Next Time Around

I think in my next life I should like to be a hermit. Not that I hate other people or anything, but it just seems so much easier and less stressful than having to, I dunno, work. And relate. And speak.

Coming Back to Haunt Me

Two ghosts from out of my past reappeared, in different forms, yesterday, by a disturbing coincidence. One bothered me more than I expected, the other was merely strange but completely ignorable. But in both cases, not something I need to deal with at this particular moment in my life.

The World's Unluckiest Man Keeps Getting Unluckier

He's lost his keys about six times in four days (this last time permanently), his beloved car broke down, his boss yelled at him for not defying the laws of space and time, and crimes keep occuring in his general vicinity. As if dating me wasn't bad enough.

What Goes On Down South

Apparently, not too much fact-checking. Or thinking.

This is my favorite fake-journalism story yet, because it's so damn intricate, and because no one seems to have questioned anything anywhere along the line. That's what you get when you put a cute little blond girl in the mix.

The New Regime in Action

On Thursday night, I was coming home about 11:30 and turned the corner onto my block to see Salty Pete and his associate keeping a close eye on two drunkish young men standing near a car. As I walked past, Pete asked me if I knew the owner of the black Mazda parked in front of him, which appeared to have been banged up recently. "These guys," he said, indicating the drunkish ones, "just hit her car. She lives in your building. You know her?"

I didn't. I'm friendly with the neighbors in a nod-and-smile sort of way, not in a knowing-their-vehicles sort of way. He bid me good night, and I went in.

The next day, as I headed out for the evening, I encountered Salty Pete again. He explained to me that those guys hit the Mazda and some other car and were going to just drive off when he and his associate stopped them (he didn't mention how). He said one of the perpetrators ran into a nearby building, but the other two stuck around until the cops came and fessed up. He then went into a rant about how there were a bunch of hooligans in this neighborhood and how someone had to watch and pay attention and defend the innocents. It was quite a speech -- inspiring, if not well-worded. ("Fuck" was used quite frequently).

So, drug dealer (or, in T.'s mind, pimp) though he may be, I'm on board with the Salty Pete regime. Vigilante, yes, but effective.

Creepy or Touching?

I like to read the blogs of people who I know in real life but don't speak to anymore. Is it a nice way of keeping up with old acquaintances, or is it more like peeping in their windows?

Disturbances

Yesterday on the train there was an eight-year-old kid with Tourette's whose mom forced him to cram onto a elbow-jostling, toe-stomping, ass-rubbing-full car, so of course he started with the outbursts, and her attempts at soothing him by stroking the back of his neck did nothing for him or the other passengers.

Several stops later, a middle-aged bum pressed himself up against the doors with his hand jammed down his jeans, jerking and clutching ruthlessly, and when the doors opened, he bolted down the steps. Whether he was beating off or just needed to piss, I'm not really sure, but his pants seemed pretty well stained already.

Somnambulance

Do you ever get the feeling like you're sort of drifting through a day, or maybe a whole week, without really doing anything, wandering into other people's houses and lives but not really interacting or even thinking about where you're at and what you're doing? It's nice for an hour or so, but it's starting to get on my nerves. This morning I woke up and at least felt conscious of my unconsciousness. It's a start.

Listen to this shit. I need to get started on a novel or something.

Yes, It's Rude, but It's Also Very Popular

I've got a section on my site called Eavesdropping, which is based on a favorite pastime of myself and an old friend. Now, it's a national trend. Somehow, they didn't mention me or him in the article, which is crazy, since obviously we invented it.

Protecting Us From the Real Dangers

Alcohol and nicotine? Totally safe and legal. But Oregon is keeping the really bad stuff out of the wrong hands.

Another Lovely Neighbor

A guy straggling past my building as I was coming home today explained to me, in his best crackhead scream, "I can get your friend if I want. This is America! Bitch!"

The especially odd part about this was that I was alone.

Something You Don't See Every Day

There was a birthday party at the Gingerman last night, drawing quite a crowd on what is usually a quiet night of us playing free pool. I think the guest of honor was one of the roller derby girls. The featured attraction was a scantily-dressed lady (one of the guest of honor's teammates, I believe) jumping out of a large cardboard cake. If only it had been real. It did distract my (male) companions from our game for several minutes, though, and it was the topic of conversation for the rest of the evening. Each of them now knows what he wants for his next birthday. Except they decided that the cake should be a real cake. They all agreed to help clean the jumper up afterwards. All that frosting sure can get messy, you know.

Sigh. Boys. Gotta love em.

