Some changes...

Hey, this is just a short post to say that I am indeed alive and have relocated to Jacksonville, Florida. Also, you may have noticed that there are a bunch more older posts in my archives; well, I found a CD with a bunch of my old website updates on it, so I posted them here. Why? I'm not sure.... Norman Mailer once wrote something to the effect that when a man goes back and reads stuff he wrote a long time ago, he becomes closer to that man, even if he is now an entirely different sort of man than he was then. I think that's got something to do with it, if that makes any sense whatsoever.

Anyway, most of the old stuff was a sort of link-digest, and all the links are now dead. However, reading those old posts I realized that I was, overall, pretty happy back then. I'm hoping to remember how I managed that.

Also, the June 5 entry right below this one is incomplete. Suffice it to say that I gave away my breakfast to a homeless woman I saw regularly in Milwaukee. The breakfast was a melon salad from Pick 'n' Save. She then asked me for money for bus fare, which I didn't have. After that, she walked off and, at the very limits of my peripheral vision, I watched her throw my breakfast away. Damn it all to hell, I was hungry, too.

Further also, at some point in the past I got stupid and self-important and decided to start a second, secret blog for my poetry. Because I was feeling particularly pretentious, I called it "A Glass Lunch." (Please, take a second to marvel at my oblique W.S. Burroughs allusion...okay, that's enough.) Of the two poems currently there, one was written the day it was posted, while "Lunar Maria" was written about 10 years ago. I have more, and I'm hoping to write some new ones, since writing poetry is fun and keeps me out of trouble.

Anyway, I'm going to try to write here more often, as well. There have been quite a few changes in my life, and I'm thinking of trying to make sense of them here.

Take care.

Today I gave away my breakfast

There's a homeless woman here in downtown who hits me up every single day. Her territory is pretty far-ranging, too—yesterday she caught me where she usually catches me, sitting outside the Grand, smoking a cigarette before I open the store. I frequently pass her around the corner of Wells and Van Buren, nearly a mile away, as well.

I've found that homeless people are something like clowns or vaudeville-era comedians; not that they're funny, or looking for laughs, but that they have certain shticks they stick to. In Augusta, Georgia, one guy who haunted downtown wore a white suit with a wife-beater, a hospital bracelet and said he was a college student who'd just been diagnosed as HIV positive. He needed money for bus fare so he could get back to his family in Birmingham, Alabama. In Aiken, South Carolina, there was a woman who needed money for baby milk. I've met people who've only just run out of gas, who've been challenged by Catholic Services to come up with half the price of a bus ticket in order to show their need is dire enough to warrant this charity giving them the other half, who've been getting paid under the table for working construction but got stiffed, who were rolled while out on a bender and people who, refreshingly enough, really just wanted to score a little weed.

Never mind that the college student in Augusta was easily 30 and had been begging for months on the two separate occasions I met him. Never mind that baby-milk lady in Aiken had been begging for at least 5 years, or that, if you actually gave her any money she would immediately ask you for a ride...not to a store, or a charity, but to "her parole officer's house," conveniently located in what passed for that small community's version of Crack Town. And never mind that I've heard the far-fetched "Catholic Services" story in locations as far-flung and varied as East St. Louis, Illinois; York, Pennsylvania; Biloxi, Mississippi and Key West, Florida. The fact that these stories....

Me, I guess...

I hate having my picture taken, because on film I never seem to appear the way I do in my head. However, Sean managed to snap some pretty decent shots of me yesterday afternoon.

Ostensibly, these were for his optometrist, who wants pictures of people with glasses, probably for some sort of in-store advertising. I think that my inability to sit still and talk without a cigarette in my hands might have bitched up their usefulness on that front, however.

I mean, c'mon kids, say it with me: "Smoking is not cool!"

So...yeah.

I should probably address my last post and be done with it. I had a particularly bad night (the very large printer did fall on my head, and I lost my headphones while walking up on that wall, and I had to do employee reviews before an all day meeting the next day, and I was kind of drunk) and, instead of shutting up and dealing with it, I started writing to blow the cobwebs out of my head, succeeded, then in a fit of foolishness, actually clicked the "Publish Post" button.

So, let me clarify a few points.

• My drinking is actually not that bad, it just feels worse to me. Granted, I'm not a good drunk; I'm clumsy, obnoxious and feel a horrible sense of guilt almost every time I drink enough to actually get drunk. However, I don't actually drink all that often—two or three times a week at most, less than that in any given week—and I'm drunk even less frequently. Also, I never drive when I've been drinking, am not prone to "drunk calling," and have not ever so much as missed a day of work due to having a hangover. In all honesty, my drinking has been much worse in the past, when I couldn't even make any of the prior claims and wasn't even aware that I had a problem. Still, the truth is that my drinking bothers me, so I've backed off on it. No more drinking alone, even the occasional beer. No more drinking while brooding because, lord knows, it only depresses me further.

• Everything I said about my job is pretty much true, but it's paying my bills and is tolerable on any given day. Don't get me wrong, I'm not terribly good at it, but it's not a torture chamber. It'll do until I can get out of here.

• I really am pretty lonely. I'm used to it, though, and can tolerate it. I'm not in imminent danger of "lying in a hot bath and bleeding to death", either. If I was facing this kind of existence for decades upon decades, as sometimes, late at night, listening to my neighbors shout at one another, I fear will be the case, then I'd seriously consider it. But I make it through those nights and, trite as it sounds, each day always brings a new, clearer light and my night terrors fade enough to let me be.

So, that's that. I'm fine.

