Deep in your room, you never leave your room

As I was running on the bike path, a convoy of marathon runners approached me heading the other way. Later, when I got back on the bike path heading in their direction, I noticed a lot of activity at the point where it met Davis Square. As I got closer, I realized I was looking at the finish line. There was a runway sectioned off by stanchion ropes and on either side stood a horde of people comprised of spectators and runners who had completed their run. When I was about fifty feet away, I saw that they were cheering me on. I looked behind me and the nearest person was far behind .

I didn't want to run through middle of that group, but then I did want to run through the middle of that group. I wanted the feeling of exultation at having finished a marathon. Their cheering infused with me energy and I ran faster towards the finish line. I straightened my back and ran towards glory.

As I was about to raise my arms in victory and dive into my sea of fans, I was jolted back to reality, to the first thought I had of not wanting to run through that group of people. I recalled I didn't want to because A) doing so would have been a fraudulent thing to do, which when you have a pure heart like mine, is a sin of the highest order and B) if I did go through with it, I would have been the guy in last place. The only person behind me was a woman walking her Collie. Oh, and C) I didn't want that many people focusing their attention on me. Yes, sometimes a guy can get shy. Even one with a pure heart.

Even when I'm a fraud, I don't settle for last place. I stopped running about ten feet from the finish line and pulled out my Ipod and pretended to fiddle with it. And while doing that, I veered off the path and snaked through the people clustered there. When I came out the other side, I felt a tinge of regret at not having crossed the finish line. Who knows, I probably could have gotten laid out of the deal or at least handed some kind of ribbon, or something. I guess I'll never know.
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Went to Newbury Comics after the run and picked up cd's by Can, Porno For Pyros, David Bowie, and Neu. Aside from Porno for Pyros, it was the closest thing I could muster to a trip to Germany (for the those of you not familiar with the Krautrock scene, Can and Neu are from Germany and Low, the David Bowie album I got was recorded in Berlin and heavily inspired by Neu).

I called my grandmother at the hospital on the way to the store. She didn't sound very well ---her voice was gravelly and she sounded tired. My Uncle Dick was there. He had flown in from North Carolina yesterday and surprised my grandmother when she was in the recovery room after her surgery. She told me how happy seeing him made her. "My baby has been taking care of me all day. He's been doting on me like a mother hen", she said. A few minutes later, after I hung up with her, I felt bad about not visiting . It hadn't been on my day's agenda, but I didn't really have much of an agenda, so I went to the hospital. It was the right thing to do and I'm glad I went.

My parents were there and it was a nice visit. Nana was looking good, much better than the way she sounded on the phone. I was glad Dick was there. He's a very funny guy and watching the interplay between him and my father is always a treat. When they're together, they're a perpetual vaudeville act. It's when my father seems the happiest. I like seeing him that way.

When we were all leaving, they asked me to go out to lunch with them. My dad was buying so I accepted the invitation. It's never a good idea to turn down a free meal. My aunt Maureen met us at the restaurant and we spent two hours discussing how cool, handsome and erudite I am. No, really we did.
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Janelle just posted some of her writing on Myspace and it's of the highest caliber. I've always enjoyed her writing, but this stuff has eclipsed all that has come before. Skilled, insightful, tight, lyrical----these are just some of the ways to describe her writing. Believe me, if I possessed the vocabulary, I'd have constructed a much longer list. She's an inspiration.
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Ok, I've got to get started on other projects. And one of them is watching more Lost episodes. I'm almost done with the second season, bitches.

Good day sunshine

Luke Warm and I made the trip to Salem last night to watch Spira play. When we arrived, the band was already playing. We saw a couple of Spira's coworkers and sat with them. From our vantage point, which was off to the right of the stage, I couldn't see Spira, who for the first fifteen minutes or so after our arrival, I'd assumed wasn't playing yet. It took Luke Warm to inform me that she was tucked away in the corner. She played great; it was nice seeing her with a band again.

It was a bittersweet night, though, for Luke Warm and me. The Celtics were playing the Bobcats, the only team they hadn't beaten. When we left for the club, they were neck in neck. It looked like we were going to miss a great game. When I found out later that the C's had won, and that it was a tight game, I put my fist through the TV and cursed Spira and her stupid rock show. Ok, I'm fibbing---I didn't do that to the TV.
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Murph was at the house last night hanging out with Rich. When I saw him, I laughed. I didn't intend to, but for some reason his outfit, an ensemble that consisted of loose-fitting stone washed jeans, loafers, and a foliage-colored camouflage polo shirt, set me off. I guess it was more the way he carried it than anything else. He's an interesting looking guy, what can I say. So, you're probably waiting for me to describe him, and I guess I should, so here goes.

