BOURGEOIS!
Great fucking Scott, I'm so beat. But I want more. Friday night after dinner and verbal judo with my girlfriend, I went with a group of friends (well, one friend and three acquaintences) to a party out in East Bumblefuck. Been a while since I've done the suburban degenerate thing, and my desire to quit smoking shattered in a haze. I regret nothing. It was a costume party, but I went as myself. When we got there, there were more than two dozen people, all of whom had already left sobriety behind some time ago, so I had some catching up to do. So I resurrected the old one-two punch of lager and shrubbery, rationalizing that I'd earned it (you know, the delusions of an allegedly difficult life) and wanting to know if I could still handle it. Damn right I could. Well, for the most part (I was told later I wasn't very cooperative when getting out of the car in front of my apartment). So anyway, I really enjoyed the party, despite lack of good conversations. I just dug the general vibe. I mean, this girl I had recognized as a friend from MySpace (so not really a friend, but you know what I mean) interrupted the slack-jawed cro-magnon attempting to hit on her and recognized me on the spot, and immediately burst out into praise of my wit. A verbal enema ego boost. There is something so fucking satisfying about being recognized like that. I imagine that's what happens to successful people. I don't think I could ever get tired of that. Anyway. By the time I got home, I was completely destroyed, and collapsed on my mattress still wearing my shoes, down for the count until the morning and the well-earned hangover waiting for me. The next morning lasted until the late afternoon, when I finally got my amazing ass out of bed and made plans for that night. It was Saturday night, after all, and I'd been invited to another party. Plus, my girlfriend was having dinner with a close friend of hers, and we were trying to get all three of us together for drinks and debauchery. It was Saturday fucking night, and I was not done. The party I'd originally been invited to was over in West Bumblefuck (over by God-Knows-Where, in Shithole County), and my imaginary car (plus the uncooperative trains) made that one impossible. Thing is, that party wasn't really a party so much as a gathering of a few people at a house (with the host's parents present, no less), with nary a drop of alcohol or any other illicit party favors in sight. I'd just had this one in mind for the company, and because it was something to do. But it didn't work out. However, my girlfriend and I organized a get-together that was more pleasing to the mass transit gods, and later on that evening, Hoboken was all ours. My girlfriend, her friend, and I met up and we were off. I was really excited for this, because the two had dinner earlier in the evening and I was almost positive I'd been discussed, so I looked forward to being analyzed and appraised. Rite of passage for the boyfriend. Also, my girlfriend and I are very similar, so I knew that she (like me) had a history of attracting interesting people into her circle (for better and worse). This friend of hers is fantastic; she's this motormouthed little raven-haired number who didn't seem to bullshit, which I loved (she came right out and said how much I'd been discussed and what had been said!), and she and my girlfriend seem to have a more reasonable Patsy & Edina vibe when they get going. And going we did. We hit Our Bar, which was packed (I should've known - Saturday night? Hoboken? Dario, THINK!), but that was absolutely fine. We downed drinks and talked, and then she got a phone call and we'd been invited to a party right there in Hoboken that night. And off we went, to an apartment none of us had been to, to a party full of people neither myself nor my girlfriend knew. I love parties like that. And so we came, we saw, we drank, we played Beer Pong, I got to talk a little film (Reservoir Dogs was on TV, but we'd all seen it numerous times so we discussed how "Nice Guy" Eddie Cabot gets shot by an invisible gunman, that the film itself is a remake of City of Fire, etc. etc.), and then we decided to go bar hopping because the night was young and so were we. At one particular bar my girlfriend and I got into a fight because that's what we do (one of the bouncers came over to check on us, but I didn't even realize he was a bouncer so I almost gave him lip - that would've Bad), then we worked it out by the time we got to another bar. She told me later on she loves/hates how our relationship is completely without pretense or games, we just let it all out and so we never stay mad at one another for anything. Our relationship is ridiculous, and that's the way it fucking should be. I honestly don't think anyone else could handle us, so close. Anyway. The original plan was for my girlfriend's friend to come with us back to my girl's apartment, but she ended up sharing a bed with a guy who was well-versed in Quentin Tarantino's love of Chow Yun Fat, and thus, I approve wholeheartedly. My girlfriend and I went back to our place, all but destroyed, and crashed into each other's arms. That's a fucking Saturday night. The next morning started circa noon, and we were supposed to meet another friend of hers, but that didn't work out so we spent God's day in various stages of undress, in bed, and ended up watching films on her laptop. Finally saw Mean Girls, which was wonderful and had a surprising depth to it (as well as being evidence of how tragic Lindsay Lohan's physical disintegration has been). Oh well.
