Some Blog

An open letter: Allah, Buddah, God (Christ.), God (Jew.), Juno, Persephone, Rasta, Zoroaster, et al

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Dear Whoever,

I just wanted to thank you for all your help these past few hours. I know that I was really asking for a lot, and I respect the fact that you are a very busy entity. I appreciate that you took the time out of your very busy schedule to listen to me and answer my very insistent questions.

I want you to believe with confidence that I will stand by my words and I will do whatever it takes to fulfill my promise.

I don’t really know how I am going to end world hunger, set up a peaceful co-existence between Israel and the neighboring states, ensure that Lindsay Lohan never procreates, and prevent any other Bush family member from taking office anywhere in the world ever again, but like I said, since you came through for me, it’s only fair that I follow through on my commitments to you.

Thanks for taking the time to show that you care,
Some Girl

Congratulations: TMI

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Good news, comments should be on again and functional. Now on to the real thing.

I don’t know if there is anything more nerve racking than being late. I mean at first, it’s not such a big deal, at some point, everyone happens to be a little late. Even the best of us occasionally seem to run behind schedule. But then the clock seems to be moving just a little faster than usual and you rationalize it all, telling yourself that you’re really not that late. It’s no big deal. And you put it out your mind, but it creeps back into the foreground of thought and awareness. Eventually, you find yourself racing around, dropping things, and sweating, all in apprehension because you are now Late.

The situation will invariably get worse with the passage of more time and suddenly you look up and realize that you are LATE.

So today, after work, I took a pregnancy test, just because you know I was kind of LATE even though it’s been ages since I’ve had sex and I’ve had my period since the last I had sex…but I have been able to stake my reputation on my regularity. Clocks have been set by my menstrual cycle. I know that you hear about women who vary between 23 and 32 days and some that go months without. Yeah yeah yeah. Not me. 28. 28. 28. Even before I was on birth control. So what’s the fucking deal with me this month? This is not stress related and the test instructions stated that I should re-take it if I don’t get my period in the next 7 days, but I am suppose to start the next cycle on Sunday so I don’t know if I should or shouldn’t….

Oh, by the way, according to the test, I’m not. I’m just late. Like I said, at some point, everyone happens to be a little late. Even the best of us occasionally seem to run behind schedule.

A Quid is a Pound, which is $1.78

Sunday, April 23, 2006

If, at 2 AM, you find yourself on the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street, turn up Tottenham, take the first left down Hanway Street, what looks like a super scary alley, ignore the overwhelming scent of fresh urine and stale vomit, watch out for the oncoming traffic, and on the right side of the street half way up, before it curves to the left, look up for an open window above a tapas bar. This open window belongs to a private bar that opens from 2-4 AM, 6 days a week (Tuesday night seems to be the magic quiet night in London). The membership requirements of the bar is that you need to know where the door is, no secret handshake or dues, just the ability to climb a harrowing set of stairs and to not mind the person next to you.

The bar seats about 75 people uncomfortably, and invariably the doorman lets in 150. Bench-lined walls mean that the proletariat become bedfellows and you must meet the man next to you. In fact, bar etiquette requires you to rudely interrupt the conversation next to you and add your two cents. You will hand out cigarettes and advice like the love child of the Marlboro Man and Ann Landers. The mix of people, philosophers and students, student philosophers, philosophy students, assures that you will have a moment. A moment will be defined as: “We just had a moment.”

Be aware, that you will spend a few hours waxing poetic about the one who got away with a girl whose name you never really heard and the next day you will see said girl at the Starbucks where you get your morning Mochiatto and that you will see the super cute Twinkie who confides that he thinks your date is hitting on his friend (my “date” was hitting on his friend, more of that later) at Ballans the next time you need to have a recovery meal at 6 AM. Or maybe that’s just me.

Above the dado course of benches, lives a m�lange of wannabe Americana decoration with just a hint of old English pub (a pinup girl from the 60s, Willie Nelson, Chili pepper lights, the Queen Mum (God rest ‘er soul)). And above the schizophrenic ornamentation is the border art that frames the origins of this club. In trompe l’oeil dance the figures of Helen, Menelaus and Paris, Agamemnon, Hecktor, Odysseus, Achilles, Ajax, and Cassandra illustrating the great epic story and providing the name, The Troy Bar (I tried googling to no luck).

