Steve Taylor wrote: "Thinking of making a DC trip in the next few weeksany better or worse times for you? I'm trying to remember the details of the nickelball-locked-outside day. I remember you were wearing sandals, but was there snow on the ground?
January is relatively lean pickings for me, so whatever tunes your guitar. I've got jury duty next Wednesday, the 7th, after getting a fine & jail threatening followup to the duty I skipped in December. This city has to bullywhip somebody I suppose. It might as well be the voters and jury duty evaders since they can't seem to stop the host of other criminal activities we of wrinkled doodads boast.
Still sniffling but managed to bail out of the house long enough to retrieve that 1986 Sylvan Theatre rockathon videotape I mentioned a while back that Darrell Willis had in his possession for the past two years or so down in Florida, as well as to stop in on Tim short enough to create merely a mild nuisance of myself. We came bearing gifts of coffee, sausage, feta, sweetbreads, corkscrew and wine. He retaliated with a nifty pipe.
Tried to buy one of the new IOMEGA 2 GB removable media drives, but nobody in the business is expecting any new shipments until March or April. Bummer.
Have thrown back another hundred pages or so of INFINITE JEST to about the halfway mark of the book. Hope to get some reading in tonight. Tired of the Macwhacky webfest for the moment. Marvel a fresh start manana. My old pal formerly of Philly, Kenny Sacks, surprised me on New Year's Eve with an E-mail. He's a recent AOL statistic. We're supposed to romp to a chat room on Sunday for some real chatter. Met Kenny through the Prodigy Baseball Manager game in 1994.
We almost were killed in that weird miraculous still can't believe we survived without a scratch driving event when wheeling back from a Richmond Braves game that September. We've taken in several Phils games at the Vet over several years. But he's been living in Seattle grunge for the past three and blew off our get together this year on his annual return for still undisclosed reasons. He's still in the mental health racket, complete with scant pay, loathsome human interface, hapless hours, and lethal environs. Seems for the past few years he's taken to "near-socialist" leanings in the workplace as shop steward et cetera . . .
You and me, bud, we've got it made. Snow or no snow.
"The basic question remains: Even if so many suspension bridges collapsed after undulating wildly, why did the Tacoma Narrows Bridge twist to its destruction under a relatively modest and steady wind?"Mario Salvadori, Matthys Levy: Why Buildings Fall Down
Reckonings from the pressure cooker. I thought Tesla had already figured that Tacoma Narrows Bridge event out quite nicely, but because I don't find that practical range of physics pertinent to my everyday life (I am a geodetic surveyor, not a theorectical mechanical engineer) I have forgotten his solution. Meanwhile, undersold kaleidescopic crossections of my tricked out overzealous expansionist mindset were beginning to suggest that this was going to be the best New Year's rabble dabble evah, particularly since I had always tended to shy away from highly structured point A to point B holiday revelries, preferring to fly off on my own tangential rituals induced from flipflopping feelings of noblesse oblige and tragic unworthiness that ranged from hitting the sack at 10 PM just as the significant other, pick a number, was gearing up to Dick's annual ball drop, to something else just as incriminatingly boring. Main thing was I wasn't paying skyrocket holiday prices for any of the usual run of the mill nonsense. This eve I was ready for something different, and hoped I finally had accrued enough raw material carefully socked away ready to pump the fire into this angelic trail we all badly needed. I was ready to talk hard, if that was what it took to encourage others to toe the bow line of this shipwrecked but fiercely crusading heave ho. Mutinies and pirates would be dealt with harshly and swiftly in this man's navy.
Strong influences early in life chalked my holiday blackboard with x's and y's of pent-up indifference and outright hostility, choking any enthusiasm I still try to work up today for family's sake or to repair my amply uprooted sense of belonging to something larger and grander than my own rather large if not so grand self I have subsequently grown accustomed to loathing if not outright fearing. My dad who never allowed any holiday frills to parch his own fricative lips when he had "work" to escape to drove the first few nails into my psychology, muttering in passionless tones that it was just another day, (and left unsaid was the unspoken but howling inference around the household, just another excuse to spend a dollar he would rather spend on booze for himself) to him. Later down that same pike, being married to a Jehovah's Witness for three years where every day not devoted to the burnt toast god by name sealed the lid on any traditional holiday joy I might soak up forever. I would create my own holiday whenever I damned well pleased, and ONLY then, was my unspoken motto, still only partially formed.
I appreciated my wife’s resolve to ask for the loan of the car, especially after I mocked her in front of Tim only two weeks ago, saying that she would appear in the most silly light by asking Skip a mere two weeks before New Year’s if his limosine was available.” Geez, wouldn’t it be already reserved?” I crackled. Now I was enjoying the taste of those words, an aquired taste, I admit, but fish eggs and failed prophecies again are not everyone’s cup of tea.
Cultural misanthropy came easy to me, as easy as scrambling for the leftover biscuit in a household of starving siblings with a mother who didn't have the decency to prepare exactly the equal share of morsels for six kids to help instill the rule that one size fit each and all, thereby saving the clan from the gnawing fear of losing out to a faster, greedier sibling quicker on the draw than they would ever be. I simply hated being part of the herd, ANY herd, despite what I suspected to be the ridiculousness of that concept (nobody's part of a herd unless he exerts his free will upon the other and extracts theirs, thus rendering the herd instinct among human beings, even among the dullest and the most obliging among us, nothing but a sniveling oxymoron). Even the most miserable of us resist being herded around like show dogs. From the greatest to the least of us, we cling to anything tangible or intangible that makes us feel we were created to be and thus remain an individual born to choose, to sin, to win, to lose, a unique seed with a peculiar place in history and therefore a destiny all our own. But tonight was fixed. It may have been just any other night, but Tim and Jennifer, and to a more augmented degree, even Sue, were all hip to the holiday harrangue I had been inspired to lay before them. As host I would join them, watch them, judge them. Indeed this was just any other night, but tonight we had arranged for a limosine drift of the city. We were creating our own private domain, a manageable yet wicked tour de force, manageable because I was in control, and grateful to Skip and Char Bafalis for the loan of the car, wicked because within the parameters of responsible glamour lost on deviate participants I had grand visions of a night that would finally put us all on the mythological map of great anecdote with a wealthy preservation of pictures to boot. This event was to be fool's proof, guaranteed fun I heard myself pitching as I plotted out the evening's logistics in my head from whence there was no return or sublimation, no room for confusion, chirade, or challenge. I appreciated my own wife's resolve to ask for the loan of the car, especially after I mocked her in front of Tim only two weeks ago, saying that she would appear in the most silly light by asking Skip a mere two weeks before New Year's if his limosine was available." Geez, wouldn't it be already reserved?" I crackled. Now I was enjoying the taste of those words, an aquired taste, I admit, but fish eggs and failed prophecies again are not everyone's cup of tea.
