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 |   My fourth blog. Amazing yet disconcerting. Don't worry; this'll go away in a year or so. |
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First there was "I'm Studying You"  ...then there was "Who Do I Think I Am??" . Finally, we reached "Who do I still think I am??" .Until now. Welcome to the Buffalo in your soul...       A THREE-TIME CHAMPION OF THE "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" !   |
** Image ID #2036546 Unavailable **  "One evening you are looking out your porthole and see something. What is it?"What's up magical cruisers? Sometimes, in the voyage of our lives, we don't know where we're going until we get there. I woke up from a short nap to some rumbling...figuring since the hallway seemed silent, I went to my porthole for a look-see. Sure enough, my suspicions were right. We were at the edge of the world. It's not so much a tipping point as it is uncertainty. The porthole isn't wide so there's not a lot of view; just a glimpse. It looks like there's no water beneath the ship...there's a lot of sky, and in the distance it's vein-purple. It's like one of those cutaways you see on The Weather Channel of some obnoxious storm happening while the camera is positioned in a spot where it's beautiful out. I don't think we're in any danger, but I'm not good at predicting that kinda stuff. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best, and wind up somewhere in-between...that's how I navigate when I'm not on a boat and my life isn't is someone else's hands. The fact that I can't see the ocean isn't as unsettling as it sounds. It could just be that rare moment where you catch something in an awkward position, like a bad photobomb by Mother Nature. Perhaps we're overcorrecting with the sky. This isn't the end; it's just the edge. It feels like we've come to a stop. Someone slid a flyer under my door while I was pondering the significance of the clouds in relation to the water...Party by the dock, 8 pm sharp...watch the Earth tip! I like parties. The planet being on its side might be kinda fun. There'll be music and drinks and island girls, presumably. All of which pretty much leads me to the most likely conclusion...I can guarantee I will definitely turn into a horrible dancer at some point. Ever see those hula girl dancer things that people put on their dashboards? That's how my hips move, but my arms are clearly at a different party. And it's one they weren't invited to. In 1987. But this is where we are, and if we're not sure we'll be here again, gotta make the best most of it. Better shine up my good pair of L.A. Gears...the ones with the two-colored lacing system and the little windows that were clearly a Nike Air ripoff. Daddy's gon' get his groove on tonight while he still can. That's all I've got for today, I think. Trust me when I say I almost wrote a much longer entry about my entire history with baseball (and count your blessings I didn't)...it's the first Subway Series of the season between the Mets and the Yankees, and it's great because for the first time in like a decade the Mets are still relevant during the series. And don't remind me that it's only April...I'm a Mets fan, and I haven't gotten very many opportunities to shit-talk the Yankees in recent history, so you'll allow me to take advantage of that when I can  . Now to figure out the rest of my evening...peace, it's not the point, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
| You guys...I can't prompt-along today. I'm just not feelin' it. Part of me wants to feel excited that I finally got all of "Cabin Fever" up and organized and pretty much done with for good (god forbid the day I ever decide to proofread it or try to reinterpret anything, because no). And I should be looking forward to revamping "Slurred Emotions (highlights)" , but let me finish processing that other period of my life first before I get into that. There's a whole mess of stuff in-between too that I can't imagine even confronting now, and the stuff before and after, and, nope. Not feelin' it. There are some subjects I really try hard to consciously avoid talking about, mainly out of fear I'd be talking about them all the time, and I don't wanna do that. This is supposed to be a place for fun and chicanery and whatever...a release from life, if you will. That's why I write, why I took up blogging when poems stopped working for me, and moving on to other ways to try and be helpful, encouraging, and/or just myself when all else has left me with limited options. That's why I'm doing this today...this is all I have that I'm comfortable with right now in the moment, or the last few years of moments. And I consider myself lucky. I watched a video today that probably won't mean much to a lot of people, but it was more than just another reminder to me. For context, you should probably watch it too... the Daniel Carcillo POV . I don't care what side you're rootin' for, or where you're from, or what you do now for work or fun or leisure. The fact is, there are so many frickin' ways that this can happen to anyone, from a plumber to a truck driver to a professional athlete. Freak accidents happen all the time you never hear about; the media alerts you via headlines when someone who makes a whole lot more money than you did suffers the worst. Steve Montador played hockey for the Buffalo Sabres, among other teams, in his long career. He wasn't supposed to even reach that level, but he stuck around for a long time. He was found this past February dead in his sleep at age...35, I think? 34? Doesn't matter. He's not that much younger than me. He played a much faster version of hockey against a lot stronger competition than I ever played, and for a hell of a lot longer. Sure, I got my scratches and scrapes playing street hockey, and in the two years of high school football I played I broke a pinky (forever crooked) and a shoulder (a second time...it ended a promising scholastic wrestling career). Figure in the lumps I took playing both pickup football and basketball in parks I'd ride my bike to that were miles from home or on a frozen lot in town) until I started driving, and the years well into adulthood I spent playing rec-league floor hockey (both as a goalie and a defenseman), I also got my share of headshots. One of the first things I was ever taught playing organized hockey was to keep your head up crossing the line- blue line, center line, didn't matter- you kept your head up, regardless. Otherwise, you get decked. I'm not a big guy either- I'm 5'6"- but I could get by being fast with good reflexes, and had instincts to make up for the talent I wasn't born with. I can recall at least three instances where I was 180'd between winter football, summer basketball, and floor hockey. Like, blackout 180's. Straight-up diagnosed concussioned. Before concussions were even a concern in the real world. And that's not taking into account the sticks I took to the mouth or the diving shot blocks I made with my head as a defenseman who wasn't afraid to jump the point on PK's. Or all the domeshots I took between any practice or pickup games, because when you're short and keep your head up, shots go off your mask and other shoulders find your temples quick. Plus, I was dumb, like we all were back before sports medicine was encouraged...I put off a hernia surgery in 2000 to defend the championship the spring deck league I'd played with the half-season before could try to repeat (it was a YMCA league with some friends I'd just met, they brought me in for the championship game, we won, I had a sick game shutting down the undefeated team's leading scorer...my doc wanted a vacation and why wouldn't I be asked back?). Pride is a beautiful, painful thing. And why wouldn't I come back? I secured friendships, we partied all summer, and of course when the fall session came around I was in. In one fast series of play early in the year against our opponents, I slid and blocked a shot off my glove, the ball went off my mouth, and in a hurry to recover against the ensuing rebound, I took a follow-through from a stick in the same spot. I sat out the rest of the first period and all of the second with gym paper towels stuck to my face, came back in the third, and had the game of my life with a goal and two assists. I was a terrible offensive defenseman, let it be noted. I'm I was more the stay-at-home kind...I hated the street hockey ball-hogs when I was playing net and they'd leave me hangin' out to dry. Fuck man, I was good enough to hold my own, but I needed help sometimes too! At least being quick I could jump a rush, but not hang my goalie out to dry because I could get back. And the ooohs and ahhhs by the 10-15 friends/family in attendance for us were usually worth it. We usually played on Sundays, and after the games I'd have a party at my apartment to watch the Sunday night football game. No better way to ice off your face than with a cold Sam Adams among friends, right? Go into work the next day to the cool-ass job, get all the mockery about why your face is swollen, go back home, and "ice that up" more. The Y stopped holding leagues because we had gotten a goon who would retaliate when liberties were taken on our team. I did my job...I slid, I blocked shots, I drew penalties. This guy took fights and ended it all. I had scumbag fathers show up drunk, with their kids on the team, try to pick fights with me. Being the diligent non-pregamer, it was easy to draw double-minors...they get pissy, get the second, come back looking for more, and you keep your head when they get 2-4-1 pissed again. But we had a dude who felt like getting back for every little thing, and I was done. Love to have a dude like that on your team in '99. But not when he's the reason your league ends. Anyway, long story short, I was done with hockey. I did the grown-up thing and tried to suck myself back into work and personal relationships. Most of that failed. Some didn't. But my damage was done. The aching body wanted to replace that stress with gametime tensions; my head was always on the afterparty. My head knew I was done. My body still thought there was another league for me. I still had my goalie stuff. Timing wouldn't let me. Responsibilities wouldn't comply. I went double-crushed batshit eventually. Cost me everything I owned. From loving a kids' game. And when I say that, I fucking lost everything while going triple-nutso on OTC sleeping aids, booze, allergy meds, and anything I could get to shut my mind off. Best relationship ever? Done. Nicest dance floor moves? No longer. Pretty much everything. All of it. Most of it was peaced out on me before I even had a say-so in it. There were other factors, but fuck my man, I had a job and a super-awesome girl and a house and fuck everything and everyone else. And I lost that. Because I was so fucking careless. Steve Montador is dead, and we don't know what killed him or led him there. Maybe it was drugs. Maybe it was depression. Maybe he got sick and couldn't sleep again another fucking night. I've been there. And I've been at those ends. And I don't have a god, but god if she can't get there in time for him, I'm fucked. I'm legal. I'm on point with this. I have depression. I think I always have, for as long as I can remember...but I have long adult periods I also don't remember. I tried to fill the gaps. That doesn't always work. After all I've done, I'm still ashamed to admit I've seeked help over all of the wreckage I've done to those close to me. I still fuck up. And that fucks absolutely everything up for me mentally. But I...I still love the pain...I love the hit. I love getting fucking annihilated by someone to protect my teammates. I still haven't learned the art of self-protection. My head is wrecked in part because I never learned how to properly take care of it. "Always keep your head up" isn't the best or worst thing to say. Each day is still a recovery process for me. Both hands can count the times I haven't been right. I still might not be. And I might ever not be. But Montador...he was 35. 