Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Baby steps to gettin' healthy

I used to eat 2, sometimes 3, sticks of butter every day.

Then the last doctor I talked to told me it was bad for me. I think 'You're gonna die in a couple of weeks' were his actual words.

So I cut out the butter.

Now I'm satisfied with just a tub of 'I can't believe it's not butter' every couple of days.

And, y'know, I really do have trouble believing it.

My chest hurts...

Monday, January 28, 2008

And it was going so well...

Ever suddenly discovered that something you thought was completely wrong, and found out that you were an asshole? I did.

I never ask women out. Look in most dictionary's and you'll see my picture next to the entry for 'gutless bastard'. I don't know why, but when I think of putting myself out there, I immediately find myself right back in ninth grade. I gain weight, I feel pimples cover my face, and my voice takes on this tone that makes the Squeaky-Voiced Teen from the Simpson's sound like Robert Mitchum. It's sad. Very sad. And emasculating.

But this one time, I did it. At work no less.

I was behind the counter, at a copy shop on a beautiful Wednesday, and she came in, looking to fax something. A little chatting, a couple of corny jokes, commiserating over the fact that her fax wouldn't go through, all in all a nice couple of minutes. She said her name was V (Thomas Pynchon stole that from me), and she was new in town. So on impulse, I mentioned that one night every week during the summer, there was a free movie in a park downtown. I went almost every week, and maybe she'd be interested in coming along...? And V said yes.

On the appointed day, I met V at the shop, and we caught the train uptown. We got there early to stake out a spot, grabbed some food from a local shop, and hung out, chatting, until it was dark enough for the movie to start. Good times. The conversation was smooth without any of the uncomfortable pauses that are the usual hallmarks of my dates, and our senses of humor seemed to mesh pretty well.

Right before the movie started, V said she was going to run to the public restroom so she wouldn't miss any of the show, and headed out into the gathering twilight.

She never came back.

The previews rolled, and then the movie itself began. Stalag 17, as I recall. Not my idea of a date movie, but it was free, I was poor, and sometimes you just don't get to choose. I sat there, people packed in on every side, growing more and more incensed as the time ticked by. Jesus, she must have secretly hated me! She'd even abandoned a lighter and half a pack of smokes. Just broke and ran. Well, fine, I fumed, fuck 'er. Bitch.

Anybody see where this is going?

I sat through the entire film. Didn't get any joy out of seeing Peter Graves get killed, needless to say. But screw it, I was going to see this film all the way through to the last credit.

After it was over, I headed out into the night. On impulse, I hit a payphone and checked my messages. If you think there was a message from V, you are incorrect.

There were two messages from her. The first explained that V hadn't kept track of where we were sitting, and couldn't find her way back. The second was left about twenty minutes later, and, in a disappointed tone of voice, V said that she kept getting yelled at to sit down, and was heading home. Guess she hadn't abandoned her cigarettes, after all.

I did call her then, but I don't seem to recall being very contrite, or apologizing at all, even. V was less than enthused, herself. And we never spoke again.

This all happened about five years ago. I swear to god, it didn't occur to me until about a month ago, I mean really hit me, that I should have gone looking for her. It never even crossed my mind, not once. Nor did being actively sorry, or explaining my thought process to her, maybe turning it into something we could laugh over. Not for five years.

My friends tell me I'm smart, but I know better. I look back on how I screwed up then, and how it took five years to figure out what I should have done, and I know the truth: I'm the King o' the Maroons.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

One of those times

I tend to do pretty stupid things when I get angry. That's one of the main reasons I work hard to contain my anger. When I was just starting school, I was forever getting into trouble for bouncing blocks off of other children's heads, and suchlike.

This particular incident happened while I was in military school. My parent's enrolled me there about halfway through my freshman year of high school, after a run of failed classes. If you're interested in seeing what my school looked like, rent 'The Omen II'. I found it perversely appropriate that a film about the Anti-Christ was filmed at my school. To anyone considering military school for their child, I recommend taking a good long look at the monkey house of your local zoo. That's pretty much what your baby will experience, but with more weapons and less with the flinging of the feces. Mostly.