I was up early as usual. Tim had to saddle off to work once again. Sue was free but had a bundle of errands to run, food and booze and subtle delicacies to lay up in store for tonight. I had already copied out the buy lists. Sue added a few things and she was off. Jennifer hugged the pillows until after the morning bustle had ceased and finally joined me at the kitchen table around nine. After breaking the news that the deed had finally been done, that is to say, after she in her first words of the morning delivered a short and snappy report that Tim had finally shagged her, throwing in no details, no bubbling enthusiasm, no meaningful dirt at all, we immediately began to plot the expectant limosine protocol that would splendor us through the night.
My reaction to the news was as mundane as her own. A forceful smirky grin, maybe a thumbs up, and a quick return to whatever I was fondling at the time. This was her story, her side of it, or his once he was fully prepared to blow the news, but for now that was about it, barely a rumor's worth of worked up vis-a-vis. . .
Always flitting around in the service of others had worn me completely to a nub with no direction home until I had completely come unglued at the seams approaching more than a mild form of agoraphobia. I was fat, fateless, and embittered. These people really were not like me at all I had finally begun to realize, and boasted to myself that I bore a secret history to prove it.
I had already committed to paying the driver for eight hours at $25 per. That's a lot of driving but Jennifer and I both reiterated that we didn't want to plunge into the culpable crowds and pay outrageous covers or jacked-up bar prices, no, definitely not, regardless of how much boredom we could create on a night like this. Taking the lead I reconfirmed my urgency to finally drag butt to the famous Mormon Temple, the one and only pat certainty of the evening, well, besides the booze, the caviar, and the Tim Shipman bravado. The famous lighted structure of the Mormon Temple can be seen for miles on the northwest stretch of the Washington Beltway. For years I have wanted to visit the place but didn't know how to drive there, and obviously any ambition to get there was far outsripped by a general apathy to seek directions. But I had already given instructions to the driver that this stop was the only solid item in the logbook and the rest of the night would probably operate on whimsy, instructing him that he should make it his business to learn the route to this monument of religious fantasy prior to picking us up, which was scheduled for eight o'clock sharp in the alley.
"Well, what else?" asks Jennifer, "I definitely don't want to elbow in against a bunch of young posing amateur drunks, skip the bar scene completely, don't you think?"
I'd had thought about this long and hard, and was ready with a response, but I was still uncertain how to work the details to my advantage.
"Okay, I've thought about this," I chide. "And what I'd like to do," putting great emphasis and pause upon the personal pronoun I, as in what EYE'D like to do "is drive up to say, Adam's Morgan, espy a crowd of lovely bored-looking, not boring looking, just bored enough to consider an adventure, and not too chic, but chic enough to interest us types, preferably, no, definitely, oozing the smell of female, or okay, maybe even a boy girl couple, and then somebody dash out cameras snapping, confidence wagging, and walk straight up and invite them to join us." I'm on the jackway jones now. "We'll have loads of free food and drink, a limo, a professional driver, groovy tunes, savvy conversation, snapalong cameras, microphones, man, we'll be set. Whaddya think BAAAY be?"
"That sounds fab! Yeah, that'll work. Ooooweeee! That'll help open up the scenario where it's not like I'm defaulted to some doubledate with Tim." I heard these words, smiled again to myself, but nodded quixotically. I wanted to break out of the couples mold myself, but I knew I needed others to play a well-developed role in order to pull it off in real time. Could I do it? It sounded possible, even plausible. After all, between us, we had gotten Tim laid. There was no chance of rat's nest romance here. Time to move on to the more analytical jests and opportunities of sensual promise still headed our way, we thought.
"Well, Jennifer, you know that you, Sue, and even Tim will have to make the approaches. It's like this. We finger the prey, stop the car, and you, especially you since you'll be buffed with the lusty looks and the squid tongued powers of articulation, better to hop out and make the propositions. A few drinks into the game, Sue could definitely help the cause. She dresses up fine, but needs a few ounces in the blood to loosen her mind, and when the wind is blowing up her skirt even her tongue will loosen up on occasion. And Tim, well, he's still young enough, and can carry a confidence tune, but me? Me, I terrify the world. You'll have to be persuasive."
"Yeah, yeah, that's sounds good, but what about your friend Steve, is he completely out of the picture?"
No feedback at all killed any enthiusiam for Stevemania I had for New Year’s Eve. Hell, that last time he was here, he spilled two beers a mere half hour apart up in the computer room in his maniacal fevers to direct a conversation. He just plain forgot he was holding a beer can, and let go, simply flexed open his fingers and let go the first time, and the second time he sort of flung the can in his gusto for hand gesturing once again, and I know cos I was eyeballing him with manly eye, and saw both spills in that dramatic slow motion effect of a Wide World of Sports replay of a bass fisherman snagging a fighting three pounder inches above the water’s surface, caught forever in fotographic time, the fall, the splash, the recovery.
"As far as I'm concerned he is. I haven't talked to him since before Christmas, and my last E-mail severed some ties I'm still not rushing to heal quite yet. I think he's been in touch with Tim, but that's outside my jurisdiction. The fact is I'm still quite upset with Steve. He never follows through. Here I am trying to organize a rare highdollar event where logistics and protocol matter to the utmost and he can't even keep me clued on the few details from his own end. That last night he was here we had the greatest most compulsive time we'd ever put together, breaking a few sound barriers even, and we've had some wow wow times lemme tell ya, but towards the end of that same Sunday night he invited himself along for the limo by suggesting that he could postpone his first date with this chick he met in a bar named Della until New Year's Eve. Sue and I immediately chimed in, 'Cool!' You see, he'd already broken one tentative date scheduled the day before, but they wereapparentlyon again the following night, which was a Monday, but as usual Steve was a bit apprehensive about the uncertainty of and responsibility to a woman in general, especially the one on one, which however, I should acknowledge, he prefers to the two on two of couple-grooving where even among solid friends Steve would be skewered and sucked into the vacuum and deliriums of competitive jealousy whenever his girl might look across the table and kick a few words to Steve's best friend, or his best friend's girlfriend, thus removing her own rapt attentions from him in both the immediate, controllable, and let me get wacky, the metaphysical senses. It is very taxing for Steve to suffer through even the shortest withdrawals of total and absolute focus upon him. He knows these things. He'll give you the ten thousand word for word self-awareness oral essay on these and other Steve quotients at the drop, on the phone, or don't think not, on YOUR, NOT his deathbed, but that's Steve, that's his story, and he's sticking to it. I'm not making this up.
