I find that I can sleep almost anywhere. Floors, chairs, tables, nestled under desks. Sometimes its a bit strange since I'm over 6 foot and a svelte 215 pounds. I've slept in and shared all manner of beds. Singles, twins, fulls, queens, and the ever elusive king size. I've slept in hotels, motels, cars, campsites, docks, and in front of municipality buildings like I did last Sunday.
Bed choice is important. If you're sharing a bed, and assuming you both each only need one seat in the movies, the minimum size is a twin in the winter. In the summer its a full and I'm next to the air conditioner. Like girlfriends, bed sizes are seasonal.
I used to love to spoon when I was heavier. I'd pull girls into my bulk and it was nice. I felt like some sort of inebriated teddy bear. Now I find that I have all these odds angles for my arm and I just simply don't do it. I could always date a heavier chick, but I like being able to grab someone with one arm and chloroform with the other as I drag them into a dark alley. Occasionally I'll spoon with my dog. Not intentionally but I'll wake up that way with this furry hairy thing in my arms.
Like most people I dream. I won't go into most of what mine are about. No doubt they would both titillate and terrify, but what happens there is private. Sometimes I try to go back to my dream. I don't do it for simple things like being rich or famous in my dream world. I do it to get laid and get drunk. I'm not hurting anyone by it. The other night, as I lay with this girl, I thought of another girl I met who was quite well endowed and very flirtatious. So as I dreamed of her, I thought I was having a really awesome wet dream. It felt so real as I drifted in and out of consciousness. I made out with this other girl, sucked on her breasts, believing it was the girl from earlier. When I realized my mistake, I tried to go back to it but the veil placed over reality had been lifted and I went back to sleep. She asked me if I remembered in the morning. I lied and said I didn't. Lately though I've been dreaming of hanging out with friends and have a drink or three. Then I'll wake up in the morning and go back to bed so I can drink more.
Generally when I wake up and the sun is coming in through my window I pretend that I'm a corpse sans toe tag. I'm not just any corpse but a fresh one. The blood is clotting to my sheet. Usually I'm only partially covered as I lay sprawled out on the bed. I try to imagine what kind of significant bodily injury could make a person look like that. If its too far a stretch, then its amputated. I was always jealous of the murder victim, the kid without a seat belt, and the 12 story jumper. That sheet always provided a little bit of mystery. A cover for some sort of mortal wound too traumatic to be thought of by normal sane people.
Unless you're an EMT.
OK I might have hurt that girl in bed, but I'm not an alcoholic. I only go back if its something good.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
On Mer-People
Saturday I went to the Mermaid parade. I ran into a bunch of people from school who I had no intention or desire to see. We walked around while I waited for this Indian kid who was to bring mushrooms. I ended up losing all but one of them, Mike, in the throngs of Mer-people. I met the Indian kid and a bunch of his friends who've I've never met. Through Mike I ended up hanging out with a bunch of people I actually do enjoy the company of.
I cursed the mermaids as they blocked most of the available avenues of foot traffic and my way to the beach. We had to walk down a couple of blocks to cross a bridge onto the Coney Island Boardwalk only to find out way blocked by more bloated women with clams glued over their nipples and fake scales on their skin.
On the beach we dole out the shrooms between myself and the Indian kids. They left to go get some hamburgers while I chilled out on the sand with some friendly and familiar faces. They were sober and I was decidedly not so as I watched the sands shift subtly whenever I tried to focus on them. I decided to recline in the sand and focus on how wonderful the sun felt while I waited my turn on the chess board. I was to play winner, or at least third winner as it turned out.
The Indian kids came back, barely in control of themselves. One of them sat down next to me. Prostrate, he said, "I feel... like... iron... like iron is in my body." It sure is kid. It was my turn on the chess board and I kept getting distracted by the people behind me. Bizarrely they reminded me of seals on the beach, young and full of energy; stupid and not entirely coordinated on land. I managed to get check mate against Mike fairly quickly. I've never been a great chess player; I'm mediocre at best but I have gumption.
After awhile the beach started getting kind of old and I left these poor little Indians writhing around in sensational ecstasy on the sands of Coney Island. They didn't have much of an idea what the present reality was or where they were. I got a corn dog instead. Perhaps I should feel guilty because these people had never done any drugs or alcohol before in their lives, but I didn't. The pleasure of a nice corn dog has a way of erasing guilt. I'm sure Hitler ate a lot of corn-battered wienerschnitzel.
I took a train back into Manhattan and I wandered around for a bit downtown. I managed to go to a party in the Village and I grew bored quickly. It was some swanky digs but a lame party. It seemed no matter how much I drank I couldn't get drunk. It was a shame. I spent most of my time chatting it up with a pretty girl outside while we smoked cigarettes.
I passed out on the hardwood floor of the apartment using my bag as a pillow wishing I'd eaten at least another corn dog.
