My life at this point

So, it looks like I'm living in Louisiana for the time being. What's Louisiana like? Muggy. As in you get mugged while it's hot and humid. No, it's really not that bad. Although my heart did break a little bit when the grocery market cashier admitted she had never heard of sharp cheddar cheese. The bagger identified me as "eatin' healthy" when he saw that I was buying two mangos. Are mangos really that healthy? Do people not eat them down here? Is it cause I got two? I'll never know. 

          I've been listening to the Pixies a lot. It's like listening to happy halloween music that belongs in great 90's movies. So back to my living situation. It's a house with walls and everything. There's a full bar downstairs with neon lights, a dart board and a pool table. There's also booze, which is impressive. My room is unforgivably bare. I bought picture frames last Saturday at a garage sale down the street. I plan to print some of my pictures and then hang them up. Falling asleep. Remind me to tell you about Tony, my housemate tomorrow. He's sorta remarkable.

Meandering

Writing just to write. Or am I typing for an audience? Best not to overthink this. In my room, the walls lay baren, needing picture frames, needing pictures. A tripod stand stands with no camera, the camera sitting to my right. Write. My phone is blinking, I have some message, some sort of message. A flannel flung to the floor companions my unzippered backpack, next to leather jacket. Orange are the bottles of yonder, on and over the counter, rather sill by the window. Dennis the fish breaths with that labyrinth organ, in cloudy water. Good for him. Boots and shoes up against the wall, no Galliano for me thanks. A stack of picture frames, like I told you sit bedside. I haven't tried the TV, yet I bet the set has B.E.T. No net for Dennis, the beta menace, still needs water like a metallurgist needs tetanus...shots. Getting obscure, can't endure lucid thought for long. Is it pure, is it newer, fewer now than there once was. Although thought meanders through the land of borderline salience. The author's reeling for a cortex meal, but cornflakes are all he'll get. Mucinex and then what's next, do you feel better your chest unfettered, or is it something else? Mostly rhetoric, said housebound Frederick. So am I here for rhyme or reason? Your canvas stretches white and wretched, wanting to be stroked or brushed or poked. Scarred scared the air is stale, the room's still bare everywhere that I stare. But hark a spark of lark most stark amongst the dark of lethargy park. That's what I'll say when I find my mark and start my lark.

Don't read this, it's garbage

Today I gave my dog some thyroid medicine. Don't worry it's prescribed for her, my dog. It's doggy thyroid medicine. You know it's for dogs because the pills taste like beef, and they're the size of mentos. Also, there's pictures of dogs on the bottle. The bottle is childproof. Why? I'm pretty sure dogs can't open  medicine bottles, regardless.
        On my desk right now is: two dentistry tools, an empty can of Izze sparkling pomegranate juice, an official Middlebury College flask, an extremely detailed mold of a human hand, reusable chopsticks, headphones, one of those pens that has four different colors, a mini clipboard, measuring tape, some ophthamologic disposable sunglasses, a moleskin, two paperweightish-brain puzzles, two separate parking tickets, change, a fancy japanese bag, my wallet, stamps, my passport, reflective stickers, my photography homework, a book about the 60's, bartending flashcards, a lamp and the computer I'm writing all of this on.  Oh yeah, and a bottle opener that's a smiley face. Needless to say, it's slightly crowded over here. On my desk that is.
        I could explain why I have each of these things, but I think I'll leave it at that, so the next time you see me, you'll have something to ask me about. I like to plan ahead. I will say, that the extremely detailed hand even has fingerprints. Crazy. Has anyone read Naked Lunch? I'm having a hard time understanding a single sentence. It seems as though it's written in crazy. Nadsat was more accessible. Mmmmmm. Oh yeah. I watched Donnie Darko again. Still good. Didn't like it the first time. Now, I quite adore it. Atmosphere, gotta love that atmosphere. 

How do like your eggs?

