GHOST OF ROOMDRAW

The last couple of days weeks months have gone by in a bit of a whirlwind, with the majority of my sleep coming in short bursts while I chew, bathe, or try to slow things down in bed. Powernaps, while somewhat refreshing, still require time in which I am not talking to someone important or driving. I submit to you that the following story could very well be a figment of my fallow imagination, though I prefer to enjoy it on a "reality based" level.

The story begins thusly:

Picture me as a freshman in college, cocksure, charming, Billy Idol haircut. I have a bottle of Pick 'N Save vodka on my desk, a lemon, and a stack of sugar packets I stole from food service the day before. There is also a svelte, redheaded ultimate frisbee player in my room. I became aware of her thong at shot #7 (did not see, but became aware of). Sometime between shots #12 and #14 I remember thinking to myself, am I almost too drunk to perform? wow! College is kewl! Then there was a temporary loss of traction near or around key elements of my anatomy, I think, and some sweating, a little cursing, possibly some giggling (or name-calling), then kind of a grey + red blur for 20 - 90 minutes or so, and perhaps I may have done a couple lines of Sweet 'N Low. I think.

Anyway, turns out she had a boyfirend. It made the next three years kinda awkward.

Fast forward a little to the end of Junior year during the sinister horrorshow bloodbath that is the housing draw, where lifelong friendships are torn to pieces, bribery and threats of violence mingle with the desperate pleading of underclassmen, and the trading of human capital hearkens back to a sadder American age (if we can get the quint, I'll take the two Sophomores, but if we don't, I'm ditching one so we can get the quad by the gym).

As you may have already guessed, these two events are somewhat connected. For you see, the jilted boyfriend from freshman year sent spies into our super-secret housing draw caucus (midnight on the 4th full moon after the Equinox) to steal our strategy. At the last minute he scraped together 5(!) random people to steal our sextet right out from under our noses, forcing us to reshuffle and improvise a sub-par plan B.

Now I know, and when I see him again? Some motherfucker's going down. Housing Draw is forever, bitches.

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REPOST

That rabbit is just way badass.

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MY LIFE IN FOUR CAMERAS

PART I

Molly is an old Latina grandmother that owns and operates the only respectable hamburger and shit joint out in the middle of the woods near my place. It is an oasis in the valley that attracts even numbers of fiercely libertarian truckers/ranchers/bikers and extremely wealthy/annoying trust fund babies from the hills. This amuses me to no end. Also, I can buy beer there for cheap.

While I was writing this tome, Molly was cooking up one hamburger and one cheeseburger for me, despite the fact I had only ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and no one would ever order one cheeseburger and one hamburger for himself. I chose not to argue with her, because she reminds me of my own grandmother, and that reminds me of getting my ass kicked by an 80 year old woman with a wooden spoon. I decided instead to take my cheeseburger, my hamburger, and my pitcher of Devil's Canyon out to the garden and keep my wise-ass mouth shut. Never antagonize those who handle your food, I always say.

I spent some time looking straight at the two sandwiches before me, cooling in the gentle afternoon breeze. Which would I eat first? Which would be lunch, which would be dinner? I had paid for both, and I was damn sure going to eat both, but not both at once. It was a tougher decision than I would have imagined.

PART II

Depression cracks me up. I laugh at depression; I laugh at the depressed. They don't know how good they have it. I don't mind being depressed, it's a healthy contrast that amplifies whatever good elements persist in your life.

About three weeks ago, I found myself in what has become an eerily familiar situation; naked and face to face with a woman who is also naked. I wonder how things like this happen. I wonder what I have done to find myself in this situation, for it has by no means been intentional. Nevertheless, there I am, and there she is, and things are to be done, and they get done, but they are executed with a practiced and exacting precision that requires very little emotion. The feelings are there, and they are the appropriate ones, but our needs are physical and not so much else. I am both pleased and saddened by this prospect.

Little by little, my subconscious is trying to sabotage my life.

I also blame nature. She shoulders a modicum of guilt as well. It's springtime, and the aromas that drift through nighttime-open windows are flavored with the tender perfume of Magnolia and Hyacinth. The scent of these flowers conjures vibrant memories that twirl and mix and pulse with sensuous images that drift through my everyday life. One deep breath to drink them in; the air is wine, and all emotion returns. They are the sense memories of the last woman that really meant something unique and original to me. Her scent mingled with nature's simple perfumes is what I can't help but remember.

I resent this. I find nostalgia, that which is slathered in unnecessary sentiment, worthless and detrimental to those in the present. Memory is borderline narcotic if you allow it to be so. Don't want what you can't have, or you will never be satisfied.

So things need doing, and they get done, but my mind is someplace else. Depression gives way to emptiness, to intimacy without purpose. It is an ironically sterile place.

PART III

I have shouldered a surprising emotional burden these past three weeks. Despite what you may have already read, it is not my own. This is the crux of my life.

For reasons I cannot understand, those relationships I witness every day have been silently eroding away. I know this because many (enough to qualify as "many" I should stress) have ended abruptly during this month. Despite the fact I have systematically built very strong walls around me over the course of the last year, I am the one everyone has turned to for comfort and support. This is beyond my comprehension.

(I will reveal a deep, hidden secret about myself right now. I am fiercely empathic. I often wish I did not feel this way. I can't stand to see people in pain, and I act out the tragedy with them. It is not an ugly quality, just extremely inconvenient.)

