Fuchsia and black and cream are everything

The other day I attempted to purchase tickets to the Pearl Jam concert which will take place on Friday, December 6, 2013 at the Key Arena in Seattle, Washington.  I was on the Ticketmaster website for approximately 2 hours and 29 minutes trying to score these tickets.  I knew it would prove difficult since Seattle is their city and they had not performed there in several years.  Despite my best efforts the tickets sold out and I was unable to obtain anything.  Subsequently, I slammed my fists into the keyboard and grabbed one of the computer’s mini speakers, ripped the wire out and hurled it against the wall where it broke and also left a dent en la pared.  I keep a knife by my bed and I grabbed this and made a roughly 2-inch cut in my left arm, just below the crook of the elbow as it goes toward my wrist.  I made the cut slowly, grinding my teeth all the while and tensing my calf muscles.  I felt pressure in my chest and pain in my head between my eyes and everywhere appeared red with anger.  There was poison inside of me and I had to make the cut to let it out.  It was not too deep but it still bled quite a bit.  I was careful to let most of the blood fall onto the computer desk where it made a neatly shaped dark pool.  A few drops fell onto the plastic floor mat beneath the computer chair but none stained the carpet and this was the important thing.  When it comes to inanimate objects I prefer the impersonal over the personal: “the” computer desk rather than “my” computer desk and so on and so forth.  Blood may be different but for some reason I still prefer the impersonal.  I squeezed the skin around the cut and forced more blood out.  I liked looking at the cut.  It is always repulsive but fascinating to see the thickness of skin and the redness beneath and wonder how all that redness somehow builds up to a life.  To see an opening in that skin seems so wrong but compulsively desirable and I wished to make similar cuts over all areas of my body.  Cuts like that always remind of the gills on fish at supermarket displays, always under white lights and by trays of shrimp and potato salad.  These fleshy openings attract us so much and we devote entire nights to fleshy openings and spend hours sweating and panting over them and writhing in them and dreaming about them.  I considered going further down my wrist with the knife and slashing the blue veins – I had always wondered if the cuts would become more or less painful as they neared the palm of my hand.  I ultimately decided against this decision when I remembered that I had still been able to acquire Nine Inch Nails tickets so all hope was not lost. 

The bass guitar was always my first love and I have recently been reacquainting myself with her.  Is there anything more satisfying than the supple notes of the A string and warmth and depth of E?  Without bass music would simply have no bottom end, at least not one worth a damn.  I have always loved a fat bottom end.  I purchased the latest issue of Bass Player magazine because it had a transcription for David Bowie’s classic song “Drive-In Saturday”.   I have been trying unsuccessfully for days to learn the song which just shows the paltry level of my skills.  Still, my passion is equal to the task and the attempts themselves have proven quite pleasurable.  Perhaps one day I will even be asked to join Mr. Bowie on stage for a live performance of the song. 

I wrote it down on a little piece of paper and dropped it inside the box that was the near the door.  I kept looking around, all wide eyed and filled with nervous energy.  There was a sort of giddiness to it and I had to concentrate very hard to keep from having a sweet and joyous accident right there in the foyer.  I had slaved away for weeks on the right words and in the end I’d written enough to fill entire libraries.  The sheer volume of the works was neither surprising nor difficult to come by since she could easily inspire a hundred times as much. I knew the truth going in of course.  I always know the truth and I always choose to ignore it.  How much of our lives are built on a willing ignorance of the truth and clinging to dreams which we know can never come true?  Which in turn made me wonder: was she also perhaps clinging to some dream and was there a truth it gave her comfort to deny?  And if the answer to these hushed questions was “yes” could there possibly be an overlap in our hearts and minds?  So I wrote and I sketched and I drank and I fantasized and everything in my world became her.  Every sound was her sweet voice, music that carried me to dreams of paradise.  Her eyes were always watching me, hypnotic and loving, the shame and unworthiness I felt looking into them only exceeded by the irresistible urge to steal one more glance.  The air was her perfume and the smell of her hair and it triggered responses wet and delightful.  Every tactile sensation was an undeserving and heavenly contact with her body or her lips.  Her curves were the crucial shape of the universe and somehow I knew she was the creator of this as well.  To kiss her sole would be an act that would kill me through the sheer unadulterated ecstasy that would surge through my veins.  Just as a kiss from those red lips or a flicker from the tip of her tongue would send beautifully lethal amounts of electricity through my body.  I’m on my hands and knees, begging and crying and desiring.  I dropped the piece of the paper inside the box that was near the door.  I don’t think she saw me.  Walking back to my car, I wondered if she would read it and if so whether she would ever think it was from me.

The previous paragraph describes several things.  Some of which have happened already and some of which will happen in the future.  Fuchsia and black and cream are everything.  

 “La Pared” by Shakira is probably one of my favorite songs by her.  Fijacion Oral Volumen 1 is a fantastic album and only grows more rewarding with each passing year.  Pure art, it pleases me so.  People who are close minded about music bother me but people who are close minded but think they are open minded bother me even more.  But neither of those two groups bothers me as much as my own failed and miserable self. 

My brain is a Popsicle melting in the sun. 

I am cowboy in Hamburg

Random thoughts and emotions rise up and spill out of me and I am unable to control them or figure out what they mean. 

I was at Target at some point today.  I saw a small bag of Sour Patch candy for a reasonable price and grabbed this.  I froze immediately after because I realized I could not remember why I wanted to come to this store in the first place.  Tears were beginning to well up in my eyes and my throat began to tighten.  I clenched a fist around my keys as hard as I could, using the pain as a means to focus and push through. A few people walked by and I avoided their glances.  A sales clerk in trademark red shirt and khaki pants was approaching and I scurried into the next aisle to avoid communication with him.  Eventually I was able to remember why I came to the store; I made my purchases and drove home.  Upon arriving at my flat I watched Edward Scissorhands twice in a row and cried both times.  Edward Scissorhands has the rich and endlessly rewarding feel of a deeply personal and impassioned work and ranks alongside Batman Returns as my favorite Burton movie and one of my favorite films period.  Incidentally those two movies are also great companion pieces to one another and are both mandatory Christmas time viewing. 

As I sit writing this I remember a woman I met in my college years.  Her name was Graciela and she was majoring in fashion design.  I recall seeing her for the first time at the campus’s multicultural center.  She was beautiful and her smile and the way it reflected in her eyes was perhaps the most genuine I’d ever seen.  It seemed to suggest that life was a glorious thing and it was hard for me to argue during those all too brief moments where that smile was directed toward me.  I was too frightened to approach her but she was kind enough to come over and introduce herself. 