"So by the time he called on Wednesday, I was hot under the collar already by wondering what the hell, had Della agreed or what? I didn't talk to him, Sue did. Of course she didn't grill him for details from that damned absent-minded way she weathers, but he did report that they HAD been playing phone tag, and both admitted that they had forgotten what the other looked like, which comforted Steve. Monday was another no-show obviously, and here the opportunity to make a New Year's Eve date was rapidly evaporating. I mean what was Wednesday? Mmm...Christmas day, yeah that's right, I was shocked that Steve hadn't gone to his folks in Pennsylvania but had just lounged around all day in his apartment, and called us I dunno, around seven I guess that evening, just to check in he said, but damn, where were the fuckin' details? I mean I had suggested that Sunday night that even if she found the experience not exactly her shot of tequila, we would drive her anywhere, home, a bar, whatever, at any time. It was a great plan, especially since Steve thought of it originally, while I added the "bailing out" details. It wasn't like I was trying to manipulate his love life to suit my own twisted urgencies, but I certainly expected him to followup his own words, and I had a plan to protect from his usual chaos. She could have said no, or even been iffy, playing it by ear, that notorious Stevism that was beginning to make me wish Steve was yet another van Gogh instead of Yet Another Steve Taylor (YAST). No problem. That would have been reportable. No feedback at all killed any enthiusiam for Stevemania I had for New Year's Eve. Hell, that last time he was here, he spilled two beers a mere half hour apart up in the computer room in his maniacal fevers to direct a conversation. He just plain forgot he was holding a beer can, and let go, simply flexed open his fingers and let go the first time, and the second time he sort of flung the can in his gusto for hand gesturing once again, and I know cos I was eyeballing him with manly eye, and saw both spills in that dramatic slow motion effect of a Wide World of Sports replay of a bass fisherman snagging a fighting three pounder inches above the water's surface, caught forever in fotographic time, the fall, the splash, the recovery. Peter had come over that Sunday, oowweee. Too much enthusiasm grist for Steve. Final word. The social mix would be terrible with just you, me, Sue, Tim and Steve. No way am I "setting" myself up for that kind of misery..."
None of these queries ever left Steve's mouth. He was obviously being clued in by Tim, and since Tim had no money, there was no discussion of money. As for Jennifer, well, she was so accustomed to being treated as a special exemption, I wondered how she now fit Elaine into the Jerry's World a la Dollhouse, coy, friends, sex would ruin it, who's paying, uh, duh, and a bottle of rum. Tim had heard the definitive outline since I quoted it to him from the original letter I wrote to Jennifer where it was just the three of us, Sue, Jennifer, me, and maybe, only maybe a few case-sensitive invitees who knew and were willing to embrace the rules.
Speedy but settling was this bruising septic outpouring of grief. Steve had previously told me that Della in that first meeting had already hinted about the Eve, mentioning some downtown bar from which he REALLY REALLY REALLY didn't feel like blowing the night away with her or anybody else for that matter. Hence, his suggestion to waltz into the limo ride. Wonderful news at first glance. We wanted him to be there, but according to basic mathematical and sociological principles as we knew them from rote experience and insider information as Dollhouse irregulars. Recalling the limosine idea sprang from a note on discipline and protocol, I knew that Tim, and even to a greater degree, Steve, would be unlikely to dance the Gabriel dance unless there were motivating factors. Tim and Steve together alone was anathema unless a sixth party, a third female, perhaps Della, was there to even out the rough edges and provide new blood for Gabriel the Better, as opposed to Gabriel the Worse. Steve would obviously present a more controlled demeanor, if he was with blind date, as would we all. Otherwise the focus would jerk solely upon the three freeloading stooges while Sue and I would suddenly have no authority or purpose at all except as disgruntled chaperones forced to eat yet another night as the expense of showing others a good time. Had we already arrived at the sugarloaf stage with our crowd, where we are merely contented to sit among the young and beautiful, self-absorbed stock-in-trade of what used to be called friendship? I wasn't about to accept this signal or that role, now or ever. If we weren't equals or mentors of a decaying sort, why bother? True, we were laying out the cash. No biggie since this was our personal call, but everybody down the line must pay a price because there just aren't any free rides, or in Sue's packed words, no free lunches, on this train to noexitville, doll or no doll. The tollbridge troll is always lurking, with pith helmet and obligations for any who forget the code, so I was already primed and chewing with wide toothy chomps the controlfreak linear spew, having recently swooned with an epiphany on control mechanism psychology, its language, its nominalism, and now resting comfortably within my own defensive arsenals was the phrase, "Those who would decry me as a controlfreak in my own house, on MY time, on MY money, are surely the controlfreaks as they try to wrestle from me my own natural prerogatives, gaining control for themselves, and thus I no longer fear these petty sort of labelers. Especially since all I have done these years it seems is give, give, give in the name of friendship..." But now I was inventing my own role, instead of having it handed to me by the wooing or the shushing crowds still painting by numbers, inventing my own role responsible for making myth worth peeling back the layers to examine beyond the screams of the moment and also responsible for retaining what little dignity it seems had all but evaporated on the heels of a steady decade of young ursurpers spinning their callous or saccharine rubric into Sue's and my own bent-over-backwards-lives. The car was a loaner, not a rental. This called for deliberate action and full capacity. No blackout Gabriel tonight, no kamikaze, autopilot mode where my own destruction and chaos is a psychological mirror to the shame and horrors of the world I would despise if I didn't envy it as richly deserving my own steer through stupidity as it has steered itself into my own nest of innocent doves.
So far I had not blacked out even once since Jennifer's arrival. Just goes to show how raging boredom affects the brain on alcohol while even a single focussed purpose in life is regeneration and prioritizing. These past few nights of drinking, laughing and petite as opposed to grand picturemaking may have been a thousandfold more boring than I would have liked them to be, but in all this boredom I had a purpose. I was making a list, and I was checking it twice. I was gonna find out who was naughty and...
Life had become so peeving petty with drugs and drinking and bars and clique zones, and political correctness, and overworked rants and pop shop psychologies, and posing and dozing and uptight brownnosing I often wanted to drown myself in an ocean of my own making, some unnameable salty sea of crybaby tears, where art lost, language unravelled, bogus bonehead friendships fizzled, while these questions buried deep inside since my own young and beautiful past, my own twenty-something years spent in steady intellectual pilgrimage in loner status now freezing my soul and squeezing blue my balls forcing me to paraphrase the poet once again, ain’t there nobody here that knows where I’m at, ain’t there nobody here that knows what I’m feelin’?