I am still planning on moving to Florida, provided that I haven't freaked my brother out with my last post. The timing on it is the question, at this point. I'm going to start looking into finding a sub-leasor, but I still might have to wait until September, as my DSL contract doesn't end until then and, from what I've heard, they charge an arm and a leg to break the contract early. Since I'm fond of my arms and legs, and don't have a lot of extra cash floating around, my best interest may be served by being patient and waiting this out.

So...there it is. One post, it seems like I'm about to chuck it all, pack up a rucksack and hitchhike to Florida in the middle of the night. The next, I'm back to reasonable and thinking it through. Do I contradict myself? Well, then, I contradict myself.

I'm only human, after all.

C'mon, god...

...tell me what to fucking do, would ya?

I talked to my bro today. It'd been a while since we'd really talked about stuff. I've come to a decision, today. It hurts, but I have to do it.

I can't continue the way I've been going. Since Michelle left me, I've been in a slow tailspin that I don't seem to have the wherewithal to pull out of. I've hopped around like a ginger-footed wimp on a bed of hot coals; I know I'm in pain but, instead of doing anything to improve my situation, I'm trying to find just the right cool spot with just the right angle of my foot to get my bearings, instead of just tear-assing out of there and getting to solid, non-flammable ground. I mean, shit, let's take stock of my situation, shall we? I am:

• Drinking too much. Hell, I'm half in the bag right now. I mean, for fuck's sake, I just fell off a stool and caused a 50-lb. printer to fall on my head! Do sober, right-thinking people allow that kind of shit to happen to them? As an answer, I humbly submit "No."

• I'm in a dead-end job. Don't get me wrong, I love video-games, my employees and most of my customers, but the curse about this job is that I've become the Peter Principle incarnate, and the only place I have to go is up. Would I make a good District or Area Manager for this company? Please! I can't even tell when my own employees are stealing from me. I can't motivate my three employees enough to get them to show up for a "mandatory store meeting"! How lost would I be if I was responsible for 10 stores? Or 15? Or whatever ridiculous amount this bloated, distant corporate structure expects its overworked employees to accept responsibility for, all the while hoping that it'll lead to a promotion, some fat loot and, finally, some god damned recognition? As I've gone on record before, I loathe and fear the company I'm working for. I just can't see myself turning it into a career.

• I hate my fucking job. In case you missed it from the last point. Hell, I'll even say it with some emphasis: I. HATE. MY. FUCKING. JOB. I've got no other prospects, to boot: this work leaves me so drained at the end of the day that I can't even think about mustering up the energy to look for another job.

• I'm too fucking lonely. Now, I'm no Polly Popularpants—believe me when I say that I'm aware there is always going to be some loneliness in my life, because I live inside my own head and have very little desire to live outside of it. But, goddamnit...enough is enough, already. Tonight, I found myself walking on top of a very high wall, dodging tree limbs, twiddling my fingers in a friendly manner at motorists passing into the parking garage cut into the wall directly beneath me and singing, out loud, on a public street, to music in my headphones. That's just fucking madness, people! Madness brought on by the fact that I no longer believe that anyone can see me, or cares about what I do if they can see me. And, honestly, if there's a more telling symptom of loneliness than that, I don't know what it is.

So, yeah. I think I'm done here.

Josh has offered to help me get the hell out of here. He's offered me a place to crash until I get my shit together. He even mentioned that I could take two weeks and do nothing but hang around his pool and sleep, if I wanted.

That sounds really nice, folks. I'm no Lotus Eater, but it sounds really nice, indeed.

I'm torn about it, though. I have really amazing friends here; friends I imagine I'll keep for a lifetime. And I love Milwaukee; I can walk around these streets or stare at the lake for hours, and I never get bored. Plus, I've never walked outside and broken a sweat just from opening the door. I've never had my glasses fog up upon leaving a building. I've thrown snowballs every winter, and made snow angels every time it struck my fancy.

But I'm not doing anybody any good the way I am now. And I won't be doing any of the people I value any good lying in a hot bath and slowly bleeding to death, which is where I fear I'm headed. I need to be around people I care about, and who care about me.

I need to find a home. Then I need to go there. That's what I'm planning to do.

Science + Text = COOL!

Particle Accelerator Used to Decipher Text

Well, two of my obsessions—namely particle physics and ancient texts—have collided here, so I just had to point it out. I think it's very neat, very exciting...as if someone had accidentally dumped chocolate in my peanut butter to discover that the combination is, in fact, delicious!

Of course, once somebody actually sits down and reads the deciphered manuscript, I'm absolutely positive that a rent in the time-space continuum will appear, bringing forth ancient, chthonic gods from the in between spaces where they dwell in restless slumber and dream dreams of such power that our nightmares are but infinitesimal echoes of their unknown energies. R'lyeh should be rising above the Pacific waves pretty soon, which is always fun. Say it with me, folks: Cthulhu Phtaghn! Ia Cthulhu!

In other news, sorry it's been so long between updates. In short, I suck, and have been very sleepy lately. I did go on one of my volkerwanderung last Tuesday. I'll try to post the pictures here shortly.

She blinded me...

...with science!

Recently I updated my own, personal Yahoo! start up page to include news from the AP science wire, because, down deep, I'm a science nerd. So, I was cheered to find that the Cassini spacecraft had found what everyone hoped it would find on Titan. Of course, this wouldn't be one of my posts if I didn't point out my favorite part:

Because Titan is extremely cold—about minus 290 degrees—scientists expected the organic material to condense and rain down to the surface.