Over the course of several months she was never anything less than the personification of kindness, generosity and consideration.  Upon learning I was taking Spanish classes she gave me her number and told me I could call her anytime if I needed help.  I exercised this privilege only thrice but all three times she ready and eager to help, never making me feel bad over my poor pronunciation and even poorer grasp of grammar.  Another time, I was covering a banquet for the campus newspaper.  She was in attendance and though she must have known half the people there she decided to come over and sit by me.  I felt special and happy that she would do this yet a bit sad that she would have to suffer my company for the evening.  I’ll never forget how she looked in her dark green dress that night.  She invited me to her birthday party though she barely knew me and I will always regret being too cowardly too attend.  Finally, the day before she was set to graduate I remember we were standing on the stairs, saying goodbye to one another.  She hugged me and I forgot how to take a breath and I hugged her back and a light wind blew around us and I smelled her perfume and I wished this moment would last forever.  In my mind I created a separate universe which begins with that moment and then becomes the two of us taking a walk around the campus, through fields and trees, holding hands and watching the sunset together.  It is a beautiful place.  The last thing she said to me was “You have my number so call anytime if you need anything at all”.  Then she smiled – one last time I could exist in that glory – and then she was gone.  It was the last time I ever saw or spoke to her. 

The last I heard she was living in New York, working in the fashion industry.  I was extremely pleased to hear this.  It is strange to think that the total time we spent together would likely not be any longer than a standard work day.  And yet the desire I have for Graciela to achieve all she wants and to be happy is greater than for the majority of people in my life whom I’ve known for years.  It is unlikely I will ever see or talk to her again and I feel it is equally unlikely that she would even remember me if we were to have another encounter at some point.  I try not to bring her forth in my memory too often or visit that alternate universe as she is always accompanied by sharp pain.  My fault, not her’s.  But the occasional thought, a minute or so every once in a great while, is something sweet and necessary and worth the pain.  When I do think of her, she always has that smile on her face and as ever her joy and kindness and beauty is reflected in her eyes.  I hope her smile and her heart never change.  

Someone lost something roughly one year ago and I did my best to find it but was unable.  I told myself I would view it as a sign if it was ever found.  But I do not actually know if I would honor this. 

Despite the fact that I needed more than anything to express something I have been completely unsuccessful this night in producing any writing worth reading.  Even worse, I’m still not sure if I accomplished my goal. 

My recent musical purchases reveal more about myself and the world at large than any edition of the nightly news could ever hope to achieve.  The first among my purchases was Siberia Acoustic by Canadian artist Lights.  Its no secret to anyone I told that Siberia was one of my favorite musical finds of the great year 2012.  I listened to that album at work, at home, in my car and during moments of deep suicidal depression and it always left me feeling comforted.  Generous arrangements, warm vocals and subtly sexy beats are things I would attribute to Siberia (the album and the place).  When I heard about this acoustic version being released I was initially skeptical due to the heavy electronic sound of the original disc.  Yet upon several listens I am pleased to find this new work compliments the original in a wonderful way and really reveals the strengths inherent in the songs.  “Heavy Rope” is my favorite from the original Siberia and it is equally beautiful and heartbreaking in this new acoustic form.  I also acquired Walk Though Exits Only by Philip H. Anselmo and the Illegals.  Metalfaces will know Mr. Anselmo from Pantera and Down and he’s always been one of my favorite metal singers.  I have not had a chance to give this one a good listen so I will refrain from accolades or trenchant criticisms but I can say his voice is in fine form.  Purchase three is Beauty of the Baroque by Australian born opera singer Danielle de Niese.  Her voice is cream and honey and when I play this album in my car I don’t think so much about driving into telephone poles or off bridges.  I am truly excited to be slowly (very slowly) exploring a type of music I know nothing about.  The last album is the 1993 release Black Tie White Noise by David Bowie, one of the few main Bowie albums I needed.  I won’t go into details (yet) except to say this particular work is very groove based, lots of thick beats, prominent basslines and lush arrangements.  As with all of his albums, I will need a great deal of time to fully digest it and soak in all the details.  Right now my favorite track is Miracle Goodnight and I have listened to nothing but this track and Come Again: Sweet Love Doth Now Invite from Ms. de Niese’s album the past couple days.  As ever, I feel a great swell of gratitude that there is so much music available for listening in this world. 

I counted and I woke 19 times last night, sometimes from the throes of a truly horrific nightmare.  There was a half empty bottle of red wine by my mantle and I finished it off at one point and though this made me woozy I was still unable to obtain a sound sleep.  I saw her eyes and though I’ve looked into them a thousand times before – never once feeling worthy – I am still unable to determine whether they are brown or blue.  She took my hands in hers and brought me close and she smelled wonderful and like nothing before and this made me nervous and scared and excited.  I wished for her to wrap her hands around my throat and she knew this without my having to say so but she would not comply.  Instead she brought me closer and kissed my forehead and there were tears running down my face.   She says “No lloras mijo” and her voice calms all storms

last time we met my behavior was appalling

I have been in a state of deep despair for the better part of 26 odd years yet it has been even more intense during these past few days.  The reason for this sudden dark turn is my loaning of a beloved digital video disc to a co-worker slash friend this past week.  I told her she could keep the film through the long weekend to give her ample time to watch it, not realizing the withdrawal symptoms that would set in, including but not limited to cold sweats, dry heaves, chronic migraines, uncontrollable trembling and highly explosive diarrhea.  The movie in question is none other than my copy of La Nave de Los Monstruos which is easily one of my favorite films of all time and one which (up until this past week) I watch no less than 9 times a day, 7 days a week.  I find myself madly in love with Lorena Velazquez’s character and for this reason I need to return to that world each and every day. 

I was at 4^th of July party the other day (can’t quite remember the exact day) and was having a wonderful time.  There were several friendly faces as well as some hip new cats whose acquaintance I happily made.  At one point I considered lighting a firework and sticking it in mouth and/or pushing it as far down my throat as possible but I did not commit to this action due to my paralyzing fear of fire.  At the party I asked a dear friend if he knew who the Martian Manhunter was – as his weakness is also fire – but he was not familiar with this character.  Alas, aside from our mutual weakness we have nothing else in common.  The Martian Manhunter is incredibly intelligent and remarkably strong which are two qualities never ascribed to yours truly.  He also has an incredible ability to shape-shift which means he can pick from countless forms matching the common perception of male physical excellence.  However this is a non-issue when compared to me because even his alien form – which many humans find off-putting – is far better looking than my grotesque face and disgusting body. 

At some point today I was reading a review of PJ Harvey’s 2000 release Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea.  While reading the review I kept glancing back at the cover photo which I found to be quite beautiful for multiple reasons.  For several minutes I read the review and glanced back at the photo.  When I was done reading the review I repeated the process but was unable to get through the text a second time because I began to cry and the tears clouded my vision.  I have been crying a great deal lately but have made no effort to discover the reason why since no one – myself included – has bothered to ask.  The only thing I can say with some degree of certainty is that during the masquerade ball scene at the castle in the movie Labyrinth I like to imagine I am Jennifer Connelly’s character (Sarah) and I am dancing with Jareth the Goblin King. 

“My life is in shambles.”  Someone in my office kept saying this all week, at least three times an hour.  At first I thought it was the gentleman tasked with repairing our perennially debilitated air conditioning system and then I thought it was the file clerk before finally realizing it was me. 

