Give me the electric chair

I recently purchased the movies The Iceman and Blancanieves on blu ray discs at ye old conglomerate.  I stood in the aisle for what felt like minutes though it was actually hours before I dared walk up to the check-out counter.  Working there was a woman who’d rung up my items probably millions of times before yet I still had never worked up the courage to even speak a single syllable to her.  Instead, as she scans my items I prefer to stare at her and let the deep grooves of my sockets do all the talking.  Her hips are generous and her haircut is a style which I would describe and very “cool” and “with-it”.  She seems very friendly and sometimes I like to imagine the two of us escaping the confines of the store with its bright lights and neutral carpeting.  I imagine us fleeing to my motor vehicle and driving and driving until we reach the southernmost tip of South America.  My fantasies never involve us stopping at a gasoline station but I know in reality we would have to do this at some point – probably more than once – and I see myself buying several sticks of beef jerky as well as some kind of fruit juice while also magnanimously offering to buy her anything she wanted.  Sometimes I imagine us not making it to South America and instead stopping somewhere in Mexico where I make a daring attempt to manipulate and subsequently rob various cartels – meaning to get away with both the drugs and the money – but I am instead caught and viciously tortured with various parts of my body being sawed off – including my manhood – while I am kept alive through extensive use of medicinal drips before being mercilessly burned alive, my charred and blackened head hoisted onto a pike and paraded through the local papers as a warning.  I am not sure what happens to her while my life is coming to this gruesome end but I like to imagine she ends up at a farm somewhere and falls in love with the land and all the rewarding work it entails.  I think of her meeting a kind hearted farmer with rough but tender hands who treats her well and gives her the kind love she deserves, the kind of love my worthless heart would never be capable of providing. 

I have heard people say that constant sleeping can be a sign of depression.  Depression is such a pretentious, precious, artsy thing to go through.  I would never admit – even in the course of slitting the juicy blue veins on my wrists – that I am depressed.  All I can say is if I am not at work I am most likely drinking or sleeping.  While drinking I am typically crying until the alcohol content of my body rises to a sufficient level where crying is no longer something I can do.  Passing out or simply falling asleep is great because either way I no longer have to face the stark reality of my utterly failed existence. 

Everyone and everything I seek out is just a substitute.  I realized that this very morning.  I saw her amongst the choir and her voice was clearest of all.  She looked beautiful today as she always does and despite the wall of other instruments and singers it was her voice which was clearest of all.   I wanted to drop down to my knees right in front of her but shame prevented me from doing anything at all.  But I wanted to beg for love and acceptance and tenderness.  I knew I was unworthy but every part of me was screaming for this.  My mind was a maze of dark corridors filled with these monsters of desire.  Her fingers and lips created sounds which had never before been produced by earthly creatures.  I wondered if she could see directly into me.  And if so, how must it look to her?  Were her smiling eyes hiding only revulsion at the sight of the real me?  Or was it possible she could something inside worth saving, maybe even something worth loving?

I have recently been kicking around the idea of buying a drum machine.  I have absolutely no musical talent whatsoever and do not even know what accompanying programs slash equipment I would need to purchase in order to get good and proper use of said drum machine yet all the same I have desires to purchase it.  I know it would just be a placeholder to provide me with some fleeting moments of distracting artificial happiness so I could temporarily forget what a complete ugly loser I am.  The one I am leaning toward is the Alesis SR16 as I have heard from roughly nineteen hundred and twelve reliable sources that it is a good entry level machine.  My interest in this purchase was renewed the other day when I was sitting in a bar and drowning my sorrows which stem from being a fat failure when my drinking companion and I noticed the television was playing the stellar song “The Waiting” by Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers.  TP is one of my favorite artists and “The Waiting” is such a good song I would even go so far as to play it in my car while driving.  My friend and I discussed the merits of the group, going from musician to musician and complimenting them on knowing how to play just enough to serve the song.  We then focused on the drumming and realized we were unable to discuss at any great length favorite drummers or analyze their talents.  I mentioned Jack Irons from his Pearl Jam days and he mentioned the drummer from the Deftones. I then told him I am often more enamored with electronic drum sounds like on some Prince albums or on the new Nine Inch Nails album.  “Nothing wrong with that,” my friend said.  As always, he was too kind and all the while I was hoping he would break his bottle of Sol on the counter and use the remaining serrated edge to slice open my throat from ear to ear and then laugh as my blood gushed out onto the bar and the floor and I drop to ground, smacking my face against the stool on the way down and then going into convulsions before dying. 

