I once again have nothing particular to post about, so I am just gonna ramble for a bit.
Luby's kicks geriatric butt. It totally confused Sarah, which was funny for us all. The fact that Luby's has a home page is funny to me. Old school meets New.
Kevin's couch has injured me in some way. Laying on it makes my side hurt after about 20 minutes. The uncomfortable feeling there, like a cramp or indigestion, hasn't gone away completely for more than a week now. weird.
I totally fucked up at work last night, and I have been kicking myself for it all day. Things will get better after tonight.
My hero worship of Tyler Durden may be getting out of hand. I watch a little bit of Fight Club almost every night when I get home from work. I am Jack's pathetic late-night acolyte, but don't tell anybody 'cause the first two rules are I'm not supposed to talk about it.
Roast is coming tomorrow!
The cats got collared today. Their lawyer says they're looking at 10 to 20.
Jan 26, 2002
Jan 23, 2002
I've just emerged from the near equatorial heat of the bathroom and am fresh with new realization. I was taking a bath, as I often do, not for sanitary purposes, but as escapism. Now, let's get a few things straight. There are no Martha Stuart-like foaming clouds of white bubbles, chakra aligning droning sitar music or, God Forbid, scented candles involved in this ritual. ("Matha's polishing the brass on the Titanic, man, it's all going down" - Tyler) It's purpose is merely to afford me some time alone with whatever I happen to be reading at the moment. My latest volume of lore was provided to me by a friend, and it's good, which we'll get to in a moment, but it's also important to me because it helped me with my fresh new realization. My bathing ritual involves not only a good piece of literature, but a tub full of water so hot it reddens the skin. The hot water can barely be tolerated at first, in fact can only be entered by degrees. Immersion into this molten pool is a lengthy process involving sitting on the edge of the tub with my book in one hand, thumb along the spine between the pages, and my feet dangling in the water, patiently waiting for the stinging heat like a thousand needles to lessen into merely a tolerable scalding. Slowly but surely the rest of the body is engulfed in this warmth, full to the neck, except for the hand holding the book aloft above the water. In long years of practice I have mastered turning pages one handed. When one arm gets tired from holding the book thusly, switching hands is accomplished by raising my opposing pink skinned wet arm from the depths like the Kraken and drying the hand with the nearest available hand towel, or if there is none, my own still dry hair. This is usually unneccesary however, for I rarely read long enough for either appendage to grow weary. Most often, I drift into the second part of the ritual, the part that was truly intended from the beginning. Encased in my warm liquid womb, comfortable and relaxed, I nap. More importantly, I dream.
Unlike some, I dont remember all dreams. The dreams from a good nights sleep are many and involved, long mystical journeys, no doubt full of adventure, romance, death, suspense and magic. They are also almost exclusively lost to me. I have attempted the sage advice given to many, and written dreams upon awakening every morning, in an effort to learn to remember them, with little success. My rereading of those writings jogs no memories of the dreams themselves and feels only like a bad third hand retelling of a rather dull piece of gossip. So I have given up the effort of remembering the nightly wanderings of my mind, and assign little signifigance to the ones I do retain. However, I always remember the dreams I have when napping.
Short term, for me, seems to be the key. Don't sleep too long, and don't sleep too heavily. I often recognize that I am dreaming as I do it, and even manage to retain some sense of what is going on around me during naps. I have always felt that this was somehow involved in the way I dreamed, that it gave these brief forays into mental fantasy a closeness that I enjoyed, like seeing an old friend. It was just today that I realized the truth.
My short, cat-napping dreams are not mine, and it's all because of this book I am reading.
Sarah loaned me The Virgin Suicides, by Jeffrey Eugenindes. Suprisingly, I haven't seen the film. It's captivating, with a narrative voice unlike any I have encountered in quite sometime. While I was dreaming, I had a sense of dread. I dreamt I was speaking to myself from the ceiling of the bathroom, spewing guilt upon myself in the third person. I was using all the hot water. I was tying up the bathroom, not allowing Kevin access to it for longer than was fair. I was wasting water. I was not getting clean, was in fact getting dirtier as my hair was sweating from the sauna-like temperature of the bathroom. As I awoke, I realized something that perhaps in the back of my mind I have known all along.