He's short and a little stocky, has an angular, yet fleshy face, a moustache, and white, feathered hair that he keeps close to the scalp with mousse or possibly gel. And every inch of his frame is dripping with sexuality. Though I consider myself a staunch hetero, I often have to fight back the urge to drag my tongue across his pasty flesh. He's so fucking hot, I .........ok, even as a gag I can't go any further with this. No disrespect intended, Murph, but I'm not attracted to you. I'm sorry, my friend, but that is the cold, hard, truth. Go gentle into that good night, my sweet little lamb, and forget about me, about us.
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I've discovered a bunch of various podcasts online concerning the paranormal, Bigfoot, etc. Great stuff, except the sound quality is usually poor. I'll often listen to shows in bed at night and fall asleep at some point only to be brutally ripped from my slumber by a dramatic spike in the broadcast's volume. Either the voices being transmitted are too quiet or, as I just described, too loud. It's still worth it for me, though. Last night I listened to a great interview with an old school Bigfoot researcher. He was a great story teller and I was captivated for a long while before I finally succumbed to sleep. And, of course, about an hour later I was brutally ripped from my slumber by a dramatic spike in the broadcast's volume.
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My dad called me about an hour ago. I answered the phone with a certain measure of apprehension. I suspected he was calling about my grandmother, and these days a call concerning my grandmother warrants apprehension.

He didn't make it easy for me, my father. Here's what he said as close to verbatim as I can make it. I've included my commentary in parenthesis.

Dad: Hey, Kev. Just wanted to call you with.....ah, so Uncle Dick flew in yesterday and was with Nana at the hospital when she had her procedure. I showed up a little later and uh....and Maureen showed up a little after that. She wanted to run some errands first and then she had to call Megan (get to the point, please) and then she came by at......I don't know......maybe around three. Well, Nana had the procedure and it seemed like it went well (just fucking tell me if she's alive) and then Dick stepped out for a bit with me while Nana was recovering. (he's saying all this slowly, like he's trying to put off telling me some bad news) And then, while we were out, Maureen went to check on Nana and, well....(just fucking say it!) she looked pretty good. And then I went home for a while and Dick and Maureen stayed at the hospital. Oh, and Brian went to the hospital to see Nana. And then......(lots more small talk). So, I guess she's doing pretty well.

Obviously, I was expecting some pretty bad news. The fact that he got around to the news that she appeared to be recovering well from her surgery after a lot of inessential small talk is par for the course with him. It's just the way he is and I don't fault him for it. What's frustrating is that, if she had died, he would have preceded the news with the same amount of small talk. Needless to say, I was relieved at the end of the conversation.
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A friend of mine expressed interest in dating someone significantly older than him. I was surprised to hear it; not because I think it's a bad idea, but because I was in the same room with the two of them and I wouldn't have guessed, not in a ton of years, that he was interested in this person. After thinking about it, I could see it working out, or at least being worth a shot. I hope he acts on this.
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As for me, I recently discovered that someone of the fairer sex had left me a couple of comments a few posts back. Feel free, if you're curious, to scroll down and check 'em out. Apparently, I sound sexy to this woman and I think I owe it to myself to make a love connection with her. What do you think? Hell, if we become a couple, you won't have to read anymore about "her". Unless, of course,the nature of my new relationship is casual and allows for expressions of unrequited love. I'll have to ask about that. In the meantime, if it doesn't work with my new lady friend, there's always Murph, who could never claim to be bringing sexy back, because---and this is the absolute truth---it never left him in the first place. Oooohh yeahhhh!!

Lost in love and I don't know much

Watched about five episodes of Lost yesterday. It's been hard to stop watching, especially when I don't have to wait until the next week for another episode. I still have many episodes to watch until I catch up. My mantra is going to be "moderation", but I suspect I won't adhere to it.

I won't be watching any episodes tonight. Spira's band is playing in Salem again (why does everything seem to go down on Friday nights? Must be because I have to get up at six the following morning.) and because I missed her last performance (she's playing percussion with her old college professor's band) I can't miss this one. I'm sure I'll have a good time.
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Kim had to steer the ship in my absence yesterday. For someone who never fails to toot her own horn, she was in the weeds for a good portion of the day and, from what I understand, was frazzled throughout it all. Everyone gets frazzled, but not everyone makes themselves out to be much better than they are like Kim does. And usually at my expense, I've noticed, which is why hearing about her ordeal felt pretty good. A bit of poetic justice.
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I discovered in my last post, the one about Kim, that it may have appeared that I was writing about her in the last paragraph. If it wasn't already clear, I'll say it now that Kim is not, I repeat NOT, the woman I was pathetically pining over. The confusion, if there was any, may have arisen over the fact that I had referred to this other woman only as "she" in the last paragraph, which came on the heels of a bunch of tripe about Kim. It would stand to reason, as a consequence of my lazy writing, that the "she" I was referring to was Kim, even though it would have been a peculiar thing switching gears so dramatically. So,I inserted a tiny paragraph about watching Lost in an effort to diminish any confusion, because, and I can't stress this enough, I am not into Kim. At all. Nor will I ever be. Well, maybe after a Rolling Rock or two, but even if she spent the next twenty years devoting her life to being my dream girl, she still wouldn't hold a candle to "her". Who knows, though, if Kim works really hard at it, she may indeed become my dream girl. As much as the thought makes me nauseous, I've learned to never say never. So bring it on Kim---let's see if we're a match!