The trailer for the new Robocop movie did not excite me nor did it offend me.  I enjoy the original but it is nowhere near a favorite so the seemingly generic approach to this new version on display in the trailer was not a point of contention.  There are some good actors in this new movie which will make me watch it, including Gary Oldman.  It also warmed my heart to see Michael Keaton in this trailer.  Michael Keaton warms my heart.  

She is not on the visible spectrum

Sensations were writhing and dancing and their orgasmic cries echoed through the halls.  A mingling of colors formed two – no, three – perfect composites.  Pink and black, everything started with those two.  There were other colors previously and I remember them with great clarity, there was white, orange, green and red.  They were wonderful; each sparkled in their own way.  The palette of the three is rich and glorious and picturing this in my head causes all my muscles to flex and tense beginning at my calves and traveling to my fingers and jaw. Yet it was the pink and black this time and such a joyous mingling.  Pink with such obvious connotations but the electric pull was anything but common.  Even the shade – if that is even the right word – was something deeper than expected, outside the normal parameters.  Please forgive my endless longing.  I have heard those words before, from a voice so beautiful it had to come from the outer interstellar expanses which it described.  Those words became an exchange across our hearts and across all time and space and I uttered them myself a thousand times afterward and I thanked her for giving them to me.  She is always female during the day but at night I am not quite sure.  But the pink…how generous the color is as it slides down, not stopping until it reaches the wrists, this is not something I see anywhere else.  Please forgive me and do not look too long into my eyes, they hide things I would never want you to see.  But this color is surrounded by black and somehow the black is the best thing.  It is the color of coal or ink and it curves and curves and is supple and wonderful but it also blows in the wind and caresses softly and cascades down in waves.  I imagine myself drowning inside of it where mysterious words which I do not understand ring out in honeyed voices and otherworldly perfumes come to fill my remaining senses as a glorious finality takes hold.  Such tenderness, I plead for all your pardons and I beg you not to look inside.  One single touch destroys me – the very first and very last time – as these colors mix and coalesce and there is such softness.  My back arches and fingers interlock.  Memories and dreams crash along endless shores and we are pulled through space and into castles made of ice.  I have just begun to dream. 

I am always trapped inside my own disgusting body and sometimes I pound my fists into the walls or into my own face and I scream as loud and as hard as I can until it feels as though my throat is ripping apart.  I shower once every hour on the hour while the movie Blue Velvet plays on a continuous loop in the background.  My skin never appears anything less than repulsive and I frequently take furtive glances at the knife by bed and consider using it to obtain some relief but I have not done so yet. 

I remember not long ago sitting on the sofa and she was sitting right next to me and we were watching a movie which I had seen before but she had not.  The room was dark aside from the light provided by the television.  There were empty beer bottles on the window sill and empty wine bottles on the little table next to the sofa.  Sitting there I recalled asking someone the same question on different nights regarding how many sleeping pills they had taken.  My voice was always panicked in those instances.  But sitting on the sofa I was no longer able to fully understand my panic.  The images on the television ceased to make any sense to me.  People and objects were interchangeable, words became meaningless sounds.  The constructs of the room began to disappear and the bottles were not a recent memory but something completely abstract with no associations I could understand.  I still comprehended her at my side and I was filled with a harsh despair which was somehow so powerful it brought forth pain in my chest and head.  I took off my glasses and tears streamed down my face.  We moved together and as she held me tight I was somehow able to find the words and I simply told her “nothing has any meaning”.  I do not remember what happened after that. 