Yes I knew Steve would presume automatically to be aboard. After all, he was a charter member of the Dollhouse weekend wax poetica. Why would he suddenly not be included on this most feverish weekend of the year? I had not asked him outright yet, because I was waiting to hear his payoff approach for information. Enquiring minds still want to know. I wanted to hear the exact language from which he might enquire of the tour, who was going, what it was costing, and so on. . . None of these queries ever left Steve's mouth. He was obviously being clued in by Tim, and since Tim had no money, there was no discussion of money. As for Jennifer, well, she was so accustomed to being treated as a special exemption, I wondered how she now fit Elaine into the Jerry's World a la Dollhouse, coy, friends, sex would ruin it, who's paying, uh, duh, and a bottle of rum. Tim had heard the definitive outline since I quoted it to him from the original letter I wrote to Jennifer where it was just the three of us, Sue, Jennifer, me, and maybe, only maybe a few case-sensitive invitees who knew and were willing to embrace the rules. But Tim had done the same, days, or was it weeks earlier, had just presumed he was invited and began making his own preparations. Not that the presumption was unprecendented or even unwarranted, but this was not like any other night, and I wanted Tim to know that right up front. My language in describing every detail had been vigorously concocted as I waited for presumption to kick in from around the camelot crew of the Dollhouse feverish. We weren't dolling around in the Great Black Cherry Pickup of Yesteryear, nor were we piling into the notorious van, the "Jesus Chrysler Drove a Dodge" caravan on this particular night. Words of drunken spillage could squirt around, embarrass Sue, and actually even destroy her career at Alcalde Fay. If rules were to be broken they were going to be broken with the word of the ONE in control. I was trumpeting this mantle in protection of my wife's best interests, deviant as they may be in some areas, both mine and hers, but as the day is hardwired to the night, I just happen to know and respect these fuzzy limits, and while there have been many pretenders to this throne, none can wield the excalibur of prostration as pertains to Sue like Gabriel. At least in some jones world of interpretive onanism I have the joblessness to prove something if not devotion is the root of our marriage. Fidelity to each other is not a sex thing. It's a money thing.
But nothing was said, nothing needed to be said about Steve coming with us after he tossed in the spectacular allure of youngblood, strange, I mean strange, strictly feminine, a surplus, a fleshly matrix balancing coup, sparking immediate agreement on our part. Steve was aboard as along as he followed through by securing Della. But Della was just a memory by now, and Steve had been disinvited for not respecting the psychogeographical task of evening out the gender mix, even though this might have pushed Jennifer into more of a position of feeling that she was doubledating with Tim, I still was not persuaded by her squaring of matters. She could certainly elbow to my side of the court if she wanted, but I was taking great care not to assert myself on purely personal grounds at this point in the game. Why encourage Steve to foil Tim? Why deface myself further with Tim's surely forthcoming grandstand now that he'd actually consummated his Jennifer romance, as Steve would no doubt compete for her attention, thus definitively charging me with the same obligation? I was sacrificing my own desparate urges in order to clarify what had been clouded for so long and could only think of Jennifer's legal husband Dez as she plotted her own sexual freedom, while inferring that I was still locked into a cage in which she seemed to think only she held the key to use at her own whimsy as evidenced by our own numerous past dalliances since my wedding to Sue. But no matter, a sacrifice is a worthy sacrifice after all, only if it is a secret mission, and there is nothing but freedom to gain. In my case, I would either gain enough filthy lucre in the form of sexual and fotographic impulse to satisfy all the variables in the equation I had hypothesized, or else I would finally explode into the freedom lost in this screwy-eyed tyranny friendship had placed into my path. Always flitting around in the service of others had worn me completely to a nub with no direction home until I had completely come unglued at the seams approaching more than a mild form of agoraphobia. I was fat, fateless, and embittered. These people really were not like me at all I had finally begun to realize, and boasted to myself that I had a secret history to prove it. This weekend would either change my mind or finally, conclusively, confirm what I needed in sandblasted form in order to divest of these half-measure friends and scaliwags who despite their own best intentions can only manipulate me for their own passing fancies, themes of the season, scores of the moment, but for all the blather cannot share or participate in my own well-documented long-buried ambitions that have little or nothing to do with any of that they love to apotheosize as the very marrow of the dead man's curve. Life had become so peeving petty with drugs and drinking and bars and clique zones, and political correctness, and overworked rants and pop shop psychologies, and posing and dozing and uptight brownnosing I often wanted to drown myself in an ocean of my own making, some unnameable salty sea of crybaby tears, where art lost, language unravelled, bogus bonehead friendships fizzled, while these questions buried deep inside since my own young and beautiful past, my own twenty-something years spent in steady intellectual pilgrimage in loner status now freezing my soul and sweating my balls forcing me to paraphrase the poet once again, ain't there nobody here that knows where I'm at, ain't there nobody here that knows what I'm feelin'?
We were four tonight plus any fresh ingrediants we could toss on the salad but I was not running a circus, not tonight, not with Skip's car, not with Rick Alclade's driver, and not with my own refractory future on the line. No odd boys for Jennifer to make a mess of Tim and me both. The other rules would more easily no doubt fall into place. Sexual friskiness? Always a Gabriel theme, therefore a breeze of willingness to risk all reputation. Allowed. Drinking and eating with gusto. Is there any other life now that I am beyond returning to the manic stoicism of my own 20s? Allowed. Freedom of speech with consequences. There is no other speech. Allowed. Photographic evidence? If you can't show me a picture or lines on a page, it didn't happen. Allowed.
I am forwarding these two recent notes I sent to Steve (who has been remarkably steady in recent days after months of little to say), only because since I've been so busy and completely absorbed by Bracken's project my own e-mail generation had dropped to almost nothing. I didn't want you to think I had blown you off or anything as vulgar or self-preserving like that. Quite the contrary. I've been feeling guilty and depressed that you've written interestingly on several topics that I failed to engage because of my current workload, while simultaneously neglecting my own hefty writing project describing those sordid details of the changing of the guard here at the Dollhouse.
Steve meanwhile weighed in with his interest in hearing more about the book project. You did not, but hey, you certainly caused a stir at the Situationist camp a few weeks back that I thought you might still appreciate a few details while they were still warm in the oven.
After a month of working diligently for someone else I had a few general Mac housekeeping chores to manage, a major crash to weather, and I am now on my eighth day of flu sickness without antibiotic calvary persuading me that the end of this misery is yet in sight. So I face the hiss and boos of the faceless crowd as I admit that still the first line of the "Great Storm" ending 1996 has yet to find its way to page, although this Sunday, Groundhog's Day will mark the first month's anniversary of Tim and Jennifer's exile from the Dollhouse fevers.