One could imagine I have trouble with these two instincts, as they are at odds with each other. Quite frankly, I am exhausted by the tragedy in other people's lives because I cannot do enough to put a stop to it.

Then again, it's possible I'm envious of their pain because it speaks to an intensity of feeling that I myself have been missing.

PART IV

Contrary to what I have just written, there have been a myriad of moments in recent memory that have filled me with a deep and rich sense of peace. I find joy in the earthy smell of fresh rain vapor rising of hot asphalt. I have had occasion to breath the rich dust of great, loamy clods of earth in my callused hands. I have saved spring rabbits from hawk's talons (though the hawks will keenly find other meals).

In a life that, lately, I would consider essentially empty, I find these simple pleasures to be more than enough. They are only confounded by the complex responsibilities of modern existence.

Frankly I don't know if I should be pleased or bored to death. For once, very little is happening to me, and I can't decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

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For a few of you, this is the explanation you may have been looking for. Then again, this is just a blog. It serves no purpose beyond entertainment (at best). I'm disappointed with my inability to communicate beyond what I would consider a fourth-grade level tonight, but writers' block must be conquered in baby steps.

Two things for you to consider. 1) a picture of the bunny:
and 2) the CD that's been getting a lot of miles in the rotation:

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MY STUFF HURTS

Once in awhile I'll look out across the sea of faces and wonder if our collective karma is just winding its way down to zero. There are those among us who fight this rising tide, those who see the deepening spiritual bankruptcy and push back. Sometimes you get called to stand against the crashing waves and fight the modern crusade for Good. Sometimes you have to be the person responsible for getting the divorced lady drunk, and making sure she gets her turn on the mechanical bull.

It's not like I was driving or anything.

And so ends 8 straight days of drinking; me slurring, "c'mon, let's do one that's on fire this time!," the oh-so-recently divorced thinking, "maybe I shouldn't, you know I don't usually.... oh hell yes it's on fire!," and her best friend standing behind her mouthing the words "KEEP HER DRINKING" and sliding 20s to the bartender. There was a point in the night where I just had to ask myself, is this all there is?

Most likely it was the point at which I untangled myself from the tangled nest of bodies, and took inventory of the empty wrappers, the motion-activated owl, and the half-eaten boxes of GirlScout cookies alight in the glow of false-dawn.

I celebrated the end of this bender with a promise to do good deeds from now on. I cooked my roommie and his girlfriend a delicious breakfast of California omelets, bagels, and coffee, then phoned my tennis buddy to drag his ass out of bed and get me some exercise (quick note to the marketing execs for Michelob Ultra, your new ad campaign should be, "Because drinking a lot of beer will turn you into a big fattie, fattie." It's amazing how chubby I've gotten. Hell, I wouldn't even have sex with me.) After almost thee hours of tennis on cold, flabby muscles I had to call it quits, and let me tell you something, friends, my stuff HURTS today. But my God, does it feel good too feel good in the morning. Great even.

And so, to continue in the theme of all things great and wonderful about this planet, I give you the following video (and, boy oh boy, does it feel good to be a big, geeky science nerd, too):

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YOU CAN'T FUCK AN iPHONE*

I started reading Mark Morford's column in SF Gate because it reminded me of my own witty-at-times self-aggrandizing writing style, but lately he's started to kind of piss me off. Not only is he stealing my ideas (Morford: 2/14/07: How to Shave the Modern Male vs. YouHandsomeDevil: 1/20/06: The Essentials of Modern Gardening), but he's starting to pussy-foot around some key life issues.

For example, if it pleases you to do so, read this article concerning the rampant and runaway consumerism plaguing our already-degenerate society. Not a bad article at all, Mark. Well said.

But what you should have written was:

Dear Everyone,

Please stop buying so much shit. You don't need it. Go outside, drink a beer, and try to get laid. It's way better.

Love,

Mark

Seriously, I'm not kidding, either. Quit buying so much shit. Take your Blackberry, your iPhone, your skin-searing TV, your XBox, your Bluetooth headset, your TiVo, your DVR, your PSP, put them all in one big pillow case and smash the shit out of them with a 2x4. Giggle and smile as you liberate yourself from all the crap you weren't meant to have in the first place. Terminate with extreme prejudice. KILL KILL KILL. Better yet, microwave those fuckers in a sparky explosion of irony.

Weep tears of joy when the swarming clouds of electrons dissipate, and you can finally see the sun again (the actual sun!). Feel warm blood fill your limbs again and... what's that? Is that the sound of an un-digitized human voice?! (Sounds like angels making love...). My God, the sheer ecstasy of it all.

Think about that next time you feel like you have to buy some crap that you absolutely do not need. Do it for me. Go find some warm ocean waves to toss you into the sky in glorious exaltation of the world unfiltered by these demonic, technological prophylactics.

See Mark? I didn't even have to talk about my favorite Pinot or used books or my Prius or Democrats or softsupple women I've boned or French cuisine or 'Product' or any of the remaining myriad of hippie-liberal-hipster bullcrap (that I/we normally talk about), though I doubt this message will appear in any respectable publication. Sigh.

*Please don't send me links to iBrators or any other clever crap like that. Tie those ideas in knots with the real message: tech-stimulation is still exactly as is sounds. Much like this rant, it's still just jerking off.

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