Eye Storms

I know it's been a long time, but I've been busy as frickin hell.

For one thing, I decided to say "Fuck full time work" and just milk the taxpayers by reaping my unemployment check and working apart time sissie job. So there it is.

Secondly, I've been sick as a dog. Tonight I felt just barely well enough to go out and see some friends. I even decided to contact an old flame, the ever demonic DC.

Except tonight was different. I really threw my guts out there. I believe the conversation went something like this:

DC: So yea, there's something about me you don't know.
ME: Actually, there's something about you, that I've been meaning to tell you. (drunken slur)
DC: What's that?
(JUST then, the music dies down and all you hear are the clangs of empty glasses hitting an oak tabletop)
ME: Well, it's going ot have to wait, because I was going to say it while the music was playing. Now everyone can hear what I'm saying.
(As if the bartender heard me, the music roars up again)
DC: So what were you going to say? :: keep in mind, she fails to make eye contact the entire time:::
ME: Just that... well.
DC: What??
ME: You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful person I've ever met.

Long pause.

Seriously, this pause was so long, it felt like I was counting. She had a look on her face like she wanted to just kiss the shit out of me, and at the same time, just run for her life. I stopped her before she could.

ME: I know that puts you in an awkward situation, but seriously, DC, but there it is. I really can't stand sitting here much longer without telling you that. And I feel like as much as you push me away, there is definitely a chemistry or something here that can't be denied. And I've done my very fucking best to not come across like a weirdo or a stalker or whatever... and to just enjoy you whenever I possibly can. And I know -- I know that puts you in a bad position because you are so inclined to say no.

I looked at the mirror behind the bar at myself, and then back at her

ME: But I can't let you keep saying no. Not until you stop looking at me like that. Not until you stop being the most beautiful person I've ever met. Not until

And then--- right then

She just kissed me. No tongue, no dirty stuff. Just a long, sweet kiss on the lips. It almost felt like she was trying to shut me up... or maybe a sympathy kiss. But God, I enjoyed it... just like every other kiss I've gotten from her. Just like every kiss I've stolen from her.

It seemed like days before I realized that we were no longer kissing and we were back to just looking at one another

After an even longer pause, DC looked at me, and I knew she was drunk and sick, but there was something swirling around in her eyes. A realization, I think, as though I could see the actual chemistry of it. The storm in her raged.

God, it raged. And so did mine.

We parted with the agreement that I'd call her tomorrow-- and the agreement that she'd answer.

A Fondness for the Weird

There is nothing quite so exhilarating as hearing someone say, verbatim, the thought you've just thunk.

I want to go get my haircut today, but I will have to wait at least one more week before attempting it. The wound on the back of my head hasn't completely healed, although the staples were removed last Tuesday. This kind of sucks because my hair is becoming quite grassy. I disclaim an apology for the bare-headed of my readers, but one of the things I wish about myself is that my hair weren't so THICK. I have mainly Irish and French roots, but some ancestral mother of mine may have hooked up with a person who grew hair so thick that it probably calcified and formed a single horn. Perhaps even a human rhino. I guess I can give thanks for my other parts to those genes.

While visiting ADC's mom, she actually suggested that I tone my 'do down with rows. I don't think so.

"Sheeet. You better not be one of those peckerheads who wears a ponytail. No son of mine's gonna be consortin with no fag, boy. You a fag?" she said, "You better not be. I'll smack the happy right out of you."

"Uh... no ma'am," I eeked out.

"No ma'am what?" she shot back.

As I grunted and stuttered, ADC rose his head. "Wes. Just... don't."

"Yes ma'am?"

It was all downhill from there.

Don't get me wrong!

I love blogging. I love the idea of it, the unity, the creativity. I like how I can discover one blog about someone who reminds me so much of me at some point in my life, and like the turn of a page, find someone who offers a completely unique perspective.

I'm always trying to figure out how to improve my blog. Aside from just being lazy and not dazzling it up with photos and videos (which I intend to do soon) I think the most influential part of a blog comes from the voice of its author.

Having said that, I've identified some things that I absolutely love, and hate, about bloggers.

Some things I love:
Focus. I love when someone is able to achieve a crisp narrative based on one subject. There's a blog I read about one man's innocent obsession with food and cooking. It's such a great blog to me because from time to time, he deviates from the usual subject, like grocery shopping, and talks about moments in his life that just drips with a charming awkwardness... a lot like a William Macy character.

Openness. There's a blog about a stay-at-home dad whose life resembles a family living on Wisteria Lane. Somewhere, deep down, I half expect this father of two to morph into Lester Burnham... only he's not interested in "OD's" best friend, nor is he smoking weed with the neighbor's delinquent son.

Depth. Not every blog is glamorous. I've come close to nixing this blog from my bookmarks folder several times, but decided not to because it has come to help me. This man surrendered himself and acknowledged that he was powerless against Alcohol about 100-something days ago. It's not all roses, but this guy lifts my spirit so much because of his humility and integrity. I find myself rooting for him because he has been a phantom influence behind my decision to stop drinking.