I lay curled up in bed and I have my hands on my head and I am begging for it to stop.  I glance around at the walls and see strange shapes and symbols and some kind of liquid that is either black or a very dark red but it is dripping down everywhere in thin, persistent lines and it is slowly covering all the white paint of the walls.  Everything is scattered inside my head and all around me.  I close my eyes but this only makes my own thoughts come into sharper focus and this alternative is no better than the horrific sights of my room.  There are so many things thrashing and bleeding and screaming and the blood is getting on me too, it covers my hands and stains my clothes and it is on my face.  The screams only sound human about half the time and I do not know which are more frightening to hear.  But in between the screams there is someone or something whispering in my ear and it just keeps saying my name over and over again and I don’t know how I know this but I know it is grinning while it says my name.  My thoughts are always covered in red and gray and they feel like palaces being destroyed and falling into the ocean, endless explosions and crashes and impalement and suffocation and sinking into darkness.  It doesn’t matter anymore whether I cry out for real or only in my head because no one hears or if they do they simply ignore it.  I pray to her and plead for forgiveness and ask for relief and even though this does not come my love never falters.  I need to be dragged away and I need someone to realize what is going on and to please help me and to figure out the strange insides of everything.  I can no longer take these journeys without the personal toll rising.  The inner corridors are too oppressive and strangulating and I know there will come a time when escape will prove impossible.  No one sees that I hate talking to them and every single word I force out of my body takes a herculean effort.  No one sees anything, they can’t see all the colors on me and I don’t understand why.  Why can’t they feel them either?  I can feel each color as it hits me or as I’m forced to drink it and then I can feel them all clashing in my stomach.  I say another prayer to her and there is at last the briefest respite and her warmth surrounds me.  She holds me in the palm her hand and then up to her lips and she says “tranquilo” and her voice finds its way into all the inner spaces and fills me with ecstasy and somehow I bathe inside of her while she still watches over me.  

red curtains cover my thoughts

I remember once I was in a college geology class and the professor was talking about the movie Ice Age, expressing much discontent over the factual inaccuracies.  His main gripe pertained to the motley group of animals who make up our plucky protagonists and the fact that several of those particular animals would never actually have crossed paths due to the geographical makeup of the planet at the time.  I dutifully raised my hand to point out I did not believe the Ice Age movies were designed to be historical presentations and that their intentions lie elsewhere.  I immediately began to space out as he responded to my point, looking over at a baseball-sized purple geode sitting on the counter.  I could turn my head slightly in either direction and it would shine in a different way.  I would eventually steal that geode, placing it in my backpack one day as class was ending without bothering to check if anyone was looking.  Sometime later I happened upon a novel which was self-published by this professor but I did not purchase it.    

Something strange and unsettling is happening to me and I do not know why or how to stop its acceleration.  I went to dinner last night with a group of friends and acquaintances in celebration of a promotion earned by someone within this group.  The chosen restaurant was a more formal place and I selected my outfit well ahead of time.  An hour or so before leaving I began drinking several glasses of cheap red wine in an effort to calm the restless voices inside my head.  I was dreading this dinner – as I had done with several recent social events – and my nerves were sending me into near panic.  I filled my flat with the sounds of various Hans Zimmer scores (always popular with critics) and told myself repeatedly it would not be so bad.  I was very happy this individual had earned this promotion because it was well deserved but despite the telephonic invitation to the celebratory dinner I could not fathom why my company was desired or how it could add to the festivities in any constructive way.  Still, I thought it best to offer my support and I arrived quite punctual for the occasion. 

As suspected, no one looked happy to see me and I could not say I was happy to see anyone there either.  I looked around the table and though I had known these people for years and had even felt close to several of them on various occasions I was horrified to realize they were now all strangers to me.  A polite gentleman at the table – one I knew only in passing – did his best to involve me in the group conversations but I imagine the only people even less interested than me in my monotone anecdotes were the remaining participants.  I appreciated his efforts and felt gratitude for his attempt; these were likely the only positive emotions I experienced during the dinner.  The longer I stayed the more blackened things became.  Their eyes were cruel and bizarre distortions of visages once familiar.  It was difficult to look into them and perhaps the only healthy aspect of it was the fierce realization that it would be for the last time.  It was impossible to imagine any of them missing my presence in their lives or even noticing its absence at all.  There was a warm and welcome comfort with this embracement of irrelevancy but it did not make the dinner any easier.  Language had failed me entirely for the evening as all conversations felt entirely superficial and said through forced smiles of whitened teeth.  Any attempt to feign interest in the proceedings or carry on as though I were legitimately a part of any present relationship only resulted in a sharp pain between my eyes and myself quite literally choking on my own words. 

I do not recall exactly when the evening ended, only a blur of obligatory handshakes, and cold, often repellant hugs.  Driving home I could not recall the last time I had felt so thankful.  I feel it must be said I do not believe the blame for my unpleasant experience lies with anyone but me.  Though it is difficult to now say I know any of the others very well they truly did seem like good, honest and pleasant people.  The problem is entirely my own and no one else’s. 

I find it a bit strange that more and more I am able to make a connection only with artistic works and expressions such as music or movies or books and no longer with people.  How is it that I can make a connection and feel moved by something of a human origin but everyday people themselves feel ever more distant and hollow?  It makes me wonder what it would be like to meet someone whose work I admire and celebrate.  Would I be able to connect with him or her in any way or would they be as impenetrable and ultimately disappointing as anybody else? 

Earlier in the evening I found myself at another one of life’s great crossroads.  Days ago I rented Sam Raimi’s recent Oz the Great and Powerful from Hastings, the entertainment superstore.  I remember the moment vividly because the friendly woman at the checkout lane informed me she remembered my name after I informed her I’d misplaced my Hastings card (cleverly known as an entertainment passport).  She commenced in entering what she thought was my information into the computer, only stopping when I informed her that the name was completely incorrect.  There was a second of silence followed by a dual merry chuckle due to the mutual realization that she was mistaking me for someone else and that I was in fact as unmemorable as I assumed.  As she pulled up the correct information I grabbed a small bag of fruit snacks which were in a box by the register and put them on the check-out counter.  She said “thank you” upon ringing this item up but I am not sure why.  It is unlikely she would receive any sort of commission given the nature of this store.  Perhaps she was the one who suggested to top management to carry this product in the store and was feeling pleased over the reception (it appeared several others had purchased these as well).  Maybe I simply set the snack down on the counter at the exact moment her hand was reaching over and it was simply an instinctual response to nearly being handed something.  I suspect I will never know why she said these words but that will not stop me from wondering for the rest of my natural life. 

Getting back on track, earlier in the evening I could not make up my mind as to whether I should watch the aforementioned Oz or watch Wim Wenders’ The American Friend for the twenty-seventh time this week.  In what will likely go down as one of the boldest moves of the past twenty years I decided to spend several hours doing nothing but watching cinema and viewed them both back to back.  Perhaps one day in the future I will go into my thoughts on both films and on that day, the world will truly know my name.  I cried during both movies but only one made me weep.  

