:: Out of Spite, Out of Mind ::

:: Saturday, August 24, 2002 ::

"Isak Dinesen said that she wrote a little every day, without hope and without despair. I like that."
-Raymond Carver.

For most of this year, the above quotation had been a sort of mantra I adopted not only to writing, but to life- without hope, without despair- just hold the course. Sometimes it cheered me up a bit, but today it's driving me Mad!. ArrrrrghhhH! I like to look forward to things, have a goal in mind. Maybe if lucky, even a reward. How "Un-Zen" of me.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I am not Buddha material.

I'm going apeshit inside. All these ideals and ideas and quotations that I want to live up to, but obviously cannot. Obviously you gotta take these with a grain of salt. Or in my case a salt lick.

I'm becoming the kind of guy I hate- takes himself too seriously, disappears into a self-imposed exile, head firmly lodged in ass. Spoils himself, broods, weak, procrastinates everything, lives in his head. ArrrgH!!! Excuse me while I go punish myself by dashing my head against a wall...

Goh: What have you become! (slam!) Why! (smack!) Why! ArgggHHHH!H
neighbors/housemates: (in unison) Shut the fuck up!!!

(10 minutes later)

Butt at the same time I feel/know there are a lot of things I don't take seriously enough. Also, things that I used to take more seriously when I was a teenager (like trying to be the best guitarist in the world!) that I don't pursue any longer.
I look at old photos of me as a bright eyed innocent kid and feel like I need to apologize to him...

"Hey kid, sorry but I fucked up. I'm almost 30 now and have nothing to show for it... I'll try harder, I promise...just hang in there"

Don't worry, dear readers- I am not depressed... more like angry at myself... I just need to transmute this into something good...

To quote Kilgore Trout: "You were sick, but you're better now... and there's a lot of work to do"

:: Ol Man Factory 8/24/2002 06:08:00 PM [+] ::
...

I've been poisoned. Yes, Botulism. Poisoned Poisson... it was an angry fish- he had his vengeance. Mad fish disease. I even wrote a song about it last night over the toilet.

The lyrics go like this :

Verse:
oh man, I'm gonna puke...
oh- maybe not....
I SHOULD puke though
I'm not gonna puke

Chorus:
Gaaaahahahhhahhahahahaaaaaaa!!!!
spit, spit, spit
Gaaaahahahahaaaaaahahhaaaararggghghhhh
spit, spit, spit.

Verse 2:
I feel so sick
so dirty
must rinse
must rinse mouth

breakdown chorus:
spit, spit, spit

bridge:
Man, I remember the last time I got this sick was from some bad Hamachi
I ate at a Bill Frisell concert at Yoshi's... I was ok until I crawled into bed - I knew that I had been poisoned.
In times like these you cry for a merciful God, groveling like the straw mongrel you are
so easily expendable, forgotten (oh, he died from some bad fish)

toilet flush solo

Verse 3
Dehydration.
Thank God I didn't get a crazy fever like I did the last time
and Thank God I didn't get the chills
Thank God Bachan is ok

Being the self centered prick that I am, I almost forgot to mention that my 88 year old bachan got sick too. She was having a way harder time than me (obviously cuz she's older) and while I was puking- she came to the bathroom cuz she was sick too... so she had to slowly wheel herself to the other bathroom. I feel so bad now, but I had no idea she got sick at the time.

My sister was sleeping on the couch by the bathroom and she suddenly jotled up wide awake, pointing to the ceiling:

A:"There's a spider! It's transparant!"
Mom: "No there isn't honey, you're having a nightmare"
A: "No! I swear! There's GOT to be a spider!" (confused)

It was really creepy, she was almost hysterical and even this morning she SWORE there was a spider hanging from the ceiling (me and my mom saw no such thing).

Why is this phantom spider significant? Well for one, Aya's been getting these BAD spider bites for the past couple of nights. Also, earlier that day I had Violently SMASHED a spider in Naomi's room- cuz her and her friend were freaking out and asked me to kill it. Trying to be a good brother (spider extermination is one of these duties) I decided to help these damnsels in distress. I felt kind of bad, not that I am a hippy/reincarnation type- but I usually just capture the spider and throw it outside... but for some reason I decided that THIS spider's really gonna get it- SMASH! I killed it with "attitude". Overkill. Stache almost ate it, but I think I fucked it up so bad that there were no juices leftt for him to savor... a dry spider bisquit.

I really wanna swear off this mysticism/symbolism bullshit, cuz it fux with my head- but I can't help but think it was the spider of death/botulism coming for me and bachan.

Oh well, back to fasting (still recovering)

:: Ol Man Factory 8/23/2002 07:48:00 PM [+] ::
...

Recollection of a fight on Murphy street: A large, white man in a white wife beater runs up to a taxi cab pulling away. He is about six feet and two hundred sixty pounds of fat drunken flesh. He seems to recognize the passenger, makes the turbaned cab driver stop the car. Opens the door- launches a "fuck you" at him and attempts to lunge at the passenger. The passenger tries to close the door, replies "Fuck you! Why don't you come over tomorrow!". I can't believe he's trying to make an appointment to fight, like he's actually going to set aside an hour or two out of his busy schedule to brawl this golem at a later date.

Wifebeater insists that there's no time to be wasted and lures him out of the cab. Cabbie wonders for a second if its worth it to keep the meter running, but then takes off when he sees the cops in the distance.

The passenger stumbles out of the car, he is stinking drunk as well. There is an audience, because this is being played out in the middle of Murphy street on a Saturday night. The cops are visible, but they are just enjoying the show, slowly creeping towards the brawl.

"Come on pussy!" yells wifebeater.
"No, YOU'RE the pussy!" retorts the planner .
"No, YOU'RE the PUSSY" wifebeater restates. His will is unshaken
.
Then they call each other faggots. They look like "poubelle de blanc" to me. I think that is "white trash" in French, or the closest I could come to it. Excuse my French.

Ron, ron!

They take awkward, jabs and swings at each other- a bizarre foreplay of sorts... a strange drunken mating ritual. Finally one of the hits connect and they are one. Wifebeater's shirt gets torn in the scuffle, exposing his rolls and rolls of congealed fat.

Female onlooker: "This is sexual harrasment!"
Me: "How's that?"
F.O.: "Sexual harrasment to ME! I don't wanna see him naked!"

As they are embracing in melee- four police officers are oozing towards them nonchalantly. A flashlight illuminates the fighters, but they are too engrossed in their tango to notice.

All the while, I am still wondering who the pussy is.

The police order them to stop... they do not. As they near, they threaten arrest: The fighting continues. They threaten pepper spray. They do not stop. A doberman police dog leaps out of the car and is escorted to the four armed fighting machine. The drunken fighters are like lovers in the throws of passion, not stopping until they are both spent. Wifebeater is getting his ass kicked by planner. Then he sees the dog, it is hungry for beer soaked balls. Wifebeater stops and kneels. This doesn't necessarily make him the pussy. Planner stops too.

The moral of the story: Dogs are scary as fuck.

:: Ol Man Factory 8/21/2002 08:58:00 AM [+] ::
...

note to self: stop being such a Ned.

:: Ol Man Factory 8/20/2002 09:48:00 AM [+] ::
...