Thoughts From The Brown Couch

Quite ready to give up on cards at this point as it seems to be an ever widening money hole and something that has been getting less fun of late. Mostly, I think I am getting that time to move on feel again, ready to go someplace else, anyplace near a beach...if (when?) I get rejected from grad school, I may just leave. I bet I could sell my piece of shit car, get a couple of hundred bucks together and leave town...but now, the secret is out, so I guess I can't. Besides, there won't be any warning from me when I actually do leave. It's funny how quickly things change, mostly because I thought maybe, but those were the aforementioned fever dreams, instantly discounted.

The truth of the matter is...well, whatever, the truth is the last ounce of caring has been drained out of me, and I don't fucking care about anything at this point. I got the Celtics, soon I'll have my Sox, and that is more than enough for me. It would have been nice to hit spring training again, but oh well, no ride and no plans, so that is my fault. I'd also like to say I just LOVE IT when people come over, play cards, have fun, and enjoy the time spent, and then leave ALL OF THEIR SHIT for me to clean up. Fucking really nice, people I can't wait to have over again...or maybe I'm just pissed because I want out and I can't have it for another two months.

Seemingly stuck in the grasp of anger and hatred (and I do mean Anger & Hatred.) I am unsure of what to do. Well, fuck it, there is no point to worrying, all answers shall be directed to the man behind the curtain. He rarely lies, and only once have I known him to be wrong. It would be so much easier to just buy into everything that is being sold, but I can't do that, and besides, even if I could, in the end, it's a fool's bargain, and I have enough of those already.

OK, back after a brief head break. Finally managed to hunt down a John Jennings CD (evidently not available anywhere to download surprisingly enough) and while most people probably don't remember him, he was Mary Chapin Carpenter's guitarist and co-writer/producer. That alone wouldn't get me to buy his CD, but the song "Everybody Loves Me" is. Hence, I am now the proud owner of John Jennings debut CD, Buddy. (Wow, this shit really helps. I swear, I was damn near foaming at the mouth a few minutes ago. Now, I'm still smarting, but I again remember there is no reason to be upset, and as for leaving this dead town, well, in good time, I'll be gone. And they say this shit is harmful to your health...hahahahaha)

Well, off wassailing around the house, since I slept all day and I am now jacked from a doubleshot and a totally funky idea. There is a real chance of more posting tonight, though my reason for it would be shitty, I do enjoy writing, and since lately most of my shit seems shit, perhaps this practice writing will do me well. At any rate, I'm getting that feeling again. That feeling that I am walking around, and the sounds flooding my ears is the wailing of the Why? chorus, every last human being cooing, demanding, alternately a command and a question, pleading to the deaf ear of a sky that can't answer. We all scream "What does it mean? Why is it like it is?" The only reply is silence from a blue sky and rain from a grey one. I huddle for a moment with a blonde girl under an awning, and when I turn to ask her the question, she is gone. I am alone amongst the crowd, but we all speak as one.

cf

A whirlwind trip that was one part isolation and one part consolation. In short, exactly what I needed. Stumbling through my apartment door at 4 a.m. and flipping on "Godfather 3" on HBO, watching Pacino struggle with a shitty script and horrible acting. As always, Pacino was great, but what can you do? That was how I feel about Saturday night. Awesome fun times and I swear, what is it about stupidity that so attracts me? And by that, I mean my own stupidity, not anyone else's. Despite the strange vibes, it felt great to wake up that way, and while I sincerely doubt the intent and the supposition were the same for both of us, there is only so much of someone that you can read without becoming more the glacially interested. I am not of the mind it would pay off no matter what the circumstances, though it certainly would be interesting on a bet to see what moves certain people.

Now, I would not say that I lie constantly. I will cop to the idea I like to play fast and loose with the truth, but since it is such a droll concept to be stuck in the notion that there is an inherent right or wrong, I cannot in good faith be anything other than who I am. Besides, doesn't anyone else see the degree of supposition in each action? Every pinioned assumption represents a very defined state of affairs, perhaps far more than we are willing to admit. I would dearly love to find out if I am the only one who thinks this, but I am unsure how to better define what I am talking about, and most people assume it is a waste to spend time on the minutiae when such major things are being said. I don't know what major things are being said, but from the look of most people, there is a decidedly intransigent nature to humanity, one I can only guess at and try to understand.