I make my living selling paintings by allegedly dead artists

A dear friend of mine and me recently watched the widely ignored movie Broken City starring Mark Wahlberg, Russell Crowe, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Barry Pepper.  We both concluded that it was probably the best movie of the past 13 years and one that would be viewed as a masterwork of film noir in the filmic generations to come.  When discussing the thematic gestalt of the film with this friend I commented that Barry Pepper was my least favorite of the five actors to portray literary character Tom Ripley on the big screen.  While this comment is not strictly a lie it is also a bit disingenuous on my part.  Those who are familiar with Mr. Pepper’s Ripley movie – Ripley Underground – know the film’s release and distribution had an ancient curse placed upon it and even obtaining a copy of the bare bones dvd is exceedingly difficult.  This is a shame because aside from The Talented Mr. Pepper, the film also features Claire Forlani, Alan Cumming, Tom Wilkinson and Willem Dafoe.  If one of my dear readers has a copy of this film please let me know and perhaps we can organize a friendly get together with coffee, cheese and pie.  We can laugh and reminisce on the old days where our whole lives were still ahead of us and our dreams were so vivid and seemingly inevitable that every day was filled with uncompromised hope and unadulterated joy.  Then we would watch the movie and discuss its merits until the dawn before falling asleep in each other’s arms, feeling a peace neither one of us has known for years. 

It is difficult to rank the remaining four Ripley actors but I think if someone was pointing a standard police issue Glock 9 millimeter handgun to my head and threatening to splatter my brain matter all over the walls unless I declared a favorite I would have to choose Dennis Hopper from Wim Wender’s sumptuous The American Friend.  I have written about this film in previous blog posts and I am sure I will return to it in the future for it is gorgeous film noir (even besting Broken City in this sense).  The cast is uniformly great and the film has so many moments of visual beauty that thousands of screen shots would warrant framing and adornment on a wall.  As a quick aside I felt the same about Brad Anderson’s movie The Machinist.  It was also during The Machinist that I fell deeply in love with Aitana Sanchez-Gijon.  For nearly a year afterward I spent long sleepless night and longer meritless days wishing with all my heart that this forced insomnia would gradually cause me to lose my grip on reality and encourage me to partake in late night meals at an airport where she would be working as a waitress.  Alas, this never came to pass but I cannot deny that this fantasy remains in my dark heart.  She brought such beauty and warmth to the role.  She showed a love and tenderness to Christian Bale’s character that I know I would never deserve.  Love and tenderness is for winners and I am so obviously a loser.  But getting back The American Friend, Dennis Hopper’s interpretation of Tom Ripley is as haunting as it is heartbreaking and his is the Ripley that most stays with me. 

I recently watched Blade Runner again and audibly cursed myself for having not purchased the soundtrack.  Lately I have been on a soundtrack and film score craze, buying them by the thousands and doing nothing but lying naked on my sofa, listening to the music through cheap Ipod ear-buds and consuming large bowls of Marshmallow Mateys cereal.  Purists know that Marshmallow Mateys is the knock-off of Lucky Charms that runs about a dollar less since it does not come in a box.  The sad truth is that it does not taste as good as Lucky Charms.  Perhaps this is simply the power of glossy, effective marketing or perhaps the ingredients simply are not as choice.  Regardless, I always opt for the Mateys instead of the Charms, all too content to wallow in my own personal hell. 

I think technically speaking the term “soundtrack” is often used when the movie has pop slash rock songs as accompaniment and “score” is used more often when the music is purely instrumental.  However I like to use the words interchangeably because I am an ugly and ignorant man who alienates those he loves most.  I am probably completely wrong about the definitions of those words and from here on out I will only use the term soundtrack because I prefer the way it rolls off the tongue.  I recall with delightful clarity my first French kiss.  I will not divulge the details here so as to protect the innocent but it was a time so electric that in this moment of remembrance I truly realize how far I have fallen and how empty my life has become.  Every day I scream for help but no one – friends, family, co-workers, the strange people living in my head – will deign to answer my cries. 

As my loyal followers will remember when I discussed my ever growing love for Hans Zimmer’s soundtrack for the recent Man of Steel I always try and see the movie first before purchasing and bonding with a soundtrack.  I have felt such strong urges as of late to bond with the soundtracks to the Pirates of the Caribbean movies but this is problematic because I have only seen the first movie (which is the only soundtrack of the series I do not wish to bond with).  This means tomorrow I will drive to a store and rent the three sequels even though I have very little desire to actually watch them.  Then I will watch these in an epic late night marathon.  Then I will drive back, return the movies and purchase the soundtracks.  I will listen to those discs at least 19 times a day for the next 47 years of my life and then I will sell them at a garage sale for a reasonable price and will say to the lucky purchaser, “You are in a for a treat there, I spent the best years of my life with these discs as background music.  Let them fill your senses and shape your own personal journey through this crazy, mixed up world we live in.”

Worry not everyone; I am working on an epic review for Man of Steel that will destroy all your pre-conceived notions of the written word.  Thank you Lali Torres for your beautiful music, you and You have saved so much.  

Monday, bloody Monday

The other day I was at Barnes and Noble Booksellers waiting for one of my friends to arrive as we were going to attend a feature film (the cinema is right next to this book store).  My friend was running a bit late which left me with ample time to peruse the shelves.  I was in the sci-fi/fantasy section when I noticed two gentlemen walking in from the mall entrance.  They were easy to notice because they were speaking rather loud, voicing their displeasure over the store.  “So this is a bookstore?” one of them said.  “I guess this is what passes for a bookstore around here,” was the reply.  Physically, they were unremarkable.  They were both tall and bespectacled.  One of them was quite lanky and wore very tight clothing which consisted of a pink button down shirt, faded jeans and brown dress shoes.  The other man matched him in height but had more weight, including a gut that hung over the waistline of his pants.  He was dressed in a much sloppier fashion.  I cannot be certain but I had the impression from their body language that they were a couple. 

They happened upon a nearby table on which sat stacks of Barnes and Noble edition books.  There were many titles in this collection, from classics like 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea to the modern like Jurassic Park.  The only unifying factor was the popularity of these titles and the deluxe, hardcover treatment the store chain gave them.  These two men seemed to view these stacks as a personal affront.  “Look at this: Shakespeare next to Neil Gaiman (mispronouncing the last name).  The Holy Bible next to Jane Austen and Gray’s Anatomy, whatever that even is.   Literature next to trash.”  Their combined pretentiousness, arrogance and ignorance were as stunning as they were repellant. 

They then began speaking to a lovely sales clerk – a kind and beautiful woman whom I have spoken to several times while there, often asking for help when I do not require it – and they treated her with a predictable air of strong condescension.  It seemed they wished to buy a gift for a friend and asked questions like “We’re looking for something by Dante?  Would you even know where a book like that would be?” or “Maybe he’d like a book of ancient Chinese history.  I don’t think he’s read anything like that.  You probably don’t have a decent history section here though, do you?” 