35! I'll be 40 soon, and don't think there haven't been days where I haven't veered off-course. I don't expect my former employers to take care of me, but they didn't pay me to shit on my life for them (though in fairness, some expected to, and I did kinda pay them back by re-shitting on it...I do take ownership of that). But dammit...no, the point is don't take mental health for granted. I could sit in a room in silence for hours without crashing...doesn't mean it's fun. Doesn't mean I want to do it. I might get all high-n-mighty occasionally and say "Buy the ticket, take the ride" (in reference to Hunter S. Thompson). Live life, but don't fuck it up. Take opportunities when they provide the chance, and don't chance your opportunities. I'll get through my personal situatuon. Hasn't killed me yet, I don't expect it will, and no, I'm not gonna speak to it until I have to. Monty's death scared a hole in me though...and we can't be scared of mental illness, even if just a rec-enthusiast like me still is personally. I forget a lot more now than maybe I ever remembered. Getting adjusted to new routines to compensate for that is a freakin' nightmare slash anxiety attack just waitin'. It's worse than any hit I've taken...because it feels like I'm still too young sometimes. I love you guys. And I mean that, not just in that drunk pills way. Best place to retreat? Here. Dark days? We all have them. Even you, who says "the service at the coffee shop was turr-bull today". We all got better days than that, lady. We're still here. We're still trying to make a difference. I'm just doing whatever I can whenever I can, while I still can. |
** Image ID #2036546 Unavailable **  "On one of our visits, the weather turns bad/weird. Tell us where we are and what kind of weather messed with our excursion."Good morning! I went to bed kinda early last night, which means I also woke up earlier than I anticipated...like, 3am early. I was thirsty so I went to get a glass of water and had a serious case of the wobbles...these old joints don't like walking after a few hours of sleep, combined with the Ambien haze. All that's really good for is simulating a drunken stupor, which can be briefly amusing if you're not trying to get liquids down your gullet. I know it rained pretty good last night; right before I laid down I had part of a smoke and had to close the window because the rain was blowing in almost sideways. I didn't wanna drown my cigarette, and when it rains like that it hits the metal good in the frame and patters loud like handfuls of pebbles bouncing off a tin roof that's a foot over your head. The pinging can almost go through you. I tried to go back to sleep, which in theory sounded like a good plan, but something happens when you get up in the middle of the night while on controlled substances designed to improve your sleep style...you can't force your eyelids to open, but it's damn near impossible to actually fall back asleep. It's almost painful, and maybe you drift off a little for an hour or so of awkward napping, and then you're not sure if what you just dreamt actually happened or not. That's something else that could maybe be amusing, except it's not...that's where I usually start sleeptalking (and when you take something like Ambien, you're well aware of this phenomenon), or worse...my body tends to physically react to what I'm dreaming, and that's where I start kicking or flailing my arms or whatever. I'm a bitch to sleep with sometimes. I'll probably decline the invitation to spend a night in the arms of a woman again, even if/when I recover my ability to charm one convincingly enough to get to that stage in the evening's faux-relationship commencement. But even more so than that, or the racing thoughts that can chokingly occur when your whole body wants nothing but sleep except your brain, was the wind whipping around. If I'm not careful when I close the window, there's a tiny gap where the frame doesn't seal...and when the wind really gets going it sounds like a Civil War band leading the troops into town before they burn it down. The pitch of the air moving is high like a flute, but the wind itself hits the building like the guys who do nothing but march and bang a drum strapped to their chests. Again, something that could be amusing, when it's not terrifying that Downtown Cortland could maybe be under siege by dudes in funny hats and band-geek threads with muskets. It's incredible that I manage to even sleep at all sometimes, let alone nights when that becomes an issue.  Maybe somewhere in Ireland, I don't remember specifically...but that's where we are. When U2 was writing mediocre soundtrack songs and trying to save the world from AIDS, Glen Hansard and The Frames were writing U2 songs for a generation of kids who missed out on U2's "Joshua Tree" era. Songs that rocked and were also emotionally stimulating...everything U2 stopped doing once Bono joined Madonna and Spam as one-word household names. It was there that I decided we needed to do something to memorialize this trip in a way that went beyond what we were writing about. We needed a monument. "I built a monument to every word that's passed between us... The roof is cracked and the walls are falling As all those bitter words flow back into the sea." Lyrics. **Bonus fun fact: Before iTunes, Fitzcarraldo was hard to come by in the US and seemed to exist here only in legend. My boy DMFM got me into them, and had mentioned he was looking for this but hadn't seen a physical copy locally (this was back when Buffalo still had a few solid indie record shops). And it had a rudimentary drawing of a boat on the cover. It's probably their strongest album, top-to-bottom, so buy it.  Waiting for the post office to open, and hopefully stop raining again, so I can send out a couple little cards to some members of "The Snail Mail Forum" . Been meaning to do it for awhile. And nothing fancy...the card itself is kinda corny-lookin', but I couldn't find any decent Cortland-themed postcards and I wanted to shop local, so I wound up at Mullen Office Outfitters and they were really nice. They've been in business here for decades, and sometimes you can still see the owner at his desk in the front window. It's a nice setting. Sure, I could've probably saved a buck or two by getting some crappy Hallmark cards from CVS, but it's important to support local businesses like this one. Anyway, there's maybe like 12-14 cards going out today, all over the world...I lost count as soon as I screwed up the first envelope with my terrible handwriting, but who cares about that? It's a really cool thing Elle - on hiatus  has going on in the WDC community with this, and I'm happy I'm just a tiny little member of it. It's a struggle sometimes (for me), but here's an important lesson about keeping your personal drama off Facebook . I mentioned Buck 65 a few entries back, and I'm a fan of his work...had a few of his cd's, heard there was a divorce involved, knew he was writing a book but didn't recall he was hosting a radio show too, and his posts are usually very thoughtful and informative. That last reason is kinda why it's sad to air stuff like your divorce and your feelings on social media. I get it; I know artists are human and I'm not alone in having posted mini-freakouts in the past and I've really tried to cut down on them. But maybe it helps some people work through whatever it is they're struggling with. What sucks is that people suffer at all. Meanwhile, let's wrap up on a happy note that can potentially help us in our search for reason and philosophy in a confusing and oftentimes messed-up world.And boom, I'm done here. It's 9am. What the hell am I gonna do with the rest of my day? Peace, when all's been said and done the time will come, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
** Image ID #2036546 Unavailable ** "You’re in your bed after a long day of touristing and you hear something. After investigating, what do you find out the noise was?"What is up? Touristing...I like that word. I don't think it gets used often enough. Is it even a word, or something someone just verbed out of a noun? Doesn't matter...I'm good with it. One of my absolute biggest pet peeves is having to get out of bed once I've finally gotten settled. It doesn't happen often, but often enough that I hate it. In italics, quadruple-a level hate. Because 99 times out of 100, it's always something so meaningless, yet can't wait until the morning...like refilling the bedside glass of water, or having to pee even though you went through your whole bedtime routine totally not having to pee. Little things. It's always the little things that seem to cause the biggest little hissyfits. It's springtime, and the weather is nicer, which normally means good things...sunshine, windows open, girls in short shorts, and music coming out of everywhere signifying life has restarted after another nasty winter. All stuff I'm generally ok with (unless you have no business wearing revealing attire...but that's probably another conversation we'll have once I'm thoroughly sick of seeing it happen in my daily travels). I'm trying really hard not to be bitter. It's way too early in the good-weather season for that. But dammit the day I find the guy who plays his bongos at random hours...someone needs to start a defense fund for all the jail I'll be looking at. I can't see him from any perspective when I look out the windows, but oh, he's there. And he sucks. I can appreciate a well-played bongo. He is not a well-playing bongo-er. Would I be if I had bongo drums? Probably not, because the noises that happen when I have played them aren't the same ones I envisioned. And that's what this a-hole sounds like. Let your four-year-old beat on some Tupperware for awhile- with hands and/or wooden spoons- that's what happens when I'm starting to relax and unwind. The moment I start to think life could kinda be ok, the mariachi band dropout decides to let the neighborhood know from his porch how terrible of a person he is by taking it out on his whatevers. And it kills me that I can't see him, but I can hear him. (And yes, I keep saying him, because his voice carries when he plays, so it's a him. And fuck him.) If any of you cats see him, I'll expect no less than a thunder-punching in my name directed at his throat. I know I can count on you. I like peaceful, melodic existences. If you're gonna get a noisy hobby you're painfully awful at, do it where no one can hear you. I need all the beauty sleep I can get, ya hear? And I don't need it being effed up by something just getting out of bed and using plumbing can solve. A classic nautically-themed album . I don't think there's ever been such a thing before, and I hope there are more like it. Sorry it's all depressing and a downer (visually). I have a friend who just had a kid and is going through some not-great stuff, which makes me trying to just get some decent sleep at night pale. I can't say I wouldn't be the woman in this video. Breaks my burnt-to-ash heart the more I watch it."I hope that you like it in your little motel and I hope that the suite sleeps and suits you well." Lyrics.  