I was dreaming in the narrative voice of the book I had been reading, and this is not the first time that it has happened. It has, in fact, been happening to me for quite some time. I recently dreamt of sad hopelessnes that slowly bloomed into too lately realized adulthood, and I was doing it in Steve Martin's voice, both literally and figuratively. I dreamt of esacping dangerous men in the elaboratly matter of fact tones of one of spy fiction's greatest writers. I dreamt of roaming the plains with both frontiersman and Sioux alike, thanks to a hero of mine. I delighted in life as a young child thanks to another.
I honestly feel a little cheated. I want my dreams to be mine, but cannot to give up reading any more than I could give up breathing. I am very confused. On the other hand, to all the authors I love and read, thanks guys. I've been having a great time.
Unlike some, I dont remember all dreams. The dreams from a good nights sleep are many and involved, long mystical journeys, no doubt full of adventure, romance, death, suspense and magic. They are also almost exclusively lost to me. I have attempted the sage advice given to many, and written dreams upon awakening every morning, in an effort to learn to remember them, with little success. My rereading of those writings jogs no memories of the dreams themselves and feels only like a bad third hand retelling of a rather dull piece of gossip. So I have given up the effort of remembering the nightly wanderings of my mind, and assign little signifigance to the ones I do retain. However, I always remember the dreams I have when napping.
Short term, for me, seems to be the key. Don't sleep too long, and don't sleep too heavily. I often recognize that I am dreaming as I do it, and even manage to retain some sense of what is going on around me during naps. I have always felt that this was somehow involved in the way I dreamed, that it gave these brief forays into mental fantasy a closeness that I enjoyed, like seeing an old friend. It was just today that I realized the truth.
My short, cat-napping dreams are not mine, and it's all because of this book I am reading.
Sarah loaned me The Virgin Suicides, by Jeffrey Eugenindes. Suprisingly, I haven't seen the film. It's captivating, with a narrative voice unlike any I have encountered in quite sometime. While I was dreaming, I had a sense of dread. I dreamt I was speaking to myself from the ceiling of the bathroom, spewing guilt upon myself in the third person. I was using all the hot water. I was tying up the bathroom, not allowing Kevin access to it for longer than was fair. I was wasting water. I was not getting clean, was in fact getting dirtier as my hair was sweating from the sauna-like temperature of the bathroom. As I awoke, I realized something that perhaps in the back of my mind I have known all along.
I was dreaming in the narrative voice of the book I had been reading, and this is not the first time that it has happened. It has, in fact, been happening to me for quite some time. I recently dreamt of sad hopelessnes that slowly bloomed into too lately realized adulthood, and I was doing it in Steve Martin's voice, both literally and figuratively. I dreamt of esacping dangerous men in the elaboratly matter of fact tones of one of spy fiction's greatest writers. I dreamt of roaming the plains with both frontiersman and Sioux alike, thanks to a hero of mine. I delighted in life as a young child thanks to another.
I honestly feel a little cheated. I want my dreams to be mine, but cannot to give up reading any more than I could give up breathing. I am very confused. On the other hand, to all the authors I love and read, thanks guys. I've been having a great time.
Jan 22, 2002
Forgive me if I stray during this post. Fight Club is on.
The funniest thing about Granola making cookies at our house is not that she considers it an art form. It's not that she considers our kitchen her "Art studio", for which she is not paying rent, by the way. It's not that she was honestly concerned that I would not like the first batch of cookies because they were a bit too chewy, as if sugar and chocolate in any form could be wrong.
The funniest thing about Sarah making cookies is that she stands in the kitchen staring at the stove with a sort of grim and worried intensity, as if to say to it via body language, "Look, jackass, if you screw with me or my cookies in any way I will, so help me God, rip out your heating coil and shove it up your vent hood." I never found any cookies funnier.
The funniest thing about Granola making cookies at our house is not that she considers it an art form. It's not that she considers our kitchen her "Art studio", for which she is not paying rent, by the way. It's not that she was honestly concerned that I would not like the first batch of cookies because they were a bit too chewy, as if sugar and chocolate in any form could be wrong.
The funniest thing about Sarah making cookies is that she stands in the kitchen staring at the stove with a sort of grim and worried intensity, as if to say to it via body language, "Look, jackass, if you screw with me or my cookies in any way I will, so help me God, rip out your heating coil and shove it up your vent hood." I never found any cookies funnier.