Her answers were frequently interrupted with more questions and snide laughs at the responses she was able to get out as they continued attempting to show off their basic Lit. 101 education.  She showed a tremendous amount of patience and courtesy which speaks volumes about her character as a person and professionalism as a worker.   All the while I was biting my tongue to the point of drawing blood in order to resist the logical and near overpowering urge to remove the fine point BIC pen from my jeans pocket (nothing writes like a BIC) and promptly gouge out their eyes, thus rendering Barnes and Noble Booksellers – and indeed, most bookstores – utterly useless to them.  I wondered if they would be rude to this woman or try to prove some false intellectual superiority to anyone if they did not have any eyes.  Forced optic removal and a complete elimination of one of the five classic senses must be a humbling experience on some level I reasoned. 

After having her take them around the store and finally concluding the “pathetic selection” was not yielding any results they left.  I considered following them – knowing that I would have to make no effort to conceal myself as it was certain they would not notice – but I ultimately decided against this action.  There were several reasons but chief among them was that I did not want to miss the movie.  All things considered it was a refreshing moment.  It is incredibly rare to find someone more detestable than myself but to find two people and at the same time must surely be considered something of a miracle.  Neil Gaiman has a new book coming out tomorrow if memory serves.  I plan to purchase and then read this book though first I want to read a couple Isaac Asimov books. 

I spent the other night with a maniacal grin on my face, wearing a black business suit, red cape and an animal mask and pouring champagne down the backs of naked concubines.  My colleagues were in similar attire as I and after a while it became impossible to tell if they were human.  Their faces were twisted and beastly distortions and as the concubines did their work and everything became sticky their former cries of human ecstasy sounded more like twisted and horrifying moans from another world.   

Soundtracks are a tricky thing.  I have many in my vast, eclectic and undeniably impressive music collection.  Over time I noticed a connection between my favorite movies and the soundtracks I own.  Further investigation and applying the rules of causation and correlation revealed to me that my love of the soundtracks was not caused by my initial love of the films but rather that the films I love are all of such high quality (since my taste in movies is also impeccable) that the soundtracks are all excellent.  Music is incredibly important in a movie and often directs the audience as to what emotion they should be feeling.  It can elevate scenes and in many ways act as a character unto itself.  Great filmmakers recognize this and in turn elect great composers to add their own vision to the film.  In the end the movie and the soundtrack become complimentary pieces, with bold providing their own unique flavor of enjoyment.  An exception is The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (the American, David Fincher version) which has a soundtrack I feel is far superior the movie.  It is a soundtrack I adore.    

Along these lines, the past few days my ears have been treated to Hans Zimmer’s elegant Man of Steel soundtrack (the deluxe 2 disc version) and I am repeatedly stunned by not only its beauty and power but how complete it feels.  Even many of the best soundtracks still sometimes have less compelling moments of more ambient sounds or comparably minor themes (minor in the impactful sense) meant to bridge between the more major pieces .  Yet every piece of this soundtrack stands proudly on its own while also coming together to create a sweeping work evoking equal measures of tears and triumph.  In particular, the deceptively simple main piano theme is somehow capable of inspiring both these emotions at the same time.  Would I dare say something as intense (and in some circles blasphemous) as this work being superior to John Williams’ iconic soundtrack to the first Christopher Reeve Superman movie?  Only time and repeated listens will tell. 

My high school senior year AP Government teacher taught me one of the most important things about writing I ever learned.  He taught this to me in less than a minute yet it always stayed with me and always proves effective.  I will not reveal this nugget of wisdom but rather hoard it selfishly, metaphorically clinging it tightly to my bosom and only willing to relinquish the secret after a vicious and well deserved physical beating.  I spoke with a dear friend on the telephone yesterday and after a few minutes I heard concern in her voice and she asked me “Are you okay?”  I comically replied, “What’s the matter?  Don’t I look okay?” 

I played mini-golf sometime in the past few days.  After getting in 18 holes I stopped by the club house and ate a sausage dog.  I put on too much sauerkraut and had to remove some to make the dish more palatable.  I feel like at some point in my life I was buried in an avalanche with some friends and we were forced to eat one another in order to survive but I cannot remember when this happened or who made it out okay.  I do think there was a woman there name Sonja (or was it Sonya, or perhaps Sonia?) and she was quite beautiful and I am almost positive she made it out unscathed because I remember later on hearing rumors from peers that she had her own scandalous website and I immediately broke out in a hot sweat and desperately asked everyone I came into contact with for the URL.  No one provided me with this information and to this day when I am not questioning the reality of these events I am questioning whether they did not give me the URL because they did not know it or whether they did not want me to have it.

 “If you’re that afraid, you should call the police.”  How many times have I uttered those words in the past week? 

Wednesday night, safe and sound

Here I sit on the eve of Man of Steel.  My tickets are ready and my outfit is fresh and starched.  I purchased the special edition soundtrack last night yet I have refrained from listening to the discs.  Soundtrack music is indelibly linked to the corresponding feature film and I never like listening to the music before seeing its context first within the film itself.  Part of me feels very dead today and I have a sneaking suspicion that my not so pretty face is headed somewhere very bad.  I recall being at work and blinking back hot tears.  The world was growing dim around me and a single utterance from a co-worker was like an explosion in my ears.  I wanted to slice open my stomach with a letter opener and pull out my large intestine and use this bloody rope to hang myself with but I did not do this.  At one point I was on the verge of sheer panic and I listened to the song “Cabecita Loca” by Amaral and this calmed me down as it always does.  I frequently wonder why anyone talks to me at all and often find myself wishing they would all cease.  I ate two sticks of beef jerky and a granola bar for lunch and chewed 11 pieces of gum throughout the day.  When I am tired of one piece I am never able to simply spit it into the garbage can because I won’t be able to stop thinking about a small, deformed chewy gob sticking to the sides of the plastic bag so I always place it in the wrapper first and then dispose of it. 

I have been following the NBC program Hannibal with great enthusiasm since its initial airing a couple months ago.  That last statement is not entirely true and I am reminded once more of my unfortunate penchant for telling lies even when none are necessary.  I was initially quite skeptical about this show as I felt the character of Hannibal Lecter had been far too overexposed and was no longer interesting.  Yet the previews intrigued me and the pilot episode won me over with its attention to character and taut execution.  Since then the show has only continued to surprise and impress and is currently my favorite program, leaps and bounds ahead of all others I watch.  One recent episode was easily the best hour of television I’ve seen in years and left me in a state of slack jawed awe.  All the actors bring their A-game, the world and mythology therein is richly detailed and the photography and set design is stunning, rendering it easily one of – if not THE – best looking shows on television.  It is the only current show that I must watch during its original air time and at the end of an episode I often feel compelled to watch it once more in order to fully savor the sumptuous detail.  Bravo I say to all involved with the creation of this program. 

I remember with great detail someone screaming at me constantly and calling me a “disappointment” and “ungrateful” and “worthless” and telling me undeserving I was of everything I had.  I remember feeling slaps across my face and not raising a hand back and being told to go to hell and feeling so angry that I wanted to punch and bite until all the bones in my hands were broken and my teeth were stained with blood with some being pulled free.  There is a massive amount of hate that grows inside so many people from the mistreatment of others.  Sometimes – if those people do not find a conduit for release – that hate becomes a living entity, a separate identity unto itself that can take over and change everything in a life.  It has its own voice and its own face and its own intentions and soon enough it spreads and multiplies, becoming many.  There are constant feelings of ugliness and strange twisting things inside and they coil around and squeeze and kill as much as they can.  They plead and they beg when they have to.  Sometimes they tempt and seduce and their caress feels as inviting and perversely proper as it does frightening.  And sometimes those things simply stop taking no for an answer and coming tearing out, leaving so much devastation in their wake that it is impossible to push them back inside or go back to how it was before. 