I don’t suppose that Homer, when writing the Iliad, ever thought that his depiction of a decade long war fought for the right to state that “I own the prettiest girl in the world” would eventually be the appellation of the one place in London where I could drink after the 2 AM closing time (I know this has changed, but work with me).

I also don’t suppose that anyone, my date nor I, ever anticipated that I would use the Troy Bar as a core standard, a fall back position. The first time I spent some time in the Troy Bar, I was on a second date. I don’t remember how I met him, but I do know that I was very clear with my expectations that if I sleep with someone on a first date, I don’t really intend on seeing the person ever again. I have a policy about one-night stands being just that, one night. So the second date-ness of it all was a bit of a surprise, but I had forgotten my hair clips (given to me by someone and were of some value) when I left his house while he was showering the morning following date number one. Date number two I told him I was just for me to get my clips, he suggested meeting for a drink. I agreed because why not?

One of the reasons why I knew that I could never date this guy after date one, date two being held under duress, was that he counted the cash spent on the date, as in, “Your drink cost 2 quid more than my drink, I think you should buy two rounds to my one” or “I paid for dinner so I think you should pay for all the drinks for the evening.” This type of attitude has never sat well with me as certain elements of thriftiness build traits that I hate, mostly because I never keep track of these types of things, with my personal philosophy being that if you can’t afford to be out, don’t go out, but also because eeewwwwww, creepy. Moving on, so date two saw us at the Troy Bar, where he proceeded to ask me when we were going to go back to his place. I stated that I wasn’t going to go home with him again as he already knew that I had a policy about one night stands (he knew this going in, or rather going down).

Turning to me, with a pout on his face, my date very loudly explained that he expected me back to his place that night to improve upon the experience of the first date. Now, seeing that of the five people at our table, three were complete strangers to whom I had been dispensing cigarettes and advice and who had been buying me drinks and making me laugh, these three imperfect strangers heard the comment, and all LAUGHED OUT LOUD. My date stomped off to the bathroom and my tablemates all encouraged me to stand my ground. As I recall, the man next to me said, “You can do way better than that cunt.”

Upon returning to the table, my date stated that he was leaving; I casually waved and said that I would be finishing my drink. I clearly didn’t see the guy again, but I regularly saw the man who had been sitting next to me out at the bars.

The second time I was at the Troy Bar I brought the Film Executive, we had spent the night out and didn’t want it to end. As a way to prevent us from having to decide the inevitable end (your place or mine) we ended up at the Troy Bar. If memory serves correct, that night was his birthday and it was mine.

The third time, was entirely forgettable except for the fact that I made a split-second friendship with a girl who was very loud.

The fourth time, I brought a magazine feature writer who was covering an international photograph exhibition at which I working. I was the English speaking component for a German gallery and he was writing an article. We spent the night sharing stories of moments of glory and shots of tequila. He spent the night being terribly fascinating (faassssccinating) and by the time we tripped our way up the stairs, we were just wasting time until we would go our separate ways. The Journalist chatted up the girl to his left, to the point of exchanging phone numbers, and the kind young gay boy who was eating up my glam, felt the need to point out what I already knew. Ah, the smell of fresh youth and naivety. I, in fact, had already reassured the young girl that I was in no way, shape, or form attached to the Journalist. I think she was more impressed with him than he was, which was no small feat. The Journalist distinguished himself by taking the change from the taxi fare I paid. I always tip 20 percent, out of habit and because I feel like it’s only right, no matter what country I’m in, and this guy I met hours before, took the 3 quid left on a 17 quid cab ride.
Eventually, I became a regular at the Troy Bar, and the times there blend into each other. The visits are only distinguished in the flashes of light and bursts of sound that memories take on with time and distance.

Secretly

Thursday, April 20, 2006

I miss waking you up in the morning.

Such is life

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

So I got some spam comment (no I don’t need any Viagra, but thanks) so I turned on the Captchas. Something isn’t uploaded correctly so for the time being comments can’t be left.

I’m working on it…

T-minus: cause and effect

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

I’ve been having this thing with a co-worker.

She’s just so evil.

She’s also just quit her job.

Now if only she would hurry up and finish her last few weeks because the bad attitiude is so not appreciated.