Originality. Okay, so there's nothing very original about being a cop. But this guy has 180'd my opinion that police officers are essentially armed sheep. Not to mention, he's funny as hell. He adds color by including cell phone photos of some of the cases he responds to during his patrol shifts. The latest post is just nuts.

Influence. The diarist of a micro ecorevolution never fails to impress upon me how wrong I was to think that the green movement belongs only to hippies. While usually entertaining, I love how informative this girl is with her posts about living a more efficient, healthier life as a citizen of the most energy guzzling (and belching) country in the world.

The main thing I like about all these bloggers is for one, they're good writers. They don't ramble (too much) and they stay away from gut-wrenching abbreviations (omg, lol).

The main thing I can't stand isn't exactly the fault of any blogger, but blogger.com itself. When I want to find a blog, any blog, clicking on that "next blog" link at the top will land me on a completely useless waste of internet space about 19 out of 20 times. I've also noticed that there's an ungodly amount of blogs dedicated to quilting. What the hell is up with that? Is quilting so exciting that someone feels the need to dash over to the ole' comp and upload about 35 photos of their latest pattern? Yikes. It's a quilt. You see one, you've seen them all.

The other thing I can't stand in a blog is relentless over-updating. Whether the posts are long or short, I really don't condone blogging more than once a day. Twice is fine on occasion, but really should be reserved for if an epiphany arises and the author wants to gush it out before it's lost. On the other hand, I hate reading a great blog post, thinking that it was so well written and concise... something new and exciting... only to wait two months to see a single update-- usually to the effect of "sorry I haven't updated. I've been busy."

And finally... the last thing I ever want to read is some self-righteous banter about how even though they are very busy, they're taking time out of their extremely important schedules to let us all know how excruciatingly important their life is. Like I said... I love blogs... but it is just a blog. Nobody pays you to be a dickhead. You're doing it for free.

Good question.

The author of a much better blog asked in her latest entry: "Who would you pay $155 to see?" noting that a pending visit by the Dalai Llama is costing that amount for people to attend the event.

This got me to thinking... what would I pay any amount for anyone-- be it see them, talk to them, or whatever action I wished? So I comprised this list, starting with the highest bid of $155 and working my way down.

Bloggers, I give you: The Top Ten Hustlebucks.

1. $155 to meet Harrison Ford.
2. $120 to throw a rock at Carrot Top. He has to be standing still though.
3. $105 to be on Rush Limbaugh's show, just so I can chew him out without being interrupted.
4. $80 toward a fund to silence Ralph Nader once and for all.
5. $65 to see Robin Williams systematically shut down Dick Cheney. Face to face.
6. $40 to get close enough to brutalize Mark Summers. Or at least throw a pie at him.
7. $20 to get a written apology from Nancy Grace just for existing.
8. $14 to slap Ronald McDonald.
9. $8 to shoot a paintball at a pro-life activist weilding a grostesque posterboard of an aborted fetus.
10. $4 to wipe bacon grease on an Abercrombie and Fitch model's face.

So there they are. To achieve all these desires, I would need a total of $611. I hope my dreams come true.

Pre-St. Patty's Day M-ahem. AHEM!

Last week, I purchased a very cool looking Schwinn for only $10 dollars, thinking that I had just made an initial investment into my greener lifestyle-- one that would garnish returns beyond imagination. My dad happened to stop by and check it out, but much to my disappointment, he told me it wasn't gonna work.

"Pretty cool bike, huh Dad?"
"Yea... uh. Yea, it's cool. It's a girls bike."
"What? No. Nah."
"No, yea-- it's a lady bike, son."
"Oh. Well..." (under breath: gdmnit)


Mens Bikes are identified by the "skirt bar" ironically enough. A woman's bike swoops down.
And so I gave both bikes I had acquired away, thinking that I can't be seen with a girly bike. It's just wrong. I can't shame my family that way.

So off they go, and I'm off to the bike store. I asked the bike pro about it and he kinda chuckled...
"Yea... that doesn't really matter anymore. Nobody cares. A bike is a bike."

FUCK!

Photos?

So I've done a little research about blogging in the past week. This is largely thanks to a tremendous amount of downtime, due in part to my recent commitment to sobriety and mostly because I'm allowing myself to be a vegetable with a mouth and an asshole. Also, because I really like blogging/blogs. The bulk of my research consists of clicking that "next blog" link up there at the top and seeing where it'll land me.