I recently made the purchase of a lifetime when I bought Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines on Blu-Ray.  This is my favorite of the quadrilogy and in fact the only one I would dare to purchase.  Despite the presence of my love Christian Bale, Terminator Salvation was a steaming pile of manure and I’ve always felt that the first two take themselves far too seriously.  This opinion is course a bit hypocritical on my part since I am often called to defend The Great Supreme Master of Cinema Christopher Nolan’s Bat-Trilogy from weak minded simpletons who unjustly claim those filmic masterpieces takes themselves too seriously.  Kristanna Loken plays the T-X in this movie, the central antagonist to Schwarzenegger’s classic model T-800 and she brings an intense charisma to the icy role.  I’ve often fantasized about being brutally murdered by her, albeit in mostly different ways than are depicted in the film. 

Mala Rodriguez is releasing a new album next Tuesday and this excites.  I still enjoy physical releases over purely digital ones so I imagine I will have to wait until some copies spring up on ebay or amazon.co.uk as these are always released first in foreign lands.  It is worth the wait and the hunt.  She is a thrilling artist, possibly my favorite rapper and the disc’s lead single – entitled “33” – is a fiery, aggressive and unbearably sexy piece of art.

I hope Man of Steel is great and that I love it but if I don’t that is okay too.  

Sunday night is all right

Unless there is a rape involved there is no such thing as an accidental pregnancy.  If I ever catch myself using that term I will have no choice but to use a pair of needle nose pliers to rip out my tongue, which I will then cook over an open fire and serve to dinner guests have driven up from Portland.  I was very recently at a dear friend’s house while he, his entire family and I sat peaceably in the living room and watched golf on television.  I recall at one point posing the question as to why we were watching golf but no one could provide me with an adequate response.  George Clinton just announced that he is penning a memoir and it should be out sometime next year.  I eagerly await this tome and plan to metaphorically devour it while listening to classic P-Funk records.  I often listen to P-Funk while at work and it always increases my productivity and the overall quality of my work.  I feel bad much of the time when I am not sleeping. 

Only just a couple days ago Trent Reznor announced the imminent return of Nine Inch Nails and premiered a new song, a new album title and release date as well as dates for an upcoming tour.  At some point I flashed back to another college memory where I am standing on a bridge looking down.  I am imagining myself stepping off the ledge and falling and falling until my body collides with the pavement and whatever is left of me finally vanishes.  I feel an incredible peace come over me and everything around is calm.  It is a very cold night and I watch my breath in the air.  I think of someone, a face that has not one name but limitless names and she comes to me, black hair, dark eyes and her hands reaching out.  Her voice is gentle and she says something I do not understand – I don’t even recognize the language – but it immediately provides me with comfort.  She is warm and forgiving and I go with her instead of jumping off the bridge. 

All of my thoughts and memories are becoming disfigured and they spill out of brain, fall to the floor and die.  There is someone who lives in the wall next to my bed and at night he says my name and I put the pillow over my head because I am scared.  I don’t want to talk to him or know what he looks like but I don’t know that I have any choice in the matter. 

This Thursday at 7:00 PM pacific standard time I will be sitting down inside the local multiplex and viewing Man of Steel.  A beautiful ally of mine recently pointed out that in some ways everything in my life has only served to kill time until the release of this motion picture.  My anticipation could scarcely be higher.  Recently, I was exiting my flat when I realized I may have to end my life very soon since after Man of Steel comes out I will seemingly have nothing left to live for.  At once I began weighing my options over how to best exterminate my filthy, degenerative existence and concluded that my favorite was still to jump from an exceedingly high place and allow my bones to be turned to powder and for my flesh and blood to stain the pavement.  I began planning a trip to Seattle before remembering once again the new Nine Inch Nails album and subsequent tour to take place later this year.  Consequently, I postponed those plans. 

True to my word I recently purchased the latest Carl Barks’ Donald Duck reprint tome and the Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence Criterion Collection blu-ray.  I have not yet metaphorically dived into the Donald Duck volume but I did watch the blu-ray last night while eating strawberries and drinking a tall glass of tap water.  I always make sure to drink water straight from the tap.  The bottled water business is possibly the most ingenious thing in the history of mankind.  However this claim will only last until someone figures out how to bottle uncompromising hatred and self-loathing.  When it is possible to bottle those I will be the purest source and the best-selling brand will be named after me.  Incidentally, I loved the movie and have not been able to stop thinking about it.  It runs through my head as I stare out my window and wonder why I am so unhappy and why I have never been able to contribute a single worthwhile thing to this world.  But did I actually love this movie?  Or did I simply convince myself that I did in order to justify the inflated prices of Criterion blu-rays?  That is a question philosophers and historians have puzzled over for hundreds of years and I cannot pretend to have the answer.

Speaking of movies at some point during the last week I was at the cinema and watching The Purge starring dreamy hunk Ethan Hawke and attractive lady Lena Headey (Ms. Headey also starred in the movie Ripley’s Game.  I love the character of Tom Ripley.  Dennis Hopper’s portrayal from The American Friend is probably my favorite and hot tears always stream down my face when I watch that movie.  Why doesn’t anyone answer my desperate cries for help?).  The Purge was entertaining, non-demanding lark.  I have no complaints there.  What I do have complaints about are the 8 or so teenagers who would not stop talking during the movie.  The second they entered and took five minutes to figure out their preferred seating arrangement I immediately despised their existence (not quite as much as my own but still a considerable amount).  I am constantly baffled how people can be so rude without hesitation.  I am certain they all thought they were cute, cool and funny.  I tried to calm myself by imagining them as adults where this behavior would be well behind them but this did not work because I have come to realize that people do not change and the majority of us remain miserable wrecks our entire lives.  I was twisting and folding my cheap tie in my hands throughout the duration of the picture and resisting every urge to slam my face into the bannister until my eyes were gouged out and my skull caved in, forcing my brain matter to splatter all over the theatre stairs.  I had calmed by the end of the movie.  Who was I to judge them?  Surely, I have done countless things just as and more annoying to others during my life.  These youngsters did not deserve my negativity.  They were merely enjoying the leniency and behavioral privileges of youth and it would be wrong of me to deny them that. 

Later that evening I changed my outfit nine different times before deciding on the one I looked least ugly in and then I went out to meet my friends.  I fell in love at some point but quickly fell out of it when I realized I would destroy the relationship with my woeful inadequacies and neurotic insecurities.  I fall in and out of love no less than 19 times on any given day.  

Monday at last....