By the way, I totally kicked ass at work today.

Because evil co-worker isn’t going to meetings any more.

Just so you know

Punk

I am not an aircraft

Monday, April 17, 2006

You know how when someone confesses a crime, they always claim: “It was an accident.”?

I didn’t mean to sleep with him, it was an accident (like you accidentally fell pussy down on an erect dick?).

I didn’t mean to stab that old lady, it was an accident (like the old bird ran in to the knife you were holding blade out?).

I didn’t mean to snort that line, it was an accident…well it really was. Okay, maybe not an accident, but there was this party…and it was so casual…and I didn’t think it was a big deal. But I didn’t tell Bruce (I tried and I know it’s so fucking passive to do this).

Bruce is away on business. He said good-bye via text message. Right.

I know that he’s a neophyte to this whole grown-up dating thing, but to send a text, knowing that we weren’t going to speak for the better part of a week, it’s just that sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t have to teach certain social queues. After all this time, he still does this shit that makes me kind of wonder. And just to validate that I am not over-reacting, I check in with other people, turns out I am not expecting too much.

I’ve always been told that I expect too much, so I try to temper what I expect with what I say that I expect. I don’t want to be too overwhelming or too demanding. I get that and create a well organized system of checks and balances. I edit my internal monologue and craft my message to read softer than what I hear shouted between my ears.

Now if only I could have this conversation with Bruce without being pissy. Good thing I am being slightly passive aggressive and I know that he will read this and be all Doh!

Passive aggression: a sure way to avoid a fight.

PS. Look at all the categories that this one fits!

Shiver me timbers

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Deep down in my knees and up through my stomach, I shiver, maybe it’s more a quiver or a tremor, a soulquake that rocks me to my core. I’ve learned today, by accident of deceit. I thought I was too smart to not see. The lie, to be expected for the Internet is a fount of liars…

Lately the anamnesis has been hard work, but then all blogging has been hard work, and I know it hasn’t gone unnoticed. For all those of you who noticed, um whatever.

Last week’s topic (Follow) still resides in draft format and one day will work it’s way out to the blog, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about today.

I had the thread, that’s how it starts. I see the word, I have an idea, the thread is formed and off I go with the whole writing thingy. I had the connections, I was going to share about how my innards shiver when I do coke, e, k, or speed. There is this time elapsed photography that my body does and in between the dancing and the endless proclamations of how great this is, while I dance until my feet bleed (but I don’t feel it) and drench my clothes with sweat, my insides start shivering. This is not like being cold when your teeth chatter and your muscles shiver in response to early onset hypothermia, this is the exact sensation of your stomach shivering. And then your intestines. And then, and then, and then the shakes come and my ankles start to get dancey. The twitching and endless motor ticks outlast the high. Yes, that was what I was going to write about here, in great detail. Maybe next time.

Today, I was perusing the great big blog world and ran into a wall.

Long ago and far away a good friend once said: “The Internet: Where men are men, women are men, and children are FBI agents.”

My friend has always been a pretty smart person, and cautioned me against trusting the Internet:

On non-threatening—I happen to think I’m pretty harmless and try to do the right thing. But, stepping into the third-person for a moment, if I had to render disinterested advice on this point, I’m not sure that it’s really that easy to sort the sheep from the goats—it’d be hard for you to figure out if I’m in fact telling the truth. There are a lot of people who are capable of saying pretty words, and who have the patience to apply them in a way that evades your threat instincts. Particularly true in the online world, frankly, where most of one’s normal critical intuitions on human interaction get dampened out, and hopeful fantasy has a way of filling in the gaps. There are people who understand this, and know how to exploit it. In some odd sense, we should be thankful that the world is full of unsubtle idiots, because a world full of wolves would be a hard one to live in.

Mind you, I believe in trust. I’m not so cynical that I think trust is foolish—the old canard “trust no one” has very limited practical application (in most cases, it is useless). But you have to be careful. I guess what I’m saying is that “the rest of the class” may not deserve your trust. In fact, based on the information you have, I probably don’t deserve your trust (although I think it helps that I’m boxed into a little corner of your life, where practically speaking there’s not a lot I can do to further my own interests at your expense—kind of a non-threat in that regard).

PS. If I haven’t said this in a while, everyone who emails me should be well aware that they have no expectation of privacy.