Jan 18, 2002
Lately, I've been thinking about things that I need. A steady supply of feminine attention (I am after all, a guy). A new car, as That Which Shall Not Be Named is getting older. Cable TV. DSL. More Pez dispensers. A new baseball cap. A new haircut (I'm sort of bored with my current one). Most of all, I've decided there is one really important thing that I need.
A Nemesis.
Seriously, there is no one in my life that I can abjectly be nasty towards, and recieve abject nastiness in return. No one to trade pithy, humorous and derisive banter with, no one against whom I might defend myself with my superior wit and guile. A big part of the reason for this is that most people with whom I would like to engage in this fashion are too much like this jackass. You should have mentally and verbally pummelled him, Allison.
A Nemesis.
Seriously, there is no one in my life that I can abjectly be nasty towards, and recieve abject nastiness in return. No one to trade pithy, humorous and derisive banter with, no one against whom I might defend myself with my superior wit and guile. A big part of the reason for this is that most people with whom I would like to engage in this fashion are too much like this jackass. You should have mentally and verbally pummelled him, Allison.
Jan 14, 2002
There's something really great about finally getting your project finished. Every section of cloudwrangler works now. There are posts in every section, the archive works but needs fine tuning, there is new stuff all over, and scary as it was, I put up a couple of stories I wrote. I think they stink, but then the artist is his own worst critic. Tours of cloudwrangler are available by clicking things, which I am sure you can all do without a guide. Enjoy.
Jan 12, 2002
A sampling of the things I saw at the Masonic show on Thursday night.
The Continental Club, which is like the South-Austin-Hipster 78704 Mecca. (I had never been, clearly I am just now officially cool.) Elvis on a postcard. A green Kangol hat. Jack Daniels. K-dog. A snooty brown sweater who seemed offended when I lit her cigarette (it's just professional habit, lady, ease down). One of the guys from Spoon (Kev pointed him out). Tall boots, everywhere. Red curls, beautiful. Shiner Bock. Rye-bread. swagger. American People, the opening act, who looked like what the Partidge Family Band would be like if none of the Partidge family had anything in common and didn't even like each other (They were great). Black Lipstick, unloading. black lipstick. Baby Newsum. More Jack Daniel's, Kev told me to get a sponsor (he was just kidding MOM). Great Bathroom Graffitti, which isn't a band name but should be.
And, oh yeah, a killer Masonic show. Those guys rock. They also roll. Big fun.
The Continental Club, which is like the South-Austin-Hipster 78704 Mecca. (I had never been, clearly I am just now officially cool.) Elvis on a postcard. A green Kangol hat. Jack Daniels. K-dog. A snooty brown sweater who seemed offended when I lit her cigarette (it's just professional habit, lady, ease down). One of the guys from Spoon (Kev pointed him out). Tall boots, everywhere. Red curls, beautiful. Shiner Bock. Rye-bread. swagger. American People, the opening act, who looked like what the Partidge Family Band would be like if none of the Partidge family had anything in common and didn't even like each other (They were great). Black Lipstick, unloading. black lipstick. Baby Newsum. More Jack Daniel's, Kev told me to get a sponsor (he was just kidding MOM). Great Bathroom Graffitti, which isn't a band name but should be.
And, oh yeah, a killer Masonic show. Those guys rock. They also roll. Big fun.
Jan 10, 2002
All right, now it's time for kitty updates. This is how low my life has sunk.
We have two now, Jessie and Nug. They're Sarah's, not ours, and they are weird, as cats tend to be. Jessie is fat, somewhat affectionate, and wide eyed. Sarah says she likes guys, whatever that means. She mostly ignores us, though she has staked out a favorite spot on my leather easy chair. She has claws, unlike Thomas, so she better be careful around the leather is all I'm sayin'. She hides in Kevin's closet a lot, but basically she tends to wander about the house during the day.
Nug is actually a myth, not a cat. He's not really here. He hides away in a deep cave (under the spare bed in what's supposed to be the office) and only emerges in the depths of night to wreak havok on the inahbitants of the village below (actually, I think he's scared of the sun). Nug does emerge at night, and Sarah says both her cats are mostly nocturnal. So we have something in common. However, neither of them drools. I'm just sayin' .
We have two now, Jessie and Nug. They're Sarah's, not ours, and they are weird, as cats tend to be. Jessie is fat, somewhat affectionate, and wide eyed. Sarah says she likes guys, whatever that means. She mostly ignores us, though she has staked out a favorite spot on my leather easy chair. She has claws, unlike Thomas, so she better be careful around the leather is all I'm sayin'. She hides in Kevin's closet a lot, but basically she tends to wander about the house during the day.