Speaking of anniversaries, what day exactly do you turn 31 in all your sass and bosomly anthem? Have you managed to seduce a frozen Swede onto your corporate tab? Would you tell me if you did? I dropped my soap. You wouldn't be pulling a Jack, now would you Landry, all bathed in secret lights and bold rationalizations while flogging community standards with one hand tied behind your back and the other on a stack of sci-fi novels, with nothing but your feet and your mouth to accomplish the dirty deeds, now would you Landry?
Of course I jest with you, but you know as well as I do that in the eye of the hurricane, few details are lost in the saddle. It's out there on the swirl that conflict states its name and bends the rules to suit its own game. Wishing you a swell Minnesota memory. Nothing lasts forever, not even a Green Bay Packers grin....
Bracken just spilled outa here. Using MacLink Plus to convert his DOS MS Works pages into Mac MS Word docs. We added an extra step taking his Works to Word 2.0 DOS, but we've been losing quite a bit of formatting, and Len isn't looking forward to handsetting it again. By staying in Works, we are hoping the trip straight to Mac Word 5.0a will take hours off our stress times and put smiles in all the right places.
Hey Landry, just a short one to tide me by. Hope your spirits are just where you want them. I'm afraid my friends are beating me up again with their shit for sherlock behaviors. Tim's hanging on by a thread. I asked Steve to stay away. Jennifer will be arriving Saturday for a romp until January 3rd. I wonder how much of her delightful self I will be able to gratify without cracking under the strain of the "oh so coy" gone beserk! Thanks for the card, and merry mucking to all concerned. Hey, I've got Jack's autograph stashed somewhere in a stack of cards. Why would you need it?
I loathe bitterness in any creature, but why do these [punk] actors continue to abuse my natural good humors? What am I doing about it? I guess I'm trying to shake free with an abrupt refusal to step into their fly splat worlds anymore. I gain nothing but aggravation working either side of the equation as I have been known to do, neatest of the neat, noisiest of the noisy. But day after day, year after year, I am forced to choose between an "in my face boredom" and the "sheer terror of the bingeing without consequences".
But the consequences DO EXIST, and even now the Tattooed Elephant is buckling under the weight of these riotous friendships with little or no solid justification, just the dead weight of momentary blather sticking to our ribs. I'm sick of it all, exhaustion confirmed, and them who have or will continue to pursue it...
(and the buzzard winks trying to get a piece of her. She's enjoying the attention, but she's not as easy a target as they might beg to think, and will make them work for every inch.)
We are supposed to be taking a limo out for New Year's Eve, courtesy of Skip Bafalis, a partner at Sue's firm. Two potential complications: no driver has been found, and Skip the owner was rushed to the hospital Christmas Eve, spent the whole next day having exploratory tests run to no conclusive end. He was released sometime yesterday. Still no solid lead on a driver, but bangedup Sue has a maybe or two up her sleeve.
Steve was originally invited, well, he sorta presumed he was invited by default, but last weekend he brought much chaos to this house, and has perpetuated it by further examples of his mute reckonings. Say anything, do nothing. A mile a minute flows off his tongue, uh, followup, what's that?
But neither Sue or I are in our middle to late 20s, or even 30s. Get a grip people, get a gashwhipping grip upon yourselves, and know that you are talking to someone who knows what it is all about. This is a private home and studio apparently shy of staff beyond the principles. Keep the puns in the pants. I can't care anymore. There is no other interpretation.
Tim has been cashing in on street crack, bringing crack dealers and cracked friends to the D-house. A fucking idiot, pimping that shit here after I had made it clearly an uncool deal! The handwriting's in the till that I will probably smack him with the pink slip by early spring if not sooner. He doesn't want to leave, and he doesn't want to lose his lifestyle. I can't blame him, but nobody can plug Tim's life better than himself. And you know me, "I'm a very possessive asshole. I'm trying to bring order to this mess I call my life of peers and all I get from this friendship ring is a future filled with agitation, no no no no peace essence at all."
I am scheduled for a battery of five or six tests in the new year, including brainwave and brain physiogomy scans. Full blood work. Doctor seems to think my problems are neurological in nature, neck and nerve pinchings rather than a brain tumor, but I'm testing the whole noodle kaboodle to rule out the latter. Brain cancer is dropping folk in high numbers in the late 90s it seems. I may or may not be one of them. Most relative I suppose is mother's younger sister Kitty, who died in February at 52 of said vermin.
So all in all, things are rather normal with the Dollhouse ground zero gang. Abused by friendship, alienated from most of the family where it really counts, I only find comfort, despite our plethora of well-inventoried flaws, in my baby baby baby sue...
Lynn, why do I despise the noise when so many seem to embrace it? The problem is not the noise and chaos itself. That I handle quite well in dosages I administer to myself with the greatest of ease. Achievements GT are legendary. But I know I can no longer riot as persistently as this class of 1996, and I want out. Of course Sue loves Tim, Tom, Steve, Jack, Mouse and whomever no less than I, and she DOES LOVE rent day, but something has got to give, me or the outside world. And she said three times denied, three wishes granted. I mean, what is the meaning of meaning if we scat in our own master's house, and act like, uh, catch ya next time, anywaze?
Many times I have asked folk to arrive on a date and at a time I specify. Many are the times when playing it by ear is the only game friends will play. Well, I've rolled that carpet over. I've had my fill with self-gonads at the expense of my own overwhelming desires that I continue to put aside in order to entertain yet another stiff torture at the wiles of the wolfpack.
That’s the way it is among all of us, bound by handshake uselessness & special moting, too offcentered to get much more done than self obliteration one adult beverage after another, word gaming for prizes void in several states, and ogling sessions that defy a national screening; we, the slurfish leisurely class, spamming the spectacle dot dot dot.
I played the idiot punk quite fantastically. That role is a part of me, now. The world will not soon forget that part of me, but geez Louise, this ain't a bar, or a hotel anymore, although I'm not exactly sure when we were penciled in for those tours of duty, it is certainly a reality checkpoint. But neither Sue or I are in our middle to late 20s, or even 30s. Get a grip people, get a gashwhipping grip upon yourselves, and know that you are talking to someone who knows what it is all about. This is a private home and studio apparently shy of staff beyond the principles. Keep the puns in the pants. I can't care anymore. There is no other interpretation.
Do I sound mad as a Mississippi monk on morphine? dear pets? After all these words of banishment I now contemplate staying home in exile even should limosine wax available, wave as the gag orders go their own chauffered way, as I stay back to protect my dwindling investments and bruised heels, aching heads and breaking shoulders, keeping my own puns to the grindstone...yuck what a miser of energy, spirit, and tailwind. But conservative reckoning is a day I must endure, and will embrace as a grand homecoming, despite all the kidz who would steal my middle age thunders kicking me in the shins when it's my pain they can't stifle.