And offer a smart-ass comment about it: Frogs are organic material, aren't they? Wow! It rains frogs on Titan!

However, I was less than cheered to hear about the prospect of a renewed battle over teaching evolution in Kansas classrooms. Combine this with Bill Frist's blatant pandering to the religious right and I itch with worry much the way a leper must itch in the beginning stages of the disease, before the realization sets in that this is a serious problem; before, in fact, skin begins to slough and body parts begin to wither and drop off.

The itchy part is the worry that this country—our country, people; mine and yours—is about to become so humorless and high-minded that people can't even watch a movie like Kung Fu Hustle without feeling compelled to warn others not to take it seriously. At the other end of the worry/leprosy scale is the "What the fuck? Where are my legs?" concern that a growing number of people in this country—our country, people—fear that life isn't worth living; that Jesus is coming tomorrow and that earthly concerns such as impending energy shortages and endless wars against ill-defined enemies and equal rights for every single person on this fucking planet are not important when compared to getting right with God and making sure their neighbors are right with him, too, just so no one fucks up their chances of getting swooped up to Heaven before Satan lets his devils have free run of the planet for a thousand years.

I couldn't stand that, folks; that sort of millennial/apocalyptic thinking last cropped up around 1000 A.D., and it didn't quit for a good 500 years or so. You remember reading about that time in history class, don't you? It was called the Dark Ages, and it was marked by plagues, heretic burnings and bloody conflicts. It was the least rational time in Western history, and I don't want to watch it come back around again.

Remember, folks, our problems are ours; we make 'em, we face 'em, we fix 'em. Pray all you want, if you want, but don't make the mistake of thinking some part of intelligent design includes trashing that design just when things get interesting.

Not being Catholic....

...I really don't give half a fuck. However, I did have a clever thought when I read this bit:

"I entrust myself to your prayers," he said as the crowd chanted "Papa! Papa! Papa!" and waved umbrellas and flags. Some climbed lamp posts and fountains for a better view.

Umbrellas?

Y'all're gonna need more than umbrellas to save you from the shit-storm that's about to follow, my friends.

Y'all're gonna need something with a roof and four walls. Hell, y'all're gonna need a whole 'nother church.

Yep.

Old, old, old...

Jesus, god...has it been 10 years?

I can feel Darwin's teeth closing on my jugular. He grins and says "Success, or failure?" Then he bites. And the fucking weasel just won't let go....

I am entranced...

Because I am an aging (Aged? Damn, I hope not...), liberal guy with little money, an English degree and a strong aversion to commercials, I listen to a lot of NPR, and am especially fond of This American Life. Last week's show played on the theme of "Mind Games," and featured a piece on Improv Everywhere, a troupe of NYC-based improv actors who take their "scenes" out into the public sphere in the hope of spreading a bit of wonder and weirdness among the masses. It's sort of like Ken Kesey's Merry Pranksters without the political underpinnings, or Project Mayhem without the property damage.

Needless to say, I am entranced. Doing something like this seems like a lot of fun. I yearn, deep in my soul, to try something like the scenes these folks pull. My favorite one is probably The Möbius, where they created a "time loop" in a Starbucks. I'm also fond of the absurdity and positivity inherent in the Look Up More mission. However, I'd have to say that my favorite moment, as documented on their site, is probably from the Megstore (sic) mission:

Megastore guy: They were all just standing there.
Cop: What were they doing?
Megastore guy: Just standing, and then they all danced.
Cop: Did they say anything?
Megastore guy: No.

Pause

Cop: Why are we here?

Why, indeed?

So...anyone in Milwaukee doing stuff like this? Anyone want to start? Because I, for one, am in!

Ah, youth...

Three students suspended for using fake money

Hopefully, this school district will buck the trend of over-punishing kids. I mean, c'mon, it's not like they were trying to pass 100 dollar bills. This is not a Columbine grade offense, so hopefully not even the feds will get their hackles up about it. I mean, honestly? Man, I shudder to think what I might've tried to do with today's technology when I was in sixth grade.

My suggestion: have the Secret Service come in and frighten the piss out of these kids, get the boy who did the counterfeiting into a graphic arts class, tell his friends not to be so damn stupid and let them off with the suspension. Then advise the parents to ground everybody, and ground them hard. That should be enough.

I did find one thing about this story sort of shocking:

An assistant principal called Seattle police the next day after a sixth-grader tried to use one of the fake bills to buy beef jerky from the cafeteria.

So, you can buy damn beef jerky in school cafeterias these days? Wow! I am out of touch with today's youth!

Lucky little bastards...I love beef jerky!

Generic update, version 1.0

Okay, so...I haven't really chimed in and let people know what I've been up to lately. I've just been cataloging stuff I think is reasonably cool as I go along. Why is that? Have I been avoiding y'all?

Nah, not really. My last day off, this past Wednesday, marked my first time back as Dungeon Master in my regular, Wednesday night D&D group since late January. So, instead of going out and gallivanting around Milwaukee, I had to stay in and work on my epic adventure. "Why didn't I go out and about on my other day off," you ask? Well, see...it was inventory last week at work, so I didn't get another day off. Sad, I know, but working retail has its grave responsibilities.

Anyway, stuff here is...

Can't finish that, really. It's chaotic. Living in my head the way I do is very much like living in a haunted house: I never really know how things will be until I see what mischief, horrors or miracles are waiting for me every morning. I had a very good friend leave town, on a fool's errand that I hope turns out for the best. I bought a lightsaber...



...that I simultaneously couldn't afford and couldn't resist. I decided that I'm growing a beard...