Nug is actually a myth, not a cat. He's not really here. He hides away in a deep cave (under the spare bed in what's supposed to be the office) and only emerges in the depths of night to wreak havok on the inahbitants of the village below (actually, I think he's scared of the sun). Nug does emerge at night, and Sarah says both her cats are mostly nocturnal. So we have something in common. However, neither of them drools. I'm just sayin' .
Jan 8, 2002
Technical difficulties? Here's your answer! Thank God for the 'Net. Also, Granola says I have to let everyone know when New Stuff shows up in other areas of this site. I just assumed you could all look for yourselves, but whatever. Anyone notice how the great hero figure always has two masters, one whom he loves, the other whom he rebels against. Kevin and Sarah are my blogging Yoda and Obi-wan. Now, figure out which is which.
Jan 6, 2002
It's late and I can't sleep. I should be tired, I worked all night. I had a hard night last night, and I've been a little down about my friend. I am also wrestling with some weird personal stuff that I may get around to writing about, maybe not. Maybe it's just the good old family insomnia (thanks Mom, thanks Grandma) but I can't sleep. So here's some of the stuff rolling around in my head.
One To become a member of Mensa you have to have a tested IQ in the 98th percentile. You also have to pay membership fees! Doing so should immediately disqualify someone as a genius, as far as I'm concerned.
Two We get cats tomorrow. Jessie and Nug. I bet they are not nearly as cool as Thomas, but we'll see.
Three I'm re-reading Ludlum's The Bourne Identity. There's an upcoming adaptation starring Matt Damon and the girl from Run Lola Run. I just don't see it though. I read it several years ago, and then, as now, Jason Bourne in my head looks a little like a young Robert Redford.
Four I am also reading Steve Martin's Shopgirl which is absolutely charming. For the first three chapters, I could hear Steve Martin nararrting in my head as I was reading, like a voice over by him from a movie. Weird.
Five Reading two books at once isn't whats keeping me up at night. I am almost positive. I think.
Six Sifl and Olly are the two funniest socks in the history of man. Kevin unearthed some old episodes on tape, and we've been watching and shooting milk out of our noses. I don't even drink milk (I'm allergic).
Seven I met a young woman tonight, which is not that unusual since I work in a bar (its official policy to refer to it as "the club"). She had absolutely the most beautiful laugh in the history of man. It sparkled. I hope she comes back, just so I can make her laugh again.
One To become a member of Mensa you have to have a tested IQ in the 98th percentile. You also have to pay membership fees! Doing so should immediately disqualify someone as a genius, as far as I'm concerned.
Two We get cats tomorrow. Jessie and Nug. I bet they are not nearly as cool as Thomas, but we'll see.
Three I'm re-reading Ludlum's The Bourne Identity. There's an upcoming adaptation starring Matt Damon and the girl from Run Lola Run. I just don't see it though. I read it several years ago, and then, as now, Jason Bourne in my head looks a little like a young Robert Redford.
Four I am also reading Steve Martin's Shopgirl which is absolutely charming. For the first three chapters, I could hear Steve Martin nararrting in my head as I was reading, like a voice over by him from a movie. Weird.
Five Reading two books at once isn't whats keeping me up at night. I am almost positive. I think.
Six Sifl and Olly are the two funniest socks in the history of man. Kevin unearthed some old episodes on tape, and we've been watching and shooting milk out of our noses. I don't even drink milk (I'm allergic).
Seven I met a young woman tonight, which is not that unusual since I work in a bar (its official policy to refer to it as "the club"). She had absolutely the most beautiful laugh in the history of man. It sparkled. I hope she comes back, just so I can make her laugh again.
Jan 5, 2002
Now and then, tragedy becomes more than something you studied in school. I learned in just the last few hours that a young woman I once kissed is gone forever. I have no idea what to make of this. She was an incredibly sweet young lady, fun, outgoing in a very protected way, blonde and innocent, meek and shining and wonderful. Will I miss her? I have not seen her in months, I was already doing so. Now it's longing mixed with pain. Do I wish I had known her better? It has already been hoped for. Do I regret a missed chance to make my life a little brighter? I do, and I will, always. I'm not a greeting card, niether was she, and I do wish I were better at saying this. I am sorry for all the things that will never be.
Jan 2, 2002
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