Had one of those great blood brother moments shooting 9 ball with my man back home. I do wish he was here or I was there, but since there ain't much I can do about that, I'll have to do a better job staying in touch. Among my many failings, remembering to call or write to those not present sometimes gets lost int he shuffle. It is one of my true SOB qualities, but I am going to try and get better about that. I'd write more, but this part is nobody's business but mine, and you gotta draw the line somewhere. Otherwise, we are just bloody savages, and then we'd all just wander around flinging feces at each other and fucking in trees.

Tonight, I will settle a personal bet and then tomorrow is true naked lunch day. After that, I can't promise anything except that we will be closer to April 3 (start of the MLB season) and I'll have shed a few more brain cells. Dear reader, I wanna tell you a story. All about my town. My town down by the river, the banks of the River Charles. Who needs jesus when you have a Damon in center field? Who needs the agony of that one that got away, when you have the treasure and beauty of the one that DIDN'T?

cf

ps - dirty-mutha-fucking-watah...;t it be played early and often in Fenway. Give my love to Tessie, she's the one who never let's us down. RED SOX NATION BABY!!

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pps - you should totally see my car. Coated with boston paraphenalia, and there is this awesome Einstein action figure i got hanging from the coat hook. OK, OK, I'm going....

cf

(Disclaimer: I wanted to post something more substansive and feel like i have accomplished something. So here is a very short story called "The Funeral." It was written about a week ago for a class, but that is neither here not there.)

"The Funeral"