Bottom line: I am tired of being treated as if I were both deaf and mute as my memory reviles and reputes the waste of conversation which never engages real meaning for longer than any particular drunk and hangover harry. At least when I remake the bed in the morning I know I feel better for it, and meaning is multiplied into dividends. No so with a three day drunk where nothing is everything and reality quotients are deemed counterfeit in a fuzzy display of carelessness and forgot me knots...
Bitter blizzard of sins my own carelessness purchased on credit and oops, a ditch. The barge of Bob's party proved that friendship resolutions are best kept at room temperature. Tilting ambition quotas task me as I crumple, long too busy with luck sucking. Periphery bucks buckling. File jitters fluttering. Poor judgement furniture. Pass or fail remarks. D-house or bust. Ain't got the holy chimes to tell everybody everything I know about them, and ain't got the battle bones to listen to all their own rants and riddles about it. Too tight. Too loose. That’s the way it is among all of us, bound by handshake uselessness & special moting, too offcentered to get much more done than self obliteration one adult beverage after another, word gaming for prizes void in several states, and ogling sessions that defy a national screening; we, the slurfish leisurely class, spamming the spectacle dot dot dot.
Sick and tired of the never-yielding pap. Oh I love my spanking fresh weekdays. Short? You betcha, but my sanctuary for creative work that makes sense to me as I lay in store against the coming weekend of friendship madness.
Bracken just spilled outa here. Using MacLink Plus to convert his DOS MS Works pages into Mac MS Word docs. We added an extra step taking his Works to Word 2.0 DOS, but we've been losing quite a bit of formatting, and Len isn't looking forward to handsetting it again. By staying in Works, we are hoping the trip straight to Mac Word 5.0a will take hours off our stress times and put smiles in all the right places.
I'll keep you all jigged on the fleet fool nostril. Which reminds me of then and now. What do you call a fool in the mirror? A loof...
Anecdotes on the grill, hip-hugging and pressure cooked people sprawled about the deck with all sorts of psychoses just a spoon feed away. All told, it seems everyone left with a pleasant evening under their belts after chortling on cheese dip, assorted dishes and the chow din of new acquaintences.
Bob and Peter had never met. Michelle was new goth bird. Allie announced she was moving in with Bob, saving $800 a month, helpful since she too is leaving Columbia Research for greener pastures, that is to say, her hunt for that illusive green card, saying that CR has a long record of hiring aliens but dropping the ball on green card sponsorship.
The gathering began late, which of course threw off my own psychological equilibrium for most of the early part of the day since I had hoped for an early start, early end, but things softened and turned to a generalized sense of fun once Peter and Michelle arrived sometime shortly after 1730hrs.
The afternoon heat chilled rather quickly, finally underpinning the autumnal ambience to the other seasonal changes visible in the sheets of orange-brown leaves blanketing the backyard matched by the brilliant, cascading angles of the fading sun.
Peter got a call this morning suggesting he’s still in queue for a job interview at, I think, one of the places he’s interned. That’s timely, since we mildly roasted Peter the last hour of last night’s gathering focussing on his need to find a job because neither he nor we are rolling in web business yet, and in order to really be worth his ambition in GSIS stock, he needs to improve his own skills and speed with practice, not on my time and dollar, but on his own.
Bob was cheerful all night long. He and Peter gloried in their common interest in comic books and Japanese animation. Allie unloaded her greencard woes in her horrible English tongue which is less a mumble than a slippery slur of half-formed syllables. But she too was cheery, even as the night pushed late into the mind, curled into her chair, snuggled into sweatshirt sleeves intent on listening to the banter of the boys. Michelle didn't talk much, not that she's shy or inarticulate, but with a full deck of notorious chatterers on board, she politely played it safe. She's a psychology major at Purdue, and was markedly endearing as she also curled in her chair, tilting her head in such a way as to communicate an adoration for Peter whenever he took to the common soapbox.
But she's no mere fawn. Peter had burned some bacon earlier that afternoon, and when Sue suggested the microwave was a saner choice for the chore, Peter of course started in with his own variation of Shipwreck rationale.
Michelle surnamed Carnes as in Kim no relation, immediately backed Sue as Peter mumbled off into that land of geez, can't I ever be right about something, even when pushing the I'm wrong about nothing spin cycle. Maybe not. Perhaps I'm being ever slightly unfair for the sake of a short line of bull. Admittedly, I wasn't there in the kitchen, although at one point I nearly bolted from my chair to race upstairs as my complaint-driven pathos peeled back the stench of newly formed carbon gathering in my ever sensitive nostrils, but Sue witnessed to me later, and I have no problem imagining that when she said he started explaining something about hot grease and the natural water in the bacon combining to blacken it, he was pulling a big time, uh, well you know what I mean. This a been a banner weekend. Had a swell time on the bay feasting with the three Spence dolls plus Pitch. I'm sure this topic has come up before but I forget your opinion on crabs. I would imagine Philly to be a great place for the critters, even while somewhat overshadowed by the world famous Philadelphia cheesesteak culture.
Peter got a call this morning suggesting he’s still in queue for a job interview at, I think, one of the places he’s interned. That’s timely, since we mildly roasted Peter the last hour of last night’s gathering focussing on his need to find a job because neither he nor we are rolling in web business yet...
Shorthand Kenny Sacks, sports fan primo, now in Seattle... I just timed out to ring him, but got the machine, formerly of Philly, still raves about how much he misses the Philly steak of his youth. His mom once had promised to ship him a crate of the whole steak-n-cheese enchilada, bread, meat, cheese from a local distributor just to ease his homesickness and taste bud deprivation after he moved out there a couple, well, maybe three years ago now. Don't know if that panned out, but it was a nice motherly gesture.
His mom is a dear, a small hairspray-blonde Jewish cabana queen who looks and talks like she just stepped out of a Seinfeld episode. She kept trying to feed us sweets from the fridge. One year our colleague in the online fantasy baseball league wimped out in getting our Phillies tickets. She bailed us out with her influence, calling the front office, seating us in the best seats we'd ever had over the four games Sue and I had shared with the Nuthouse Gang, right near home plate just a few rows up and a few seats down the first base line behind the net.
Peter and Michelle are gone for the day. They'll sup at his parent's house tonight, and she'll fly back to Indiana tomorrow afternoon. Peter got a call this morning suggesting he's still in queue for a job interview at, I think, one of the places he's interned. That's timely, since we mildly roasted Peter the last hour of last night's gathering focussing on his need to find a job because neither he nor we are rolling in web business yet, and in order to really be worth his ambition in GSIS stock, he needs to improve his own skills and speed with practice, not on my time and dollar, but on his own.