...but I'm not entirely sure why. I've begun reading some Eastern Theo-philosophy. I also created an Amazon Wishlist. And I'm deeply concerned that I'm going to lose my job, so I'm steeling up my backbone in preparation for standing my ground and wondering just how unemployment works.

In spite, or, perhaps, because of all this, I'm in an amazingly good mood. There's something to be said about standing among the ruins, looking at the shattered bricks and realizing that I may, should I choose, put them back together any way I please.

Ah, ruin...sweet ruin. Like a worn-in hooded sweatjacket, it's something I wear well.

Concentrated Awesomeness!

How in the name of all that's holy have I existed on the internet without knowing about this?

An archive of free movies, songs, writings and software! Wait, let me say that again...

An archive of FREE movies, FREE songs, FREE writings and FREE software.

Wrap me up in a silken shroud and sink my body five fathoms deep because I've died and gone to heaven, folks!

HEAVEN!

Wow, this is super neat!

YaGoohoo!gle

I hate it when my titles carry everything I need to say.

Be at peace...

Strange thoughts this morning. People are dying all over the place: thousands more in Indonesia, Terri Schiavo, Mitch Hedberg, the pope. I imagine the bereaved, if we were to trace the contacts and connections out from their sources, must number in the tens of millions. Sitting in my quiet, Milwaukee apartment on a Saturday morning, being piped information through the various tubes dedicated to such endeavors, this seems like an amazing and sad day full of strife and pain for all those losing someone they value.

But not me.

I sympathize. I think I even empathize. Today is not a day of loss for me, but I've had such days. I can think of nothing much that will bring comfort. Talk to your friends, your family. Cry some. Listen to your priests, if you are so inclined. Realize you've lost something that you may never replace. Don't pretend it's nothing much. Keep breathing.

All I can offer from my little apartment is this:



This is Gatsby. He's a medium-length haired, American domestic mongrel. His hobbies include attempting to escape my building, knocking stuff over, darting between my legs while I'm walking around the apartment, mewing piteously for no apparent reason every morning and focusing his walnut-like brain on vexing me every chance he gets. He has wicked claws and an hilarious attraction/avoidance conflict concerning running water. In other words, he's a cat, just like yours.

He's also fuzzy and warm and he loves to sit on my lap while I'm at the computer, where he purrs like a Sherman tank, chews the buttons on my shirt and digs his claws into my chest to get my attention. And, sometimes, when I remember not to reflexively scoop him off me and dump him on the floor in frustration with his interference, he brings me a bit of peace. Every day.

A boy & his toy...

...out on the town!

Those of you who know me know that, lately, I've been something of a recluse. Between all the stuff that's happened to me in the past year-and-a-half or so, my constant and consistent financial troubles and the bloody frigid weather, I've had neither the energy nor the inclination to...well, leave my apartment much. On my days off, I've usually just sat inside, drinking coffee, bemoaning the squalid domestic state of my apartment and reading, or surfing the web, or playing Burnout 3, or sleeping, or just letting the days stretch into gray patches of inactivity, simultaneously long and dull while they're occurring but quick and empty in retrospect. Honestly, it's been a sign of a depression so deep and pervasive that even I, wrapped in my down comforter and my figurative exoskeleton of apathy, became unable to ignore it.

Well, no more. I'm done with that shit.

Today was the second real day of spring, sporting temperatures in the low 50s. (Yesterday was the first day of spring-like weather, but I spent it straightening up the apartment.) Following a cabin-fever born desire which has been building for the last couple months, I resolved to spend as much time outside as possible, and to write about it here. So, armed with my cell phone, my digital camera, my Starbucks gift card (thanks, Josh!) and my trusty PSP, I went out and hit the streets. Just to punctuate my experience, I stopped every hour or so and took pictures of my surroundings. This is what I'm going to try to do at least once a week from here on out, so get used to these long mega-posts, on occasion.

Now then, let us begin.



Title: The power of the sun...in the palm of my hand!
Time: 10:15 a.m.
Place: My apartment.
Soundtrack: Bill Hicks, "My Parents," from the CD Dangerous.

One of the key factors in my decision to leave my apartment for hours at a time was my purchase last Thursday of Sony's brilliant new product, the PSP. This thing plays video-games, movies and MP3s; has a four-inch, 480p, high-definition screen; and comes with super-cool, little white ear-buds designed to make certain people jealous. So, essentially, it's like having a portable entertainment center with you—exactly what an indoorsy individual like myself needs to leave off being a shut-in.

Oh, for the record, I hear all of you out there shouting "Hey! What about these 'constant and consistent financial troubles' you've been having? That thing retails for $250! How dare you be so irresponsible!" Ease your troubled minds, responsible folks. I paid about $24 out of pocket for this thing. Of course, I did trade in 23 DVDs and 8 video-games, but I think it's worth it. I mean, c'mon, for fuck's sake: I left the damn apartment today!



Title: Now I need some good neighbors.
Time: 11:15 a.m.
Place: Somewhere around Juneau & Broadway.
Soundtrack: Iron Maiden, "Wasted Years," from the album Somewhere in Time.

So, my first stop was the Starbucks down on Water Street. In order to get there, I had to push my way through a bunch of MSOE students, one of whom had her gaze so fixed on the sidewalk she nearly ran into me. It really was funny: here she is, walking right at me, staring at the ground, going at a pretty good clip. I'm not sure if she sees me, so I do what I always do in these situations—stop and see what she's going to do, because, invariably, if I cut left, she cuts left, then we begin that awkward little dance people do when they're in these situations.

