November 2002 Archives

Logo created for upcoming weekend with Hank Vegas.

All that I am saying is she got married 'cause it is convenient.

I wish the Chicago Bears would get an offensive line.

I wish that ABC would pony up some dough to get people who could spell to do captions for Monday Night Football so I could listen to Guy Clark during the game and still read what Madden had to say.

I wish that Madden would say something in the first place.

I wish that Madden would keep on stating the obvious, because that's what I love most about him and expect out of him, and if he ever did anything more than that, I would be rather confused.

I wish airfare to Burlington wasn't so expensive this time of the year.

Lap dances should cost 5 dollars so you could then leave a 5 dollar tip.

The war on Iraq will happen... again.

The war on Iraq is overrated.

Whiskey makes my words more flowery, not gin, it makes me mean.

Whiskey gets in my heart, gin in my head.

Hank Vegas (link to MP3) is cool.

I love New York.

And Chicago.

I don't love the Yankees or Mets.

I do love the Cubs.

When baseball season ends, I get depressed, and write posts like this one.

I heard he even felt out of place at his own parties.

Art parties are mostly excruciating. People dressed in black, or better yet, black leather. Matching jackets on cold nights like last night. I went to one last night hosted by the artist R. Land, and although I am sure he was there, I didn't meet the guy. Didn't really meet anyone as a matter of fact. Saw some folks I hadn't seen for awhile and that was nice. The local politics writer for the local entertainment weekly who was the girlfriend of a guy I used to be in a band with, and another woman who has reached virtual legend status with a group of friends that I met living in the town I lived in before. It was cold outside and way to hot inside in the studio. One smattered from wall to wall with the art I would call 'unique' - manipulated photographs of kittens one with a paw brandishing its middle finger etc. A TV in the corner played artist manipulated videos complete with subtitles of men and women in passe undergarments in sexually provocative poses and scenarios, doing things that at a glance looked like sex but really wasn't upon further investigatin. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it, and in the end decided that that was precisely the reaction that was intended. Despite the fact that it was so cold outside, the party had reached a critical mass and sent people spewing out the door with cold Black Labels in hand. My claustrophobia in such situations got the better of me and I found the cold outdoors, complete with King Crap (Port-O-Let) to be refreshing after about 6 or 7 minutes of the party. Besides that's where the smokers always are and the party conversation alwasy seems to be better where the nicotine intake is occuring. The strange thing about it all is that the ones of us that were inappropriately dressed for the weather, only at best with a long sleeve shirt and the occasional sweater, seemed to be the ones that found the outdoors to be the best place. All of those black leather coats (there was no coat check girl) filled the space before it was all over and even getting to the bar was difficult to do over or around the wallish mass of cowhide. Ther were no mylar pillow cloud balloons. Even the mention of Andy or the factory would have surely gotten sneering glances and jeers. To be honest, it was good to see the people I saw, and as far as art parties go, this was one of the better ones (conversation managed to achieve a modicum of genuineness. But I can never seem to get around the odd feeling at these things. that everybody really wishes that they have the life that they act like they have at these things. That we are all really that cool. I guess I gave up on 'cool' a while ago, and being there made me feel as odd as I imagine the snails on my porch feel this time of year.

Teddy Roosevelt on horse not disimilar from one ridden at Ann Marie's 13th birday party.

My first kiss was with a redneck, non-catholic girl named Ann-Marie who lived in a ramshackled old farm house off of Wake Forest Highway between my house and my grandmother's if you went the long way. It was her birthday, and although she was turning 13 and I was only 11, we were in the same grade together at Oak Grove Elementary School.

She was the biggest fan then, and probably forever, that the artist (formerly?) known as Prince ever had. It was because of her that I bought the Purple Rain album, the first time. And because of her that I searched out, in the dictionaires that came with the World Book Encyclopedia, the precise definition of 'masturbation' after listening to and reading the lyrics in the liner notes of Darlin Nikki. It was all downhill from there. It was also because of her that I bought the heinous purple sheen bookbag that plagued me for the better part of my 5th and 6th grade years.

Mural in high school cafeteria near the scene of the incident.

Yesterday afternoon, on my way home from the office, a Salvation Army truck almost sent me shuffling off this mortal coil, as I turned the corner from 10th onto Monroe and started to cross the railroad tracks where I have never seen a train, just down the street from where Jeremy used to live, and across the street from the high school where I can hear the band playing on Friday nights during home football games, and sometimes on afternoons, if I cut out of work early to go home and sit on the porch to wait for the snails to come out on damp nights.

Still photo from film Waking the Dead

I can't seem to handle adult emotions anymore. I swear it's the truth. The older I get, the less I seem to be able to handle these things. Job pressure, romantic strife, friends coming and going, some even dying. When I was younger, all I wanted was to be old, or at least, to adopt the mantle of elderly men. I wore cardigans (still do, come to think of it), support socks, sansabelt trousers...

Evolutionarily, snails have developed their shells due to their proclivity for tarrying on wet, slippery, vertical surfaces.

Out on my porch this morning, still waking up to get to the office, there were snails stuck to the concrete pillars that serve to hold up the latticed fence. It rained last night, and the preceding 24 hours come to think of it. But at some point the temperature turned colder and the rain began to stop and now these snails are just stuck, wilted, to the concrete pillars there. A couple have even fallen off paralyzed to the 2x6s that make up the floor. Strange thing is, I have seen this happen before. In fact it has been happening more and more as of late, and I know that I will get back in from the office today, another rainy one, and not a snail will remain.

Bobble-headed shriner not present at parade.

Today was Veterans Day and in front of my office building where there has been a constant stream of anti-war-in-Iraq protestors of late, there was a parade. JROTC to WWII vets, and vietnam broken-down helicopters, and a bouncing motorcycle, and Yaarab Temple clowns in a modified Winnebago, a team that marched in all the way from the North Georgia foothills, and during a smoke break from Marines.com I found myself hypnotized by it all, as did several other hundred that I believe could never have suspected what was going on outside and got similarly hooked into the whole thing. The whole world really does love a parade I guess. Even a Veterans Day parade.