The son of a bitch in the little red sports car was fine. His car was fine. It had a few dings, but nothing major. He was standing by his car in a huff after he finished screaming at the officer for citing him for failure to maintain control of his car. As for me, I was shaking on a hill underneath a big fireman’s coat, looking at the remains of my car and trying to figure out how all this had happened.
Three witnesses stood around the officer, explaining in no uncertain terms how the man had cut each one off in traffic on his path towards me. Two of the three witnesses had pulled me out of the upside down car, later telling me they were sure they were pulling a corpse from the vehicle. The little red sports car had glanced off my left front tire, and this was just enough to roll the van a few times before it came to a rest smashed on an embankment. I don’t remember any of this, but one of the witnesses said the accident was fantastic. I wish I could have seen it, but my vantage point was somewhat akin to suddenly being dropped into a speeding roller coaster with no warning, and then coming to a sudden and rather jarring stop. Looking at the car, I was amazed. The roof had caved in over the back two benches, the windows were all smashed to hell, and anything that wasn’t welded to the body was gone. I kept the license plate, but the rest was recycled, hopefully into an urn or a casket. It would just be right that way.
Nothing seemed static. The flux behind my eyes ran over everything. I was 16. I’d had a driver’s license for about 3 months. My parents were going to be pissed. My car was dead. Curiously, I didn’t really consider my own health. I felt fine, shaken maybe, but not stirred, and I was cognizant of my surroundings. It was almost comical. Over my shoulder was a fire station, sitting on a hill overlooking the parkway. The lights shone down from tall poles, and my car lay at the edge of the circle of light. Upside down, the bent axel sent a wheel off at an odd angle. Maybe it’s trying to escape…
Before being interrupted on the way home from tennis practice, I’d been aiming to get home and shower, find a few friends with a few extra beers and the willingness to share and have a relaxing evening. I wasn’t sure what you were supposed to do after a car accident. The fireman took me back to the station; we watched an episode of Simpson’s and waited for my dad to pick me up. He arrived, looking worried, but seeing that I was OK gave me a hug and drove us home. I couldn’t really talk on the way home; I was still trying to understand what had happened. I couldn’t remember the accident, it was all hazy, and events were out of order or missing. It was frustrating, but I shook it off for a little while, figuring I’d just get on with things, minus one van of course.
Before I could work up any anger at the other guy, I had to figure out what had happened, if only to understand things a little bit more. After calming down my mother and smoking a cigarette with my brother out behind the house, I called a few friends and caught up with Mark, Jeff, Sally and Janey. I retold the story four more times, and got Janey to pick me up so we could all get together for some ceremonial healing deep in the woods. There was a spot we all used to hang out at, a place we’d meet if we happened to not be needed at school or work, kind of a hidden bend in a creek with a big boulder sitting off to one shaded bank. It was the perfect place to be, even at night. It could be cool some spring nights, but tonight was unseasonably warm, a first hint of summer riding the crest of the cool months. On the way there, Janey and I talked about what I wanted to do, and we gathered the supplies we’d need, as well as as much beer as we could locate and a few bottles of “Little Syd’s Vodka & Orange.” I’m not even sure they make that crap anymore, think two steps under Mad Dog 20/20. That bad.
At any rate, we had my license plate, a small shovel, two flashlights, the cooler, and a portable outdoor radio/CD player. Janey had a copy of “Hot Water” by Jimmy Buffett, and had already keyed up “King of Somewhere Hot.” The short walk to the creek was quiet, as we’d already learned a harsh lesson about neighborhood watch and their proclivity for law and order. Surprisingly enough, they didn’t see the humor in ten drunken teenagers throwing a late night party on a school night. That is another story entirely, and I am rambling.
Setting up by the bank of the creek, I took the shovel and began to carve a hole about two feet deep in the soft sand. It kept flooding. “Can nothing go easily tonight?” I muttered under my breath. Moving back a few feet, I managed to get good and deep into the dirt, and placed the rear plate in. Janey hit play on the CD player, and the opening steel drums began to flutter towards the rising African beat. Only the drums were audible in the evening air, and I looked around at the others, each sipping cheap wine or chugging beers, quizzical looks on the faces of Mark and Sally. ”OK y’all, shut the fuck up and let us lay it down. We have assembled at this spot to send the last remains of my van…”
Mark cut in. “It was a good van, man.”
“Thanks. Shut the fuck up Mark.” I smiled at him to let him know I was kidding, and he laughed back at me. “Gentleman and ladies of the creek, I would like to say that Mark is right. It was a good van. It was a van that, like many shitty American cars, died before its time. I would like to insert here that I think dickheads in little red sports cars should have their cars repossessed and made into beer cans, they would be less offensive to the rest of us. Can I hear an amen?”
“Amen” five voices agree. Thankfully, we don’t take ourselves too seriously, and I believed this little ceremony was going well. I knew even at the time that I wanted people laughing at my funeral, so I kept things light and mostly farcical. Maybe it’s just my way of dealing with the shit I can comprehend. Lord Buckley said “Humor is the absence of terror, and vice versa.” Looking across the hole, seeing my friends gathered for this little tribute to my dead van, I felt lucky to be alive. Feeling returned to my legs. Truth be told, I felt awake for the first time since the accident earlier. I was glad to be alive, and that is when my anger stared rising towards the other driver. This piece of shit, in such a hurry he cut off numerous people before creaming me, then telling the officer it was my fault.
The only thing that tempered my rising redness was that it was a nice evening, and like I said, the very reminder I needed from my friends was here, and not to be wasted. Empty cans and bottles were rapidly exchanged for new ones, and cigarettes started to disappear at an alarming rate. Buffett crooned on, though we exchanged “Hot Water” for “Living And Dying in ¾ Time.” As we drank, we exchanged accident stories. Each one was more explosive than the last, as drunken stories often get. At some point, we crossed the line into total crap, with Mark slurring out a story about the time he was driving a beat up 86 Grand Am, and got hit dead on by a runaway Lexus. Everyone stared at him, not believing a word of his story, until he looked up, as he lit a cigarette, and the flame outlined his wide eyes. “Yeah Drew, fuck your accident, I think I died in mine.” Bedlam and laughter everywhere. Louder shouts, “You asshole, too fucking funny.” And one of the girls chiming in “Yeah, but you shoulda seen the other guy!” More laughter, until all of a sudden, Mark grimaces and throws up into the creek. Maybe it’s time to wind down the night and head home. Maybe not, Mark seemed no worse for wear.
We gathered the remainder of our supplies and departed, the cooler lighter, the cigarette packs emptier, and the license plate three feet or so under the ground. Depositing it into the back of Janey’s car, we wandered back down a path in the woods to sober up a swing set that sat apart from the housing development. We might have been ok to get home, but no sense risking anything else tonight. Mostly, we just sat quietly scattered around the wooden monstrosity in the woods. It wasn’t foreboding, just reflective. Nothing major, more just another night. It was just another night, and I smiled inwardly and let the last of my buzz sort of settle in to that point where everything is all right, and nothing is out of place.
“Mark, how you doin? That was some professional work back there. A stranger might think you’ve had to do that before!” This got a few laughs, as this was not the first time events left Mark praying over his past.
“Just fine. We got anymore beer?” asked a suddenly revived Mark.
“Yeah, in the car, feel free.”
“Mmmm…that’s far. Can I bum a smoke?”
“Sure, if Sally feels like getting you one, I’m out.” Actually, I had two, but I wasn’t parting with my last two.
We sat in the park for the better part of an hour, relaxed, joking around, telling a few more stories, then decided to bag it and head home. I got in with Janey and Mark, Sally, and Jeff got into Jeff’s POS Camry. They took off, each one ready to pass out after what was certainly an interesting, if not advantageous, evening of funerals and triumphant returns.
“Drew, you going to class tomorrow?” asked Janey. “I got a paper due, but it ain’t done, so I was thinking of bailing and heading over to get lunch at China Buffet.”
“Hmm, now that is something I will carefully consider. I think I can use this accident to get out of a class or two, so why the hell not. I do love me some Chinese buffet.” At this point,, I was sober enough to want to pass out, but self righteous enough to justify anything as “owed to me.” Certainly, it is the last grasp of the alcohol, so it isn’t ever true, but it does feel good to say.
I got out at my house and staggered around the car to give Janey a hug before she left for home. I snuck in the back door of my house, crept into the basement and got a diet Pepsi from the minifridge. I slugged half of it and set it down on the floor. The wide comfortable couch looked almost entrancing, and as I flopped down, I turned the tv on low to relax in the warm blue glow. I stared at the ceiling and felt glad to be alive. I was almost ecstatic to be alive. All that mattered was that tomorrow, I would wake up. My neck might hurt, perhaps I would be hung over, and I might even have to go to school. But I would be alive. I passed out while Archie and Edith sang about the good old days, with a smile on my lips. I would wake up tomorrow.

