Economics class doodle. He needs coffee because he never gets to sleep :( I may do it again on real paper and draw a little cappucino machine by his feet. Watching the souls of the damned is a tough job.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Men are pretty dumb. Sterling and Shawn came over today, and the three of us just picked up heavy things and put them down as much as we could, in an effort to literally rip our muscles apart so that we could regenerate them, only to actually do it again a few days later.
This morning I woke up, well, sort of, unplugged the alarm clock, and went back to sleep. My mother came up at about 6:30 and asked me if I was going to go to school. I said probably not. I woke up at noon and passed out flyers for four hours. I wish I could do this more often.
But, yeah. Besides finished up a few streets in OWG tomorrow with this flyers deal, mowing a lawn, and possibly starting on flyers in Spring Creek Forest, I don't have anything planned for this weekend. If someone wants to do something, I ought to be around most of the time.
This morning I woke up, well, sort of, unplugged the alarm clock, and went back to sleep. My mother came up at about 6:30 and asked me if I was going to go to school. I said probably not. I woke up at noon and passed out flyers for four hours. I wish I could do this more often.
But, yeah. Besides finished up a few streets in OWG tomorrow with this flyers deal, mowing a lawn, and possibly starting on flyers in Spring Creek Forest, I don't have anything planned for this weekend. If someone wants to do something, I ought to be around most of the time.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Well, I'm back throwing out flyers again. Despite the numbing exhaustion that accompanies the job, I'm glad to have it again. I've got something to do, at least, though I wish the damn weather would cool down. The forecast shows the temperatures dropping right when I plan to be through with my work. Ugh.
I realize that I haven't written a gargantuous post on homecoming. I'll do it when I'm not so tired, but in a nutshell, best dinner I ever had, enjoyed myself at the dance, went to 24 hour Starbucks downtown until 2:30 AM, and had a cool date.
Apparently somebody signed my name on a list of people going on some class trip to the Renaissance Festival, or something, and the teacher of that class was wondering who the hell I am and why haven't I turned in my money yet. I dunno who signed me up, but I might as well go anyway. I missed it last year and if things go the way I'd really, really like them to, it'll be my last October in Texas for awhile. CIA wants six months of food preparation experience for entry, though I'm still entering their pie contest. Looking at a multitude of culinary schools in the East now, one of them being in Pittsburgh. Awkward as the conferences with the counselors are, they reminded me that I've got to start work on applications. I have a lot of essays to compose regarding food.
I realize that I haven't written a gargantuous post on homecoming. I'll do it when I'm not so tired, but in a nutshell, best dinner I ever had, enjoyed myself at the dance, went to 24 hour Starbucks downtown until 2:30 AM, and had a cool date.
Apparently somebody signed my name on a list of people going on some class trip to the Renaissance Festival, or something, and the teacher of that class was wondering who the hell I am and why haven't I turned in my money yet. I dunno who signed me up, but I might as well go anyway. I missed it last year and if things go the way I'd really, really like them to, it'll be my last October in Texas for awhile. CIA wants six months of food preparation experience for entry, though I'm still entering their pie contest. Looking at a multitude of culinary schools in the East now, one of them being in Pittsburgh. Awkward as the conferences with the counselors are, they reminded me that I've got to start work on applications. I have a lot of essays to compose regarding food.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Monday Morning
As I stand on the barnacle-rocks, shrouded in a languid sheet of fog, I can hear a foghorn dutifully groan its walrus-like hum. The sound rises and tumbles over and over the empty ocean just before sunset. I cannot see its source; I only feel the cold wind and the smooth solidity of the gray-green boulders I stand on. Fade to black.
Shit. Monday. The first thing I can perceive is the near-full moon, coalescing in the half open blinds that spread across one glass wall of my house. It stares me down and I realize that I can still hear the foghorn from that desolately real dream. I wrestle my alarm clock to the ground and phase into the bathroom in a desperate attempt to enliven myself in welcome heat.
Shit. Monday. It doesn’t work. Now that I still feel awful but with my hair cold, heavy and wet, I phantom my way down the stairs without waking the dog. The beaming red light from the water tower and liquid blue flame that erupts out of my stove are the only light I need. I’m sore, but I juggle orange juice, glassware, eggs, and various produce in the hopes that the ingredients will fall into their respective places. Steel slides across steel as my right hand calluses and chef’s knife become one. Garlic, peppers, and onions evaporate into smithereens to sizzle in the oil as my arm rocks back and forth. Fwip. I don’t know the humble, prepped taste of Pop-Tarts and Cheerios. Good.