No feelings were unduly trampled, and I feel the exchange was blithely enlightening, as he admitted that he has often been chastised for a lack of speed and creativity in his work, and is hoping to improve on these fronts in time. I'm committed to helping him where and when I can, but he must certainly begin to pull his weight in some area, and for now that appears to be simply paying the agreed upon rent, and then working to improve his skills in areas that we both can exploit so that he indeed can become a healthy factor in the growth potential of Graphic Solutions Ink Systems and CYFII, his own company. In other words, we're each still operating in good faith.
Seems Chris got demoted in his very first week from the very same job Tim was similarly booted. Among the crew who drew blanks, a mysterious series of dominoes is toppling. Appears Chris also did not get all liquored up to spill his guts to Tim. It was simply a matter of Tim calling Chris to find out why all this recent tardiness which resulted in yet another corporate fizzle for aspiring dispatchers, and the conversation drifted, as Tim put it. Mmmmm...
Quite interesting. Two spectres come immediately to mind. Primarily one wonders why Chris would even purpose (see previous note) to repeat something he has heard and found of enough vulgarity to warrant the obligatory higher moral stance of withdrawal and subsequent pooh poohing of the GT method of crashing the gates of linguistic good taste. After all, if a thought is vulgar to the original hearer's ears should it not stand to reason that the passing of this vulgarity to others only compounds the alleged crime, while the smoking glove now changes hands? The fact that Gabriel's words nearly ten days later warranted repeating in the course of gentle chat, even without the self-protecting salve of alcohol, infers something about the nature of the words or thoughts themselves. This was no mere passing slur uttered by some social incompetent. Some insight has been proffered, some interest tweaked...
The second spectre is this: why has Chris suddenly been remiss in showing for work according to plan and enthusiasm he exibited that weekend prior to his first day on the new job. Perhaps he has been preoccupied with some evil sexual or political, bathykolpian or anopisthographic thoughts put into his writerly head by a stranger...
Frankly, as details are very sketchy at best, this mystery only deepens when one considers what Tim reported Chris said to him sometime last weekend. I was completely baffled, and Tim acted like he didn't have a handle on the dibs yet himself when Chris was lobbying in these words, "Let's do again what we did last weekend."
When I wondered aloud what that could possibly mean in the context of Chris Baylocker finding his first day at the Dollhouse quite repugnant, Tim echoed the same. Of course, all I could do at that point was roll my eyes and sigh, Tim being notorious for dripping details one at a time over a matter of hours, days, weeks, yet all the time claiming complete ignorance as to what he knows or doesn't know. This whole stagnant mystery gig has the bathykolpia of a skunk and the stripes of a gorilla. Nothing makes any sense. Damn, man, I actually LIKED this couple of would-be friends of Tim's, but this coy crap really reeks...Must be drugs involved. Makes certain folks behave mysteriously at large. Give me beer. Flush the rest. Mark my words. Drugs...
YAST passing up good beer and illustrative dress rehearsal to all things considered means I'm three cards shy of a full smashguard! My Lord, what's happening here? I queried Tim about dining full flush, and his standard "oh I don't know, guess we'll have to see how things and money blah blah" was the very next thing I remember hearing. I wasn't sure if the spacecraft from which I'd just been beamed back had interrupted my normal continuum, so it's tough to say if Tim prefaced his remarks with any noticeable interest in the meal deal of the week, or not. Since you've written yourself out of the Blumwreck beerfloat already, does this also mean Little Ethiopia won't see us darken their doors either? Sarcasm is the best of weapons with Blum since he often prefers to be licked to liked. Flames or female impersonators. Take your pick. The proof is in the pud. Ding! My popcorn is ready, so I'm off I to see the wise aardvark of Anacostia with a cache of dirty limericks a bunch of us wrote back in the pearly years as a last gasp Prodigy hunch. Back pack fresh. Catch you guys on the fly. By night. Fall is almost here. Yeah! Birthdays. Anniversaries. Death warrants.
What's this about dark skinned maidens of high quality serving finger food and honey wine. I haven't had Ethiopean food in ages (nor has a number of actual Ethiopean residents. Suddenly I find myself wrapped up in the plot to reserect Adid, thou he may be less worm eaten than we suppose! What with a simple case of beer can be suddenly construed as a tub of Tej. I guess this Labor Day remains unplanned as usual. BLUM
Bob, why did you send the above penile implant as an attachment? I had to dig thru a half dozen folders plus launch MS Word just to read it. We have plans to eat Ethiopia back into Sam Kennison's joke graveyard this weekend. No solid plans have been made, just the idea to do it, but I can tell you right now I am not going to eat raw hamburger. That's Sue's (a STOO?) delight, not mine. You are certainly welcome to join us, but at this writing neither place nor time has been established. I'm leaning toward Fasika's myself, although I certainly have no qualms about the Red Sea. I'd just as soon avoid Georgetown if that's okay with you two ex-Georgians. Uh, wowser! that makes four ex-Georgians and Tim a gonzaga...
And Madam's Organ sounds okay. Might run into Styx. Need to return her stuff since she's reluctant to make the trip to Cap Hill from Church Street for swappers. Will tote her baggie full of underwear and condoms just in case we do. I suggest Friday night bullseye since I am kind of anxious to get out of the house, the earlier the better. Any pert rebuttals? My Labor Day Plans, are, oh gawd, not another holiday!
Date: Tue Sep 3, 1996 11:55:53 AM America/New_York
Bob, it's an emergency. I tried this weekend to mail you a "cc" along with five others. Your name was fourth in the "cc" list. After trying three times to post the note only to jam at your name with hard enough error to trigger the message box that your specific mailing address was problematic, I wiped you off that posting, and must try again. This is a trial nicker.
"We're all guinea pigs!" chortled the sandpicker.
Arguments 4 Sisters in-shacks-and-shod, left on the curb outside SMASH!Records sucking from a cup of joe forced to listen to some point blankers strumming in the alley, making more foreign noise than certain neighbors I know like to allow? I hear Tom's voice now. I don't see him. The bluescreen strikers have probably circled the wagons around their fearless leader, and allowed Tom to slip through them on his way to hitch a ride with Croyden back to The Thin Whistle where, yep, everybody knows his name, and a few will buy him drinks. Your bottom dollar, Tom Howell knows the ropes in those venues where secret handshakes are not something...
