01/12/2004 - 10:49 p.m. | why fall in love when there's no need to?

Well, I'm back. As I may have mentioned, Diaryland was down - or at least it seemed so on my end. I tried asking Spritz, but as I have noticed time and again, he has trouble answering unless he's talking to someone with a VAGINA. I would say I have a lot to catch up on, but you all know me too well for that, right?

The last I wrote, I was passing the time with castle came and 3/5 a bottle of white wine. After as much delaying as I could handle, I slept in and spent most of the day reading. Yippie yahoo. OK, I don't remember what exactly I did because all time melds together into this blob of me just kind of rushing through things, but it doesn't really matter anyway.

My dad called me down to watch "Globe Trekker" because he knows how much I love Ian Wright, but they've completely changed the format of the show, trying to make it all "factual," and now I'm all pissed. How it used to work was each trekker - Ian or one of the non-Ian losers - would have a whole show to themselves. They would do all the exploring, the narrating, everything. I could at least pick and choose that way. New format involves all of the old people, along with this new fag who not only dominates the exploration - he's also the damn narrator! He tries to be wacky, but he reeks of effort and he overenunciates all the damn time. Meanwhile, the old trekkers have been relegated to specifc roles - the one lady is useless, the other eats pretty much anything given to her, and Ian is the funny one. God damn it! Don't demean that poor British man! Anyway, they shall be getting a letter, along with a number of others. Shitheads.

I can't remember where I was going with this, but we did leave the house, meaning I am practically like any normal earth citizen. I even dressed up a little. We went to the Roundhouse in Aurora, and Mike & Joe were playing there. I had practically convinced my parents to stay there instead of selling out and going to see Steve Sharp once again, but cover was $7, and that's bullshit. At least I think it is. I suddenly fell into a quiet spell, which upsets my mother it would seem. I myself have no idea why they come and go, although I tend to figure it's something to do with spirits. My jambalaya was good, although not what I expected, and my dad seemed very pleased with the waiter, followed by making hints that I would probably be a good one as well. I hope this is not another shot at my major because I swear I have heard them all. Try this on for size, incidentally: school psychologist. I'm not saying it's a for sure, but I am going to need options after school, and they are both in need and well-paid, which is a nice reassurance. Of course, this assumes I have the patience to deal with the freaks and mutants, and thus far, the only patience I've shown is in not calling them freaks or mutants directly to their faces. Hmph.

I cannot point it out enough: the Walshes are antisocial. Maybe not with all people, but there are some. Namely a good majority of the so-called Sharpheads - the people who go see Steve Sharp with near-religious fervor. Now, we don't hate them - and in the Smiths' case, we actually like them very much - but we sometimes don't like their choice of company, be they annoying, depressing, or insincere. So says my mom on the last one, even though just nights before she had chit-chatted and been all chummy with this guy it turns out she utterly despises. But I digress. So, even though we sort of wanted to see Steve Sharp or whatever, we tend to be wary - hell, downright avoidant - of the big group. Before we even got to the place, Mom had us drive around the area a few time. Part of this was to hear herself scream on the recording of a live performance by Lou Reed 25 years ago, but mostly it was the postpone the inevitable. We would have to talk to them sometime.

Maybe it sounds like a spectacle. Maybe because we make it seem that way. But we honestly have strange ways of entertaining ourselves, and this is one of them. So, we sneaked (not "snuck," right?) into the place which, by the way, was filled with all this upper crust. I kept wanting to tell this one lady that fur is murder and then stick my gum on her. Because I didn't have any red paint. By the way, I really like crappy grape Bubble Tape. It does nothing for my countenance, I'm sure, and the flavor is gone so, so quickly, but I love it nonetheless. Tangents pull me through the day. We spotted the Sharpheads and then went around the bar the opposite way, out of sight and already making excuses. "Well, they're eating! We shouldn't bother them now!" At this point, my mom noticed the bartender and with her sense for these things (Dad and I suck at this, I think), realized that he was the real dad of my childhood friend Jay (Justin, if you're reading, you'll recall he was the co-conspirator of Evil Boy, who threatened numerous times to "pelt" us with water balloons). So, while she was preoccupied with that, and my dad with getting drinks, I spotted the perfect table, away from everyone in our private corner.

This really is going nowhere, isn't it? Sorry, just the way I've been functioning lately. So, Mom confirms that it's Jay's dad (although the mannerisms really did give it away), and I am sent on recon to make sure we can say hello to the Sharpheads without being offered a seat by them ourselves. Like I said, we truly are awful people. Greetings were eventually made, and once we got that out of the way, it was a pretty OK time. It was nice to be all private and secluded with Steve like in the old days, and the Walshes always make the best requests. Meanwhile, the people two tables over were complete and utter morons. Everything they said felt like it was old news to me. "Did you know some people mix tequilla and beer?" Way to go there, hotshot. And their taste in music was to die for. I don't know what they were expecting from Steve's poor little acoustic guitar, but apparently it involved Pantera, Donovan (which made me snort out loud), and a score of other things so horrid I couldn't believe. I guess that's pretty normal coming from the guy with the bald, flat head (I told Mom to go place an ashtray on him) in the black leather jacket with foot-long tassles.

I kept giving the woman across the bar the eye. This is my new thing, giving the eye, just to see what happens. She didn't really respond, which is not to be expected, or if she did, it flew under my signal radar, which is. Anyway, I like the smarmy charm of it. I've been developing this weird, fragile sense of confidence about myself. Why, yes, I am better than anything, and no, I really don't need to prove it. Fuck you.