Shit. Monday. The coffee filter is dirty. I have two, but the clean one in the cupboard is cracked on two sides, which somehow makes me feel insecure. I toss it into its green, plastic funnel that sits anxiously on a Pyrex glass coffee pot. Bop. The fierce whirr that raises the dog’s ears but not her eyelids turns potent black beans into black chili powder ready to be steeped in pure water. I crisscross my arms, spatula in one hand, tired old aluminum kettle in the other. I brew and cook simultaneously and lower stove heats with my right knee. I’m very interested in stem cell research because I’d like to grow another arm.
Shit, it’s got to be Tuesday. It ought to be because I’ve acknowledged the real fact enough and it seems only fair for one sleepy morning to be out of the way, but it’s not. The eggs are damn good. I think I was supposed to have a book completely read for English class today that I never bothered to buy. Damn good eggs. I eat maniacally, standing up with a plate in my left and a stabbingfork in my right. I always do this when I’m alone, cooking for myself. All the sautéing is too exciting to simply sit down and consume anticlimactically. I will rave and swear of my food insanely (like my father), not submit insouciantly to its tastiness.
Shit, it’s 6:40! Diesel burns outside my house and the bus driver wields that monstrosity like it’s a battle-axe, weaving around parked cars and taking off with that narrow, yellow door closed before the poor freshman bastards can sit down. I pull the nylon cords on my steel-toed boots tight and wrap them around my ankles once or twice for good measure, letting baggy black pants envelop the tops. I wrap myself in a black canvas duster that’s lost all its buttons and storm out the door. The Democratic campaign bumper sticker is ragged and hastily pinned onto my school bag. I pull a stray foot-long blonde hair out of the sticker's sticky side. I guess I’m a bit eccentric. Good. I board the bus at a later stop with my heavy stainless steel coffee mug hovering eerily outside my clothing. That mug is powerfully hard. I am convinced that if I were to be involved in a fight while in possession of that mug, my bludgeoning abilities would surpass the burliest of men. There is nothing in my coffee but coffee itself.
Good, it’s Monday.
Shit. Monday. The first thing I can perceive is the near-full moon, coalescing in the half open blinds that spread across one glass wall of my house. It stares me down and I realize that I can still hear the foghorn from that desolately real dream. I wrestle my alarm clock to the ground and phase into the bathroom in a desperate attempt to enliven myself in welcome heat.
Shit. Monday. It doesn’t work. Now that I still feel awful but with my hair cold, heavy and wet, I phantom my way down the stairs without waking the dog. The beaming red light from the water tower and liquid blue flame that erupts out of my stove are the only light I need. I’m sore, but I juggle orange juice, glassware, eggs, and various produce in the hopes that the ingredients will fall into their respective places. Steel slides across steel as my right hand calluses and chef’s knife become one. Garlic, peppers, and onions evaporate into smithereens to sizzle in the oil as my arm rocks back and forth. Fwip. I don’t know the humble, prepped taste of Pop-Tarts and Cheerios. Good.
Shit. Monday. The coffee filter is dirty. I have two, but the clean one in the cupboard is cracked on two sides, which somehow makes me feel insecure. I toss it into its green, plastic funnel that sits anxiously on a Pyrex glass coffee pot. Bop. The fierce whirr that raises the dog’s ears but not her eyelids turns potent black beans into black chili powder ready to be steeped in pure water. I crisscross my arms, spatula in one hand, tired old aluminum kettle in the other. I brew and cook simultaneously and lower stove heats with my right knee. I’m very interested in stem cell research because I’d like to grow another arm.
Shit, it’s got to be Tuesday. It ought to be because I’ve acknowledged the real fact enough and it seems only fair for one sleepy morning to be out of the way, but it’s not. The eggs are damn good. I think I was supposed to have a book completely read for English class today that I never bothered to buy. Damn good eggs. I eat maniacally, standing up with a plate in my left and a stabbingfork in my right. I always do this when I’m alone, cooking for myself. All the sautéing is too exciting to simply sit down and consume anticlimactically. I will rave and swear of my food insanely (like my father), not submit insouciantly to its tastiness.
Shit, it’s 6:40! Diesel burns outside my house and the bus driver wields that monstrosity like it’s a battle-axe, weaving around parked cars and taking off with that narrow, yellow door closed before the poor freshman bastards can sit down. I pull the nylon cords on my steel-toed boots tight and wrap them around my ankles once or twice for good measure, letting baggy black pants envelop the tops. I wrap myself in a black canvas duster that’s lost all its buttons and storm out the door. The Democratic campaign bumper sticker is ragged and hastily pinned onto my school bag. I pull a stray foot-long blonde hair out of the sticker's sticky side. I guess I’m a bit eccentric. Good. I board the bus at a later stop with my heavy stainless steel coffee mug hovering eerily outside my clothing. That mug is powerfully hard. I am convinced that if I were to be involved in a fight while in possession of that mug, my bludgeoning abilities would surpass the burliest of men. There is nothing in my coffee but coffee itself.