I've seen a lot of good blogs and a lot of bad ones too. One thing I've realized is that good bloggers do NOT necessarily blogroll each other. I've found that if I stumble on a great blog, there's a good chance that the links on the right will lead me to incoherent babble. There's even one (which I've shamefully bookmarked) that consists entirely of short AIM conversations. There's an odd sense of pervasiveness in it, and I thought it might be interesting... except a recent conversation went exactly like this:


RAQUELLE

kerry: i wish your name was raquelle
me: GOD ME TOO
I WOULD BE SO MUCH BETTER
kerry: YOU'D BE MUCH BETTER
me: PIAEHPIAPHIATPAEPIAEPHIHIPIPTAPIHTEAIPHEPHIIEPA
kerry: !!!!!!
me: PIHEATPIHEAPIHAETA

You would think that the spasm of excitement (Re: "PIAEHPIAPHIAT...etc") is limited to just one entry. But one conversation is ALL keyboard spasms. I do think it's charming how kerry replied "!!!!!!" after said spasm. Anyway, if this is your bag, then you can check it out here. Raquelle, if you have any objections, just leave me a comment and I'll take it off. But let it be said that I do actually read your stuff... I just think it's kinda crazy.

But hey! that's what blogs are for. And while I have a pathetic decent readership I figured maybe it's time I take this baby up a notch. It'll be a lot like turning the volume up from a modest "5" to a very impressive "7". Rock and roll. With that, I'm going to start introducing photos in my blog. Since I have about ten thousand to choose from in my archives, I'm just gonna pick random photos and drop them, regardless of the entry's actual content.

Anyway, today I hung out with my dad and ganked a washing machine from some guy that works for him. We drove out to a shanty and picked it up around 3, came home at 3:15... had it unloaded from the trailer at approx. 3:20... and right around 4:30, it was sitting snugly in the laundry room. Yes, that's right.. it took us a little over an hour to get the motherflippa into my utility room. I literally had to take a couple doors off the hinges for it to fit. Of course, once it's hooked up, we discovered that the nozzles are treadbare, so the hot/cold hoses aren't very secure. Twist the valve to allow cold water to run through, and you're left with a high-pressure jet of very cold water on your pants. Well, I was lucky. It sprayed my dad.

There's a Song

This last week has been kind of a lull for me.

First off, I'm giving myself a pat on the back for getting a full-time job. I know a lot of people that have worked there one time or another, and they have all told me the same thing: you would be perfect for this job.

The place is called Piney Ridge, and it is, in the words of the woman who hired me: a locked facility designed to restructure the social behavior of juveniles who have been charged with a sexual offense. I know it sounds like we are brainwashing kids into the "proper" way of thinking, and the fact that all the residents are referred to as "patients" is a little irksome too, but rest assured the children there are not being tucked away out of view from society. Rather, society has been tucked away from them.

One of the things that solidifies my decision to accept this job is the fact it will carry a responsibility to others that outweighs what seems like my own monumental problems.

Which brings me to my next point. Last Sunday, I went out with some friends as usual. I drank a lot, as usual. But something very unusual happened. I fell, hit my head, and woke up in the hospital with four stitches holding a chunk of my scalp together.

I know what you're thinking. "Nice!"

That was my thought too, for a very brief moment. I don't remember the ride home. As I walked into the door, my sister had seen that I was hurt. She probably noticed in terror the purple wristband with some medical information printed on the outside. She probably saw my shirt collar, the blood diluted by rain. That feeling of "nice" dissipated very quickly. I suddenly realized how badly my head hurt. It had never occurred to me to look at my hands. They were stained in red. It must have looked like I'd just been shot.

Today, I'm completely without the concept of time as the chain of events unfolded that evening. At some point, my mother had come over. Soon after, my father was there. And there I sat on the couch in my living room, drunk, covered in blood, soaking up the streams of concern pouring from my family's mouths.

My sister was quiet. Her only offerings were brief defenses when my mother had made a generalization that was too broad. Mom, of course, was quick to develop a psychoanalysis of the past two years of my life. I wondered if in some sick way, she wanted to see me cry. I saw where her questions were leading, and she finally busted out the big one. The bazooka of inducing pity. So there, I wailed about my one lost love, how I'd done everything for her and fell short. I engaged in a stretch of self deprecating babble until my father stepped in. His angle, as it always, was logic. Fortunately, he knows that I am enough like him that I will respond to it. I felt much better once I realized that everyone was there for me. In a sick way, I lapped up the spotlight. Of course, I was still drunk, so I had to resist the urge to make jokes or entertain. We had all basically arrived to the fact that I had a drinking problem and that only a serious attitude adjustment could help.

As I said, I have no concept of time from that evening, but at some point the sun asserted itself as a cue to disperse and my intervention concluded.

After my father left, I sauntered into my mom's car and she took me to her house to get rest. The early morning light screwed into me like a bad smell. I felt slow. In fact, I pretty much sauntered everywhere for the rest of the day. The realness of my injury hadn't quite set in until I went to the bathroom, and almost fainted while standing over the toilet. My mother said it looked like I'd just seen a ghost. Later that day, I went into what my mom calls "the computer room" and saw the ghost she referred to. The computer room is actually a shrine to all things related to her children's past. Pictures of us as children were everywhere. I sunk back into an age of innocence. Even the screensaver on her computer put on a slideshow of when I was thin, healthy and in school.

"Where the hell did you go?" I asked myself.

So now, I'm coming back to the heart of it. I think there's a song that goes like that.