Yes, I love hockey. I've played it (on driveways and in rec leagues, but not on skates though...that's crazy!) and I am a Buffalo Sabres fan. I kinda sorta like the NHL, and I kinda sorta dont. The league held their draft lottery last night. Being that the Sabres were the worst team in the league, they standed the biggest chance of landing the #1 overall pick. And in true Buffalo fashion, they lost. 100% guaranteed top 2 pick, 20% number one. I'm pretty sure our winning ping-pong balls are under the Jumbotron that crashed after it was installed at First Niagara Center (or Marine Midland Arena, or The Crossroads, or HSBC, or the effin' center-reader's choice). Edmonton, holder of three 1st-round loser trophies picks in the last six years, scored another last night. This is infuriating because sometimes bad teams need to get really bad to move on past their good days and the glory their long-removed superstars took them to. Edmonton? They're a prime example of the league needing to reconsider contraction . I will very gladly admiral the ship that sinks while screaming Quebec needs the Nordiques back or- gasp- Hartford gets to enjoy the Whalers again.And I'm not totally mad either. We knew the Sabres were gonna suck legendary ass this year. And we also knew we had a chance for either Connor McDavid or Jack Eichel . Generational talents. Franchise-flippers. Get your heads back in the game fans and your asses outta the seats. Them kinda boys. But Edmonton. All that is currently wrong with the league. And they get McDavid? Whoa. Every freaking article I've read about this makes me think it's a forgone conclusion the Oilers are taking him. The actual draft is in two months. Don't wake me up until then. And I don't really care which one drops to the Sabres at #2 now. because they're both good and it's playoff season, so go Blues. Remember that year Gretzky was traded to St. Louis? Bought me a Blues jersey and they got bounced, first round I think. Hockey. It's fickle. Go to "Invalid Item" and let's talk about it. Come sit next to PandaPaws Licensed VetTech  and I at the table all bejeezus'd out in the home whites with blue and gold trim.  Please and thank you for allowing me to rant. Make sure you tip your bartenders. Peace, that's what I'm waiting for aren't I, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! Someone please get him a Genny Light instead. |
** Image ID #2036546 Unavailable ** "It’s time for art. What place do you want to see? Do you have a craft you want demo’ed? Would you like to take a class somewhere?"Word. So I'm on this boat, right? So I can get away with admissions that maybe I wouldn't get away with in public? Cool. If you're cool. It is very obvious I don't understand much that passes itself off as art anymore (shameless plug). Or ever. Split the difference and keep the change. Last time I went to a real art museum , they were hosting a giant Wilco concert on the front lawn, a guy I used to work with was drumming for one of the opening bands , and I was getting lotsa pissed that the girl at the time I was dating left all our available cash/beer money in the glove box. I was able to cajole her disheveled, nearly passed-out ass into slow-dancing to our favorite, "Kingpin" , under a bunch of stars in the gall-dang Buffalo tapestry. Couldn't have asked for a better moment.Drunk girlfriends are worse than their boyfriends, husbands, and the shady scum that hits on them. Don't judge me. But art...somewhere along the lines, we had a mutual friend named Art. He was a teacher, a kickass Hip enthusiast, and partook in many recreational drugs. Dude got me so brownie-high at a Hip show in Syracuse, I was a blubbering mess and couldn't appreciate the beauty of 'Cuse's Landmark Theatre for its similarities to Shea's Buffalo. And lawd, they both some enormous, ornate entities. Pay all the good sums of money to see anything in either place, even if the car ride back is just apologizing about how great the car ride is. Anyway, so Art is a d-bag and did I mention he shinny'd most Sunday mornings with this batshit girl's husband? Like, Connect-The-Dots, grossly fucked up edition. Hubby, ex-hubby, whatever...meant something to me, but not so much her. Like, there's suddenly a difference? Do some tax returns and let me know how that works out, and maybe steal from me too a little, because that's what divorced-but-don't-wanna-get-divorced people do, apparently. Where was I? I took a nap...sorry. Art, yeah. I just don't have the appreciation for it yet. I'm not uncultured about it by any means, I don't think. I'm just...it's not my favorite thing. Seems like now the new thing to do is to bring a bottle of wine and a group of friends to some workspace where they charge you for the right to make your own art that you can be proud of and hang in your house like you're good at it. I'm sure it's a good idea and a fun memory, but it's not for me in that I wouldn't expect people to understand me splashing around words in a notebook using only cheap beer and a bunch of bad life choices as inspiration. But that's why I do this, and other people have friends and lives and stuff. I did, however, finally delve into the realm of body art for the first time. Not much, just two small tattoos, one for each wrist. I think I'm good for awhile now. But what struck me most in trying to take pictures of them was not how hard taking pictures of your hands is, but how freakishly tiny my hands look up close in pictures. Infant-like. They'd be cute if they werent, you know, my hands. And really, my fingers are more like sausage links sticking out of a pancake, only less appetizing and more gnarled. It's quite phenomenal what the human hands can withstand over time; I only have one superdeformed crooked pinkie as the result of numerous sports-related hand injuries. It sucks holding a pen now for prolonged periods of time, and my handwriting resembles straight garbage compared to the relative charm it used to have, but hey...we're not all supermodels here. At least, I think we're not. "I think you saw me confronting my fear, it went up with a bottle and went down with the beer." Lyrics. No vitals tonight; no box scores. Just happy to have made it through today with only a smidgen of heartburn and my self-worth still completely intact. Peace, I think I saw you, and GOODNIGHT NOW!!   |
** Image ID #2036546 Unavailable ** "Several people have already mentioned a beach. Today our excursion is to a beach. Where are we going? What are you wearing? If you hate beaches, what will you be doing while the rest of us bask in the sun? Be sure to wear sunscreen!"Well, here we are on the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" 's Voyage Of The Magical ship, and we've decided use today as a beach excuse excursion. I am very okay with this, because if there's one thing I wish I did a lot more of in the last twenty years or so, it'd be spending time doing lots of nothing somewhere on a beach. Outside of one family cruise vacation and one trip to a local beach (yes, there are beaches in Buffalo...they're just not always available or, ahem, swimmable  ) with a woman and her two small children, it's just not something that ever came up in my circle of friends. And that's odd considering the numerous amount (ok, ridiculous amount) of swim trunks I've owned throughout my life. I've even been to Savannah, GA and Miami, and managed to not get to the shore (but I blame family functions and my ex, who couldn't go anywhere on vacation without getting migraines). So yes, I'm taking advantage from here on out of anyone suggesting a day at the beach. I owe it to myself, and I deserve it. Someone (I will neither confirm nor deny it was me  ) suggested we all play some volleyball, and to my surprise most of us were down with the idea. Now, my volleyball days are about ten years, twenty pounds, and three ankle surgeries behind me...so you didn't think I actually would suggest a sport that requires lots of jumping up and down and running on a beach because I wanted to play it, did you?   Besides, the Roomba Polo tournaments were starting to get a little too competitive even for me, so maybe it was a good idea to get off the boat for awhile and engage in some other form of horseplay group activities. Yeah, that's it. So we divided up into teams (those playing), and I offered to be a completely impartial line judge. To, you know, take the most advantage of my skill sets. And that also meant that probably half my in/out calls were wrong, because I really didn't care about what happened on the side of the court I wasn't seated on. It might even be fair to assume I had no vested interest in the gameplay or the rules...I just wanted to make sure I did enough to make it look I did. I'm just bein' honest...that's what you get when you put me in that position . Anyway, it's all well and good until Andre ambled over in his red-and-white striped, "lifeguard from the 1930's" get-up with his super-short yellow trunks on. When the ball rolled just beyond anyone's reach he bolted over to it like it was the last banana on the planet and took off. He's a runner, that one. And because we're humans, we just kinda stared dumbfounded for a few extra seconds because a monkey dressed like a lifeguard just stole our ball. I don't think there's a rule for what to do when that happens. By the time we caught up with him, he was reclining on his side with the ball propping himself up under his arm, monkey-chatting up a few sunbathing strangers with the tops of their bikinis, well, compromised for the sake of being tanline-less. Andre's definitely a playa. We introduced ourselves, apologized for the inconvenience, and tried to get the volleyball back from him. The girls he was talking to stopped giggling once they realized Andre was being a total dickwad about the ball, and started gathering their...things...once the tussle broke out. After some awkwardly prolonged rolling around, I managed to wrestle the ball away and cuddled it like a fat lineman who's just pounced on a fumble in a football game. I exhaled in a moment of sweet relief, and that bastard Andre got up and kicked sand all up in and around my face. He stomped off like a toddler who didn't get his way. I may never sneeze the same again. Even in my own blog, I'm still getting bullied at the beach. Maybe it's good I've hardly ever gone to one before. But we managed to recover and still have a nice time, sans a pouting primate who decided to get overserved at the tiki bar on banana split shots (which I've never had, but I imagine would be some disgusting combination of banana vodka, hazelnut chocolate liqueur, and strawberry something or other (and I'm not Googling it for the sake of the story because screw him). And of course he was surrounded by a ridiculous amount of ridiculously gorgeous women, like he was telling war stories about that time he was the hero in Planet Of The Apes and the subsequent straight-to-dvd releases (he wasn't). Must be good to be a monkey. Fittingly, when it was time for us all to start heading back to the ship, no one could get within ten feet of Andre. His crowd had swelled, and not a one of them acknowledged us when we said we had to leave. There's always that one guy in every group. Of course someone (again, neither confirming nor denying it was me ) said "Fuck him...let him find his own way back!" and we started to march off. "Y'all say what you want about 'oh too bad he won't come with us' and 'he's sooooo popular!', but he kicked sand in all my faceholes. You people..." and suddenly my voice was drowned out by a screaming whoosh from overhead. A kick in my stomach's pit could only mean Andre would find us again, and sooner than later. I guess I can at least respect that.  