Ultraviolet by U2 is such an absolutely perfect gorgeous song from one of the bestiest albums of all time.  Playing the bassline for that song is deeply fulfilling and brings me some weird sense of peace.  Achtung Baby by U2 and Pies Descalzos by Shakira are the two albums that mostly perfectly and purely express love and all its complex parts to me. 

You are returning to me and I want to cry.  I cannot remain still for even one moment but I know you understand me like no one else does and it fills me with comfort knowing you have returned.  I will be able to lay on my bed in the dark and not feel terrified, at least for a while.  All these abstractions and harmonies, somehow they all come together.  I feel her presence throughout the day and everything is better.  What am I allowed to feel and what am I allowed to think?  Everything is always so much more comfortable when on my knees.  I could not identify the sound but I knew it would stay with me for as long as I lived.  My doubts are answered every time I hear the voices or see the faces.  It’s impossible to give myself over to such beauty and not be redeemed.  I realize I will never solve the mysteries and I am not meant to know what any of these visions mean.  They come to me and kiss my forward and cradle me in their hands.  My face is against the awakening and I drink and I bathe and I am cleansed. 

The fish market revealed so much to me

She was behind the keys and I was below everything else and staring at a mass of snakes and other creatures – many unfamiliar and most horrifying.  What was left to explain about male and female anatomy?  This question was posed to me at some point during the day by a man who may or may not have been a stranger to me.  I have no memories of speaking with him or seeing him before that day yet he was quite insistent in our shared past and I must admit to there being something familiar about the way he speaks and our rapport was quite natural.  He was in the same room as the woman behind the keys but his presence was not as constant.  He would leave to secure physical gratification with someone whose face was always guarded by the shadows.  When he left I would plug my body into various outlets and feel electrical currents raise the hairs on my skin and accelerate my heartbeat.  The woman was actually two different women and they wore two sets of clothes – one predominantly red and one predominantly black – so the rest of us could tell them apart.  Her fingers and her mouth created such rapturous beauty and in those moments I was unable tell either of them apart.  Only when finished would one promise such exquisite pain and agony with the other providing sweet words and caresses of comfort.  Logically, they should both yearn for my death but despite my attempts I was never able to discern what true feelings lay behind their smiling eyes. 

I was in bed after all of this and could not stop shaking for many hours.  I felt a door open in my brain and my room was suddenly bathed in red light.  There were still patches of black and I knew things were standing in those patches but I did not want to know what they were.  I closed my eyes and somehow the red light still penetrated through.  My hands clenched the blankets and the things approached and I could hear deep and irregular breathing. 

I cried and I cried at some other point and the tears were hot running down my face and some landed on my shirt and some spattered onto the floor where they gathered and accumulated and made something strange and frightening. 

I vacillate between The American Friend and Cosmopolis, watching each one a total of 9 times before switching to the other.  Occasionally, I will slip in The Minus Man just for something different.  Sometimes I curl up in my bed and put the pillow over my head and imagine I have been permanently snuffed out but reality eventually sets in and I weep uncontrollably and bite down on the pillow and grab the knife next to my bed and make several more etches in several different places.  Regrettably, my name has never been Victor and I strongly suspect it never will be. 

Over the course of the past few days I have purchased 7 albums by everyone’s favorite funk band AC DC.  It is amazing to me how my seething hatred for this group turned into adoring love.  I spent 57 hours today listening to their last (but hopefully not THE last) album Black Ice and learning the basslines to every song.  Even when I despised the band so much that I had their logo tattooed on my back to remind me of what a colossal failure I am in life I still always considered Cliff Williams to be perhaps the best bassist of all time.  “Skies on Fire” from this most recent release has an incredibly groovy bottom end (not unlike Colombian singing sensation Shakira Mebarak) and I played the song roughly 223 times in a row, taking a shot of El Jimador silver tequila between each time.  Eventually I was so wasted I actually believed I could amount to something in life and ended up inventing a new universal language as well as a teleportation machine which I used to transfer 9 crates of plastic Looney Tunes themed watches to poor starving kids in Africa. 