I cursed the mermaids as they blocked most of the available avenues of foot traffic and my way to the beach. We had to walk down a couple of blocks to cross a bridge onto the Coney Island Boardwalk only to find out way blocked by more bloated women with clams glued over their nipples and fake scales on their skin.
On the beach we dole out the shrooms between myself and the Indian kids. They left to go get some hamburgers while I chilled out on the sand with some friendly and familiar faces. They were sober and I was decidedly not so as I watched the sands shift subtly whenever I tried to focus on them. I decided to recline in the sand and focus on how wonderful the sun felt while I waited my turn on the chess board. I was to play winner, or at least third winner as it turned out.
The Indian kids came back, barely in control of themselves. One of them sat down next to me. Prostrate, he said, "I feel... like... iron... like iron is in my body." It sure is kid. It was my turn on the chess board and I kept getting distracted by the people behind me. Bizarrely they reminded me of seals on the beach, young and full of energy; stupid and not entirely coordinated on land. I managed to get check mate against Mike fairly quickly. I've never been a great chess player; I'm mediocre at best but I have gumption.
After awhile the beach started getting kind of old and I left these poor little Indians writhing around in sensational ecstasy on the sands of Coney Island. They didn't have much of an idea what the present reality was or where they were. I got a corn dog instead. Perhaps I should feel guilty because these people had never done any drugs or alcohol before in their lives, but I didn't. The pleasure of a nice corn dog has a way of erasing guilt. I'm sure Hitler ate a lot of corn-battered wienerschnitzel.
I took a train back into Manhattan and I wandered around for a bit downtown. I managed to go to a party in the Village and I grew bored quickly. It was some swanky digs but a lame party. It seemed no matter how much I drank I couldn't get drunk. It was a shame. I spent most of my time chatting it up with a pretty girl outside while we smoked cigarettes.
I passed out on the hardwood floor of the apartment using my bag as a pillow wishing I'd eaten at least another corn dog.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
On Junkies
Ever see someone take a sharp drop down a steep slope? I saw some friends of mine who I haven't seen in nearly a year for they had moved to California to make it. They didn't and they came back to NY to lick their wounds and bring back one of their friends as well. I don' judge and I don't want to name names.
One of them, we'll call her Rebecca. She lives in her mothers abandoned apartment filled with matching luggage sets. Her boyfriend, and we'll call him John, and his friend live in my tent in the woods. I left the tent there about a year and a half ago after I set it up in her living room to watch Matlock reruns. While I'm glad its seeing use its not what I had intended for it.
They've gotten a bad habit with oxycontin and doing it the dirty way. They look emaciated. I'm greeted by stolen beer and a sort of twisted family scene. They're happy to see me, and I them. We share a couple of cigarettes and I sleep on the floor.
In the morning there are some money woes as another friend, the owner of 'the whip', yells at a poor bank teller because his check hasn't been deposited. They ask me if I could score and I said no. We smoke some more of my cigarettes and me and John take a walk to the drug store. I buy more cigarettes and a carton of eggs. He steals some ace bandages and ibuprofen. When we get back to Rebecca's I bind his ribs together. I might've forgotten to mentioned they were fractured in California which preempted his return. Who knew that you shouldn't do opiates in the house of a reformed junkie.
I have steak and eggs for breakfast. The steak is courtesy of John and his friend as they stole a whole package from the grocery store. Afterwards they drove me to the train station and I saw some girl I used to almost love. We talked briefly and she gave me a funny look when I told her my bass case held my guitar and clothes. I left her to catch my train and I haven't seen her since.
Without money they steal food and gasoline. As of this writing they're stealing a hose from Walmart to siphon gas out of expensive looking cars. Its a sorry state to see people in this condition. They are not rational. I still miss them.
One of them, we'll call her Rebecca. She lives in her mothers abandoned apartment filled with matching luggage sets. Her boyfriend, and we'll call him John, and his friend live in my tent in the woods. I left the tent there about a year and a half ago after I set it up in her living room to watch Matlock reruns. While I'm glad its seeing use its not what I had intended for it.
They've gotten a bad habit with oxycontin and doing it the dirty way. They look emaciated. I'm greeted by stolen beer and a sort of twisted family scene. They're happy to see me, and I them. We share a couple of cigarettes and I sleep on the floor.
In the morning there are some money woes as another friend, the owner of 'the whip', yells at a poor bank teller because his check hasn't been deposited. They ask me if I could score and I said no. We smoke some more of my cigarettes and me and John take a walk to the drug store. I buy more cigarettes and a carton of eggs. He steals some ace bandages and ibuprofen. When we get back to Rebecca's I bind his ribs together. I might've forgotten to mentioned they were fractured in California which preempted his return. Who knew that you shouldn't do opiates in the house of a reformed junkie.
I have steak and eggs for breakfast. The steak is courtesy of John and his friend as they stole a whole package from the grocery store. Afterwards they drove me to the train station and I saw some girl I used to almost love. We talked briefly and she gave me a funny look when I told her my bass case held my guitar and clothes. I left her to catch my train and I haven't seen her since.