Good, it’s Monday.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Taking Out the Trash -- A Short Story
We set out and I learned what it would mean for Drew if his truck broke down under the strain. The vehicle was nearly paid for now, but his line of work depended on its ever-reliable strength and he'd be a ruined man if his capital blew a head gasket. The man's eyes were sky blue as if sun bleached, and his skin matched the color of my slightly creamed morning coffee. He gave a squint of perseverance as he drove, the fine wrinkles in that leathery, bristled skin setting into place as he spoke of business and his bad back. A sad, deep, and genuinely Southern voice told me that Drew had nothing better to do with his life than drive around in a truck and do odd jobs for people; he was a man who did a teenager’s favors in his late thirties with fancy equipment. It was listlessly beautiful because I don’t think he really cared.
As we lurched toward downtown, smog-obscured Houston, the trailer made structural iron groans at us, weary of its two-ton cargo of brick and stone. I heard the coal-black Dodge truck’s engine work harder and harder in dire fear of the spurred gas pedal. In order to stop at stoplights we had to begin braking hard at a few hundred feet, occasionally yanking at a smooth, worn-down emergency brake in between the two front seats. I imagined throbbing veins making themselves apparent on the hood of the vehicle, pumping the same imaginary oil that played optical tricks on us, dark puddles vanishing and manifesting themselves in the road. It had rained the night before but any tangible pool of water gave up on survival as soon as the sun rose. The humidity, the electric partial overcast still left over from the evening’s thunderstorm, razed through my hair.
The hill thrown in the back belonged to my neighbor. I was helping him move, and one of my chief tasks was to relocate his little private construction supply depot from his backyard to his driveway with the help of a rusty red wheelbarrow and leather gloves—he expected that the absence of this material would improve his chances for selling the house. I agreed for a hundred dollars. I did it in two days, and then was hired to work for Drew the Trashman for ten dollars an hour. We had to move this junk from the driveway into a trailer with a dirt-encrusted plywood gate by picking up individual bricks and hurling them on board, then driving to a class five construction waste dump and hurling the stuff right back off again. I noted that this was probably a pretty good example of that low-skill, low-income work that politicians talk about so often. Also increasing my ground-level awareness of political issues, I worked alongside more hired help, a sinewy illegal immigrant who was happy to have the job and communicated with me through a series of complex hand gestures. It amazed me what we got done in such a short time without verbal communication or injury—we literally threw basketball-sized chunks of concrete over each other’s heads for four hours without concussions or swear words. It was actually fun, but I quickly realized that it would not be so much fun to do for a living.
I think I became a little more down to earth that day, and at the same time a little further away from it. The dump we eventually arrived at was such a real place--it smelled of dust and dirt and motor oil—but my experience of it was all too fantastical for me to really still believe in its existence. After Drew pulled his truck away from the front entrance, a huge elevated weighing mechanism for incoming and outgoing commercial vehicles, our descent into what seemed like the earth’s underbelly reminded me of the works of M.C. Escher. As we rolled up and down the surface of the muddy gravel, towering organic skyscrapers of bricks and iron rods stared down the Dodge’s windshield with malice, as if threatening to extend a wet, rocky arm and push us over some manmade precipice into distant, wriggling nests of elephant-sized concrete earthworms. At one point during the unloading work it took me a full delirious minute to determine that a truck driver—not a gray-toothed, growling truck itself—was asking me for a light. I finally came to my senses and pointed to the worker who was heaving the seeds of a newborn rubbish-pile next to me. None of us had a light. We were already smoking the car exhaust and the humid, sunny atmosphere that we slipped and fumbled through in our mud-slick boots. Tobacco seemed a redundancy at this point.
After we had unloaded, the mysterious laborer swung closed the makeshift trailer door, and we left for my neighbor’s at greatly improved speed. Drew’s truck made those impressively manly horsepower noises that you hear from powerful, expensive four-wheel-drive vehicles never used for what they were intended. The Dodge was far from that status. It served a purpose; it would never be a 3,000 dollar riding lawnmower bought for a tiny patio home, or a 400 mile per hour backpack leaf blower used by some extravagant homeowner to clean up his driveway once a month. It would retire to the same junkyard it strived in with a broken back and ragtag Michelin tires. It would be given a hero’s funeral at 200,000 miles. There would be tears for that tool.
