A story without a plot

Something got lost in the write up

We are back to full steam, just in time for the work week. Humph.

After four days of stubbly growth and stinky socks I decided to roll out the door and up to a friends where we ate greasy buffalo wings and some strange dip, drank lots of coffee, and participated in  taunting -- lots and and lots of taunting.

Never a big sports fan I bought into the tradition of the "Super Bowl" simple to make sure I had not lost all social skills. I heard myths that four days without people can drive some to insanity. Don't believe the hype.

I found myself leaving the confines of my friends' home around half-time. I got back to my own place, had enough time to let my dog out, and then get comfortable before the second half began. I sat with my pants unbuttoned and my belly full. I ran text message commentary for three of my friends until the end. Never knew the baby Jesus was into blessing Super Bowl champs. Does he approve of capitalism and Prince? Huh.

Other than that, being sick reminded me I can be pretty okay with just being alone today for the most part. I kind of like it, especially when I hit one of those work week funks where I look at the thermometer, it says 2 degrees at noon, and just wanted to sleep in.

Fracking insanity

Well, we'll assume it is okay to go ahead and announce some news of a personal nature:

1. I am going to be an uncle.                                                                Yup.  It seems pretty much confirmed. A born on date is to be determined in the near future. It's difficult to wrap my brain around being an uncle. It's even more difficult knowing who the daddy is. My parents' reaction, with whom sis still lives, is less than receptive. The react is reasonable on their end to say the least. This situation is ripe with potential baby-momma-drama. I'm sad to say that about my younger sibling, but it is true.  Also, selfish or not, this is a perfect time to take a hiatus from too much interaction with the fam. I can't seem to not express my opinion when around them. Supposedly, I start "preaching." Thank God for good friends, people I can actually help, Netflix, and a constant reminder the drama is not mine. Oh, and as one friend put it, I have nine months (give or take) to prepare to be the best damn uncle in the world if the situation allows. Hrmph.

Failure to Lunch

I had a much larger post in my head about movies seen, people met, and dramatic issues in my life, but I failed to take lunch today in order to write it all down in my notebook before transcribing it onto here.

Yes, I began carrying around one of those black marbled notebooks with the funky binding you can get at most stores for like $1.90. I heard it is what all the wildly successful and popular writers do. They keep cheap notebooks with them to jot down quirky insights or observations and land book deals through their blogs.

Some of what I fill my notebook with during lunch breaks (where I settle down for a half hour with a Red Delicious or Lean Pocket) is gibberish. Other musings though have been so intensely personal or  j-o-b threatening I've decided to keep them to myself.

It's not as if anyone who actually reads this blog could or would possibly relate information back to the appropriate people . . . but still. Plus, sometimes it's just fun to sit down and write for me and no one else.

Of course I also realize that maybe these incredibly talented people with written journals are on to something. An entry meant for here actually landed in a publication as a column about two weeks ago instead and was well received .

Damn, I guess I am a professional writer.

Other than that I felt rather lethargic and strung out emotionally lately. I've dreaded going to said  j-o-b. I've avoided people in the f-a-m. I spent a lot of time watching movies.

I really do wish I had written that wonderful review I planned. Perhaps tomorrow. Then I can tell you how thoroughly convinced I am that Pan's Labyrinth really is the best film of 2006. Oh, and how I had to divert my eyes and cry a little at the end.

A moment of zen

Friday evening after work I hopped on the treadmill at the gym and I ran. And I ran. Then I lifted some weights. I skipped the abdominal crunch machine. I went home.

On the way home I called someone I usually call on a daily basis. The conversation went differently than planned. The person on the other end was in full crisis mode. The crisis involved the person on the other end of the phone about as much as it did me. I haven't been able to convince this person of this fine distinction yet. They continue to attempt to understand and interject. They remain involved in a situation in which they constantly get burned.

This lead me to this full realization: I don't have to go there too. This is not my life. The problem is the other person's. It is this person who continues to make foolish decisions and to live a tragic life. It is the crisis of the person who adopts the foolish person's crisis. The crisis is not mine. My only crisis is of my own making.

I hung up after I listened and said very little. I fixed dinner. I ate. I over ate late in the evening with friends. I decided for Friday I felt a bit of zen. If I keep eating the way I do I'm going to develop a belly like Buddha.