Easy, she says. Easy on the eyes maybe but nothing about this job has been easy. If I weren't three weeks deep in my landie's pocket, I wouldn't be caught dead trouncing around in this weather. My mark turns the corner and I follow suit. He heads into one of the local dives, one which I know all too well. I crack a smile. Jerry the juice jockey and owner of said joint is a friend of mine. I wait a couple of minutes before walking in. My guy's nursing the tail end of a highball and Jerry's already pouring him another. I catch Jerry's eye and in a moment he knows I'm tailing the human sieve in front of him. We've been acquainted long enough that he knows my trade. Jerry and I used to work together on the force until he caught a lug in his knee.
        Jerry had been chasing some Joe who decided to lift a cadillac right out the hands of some poor suit down on Second. Well, Jerry gets the call and happens to be a block away. As luck would have it, this redhot comes screaming down the boulevard and just as he passes Second Street, Jerry t-bones the perp, mounting the Caddie onto his cruiser like a hood ornament. Well this Johnny stumbles out bleeding like a son of a bitch and starts squirting metal all over the street. Jerry just starts walking up to the guy, with no cover, throwing shells right into his chest. Before Joe can taste the asphalt he lands a lucky cap in Jerry's cap and goes down. Jerry threw in the badge before he learnt to walk again and bought up the bar short after. I threw in my badge not too long after, but that's another story.
        I sit two stools over from my potential stoolie and Jerry limps his sorry mug over to take my order. I open my trap to speak but Jerry's already pouring me a sidecar. I wait for my guy to hit the john so I can see if Jerry's got any dirt. Apparently this cat's rumored to have some connection to Hairlip Harry. At least that's what dirt-nosed Vic told Jerry. That's not good news. If that's true, then the dolly who turned me onto this case is in quite the jam. Hairlip Hairy's got a face for radio and a rep that's even uglier.
        Three days back, this looker ankles up to my office saying she's got a shadow she wants me to shake. She tells me, a couple days ago, she went to pick up her husband's suit at the dry-cleaners. He's got some big meeting coming up. Her guy tries it on, but it fits funny. Says he know it ain't his cause the pockets are too deep. She goes back to return it, but some guy she never seen before stops her, saying that she's got his suit and he's got hers. He'd been waiting outside. She doesn't think much of it, assumes he's just one of these neurotic type guys, apologizes, hands him his suit and he hands her her husband's and they go their separate ways. Only, them ways turn out to be not so separate.

To Be Continued...

I'm listening to 80's music

I'd have to say that my favorite light is down by the beach. Specifically, the sunlight that peaks through periods of cloudiness, like today. I wish I could justify and explain why, but I don't really think I can. Anyhow, I realize that writing is probably one of my favorite things to do, so you just might be hearing more from me. 
        I just finished watching Adventureland and I quite enjoyed it. Any movie that can enjoy it's own company and jives with the music is a friend of mine. What does that mean? Muhurerh (that sound that means I don't know). I thought I'd share this passing mood of carefreeness that I'm so enjoying right now. I'm almost positive it's this light. I'll enjoy it while I can. I'd like to share a little thing I wrote back in argentina about this very curious hostel that I'll never forget.

        My backpack is heavy. Although I haven't weighed it, I'm confident it weighs over sixty pounds. Despite it's weight, I've been adamant about not taking taxis. One of my codes. I am eager to get off the streets though. Usually I don't mind walking, but this city has a certain eerie charmlessness and I've just finished a somewhat grueling bus ride. There it is. The hostel is painted baby blue and has giant block lettering on the side spelling out it's name. 

As I approach the building, the smell of gas suggests itself and becomes ever more present as I near the front door. The entrance is set in somewhat of an alcove, set back from the rubble-strewn street. There's a generous amount of unfinished construction jobs in this neighborhood. I enter the tunnel-like entryway and ring the doorbell. The door opens and I am immediately consumed by a warm cloud of pungent gas/air which rushes from the doorway. I am overwhelmed. After a few breaths, I eventually realize there is a man holding the door open for me. He ushers me into the stifling warmth of the lobby which smells strongly of gas. Or you could say the gas smelled faintly of air. There is a desk to my right and I sit across from the proprietor to sign in. The form is thorough, asking my country of birth, next destination and age. He guesses all them correctly with an appropriate amount of smugness. He gets up to lead me to my room. The lobby is small and narrow. Most of the light enters from the front window, leaving the kitchen in the back dimly lit by cold, florescent bulbs. The walls are painted a pepto bismol pink and adorned with strange framed pictures, the kind of pictures that don't really deserve frames. I follow the man up a flight of stairs to the rooms. I am shown to my room at the end of a short pink hallway. There are four beds in the form of bunk beds. The room is clean and I'm happy. I open the window for some air and receive a look from the man. I'm handed a key attached to a large wooden apple. Whatever. He leaves and I'm already face down on the bed. I decide it's time for a shower and whoa. This bathroom is blue. Not tinged, but inundated. Somehow this hotbox doesn't have hot water or any water pressure for that matter. I try the other bathroom. This one is as pink as the last one was blue. I have a sudden craving for cotton candy. Not really. The End.