Upon arrival back in my sheltered part of the world, I remained a part of the crew in order to load up a ridiculously hoarded stash of some 200 gallons of paint. An old, still usable lawnmower went, along with a lot of shiny, finished lumber. Richard—my neighbor—was a retired painter. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time to keep the stuff around. Drew knew no legal way of disposing of the pigmented slop, and was still calling contacts in his business when the quiet one and I finished dislocating so many buckets of it. The contractor was obviously dissatisfied with the position he’d been put in as toxic waste middleman, but had to get rid of the stuff anyway. It was his job. I wiped my forehead and took off my leather gloves. Drew shook my hand, paid me in cash, and got my phone number to likely hire me again sometime. The two groaned off into the real world, out of the pleasant birdsong of my neighborhood. I could see smoke seeping its way out under the hood of the poor black tool. Nondisposable paint sloshed around in the trailer. He’d never get rid of that stuff; the only places accepting it were environmentalist recycling companies, and at five gallons at a time, for a fee.
I never heard from Drew again.
As we lurched toward downtown, smog-obscured Houston, the trailer made structural iron groans at us, weary of its two-ton cargo of brick and stone. I heard the coal-black Dodge truck’s engine work harder and harder in dire fear of the spurred gas pedal. In order to stop at stoplights we had to begin braking hard at a few hundred feet, occasionally yanking at a smooth, worn-down emergency brake in between the two front seats. I imagined throbbing veins making themselves apparent on the hood of the vehicle, pumping the same imaginary oil that played optical tricks on us, dark puddles vanishing and manifesting themselves in the road. It had rained the night before but any tangible pool of water gave up on survival as soon as the sun rose. The humidity, the electric partial overcast still left over from the evening’s thunderstorm, razed through my hair.
The hill thrown in the back belonged to my neighbor. I was helping him move, and one of my chief tasks was to relocate his little private construction supply depot from his backyard to his driveway with the help of a rusty red wheelbarrow and leather gloves—he expected that the absence of this material would improve his chances for selling the house. I agreed for a hundred dollars. I did it in two days, and then was hired to work for Drew the Trashman for ten dollars an hour. We had to move this junk from the driveway into a trailer with a dirt-encrusted plywood gate by picking up individual bricks and hurling them on board, then driving to a class five construction waste dump and hurling the stuff right back off again. I noted that this was probably a pretty good example of that low-skill, low-income work that politicians talk about so often. Also increasing my ground-level awareness of political issues, I worked alongside more hired help, a sinewy illegal immigrant who was happy to have the job and communicated with me through a series of complex hand gestures. It amazed me what we got done in such a short time without verbal communication or injury—we literally threw basketball-sized chunks of concrete over each other’s heads for four hours without concussions or swear words. It was actually fun, but I quickly realized that it would not be so much fun to do for a living.
I think I became a little more down to earth that day, and at the same time a little further away from it. The dump we eventually arrived at was such a real place--it smelled of dust and dirt and motor oil—but my experience of it was all too fantastical for me to really still believe in its existence. After Drew pulled his truck away from the front entrance, a huge elevated weighing mechanism for incoming and outgoing commercial vehicles, our descent into what seemed like the earth’s underbelly reminded me of the works of M.C. Escher. As we rolled up and down the surface of the muddy gravel, towering organic skyscrapers of bricks and iron rods stared down the Dodge’s windshield with malice, as if threatening to extend a wet, rocky arm and push us over some manmade precipice into distant, wriggling nests of elephant-sized concrete earthworms. At one point during the unloading work it took me a full delirious minute to determine that a truck driver—not a gray-toothed, growling truck itself—was asking me for a light. I finally came to my senses and pointed to the worker who was heaving the seeds of a newborn rubbish-pile next to me. None of us had a light. We were already smoking the car exhaust and the humid, sunny atmosphere that we slipped and fumbled through in our mud-slick boots. Tobacco seemed a redundancy at this point.
After we had unloaded, the mysterious laborer swung closed the makeshift trailer door, and we left for my neighbor’s at greatly improved speed. Drew’s truck made those impressively manly horsepower noises that you hear from powerful, expensive four-wheel-drive vehicles never used for what they were intended. The Dodge was far from that status. It served a purpose; it would never be a 3,000 dollar riding lawnmower bought for a tiny patio home, or a 400 mile per hour backpack leaf blower used by some extravagant homeowner to clean up his driveway once a month. It would retire to the same junkyard it strived in with a broken back and ragtag Michelin tires. It would be given a hero’s funeral at 200,000 miles. There would be tears for that tool.