I recently finished reading the novel Rendezvous With Rama by Arthur C. Clarke.  I vividly recall being in Barnes and Boble Booksellers and perusing the Science Fiction/Fantasy section for a good read.  I happened upon Mr. Clarke – an author whom I’d never tried before – and remembered that he authored 2001: A Space Odyssey.  The adaptation of 2001 is one of my favorite movies of all time (this could be said about several of Stanley Kubrick movies) and is one that I watch no less than 27 times on a daily basis.  I spotted this Rama book amongst the rows of his work and with a check via the handy Iphone 4 I found that this was quite a well respected science fiction tome.  I knew that I was at a crossroads of life and that everything that happened to me in the future would be in some way determined by whether or not I bought this book.  I stood there sweating and pontificating for what seemed like hours but was actually days.  Sweat, urine and excrement stained my clothes but I finally worked up enough courage to walk to the front of the store and lay down moist Federal Reserve notes on the counter top until the purchase price had been satisfied.  I was so swept up with emotion that when the lovely blonde woman asked if I were a Barnes and Noble member I said no without hesitation, realizing several grim hours later that this was a mistake and I had just lost an opportunity to save 10% on my book purchase.  10% that I would never see again except in my tortuous nightmares. 

I allow myself to purchase 1 blu-ray from the Criterion Collection a month.  I believe my next buy will be Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence.  I have salivated over it countless times when seeing it at Hastings (the entertainment superstore).  I’d like to think that I will purchase it on a Wednesday evening or a Thursday afternoon that I may watch it on a Thursday evening or a Friday evening at the latest.  Before watching it I will listen to David Bowie’s Berlin Trilogy (which consists of Low, “Heroes” and Lodger) consecutively with average quality Sony headphones and then weep uncontrollably for roughly 87 minutes as I realize once more that I will never in my life create something as remarkable, artistic or groundbreaking as those albums.  I will implore the heavens, chew on tin foil, beat my chest like a silverback gorilla, slam my face repeatedly into the wall adjacent to my terrace and scream nonsensical Lovecraftian words before finally resigning myself once more to my everlasting inadequacy.  Then I will prepare a bowl of Kraft macaroni and cheese and pour myself a glass of Treetop Apple Juice and watch Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence.  Even if I don’t like the movie I will convince myself that I do because Criterion blu rays are very expensive.  The mind is a powerful tool.  Speaking of David Bowie I must express eternal gratitude for his song Everyone Says “Hi” from the album Heathen.  This song is a blanket I can wrap around myself to provide warmth and comfort every time I am feeling down (which is often since I am a failure in almost every respect).  This song has the power to move me to tears and I feel is one I will carry with me until the end. 

I’ve recently developed an incredibly strong urge to purchase a Donald Duck and/or Uncle Scrooge reprint compilation book from Fantagraphics.  These are of course the books reprinting Carl Barks’ work on the series.  This is simply beautiful work and my collection feels empty and lifeless due to the woeful underrepresentation of this man’s rich legacy. 

I remember that not too long ago I was somewhere and very drunk.  I had poured gallons of tequila and wine down my throat and I was stumbling around trying to find the right words to express the thesis of my discontent.  I’ve longed to be one of those great individuals who can function perfectly even while completely hammered but it seems that is not in the cards for me.  Still, as I became progressively more wasted over the course of that evening I kept examining my surroundings, soaking in all the rouge and slicked back hair and exposed skin and bleached smiles.  I was utterly puzzled as to how no one could see that I was completely miserable.  Does no one realize that I am forced chug hard liquor in order to feel comfortable and at peace with all the plasticity and lack of beauty surrounding me.  How can they not see the despair in my eyes or feel the misery radiating off my body?  How can we be so content with our unremarkable mediocre existences?  Does no one see how they’ve thrown their lives away in the interest of a cheap spurt or a few extra dollars?  I am no better of course; in fact I am probably worse.  Yet I am unable to turn a blind eye.  A far greater man than me once said “the blind have been blessed with security” and I am only just beginning to realize how correct he was. 

I do not know who invented the high heel shoe but I think I will do some research into this.  Whoever this/these individual/s was/were, I can only label him/her/them a genius and in my brain I thank them millions of times a day for their contributions to society and to my almost otherwise completely empty life.  Yet this is only half of the recipe.  And the other half is simply too exquisite for me to mention right now.

 I chew two packs of gum a day and as I reflect upon what has made my life worth living I only begin to chew faster.  When it comes to gum, I always stick with wintery mint flavors.  The fruit flavors are nothing short of an abomination and every time I see fruit flavor gum I wish I had a dagger holstered to my thigh so I could use it to slice off my face and mail in to the sick, depraved and desensitized monsters who invented such a foul thing. 

When I was a child all I ever wanted to do with my life was to drive a backhoe.  The backhoe was my first love.  Where do our dreams go?   Neil Gaiman has a new book coming out in a few weeks.  I will buy this book and then I will read it.  Maybe I’ll even eat some of the pages if I’m feeling puckish.  Not long ago I asked someone how they broke their pinky.  She responded by telling me she broke it in a Mother’s Day tetherball tournament.  I was at a loss for words. 

Friday at night time

I am in a weird mood but in a message I am receiving from the past I am telling myself not worry about anything.  At the same time I am also telling every other person in the world not to worry about anything and to take solace in the fact at least they are not me.  I quite audibly laugh out loud as I tell everyone this.  At that exact moment I also remember the very first time I ever became acquainted with the phrase “lol”: a gal named Christina wrote it in a yearbook of mine after a reflecting on a mutual humorous anecdote.  I had to ask around to figure out what it meant.  A few years later she would sign another one of my yearbooks but never finish the message.  I saw her a further few years later while at a jewelry store (either Fred Meyer Jewelry or Zales, I cannot recall which).  I was pretending to look for an engagement for a fiancee I did not have and she was searching for a gift for her sister.  We spoke for a few minutes and I learned that she was married and working at a fast food restaurant.  We shook hands and parted ways in an amiable fashion.  I have not seen her since this encounter.  However I can remember clearly that before the jewelry store meeting and in between the two yearbook signings thinking that she looked quite good in a denim skirt.  Years later in a completely unrelated set of circumstances I would come to realize that the album Load by Metallica is highly, dare I say criminally, underrated.  Think about that last statement.  I’m essentially saying that anyone who underrates that particular album is committing a criminal act and should be brought to justice accordingly.  I love the English language so much that I frequently find myself wishing it could be turned into a cunning, ruthless person who would savagely murder me for being inadequate on almost every fundamental level.
 

I want pizza but I am not pizza.  I am not delicious or saucy nor do I come in a box though hopefully soon I will be buried in one.  During college I once gave a presentation on Papa John’s Pizza that received a standing ovation.  It was probably the greatest moment of my life.  Amongst the attendees was a charming, beautiful woman with the last name of Gamble.  Despite my yearning I never had the guts to take the gamble of asking her out. 