My life is good.

Life's soundtrack

Punch it
I got, uh, fed
I got, uh, too much things on bounce, uh, my head
I got to burn 'em up

-- Soul Coughing, Ruby Vroom, "True Dreams of Wichita"

There are certain songs that at times make cruising through life easier by putting emotions into context. Lyrics and melodies, beats, voices, samples, cuts, mixes and familiar refrains congeal a fractured and re-constituted past held together by present experience and mood.

An evening last week found me driving through worn down streets, in a worn down urban area, past worn down people walking down worn down sidewalks. Soul Coughing's 1994 slacker jazz full disc debut fit my mood.

I was hauling 12 large cups of White Castle coffee, three black and nine with heavy-heavy cream, in my trunk to a place most folks don't know exists. They probably wouldn't want to visit if they did. Luckily for the occupants and the community at large the building is tucked away behind an unassuming grey facade with decorative bars over the first and second floor windows.

The guys I was on my way to see that night led some pretty serious lives. Some of their stories are more brutal than others. I've yet to hear one that is not more extreme than any experience I've ever had. Some of the guys may get out from behind the grey facade and live productive lives. Many will only eventually leave to return, or worse. While there they all have hope. They say thanks for the coffee. A few feel comfortable enough to share their problems with me. Many of their daily concerns are reflected in the lyrics above, with "uh, too much things on bounce, uh, my head." Perhaps that is why the song seemed so fitting while I drove.

I remember being like the guys in the grey facade with way too much bouncing in my head. Sure my bars were the one's I placed in myself but I could still relate to the gist of confinement.

Nowadays though after 12 empty coffee cups and an hour's time I get up and walk out, free of my grey locked up place. I look up to the sky over lonely streets and I hum more nonsensical words that make sense.

I've seen you
Fire up the gas in the engine valves
I've seen your hand turn saintly on the radio dial
I've seen the airwaves
Pull your eyes towards heaven

Shit

"The paunch has returned," I declared as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror this morning, surveying my portly profile while in a white t-shirt and boxers.

Usually I can sufficiently deceive myself by wearing loose fitting tees, button downs, pull overs, no belts, or elastic waist bans – and avoiding scales. I mean I know I've been putting on weight over the last two and one half years, but this now sucks. I worked very hard to get down to a lean 148 before I moved back here.

It took months of 15 mile bike rides to shed the 40 plus pounds I gained from binge eating as I went through the divorce and the cravings for sugar from the lack of alcohol. The weight loss then was a hell of a lot harder than when I was 14 and miraculously lost 30 pounds just by thinking about it.

Looking in the mirror I wondered if it would even be possible to drop weight now. I mean come on, don't they say you GAIN weight when you stop smoking? Doesn't your metabolism slow down naturally at the age of 30?

"I'm fucked," I thought as I finished off my blueberry and cream danish before popping another Commit lozenge.

In Brief

For the moment, at least, I am through airing the family's dirty laundry. I have no deeply morose posts left either. Instead I just thought I would take a moment to do a little bulletined checklist:

1. First I would like to thank Scott for turning me onto Commit lozenges. So far so good. Day two completely smoke-free and no overwhelming urges to gnaw my arm off and bludgeon anyone with the detached appendage. The only thing I can say though Scott, is only 2 to 8 ciggies a day? And you call yourself a smoker? Pwah, try a two pack a day habit instead. (See why I want to quit NOW).
2. Second, thanks to blogger Evel for the de-lurking comment. I should try that this week, though being an unannounced voyeur seems so much more . . . risque.
3. How did I ever survive without Netflix? I know, once again I'm behind on the learning curve, but really, how? I mean I go home and there are these delicious little gifts in my mailbox. Plus I'm not hounded by post cards, phone calls, and e-mails concerning late fees and force purchases. Woot!
4. Which leads to my last moment of clarity . . . How did I miss Inside Man? What a tidy little heist film by Spike Lee. Phenomenal cast and atypical as well. Loved it. It just goes to show how far from grace I've fallen after leaving grad school and slaving away at a nine-to-fiver. Sigh. Hopefully the next 23 films in my Netflix Que will redeem me.