We also watched Love Actually, which I enjoyed despite copious amounts of cheese. Some damn good dialogue in that film. However, you CANNOT watch that film if you're lonely AT ALL. That's a couples film. If you don't have someone right there next to you, you WILL be depressed. Anyway. That night, I left my girlfriend's house, and returned to the city. Walking around with a bag slung over my shoulder and no destination in mind just feels natural. I walked around for a while, satisfied. That was a fucking weekend. Controlled chaos, without the melodramatic "oh woe is me" bullshit weighing me down. And yeah, I'm pretty beat. I'm not running any marathons today. But I'm awake, and I'm aware, and I want more. More what? Just more of life. Focus and center, and it's yours.
It's been a year and I'm still physically uncomfortable with my apartment. Thinking back, I've never been comfortable with any space of my own. As a child, any room my parents provided me became a disaster area of comics and drawings and cut-up magazines, fodder for the wall-eclipsing collages that terrified them. As an adult, my rooms have consisted of piles of items and some sort of sleeping area surrounded by laundry and random papers like a makeshift nest. Here I sit, at the asscrack of dawn, in my office blogging. Because I didn't want to go back to my apartment. My home. The place I've just recently fought so damn hard to take back from the human garbage I'd subconsciously allowed to take away in the first place.
I can't deal with my own space because it's a responsibility.
Like LiveJournal, for example. Yeah, I know, LJ's just a blog. Hear me out. I started LJ when I'd bit the bullet and moved in with my father after being "between homes" for an extended period of time. My father's paranoia and right-wing conservative values had made his home a police state, moreso than years ago when I lived with him until I was nearly 20. I wasn't allowed out of the house, and music wasn't allowed either. So, I started up an LJ account to get in contact with certain people and to keep my head intact. Because I was borderline for a while. In some ways, still am. And I had many posts written. A friend of mine I was talking to on AIM when I started my LJ asked for the link (himself an LJ veteran), started reading an entry, and then said, "wait, you're actually trying. That's no fun." Posting mock essays about why sporks are a conspiracy to undermine Western Civilization's established eating habits just didn't interest me; I needed therapy. So I wrote, and I ranted and I rambled and I whined, and when I learned people actually read it... that people actually cared about what I had to say... well, that's when the entries became less frequent. That's when I'd post silly things, just for posting's sake. That's when it became a responsibility to post. And so I abandoned it, like I do all other responsibilities. Earlier this year, I'd done the exact same thing on MySpace.
MySpace: A Place For People With Needs.
Actually, I'm going to try and give MySpace a try, but the blog there will be different. It shouldn't be intimate like LJ. I have various friends on there, some actual friends I haven't been in contact with for a little while. I can't just abandon it. Like I do everything else. Like message boards.
Fucking message boards. I post for quite a while, make a name for myself, and then vanish because of the responsibility I feel towards the others who read what I have to say and respond to it. When I'm actually writing the way I want, people respond. There's a part of me that's terrified by that. Anyway. After much deliberation, I started up another LJ, just like before. Same deal. Emotional inventory and literary exercise. So why not write, instead of posting pictures from comic books and rambling about nothing at all? Say something. Stop holding it in, letting it turn and turn like some festering tornado of thought that just peters out into nothing - which is what you have to show for all your stress and angst.
Okay, so there's the whining, the problem gets identified, yadda yadda yadda. I cannot just sit here and agonize over it. Have to do something. What would Clark do? He'd take a good hard look, and then take action.
The next paragraph's just reminding myself of what I have to do. Feel free to scroll down.