Upon arrival back in my sheltered part of the world, I remained a part of the crew in order to load up a ridiculously hoarded stash of some 200 gallons of paint. An old, still usable lawnmower went, along with a lot of shiny, finished lumber. Richard—my neighbor—was a retired painter. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time to keep the stuff around. Drew knew no legal way of disposing of the pigmented slop, and was still calling contacts in his business when the quiet one and I finished dislocating so many buckets of it. The contractor was obviously dissatisfied with the position he’d been put in as toxic waste middleman, but had to get rid of the stuff anyway. It was his job. I wiped my forehead and took off my leather gloves. Drew shook my hand, paid me in cash, and got my phone number to likely hire me again sometime. The two groaned off into the real world, out of the pleasant birdsong of my neighborhood. I could see smoke seeping its way out under the hood of the poor black tool. Nondisposable paint sloshed around in the trailer. He’d never get rid of that stuff; the only places accepting it were environmentalist recycling companies, and at five gallons at a time, for a fee.
I never heard from Drew again.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Friday, October 15, 2004
For Lack of a Better Pasttime
I'm sorry. I used all my blogging productivity on the last entry.
YOUR PORN STAR NAME: (NAME OF FIRST PET + STREET YOU GREW UP ON) : T.C. Westfield (more like a writer's name, I'd think)
YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (NAME OF YOUR FAVOURITE SNACK FOOD + GRANDFATHERS FIRST NAME): Cookie Harold
EXOTIC FOREIGNER ALIAS: (Favorite Spice + Last Foreign Vacation Spot): Paprika Fallujah (not really, but I thought it fit well)
SOCIALITE ALIAS: (Silliest Childhood Nickname + Town Where You First Partied): Johnny Klein
"FLY GIRL" ALIAS (a la J. Lo): (First Initial + First Two or Three Letters of your Last Name): J. Hei. That was retarded.
DETECTIVE ALIAS: (Favorite Baby Animal + Where You Went to High School): Coyote Klein
BARFLY ALIAS: (Last Snack Food You Ate + Your Favorite Alcoholic Drink): Cookie Manhattan.
SOAP OPERA ALIAS: (Middle Name + Street Where You First Lived): Gray Westfield. That's really accurate.
ROCK STAR ALIAS: (Favorite Candy + Last Name Of Favorite Musician): Candycorn Oakenfold
IF YOU COULD BUILD A HOUSE ANYWHERE, WHERE WOULD IT BE? I'm not into houses, but East coast somewhere.
WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLE OF CLOTHING? Black trenchcoat in the wind.
IF YOU COULD HAVE CHOSEN YOUR FIRST NAME, WHAT WOULD IT BE? John. Probably. But if I'd known the sheer amount of people named John, I would've chosen something uncommon like Michaelangelo or Rafael or shit, the ninja turtles are cool.
WHAT IS THE LAST CD THAT YOU BOUGHT? Sheryl Crow. Shut up.
WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE PLACE TO BE? That one level of hell where there's a shitlake. Either that or my English class, but I can seclude to the computer lab in there and write things.
WHAT TIME DO YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING? 5:30 on weekdays, like fucking noon or later on the weekends
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE KITCHEN APPLIANCE? Kitchen tool? Carbon-steel Japanese cleaver. Appliance? Jenn-Air gas range.
WHAT MAKES YOU REALLY ANGRY? When people are disrespectful.
IF YOU COULD PLAY AN INSTRUMENT, WHAT WOULD IT BE? Acoustic bass or drums.
FAVORITE COLORS? Red
DO YOU BELIEVE IN AFTER LIFE? Yes. After life, I will rot in the ground until I become one with the dirt, in everlasting harmony, Amen.
FAVORITE MOVIE? American Beauty
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SEASON? Winter
IF YOU HAVE A TATTOO, WHAT IS IT? No.
CAN YOU JUGGLE? I used to be able to juggle two balls. That's right, folks--two balls.
THE ONE PERSON FROM THE PAST YOU WISH YOU COULD GO BACK AND TALK TO? My past, or historical past? If it were my past, I'd talk to Kieron. That sonofabitch just disappeared.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE DAY? Friday
WHAT IS IN THE TRUNK OF YOUR CAR. Since the last thing I drove was a CJ-7, I'll count that as my car. There's a machete, some deer antlers, more than likely a shit lot of bullets, and some beer cans. None of those items belong to me.
WHICH DO YOU PREFER.....SUSHI OR HAMBURGER? Sushi burger.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CARTOON? Neon Genesis Evangelion.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MEAL? Warm pasta with a decent homemade sauce in extremely cold weather. Right now, however, it's a chimichanga with fajita meat.
YOUR PORN STAR NAME: (NAME OF FIRST PET + STREET YOU GREW UP ON) : T.C. Westfield (more like a writer's name, I'd think)
YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (NAME OF YOUR FAVOURITE SNACK FOOD + GRANDFATHERS FIRST NAME): Cookie Harold
EXOTIC FOREIGNER ALIAS: (Favorite Spice + Last Foreign Vacation Spot): Paprika Fallujah (not really, but I thought it fit well)
SOCIALITE ALIAS: (Silliest Childhood Nickname + Town Where You First Partied): Johnny Klein
"FLY GIRL" ALIAS (a la J. Lo): (First Initial + First Two or Three Letters of your Last Name): J. Hei. That was retarded.