In my perusal this afternoon, I came across a comment from a blogger I use to read regularly. The blogger (blogger A) in question has started going through medically created menopause and as such the direction of her blog,understandably, has gone somewhere I find of little interest. This is a natural evolution of blog reading and I accept this. Upon seeing her name, I clicked through, just to see if things had drastically changed. While I found more of the same, I came upon a post where the woman’s partner references another blog (blogger B) of which I was a regular reader but have since moved on as is the reality of things. There was no real reason, I suppose I had read enough to get the gist of the story and while there were some memorable posts, having read the entirity of the archives, I could see that there wasn’t going to be a great change of direction to make the blog any more interesting.

The entry about this other blog essentially said that a long time ago blogger A wrote a short post about how blogger B had such a specific take on life and her lifestyle. Blogger A questioned the ability of a person to maintain the lifestyle choices. Blogger B responded with a very aggressive attack, which I can understand as I would probably do the same if someone were to call into question my life and my choices. Blogger B is kind of infamous in certain Internet circles for acts of Internet aggression, to the point where people in forums will just drop out rather than face her wrath.

Intrigued, and nosy, I went to blogger B’s blog to find a confession. She had lied about everything. Her battle with cancer, the death of her son in a drunk driving accident, her husband’s heart attack.

The confession, is in three parts, the first: nothing here is true…the second: I am an alcoholic and addicted to the Internet…the third: I am trying to help other people to make amends and not everything was false.

The confession came as she was outed by the forum she terrorized for years. The back and forth is too hard to really follow, but essentially, blogger B wrote a detailed homage to her slain son, noting that the man who took his life was a convicted murderer. A woman interested in writing a story began to research deaths by drunk drivers in the general vicinity of the woman in a specific time period and facts started to not match the tails she was telling. As the truths came out and her lies began to unravel (she is unmarried, has no children) blogger B has made comments that she will continue to post because so many of her readers said that they didn’t care if she was telling the truth, the readers felt that they had gained some sort of life lessons from her blog (of course the not insignificant number of individuals attacked by blogger B in any number of places were all very vocal on the insidious nature of blogger B and her personal and vicious attacks). So, blogger B has posted a comment that her blog is fiction and that she will carry on in the great tradition of many of America’s great writers.

The fact that this total sociopath (she often commented and posted as her husband on her blogs and in forums) is continuing to spread her ideas on the Internet because people feel like her made up stories of her perfect life (seriously, she should have been awarded super mom/wife/employee of the century) were inspirational. Fucking read the bible or better yet, the poetry of recovering heroine addicts if you need inspiration, encouraging a pathological liar (and self-confessed Internet addict) to continue posting on the Internet is the most irresponsible thing I have ever heard.

Mood rating: Leave me alone.

His head is superglued inside his anus

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

I wonder, is there a full moon?

No really, is there?

Somewhat unexpectedly, Some (Angry) Boy IM’ed me yesterday.

Fuckhead: hi
Some Girl: hello?
Fuckhead: it’s [Fuckhead]
Some Girl: Yeah I know who this is, I’m just a little surprised to hear from you.
Fuckhead: Just wanted to drop you a line and say hi
Some Girl: so was there a reason why you wanted to drop me a line?
Fuckhead: nope, no catch
Some Girl: okay
Some Girl: You understand why I am surprised to hear from you, right?
Fuckhead: Yeah
Some Girl: then what sparked the sudden need to reconnect?
Fuckhead: Some Girl….....no “need”, just saying “hello”
Fuckhead: That’s all
Fuckhead: No desire to be added to the crazy ex’s file
Some Girl: [Fuckhead], honestly, I get that there’s no ulterior motive or need, but you made it abundantly clear that you had no desire to speak to me again. I believe your last email asked me to cease all contact with you via email and regular post. 
Fuckhead: Yes, I felt things were getting out of control there for awhile
Fuckhead: That’s true
Some Girl: well, okay then.
Some Girl: I have to run. Good luck with everything, I hope you find what you were looking for.
Fuckhead: Ahhhhh
Some Girl: what?
Fuckhead: There’s the anger bleedin’ out
Some Girl: no, I really have to go
Some Girl: I have a meeting
Fuckhead: Gone for the rest of the day?
Some Girl: don’t know, I could be back around 5
Fuckhead: Anything goin’ on tonight?
Some Girl: not that I know of
Fuckhead: K
Some Girl: bye

There was an interlude here, where I went to my meeting. Upon returning to my desk at the end of the day, Fuckhead greets me and we further chat about life. Seriously, it was all casual and shit, like he wasn’t a crazy, well, fuck head. Eventually, I ask what he has been up to outside of work, and he then, as I knew he would asks “And you?”