Today I have to write out a check to one of the credit agencies and mail it. Ditto the rent check (best to do that tomorrow, or the day after). And ditto the phone bill. Okay. I can do that. But what about the apartment. Okay, the mattress has to be moved, and then the computer unplugged and the desk moved. My home needs to be treated as such; the current layout of my bedroom is like that of a Sim being controlled by a 12-year old with ADD. All I need is to cause a fire in the kitchen and piss myself while weeping, and Will Wright could claim a copyright violation. So I can move this shit around with RAW in the background (a show that doesn't deserve a viewer's full attention, and hasn't since before the World Trade Center became an improvised airport), and then maybe I can get to sorting the remains of Mount Laundry (its various pieces now a series of cloth islands in an almost-empty living room sea). Then I have to put away the boxes of comics once and for all. I'd made the mistake of trying to fit the dresser drawers full of comics into my longboxes, but the six I have aren't near enough. I'll need at least two more, and then I'll need a full day and night of bagging, boarding, organizing, and other geekery. That can wait until buying comic book supplies is a reasonable purchase. Fine. I just have to get that shit out of the way. Do something. Don't worry about the smoking. Just keep trying, and try harder next time. At least I'm not buying them. Not daily. Not wasting money. Writing. I've got the Superman (plotted out in my head, but will I need Man of Steel #6 as reference?) and Daredevil stories (come up with a third act and solution, and it just might work), or you could review the latest shipment from Mile High (can do that tomorrow or the night after). Just write. Less than $400 in the bank, payday's tomorrow, still in good shape. The body I want, my father and sister's welfare, my stand-up comedy, my alleged film career, my social life, my contact lenses, my dental work, all of those responsibilities are out of my reach RIGHT NOW. They won't be forever. Focus on what's in your hands, then grab more. It's there but you have to be able to hold onto it if you want to grab it. And I have to stop beating myself up over the symbiosis. Yeah. I'm not as much of a parasite as I think I am. I'm a gimp, sure; but I'm able to walk, relatively. Just need a friend lurking beside you to keep you from walking into traffic. Am I done? Is this enough whining? Am I feeling any better? What would Clark do? He'd kick the shit out of the alien trying to shatter his mind, and then come home and fuck his snarky, career-driven woman.
Hellboy creator Mike Mignola has just confirmed a pair of animated films, set to debut on Cartoon Network (the first premiering October '06) and then being released on DVD. Mignola wants the look of the films to be different from his own comic, which I can understand, but I'm not sold on this style. It's exactly what I don't like about Samurai Jack, with the lack of detail and wild misproportion. Not that Hellboy's body in the comic books wasn't subject to artistic interpretation, but come on... his legs look like toothpicks! Still. Fucking Hellboy. Aces. I WANT TO SEE THE RIGHT HAND OF DOOM CLOBBER THE SKYSCRAPER-SIZE WEREWOLF ON SCREEN, DAMNIT!!!
I'm getting a weird fucking feeling about the riots in France. The reports I've read online downplay the racial tension which seemed to be the catalyst. It's disturbing how racism and immigration (particularly illegal) can't be discussed open and honestly without the dialogue breaking down or being misinterpreted for propoganda purposes. On all sides.
Still reading He Died with a Felafel in his Hand. Haven't gotten the chance to make a dent in it the past several days, so I'm lagging. Atlas Shrugged is on deck, though I have a feeling I won't agree with it's reported themes of objectivism. The people who love the book (and people either love it or loath it) all hate most of the people in the world, and I'm just not down with that. But I'll go into it with an open mind. Although I'm sure it could use a jive-talking robot or a psychokinetic gorilla.
The goal is to get the apartment (and finances) in line to have a Halloween party. In February. With costumes. I wanted to have one this Halloween, but I handle money like the government. If this works out, consider yourself invited.
That's some fine Sports Entertainment there, Vince
Lately, watching wrestling has been like masturbating with a flaming cheese grater. I've let it be for several weeks, because Vince McMahon is a perverted egomaniac with no interest in presenting a wrestling-oriented product (as evidenced above). The problem is there's this inherent masochistic streak in the more intelligent wrestling fans, who chase after the crumbs left us by the talented performers who actually go out there and try to put on a good show in the ring, in between the twenty-minute promos and backstage "comedy" skits. Like I said, I'm not giving it my full attention; it's just not worth it. But honestly, why the fuck am I watching at all? Is it the masochism? Gah. I have a feeling tonight's show won't change my boycott. I think a lot of wrestling fans online (like comic book fans) continue to support a product they see nothing but flaws in because they point out the flaws. Been there, done that. Don't have time for it anymore.
syringavulgaris had better bring my comics into work with her. I still haven't read my Green Lantern Corps or Birds of Prey issues. Regarding Daredevil - that's why Bendis' work is meant for trades. Oh, and we have to discuss Crisis! Otherwise, I'll talk like a pirate THE WHOLE DAY! And I'll sing, too! Just imagine "Yarrgh!! My lager brings all the wenches to the ship!! That's right, it's better than yours!!" (and so on and so forth). You know I will. Consider this an official warning.