DETECTIVE ALIAS: (Favorite Baby Animal + Where You Went to High School): Coyote Klein
BARFLY ALIAS: (Last Snack Food You Ate + Your Favorite Alcoholic Drink): Cookie Manhattan.
SOAP OPERA ALIAS: (Middle Name + Street Where You First Lived): Gray Westfield. That's really accurate.
ROCK STAR ALIAS: (Favorite Candy + Last Name Of Favorite Musician): Candycorn Oakenfold
IF YOU COULD BUILD A HOUSE ANYWHERE, WHERE WOULD IT BE? I'm not into houses, but East coast somewhere.
WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLE OF CLOTHING? Black trenchcoat in the wind.
IF YOU COULD HAVE CHOSEN YOUR FIRST NAME, WHAT WOULD IT BE? John. Probably. But if I'd known the sheer amount of people named John, I would've chosen something uncommon like Michaelangelo or Rafael or shit, the ninja turtles are cool.
WHAT IS THE LAST CD THAT YOU BOUGHT? Sheryl Crow. Shut up.
WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE PLACE TO BE? That one level of hell where there's a shitlake. Either that or my English class, but I can seclude to the computer lab in there and write things.
WHAT TIME DO YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING? 5:30 on weekdays, like fucking noon or later on the weekends
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE KITCHEN APPLIANCE? Kitchen tool? Carbon-steel Japanese cleaver. Appliance? Jenn-Air gas range.
WHAT MAKES YOU REALLY ANGRY? When people are disrespectful.
IF YOU COULD PLAY AN INSTRUMENT, WHAT WOULD IT BE? Acoustic bass or drums.
FAVORITE COLORS? Red
DO YOU BELIEVE IN AFTER LIFE? Yes. After life, I will rot in the ground until I become one with the dirt, in everlasting harmony, Amen.
FAVORITE MOVIE? American Beauty
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SEASON? Winter
IF YOU HAVE A TATTOO, WHAT IS IT? No.
CAN YOU JUGGLE? I used to be able to juggle two balls. That's right, folks--two balls.
THE ONE PERSON FROM THE PAST YOU WISH YOU COULD GO BACK AND TALK TO? My past, or historical past? If it were my past, I'd talk to Kieron. That sonofabitch just disappeared.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE DAY? Friday
WHAT IS IN THE TRUNK OF YOUR CAR. Since the last thing I drove was a CJ-7, I'll count that as my car. There's a machete, some deer antlers, more than likely a shit lot of bullets, and some beer cans. None of those items belong to me.
WHICH DO YOU PREFER.....SUSHI OR HAMBURGER? Sushi burger.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CARTOON? Neon Genesis Evangelion.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MEAL? Warm pasta with a decent homemade sauce in extremely cold weather. Right now, however, it's a chimichanga with fajita meat.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Long Posts are Fun
For English, I've got to write a descriptive paper; the subject I've chosen out of her list is "first day on the job", but what I'm really going to do is write about my work as a day laborer throwing bricks out the back of a junk guy's pickup truck at a dump. It was kind of a fascinating experience for me, and while I don't pretend to flaunt any really fantastic skill with storytelling, I think I'm allright at describing stuff, if I really sit down and subjectively tell about something that I've experienced. I think it's good that I'm doing this now; the weather is beginning to get cold, so I should write about work while heat and exhaustion are still fresh in my blood. In any case, if it's any good, I'll post it.
Stuff has been going great this week. The fall concert absolutely wore my ass out (as all performances do), but I think it was pretty spectacular. My only grievance is that my voice was already not doing very well when we began because of so much damned rehearsal, but I managed to pull through all eight songs, expecting to cough up a little blood and maybe a bass clef on that last God Bless America chord.
Afterwards my mother and I went to Sonic for burgers, which I have not done in a veritable eternity. I'm really not big on fast food. In fact, I prefer to ferociously avoid the stuff; I will eat a sandwich at Jack-in-the-Box in the middle of a lawnmowing Saturday simply because of the requisite energy for pushing gargantuan leaf-slicers around--I will even eat some pretty awful food at the school cafeteria if offered to me--but it's out of hunger. Once in a blue moon I like to get a burger somewhere. It's oddly satisfying, but it also gives me a sharp reminder of why I, home alone, will prepare a blackened salmon with lemon garlic sauce along with a spicy pineapple-base stirfry over a Mexican TV dinner with more cholesterol than Rush Limbaugh's studio audience. I very often live for the satisfaction of eating something warm and familiar, and even more so for giving such a thing to other people.