Afterward, I used this amazing technology to teleport all the way to the chilly expanses of Montana, USA where I befriended a gorgeous and generously hipped German woman with a limp – the origins of which I never inquired about – and we frolicked through the snowy fields and made out like ducklings and I told her I would love her forever and would kiss her feet every time she came home from work because that is when they would smell the finest and she said something back to me which I did not understand because I don’t speak German but it sounded incredibly beautiful because German is easily one of the sexiest languages I have ever heard in my life and this immediately made me feel like a real stale bastard because the aforementioned universal language I invented did not sound anywhere near as sexy so I immediately used my brilliant machine to travel back to my lair where I destroyed all the plans, diagrams and paperwork of this new language – burning them in a fire which burned brighter than a thousand suns – and I also destroyed my teleportation machine when I realized all the watches I’d shipped over to those poor malnourished youngsters had a serious design flaw – hence the discounted bulk rates I’d secured – and would forevermore run roughly 8.5 minutes fast and the guilt I experienced over those hungry hungry kids never having a time piece that kept accurate time was too much to take and I also knew that the world was not ready for this technology and it could easily fall into the hands of corrupt politicians and dictators but what really made me destroy this machine and all evidence of it was the realization that this gorgeous and voluptuous German woman could never really love someone as vomit-inducingly ugly as myself and I could not live with this device which had brought such love and such subsequent heartbreak into my life and so it was destroyed forever more.  I do it all for love. 

There is one thing I always wish for but it never comes true and I don’t understand how people cannot take notice.  John Frusciante (pronounced frue-ski-ant-ee) understands perfectly and outlined it all on the 10^th track from his amazing album “Curtains”.  Me heart him with all my heart.  

I cried and took the Polaroids

I wish I had a future…anywhere.

I prefer to have liquid dinners these days.  I sleep better and wake up with a better taste in my mouth and it also helps flush out my system.  No one asked my opinion but I would not mind Scott Adkins in the role.  I absolutely loved Universal Solider: Day of Reckoning.  It was a surprisingly Lynchian film with cinematography and good brutal fights.  Speaking of Lynch, I watched Lost Highway 7 times in a row this weekend, each time adding another mark in my arm and during each viewing I became more frightened.  I thought of a woman whom I met in the valley.  As a tense shift takes place I remember her hair is incredibly black, blacker than coal, blacker than the depths of the ocean.  She always lets a little fall to the side of her face.  I complimented her on a bracelet she was wearing and she explained all about its history and family ties and the greedy oil barons and persecution and necessary escape.  She is fascinating.  She tells many stories yet somehow reveals nothing about herself in the process.  Her hips are wondrous and her beauty addicting.  I suffer withdrawal symptoms when I go more than a week without seeing her, long sweaty nights of pillow chewing and dry heaving and banging my head against the walls until they are covered with red dents.  It took me 3 weeks to read a very short book by a very popular author and I found the book to be very bad.  Still, friends have given me other recommendations by this author and I will try those before writing him off.  Tis’ only fair.  I love the vocal on the song “Sweet Thing” from the Diamond Dogs album, it slays me.  So does the next song and the ones after those.  In fact, that whole album beats my pale hirsute buttocks into the ground and then pisses right on my face and into my mouth for good measure.   

It gives me comfort sometimes to imagine that somewhere out there exists a person who is so consumed with hatred for me that they spend every waking moment plotting my demise.  I like to imagine them forming layers upon layers of plans and writing them all down and conducting psychological profiles of myself and those closest to me and having several untraceable and healthy bank accounts with which to finance these plans.  I hope he or she knows me so well that my every action and move is anticipated and the grand undoing will be a systematic elimination of every aspect of my being and personality until I am begging for the end.  What a noble pursuit it would be.  Who did I create?  Who is this hero perhaps now lurking in the shadows, not quite ready to show him or herself?  I await the revelation.  Every day we all give birth to new identities and they want nothing more than our utter destruction.  But how can we blame them?  We’re all alike. 

