The Hat

Whatever it takes... Jim Carrey, The Mask

Night and day were no more than relative terms; they did not refer to an absolute condition. At any given moment it was always both. The only reason we did not know it was because we could not be in two places at the same time.
- Paul Auster (City of Glass , 1985)

Another night of crippled fantasies. I wore my hat. It's a special hat. I think it holds innate powers to make me something I am not. It made me dance to I Shot the Sheriff. It allowed me to hug three women, and shake one man's hand before I left the hall. It allowed me to hang out backstage, and not even bat an eye to the fact that a burlesque dancer was undressing on my immediate right. It's hard to get my attention when my hat is on my head. The hat persuaded me to eat a light dinner, drink three shots of bourbon on rocks, and six bottles of Sleemans, which sat empty on the table in front of me, creating an inventory of clear glass for all to see. I left early though. I walked down a hill on the east side, the entire city lay in front of me, it's lights twinkling through tight cold air. I was listening to an old My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult on my headphones as I descended into the throbbing ghetto of beggars, cheaters, and crack whores. Even though I could feel the cold of the night nipping through the cracks of the bus's doors, I didn't feel it with my hat on. The #20, pulled by it's electric cables through the roughest neighbourhood in town didn't intimidate my hat. I announced to everyone on the bus as I stepped down to exit, "Have a good night everyone!"

It's a fine hat, my hat, it's from an Island.

Week in the Knee

Certainly not a dull one. It started last sunday, when I spent the day putting the finishing touches on a song I recorded with my new 4-track recording system. It's a horribly depressing little ditty about wanting to get run over by a car. I decided to take a break and walk to the store. As I was crossing the street, a light brown mini van appeared out of the right corner of my eye just in time for me to jump out of the way before it ran right over me. It clipped my left arm and had I not seen it coming, it most certianly would have done some serious damage. The van slowed, the driver probably confused as to what the loud thud was on the side of his van. Later on, I couldn't stop thinking about the fat, hard black rubber tires rolling over my legs as I sat upright watching, and listening to the sound of my bones crushing under the weight of the van. I spent the rest of the day in bed, in absoulute shock. I watched Swingers, The Big Sleep, and Vanilla Sky.

I think I ate my last meal at McDonald's. The end of an era. I loved McDonald's, not even Super Size Me could deter me from the yellow soaked franchised environment that I found so comforting. It was the greasy floors, food covered tables, and finally, the talking garbage can that said thank-you everytime you stuffed its hole with trash that finally did me in. Ah fuck it, I can still manage a Big Mac every once in awhile for old times sake.

I met with Nymphalidae to put the finising touches on our submission to a local culture publication. The theme is risk. We got drunk. Nymphalidae nearly fell out of the window. I thought that was pretty risky. The magazine is very high brow, I rarely understand any of the writing. The artwork is even more confusing. So I decided to pen a 500 word rant loaded with idiotic pulp culture references and emotional self doubt. I refer to the magazine in the piece as, "a shitty rag, that people only read on the toilet," so it will be interesting to see what comes of it. I doubt it will be published, but it's a risk we'll have to take.

It was Remington's birthday the other night, and a large and wild drinking party ensued at the dark bar. I could not attend, but wish now that I would have, as Nymphalidae mixed herself up with some interesting company and was nearly killed in a car accident. I will spare you the details, as they are still working themselves out, and the gossip is flying from every direction. It would not have happened had I been there. Either that, or I would have been in the car too.

And really, that's only the stuff I can share with you. Some of it is just a little too monumental, even for the confessional mantra that Low's has been known to follow. It seems that my list of readers is growing, and as it does, I find myself diligently putting together posts that will not offend, upset, or hurt, anyone. Just remember the slogan at your top right, as you read on gentle reader. Big and Tall, that's how we like it around here.

Livet

16 ounces at Leroy's. I had been drinking bar scotch for so long that when I lifted the Glenlivet to my lips the bitterness of cheap whiskey was replaced with a smooth, but deadly loveliness. I arrived home after a 7$ cab ride, and declared the next several minutes to be apartment appreciation night. The lamp hanging above the room, staining the green vinyl couches, and the pallor of my skin, with a Soutine blood red that provided ideal lighting for late night revelations. I stared at the thick timbers that run through the ceiling of my home, trees chosen for breadth and age, their wisdom reduced to the purpose of holding up meek possessions. Out the window, the office building across the alley lay empty. Cubicles usually filled with men and women sat empty, their occupants surely curled up with loved ones, or playing out dark fantasies in the idleness of the weekend. If there was someone there, anyone, I would have waved with a half smile across the way. Surely they've seen me during board meetings, dancing in my underwear, or having sex on my couch with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. I never close my windows, or cover them with blinds. The indecipherable din of chatter, and the sharp clicking of pool table balls is always a welcome sound throughout the night. I imagined the patrons downstairs, occupying the dark wood of the bar that runs the length of room, seeking its knowledge, and drinking its spirits.

So there I sat, in my moment of appreciation, and I wondered, where the hell am I?

One

open mouth and red lipstick
a flash of lovely white teeth

accordions, and 73 friends
but quite frankly, you bore me to tears...

Two

the tattoo on your leg...

i am not sure what it is
but now, as it rests upon your sheets
I have the feeling I will never know

goodnight my darling...

Three

Tight Knits
and pearls

you like scotch

So do I

Cinematic

Donald: I loved Sarah,Charles. It was mine, that love. I owned it. Sarah didn't have the right to take it away. I can love whoever I want.

Charlie:But...she thought you were pathetic.

Donald:That was her business, not mine. You are what you love, not what loves you. That's something I figured out a long time ago.

-- Adaptation, 2001

Miss me? I thought so. I've been having a little trouble sharing with you lately. I wrote about feeling drained and empty in the theatre last week, deleted. I wrote a poem just before I passed out after a drunken binge one day last Tuesday, discarded. Three manic emails, one after the other, composed, deleted, revised, and again deleted, until finally abandoning the whole idea after the third and final attempt. It was good material too, you would have liked it. But you'll never know now, and really, I don't care to remember.