For some reason today I went outside, mowed, edged, and blowed my lawn off, and then proceeded to remove a hundred pounds of branches and vines from the azaleas in the side yard. I admit it, I'm a weird son of a bitch, but I enjoy working on things like that. There's something about manipulating things with your hands that can be a lot of fun. Besides that, I got to employ the help of gas-powered small engines, which is probably a dumb male fascination which I will never, never be rid of.
Speaking of ridiculously brutesy, testosteronic endeavors, I've recovered from my blood loss and increased my bench press to 165. It's another addiction to physical effort I've got, but it's wonderfully satisfying to know that you can lift 20 pounds more than your body weight with your upper torso. I think I went too far tonight, however: I actually tried my hand at jogging around my neighborhood, that peculiar pasttime where you bounce around in shorts and expensive shoes in an effort to strengthen your blood-pumpy thing and lose weight. I've done this several times in the past and hated it. The same happened tonight. I got a quarter of the way around my subdivision and then just jogged my way right back. Even if I do have decent shoes now, I happen to value greatly the use of my knees, and I came to the conclusion this evening that I can do the exact same workout on a bicycle and go fast enough to race my friends' cars anyway. Therefore, running is silly, but by working my legs out anyway through cycling and various weightlifting gruntmucks, if I ever really need to run the hell away from something (huge angry guy, explosion, 80-pound rabid rottweiler angry at me for flyer distribution), I probably can.
I have a homecoming date now, the cute and literature-savvy editor-in-chief of the newspaper. ^.^
Stuff has been going great this week. The fall concert absolutely wore my ass out (as all performances do), but I think it was pretty spectacular. My only grievance is that my voice was already not doing very well when we began because of so much damned rehearsal, but I managed to pull through all eight songs, expecting to cough up a little blood and maybe a bass clef on that last God Bless America chord.
Afterwards my mother and I went to Sonic for burgers, which I have not done in a veritable eternity. I'm really not big on fast food. In fact, I prefer to ferociously avoid the stuff; I will eat a sandwich at Jack-in-the-Box in the middle of a lawnmowing Saturday simply because of the requisite energy for pushing gargantuan leaf-slicers around--I will even eat some pretty awful food at the school cafeteria if offered to me--but it's out of hunger. Once in a blue moon I like to get a burger somewhere. It's oddly satisfying, but it also gives me a sharp reminder of why I, home alone, will prepare a blackened salmon with lemon garlic sauce along with a spicy pineapple-base stirfry over a Mexican TV dinner with more cholesterol than Rush Limbaugh's studio audience. I very often live for the satisfaction of eating something warm and familiar, and even more so for giving such a thing to other people.
For some reason today I went outside, mowed, edged, and blowed my lawn off, and then proceeded to remove a hundred pounds of branches and vines from the azaleas in the side yard. I admit it, I'm a weird son of a bitch, but I enjoy working on things like that. There's something about manipulating things with your hands that can be a lot of fun. Besides that, I got to employ the help of gas-powered small engines, which is probably a dumb male fascination which I will never, never be rid of.
Speaking of ridiculously brutesy, testosteronic endeavors, I've recovered from my blood loss and increased my bench press to 165. It's another addiction to physical effort I've got, but it's wonderfully satisfying to know that you can lift 20 pounds more than your body weight with your upper torso. I think I went too far tonight, however: I actually tried my hand at jogging around my neighborhood, that peculiar pasttime where you bounce around in shorts and expensive shoes in an effort to strengthen your blood-pumpy thing and lose weight. I've done this several times in the past and hated it. The same happened tonight. I got a quarter of the way around my subdivision and then just jogged my way right back. Even if I do have decent shoes now, I happen to value greatly the use of my knees, and I came to the conclusion this evening that I can do the exact same workout on a bicycle and go fast enough to race my friends' cars anyway. Therefore, running is silly, but by working my legs out anyway through cycling and various weightlifting gruntmucks, if I ever really need to run the hell away from something (huge angry guy, explosion, 80-pound rabid rottweiler angry at me for flyer distribution), I probably can.
I have a homecoming date now, the cute and literature-savvy editor-in-chief of the newspaper. ^.^
Sunday, October 10, 2004
On the Road by Jack Kerouac is in its intermediary stages of mesmerizing me. It makes me want to ride a bicycle to every small town and bustling metropolis in the country. It's making me restless, like I was when I came home to Houston from New York and realized that I'm in the wrong place: the middle-class suburbia where people seem to care more about their lawns, cars, and incomes than their lives. I'll never be a homeowner, I swear to it. The day I worry about pressure-washing my driveway so that the neighbors will complement me on my pearly white concrete parking spot will be the day Satan is fashioning rock-hard popsicles out of the souls of the damned.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, and find the 4th sentence: "He was a pilot and flew his plane as low as he dared over Yossarian's tent as often as he could, just to see how much he could frighten him, and loved to go buzzing with a wild, close roar over the wooden raft floating on empty oil drums out past the sand bar at the immaculate white beach where the men went swimming naked."