Sorry I fell out early Sunday night. I was beat, and had tried to arrange an even earlier bed for myself, but hoardes unfortunately in some cases create their own dancecards. We gone out to Madam's Organ the night before, left dynamited, came home to more. Can't sleep forever, even in hangover mode, so I was up, and was ready to go down again around eight. Steve wore me slap out with his buzzfly antics that afternoon as I was trying to learn a next level of webmaster skills.
"Hope you bag the cracker," each Cardinal taking the field tossed under his breath.
I wore him slap out in a letter I sent yonderways over the globe with too much spin so to knock a hole in your POP sockets, I'd guess. We'll shrink back just a quarter beat, the Steveskier & I. Two weeks is usually the bag limit for fragilities, but left field is always kept open by STOO for short term sorrows. Mixed metaphors are an extreme method for exciting and immediately exploiting the synapses of any number of slave subjects. Driver habits will cause mileage to vary. But all this is to be expected. In these Dollhouse Crime Committee Reports he's not any different than any other j-birds jonesing into the DH jawingroom, simply yet another. Lemme tell you whattaburger Bob, I know you put a lot of time and effort into your friendship arks. I manage only by default person to person, bellicose ripwriting & jawpicking, and a better balance of barnyard jawboning, all natural litter-strewn ruts scraped into stone, granite, interjected the Navy adjunct who had been Pop's best friend for all this tiny fact mattered during that limited trust, sunken subliminal pathways I still haunt in my eye to eye contacts. An anonymous pirate's reward often short a pisspot, why am I so greedy for my own writing pad privacy, and if not that, then my own command launcher? None of this mushy chaotic middle ground democrapic stuff-of-testosterones which is nothing but insult to the (uh, working needs of my people...?) exclamatory largesse, and should never affect my orders to execute all the specific declassé inertia I survey. Call that runaway liberalism to the mat in asking why is it I am such a prick without a price on my head? Am I batter-suited as the do then talker or the talk then doer, and how to I get to know the difference between the lion and the lamb? The beginning or the end? I am both reported the Jew who was to diasporas as I am to diapers. What does that make ME I ask him. Brothers-in-arms-and-legs-only? Arguments 4 Sisters in-shacks-and-shod, left on the curb outside SMASH!Records sucking from a cup of joe forced to listen to some point blankers strumming in the alley, making more foreign noise than certain neighbors I know like to allow? I hear Tom's voice now. I don't see him. The bluescreen strikers have probably circled the wagons around their fearless leader, and allowed Tom to slip through them on his way to hitch a ride with Croyden back to The Thin Whistle where, yep, everybody knows his name, and a few will buy him drinks. Your bottom dollar, Tom Howell knows the ropes in those venues where secret handshakes are not something...
Well, had enough here. Gotta go sow some mo' iMote somewar elts...
"When in doubt, start a commune, not a bomb hoax" whispered Salome with four thumbs on my knot. Then some piker leaned over, checking out her cleavage as indifferently as he could manage with the eyes he had, to grab the mike away from her, and plunge a marginal apology sharply into her neck of the woods. "That's bogus." she said afterwards.
As we both once thought true, Landry, Master Jack was the hoofer the the rest of our whole stinking gang suspected was going to fly higher than the laws of normalcy would usually allow, but somehow it always broke down with him. It wasn't me. I had signs to follow, my undoing I suppose. Concerning Jack's failure to rise above, I don't know why specifically, although a major contributing factor in my mind is that crack habit he's got. A consistant need to pound drugs is obviously bad news for most gonzos. And like most gonzos Jack feels immune to these special dangers, and always feels like he can rise above any problems just in the nick of time. But time is merciless, and all I'm saying is I hope Jack steers clear of most of that garbage out there in his new start. Yes, we had a little run in about that rabbit worm (and monkey) of his. He hasn't done it very often and I blew up so bad the last time to the point where he was obviously ashamed. If it happens again, I doubt I will give him a second chance. I just think it is throwing your money away in addition to being a waste of time. I'm at a stage in my life where I just don't want to deal with that crap no how any which way, zero tolerance, no more turning the cheek in allowing lurkers to run roughshod.
B Suzy and I are hopping the Amtrak up New York City this weekend to make the rounds with an old friend, Jennifer. Jack knows her at a distance. Up close, who knows anyone? We are each mere fractals of our true self.
Working on her doctorate in social anthropologyshe just got notice of acceptance to Cornellso she will be moving to Ithaca in upper state within a few weeks. The past two years at the New School have left at the freezeline of parental support, but this Cornell package carries with it an $8K annual stipend, so she's set for pocket flash, but observes the town of Ithaca as an eerie hovel, full of strange hippy looking people, no strip malls, no 7-11s, nothing but a few docile streets, a couple of schools, and hills to kill for if one happened to be a skate punk. She's not, however, and without a car, is already sweating the cold icy strides up and down those inclines, fretting she'll hate it, if she survives it.
Such are the crass ironies of a well-circulated life, eh Landry? Hope all this psychodrip suits you. It’s what I do when I write, and when I am alone wrestling with my thoughts, or wife. My style often takes the form of a complaint. But in all honesty, I just want a live that suits me, just like everybody else. Unfortunately…
Jennifer is still rather gothic in appearance and outlook, can't squelch the hipsterific riot grrrl stirring inside her, although she's embraced an academic mindset, is quite the scholar, dean's list et al, and seething to escape the stranglehold of her past. This weekend should be fantastic now that the heat wave in which we suffered 95-100 degree weather for three days straight has pissed off and new highs in the low 70s are expected. Her lower Lex Ave walk-up of course is slack on AC, and I suppose you don't have one either. I understand there are few of them on the SF Bay. But here at the Dollhouse climate control is ALWAYS a cool calculation.
Well, gotta go start some dinner. I'm blackening some salmon steaks tonight, although Tim is chewing top sirloin because he avoids seafood. The lad pays us a flat rate per as a dinner guest, so if living here boosts Tim's self-esteem and his sense of responsibility a notch or two as he claims and keeps him off heroin as he says it is doing, then I suppose we can all feel grateful that this particular opportunity knocked. His extra money helps keep us on monthly budget and out of hock, so it seems to be working all around, although of course I've had to stand firm on a few principles Tim would conveniently fail to understand, but I should brag in his name that these moments have been few thus far. I guess he's been here eight weeks on Friday. Jack only lasted three days when he returned from Germany, frying my patience before he bolted up to Diane and Adrian's to squander his small forture with them.
Such are the crass ironies of a well-circulated life, eh Landry? Hope all this psychodrip suits you. It's what I do when I write, and when I am alone wrestling with my thoughts, or wife. My style often takes the form of a complaint. But in all honesty, I just want a live that suits me, just like everybody else. Unfortunately...
"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""