At some point while driving the other day I had to come to a halt for a stop sign.  There was a large white delivery truck coming from my left whose driver did not have a stop sign.  He was traveling roughly 55 miles an hour.  I considered unbuckling my seatbelt and then slamming on the accelerator in the hopes of interfering with the truck’s trajectory at just the right moment.  I imagined my head slamming against the window with such force that my brain was rocked back and forth inside my skull, banging off the graffiti covered inner walls of my cranium until its lights were permanently dimmed.  I saw my blood splashing across cracked windows and heard the symphony of twisting metal and splintering bones.  What stopped my right foot from slamming down on the gas pedal was the thought of what guilt the oncoming driver would experience due to my selfish decision as well as the uncertainty over whether the impact would be enough for a finishing move.  I think what also may have stopped me was the fact that I still listen to David Bowie’s new album every single day as it is a captivating work of art and I still hold out hope that he may one day tour again.  Plus, I still need to watch Man Of Steel which is less than two weeks away.  I have been waiting over 25 years for that film and though my excitement and anticipation could scarcely be higher there is a grim and insistent part of me that believes it will be a disappointment.  Big Hollywood has not offered much in the way of greatness as of late.  Perhaps I have lost my ability to have hope when it comes to these types of films.  Where have our heroes gone? 

I should clarify again that I do believe it is only a select few trials that should be closed off and there are other ways to alleviate the possible prejudice or dangers.  When there is a clear and present danger to a fair trial, certain actions such as a gag order should be permitted (Tedford, 244).  Though in other cases there are other helpful things to get around any prejudice on the part of the jury.  Changing the date of trial or its location is a good suggestion because it gives people time to forget about the details of the case and to look at things in a more impartial light.  Though I do believe this particular suggestion is still a bit problematic because it is difficult to determine exactly how much time one would need in order to regain their degree of impartiality.  Also, while the practice of using prior restraint on members of the press may be controversial, the use of it on trial participants, such as legal counsel, is more accepted (Tedford, 244).  What I naïve young fool I was.  And what I naïve old fool I have become.  If I ever meet my younger self in a darkened alley I will snuff him out in the hopes of extinguishing my current existence. 

The words “senior ballroom” keeps echoing in my brain.  It is a haunting refrain and I cannot figure out their deeper meaning.  I think this is a place I went to years ago but I am unable to recall why I deemed it impactful.   USA TODAY is my favorite national newspaper but there is no bias here because the November 18, 2008 edition does not feature one of their best front pages. The first thing that caught my eye about the front page of the Spokesman-Review for November was how much white space there was. 

I like to wear my robe around my duplex and pretend that I am Neo from the Matrix. 

Wednesday, brunch time

I have let everyone down.  I woke up this morning with the comforting sound of rain falling outside and this thought repeating in my head.  The morning was a strange mix with my environment and actions hazy but this thought clear and constant.  As I went through the day I had the distinct sensation that I was no longer in control of anything, that my life was simply happening and I was no longer an active participant, just another working part.  The only aspect of my life that seemed real and legitimately connected to me was the never-ending failure.  This was something I could feel in my throat and chest and taste on my tongue.  It was at the bottom of every bottle and the first thing I saw when opening my eyes in the morning.  The rain reminded me of several people and it hurt to think about any of them. 

True to my word I purchased the new Alice In Chains album last night at Best Buy (one of my favorite conglomerates).  Funnily (adverb alert) enough I have a shirt that is very much Best Buy Blue and on one occasion – without thinking – I wore it into the store and was mistaken for a worker several times.  I think I have been mistaken for a retail store worker more than an average amount throughout my life.  The mistake does not bother me save for the discomfort of being noticed.  Indeed, I have worked at more than one retail store in my time and understand the often thankless nature inherent in the work. 

The album itself is called The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here which I find to be a rather provocative title.  It is a searing, molten slab of rock.  A grimy, sludge ridden and altogether compelling musical statement and first impressions suggest that it easily stands up against the best of the band’s output.  The musical combustion was so fierce that upon first listen my face was melted off and my eyeballs liquefied and oozed from their sockets, resulting in a grotesque puddle of skin, blood and puss forming at my feet (which were adorned in well worn wing tip shoes).

Sometimes I remember waking up in the middle of the night and seeing a tiger at the foot of my bed.  I remember not being able to breathe in this moment and feeling suffocated by terror, not simply at this animal but at some as yet indescribable presence that was also in my room and perhaps even closer than the tiger.  I do not know what happens after this and sometimes I am not sure whether this is a memory or something else. 

I also went to hastings (the entertainment superstore) last night.  I had a coupon for $5.00 off any purchase of $20.00 or more and I was determined to use it.  I was specifically looking for a copy of The Joshua Tree by U2.  I already own a copy however someone very dear to me does not.  This dear person is also owed a rather large apology by yours truly and I wanted this trinket to be part of said apology.  The Joshua Tree is an incredibly rich album and though it is not my favorite U2 release (that would go to Achtung Baby) I cannot deny that it is an essential disc.  One Tree Hill is my favorite song from that release and I feel it is actually a bit underrated.  The melody is beautiful and this song is always a must on rainy days. 

Hastings succeeded in having this item but failed in having the Godzilla movie I was looking for (Final Wars) and failed in having a new copy of the movie Narc (gritty cop movie with Ray Liotta).  Instead I purchased two Megadeth albums: Risk and Cryptic Writings.  Despite the fact that there was a new remastered copy of Risk available I actually purchased a used, non-remastered copy.  This action will likely confuse many as those who know me best know that I am a slave to remastered re-releases, especially those chock full of elucidating liner notes and bonus tracks.  However I have read that the remaster for Risk greatly diminishes the “Riskier” parts of that album, namely the eastern instruments, keyboards and synthesizers which were all new for The ‘Deth.  I craved to hear the album in its original and musically exciting state.  It is entirely possible that at some point I will purchase the remaster to compare and contrast.  The woman working at the checkout aisle was very kind and had a soft beauty with just enough contrasting grit to have a truly compelling appearance.  She mistakenly entered the coupon for $10.00 off instead of $5.00 but I did not realize this error until I was home. 

I can remember being on a campus made political debate show during college.  The individual in charge of the show was in the army and one of the most respectable people I would meet in my time.  I can remember his name but not the names of my fellow panelists or moderators.  I do remember at one point we were debating an issue – the exact issue I cannot recall – with myself and another gentleman on the Republican side and two others on the Democrat side.  I had remained silent for much of the debate until I finally stood up and asked why we were talking about this.  I further inquired as to why we were bothering to talk about any of it.  Did our contributions, did our voices actually make a difference?  Whichever way the scale was tipping, would it not go the other way at some point and continue teetering back and forth with no real resolution ever in sight?  Does any of this actually matter?  The other panelists gave me strange looks and I could not discern whether their eyes held confusion, disbelief or something else.  I do not believe I spoke for the remainder of the debate.  I never saw that episode and I do not know if that part was edited out. 

People become angry for reasons I cannot understand over things that do not matter while remaining complacent and silent over things which should provoke screaming.  We line up like animals waiting to be clubbed, skinned, consumed and forgotten.  It has occurred to me that at some point there was a bizarre cultural shift in what is perceived as polite behavior and what is perceived as offensive.  I do not know how to figure any of it out.  I just know I want a hug and that is all I have wanted for a very long time.