Monkeys slow the Expedition

It's past midnight and that means it's 2011. In truth it's only a day later and I hardly feel different. I've gone and ripped my socks apart. The smartwool argyle ones. They are a smokey gray with a light blue lattice complete with mauve and orange diamonds. It was their time to go. I had worn through the bottoms so that three of my toes stuck out of one of them. I could no longer slide in them. I've cut thumb-holes and I am currently wearing them as gloves. I'm simply not ready to let go. I'm not sure if this is symbolic or possibly a metaphor. I suspect it's simply because I love these socks.
          I would recap this year, but alas I just can't remember what happened. I'm sure that I'm a different person due to the events of yesteryear, but I'll be damned if I can list them. Another reason why I'll never succeed as a stoner: I've already got no short-term and I'm spacey as is. I am shopping for vices though, and not the machine shop kind. Maybe chewing on pens? Too white glove I know. Whatever, I'm not going to force it.
           Currently listening to the Tron Legacy Soundtrack on Grooveshark again. So good. Tangent. My dreams are getting stranger. I'm going to try and catalogue them. Perhaps I'll keep a small bedside journal for this sole purpose. Soul purpose? An excerpt from one of the stranger scenes transcended from my subconscious: An ear is being fused to a head that is not mine. I am soldering it to the head. Somehow the ear is connected to me and it's terrifying. I don't want to continue but I've started, and going back just doesn't seem like an option. Akin to Jumanji or shaving one's pubic hair. You're welcome. I could have linked both of those. The weird part is that I have a very good idea of what the dream is symbolizing. But that's personal.

        

It's Always Sunny in Los Angeles

          As I listen to Nirvana my mind wanders. I'm not sure I'm the kind of person that can listen to music and focus on something else at the same time. You'd think I'd be able to use my ADHD to my advantage here. Nope, all of my focus is being drawn to the music. My mind fills with melodic mist and I meander for cogent strings of thought. Is there an accordion in this song? Ugh, I can't see my hand in front of my face.
          I sigh and realize it's a sigh of relief. I've had my first good day in a while. I've had a productive, fulfilling day and now Kurt Cobain is cradling my soul in his warm open embrace. Thanks Kurt. I go to my happy place. I'm in an open jeep, venturing across an endless savana of highway somewhere in the Midwest. There's a dog in the backseat, although he's mostly just for picturesqueness. I'm allergic to dogs and this imaginary dog is not a poodle. He's some iconic American dog, like a retriever. There's rock music playing, and I wouldn't object to some affectionate, beautiful dandy in the passenger seat next to me. She's got a smile that melts any bad day and can wear a pair of jeans like it's no-one's business (unless it's mine).
          Signs of adulthood seem to be creeping in on me. Although I welcome the stubbly beginnings of my neard (note: neck beard), I still think it's weird that I've started to wear a belt. I'm not even sure why I harbor this feeling. The feeling that belts are a formal signature of adults, meant for others, but not me. I suppose I've always catalogued the belt as part of a suit. Apparently, it completes the look. One of the deterrents that I've proudly gotten over is the cold reminder of the belt buckle on skin when one sits down. I also wear a watch these days, a recent development. The transformation will be complete when I'm finally living in my own place and you can find capers in the fridge. It sounds like an arbitrary indicator. Groucho Marx insisted that the price of pumpernickel was directly correlated to the value of the dollar. He ratiocinated that the demand of pumpernickel was very static and thus any price change indicated an economic disturbance. He also once smuggled Cuban cigars into the states, and on the customs form, under the heading of purpose of visit, he marked other and penciled in 'smuggling.' True story. TSA held him for four hours.
          Future plans: get bartending license, fix stereo, and make a stew. If I make the stew an irish one, I'd have the makings for a pub. Hahaha. It's always sunny in Los Angeles (except for right now).