Turn and Face the Strange, or, Pleased to Meat Me.

agh. Augh.

I got off the phone with AMF, who is currently in D.C., and was ready to go to bed. Now, I'm having trouble staying tired. Dammit. I had to go to a work dinner at a steakhouse, and now I'm filled with beef and coffee. This state is not conducive to falling asleep, despite the fact that every part of my body, mind, and soul is aware that I have to be back at a meeting at 7:30 tomorrow morning.

So, it goes.

I got back to my place, and it was dark. Truman was pressed against my bedroom window waiting for me, and I felt kind of lousy for having to leave him alone in the dark all evening. Coming back to this place at all lately, no matter the time of day, feels like arriving at a dark place. Empty, devoid of life. Terry seems to have moved out of the apartment in front of me. We had a pretty severe falling out sometime ago and went from being good friends to barely tolerant of the other's sight (to all interested parties- I was Right, and he was Wrong!). Now, I'm the last of the original four tenants of the building. That's an odd feeling. I was thinking about it a lot today. I knew all of them to say hello or share a beer. In the summer, there were parties in the yard and a whole circle of familiar faces. Now, we have a freakish kid up stairs who, well, really just ain't right, a guy in the front upstairs apartment who I never see, and an empty apartment in front of me. And, two really good friends lived next door. They've since moved, and haven't kept in any degree of contact. It happens gradually, and before you know it, everything's different. You're not quite the frog being slowly boiled in a sauce pan-- you notice the changes-- but you're still not ready for the boiling point.

Again- so it goes.

This town- I love it to death. Maybe I love it with such force because I'm afraid it just might vanish on me. It's the closest place I have to a hometown. But, it keeps changing. And, it should. That's the natural course of things. There's always the nagging suspicion, however, that sooner or later, you're going to find that it's all just completely foreign. There you are, in the middle of a booming town in a dark little place.

I'm not maudlin, just thoughtful.



(Keeping the lights on.)

Lowest Class Factor.

I just received an email here at work with the phrase "Lowest Class Factor" in the subject line. I have no idea what this is. I don't particularly care. What's important here is that it sounds cool. Were I to have a band, there is no doubt in my mind that we would call ourselves "Lowest Class Factor." And, we would be cool.

Ball Game.

Fun time yesterday. Fun time.

Today, I feel like garbage. And, so it goes.

So, You Just Help.

The lesson learned, folks, though it's a lesson that really needs no learning, is that there are people tremendously worse off than you are. And, I feel, there's an obligation to do the stupid little things you can do to help them.

The woman at whose house I ended up lost her husband a couple of years back to skin cancer. She has a gaggle of very small children. And, she has breast cancer. There were about ten of us there at the busiest point. We weeded, laid mulch, washed windows, cleaned refrigerators, and at the end, I was atop a ladder scraping paint for a future repainting of an upstairs window.

I was the lone non-Catholic there, and I ended up in a back corner of the back yard at a little garden shrine set up for the Virgin Mary. Lots of weeds, lots of everything. I'm not a gardener, so I ended up having to make a lot of judgment calls regarding what was a weed and what was not. I cleaned things up the best I could. I felt like this spot of the yard was important. I dug deep, pulling out grass, dislodging worms, pulling away dead leaves. This place seemed important. Several times, I almost knocked Mary over, which brought forth a great deal of mental scenarios- I will replace plaster Mary, where might I find a plaster Mary, my God, I shattered plaster Mary, etc. But, in the end, I did the best job I could do in a small section of the lawn reserved for Hope. Mayhaps a place where the owner looks out from the kitchen and sees something that gives her solace. I tried my best to make everything perfect. Everybody did. But, you realize, obviously, that there are just some things that cannot be covered with mulch and made right. In a week, the grass and weeds whose roots I did not quite extricate will push forth through the mulch. The small stage of serenity will have its actors unmasked, and ugliness will again take its place. This woman's life and challenges will continue, things will get hard, harder.

And- it's an awful feeling. One cannot spend a day at hard work and at the end feel that stuff's great. It's ongoing. And, in the end, for what?

Dammit!