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first? A double choir arragement of Ave Maria by Tomas Luis de Victoria
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV? Some of the VP debate
4. Without looking, guess what time it is.4:13
5. Now look at the clock. What is the actual time?4:01
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear? "Colores" by Dzihan and Kamien
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing? I got out of Nicole's car in teh rain, home from the poetry club meeting.
8. Before you started this survey, what did you look at? On the internet? My email, I guess.
9. What are you wearing? A small black work shirt with some little dice on the front, my Chereskin jeans, and my mutilated "shandles".
10. Did you dream last night? Not that I can remember.
11. When did you last laugh? I snickered in the poetry club meeting because some guy's AIM screenname was "Wannaquickie77"
12. What is on the walls of the room you are in? There's a Japanese painting on silk, a God-knows-how-old poster for the movie "Independence Day", a map of Norrath...
13. Seen anything weird lately? I saw a big turtle. With laser eyes.
14. What do you think of this quiz? Not really a whole lot of fun.
15. What is the last film you saw? Fahrenheit 911
16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy? My education, and a bunch of sushi.
17. Tell me something about you that I don't know. I actually possess a great appreciation for the music of Avril Lavigne.
18. If you could change one thing about the world, what would you do? I would cause fireballs to constantly float around at eye level. They would move in a constant direction (though they might bounce of buildings) all the time, and if you weren't careful, you'd get your head incinerated. I would also make gravity variable rather than the same all the time, like in Slapstick by Kurt Vonnegut.
19. Do you like to dance? Not really
20. George Bush: Is not a very smart guy.
21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her? John doesn't like kids~
22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him? See above~
23. Would you ever consider living abroad? Maybe. If I had the oppurtunity to really master the German language, I could do Germany.
24. What do you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?"Oh no, it's him."
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first? A double choir arragement of Ave Maria by Tomas Luis de Victoria
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV? Some of the VP debate
4. Without looking, guess what time it is.4:13
5. Now look at the clock. What is the actual time?4:01
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear? "Colores" by Dzihan and Kamien
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing? I got out of Nicole's car in teh rain, home from the poetry club meeting.
8. Before you started this survey, what did you look at? On the internet? My email, I guess.
9. What are you wearing? A small black work shirt with some little dice on the front, my Chereskin jeans, and my mutilated "shandles".
10. Did you dream last night? Not that I can remember.
11. When did you last laugh? I snickered in the poetry club meeting because some guy's AIM screenname was "Wannaquickie77"
12. What is on the walls of the room you are in? There's a Japanese painting on silk, a God-knows-how-old poster for the movie "Independence Day", a map of Norrath...
13. Seen anything weird lately? I saw a big turtle. With laser eyes.
14. What do you think of this quiz? Not really a whole lot of fun.
15. What is the last film you saw? Fahrenheit 911
16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy? My education, and a bunch of sushi.
17. Tell me something about you that I don't know. I actually possess a great appreciation for the music of Avril Lavigne.
18. If you could change one thing about the world, what would you do? I would cause fireballs to constantly float around at eye level. They would move in a constant direction (though they might bounce of buildings) all the time, and if you weren't careful, you'd get your head incinerated. I would also make gravity variable rather than the same all the time, like in Slapstick by Kurt Vonnegut.
19. Do you like to dance? Not really
20. George Bush: Is not a very smart guy.
21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her? John doesn't like kids~
22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him? See above~
23. Would you ever consider living abroad? Maybe. If I had the oppurtunity to really master the German language, I could do Germany.
24. What do you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?"Oh no, it's him."
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
I'm working on the pictures thing. Getting to my mother's digital camera is hard. In the meantime, here's another dumb awkward questionnaire that's more practical:
I ____ John.
John is ____.
If I were alone in a room with John, I would _______.
I think John should_____.
John needs _______.
I want to ____________ John.
Someday John will ___________.
John reminds me of _______.
Without John_______.
Memories of John are _________.
John can be _________.
__________ is how I describe meeting John.
Worst thing about John is _________.
Best thing about John is ________.
I am ________ with John.
John ______ too much.
I ____ John.
John is ____.
If I were alone in a room with John, I would _______.
I think John should_____.
John needs _______.
I want to ____________ John.
Someday John will ___________.
John reminds me of _______.
Without John_______.
Memories of John are _________.
John can be _________.
__________ is how I describe meeting John.
Worst thing about John is _________.
Best thing about John is ________.
I am ________ with John.
John ______ too much.