Without money they steal food and gasoline. As of this writing they're stealing a hose from Walmart to siphon gas out of expensive looking cars. Its a sorry state to see people in this condition. They are not rational. I still miss them.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
On iPods
I don't really believe in iPods too much. Its not some anti-Apple elitism, although Apple fans are pretty elitist themselves. Most people who hold a strong stance on something as trivial as an operating system tend to be assholes though, regardless. I'm not really against iPods more than I am any other mp3 player, but iPods are the most prevalent.
Belief in iPods? They're not a religious deity, so its not that I lack faith in them; although how they break like clockwork every two years it seems to speak volumes as to their durability. I don't like the concept of them. A piece of metal and plastic that holds thousands of songs with ok sound quality. It weighs less than a pound. Its shiny. Its chic.
It also allows you to play whatever songs you want, in whatever order you want, whenever you want. I'm against this freedom of choice.
A lot of old albums were put together in a specific order to convey a message that the artist was trying to attain. When you can just skip around and just play a band's greatest hits with the touch of a button (or touch sensitive wheel in this case.) When you don't listen to the whole album, you miss a lot of filler material and hidden gems. Like the Who's cover of the Martha and the Vandellas' Heat Wave on a Quick One. Who remembers that?
I listen to records and CDs myself for the most part. I'm not one of those elitists who shout that vinyl is the best format ever. Its sounds great because its analogue but I still listen to CDs and MP3s. A lot of the stuff I have I picked up cheap or found (tons of people toss old records) and I haven't found a replacement on CD. Its not some crap about 'owning the music' or looking at the cover art and all that crap. Its the process and I'm in love with it.
With records you have to take care of them. Wipe them down with the anti-static cloth, change needles, all sorts of things. You have to remove them from the sleeve and play them from start to finish. Or at least half way through since you have to flip it over. When you play them you watch them spin as the needle drags on those old familiar grooves and music just comes alive.
Its a different experience. When you do it, it also entails that you actually have something set up for it; a dedicated space. It takes time. With space and time dedicated just for the sole purpose of listening to music, you pay attention to it more.
Its no longer just background noise.
Belief in iPods? They're not a religious deity, so its not that I lack faith in them; although how they break like clockwork every two years it seems to speak volumes as to their durability. I don't like the concept of them. A piece of metal and plastic that holds thousands of songs with ok sound quality. It weighs less than a pound. Its shiny. Its chic.
It also allows you to play whatever songs you want, in whatever order you want, whenever you want. I'm against this freedom of choice.
A lot of old albums were put together in a specific order to convey a message that the artist was trying to attain. When you can just skip around and just play a band's greatest hits with the touch of a button (or touch sensitive wheel in this case.) When you don't listen to the whole album, you miss a lot of filler material and hidden gems. Like the Who's cover of the Martha and the Vandellas' Heat Wave on a Quick One. Who remembers that?
I listen to records and CDs myself for the most part. I'm not one of those elitists who shout that vinyl is the best format ever. Its sounds great because its analogue but I still listen to CDs and MP3s. A lot of the stuff I have I picked up cheap or found (tons of people toss old records) and I haven't found a replacement on CD. Its not some crap about 'owning the music' or looking at the cover art and all that crap. Its the process and I'm in love with it.
With records you have to take care of them. Wipe them down with the anti-static cloth, change needles, all sorts of things. You have to remove them from the sleeve and play them from start to finish. Or at least half way through since you have to flip it over. When you play them you watch them spin as the needle drags on those old familiar grooves and music just comes alive.
Its a different experience. When you do it, it also entails that you actually have something set up for it; a dedicated space. It takes time. With space and time dedicated just for the sole purpose of listening to music, you pay attention to it more.
Its no longer just background noise.
An introduction
Who am I?
No one in particular. I'm a college student. I don't feel like I belong anywhere in particular. I have a penchant for drugs, music, and alcohol. I'm probably self destructive.
I've never blogged before. I had a xanga when I was thirteen maybe. What prompted this was a talk to my friend Eric, who has been my best friend now for 15 years, last night. We had smoked a blunt and we were enjoying a small feast of tuna fish, raisin cream cheese, and hundred grand bars. Not all together mind you.
At 2am by the water you get a different perspective on things. The giant ships docked before us was definitely humbling in their own looming kind of way. Buildings are impressive in their stature... But a ship? A ship can move. Often times it is something so large it doesn't seem like it has a right to do so.
We talked about the usual things young men do: girls, parties, music, work, friendships, the future. I had met a girl who was in her bra and panties in the street with two of our mutual friends. We talked about her briefly and I said I remembered her from months back. He had had her written down with a couple of other girls, which I had found hilarious at the time.
He writes to keep track of everything and just get it down. I just think and think and never get much done. Hopefully this'll help me sort everything and keep it straight.
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