As I stood atop a ladder, pretending I knew how to scrape paint, I looked through the window and saw beautiful children playing. They waved to me, and I waved back. I smiled, all the while terrified of the strong wind and choking and squinting from a snow of paint chips. "What happens next?" was all I could think.

But, that's not for me.

That's not for me.

What is is the realization that I would spend every weekend of my life doing any stupid little thing I could to take away a percentage of the pain that some people must endure.

But- I won't. No one does. We do our part, we feel the way I am feeling right now, and then we go right back to complaining about bills and taxes and the fact that there's nothing in the fridge for dinner.

By writing this, I hope that I remember to Remember.

How to Serve Your Fellow Man.

It's a cookbook!

Anyways- AMF and I are getting ready to split for the church. A few months ago, she suggested that we participate in a service day they're having, and, being a few months ago, I agreed. We're going to be doing work on someone's house. I hope that this person is poor. Or handicapped. Otherwise, I just don't think church help is appropriate. Hell- I can't keep my own place in shape.

It's cold and grey out. I borrowed some rakes from my folks in case we're doing yard work. Despite the cold, I hope we end up outside. I'd feel more comfortable outside raking than inside cleaning a stranger's home. Knowing a bit of Latin, I'm well aware that the root of "stranger" is "strange." The inside of a stranger's home would seem to have more possibility of the odd or unusual than the outside, and I'm not in an adventurous mood today. Sex swings, deformed fetuses in jars, hundreds of domesticated animals- all things that I'd typically find intriguing- just wouldn't do it for me today. Outside, really, you're left with large animal craps and/or bear traps. I can handle that.

Then, it's Mass, then pizza for the volunteers. AMF has advised me that the pizza will likely come after Mass, owing to the propriety of fasting for an hour before receiving Communion. Our pizza might well be grabbed for the road, as I have to get AMF to Midway for a 7:25 flight. Then, I'll be alone, save for the cat. Kind of a drag.

Tomorrow morning I'm going to the Cubs game with some co-workers/friends. Fro-workers. It looks like it will be a cold one. I'll have to order my beers warm.

Rock on- off to be a Good Person.

New Pope to Cats: I Like You.

The Pope likes cats. Good. Perhaps now, as a good Catholic, AMF will come to her senses and share in the love.

This line from the article struck me as odd, however:

[The Pope] doesn't have a cat, however. [His brother's housekeeper] doesn't think he can have one living in the Vatican.

What the hell is this? He's the damned Pope. Who's going to tell the Pope he can't have a cat in the Vatican? I'm not, and I'm not even Catholic. I just understand respect. Pope wants a cat, Pope gets a cat, case closed.

Testy.

I think I've been acting "testy" lately.

Initially, I thought this might be due to the fact that AMF shot a racquetball right into one of my boys the other night, but that probably only accounts for semantics, not the mood itself.

The root of my testiness is likely rooted in my being overly tired. Nashville was a busy time, and it stole my weekend. This week's been a pain in the ass work-wise, and the coming weekend is going to be very busy as well. No real "chill out" time, which is important. So, Present Me, stuck smack dab between Past Me and Future Me, as he always seems to be, feels stuck in a Time Vice, if you will. If you won't, I apologize for taking up your valuable time (believe me, man- I know how you feel). Between the tiredness and the sense that there's no rest in my future, I end up as kind of a jerk. I've been short and snotty. I've been a bad man, a bit of a loose cannon. A little unstable.

Take last night: I yelled at AMF about raccoons.

It's just as absurd as it sounds. While in the car yesterday, we drove by a raccoon. I pointed him (her?) out to AMF, who, liking cute animals, "ooohed" and slightly "ahhhed."

"They're dangerous," I warned. "They're all over our yard. If you see one of them, stay the hell away. Don't go over and try to pet it, or anything. They're mean."

"Really? I thought that the only ones who were dangerous were the ones who would let you go close to them."

"No- no. They're all dangerous. Mean and dangerous. When I'd see them in the yard at night, I'd run right back inside."

"But, they're so cute."

"No. They'll attack you. Stay the hell away from the raccoons, alright? Don't ask anymore questions- just stay the hell away from the raccoons."