Totally ready to cash out for a while, I havne't posted in this space because lately time is flying and I am pressed for time. That isn't true exactly, there is plenty of time for the few responsibilities that I have. I'm just usually so exhausted I can't remember what it is I'm supposed to be doing. I love getting like 3 weeks into one of these insomniac phases. Shit gets so fuzzy that I actually stop thinking for a few minutes. "Of course, we have to take the good with the bad. New advancements in electronics gives us the finest in adult erotic entertainment. One hundred percent electronic."

The Dude: "Well, I still jerk off manually."

Jackie Treehorn: "Of course you do."

Now that makes little sense to you as a reference. As I write, I am almost doubled over laughing because it's so fucking funny and it makes no fucking sense. (In all fairness, I usually do this with diet pills. Unfortunately, the FDA decided I can no longer get cheap ephedrine at the corner store, so this time it is pure "Let's not sleep cause I'm tired of staring at the ceiling and if I listen to one more Enya song I am going to get up out of this bed and throw my speakers out the window.

Now lest you think I am complaining, I am not. There are things I genuinely enjoy about being up all ngiht, and the last few days have been really busy with periods of intense fun crammed in between an ever increasing amount of Mavericks and Taj Mahal music appearing magically on my computer. So, bonus, more good music, et. al. Cards have been rough of late, and my judgements a bit shot. Quick, stickpins, I'll be more responsive tomorrow. Even Katherine Hepburn had off days.

Well, off to do homework and contemplate some poems I have been working on. (Someday, when I die, someone will go through my journals, notebooks and computers and find a lot of stuff. I gotta remember to do something with it. Oh, and if you are in the area, drop by for some friendly cahds tomorrow. Same bat time, same bat place. "CrbianFool's Foolish Casino, Cafe, Nightclub & Youth Hostel. I liked the brand so much, I bought the company."

hehehe. I'm laughing. Now get me a cigarette. It's time for brutality, and a beer.

cf