I played Fire by Jimi Hendrix 16 times on the bass guitar today.  Then I played the cover by the Red Hot Chili Peppers 13 times.  Afterward I ripped out a page from the new issue of Esquire and ate it, washing it down with an 11.3 fluid ounce bottle of Sunny Delight.  I have always enjoyed this juice but it rarely quenches my thirst.  I visited several pawn shops recently and browsed the bass guitars as I am keen to purchase a new one.  In my heart and aortal pump I imagined my greasy fingers sliding along the luxurious neck of a Fender Jazz Bass, ideally with a sunburst or cream body.  Yet, there are several models of Ibanez basses which have also caught mine eye.  If I had billions of dollars in unmarked bills I would simply purchase one of each type of bass guitar and have a marathon cocaine fueled and sleepless try-out session where I did nothing but test basses, drink cheap gas-station bought red wine and experiment with various forms of autoerotic asphyxiation.  However I am not fortunate enough to have this much dough so I must content myself with a singular purchase for now.  I suspect I will be mulling these choices over in my brain for the better half of the next 60 years so if anyone has any advice I’m all ears. 

For the past hour or so there has been a terrifying voice saying words I do not understand coming from somewhere in my flat.  I searched for the source of this voice and can only conclude it is coming from the closet but I have been too scared to open it and see what is inside.  The voice is male and the tone goes from prodding to furious to petrified and back again.  I cried last night and reached for the full bottle of pills on my night stand and the glass of water there but chickened out at the last minute.  Somewhere small children were laughing and pointing at me for my cowardice.  There is a flat below and to the right of mine which looks quite nice during the day.  It is big and fully furnished but despite a complete lack of venetian blinds or curtains I have never seen anyone walking through it.  At night some of the lights are on, including in the bedroom.  I can see inside and there is a large mirror which faces me.  This place is deeply frightening at night and somehow I know that to enter there – particularly the bedroom – would mean facing something unspeakable. 

I see you lying on your side on a red bed in a dim lit room.   Your dress is gold and form fitting and runs all the way down to your ankles.  You are nothing at all like me and this is a wonderful thing.  Your eyes are so dark but somehow the light and warmth in your heart is reflected in them.  You smile and without words tell me it is okay to step closer.  Your smile is seductive and inviting and it promises safety and is an embrace in and of itself.  I know there has never been anyone else who has mastered that particular type of smile and there never will be.  You turn your head and let your hair fall across your chest and the gentle rise and fall created by your breathing moves this as well and the moment is electric.  Slowly, you slip off your black heels and these fall to the floor and the sound makes me jump and I am unsure why.  Your hands slide across the pillows, your hands are gentle.  There is only kindness and love and forgiveness and so many other things which only you can give and which I do not deserve.  “Ven carino,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. 

For a long time I hated the band AC DC but these days they don’t annoy me as much as before. I’m not really sure why.  

What if I threw the typewriter overboard?

At some point in the past few weeks I read the book Cosmopolis by Don Delillo.  It did not take long to read as it is a relatively short book however there were many things about it I did not understand.  I never before read a book by this author but when I saw David Cronenberg crafted the movie adaptation I knew I needed to read it.  I hitchhiked over to Barnes and Noble Booksellers and purchased the copy with the movie image on the cover.  I hate editions of books featuring the movie image but whenever I am purchasing a book I may not have otherwise known about were it not for the filmic version I always snag those editions so I may constantly be reminded of my ignorance and inadequacies.  Despite the fact that I didn’t really like the book I rented the blu ray yesterday or the day before and watched the flick on a television set I was given for Christmas.  Halfway through I regretted renting it and wished I had simply purchased it instead.  The movie was mesmerizing and I could not take my eyes off it.  It tickled all the dank and dark corridors of my brain while deepening my appreciation of the source text.  There were still long passages which flew right over my head like a flock of seagulls on a migratory trajectory yet these were somehow more palatable when accompanied by Cronenberg’s gaudy digital visuals and Howard Shore’s and Metric’s musical accompaniment.  Robert Pattinson was mesmerizing and the supporting cast equally up to task.  How I wished Juliette Binoche would have slipped off those high heels yet there was also great pleasure in my being denied this wish.  I watched the movie 14 times in a row while drinking 11 red bulls, 1 five-hour energy drink and two spicy chicken sandwiches which I’d procured at Carl’s Jr. and saved in my refrigerator for just such an occasion.  I have little doubt that once the movie is in my possession I will have a similar marathon.  Finally, the first film about our new millennium. 