That just isn't right. An argument of that sort with one's girlfriend is simply poor form. That said, I think I gave good advice. I did stop myself before I went off on the possum who lives under the porch.

I don't trust that possum.

The plan for tonight is to do nothing, which actually means, go to the printers for work to have some posters made, go to the gym, figure out how and what to eat, and then do nothing. Until you start thinking about laundry, et. al. But, it's something.

I will be making a conscious effort to be a better, nicer person tonight. I will be the best me I can be and turn my frown upside down. I will kill with kindness. I will serve consecutive life sentences for joy and love.

I am a Man Who is Reziled.

So, yes, I'd answer, were you to ask me, this was a nice evening.

On the way home from work, I stopped at Target, which is becoming a custom. To be precise, it's a Super Target, and I find the adjective fitting. Tonight's errand was to pick up an iTunes gift card for my sister's birthday, as she's become Ipoded. I dig the gadgets, and hope to be Ipoded myself someday. Picked up a card, cheap bottle of champagne for AMF and me, cheap set of speakers for the computer, a black velvet painting kit, and a cup of coffee for the road. Home, then the gym, where AMF beat me two out of three games in racquetball.

Now I'm a bit beat and ready for a shower. The Rezillos are playing on the stereo, and I'm drinking grapefruit Crystal Light. Were it any other flavor than grapefruit, I'd say the night was perfect. As it stands, yes, this was a nice evening.

Like the Jetsons, but Total Crap.

On the wall of my $200 a night hotel room in Nashville:



In truth, the bulk of this was revealed only after I tore off its foam "skin" one evening. I went to sleep thankful that it was set to "off."

There and Back, Up then Down.

Nashville went about as well as could be expected. The trip was long and tiring, but ulimately, as a business trip, it went off with few hitches.

Still, it was a business trip, so there was some inherent suck in the whole thing. I wasn't able to see AMF nearly as much as I would have wanted, and I had to be on for long periods of time, "Schmoozing" and "networking," and all of the other crap that makes me feel like a big dolt. So, it goes.

We got back to my place at around 9:20 yesterday morning and then walked over to Mass. AMF then took a nap, and I headed over to my folks' to pick up the spare keys that my sister used to take care of Truman. After that, some lunch, my nap, and then a grumbly tired evening plagued by thoughts of having to go back into work the next morning.

But- I woke up early this morning feeling pretty great. I had not a care in the world, and I was actually in full-on manic mode as I drove to work. I listened to Screeching Weasel's "Bark Like a Dog" for the first time in ages and then some Teenage Head. Everything felt great, drinking coffee and smiling, until traffic hit a real snarl. I could feel the coffee euphony leaving my body and everything kind of started to suck. Back at work it continued, with the voicemails, emails, and other debris. So, I'm skipping lunch and trying to work through the feeling of crapulance. Easy come, easy go.

With any luck, AMF and I will head out to the gym tonight to play some raquetball, and the running around hitting stuff will chill me the hell out.

Rock on.

I Do Not Know What an "Opry" is, but I Shall.

AMF and I are being picked up tomorrow morning at 5:30. Nashville calling.

With any luck, everything will go down without a hitch. I always get a bit nervous before business travel, especially when accompanied by The Boss. It's impossible to know how he'll react to any particular bit of stimuli from one moment to the next, so you're always on your toes. But, with AMF there, at least I won't have to deal with the general crapulance that comes with heading to a strange hotel room each night. Four damned nights. Through Sunday. Then, back to the damned office on Monday morning.

But, so it goes. My bed, made by me. At least in Nashville, the maid will make the bed.

Had I the inclination, I'd dig out the Discman and fish out my copy of Nashville Skyline. A soundtrack, dig?

No inclination.

Alright- going to incline myself into pouring a glass of Crystal Light and cleaning up for bed. Mayhaps I'll chill myself the hell out with some P.G. Wodehouse before falling asleep.

Rock on, folks. I'll be around.

A Day of Excitement and General Nonsense.

My new computer arrives today. The computer I've been using was a hand-me-down, and it's seen better days. Most of the time, it just kind of hangs there doing nothing, so a new computer will be a nice change. I got into work before seven this morning so as to split early to get everything set up. So, that's exciting.