Actually, she was pretty nice about it. I think I must've startled her, because she stopped, looked up, saw me standing there looking confused and smiling (I try to smile when I'm confused—it makes me look perpetually friendly), smiled herself and said something that seemed apologetic (I couldn't tell...I had my ear-buds in), then walked around me. Granted, it wasn't much, but I did smile at a complete stranger today!

Anyway, once I'd picked up my coffee at Starbucks, I decided against drinking it there. Instead, I figured I'd wander east, toward the lake, and maybe get lunch at the Alterra down there in the converted waterworks. Right about then, my phone vibrated, letting me know that it was time for my next photo. I glanced around and saw the really good fence that I ended up photographing. And, yeah, I tried to make the shot interesting. So sue me.



Title: Speaking of being sued...
Time: 12:15 p.m.
Place: My store.
Soundtrack: The susurrus of people in a mall.

So, great picture from the lake, isn't it? See the way the water rushes over the larger rocks, gradually wearing them down into sand? What about all those people enjoying this beautiful day by this gorgeous lake? See how huge Lake Michigan is? By god, that's fresh water all the way to the horizon!

Obviously, I didn't make it down to the lake. Shortly after I took the picture of the fence, my Spider Sense began tingling. Checking my phone, I saw that, somehow, I had missed a phone call from my store. Calling up, I talked to my third-key on duty to find out that some customer had, for reasons entirely unfathomable to me, been walking backward in our store and tripped over the extension cord you see here. EMTs were called. Payment of medical bills was discussed.

Anyway, I hustled down, took some pictures, had my third-key fill out an incident report, handled all the paperwork and faxes and emails and, of course, pulled up the offending cord just in case any other backwards-walking customers didn't see the bright red duct tape and failed to step over it.

Then I went to lunch.



Title: You must be drunk—you're all blurry!
Time: 1:15 p.m.
Place: Applebee's. (I'm not posting a link. Their site is obnoxious.)
Soundtrack: Spider-Man 2, on UMD.

So, I went to my least favorite restaurant for lunch: Applebee's. Why did I go there? Well, honestly, it's right around the corner from my store and, what with all the crap I'd just had to do, I wanted a beer just as soon as I could get one. Plus, I was hungry and there's a really cute bartender there. Unfortunately, she wasn't working.

Of course, this being Applebee's and being seated, as I was, at the bar, I waited a very long time for my lunch to arrive. The bartender seemed kind of apologetic about it, especially when he noticed that I'd gone through my entire beer with nary a word from him or any sign that my food was being prepared. He offered me another beer and I think he said "I'm sorry about the wait." I'm not sure because, of course, I had my ear-buds in the entire time.

However, it wasn't a bad lunch, overall. One of the waitresses caught sight of my gadget and asked me to tell her about it. Apparently, her 17-year-old son wanted one. When my food finally came, I put the thing away and read Richard Russo's The Risk Pool, because no matter how much of a technophile I may be, nothing takes the place of a good book.

Oh! I know that photo's really blurry, but you may be able to make out that I only got charged for one beer. Now, I took that photo right before I paid the bill and, when all was said and done, I really only paid for one beer! Now, that's a bartender who, while he wasn't particularly cute, did know a few things about good customer service. So I made sure I tipped him 15%, plus the cost of the free beer.

See...it's funny how, as much as we may fear otherwise, everything works out in the end, isn't it?



Title: The evidence is all around.
Time: 2:25 p.m.
Place: Somewhere on Water Street, I think.
Soundtrack: The Beatles, "Paperback Writer," from the album 1.

Walking along Wisconsin Avenue, the wind is always a bit more biting than anyplace else I've noticed, especially down by the river. Wisconsin is very wide and it runs straight down to the lake, basically tunneling any breeze that may come in off the water right into your face. So, as I left Applebee's, I had to button up my coat. Then, I ducked into Uhle's to buy some smokes and think about my next stop.

One of my favorite places within walking distance of my apartment is Downtown Books, and I frequently stop in there on my way home from work. So, after stopping to watch the river run by beneath me for a bit and feel the thrumming of the cars on the bridge through the soles of my sneakers, I decided I'd head that way. Then I ran into a red light on Water Street. Maybe it was the beers, maybe it was the wind, maybe it was just the mercurial nature of the day, but I decided I'd hang left on Water and see what happened.

Now, Water Street, since it runs north/south, was pretty much washed in shade, so the coolness of the wind on Wisconsin Ave. carried over with me. I was a little disappointed for a bit, since the day had been so warm while I was in the sun. Then I thought about it a bit more, and remembered walking to work with sweatpants on over my work-slacks, bundled in scarves and gloves and coats and pullovers made of fleece and down, and realized that this was downright balmy, compared to -20° wind-chills. Right about then, "Paperback Writer" came on, and I found it impossible to be in a bad mood.

That's when I spied the sign. I don't know what it's like where you are, but 49° at 2:25 on a March afternoon in Milwaukee feels like spring to me.



Title: Move along, nothing to see here.
Time: 3:15 p.m.
Place: Starbucks on Water Street.
Soundtrack: "TANK!" (a.k.a. "The Opening Theme from Cowboy Bebop.")

Yeah, yeah, I know...I circled back around to where I started. What can I say? I had to start heading towards home since I had to be on a conference call for work, and I wanted to sit down, drink some coffee and play Lumines for a while.

Besides, what says "It's springtime!" louder than the closing of an outdoor ice rink? Plus, I got a sneaky little self-portrait in there to boot. Yay me!

Anyway, there's my day. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Synchronicity...