There is absolutely no shortage of music that triggers beachy feelings, and this was the first one that came to mind today- even though it has nothing to do with a beach. But when I picture myself among friends, guzzling beer on a super-nice Saturday afternoon at the beach, there's a giant old-school boom box on a blanket struggling to crank this up over our conversation. "And we don't need the ladies cryin' 'cuz the story's sad... 'cuz the Rocky Mountain Way is better than the way we had." Lyrics.  You guys remember when FOX had that sketch comedy show In Living Color? Maybe not, because it was around almost from the time FOX launched, which makes me sound old, but you might've seen reruns or whatever. Anyway, Grantland ran an interesting article today basically pitting it as the winner accolades-wise statistically against Saturday Night Live. While I've made no secret about how much I love SNL and have for years, regardless of the cast or the "it's a down year" chatter (that seems to happen pretty much every season), ILC was also a groundbreaking show and convinced me at an impressionable age that if their were still racial divides in the early nineties, comedy was gonna at least bridge (if not fill in completely) the gaps. With ILC, it came on early enough that I didn't have to set the vcr, and there were musical guests I'd only be able to see otherwise if I went to my grandmother's house (she had cable, so I could watch Yo! MTV Raps! when I went there). I still wish I had that vhs copy of the Michael Jordan/Public Enemy SNL episode I probably watched a hundred times, but ILC spawned more talent across the board as far as accolades received by regular talent in a few years than SNL did over 40. Truth. Homey don't play dat. I'm a spoiled wreck again. Finally broke down yesterday and found/purchased a stylus I could use for my tablet to replace the one I lost months ago...and by the first paragraph of typing this entry, I knew I was in trouble. My fingers were so back into the muscle memory of having one that my words were all over the place and out of sync, expecting the stylus to replace my right hand. And that's weird, because I'd never written an entry on this while also having a stylus, which makes me wonder how screwed I'll be for a little bit once I get my laptop back (and I need to call on that repair claim tomorrow, because I haven't heard from the place since I dropped it off). But it's funny how quickly readjustment can happen when circumstances forced you to make do with something lesser in the first place...I can't imagine how stuck I'd be trying to readapt to crossword puzzles if my building no longer came with free wifi. When I was laid up for awhile and couldn't get access I rediscovered my crossword magic for the time, and there was a few hours a month or two back where the router was being switched out and had to rely on some newspapers I had...and I was all of the sudden the worst crossword puzzle person ever. And while I do enjoy them, please please please let me never have to rely on them again for my intellectual stimulation. I'm now too dependant on spell-checkers, and my pop culture knowledge is nowhere near on par now with someone who does challenging crosswords on a regular basis (the NY Times or LA Daily News or Chicago Tribune...the syndicated ones). I almost miss world disconnectment.  And finally, I was bored late last night, not ready yet for bed but not wanting to get into heavy lifting word-wise, so I started thinking again about tattoos...more specifically, putting my first one on me and where and when, so long as I don't have to pay a buttload for it or my laptop. Came up with a couple ideas (based on what I'd forgotten about that I'd liked before}, and slept on it. Today, while browsing Facebook waiting to get hungry enough to consider maybe getting a breakfast sandwich, more than once did I come across this:  And I'm not one who jumps on the first god damn sign I see, but I fucking love it. That's it. That's what I want. And I don't care. I'm good...the Public Enemy logo ; the Chinese translation of balance ; that "716" above my heart. Those can wait if I waited so long already. Got my life together enough this afternoon to get a sesame bagel with bacon, egg, and cheese from a place I don't always go to and wasn't my first choice today but that's where I found myself at, and this unassuming otherwise (besides cute as all get-out) girl had it on her outer upper arm. No need to stare, no need to scrutinize her for scars, no need to ask if it was a tat or well-done Sharpie. No questions asked, and maybe I should've but I also know sometimes you just don't ask. But it was fucking amazing. And sometimes you just want food so you can GTFO and they want you to GTFO. But I saw it. And I had that "ommmmm" moment where the earth above and below me collided in unsaid mutual consent. My story wasn't ended by a period. There are still semicolons going on. No one tattoos a period and lives to tell about it. Now, I just have to do it. And I don't care if the pic says "2013" or whatever. Share it with anyone you want, any way you want. Just spread the freakin' word...your story isn't finished yet; if you're here it isn't, and you've still got work to do for someone, somewhere, yet to come. I hate the idea of omens, but fuck me if this day hasn't been all one big day-long neon "get your fucking life going" sign. Ok, well, I think that's plenty enough from me for another day. Peace, time to change, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
** Image ID #2036546 Unavailable ** "The group is between sight seeing excursions. To pass the time, let’s tell a twisted fairy tale -- something where Cinderella was a fellow, Red Riding Hood was the wolf, or Mother Goose is running Wall Street.Ahoy gang! Two days in a row now I've done this, without most of the absurdity that made up yesterday's entry. That's alright though. I'm not really sure how I feel about that fairy tale business...part of me wants to be able to allow myself at least a few moments of fantasy once in awhile, but most of the time I'm just like "naw man, if none of that Cinderella/Prince Charming stuff hasn't happened for real by the time you finished elementary school, it sure as shit ain't happenin' now". Sometimes seeing what the world is really like as a realistic, grown-ass man kinda bums everything out that way. That, and I think I broke my imagination trying to come up with yesterday's entry. I've never been comfortable writing fiction anyway, let alone a fairy tale, and I've had kinda a stressful day as it is so far (more on that later), so I'm just not feelin' it. But there was that one morning early on when Charlie ~ , Brother Nature  , Andre and I were hangin' out on the deck just watching the waves. There might have been copious amounts of cheap island rum consumed the night before out of bottles with names I can't pronounce consisting of letters there definitely aren't in the English language. Logically, one could stand to assume that when you're not seeing things straight, being on a moving vessel that sits on an infinite expanse of rollicking waters should cancel the former out, and everything looks pretty ok. But we all know that being on a boat after drinking questionable spirits is probably the absolute worst thing for your equilibrium...but we're also not taking this trip because we want to make good choices.So there's us three good men and a monkey, pondering life's worth after the previous evening, when lo and behold...as if the sun spotted the only giant rock remaining stationary in the sea just to shine down upon it like a spotlight meant for only us to see, the ocean parted our eyes enough to make contact with an honest-to-god mermaid. Like any seamen of questionable intentions, we seized upon the opportunity to serve the situation as only we could. What follows is the ship's artist rendition of what exactly pretty much kinda sorta went down:  Charlie leaned over the rail and, well, I've seen people puke before, and puke hard, but not so much and not that color. If unicorns poop rainbows, Charlie must've somehow swallowed a confetti machine set on maximum propulsion. Joel, flummoxed by the whole sight, concentrated a good ten minutes on trying to return my jaw to its normal, very slight overbite position. And somewhere in our manufactured chaos, Andre's manic chirp-howl got quieter and quieter, like a band in concert playing out a live fade. By the time we regained most of our composure, he was nowhere to be found. We fell away from distance, as if the mermaid was watching us like zoo animals and she was ready to see another exhibit. In moments, she was gone. They always leave before you can comprehend what you've just seen. Maybe it was best if we all laid down for awhile (seperately, of course...what kind of cruise do you think this is?) and agreed to reconvene around dinner time. As we rejoined the rest of our party, all we could do was exchange nervous glances at each other while the ladies were talking about how much fun they had during that afternoon's thing that happened and how much more less-crazy things were when the boys weren't around...and mid-chew Charlie just up and blurted "Guys we saw a mermaid and it wasn't weird or anything at all!!" like a little kid awkwardly trying to conceal a secret from his folks about a committed atrocity he was almost ready to burst from. Joel and I just looked at him like "nooooo...no, this isn't happening" when Andre finally strolled in like monkeys do when they've won some kind of freakshow lottery (which, for the record, I don't know what that looks like, but if I did that's how he would make his entrance). His arrival pretty much took all the heat and attention off us. Because when Andre smiled...everyone wanted to know why his front teeth were chipped. If you're checking the Captain's Log for the fairy tale box scores, the moral (among many others in this experience) is: No matter how hard you imagine that certain things will or won't happen in life based on what you've learned or read about before, there will no doubt always be a surprise or two once you're actually put in that situation. Even for the wayward monkey.   "After having the worst, the most tiresome day ever, who do you wish to come home to: someone, some animal, or something imagined?" Ok, I didn't have a terrible day, but it wasn't great, and I'm a little mentally worn out from it, because sure normal people go through life in these ways all the time without incident...which is why I'm gonna let you in on a secret. I left the house today for the longest stretch of time that didn't include going to my mom's for Christmas. That doesn't sound so bad in context...most everything I need is in a three-block walk from my building, so it's not like I've starved myself or suffered some great tragedy that's required me to be be non-social since pretty much back in October when I had a sudden swing in my mental state and, well, those details are neither here nor there, because they're not relevant. But I haven't had a great 2015 so far either. Around the first of the year, my laptop stopped working. I flipped my bed around to take advantage of a different outlet because the cord on my tablet doesn't go as far as my laptop's does, and I like to fall asleep watching whatever mindless crap I get sucked into on Hulu. And somehow during the first night after I did that, I must've kicked my nightstand hard enough in my pharmaceutically-induced sleep and then stepped on my glasses while getting up for a drink of water in the middle of the night. When I woke up they were bent as fuck, and I've been dealing with it ever since because "having an eyecare place within three blocks" wasn't a prerequisite I guess when I moved here...and they're plastic frames, so I don't trust myself trying to bend them back without totally busting them. But I don't live close enough to anywhere that getting that taken care of isn't a hassle. I've just dealt with screwy vision until my eyes adjusted and completely not given a fuck that they sit crooked on my face, until the fitting got so bad that, well, anyone who's ever worn an ill-fitting pair of glasses before will tell you that pain behind your ears is one rung below all the excruciating pains of childbirth or getting kicked where a good lord intended you to reproduce from. So I finally made it my mission to get that taken care of today, which meant getting on a crosstown bus...and because I like to make these things economical to me in terms of time and doing other things, the best opportunity has been now when I can (worst-case scenario) get new glasses, and go somewhere that maybe I can also grocery shop and get a bite to eat that isn't something I can just pop out of a can on a whim. I made today a frickin' nonstop feelgood day of taking care of shit. And there's always a problem when I do that, because why wouldn't there be? Even after preparing myself for months about the worst things that could happen. That's why I don't leave the house. I could finally get myself over everything that could possibly go wrong, and yet there's the one or two things I didn't take in to account, and that's always what happens. I was not aware the bus company jacked up the one-way rate from $1 to $1.50. Luckily I had some singles and a weird accumulation of pocket change, as I dislike carrying cash. No big deal, other than how this increase didn't make its way to my knowledge of things I should know. The glasses place is in an old, busted strip plaza. And around the corner from that is another (more updated one), with a supermarket and Staples and a...lot more unvacant storefronts. Grab my iPod, a spare bus token I had laying around, put on the optimistic face, made a grocery list that wasn't drug store canned goods, and slashed legs over to the bus stop. Timed it great too, because I didn't have to wait for notoriously late public transportation. I'm thinkin' this is all gonna be a fantastic day. I even lucked out at the Dollar General and found an $8-nice pair of shorts I wasn't even looking for, because finding a bottle of water there that isn't Pepsi/Coke-contracted out is like unicorn hunting in <fuck this place>. But even that was like 73 cents once I saw it, so yay. And then the eye place. I get it...he's a local shop, doesn't take lotsa insurance plans that are, ahem, gummament-funded, and he wants to make a buck. But never have I ever walked into any place that sells glasses for who or whatever is paying for or has paid for them, looking for just an adjustment, and was told "well, there's no one waiting", asked if I'd purchased them from there specifically, and then charged for the honor of having my glasses restored to their unbent-state. And I'm not the person who'll quibble over $5, but for the love of humanity, when I've never paid a dime anywhere to get basically a courtesy "I'll put that back in place for you", I don't care how super nice you are to me once you get me in that chair between the lobby tv and the back-room-where-the-glasses-fixing-magic-happens radio's noise...if you make it so I can't see for a few minutes when 34/40ths of my life has depended on an object to aid in something to create a visually unblurry world, and then pump a noise into each side of my head that I can't completely discern but know it is there, I'm gonna get lotsa frumpy lotsa fast. Especially when you're five-dollaring me for something I always got no-questions free for all of my life. Whatever, but I'm slowly going from  to But now I'm getting hungry, and the supermarket has a hot food bar, so I totally went beyond my appetite and $6.99/lb'd up on mashed potatoes and pulled chicken in gravy. Let's not even get into how I felt when I got home and realized maybe that chicken was like the 99-cent chili at Wendy's where the meat is leftover unsold previous day's hamburgers, but from a rotisserie chicken. I'm still in a daytime "don't kill someone" prescription antidepressant change, which is also playing hell on my appetite, and now I don't know when I'm eating too much and my body wants to go into food coma mindstate instead of nourishment. I also went into the supermarket looking for Yancey's Fancy Horseradish Cheese , which goes far above and beyond the dairy brand bricks of cheddar you can get at the drug stores pretty much anywhere in their stupid limited dairy cases. Walked into Tops thinking I'd spend $15-$20 between that, some Tricuits, and turkey pepperoni. Nope. Almost $50 not including the hot bar fat kid meal, because all the sudden I'm gonna eat healthy again and make coldcut wraps so I needed the two pounds of meat, the pound of cheese, the (thankfully b1g1) tortillas, the lettuce, the diced tomatoes with green chiles, the onions, and the new bottles of bleu cheese and hot sauce. Which is all well and good until I decide I need to continue eating more of this, overserve myself and get the lethargics from that, and run out before I get more. Or it all dies in my fridge before I can finish it...which'll probably piss me off even more. Plus side? I'm done eating out. Minus side? I'm so fucking lazy, and what I say goes for now might not be my attitude in one or six months. And eating...healthier...is pricier to maintain. Basically, all the shit I didn't worry about for the last six months is now up in my head stirring debates. And I'm nearing food coma because of my choices. And my surgically-repaired ankle is telling me how much I don't give a fuck about it by not walking it more often. It's done. It wants to go home. So I go out for the bus, and decide I've got time, so I'll go to the other not-Dollar General dollar store, because yeah I still wanted to replace that stylus I lost around Xmas for my tablet. I declined at DG not on the 3/$5 pack because why do I need three and no I won't be stupid and lose one again, but this is the craptastic full of crap kind of store, and Staples is next door, so they've gotta have one, but no. I don't need the $17-$30 high-end nonsense they carry, and the more I looked the more the price shot up, and BAM!! There's that food coma kicking in, telling me to GTFO of there because you need to poop and nap and only one of those options is preferable in public, as much as I hate public bathrooms and carrying the more-than-I-needed purchases back into a store I just left. And if I hated pooping publically...of course a family would walk into the store behind me and need to take care of their kid's shitty diaper and the dad's needing to urinate while I'm butt-destroying a public facility, wanting to go home, and not getting the stupid electronics accessory I don't need but would like. Calming down once I did get home took me forever. So much unnapping took place. And I'm so sorry that I just spent forever whining about it, but come the fuck on. I don't leave the house much because all the shit that bothers me when I leave the house happens, and someone's gotta hear about it. Thank you for listening, and my apologies if it wasn't what you were expecting to hear today from me, but that's the life and how it'll change is still something I'm trying to work on, but I can't change people that aren't me and have no idea that I could have a problem with their actions because my shorts are down. Not that I'd engage them beyond passing pleasantries fully anyway when I'm not thinking I should poop over napping, because I just don't care too often, but dammit. If I'm passing judgments upon myself, someone else might be too, and piss on that whole mindset when it's true so much less often than I concern myself with. And/but/ugggghhh, however you want to get prepositional about it, I made it back on to a bus and sure enough, my iPod wouldn't play. Great, now I'm thinking...OMFG, I get one thing fixed like my glasses, and now something else shits itself on me in the one time (using the bus) I wanted it most to perform. The majority of people don't fuck with you if you have earbuds in, and even if they do you can always be like "Huh? Earbuds, sorry." and they go away aurically. I took them out to cash out at Dollar General, and I swear I wasn't listening to a B-52's song when I finally had the presence of mind to put them back in, but I know I would've skipped over "52 Girls" if that was the place I did in fact leave off on (and don't get me started on why that's even in my collection anymore). A ten minute bus ride home isn't long enough to clear this out one one's own. But I did get it fixed once I got home, without my laptop, which tomorrow will be a week and if...so, yeah, I'm anticipating that like bigtime. But anyway, I forgot the whole menu/center reset thing, and was trying play/pause/center, so I felt like a jerk once I got it to start playing again. And it went nicely right into... ...A once-obscure bootleg of Radiohead's "The Bends" . And this pleased me. But sometimes you just want all your shit to be working at the same time, and at the times you need it to most. I can't wait to feel like what that feels like again. "I jumped in the river and what did I see? Black-eyed angels swam with me. There was nothing to fear, nothing to doubt." Lyrics.  