In the background of all of this, however, is the complete pain in the ass that comes with getting ready to split for a business trip to Nashville. I'll be gone from Wednesday through Sunday. I'm not a big fan of business travel in general, and this trip promises to suck hard. AMF might join me, which would be cool, but the trip itself is still patently crappy. Lots of things planned, lots of things I anticipate going wrong, and so on.

The Queers played in Chicago on Saturday, and I'd forgotten about it. Ben Weasel's new band, Sweet Black & Blue opened. That would have been a fun thing to see. But, see it, I did not. Nor will I see Paul Westerberg. He's playing Friday night. I'll be in- Nashville.

Sing Song.

I don't know why this came to my mind this morning, but bits and pieces of an old song we used to have to sing in elementary school have been buzzing around.

"Gato," and "solar plexus." Those two words. I remember singing them. Elementary school is probably the only time in my life I've sung a song with "solar plexus" in it.

I googled, and low and behold:

O Senor Don Gato was a cat.
On a high red roof Don Gato sat.
He was there to read a letter,
(meow, meow, meow)
where the reading light was better,
(meow, meow, meow)
'Twas a love-note for Don Gato!
"I adore you," wrote the ladycat,
who was fluffy white, and nice and fat.
There was not a sweeter kitty,
(meow, meow, meow)
in the country or the city
(meow, meow, meow)
and she said she'd wed Don Gato!
O Senor Don Gato jumped with glee!
He fell off the roof and broke his knee,
broke his ribs and all his whiskers,
(meow, meow, meow)
and his little solar plexus
(meow, meow, meow)
"Ay Caramba!!" cried Don Gato.
All the doctors they came on the run,
just to see if something could be done.
And they held a consultation,
(meow, meow, meow)
about how to save their patient,
(meow, meow, meow)
how to save Senor Don Gato.
But in spite of everything they tried,
poor Senor Don Gato up and died.
No, it wasn't very merry,
(meow, meow, meow)
going to the cemetary,
(meow, meow, meow)
for the ending of Don Gato.
But as the the funeral passed the market square,
such a smell of fish was in the air,
though the burial was plated,
(meow, meow, meow)
he became reanimated,
(meow, meow, meow)
he came back to life, Don Gato!

That's one messed up song.

Well, They Blew Up the Chicken Man in Philly Last Night

I worked a bit late tonight, because I'm a chump, but then I got home, watched a bit of "American Idol," hit the bar, and now I'm listening to "Nebraska."

So, things are ultimately okay.

I can't be a jump up in the air, wear-a-bandana-slap-palms or backs Springsteen fan, but, Christ- "Nebraska" might be one of the finest albums I own.

I'm not as familiar with it as some Bruce fans might demand, but this one floors me. Start to finish, I'm affected. "Atlantic City" is gorgeous. It's a story song that doesn't drag, doesn't tell you too much, but tells you enough to let you know that something just isn't right. It's the mark of good art, I think, that you can take a small slice of what must be an enormous issue, and the slice shows all of what you need to know. A slice of crystal, a perfect representation of the greater whole. "Atlantic City" has earnestness, genuinuity (word copywrite me), and heart.

The whole album is fantastic, but "Atlantic City" encapsulates it for me. With luck, anyone familiar with this song just nods, and there's no need for me to explain any further. Shake your head, and I guess I just don't get it. But- it works for me.

And, here begins "Mansion on the Hill."

There's no need for me to go on, I don't think. For the limited number of folks who check out these little words I write here, I hope I can encourage you to pick up "Nebraska." You'll be better off for it.

This is What it Sounds Like When the Doves Cry.

I bought an XM radio receiver when I started having to commute 25 miles to work each day, and it's been a good investment. Like all radio, however, you've got to hear some crap once in a while. Well, let me tell you, boy-o, today I heard some crap. The stink perforated my eardrums and moved on into my eyes and nose. It was putrid. I listened in pain, and yet could not turn away. So, I share with you, my friends, this dose of Good Charlotte's "The Young and the Hopeless":

And no one in this industry
Understands the life I lead
When I sing about my past
It's not a gimmick, not an act
These critics and these trust fund kids
Try to tell me what punk is
But when I see them on the streets,
they got nothing to say....