A weavy drive home, although I was wont to mention it, since I had live White Stripes to listen to on the ride. Then I finally watched damn freakin' American Pie. Weak. That's all I have to say. Weak. I guess to actually shock me, you're going to have to cross over straight into the hardcore. Damn right. Birth canals and freaky shit. Then I'll laugh, then I'll be surprised.

Another in a series of dreams, although not nearly as long: Spritz, Bill, and I were moving into a room together, but there wasn't really all that much room for three of us. Bill's bed had to placed under mine, which was on posts. Anyway, I started thinking about how small the place was until I finally realized that we were moving back into a room at IMSA. So I was like, "What the fuck?!" to Spritz. "We're in college now! Why are we living here?" And he said that Brent had assigned him housekeeping duty (laundry, namely), so he had to come back. I was all mad and decided I was getting the hell out when Brent came in. I tried hiding being the wardrobe, but he found me and said I had to take out the trash. Anger. I think I started cussing him out. I'm not sure.

Another late start on Sunday, but it was just a late start to reading and watching movies, so can't really complain. We had two cancer love stories in competition with one another, The In-Laws, and yes, Gigli. Like you, I have heard all of the shit about the movie, so we had to see for ourselves. Again, weak. I mean, it wasn't very good, and parts did drag on, and some of the dialogue was weird (the thing about the turkey leg or whatever), but it had some interesting elements to it and wasn't nearly as awful as lots of things I've seen. Hollywood just wanted something they could pick on, and reading the year-end issue of "Entertainment Weekly" (for God knows what reason) only confirmed it. Just a lame scapegoat. Also, I ate a whole bag of cookies. Wahhh wahhhhhh.

Another late night, since I decided that I needed to finish my book before the new week had begun. See, if I have a book or something to fall back on, I don't get creative on what I do with my time. A week alone in the house with nothing to read or watch (TV is crap) eventually leads to bizarre creativity. It's how my brain works. And, you know, I've sort of been thinking about that lately - how my brain works. Because, by all logic, I should be bored to death with myself. I mean, I never have anything to talk about with anybody else, and it's not because I'm shy or whatever; I just don't have that much to talk about. So I got all metacognitive on my ass and tried to figure out what I do with my brain power. Here's what I've got: OK, throughout lots of stuff, I have a running dialogue. Kind of like this diary, but in real time. It's how I get my thoughts together about my day or my life or what I want to say. So that's pretty common. This is intruded upon mostly by chunks of song lyrics that usually come and go out of nowhere or just loop endlessly. Still, this isn't enough. So, I just did some normal stuff (got ready for bed like usual), and I tried to keep track of what I was thinking. And it's weird - I swear I can almost, ALMOST sense this trace of something below the surface. It's all the really, really basic stuff. Like, I mentally identify everything I see. And yeah, everyone does it, but it's more or less automatic. It's not like you have this voice saying, "That's the toothbrush, there's the soap" or whatever. But it feels like I almost do. I am constantly naming everything around, under my breath (or my brain's breath, I guess). I do the same thing with actions. "Flush the toilet, open the drawer, touch your ear." I mean, these are voluntary things, but you don't really think very hard about them. And I swear I get a little bit of the traces of these thoughts underneath everything else, and that's how I keep myself entertained. I don't know if this is normal, or if I'm retarded or making this up or what. Do any of you feel it?

Today I bobbed downstairs, watched my dad clean the kitchen, and listened to the sports station. I have no idea what they are talking about, but I am still strangely compelled to listen. Perhaps the testosterone is finally boiling. I scooted upstairs to shower, clean the bathroom, and rock out a teensy bit. Again, I can't go truly creative until I have nothing to do. I'd like to get started on those letters, but it can't be until there are no other options. Instead, I made Dad watch the Disney Channel with me. Like so many others, he can't see the charm or why the hell I would watch it at all. It just takes a certain mindset, and I don't know if I can really explain. Maybe I am too busy quietly naming all the objects I see on the screen, I dunno.

The night was passed in the course of two (2) Jerry Bruckheimer films. Yes. I'll let you choke on that one for a minute. Actually, in my twisted way, I do sort of like The Rock. And it did remind of the world's ever increasing need for a Nic Cage Film Festival. But it combines so many excellent elements: Nic, Sean Connery, Dr. Cox (John C. McGinley), even Claire Forlaini, those two asshole soldiers you hate on sight. And some parts of it make me laugh gleefully. OK, actually, just the one scene with the crazy trolley driver. So, he's all happy and has all these buttons on and shit, and then trolley gets smashed up, flipped over, and blown up, and he's yelling crazy shit the whole way through. His end speech, however, never fails to move me: "Damn, this sucks! Where's that son of a bitch?! I'm going to hunt him down! That motherfucker ain't safe nowhere!" Right there is where the sequel should start. Leonard McMahan as the cable car conductor on his neverending hunt for the motherfucker who blew up his trolley. "This sucks!" I hope I am manly enough to say only that in times of exteme crisis. I really can't express the passion this makes me feel. Enemy of the State is little by comparison, but you can't choose your destiny, am I right? Of course I am. Nathan, dear, what are you talking about? Peppermint sticks - and my newfound love for them... you addle-brained fuck.