So, I'm listening to the Bill Hicks album Dangerous and cruising through some of my morning news sites, when I come across this little tidbit. My favorite part:

Though it's not offering money upfront, the fast-food giant is willing to pay rappers $1 to $5 each time songs with the plug hit the radio, according to today's Advertising Age. McDonald's hopes to have its signature sandwich in several songs by summer, the mag says.

Wonderful! I wonder if Burger King is going to retroactively toss some cash at Humpty Hump from Digital Underground because he once got busy in one of their bathrooms.

Oh, and how is this synchronicity? Well, if you're familiar with Bill's stuff, then you'll recognize this paraphrase: If money had a dick, these rappers would be flaming faggots.

I have a very bad feeling about this...

Many of my friends are beginning to get a little bit excited about the possibility that the new Star Wars movie just might not suck. I mean, the trailers do make it look pretty action-packed. Plus, we get to see a nascent Darth Vader, who still stands as one of the baddest of cinema's badasses, even if he did eventually cave in to his whiny brat of a son. And, I confess it, even I thought the film might be enjoyable, instead of being a poorly scripted, badly acted, meagerly plotted smear of roadkill festooned with glittering lights and dancing under the spastic power of George Lucas's directorial hand shoved up its necrotic ass.

Then I read this interview, which contains this quote, dropping from the lips of the man himself much the way I imagine my own diagnosis of lung-cancer will eventually come from some infant of an M.D. at whatever clinic for the indigent I eventually haul my aging, aching carcass to:

"This one's a little bit more emotional. We like to describe it as Titanic in space. It's a tearjerker."

Great. The same genius who thought "Attack of the Clones" would be a dandy title for a movie is comparing this one to Titanic. Only, get this: in space!

For the record, there were only two things I liked about Titanic: corpsicles, and the sight of Kate Winslet's naked breasts. I have a strong suspicion that neither will be showing up in Episode III, making it, just like Titanic, a colossal waste of both money and time.

All I have to say...

...about the Terri Schiavo story is that it's none of my business.

Oh...and it's not your business, either. And it's not your mom's business or the media's business, and it certainly isn't fucking Congress's business.

So, for fuck's sake, move along, folks. Quit rubber-necking at what, in it's best light, is still the tragic injury and death of a young woman.

Go home, people. Go home and tend your own gardens.

Wow! I'm speechless...

Eight Dead at Wisconsin Hotel Shooting

Yes, this is near me. Rest assured, I'm not a member of the Living Church of God, so I'm all right.

This is the first time I've ever heard of someone going postal in a church. Seems sort of weird, honestly.

Bet the Sheraton doesn't let them have their services there anymore, though.

Good...

I don't have to make good on my threat against Garry Trudeau.

Say "Hi!" to my brother!

So, my brother, Josh, finally went and got himself one of these new-fangled interweb pages all the kids are talking about these days.

Welcome to the digital fold, bro. Good to see you!

Must. Control. Urge. To laugh.

Investigators Examine Calif. Chimp Attack

The chimps chewed off St. James Davis' nose and severely mauled his genitals and limbs Thursday before the son-in-law of the sanctuary's owner shot the animals to death, authorities said.

It's not funny.

I keep repeating that to myself. This is a horrible, terrible thing to happen to someone with a cool name like St. James (that's pronounced sin-jin; did you know that?). This man was mutilated by creatures he thought were safe, harmless and, most importantly, primarily herbivorous. He will never be the same.

It's not funny.

No, never the same.... He will instead be a noseless, nutless freak of nature (it's not funny) who underestimated a wild animal he knew was capable of violence. Yes, a neutered testament to humanity's ongoing incomprehension of the universe's indifference to our own suffering, especially when such suffering is ironic as hell.

It's not funny...

Aw, to hell with it. Monkeys are always fucking funny!

Aw, fuck it...

Author Hunter S. Thompson Commits Suicide

Oh. God.

He was one of my heroes. Not the drugs, or the swearing, or the fact that he was a walking urban legend. He could write the most brilliant, the most incisive pieces when his mind was on it.

In my head, I always thought of him as "Uncle" Hunter.

That bastard Trudeau better mark this passing, or I swear I'll tear his guts out.

Sunrise

I'm not really sure what to write.

I don't think it was the colors, the pale peach smudge against all the blue and gray of dawn, the way the smudge brightened and infused the clouds with amber, rose and cinnamon while the blues and grays edged into purples of innumerable hues. Those colors have all been caught and discussed and captured. There are names for them. Naming them can't be the same as seeing them.

No, the magic in a sunrise is in the unfolding of it; the gradual way that things change. At first, I couldn't even tell where the sun was rising. Then the smudge, and the infusion. The sense of anticipation was slow but building; somewhere above the horizon, beyond the clouds, the sun was moving. There was a small, deep tangerine crescent glowing just above the water, then minutes of nothing.

Finally, a strangely regular gap in the cloud itself lit up with fire—a hole, then a slit, then a slash and then two slashes, widening, growing together until the first orange arc rose above the cloud. It moved so quickly! The anticipation wound out to its end, the sun's arc growing until it was a disk sitting on the cloud, reflected rippling on the lake. Then it hung there, as if it weren't going to move again. I knew it was continuing upward, but for a moment I couldn't believe it. The moment was a second, then two, then 10 and I held my breath, convinced that today the laws of physics were circumspect, that the sun was exhausted and would stop or, worse, sink back down.

Then it moved behind another cloud above it. I breathed again, and realized that I was, and had been, staring directly at the sun. I didn't care. I was cold. I turned around, took off my gloves and lit a cigarette. I walked home.