Now, here's the deal: Were I to see Good Charlotte on the street, I'm sure I wouldn't recognize them, and thus, I'd have nothing to say. There'd be no need to bother. However, come the hell on! "No one in this industry understands the life I lead"? Here's a time where I get my "shut the hell up" bat out of the trunk and start swinging away. Kids, you made your move. You wanted to be major label darlings, you got it, and now, well, you've kind of got to shut up.

If not for me, for the children. For the animals. For the betterment of the world. Just shut up. Please. Scream about the trust fund kids, and I'll politely voice my opinion on the state of mainstream "punk" music. You set yourself up for this, kids, and a mediocre pop song doesn't wash away your part in this nonsense.

Eh. Should have titled this "Too Easy, Redux."

Too Easy.

The thing I love about this world is that no matter how bad I might feel about myself at times, there's always people out there who make me feel a whole lot better.

A Coupla Cool Things.

One, Matt's got a great piece up on his site about the NYC Midnight Madness event for new Star Wars toys. Read it here:

Two, new Graham Parker album recorded with the Figgs is hitting the streets in June. I'm a big fan of both Graham Parker and the Figgs, and I look forward to hearing this one. Sample MP3 available at the Bloodshot Records site.

My Cat has Nighttime Tendencies.

Truman can be a pain in the ass around the clock, but his jackassery becomes special during the nighttime hours. I'm a pushover, so despite knowing that sleep will become difficult with Truman in the bedroom, I'm never able to shut the bedroom door before going to bed. Eventually, Truman will saunter into the bedroom, jump up on the bed, and curl up next to my legs. He'll groom himself, and then we'll both fall asleep. At around four, I'll wake up to hear Truman eating the blinds. Half-asleep, I'll yell at him to stop, which does no good. So, I walk out to the kitchen and turn on the sink. In seconds, Truman bolts into the kitchen, jumps on the counter, and contemplates the faucet. I'll walk back to bed and shut the door tightly.

Truman's fixation with the faucet is puzzling and borders on obsessive. I always make sure he has fresh water, but he prefers sucking on the faucet, as seen here:



I am not a veterinarian, but I believe it's possible that Truman is autistic.

At around six, he'll cry outside the bedroom door, and I'll either feed him or hopefully ignore him and fall back to sleep for another hour.

He is a pain; he is very seldomly affectionate, but, still and all, he's my guy. I'd probably be a bit of a dick, too, if someone with whom I lived had my balls removed.

It's Friday Night.

And, I'm being dull as ever.

I have the news on in the background to listen to the reports of the Pope's health. I'm not Catholic, but AMF is, and since she's been out here, I've been attending Mass with her weekly. The church we attend is just a couple of blocks from my apartment, and is one of the most beautiful structures in town. It's the church pictured a couple of posts down, laden with a rainbow. I talked to AMF earlier-- she's in DC for another interview-- and she was fairly upset. I know that her mom's been crying. It's been a sad week. Hell, we even lost Frank Perdue today.

I'm in sweats. I picked up a pizza and some Crazy Bread (it's not that crazy. In fact, it's rather bland) and some movies from Blockbuster, the Incredibles, the Village, and the Bourne Supremacy, a handful of titles I've been meaning to watch. Light stuff for a night that feels pretty heavy. I've been thinking of going to the gym, but it doesn't feel right to leave until the Pope has passed. It feels disrespectful, somehow.

So, I sit.

UPDATE: The reportage of the Pope's health on Fox News is one of the most offensive things I've ever seen. The music, the graphics- the epitome of tackiness. I'm not sure any of the other networks are doing it any more tastefully, but this is repugnant. Then- I can always... change... the... channel...

Will the Real Ms. Wheelchair Please Stand Up?

Man, I didn't even know there was such a thing as Ms. Wheelchair. This is a tough crowd.

via Fark.

After the rain, a bow.

We went to the Y Wednesday afternoon in the middle of a thunderstorm and tornado sirens. When we came out, it was bright as noon, and we saw this. It was actually a complete double rainbow. I couldn't get it all in the picture.

All in all, quite beautiful. The grey sky is misleading; all around was sunshine.