Anyway, it was near the end of my second year, and it had been a long one. The school was getting ready for the annual federal inspection, during which actual military fellows walked through the school for a few hours. I suppose they wanted to make sure no students were being beaten, or kept in cages and suchlike. The inspection, which occurred every year, involved a frenzy of cleaning, and added even more pressure to an atmosphere already tense with the need to get this shit over with, already, and get the hell out of school for the year.

My freakout came on a weeknight, a day or two before the inspectors arrived. I don't really remember what the catalyst was, but something, a fellow student tearing apart my carefully ordered locker, another stupid assignment by a section leader who hadn't gotten off his ass all day, a recalcitrant bed sheet, set me off, bigtime.

I'm a lover, not a fighter, and don't like getting hit, so instead of beating the crap out of whoever was responsible, my rage-maddened eye fell onto my bunk. It was a warm night in late spring, and my window was open, and how to dissipate my rage suddenly crystallized. The bunk had to go.

And go it did. I grabbed the mattress, knocked my startled roommate out of the way with it, and stuffed that son-of-a-bitch out the window, letting it fall the story down to the ground.

By the time I had the metal bunk frame about halfway out the window, my roomie's half frightened, half amused yelps had drawn a crowd. As I recall, most of them seemed rather amused, and some were cheering. When the raised window dropped down unexpectedly, one of them rushed past me and held it up, so that I could continue ejecting the frame unimpeded. By this time, I was a little winded, but the frame only needed a little work to send it dropping out of sight. I assume it made some noise when it landed, but everyone was yelling too loudly for me to hear.

My company commander came in. He looked at the open window, at the other babbling students, at the space where a bunk should have been, and then at my red, sweaty face.

"You threw your bed out the window?", he said, not even sounding surprised. I nodded.

"You freaking out?" As he said this, I saw him calculating how crazy this might get if I was truly going nuts. He could have taken me, no doubt, but nobody would have come out unhurt.

"Not any more.", I said, chest still heaving.

"Go get your bed. And don't do that again. Really."

So I went outside and carried the mattress and frame inside and back to my room.

I did feel a lot better.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Idea, and a bit more

So, I decided to try a new commercial venture. I'm going to market my own scent, for men and women.

It'll be made from a base of unrefined crude oil and choice, finely minced hobo, and each bottle will have just a splash of holy water, to make it Jesus-tastic. Christ-rific. Whatever.

It will be named, 'Stanque, by Carter'.

On a related note, I shared this particular idea, which is the beginning of a comedy bit, with my friend Sarah. She was quiet for a second, and then said, "The holy water... doesn't make sense."

My brain kinda locked up over that. The crude oil and diced homeless were perfectly fine, reasonable as can be, but the wheels came off with the holy water?

Confusion, thy name is Sarah.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Come with me on a little journey...

I'd like you to take just a second, and contemplate God. Doesn't matter which one, just pick one you like.

Now, take a second to contemplate the mystery of our existence, and the majesty of the universe in which we find ourselves. Try to capture the scope of it, from the smallest particles through the vast spaces that comprised most of the reality we call home. Include the wonder that is you, and the people you love, the ones you don't like, stretch back to consider all members of the family of man, and those that will follow us. Add in the uncountable number of other creatures that share our home, the variety of the plant and animal life, the beauty of the natural processes that make it possible, from the shift of tectonic plates to the growth of crystals. Consider time itself, stretching billions of years both in front and behind us. Contrast our smallness and beauty. Savor it for a moment. Really try to picture it all, the whole of existence in it's nearly infinite variety.

Now turn your mind back towards the concept of a creator. Picture the being capable of beginning, and, if you have certain beliefs, guiding to this very day everything that we know is, was, and shall be. A being (Male, Female, Black Lady with a Marmoset, what have you) of power and insight that we can hardly dream of. All-knowing, all-loving, all powerful, and everywhere. Omniscient, omnibenevolent, omnipotent, omnipresent. Imagine this being looking down upon their creation, picking out the spot that is our galaxy, the mote that is our solar system, the speck that is our lovely little planet.

Now picture that being becoming angry, saying "Fucking fags!"

Does that make sense to you?

Saturday, January 05, 2008

Sigh...

So, I got new shoes for Christmas. Two pairs. Now I have an alternative to my squeaky boots.

But the new shoes, they squeak as well.

I think I need to come to grips with the fact that I may have squeaky feet.

The Virgin Mary, She weeps.