There don't seem to be any diners around here. There are cafes that open at 8:00 a.m., but no diners open at seven. I wanted very much to go to a diner, windows fogged with the scents of breakfasts cooked and consumed by the clanking, rustling, sighing life inside. I wanted to sit at the counter, smoke a cigarette, drink coffee and order eggs from a waitress in a starched, pin-striped uniform. Someone with henna-ed curls caught up in a hair-net. Someone with crow's feet and arched eyebrows. Someone who, casually, might call me "Hon" or "Shug." I wanted to mop up egg yolk with an English muffin, tuck a generous tip under my dirty plate, slide sideways off the bolted-down stool while I smiled, and waved, and said "Thank you."

Sunrise, and I weed my DVDs...

So, here it is, oh-dark-thirty, and I'm still up. I've been reading a blog by a woman I knew years ago, drinking Earl Gray tea, and waiting for 6-o'clock, when I'm going to jump in the shower and then go watch the sunrise. I haven't left the apartment since Thursday. Can you tell I'm on vacation?

Earlier, I cleaned up a bit, talked to my brother down in Jacksonville, worked up some wicked arcane spell combos for D&D, and watched both Big Fish and From Hell. Funny thing, I used to like From Hell a lot; it had a good story, both Johnny Depp and Robbie Coltrane's characters were interesting as hell and Heather Graham...well, I fucking hate Heather Graham—she couldn't act her way out from under an awning—but even she wasn't painfully bad. Then I read Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell's original graphic novel, and the movie suddenly sucks ass. For one thing, Moore introduces the character of Sir William Gull before the murders begin and—get this—the entire story unfolds through his eyes. The reader gets to see exactly what motivates him. There's an entire chapter in which he travels London, telling Netley about the timelessness of the city and how its history is written in blood and atrocities and how he sees his "work" as the crowning achievement of this history. The story is painstakingly researched, and the artwork is both disturbingly detailed in its realism and hallucinatory in its evocativeness. The book is a masterpiece. And the movie...isn't even close.

So, there's a DVD I'll be trading in soon.

Big Fish, on the other hand, is always enjoyable. I've seen it twice, and I've cried twice. Sure, the story's kind of saccharine, but it's also original, imaginative in Tim Burton's lens and well-acted by...well, shit, everybody.

So, there's a DVD I'll be keeping.

I don't really know why I want to go out and brave this frigid weather to sit on a cold stone bench and watch the sun come up over Lake Michigan. I've been thinking of doing it ever since Monday morning, when I stayed up goofing off until 7:00 a.m. I think it's because I haven't ever done it, and I've lived in Milwaukee for over two years now. Honestly, I can't remember the last time I simply stayed up and watched the sunrise. It must've been a very long time ago.

I don't really know, though. And that's not too surprising, is it?

Does anybody here speak "Jive"?

I am now available in a Gangsta version.

Word to your mother, Holmes.

New specs!

Before:



After:



I prefer after.

By the way, is "specs" still a valid term for glasses? I think we should resurrect it, if it isn't.

Meet my new hero, Chris Teague!

Nude Club Hands Out Pencils, Sketch Pads

Strip clubs...whatever. I don't go to them because the beer is too expensive and I've got over a gig of porn here at home. So, why go out and be aroused by naked women dancing and, simultaneously, be depressed by the sight of lonely old guys shoving small bills into g-strings with trembling, lust-palsied hands when I can sit here being aroused by naked women having sex and, simultaneously, be depressed by the thought that I have both a lonely, forlorn existence and a small penis?

No contest: I stay home.

However, while I have no love for strip clubs, I have even less for Draconian rules against them. So, hats off to Chris Teague, who found that little loophole in the law and, simultaneously, filled it with culture and naked women.

That is some serious artistry there, folks.

Well, so much for adulthood...

I don't know why I did it, but I did:



Yup, I bought a reprint of my absolute favorite Iron Maiden T-shirt. Twenty bucks, that I really can't afford, delivered right to my door from '80s Tees.

I've told various friends that I've turned my back on adulthood (why does that always sound like a-dullt-hood or a-dolt-hood to me?) or that I'm regressing to age 15. Honestly, I think that, as much as I meant them to be smart-ass comments, the sentiment might be true. I feel like I'm failing as a responsible adult and, quite honestly, I just don't care. I want very much to embrace the house/kids/car/401-k/medical insurance thing, but I don't even know how to begin.

Sorry, didn't mean to turn a lighthearted post into some kind of personal revelation-thing. I was really excited when I got the shirt; it literally made my day much, much better!

But I'm awfully tired. More tired than I think a 34-year-old should be, y'know?

Now, I'm lonely and stuff...

...but this is just amazing:

St. Valentine's Day mass suicide pact fears

My favorite part? Right here:

"He invited them to engage in certain sexual acts with them, and then they were to hang themselves naked from a beam in his house. He was indicating in these chat groups that he had a beam and that it would hold multiple people."

What. The. Fuck? I'm honestly saddened that people can get so lonely as to even entertain the notion of going to some complete stranger's house, having sex with this person, then dangling from a beam with a few other complete strangers. I mean, for fuck's sake people, it's a god-damned made up holiday! Thing was invented by some marketing genius at Hallmark who had too much red ink and tulle lying around after Christmas and realized that February was a long, depressing month that otherwise didn't lend itself to selling fucking cards. Seriously, I'm no expert in hagiography, but I'm reasonably sure that the Christian Saint Valentine did his best to distance himself from the Roman deity Cupid.

Call me nuts, but I'm not about to get wrapped up in worrying about something so obviously contrived.

