season so far. They're deeper this year; I really like their bench. We'll see, as the season progresses how much stamina they have.
Ok, I've fallen way behind in Dexter and Six Feet Under episodes. Need to remedy that starting tonight. Mara's ahead of me regarding Dexter and, according to her, I need to hurry up, because things just keep getting better and better. I'll give it the ol' college try, I will.
At least on sports radio, the phrase that has replaced "it is what it is", is "going forward". Not as profound, to be sure, but everyone is saying it. "Going forward, the Red Sox need to sign a pitcher"."Going forward, they'll have to keep an eye on Garnett's knees." "Going forward, someone should think of something different to say when speaking in the future tense, you know, just to mix it up a bit.
I've got at least six or seven new songs that I'm really pleased with. Just finished lyrics for one, which is called " Your Dark Regard", and hope to have a few more finished in the coming days (see, I avoided saying "going forward" -- it's easy). When it comes to writing and performing music, that's when I'm in my element. It's one of the few things I excel at, that I feel confident doing. I think I'm just about as good at it than anyone else, professional or otherwise. Yeah, son!
Attended a dinner party the other night with Mara, two painters, and a scientist. Guess what we talked about? Well, a lot of things, but we spent a good amount of time discussing creative ways to murder people. And, no, I didn't introduce the subject. It was a good time. We had beef fajitas, in case you were wondering.
Reading from The Brothers Karamazov today at lunch, I came to the realization that I'll probably still be reading the book when Christmas arrives. I'm about halfway through it and I started...shoot, I can't remember when I started reading it. Probably a couple of months ago. It's a good read, but man is it dense.
I'm about three quarters of the way through The Franklin Scandal and have been reading from Brett's The Warded Man, which is kind of tough going but I want to finish it. The writing is barely above adequate. Maybe it'll get better as I get deeper into it.
Man, I love Baby Boy Z. He's such a good pooch. And he's one of the lowest maintenance ones I've ever come across. Cheers, Poochy Bottoms!
Enjoying the Celtics season so far. They're deeper this year; I really like their bench. We'll see, as the season progresses how much stamina they have.
Ok, I've fallen way behind in Dexter and Six Feet Under episodes. Need to remedy that starting tonight. Mara's ahead of me regarding Dexter and, according to her, I need to hurry up, because things just keep getting better and better. I'll give it the ol' college try, I will.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Back in the saddle again
I'm back. Did you miss me? I didn't think so. Anyway, if you'll allow the comparison, I was Jesus and my computer was Lazarus with respect to how I got it functioning again. I won't go into how I did it, except to say it wasn't due to my expertise. More, it was trial and error.
My computer was really fucked up. At one point I couldn't even get into safe mode. Through a bizarre chain of events, I couldn't get in touch with Mike, who usually helps me with computer related stuff, so I was left to my own devices. Needless to say, I wasn't optimistic my computer would be functioning in the near future, if at all. But I'm back, so lets venture onward, shall we.
Leading up to my computer being hijacked, things weren't going so well. Losing the computer felt like a cruel joke and throughout the course of the following week, I felt like I had fallen into a dark abyss. Actually, it wasn't as dramatic as that, but I was out of touch, and not just because I lacked Internet access (which, for the record, I did have, if minimally, thanks to Janelle, who let me use her Mac when she wasn't home).
Not having the Internet sucked. I experienced withdrawal symptoms, which was odd because I don't use the Internet that much. But, when you don't have it, you miss it. Even though I'd spent most of my life without the Internet, I felt like I was lacking something substantial. And, in a way I was. We depend on the Internet for a lot these days.
I ended up watching more TV, which made me miss the Internet even more. I haven't watched TV on a regular basis for years now. I barely ever turn it on. I was reminded why over the course of the last week.
I'd turn the TV on while eating breakfast and by the time I would finish eating, I'd feel depressed. My mistake was to put the "news" on. Oh, dear. What a horror show. "Seven toddlers were found stabbed to death in their Newton home last night." " A mother of four was stabbed in the face repeatedly and then crucified on a makeshift cross outside the Walmart in Lynn last night. Her attacker is still on the loose and will most likely find his way into your home and do even worse things to you and everyone you care about." "This just in: You will never ever be safe as long as you walk this Earth. Most likely you will die a horrible, bloody death after experiencing years of hardship and toil. And don't forget you heard it here first."