Taking the weekend off

After facing the ordeal of going to the movies Friday I did something I rarely do. I spent most of my time at home this weekend camped in front of the television. I have a cold.

I watched the rise and fall of the Roman Empire in a two hour sitting, a band of brothers battle Nazi Germany in five, and an hour and a half battle in heaven. The last, despite its title, was replete with a disturbing, non-pornographic b.j. (if such a thing is possible). It also marked my first Netflix delivery.

I did manage to go out in three brief intervals. Two times involved dinner with the parents. The third marked the defeat of a healthy ambition.

I rationed my cigarette intake over the past week down to two ciggies a day. I smoked what I hoped would be my last on Saturday. By six p.m. Sunday I was gnawing my fingernails until I couldn't take it any more and went out to purchase a new pack. I smoked two ultra lights in two hours. Oh, and my sinus cavity filled back up due to the pollutants.

My head currently feels as if it will explode.

On leaving the theater

I faced a hard decision lately. Either I continue to boycott movies at the cinema or I go alone. You see no one I know is a big cinemaphile. So many are part of the "wait until it comes out on video" crowd. Of course two-thirds of them have entertainment complexes in their living rooms. Eight bucks for a movie or $8,000 for the system? Hmmm, wonder which fits in my budget.

Anyway,  my pride and resolve broke and I went it alone Friday. (Come to think of it, if I'm going another 5 months with no dating this may be the perfect time to go it alone) My film choice was Children of Men. I'll let the pro's review it, though I will comment that I think 28 Days Later did a much better job of putting it all out there.

Friday was the opening night at the only cinemaplex to show Children of Men in my area. That cinemaplex is located within the uber-modern entertainment hot-spot along the river where all the yuppies and their barely legal-spawn congregate and parade. Some bled into the theater. The screen for the movie was packed.

While in the movie I thought about the plausibility of mankind's doom in the next two decades. With small rivulets of sweat and chaffing in my neither regions because I dressed seasonally appropriate, not temperature appropriate (temps are 20 to 25 degrees above average where I live right now), I determined the premise was plausible.

(Oh, and Portuguese Man O'Wars float off the Atlantic coast of Florida stinging the shit out of people because sea water temps are a good 6 to 8 degrees above the norm for this time of year.  The jelly's behavior isn't abnormal. They usually migrate along the near shore currents this time of year. It is Man, driven to swim because the temperatures,who's the culprit. Mankind's doom at the hand of his own stupidity, very plausible indeed.)

After the movie, as I walked to my car, I had a second notion. A gaggle of middle aged women walked past, noses up, and tits out. One beer burped and then said, "That's what Bill is getting tonight. That cocksucker!"

Uproarious laughter was followed by another snide remark as she pointed to a near by bar, "Ooh, let's go there and see what young stuff we can find!"

More chortling. A group of younger versions then vroomed by and almost hit my parked car with their Escalade.

For a moment I thought, "If the world went sterile I may understand why."

A million little stars

I awoke in the wee hours of the morning. The luminous green numbers on the digital alarm clock read 5:30, an hour and a half before it was set to go off. My pup laid at the foot of the bed. She yawned and cocked her head at me as if I were an alien. She's learned not to disturb me until the alarm blares. I got up.

After putting Gracie on her blue nylon leash we walked outside. The sky was still black with a few stars shining brightly. Frost glinted on blades of grass, catching the florescent glow of the back porch light.

The air was quiet. High winds that usually glide between close houses and cause pine trees to screech eerily against wood privacy fences were still. There were few other sounds. No neighborhood dogs barked, not even my own. I stood in solitude and a comfortable silence.

For the past couple of weeks, a couple days each, I've done this. I woke up early, automatically, whether or not I slept five or six hours. I've come to enjoy the peace of those early mornings when I wake up on my own accord.

This morning I realized the facts of my life are as quiet and constant as the mornings in which I get up early. Outwardly I'm doing better than many. I own a home, get along well with family, live within my means, and have a few solid friends.

Last night before I went to bed pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pencil. I began to write all of this down and more. I wrote for an hour and a half. The fact of the matter is when I put the pencil down I felt good. I felt empty and full in a particularly healthy way. For the four or five hours I slept, I slept well.

When I awoke very early this morning that emptiness of thought and emotion was still there. I was as quiet and calm as the early morning.