Oh, by the way, lonely desperate women out there? Drop by my apartment any time. I can't guarantee sex, but I will give you a snack and chat with you if you like. And rest assured, hanging naked by the neck from a beam will not be on the agenda.

Sometimes, I just shake my head...

Yahoo! News: Education secretary blasts children's show

Asked how Buster reacted to the two moms, [John] Wilson, [PBS's senior vice president for programming] replied: "Buster is a very tolerant and accepting rabbit, and he sort of took it at face value."

Well, that seems like a polite reaction, seeing as how they'd invited him to dinner and all.

By the way, nice first week on the job, Maggie. For your next trick, why don't you figure out what's up with Bert & Ernie. Make sure my kids don't see that kind of subliminal homo activity while they're learning about stuff, 'kay?

Thanks.

And so it begins...

Yahoo! News: Cheney Criticized for Attire at Auschwitz Ceremony

Kicking off four years of our fearless leaders behaving like putzes in public, here's "Big Time" Dick Cheney all thugged out for the Auschwitz memorial. I can just hear him now:

"You don't like the way I'm dressed? Well, fuck you! I'm an American, damn it! Our boys were dressed much worse than this when we fought and died in this godforsaken shithole country! And don't you forget it!"

The media calls this a "casual outfit" or "ski getup," but to me ol' Dick looks like a lot of the inner-city youth who frequent my store. Except they make this look good, and Dick just looks absurd.

Makes me wonder, though...could Dick possibly have a 9-inch, solid-gold Star of David hanging from a rope chain tucked under that parka? Did he pour a little out of a 40-ouncer "for all his dead, Jewish homies"?

I bet he did exactly that. And did the liberal media cover it? Of course not.

An open letter to Dubya

Bush Tells Troops "Much More Will Be Asked of You"

...But Bush said his second term offered the chance for unity because "I'm no longer a threat politically."

"In other words, since I'm not going to run for office again people don't have to view me as a threat and hopefully that will enable people from both parties to come together to get some big things done for the country," he told Fox News.

Way to paraphrase the definition of lame duck I remember from my eighth-grade Social Studies textbook, Georgie Boy. And way to turn on the doublespeak: you're ineffectual, so we should all quit worrying and unite with you. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. However, for all that you're no longer a potential political threat, you're still one of the most powerful men in the entire world, and what you do during the next four years will still have an impact.

Face it, buddy: the thousands of dead and the millions of people around the world you've managed to piss off aren't just going to come back to life or change their fucking minds once you're retired and back banging goats on your ranch.

This isn't a fucking game, Georgie! When you're done, you don't get a trophy. What happens is you hand the stewardship of our country--which a majority of us, baffling as it may be, loaned to you in trust--to someone else of our choosing. Part of what we've trusted you to do is hand our country over intact. If we don't think you're actually going to do that, then we'd be fools and traitors to "come together" and let you do whatever the hell you want.

Don't fuck this up, Georgie. Don't sell our blood, our lives, our reputations and our souls down the river for some delusion of a presidential legacy. And don't give us any of your "Aw, shucks...I'm just folks, now," self-deprecating bullshit. For better or worse, your simian, slackjawed mug is the face of my country for the next four years.

Come on, man. Don't listen to all those suit and tie guys trying to ensure that the Conservative Republican bloc gets a lockdown on the Washington power structure for the next generation or three. Listen to us...to all of us. We're divided, we're worried, the rest of the world hates us, our friends and children are being blown to pieces, and we aren't really sure that you care about any of that. A significant portion of the country is losing interest in democracy, is slipping away from the very ideas and ideals that make this country great. And, the irony is that your job is to represent us all.

Stop with the appeals to our sense of you as a lame duck. Just stop it and do your fucking job.

Say Uncle...

See that up there? That's my sister's uterus! The little lump that looks sort of like a swaddled child Christmas ornament (Complete with hook! Look!) turned on its side is my new n(eic)ephew!

I'm going to be an uncle! Again!

My sister has asked that we keep the new little-one in our prayers. I'm thinking good thoughts about both the beloved mother and the adorable, quickly growing lump of life she carries inside her. If you pray, would you mind adding a few entities to your list?

Thanks. I appreciate it, and I'm sure my family appreciates it, too!

Quote for the day...

That's right folks, it's the quote of the day, brought to you by twitch at glassrope. It means not a god damned thing to you, but it's cool. Trust me.

"Dude, I don't know if you knew this, but Bonnaroo is an ancient,
Egyptian word meaning professionalism. So we're going to do it in the right, professional key. Aw, dude...you can feel the professional power!"

--Mike Doughty, Live at Bonnaroo.

That is all.

I used to live here...

Yahoo! News: Eight Die, 240 Hurt in S.C. Train Crash

Okay, this happened about 5 miles from where I used to live. Everybody okay down there? Nobody I'm fond of is hurt, right? Anyone got any word?

As long as we're doing the rhetorical questions thing, when the hell did the Aiken Standard's website become a pay site? Why?

Almost cut my hair...

Actually, I did cut my hair.



Well, that's not really true, either: I had someone cut my hair for me. I kind of like it, and I kind of don't care.

After all, it's only hair.

Yahoo! News: Gonzales Promises Non-Torture Policy

Wow. That's a fucking relief. Now if only I believed him....

Dig it, folks: the future Attorney General of the United States of America believes that the "quaint" provisions of the Geneva Convention are obsolete. Repeat that phrase to yourself a few times. Let it sink in. Let it stick.

Oh, by the way: Happy New Year.