I think I'll retire the subject of "her" for a while. I have to admit I don't feel very comfortable going on like I have been about someone who, if she even knows how I feel, has shown me enough in the way of signs that she's not interested. I do have my pride, after all. However, there's something in me that believes, stupidly I think, that I have a chance. I'm too much of a cynic, though, to let that dog off the leash for too long.

So, as I said, I'll put the subject to rest for a spell. I've been frustratingly vague when writing about her and, though the reason for it is to protect the innocent, as it were, I realize it's not exactly good copy. Maybe one of these days I'll be bold enough to make an overt declaration of my feelings for her in an act of full disclosure. And by full disclosure I mean details, people. Ah, but that wouldn't be fair, now would it? No, it would not. And if I take that road, I will have thrust myself firmly back to the days of junior high, where this type of behavior nestles comfortably between all the note passing and locker gossip. Ah, better to lay off the subject; maybe for good.Yet, here I am still writing about her. Call me Ishmael.

I feel the pain of everyone and then I feel nothing

Kim is the type of person who laughs at the end of every other sentence. It bugs the fuck out of me. It's a big, hearty laugh that always sounds out of context. I'll hear her on the phone and she'll say something like, "I sent it over to you but I think you gave me the wrong fax number". Now, it was misleading of me to say that she laughs at the end of every other sentence when she really laughs near the end. So, if you take the above quote and apply the laughter it will appear this way: "I sent it over to you but I think you gave me the wrong fax number" (italics indicate where she starts laughing almost uncontrollably).

Now, what in the hell is so funny about that, I ask you? Yeah, yeah, yeah---I know it's probably a nervous affectation, but my gut tells me she really thinks what she's saying is funny. Oh, and the answer to the question is nothing---there's nothing funny about what she said. It is annoying however, especially when you have to listen to it all day. I guess I'd probably find it endearing if I didn't think she was so sketchy. I don't know, maybe I'm just being a grump about her. I'm sure she finds it annoying that I work topless and constantly ask her if she thinks I'm handsome (she says I am, but she's obviously lying. How could anyone look at the pile of rat dung that is me and think I'm handsome? I'm just fooling, I think I'm hot and so do you.)

Ok, enough bitching about Kim's inappropriate laughter. I'll explore it further, and in greater depth, in forthcoming posts. Stay tuned, readers.
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Tonight I will continue with my Lost marathon. I'm about halfway through the second season. I've still got a while yet before I'm completely caught up.
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She lingers in my head, in the recesses and corners of my mind. I think about what could have been, what still might be, why it will never be, the gamut. All of this in whispers and gossamer; nothing heavy or urgent. Still, I hold no illusions of anything ever happening. I'm not about to try and force a situation, especially when there doesn't even appear to be a situation. No, I'm open to other possibilities. But, man, she's something else.

Slow gin fizzy, do me 'til I'm dizzy

When my alarm's clipped shriek forced me awake this morning, I hurriedly got out of bed and got dressed before the impulse to stay put got the better of me. Mornings, especially the first of a new week's work cycle, are always a drag. And it's not so much work itself, but a host of other things, that treated individually are minor enough to bear, but when they clamor for my attention like hatched chicks, present a formidable assault. I sometimes feel that I'm at a place in my life right now where the sour has bullied the sweet right out of the room. Ah, but it'll return. Right? I mean, the odds would favor such a thing happening, no? Let's hope. Hope is what gets us through.

I don't mean to sound like a downer. It's just...well, it's life and it's not always rosy, so I'll honor that and, you know, if I sometimes sound like a depressed lout, I'll live with that. Anyway, if I was merry all the time, you'd all want to gut me out of sheer jealousy.

I just heard from my dad. He spent all night in the hospital with my grandmother. She's suffering through constant back spasms now and no amount of morphine has been able to dull the pain. My dad doesn't think she's going to last much longer. I didn't like hearing that, but I like even less the fact that she's in constant agony.
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In spite of it all, I had a pretty decent day today. I brought sushi home for dinner and watched a couple of episodes of Lost online. I've been catching up after not having watched it since the first season. Soon, I'll be able to dish about the latest the episode with my geeky friends and family who are hooked on the show. It's still not as good as practically any show that HBO has produced over the last few years, but it's still damn good. I only wish they didn't make a punch to the face sound like a battering ram crashing into a steel door. I hate it when TV shows and movies do that. A punch to the face should sound like a punch to the face. Know what I mean? Ah, you don't care. Anyway, I've been watching Lost.
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Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go work on a couple of songs and then read from Before They Are Hanged, Joe Abercrombie's brilliant new book that already has me lamenting the wait until the next installment is published and I'm only halfway through it.