And then there were the phonies on the talk shows. I felt like committing Seppuku. The other thing that irked me was the staggering amount of commercials. I can't tell you how many times I'd turn the tube on just to have something on in the background while I put my laundry away or something similar only to find every other station was showing commercials. Here's how it went:
1. Oh, cool, The Office is on.
2. Ten seconds into it, they break for commercial.
3. I stop what I'm doing and channel surf.
4. Oh, Scrubs is on. Oh, wait, they've gone to commercial, too.
5. Surf some more.
6. MASH is on. Shit, it's one of the later ones. Oh, well, better than commercials.
7. MASH immediately breaks for commercials.
8. They're showing Twister on TBS. I think that movie has been on every week on one channel or another for the last several years. Nope, I think I'll see if The Office is back from break.
9. Cool, it's back! Oh, wait, it's the end of the episode. They just showed three or four minutes worth of commercials when there was only about forty seconds of show left. Fuck.
10. TV off. Should have just thrown a DVD in.
If I had Tivo, I wouldn't have had those issues, but I'm not going down the Tivo road just yet. So, yes, I'm glad I've got my Internet back. Now I can watch Dexter, and all sorts of other good stuff commercial free. And by other good stuff, I mean porn.
Ciao.
My computer was really fucked up. At one point I couldn't even get into safe mode. Through a bizarre chain of events, I couldn't get in touch with Mike, who usually helps me with computer related stuff, so I was left to my own devices. Needless to say, I wasn't optimistic my computer would be functioning in the near future, if at all. But I'm back, so lets venture onward, shall we.
Leading up to my computer being hijacked, things weren't going so well. Losing the computer felt like a cruel joke and throughout the course of the following week, I felt like I had fallen into a dark abyss. Actually, it wasn't as dramatic as that, but I was out of touch, and not just because I lacked Internet access (which, for the record, I did have, if minimally, thanks to Janelle, who let me use her Mac when she wasn't home).
Not having the Internet sucked. I experienced withdrawal symptoms, which was odd because I don't use the Internet that much. But, when you don't have it, you miss it. Even though I'd spent most of my life without the Internet, I felt like I was lacking something substantial. And, in a way I was. We depend on the Internet for a lot these days.
I ended up watching more TV, which made me miss the Internet even more. I haven't watched TV on a regular basis for years now. I barely ever turn it on. I was reminded why over the course of the last week.
I'd turn the TV on while eating breakfast and by the time I would finish eating, I'd feel depressed. My mistake was to put the "news" on. Oh, dear. What a horror show. "Seven toddlers were found stabbed to death in their Newton home last night." " A mother of four was stabbed in the face repeatedly and then crucified on a makeshift cross outside the Walmart in Lynn last night. Her attacker is still on the loose and will most likely find his way into your home and do even worse things to you and everyone you care about." "This just in: You will never ever be safe as long as you walk this Earth. Most likely you will die a horrible, bloody death after experiencing years of hardship and toil. And don't forget you heard it here first."
And then there were the phonies on the talk shows. I felt like committing Seppuku. The other thing that irked me was the staggering amount of commercials. I can't tell you how many times I'd turn the tube on just to have something on in the background while I put my laundry away or something similar only to find every other station was showing commercials. Here's how it went:
1. Oh, cool, The Office is on.
2. Ten seconds into it, they break for commercial.
3. I stop what I'm doing and channel surf.
4. Oh, Scrubs is on. Oh, wait, they've gone to commercial, too.
5. Surf some more.
6. MASH is on. Shit, it's one of the later ones. Oh, well, better than commercials.
7. MASH immediately breaks for commercials.
8. They're showing Twister on TBS. I think that movie has been on every week on one channel or another for the last several years. Nope, I think I'll see if The Office is back from break.
9. Cool, it's back! Oh, wait, it's the end of the episode. They just showed three or four minutes worth of commercials when there was only about forty seconds of show left. Fuck.
10. TV off. Should have just thrown a DVD in.
If I had Tivo, I wouldn't have had those issues, but I'm not going down the Tivo road just yet. So, yes, I'm glad I've got my Internet back. Now I can watch Dexter, and all sorts of other good stuff commercial free. And by other good stuff, I mean porn.
Ciao.
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