The BBC version of Pride and Prejudice figured prominently in my dreams slash nightmares two nights ago though the actors looked nothing like their real-life counterparts much to my chagrin [I had a substantial crush on the lead female actress while in high school, the crush was so serious that at one point I considered slicing off my own face and mailing it to my fourth grade pen-pal whose old letters and address I still had (we would discuss Australia and Sonic the Hedgehog comic books) just to take my mind off things].  In this dream my French teacher was a beautiful French woman with long curly, dishwasher-blonde hair and butterscotch colored skin.  She had kind blue eyes and wore old, slightly tattered black tank-tops and green khaki pants with many pockets.  Her accent was adorable and she said comforting things.  I repeatedly disappointed her in many respects and this eventually drove me to frantic tears.  I ran several miles and woke up on a moving train before waking up once more in my bed where I promptly began to weep uncontrollably for this lovely woman whom I was unable to satisfy. 

In another dream that occurred the following night I encountered another French woman.  She looked completely different but was equally attractive.  Her hair was short and dark against pale skin and she wore nylons and was wild, fierce sexuality.  She reminded me of someone but I could not quite place who.  In this dream I looked like a strange combination of Matthew McConaughey and Josh Lucas and I wore a charcoal grey suit with black wing tips, a white undershirt and a red tie.  For some reason a man who looked astonishingly like Christopher Reeve though with unspeakable evil in his eyes was trying to kill me.  I know we grappled at some point and I believe he actually succeeded in stabbing with a very long and shiny knife – the type with a silver glistening handle and what you would probably find in a set adorning an island in most thoroughly modern kitchens – but somehow I was able to escape.  The French woman worked at a diner which had no walls and was located on a jungle area that surprisingly bordered a well-kept sidewalk.  I believe we were intimate at one point and I do remember developing some rather strong feelings for her.  I cannot recall her name and this hurts though I suspect I shall be seeing her again at some point. 

Jane’s Addiction truly is a great band and I have fallen in love with them recently.  I've even gone so far as to listen to them in my car while driving.  Eric Avery is one of my favorite bassists and I have tried with repeated and expected failure to learn as many of their songs as possible

.  

I never knew opera could be so sexy.  There are many things I do not know about life and about my immediate surroundings.  When she smiled I did not know how to respond so I looked away.  The moment was too lovely and I was violently yanked from my comfort zone.  Who else has consumption related dreams?  We’re all consumers after all.  Oh, the almighty dollar, we are slaves to you.  Yet I do not speak of that type of consumption, do I?  I don’t think I do.  But that is how I always know whether it is real or not, whether there is love or only cheap sticky lust.  It is only when I am devoured that I know it is someone who owns my heart and soul.  And from then on I will always long to feel myself crumble and break before and within them.  And then afterward they will comfort me and tell me it is all okay. 

Today I was singing and using the lower register of my five octave voice.  It was a good cleansing feeling and I began to feel some type of spiritual reluctance give way.  I wanted to succumb but there was still something holding me back.  Whose permission do I need to be able to think of her as her?  Please, whoever it is, please give it to me.  I am a bad man.  I could feel her and I could almost see her yet I still wondered about the nature of these feelings.  Even as she kissed my lips I could still not ascertain the color of her eyes or the thoughts that lay behind them. 

I know recently I began an elaborate question and answer session inside my head but I had to abruptly stop when I realized with no small amount of horror that I no longer recognized the voice asking the questions.  

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?