Wrap your troubles in dreams

Last night my stomach felt bloated and I didn't like it. I figured it was the roast beef I had at my grandmother's house. I didn't have too much, but seeing how I haven't had red meat in a long while, a little was all it took. Or it could have been the three boxes of Peeps I had eaten around the same time. Oh, and did I mention they were chili flavored? Yeah, that might have done it.
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Traded some cd's in at Newbury Comics today. I came home with Nico's Chelsea Girl, Neu's self titled debut record, and Fairport Convention's Unhalfbricking. I was going to include Lisa Gerrard's The Silver Tree and Can's Soundtracks, but I didn't get as much back from the trade-ins as I thought. Oh, well, I have enough to keep me occupied for a while.
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Over the last two nights, I've had dreams about Bob TV coming back to the house. Though they wouldn't qualify as nightmares, the dreams were hardly pleasant. I dubbed them Get the Fuck Out Of My House, Parts I and II.
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Ok, I'm keeping this one short so that I can go off and do other sexy stuff.

Go, you restless souls, you're gonna find it

Easter at my grandmother's house was a little sad. It'll probably be the last holiday we spend with her. She is not doing well and will probably never get better. Her failing health was the elephant in the room and we all did our best to have a good time, but it was difficult. The writing is on the wall and my family needs to ready ourselves for her passing.
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Went to a great party in Brighton last night. Actually, it would be more appropriate to call it a show, because, in essence, that's what it was. Everyone, about twenty of us, assembled in the basement to listen to some music. It was a cozy atmosphere, replete with cushions of the floor and mood lighting. There was plenty of beer and wine for everyone, as well as some bread and hummus. I stuck with the beer.

First to perform was a cellist named Garth Stevenson. It was a moving set--sometimes soft, sometimes muscular, always engaging. One piece, though gentler, reminded me of the music during the masked ceremony in Eyes Wide Shut. His use of electronics often changed the sound of his instrument so drastically, you'd never guess it was a cello if you didn't see it with your own eyes.

Next up was John Shannon, a very quiet and frail individual whose singing and guitar playing matched his demeanor. He reminded me of Damien Rice a bit, but without the dramatics. His songs were delicate and perfectly suited for the mellow environment. A woman named Caroline sang pretty back ups on some of the songs. My only criticism was his Casteneda-like musings between songs ("I sat Indian style in the desert for four days on a vision quest and when I returned from my spiritual journey, a butterfly landed on my shoulder and he stayed there for fifteen minutes. And then I met Caroline a few months later and she had a butterfly tattoo. I knew we were destined to create music together") and the fact that most of his songs were indistinguishable from one another. Minor criticisms, these--the performance was transcendent.

I lucked out and managed to sit next to, at least in my estimation, the finest looking woman in the room. She reminded me a bit of someone I've been known to write about from time to time. We had a nice conversation in between sets and at the end she disappeared into the night.Women hover in and out of my life like wraiths.
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Yesterday, I had to go on a delivery with Alex, one of my new drivers. He's a good kid, soft spoken and polite, but I've noticed on more than one occasion that he'd benefit from a shower and some deodorant. Riding in the truck with him, I was assaulted with his b.o. The closest thing I can compare it to is the smell of sharp cheddar cheese left out in the sun too long on a sweltering August day. I longed for something to plug up my nostrils with.

Throughout the day, I continued to smell his b.o., even though he was hardly in my presence. I sniffed hard on my shirt sleeve to see if his stench had been absorbed by my clothes. The results were inconclusive. What was happening seemed to be the olfactory equivalent to phantom limb syndrome. Or, and this notion disturbed me, I was the one with the b.o. That would have sucked, but it was a possibility.

I thought back to what I'd eaten recently that could have caused the odor. Out of everything, the dill hummus was the likely suspect. But was it playing havoc on my pores? I didn't know; the only thing I was sure of was I wanted this smell, however it attached itself to my being, to beg off.

On the way home from the party last night, I explained to Spira and her friend Sarah the b.o. situation---I could still detect its presence, though it was faint---and asked them if they could smell it. They told me they couldn't. I was relieved, to be sure, but I was starting to get frustrated with this phantom cheese smell. Fortunately, I awoke this morning and the odor had left, hopefully never to return. Oh, and I decided it was that smelly prick Alex who infected me. No way did I smell that bad.