Rock Stars with Day Jobs

There's a temp at our office who, by night, is the singer in a local rock band. I've actually heard of them before, and heard that they're pretty good, so it's not just some random bunch that plays house parties now and again. Anyway, on the first day, he was really friendly, wearing a dark blue shirt and shiny tie. Ever since then, he's shown up in some Wicker Park version of Western wear, and he never even nods in recognition at his fellow proles anymore. I thought maybe he'd decided to go all rock-star-ego-tripping on us, but according to my comrades whose desks are closer to him, he's just got a massive hangover every day. That's the perils of living the life, I guess.

Bukowski Specifically and Drunks in General

Saw the Bukowski documentary last night down in Hyde Park. It was a little scattered and incoherant, but, as my date so wisely pointed out, so was his life. Discussed afterwards how together his life was for someone who was constantly drunk (every scene in the movie, much as his writing might make you suspect, featured him holding a bottle, glass, or can). His friends, wife, and daughter all seemed to love him very much, and weren't particularly upset by his drinking. He worked, apparently paid his bills, wrote with incredible insight and ferocity, and lived to old age with no severe health problems related to his alcohol intake.

My main problem with this is that, Bukowski, being a genius, is the exception, rather than the rule. Too many drunks, specifically of the hipster variety, point to him (and Kerouac, and many others) as reasons why being a drunk is a perfectly valid lifestyle choice, rather than a destructive disease.

Reminds me much of J., who would drink whiskey straight from Coke cans while walking down the street to breakfast and wake up confused as to where those bruises came from, not remembering that he'd thrown himself into a brick wall the night before, just for the fun of it. He adored Buk., among many others, mentioned Burroughs whenever I tried to show him how awful drugs were, and ignored the example of the ruined individuals who regularly slumped on his dumpster-dived coach, unable to move, let alone work or think. I wonder whatever happened to that kid, who had a lot of strong literary instincts but could never get himself together enough to get anything published.

I have to wonder, for every Fitzgerald or Hemingway or similar success, how many talented, creative people just drown anything good they've got to say and wind up mumbling their brilliance to the other half-conscious idiots down at the corner bar. It depresses me to even consider how many good minds, good words, are wasting away like that.

Surreality

As I was walking through the office today, I was so transfixed by the giant morphing faces that spit water on tourists that I walked right into a fake-looking-but-actually-real miniature potted tree.

Three Songs That Always Make Me Cry...

...in the order in which I started crying at them:

Behind Blue Eyes -- the Who
Release -- Pearl Jam
A Fond Farewell -- Elliott Smith

There used to be another one, but then I graduated high school and got over it.

My Nemesis

The goddamn Ringleader has returned. No idea where he went to (I'm going to stick with the jail assumption, given that he was probably gone a month). Last night I turned the corner and there he was at the center of the pack again, sharing a joint and watching with a slightly detached demeanor as the rest of the ruffians laughed themselves into fits.

Just when I thought the neighborhood was improving.

Those Wacky Koreans

Inventing yet more humiliating ways to die.

It's Oh So Quiet

The biggest difference I'm having to get used to at the new job is that the loudest thing in this place is the clacking of my keyboard and the just-slightly-north-of-white noise of the air conditioning. The other day, while bored, I was reading McSweeney's, and their lists always amuse me, and I started laughing out loud, but I tried to cover it, and it sounded an awful lot like I was choking. No one tried to come to my rescue, though. That would make a racket, and we can't have that. Not while people are Concentrating. So. Hard.

I really expect someone to freak out and run around screaming and shooting off a gun. Probably not now. Probably not til the holidays.

My Role

My role in the organization is apparently to be the person who talks the crazies off the ledge. Metaphorically. So far, anyway. The woman who is the senior editor on the book I'm working on is this brittle young-middle-age suburban mom who sits with one leg tucked under her like a schoolgirl and whose shoulders always appear ready to snap away from the rest of her body with sheer nervous tension. This is her first project as an editor. She's an admitted perfectionist, but she can't seem to concentrate for long enough to understand the advice that our supervisor gives her. She spends most of her time twiddling pencils, putting her hair up into ponytails, taking her hair out of ponytails again, and flipping pages of a scrawled-on manuscript that still shows no signs of being completed. It's all I can do to get her to breathe, let alone tune in for two minutes so I can explain to her that this is book publishing, not heart surgery, and if we're a day late getting our stuff to the proofreader, so be it. No one's going to die. Except maybe her, if I don't do a good enough job of keeping her away from windows.

It's a fucking textbook for christ sake. It's not a cure for AIDS.

The New Job

The new job is giving me an increased appreciation for the world of Dilbert. It is also making my feet hurt something terrible. Why sneakers can't be part of business casual, I don't know. It's cruel.

The work itself is interesting and makes me feel like I'm actually doing something worthwhile now. The people, for the most part, are very nice and just laugh at all the corporate hoops we're made to jump through each day.

Tomorrow, to my delight, I will get my building ID, which will allow me to go to the bathroom without having to ask someone first. I truly am moving up in the world.