Thank your good lords it was a beautiful day outside...like 70-degree, sorry I wore a hoodie, still don't sleep with the window open beautiful day. That April good day. Remember back in November when Buffalo got destroyed by seven feet of snow or more in some places? That was five months ago today, and since it's all nice out, apparently in the outskirts of Cheektowaga a memorial has surfaced in a strip plaza that should've been razed years ago. When small towns overdevelop, and corporations fold or pull out once they got too big, the developers use the decrepit parking lots to put snow in/on/around. And with the plows comes everyone else's litter and street garbage. And that's why this happens. Ok, well, sorry to bore you with some rants or nonsense that took a lot longer to do than I thought or felt. Hopefully gonna get the rest of my nutjob techiness concerns knocked out quick and I can convince myself to sleep good and long at a decent hour tonight. Peace, all the stars and astral cars, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
** Image ID #2036546 Unavailable ** "It’s time for music! Tell us where we are going to hear some. Are we going to an opera? A concert? Are we listening to some chamber music or a grand choir? Tell us about the evening.Good afternoon mateys! Sorry for mostly keeping to myself so far on our voyage...I've been trying to stay busy though, and sometimes that's kept me from interacting the way I normally would under different circumstances. What have I been up to? Finishing posting the ironically-now titled works of loose poetry from 2003-2005 from my 18-gallon bin of writings, "Cabin Fever" ...and because I'm a glutton for punishment, this will lead directly to its follow-up, "Slurred Emotions (highlights)" (but don't get married to that item number, because it might change- I'm not sure yet how I'm gonna work that, because there are awards and reviews and stuff that I wanna maintain). So there's that. You could say I've been using my downtime from the ship to kick back against a large rock near the shore and bust out some poems...I won't hold that against you. Then there's the whole judging of the March round of the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" , which I haven't forgotten about. I've been working the internet wires, rounding up my faithful guest-judges, but I'm not putting a timetable yet on announcing the winners because again, I'm just behind. Fulfilling the Cabin Fever project to myself has lead me down this road, and I won't complain if you hold that against me. And then, I decided to upgrade to Premium on WDC last night, which lead to a flurry of emails from the shop and support. All I've gotten out of it so far is the costumicon though, but I can already feel the sweat of another portfolio reorganizing dripping down my back (no thanks of course to my mentioned "Slurred Emotions" collection coming back to life in full). But I'm not making excuses and I don't expect anyone to fully understand, even if the reality is some might because here we are on WDC doing what it is we love isn't trying to kill us in the feels...I'm sure all of your ports are properly updated and manicured and are waiting for your inclusion into some national registry just right. So on that note, we're taking a break today just to hear some music (or in my case, not taking a break anymore just to hear some). Sure, you could go to mine or Charlie ~ 's bunks and peruse the vast selection of vinyl records we brought at any time, or catch Brother Nature and Lyn's a sly fox  down in the ship's lobby slow-dancing to the love theme from Titanic, but sometimes you just wanna have a classic blues/rock Canadian dance party in the hallways when it's time to recharge the Roombas after another intense round of Roomba Polo league play (updated standings coming soon). There's tallboys of Labatt Blue available at the bar (and Blue Light for the misses), so let's all shake what mama gave us. Sometimes I feel so good I wanna scream...she said "Norby baby, I know exactly what you mean." She said...I swear to god she said...so we headed to the shore and put our feet back up on the banks. I looked up to the Lord above and said "Hey Buck 65, thanks!" The memory is muddy; what's this river that I'm in? "New Orleans is sinkin' man and I don't wanna swim...swim!" I was taken back to the first job I had, at the aquarium in the killer whale tank . The killer whale tank! The killer whale tank ? Killer whale tank. I was in the CNS Union, the clean 'n scrub, and I cleaned the killer whale tank. And I made friends with Shamu and Bartholomew, while cleaning the killer whale tank. All one word...killerwhaletank. I told them, "I don't wanna steal your mommy, and I don't wanna take the place of your daddy...I just wanna be your friend!". And then they ripped my left arm off, because unbeknownst to whales, I can't hear a god damn thing underwater. Killer whale tank. But what if I need my left arm to load bowling ball cannons? What if I need to defend my ship and maybe even my country some day? My orange bowling ball, the 15-pound one with the guitar that was enscripted with the word "Boogie" over it and beared my initials on the other side? Who else has a sweet-ass bowling ball they can sacrifice on this ship? I lost mine in a basement in Lancaster and maybe it's in a South Buffalo pawn shop on the way to the cozy Orchard Park suburbs...have you seen my arm? I can't be a Greek God hero without it. Who's got a bowling ball? Killer whale tank. The killer whale tank does. Why does the water look like an aquarium? Why does...why is this so intense? But why? I was raised on tv, like so many of you. Right? Pull! Ch-ch...boom! And no religion too...this is a Sunday? Don't we feel compelled to give thanks today, because all the good tv is on later in the week anyway? Killer whale tank. Killer whale tank?  Killerwhaletank. But the pirates...and Jesus Christ, a big fuckin' bear!! With no religion too. Pull! Ch-ch...pull! PULL!! Boom-ch-ch...boom!I just wanna dance. The kids, they dance and shake their bones. I just wanna...dance. I can't feel my arm...I can't feel your arms around me without my arm. Marilyn Monroe is dead. I can't feel my arm. And shhhh...we all go to heaven in a little rowboat like psssh, hit the low note. We all go to heaven in a little rowboat. But he holley, Elvis Presley...psssh, hit the low note. We all go to heaven in a little rowboat. Like psssh...1957 . 1957. Every good Canadian band needs a song about a nautical disaster. This song is called "Nautical Disaster". Anyway Susan, if you'd like...a conversation...just make a sound in my memory, with those fingernails...scratchin'... on my heart in a lifeboat, designed for ten or ten only... and we're headin' for home... it's not a fear and nor a test.. Well, we've done it folks. We're back here again at the hundredth meridian. It's just a line. Just gotta step over it. Peace, I remember Buffalo, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! "If I die of vanity promise me promise me it's somewhere I don't want to be." |
** Image ID #2036546 Unavailable ** "When you enter your assigned room with attached bathroom on the ship, it’s bare. You may decorate and furnish your room any way you like – just say it or wish it. The only limitation is you only have one port window. Tell us what the room looks like after you finish with it."Welcome back to day two of the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" 's leisure cruise extravaganza thingy! You know, where they pile a bunch of bloggers on a fictional boat for a month and pray none of us kills anyone we enjoy a calming ride along the waves of our literary destinies, or something. I guess the first thing I'd have to decide before I decorate is whether or not anyone else will be seeing this room besides me. Will I be hosting a boys night poker party? Am I gonna lure a saucy mermaid to my cabin? Perhaps I'll be throwing a swanky snack party. Or, none of that. It's good to know this sorta stuff, because if the only person I'm entertaining is me, then why bother? I get bored fast and it's a lot of work making a place look nice for just one person. Here's how I see it...it's only temporary. If I build it, aren't I eventually only gonna hafta take it down anyway? It's not like I've ever set up shop in a hotel room and hung paintings or ordered flowers or demanded an overstuffed recliner. That's why I visit and don't live there...I don't need the burden of customization when other people are paid to clean up after me. All I have to do is not be shady. Maybe I'd throw around a few small personal effects, and a book or some magazines, but I'm not goin' all-out. We're on a boat, don't you ever forget . Surely this vessel has the basics...a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, etc. Maybe some kind of stock painting hanging on the wall. I'm there to sleep, so what more do I need? All the cool shit's gonna happen wherever we dock, right? Isn't that what we paid for? A guided tour or something? At least that's how it went down the last time I was on a cool-ass ship...and maybe this time hopefully I sprung for the all-inclusive package, so I won't have to worry about blowin' all my pocket money on booze.Besides, say I did pull a saucy mermaid...you really think she's gonna be in my bunk wonderin' about the decor?   "Have you ever completely changed your mind on a belief you held strongly? What caused the change?"Good question. I'm sure I have; I'm just having a really hard time coming up with a particular instance. I mean, on some level we've all been through this...what looks good on you at age 12 is what your kids will mock you for twenty years down the road (I'm guessing, because I can do that without having kids). I've gone through phases where I've turned my back on my beloved sports teams that weren't performing up to the "This is our year!" standards. I disowned favorite bands after they put out that one shitty album. I've said horrifically politically incorrect things in order to maybe fit in. Fuckin' loyalty is for suckers. But that's just it. You can't fake true loyalty. Try your damnedest; it still bleeds blue from your veins. If I love you and you do me wrong, I'll hurt, but I'll still love you. I can hold a solid grudge, but somehow I'll wind up coming around from that. I don't know why. I just do. Might take me a day, might take me twenty years. For all the shit I can easily forget in life, there are moments I'll always remember if you made an impact on me, and I'll hold on to those more than anything. I believe no one sets out on their life's journey hoping to be a douchebag, myself included (and I've done a lotta douchey things). It's hard when you realize you're wrong, and it's harder trying to make things right. We all say "no regrets" like it's some magical bag full of get-out-of-jail-free cards and unicorn poop, but deep down y'all got some skeletons keepin' your closets in business like they weren't once wearin' skin. That's life- not in an aww, shucks Frank Sinatra kinda way, but what we all go through day after day. So rather than drudge up bad memories of all the stupid shit, and I know this won't mean much to most of you or change the perception me being an asshole has left on many, but I'm sorry. Maybe it felt good at the time, or I was doing what I thought was the best move, but clearly I was wrong or mistaken. It's never too late to start being a halfway decent human being and doing things you won't question down the road, and it took me a hell of a long time to realize that.  "'One way to get the most of life is to look upon it as an adventure.' -William Feather. Do you agree?"Had to look up William Feather ...turns out he was a publisher and an author, and he was born not far from Buffalo, so he's alright with me. And that Wikipedia link doesn't cover much more, so I hope he didn't turn into a serial rapist or anything crazy.Instantly this quote reminded me of another, from A.A. Milne (the Winnie-the-Pooh author): "One of the advantages of being disorganized is that one is always having surprising discoveries." Don't ask me how I've drawn a parallel; I have no clue. It's one of my favorites though; back in the day at my very first apartment I converted the laundry room into a writing room of sorts, and I hung it on a corkboard over the typewriter at my desk (yes, I had a typewriter, and it was grand, and I'm also not super-old). You gotta look at life as an adventure, because if you don't all you have is a sitcom that nobody watches and gets cancelled after a year or so...you're just a book that no one reads and winds up getting sold at a garage sale for a nickel. Take chances, get scars, and be a badass. Unless you wanna be wallpaper. And no one wants to be wallpaper. Funny adventure story (unrelated): Back in the day, my buddy Verno wanted to get his hands on some nudie mags. He called up DMFM and said he was picking him up. "Where we goin'?" "It's an ad-vennnnn-tuuuure!!" was all he'd say. Verno got him, and there was half a twelve-pack in the back seat...the other half was already in his belly. They drove up to a porn shop an adult bookstore in Niagara Falls (not the pretty part, but the seedy section)...and all he kept sayin' was "It's an ad-vennnnn-tuuuure!!". And inside Verno went while Dave sat in the car...he couldn't go in because he wasn't of age. Dude was in there forever too, I guess...it was late at night, it was a shitty area, and who the fuck knows what goes on in a place called "18th Street Books And News" when all it's known for is selling porn 24/7. A steamed DMFM white-knuckled it the whole way home. And what's the point of my little story? Me, Dave and Johnny C. were also known as the motherfuckin' Ruckus. There wasn't a beer we wouldn't drink, a party we couldn't handle, or someone's girlfriend we wouldn't sleep with. We were those guys. We were outta control. Unstoppable. Three brothers from very different backgrounds, brought together to navigate the shift into adulthood. We all went through a lot together. We brought out the best and at times the worst in each other. Everything was an adventure if we were around...and that's it. Why be boring? Do cool shit and earn a nickname like The Ruckus. It wasn't just a phase; it was a lifestyle. Someone should make a Lifetime biopic about us, and that's how life should be...don't wish your life to be like it is in the movies; live the life someone makes an awesome movie about. Hahahaha...Lifetime though... .Because it does, that's why.  Sho' 'nuff, not long after I posted up last night did my mom check in with some insight on the entry. Good deal. Nice to hear her still chin-checkin' from a couple hundred miles away after having part of her body removed, tellin' me she's gonna try to convince the doctors to get her up outta the hospital sooner than later. Because if you're curious like me, here's the smartest things about Buffalo this month . Always entertaining, especially if you appreciate hockey. And finally, because April is National Poetry Month, howsabout a list of some great quotes by actual poets ? Makes me a little sad that I write so sparingly now, and most of it is incomprehensible doom-and-gloom when I actually do write, but I did bang out something a few days ago I kinda really like, even if it makes no sense to me at most glances. I'll just need to clear up some port space for it and gain some patience/confidence to actually post it. I'll just tease it by saying the title is "Arthur Hubbard's Winning Nose", and before I say anything more, no, I have no idea who he is and it's not based on anyone in particular. Came across parts of the name in different things I'd read...that's all. And I worked it into something...and that's another thing! Boggles my mind when people say they're "working on a poem". For fuck's sake how hard is it? Is that really a thing? You work hard at your job, and you work hard on raising your family...if you like to write, is "working at a poem" really a legit thing? 'Cuz if you paid me to write shit I'd be a broke-ass mawfugga. For real. I understand if you're trying to write in a specific style, counting syllables and whatnot, and making sure you stick a rhyme scheme, but fuck that. I won't be crippled by definitions or patterns or iambic pentameter or whatever. Let it go, edit for punctuation or spelling, and move on. I'm a poet's poet, not an English teacher. I do what I like and I like what I do and if you don't, buy a volume of ee cummings' greatest hits or whatever. And like that, we're done here. Hope you got as much satisfaction from this as I did. Peace, the change- you keep it, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
** Image ID #2036546 Unavailable ** "If you could travel anywhere, where would you go? What would you expect to see, eat, smell, hear, and feel?"Yo yo party people...I'm taking a break from judging the official March round of the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" to take part in Brother Nature 's and ElaineElaine  's event, which has us blogging from some kind of fantasy boat excursion. It's exciting for me because I get to write without completely being judged or having to worry that I'm clashing interests with competitors...I just hope we don't end up stranded on a deserted isle .With that in mind, I'm sorry if this isn't quite as interesting or fantastical as you might maybe expect from me...but I'd rather be going home to Buffalo right now than sitting here in Cortland wondering where else I might want to be on some magic getaway vacation. Normally, being that it's Easter Week and the weather's finally started to break, I'd be thinking about a trip to my mom's and chillin' with my brother and his people, but there's been a medical emergency in the family that has effectively put the kibosh on festivities. Mom had to have her gall bladder removed and she'll be spending the rest of the week in the hospital, and I'm here powerless to do anything about it, which isn't a cool feeling. Things so far haven't gone as smoothly as expected, but I'm hoping this is the worst of things to come and she's well on her way to recovery. I can handle being alone for a holiday, but when you're three hours away from your family in a situation like this (without much you can do but wait for updates), it's hard. I don't think I would've been able to go home anyway this or next week, because as much as I tried not to schedule any appointments for anything, I wound up with both a doctor's visit and a meeting with social services regarding my own medical needs. Still, that doesn't make things any easier with my mom...she's had a rough 2015 so far, being socked with pneumonia after Christmas and now this. Hopefully she gets right soon and this will all be behind us; she's too young to be fallin' apart. But anyway, let's play semi-pretend and see what I'd be doin' if everything were hunky-dory and I was able to get to the homeland, shall we? Can't talk about Buffalo without mentioning the food, so in addition to ma's home cookin' there'd definitely be some pizza and wings, and if I'm a good boy I might even get a trip to Mighty Taco (I still have that gift card that Future Mrs. B  gave me for Christmas that needs to turn into a beef, bean and cheese burrito, hot with sour cream and extra cheese, and a Nachos Deluxe with a Cherry Pepsi).I'd also hang out at the Main Street Grille and maybe see a few friends from the days of way-back...if you get to Arcade, NY I definitely recommend having a meal there. They've got a really good fish fry, and the mashed potatoes are buttery excellence for real. Top notch. They have a Trivia Night during the week (we did pretty good the last time I was there for that), but I always seem to miss the nights when they have karaoke (which may or may not be a good thing, depending on which side of the mic you're on). But the coolest thing about Main Street is most everyone is friendly and welcoming, from the staff to the regulars to people like me (who just sits in the corner suckin' down Genny Cream Ale pints and speaks when spoken to, unless I hear something outrageous and feel the need to contribute my copper two cents). Maybe it's my age kickin' in, or it's the clientele, but I feel a lot more comfortable there than I did at bars I used to patronize often back in my "Today ends in Y, so where we goin'?" days. I'd get the luxury also of sleepin' on ma's loveseat, which if you're a short mawfugga like me you know loveseats are great because you can sleep with your feet up and still feel cuddled by the back. I can fall asleep watching SportsCenter, and it's still on when I wake up. The coffee's already made, and that brings me to a curious sidebar... I love coffee, but I hate making it. It seems like every friggin' coffeemaker is different, and there's no set hard and fast rule to making coffee, like use x-amount of water and x-scoops of grounds...and that's just the basic ones. My ex and I had this more advanced one with a timer and shit, so the coffee would be ready by the time we woke up, as long as she made it. Everything had to be just right though...the filter basket had to be aligned perfectly in its spot like all the planets on your luckiest of days, which meant on the few days that I had to set up the machine, coffee wound up all over the counter. If that ain't the precursor to a shitty day, being set back by the one thing in charge of getting you goin' for the day, I don't know what else is...like you're in the last throes of a stellar dream, and then you're snapped awake by liquid brown crap all over the place that you don't have time to clean up and rebrew if you also want to take a shower and manage some form of presentability for your workday. And brewing coffee at someone else's house is like trying to learn a new language overnight. Maybe you've mastered your own pot, and know that if you fill the water to a certain line and use a calculated formula of scoops you'll get a desirable outcome, but that method doesn't always translate to a newfangled device, and you either wind up with gritty mud or excess puddle runoff. A different coffeemaker is a crapshoot. Seriously, they should put a lever on those things like slot machines...yank it and you might get the pot of gold coffee, or you might get lemons and a thank-you-but-no-thanks. Anyway, yeah...then I can go on the back deck, have a smoke, and enjoy the outside world from a semi-secluded spot. And I'm not astrologically inclined at all by any means, but I swear I've been able to see both the Big and Little Dippers from looking up at the sky at a certain point from the back deck at night in the fall and winter (and maybe in the