Some Girl: I am thinking of moving to [location not disclosed] with [edited for privacy]
Fuckhead: [people of that profession] are strange and the crowds of people they usually hang out with are less than stimulating
Some Girl: Actually, he and I seem to be on the same wave length. We spend hours laughing about the strangest things.
Fuckhead: Well, that could be real, or simply the fact that you’re very quick to jump into things ;)
Some Girl: Or maybe, it wasn’t so quick at all. And because I took time to get to know him, I learned to appreciate him
Fuckhead: lol, you’re too funny
Some Girl: We actually have been getting to know each other since before you and I ever started speaking
Fuckhead: I’m shocked, lol
Fuckhead: Women, so predictable
Some Girl: really, well, I think this has been more than enough for me to see
Some Girl: thanks for validating
*** Fuckhead has been ignored.

I would like to say that I ignored and blocked him based on the fact that I realized that he is just an enormous fuck head, but the truth is, the liberal use of “lol” really annoys me and I tend to block people based on my grammar snobbery.

Hmmm. The official interpretation from The Film Executive, because I run everything by him, Fuckhead realized that he was a fuck head and wanted to apologize for being out of line back in the day. Upon further examination, I think I agree, mostly because of this line: “Fuckhead: No desire to be added to the crazy ex’s file.” No one ever suggests that they may be the crazy ex, unless they really might be the crazy ex. Seriously, all along, I never once worried that I might be the crazy one ( I did worry that I was the one that didn’t work, as per yesterday, but that is more of a systemic concern rather than a sanity concern). The Film Executive also said that he didn’t like the way that Fuckhead was condescending towards me, and I quote: “He’s really condescending to you; forget him. His head is superglued inside his anus.”

And that is what friends are for, always there to support you when a Fuckhead has his head superglued inside his anus.

I go out walking, after midnight

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

A few years ago I read a book. I know, not all that surprising as I read several dozen books a year, but this one has revisited my memory for a while. There’s something about the deeper meaning that I am appreciating just now, from afar. I suspect that the book is currently residing under a bed somewhere in London, I don’t know that I put enough stock in the book to even keep it in my travels, sometimes a concession is made and books are given away to charity shops or libraries.

I have searched the Internet and Library of Congress and the name in my head appears to be wrong. There are wide expanses of memory, filtering through, touching on the point, but, can I be sure that is the point, I cannot even remember the name of the book - just the cover art.

I suppose that is my lifelong failure. I will always be remembering the elements of some long forgotten text, and I will apply my own impression, my mistaken impression.

And the meaning, so clear now, not really thought about then, am I never going to be the end that works? I always thought that I was the one making it happen and that I was responsible for living an active life, there is nothing worse in life than passivity, but action, for the sake of action, may not be much of an improvement. Maybe, just maybe, all this time, I have been the end that didn’t work.

The Sergeant, the Film Executive, Some (Angry) Boy, maybe all of them were the ends that worked and I was the mis-fitted joint, leaking coolant and threatening the safety of the plant employees.

The point, and yes there is one, the character in the book that let his art work be assumed by another, he was willing to fade into the background, he wanted to be grey and let someone else take the spotlight, in the end the someone in the spotlight burned out and the one who was grey was shown to be of stronger character, solid morals, and deeper talent than anyone suspected.

Just saying, it’s funny, the one that works.

If Elmo the barking seal doesn’t do the back-flip, he doesn’t get the Mackerel

Monday, April 03, 2006

Amend. (shift F7, thanks Word)

Alter, Adjust, Modify, Revise.

I like Improve the best. Because there is the sense of improvement these days. Life is chugging along and where there was once one, there is now two. I like two. Two IS much better than one.

The short of the long of it is that the long is not so close. Plan he said. Rather, I heard. Now there is just an amendment needed to plan around the unexpected. I can do that.