spring too if I remember to look). But most importantly, I'm home. There's a comfort in that that I can't really describe. It's weird, but a good weird. Can't wait to be back. If you read this ma (y'all know she does from time to time, and fills in gaps for me occasionally afterwards via Facebook messages), get well soon so we can get together again...even if it's just to take care of you while watching old shows on TV while you sit and crochet. It's all good. " You are trapped and have to live in your favorite TV comedy show. Which one do you choose to live in? I know, I'm hopeless!"C'mon Princess Megan Rose GOT Fox  , you're not hopeless! You're normal...a lot of people get sucked in to their favorite shows and often wonder how they'd fit in if they were given the opportunity to chop it up with fictional characters! It's completely ok...even if people like me who don't watch a shit-ton of television might mock you for falling in love with a scripted person who might turn on you and break your heart by Season 3, Episode 6.I'll admit I've been watching a few new shows lately, but only as I'm going to sleep. I won't allow myself to spend the waking, mostly-functional hours on that when I can be reading or learning something I may not have known (thank you, internet). The drawback to watching shows on Hulu in my situation is that when I wake up I don't always remember the outcome, because taking certain meds to induce sleep can make you do funny things (but that's a story for another time, and if you're familiar with me y'all already knew that). So rather than talk about any new television series that I might be a fan of, I'll go to my old stand-by: Arrested Development .I've written about this show so many times that I don't even know what to add about it anymore. I'm seriously considering reupping my long-lapsed Netflix account just so I can watch the last season again once I get my tax return and get my laptop fixed, because Hulu if I recall doesn't have much in the way of AD and I only have seasons 2 & 3 on DVD (which are impossible to watch without a tv and/or a working laptop). But if I were in the show? Wow...I don't know. Great writing, great cast...it'd be a humbling experience at first, until I earned some respect with a breakout kind of role. Creeper Fantasy Alert!!: Maybe I'd be one of Maeby's teachers, that she has a crush on and winds up in some weird inappropriate mutual-admiration thing, but has to meet her mom (Lindsay) and that develops into a real thing that drives a wedge between her and Tobias...until I hang out with Michael, who unknowingly talks shit about his twin sister (again, Lindsay, played by the absolutely gorgeous Portia de Rossi), and GOB somehow cockblocks me from his own sister, so I try to hook up with Michael's girlfriend/Mr. F (the British "Mentally Retarded Female") played by the even more beautiful Charlize Theron, and then it becomes a messy situation where I get awkwardly mangled in an accident involving Buster and his hook-for-a-hand trying to save him maybe from Lucille, or a loose seal. Maybe a 3-5 episode arc at best. And this sounds entirely like the literary genre I have pretty much the least respect for: Fan Fiction. I don't like it at all. It grosses me out. I get creative writing, I understand the purposes, but gawd...it's like seeing someone else's fuck stains and then trying to sleep on the same bed. I'd rather pay homage in my own way, or make inside jokes referencing different situations, than trying to write myself into someone else's concrete slabs of ideas. Get me in on the ground floor, because the elevator is too shaky and it might not land where you want it to if that's the route you want me to go.  "Happy April Fools Day! Happy National Poetry Month! In honor of April Fools Day and National Poetry Month write an April Fools poem or song. Have fun and be creative."Word. Look, my days of bein' a gangster, a prankster, and the king of the ave are pretty much over...I'm not a kid anymore; I can't blame shit on youthful exuberance so easily without the punishment fitting the crime, and me pulling anything off now for enjoyment purposes would definitely attract the attention of law enforcement personnel. That's something I don't need in my life going forward. And it's a shitty line to balance, because I love prankin' and bein' funny, but I'm also the biggest baby and if you pull a gag on me like I can pull one, Imma bitch like you ain't never heard crybaby angst before. Fool me? Better get your vocabulary ready to add some new terms to it.I used to look forward to April Fools Day. Then I dated a girl when I was 16- Catholic school cheerleader, of all types- and we had a mutual losing of the virginities a few days prior to 4/1. She kept the condom wrapper as, I dunno, a token remembrance of the event, I guess. She called me after school, and presented this whole story about how her mom found the wrapper and it was terrible and the world was ending and blah blah blah, and I didn't know what to do. I tried to be reassuring in our teenage love, vowing to get through this, hiding the fact that I might never be able to face her cool-ass parents again, and then APRIL FOOLS!! So fuck that...and she was like "I was gonna tell you I was pregnant, but that wouldn't have worked" or something along those lines. That shook me from pranksterism for awhile. That's not to say I don't enjoy a good "haha gotchya" scenario, because I do under the right circumstances. I just don't have a poem at the ready for it...I know in reference to said St. Mary's Cheerleader I once wrote a 16-year-old paeon in name only titled something like "How Many Times Have I Told You You're Wrong", but I'm sure that's not the exact title and I was just starting out writing poems in my bedroom, plus I'm too lazy to dig it out of the archival tub it's buried in. We broke up at my junior prom because she was having serious heart surgery soon/dating a dickwad classmate behind my back while I was attending parties solo with "loose women", for lack of a better term, and it got back to her. I'll save "The Plunger" story for another time, as it's not appropriate right now. That's neither here nor there. The point is 4/1 can suck for a lot of people if you don't play it right, and it's a tricky line between what's good for you and what's acceptable for others. Don't play the cards you don't have if others aren't in on the deal. I don't know what else to say about this song that I haven't already said. It's my go-to 4/1 jam. I didn't care back when this song came out that Rufus Wainwright was gay; I cared that this song made me smile when it came on during my workday in a place where employees curated the in-house music via Napster, or that I could come home and watch this video on MTV2 and enjoy it for the fuck of it, with no pretenses perpetrated by established or casual media. You can just like a song because it's a cool song with a fun video that makes you think a little. It doesn't make me gay, just like eating fruit doesn't make me a farmer or liking jerks makes me a jerk-off. "Oh, what a shame that your pockets did bleed on St. Valentine's And you sat in a chair thinking "Boy, I'm such a prince!" Well, life's a train that goes from February on Day by day but it's making a stop on April first." Lyrics.  Straight up...I hate this Indiana bullshit. "Let's conveniently legislate all the homos outta here, so our businesses can remain religious-right friendly." Fuuuuuck that. I'm not religious, but Jesus didn't die just so certain believers could hate on dudes who intimately love dudes and chicks who love chicks. The son of God wasn't exclusionary. He chilled with prostitutes and the sickest of the sick. And now the middle-American teetotalors want to co-opt Him by saying fags and dykes aren't welcome in certain businesses? Rarely do I get accusational, but you hypocritical shitbags are completely trying to undo your freedoms while attempting to exact your religious control.  So, my doctor suggested I start keeping a journal (that was a few weeks ago). I didn't have the frame of mind to tell him that I keep a blog or run a blogging competition, as the appointment was at 8:30am and I'm never coherent that early anymore. I mentioned it to my therapist, and he couldn't remember if it was the first time I'd told him that I blogged or not (I might talk a lot of shit about him, but I can't remember either if I told him, but I thought I did). The "fine line" is my question. While writing is pretty much the one thing I have left that makes me unequivocally happy, I don't get insanely personal while doing it. Sure, I divulge personal information, but not to the level of feelings that a therapist requires...I'm pretty sure y'all wouldn't think I was on antidepressants unless I told you. And maybe I've ranted about some things, but how do I know the difference between "that's just Norb and how he is" and "Norb's slowly becoming batshit psycho"? I'm definitely a lot more withdrawn than I was five or ten years ago, and even then I was verging on "hermit" status. I care about things even less now, and I have less to care about...but I still feel like I'm a caring person for the most part (as long as it doesn't piss me off first, whatever "it" is). I guess the existential question I'm asking is, "Do I bother to share this with my doctor and therapist?", knowing it doesn't provide much insight? I mean, for all I know, you fine people reading this might think I'm pleasant and/or joyful and/or well in place, but there's a shift once I hit "Save Entry" that isn't seen. And thuthishly, I don't know how else to write...this is one hundred percent all me, and I'm accustomed to it. Were I to physically write this, it'd be terrible because I'd get bored and my hand would cramp hard and my handwriting isn't as neat as it was before I was diagnosed with the institutionalized crazies. I have a couple of notebooks I could consider "journals" that reside in my collection of poetry, but I haven't looked at them in years and the thought of doing so scares the everlovin' outta me because I know how I was back then. I don't know. Like I said, I wasn't in a place upstairs to ask my doctor when he suggested it. I see him again next week, and I'll be able to clarify hopefully. I just hate that he keeps referring to me as a "young guy"...we're about the same age, and for fuck's sake I don't feel very young anymore. I have actually written some quote-unquote poetry recently (just to recalibrate my sanity) that I'm sorta pleased with...maybe if I can clear a little room in my port (I'm nuzzlin' up against the edges of limitry) I'll update. It's not as depressing as I thought it was (but that's just my sensors...you might feel differently). I keep meaning to read Charlie ~ 's "Invalid Item" , because I'm sure it's crazy good and well beyond my best stuff. Then again, what do I know?    Yeah, it's the 100th entry in "Still Figurin' Out Who I Think I Am" . Sweet. Not any further along than the last incarnations. Guess I better keep workin' on that.  Welp, I guess I'm done now with the whole "holdin' my tongue" thing...at least for another day or so. Peace, all that it's supposed to be, and GOODNIGHT NOW!! |
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