For All Mankind

So lose some sleep and say you tried.
So lose some sleep and say you tried.
So lose some sleep and say you tried.
So lose some sleep and say you tried.
-- Autosuggestion, Joy Division

I have never, ever, been in the company of a woman that looked better in a pair of g-string panties than Ananta. When I met her at the tail end of summer, when the leaves were turning, and the days were getting shorter, I thought my prayers had been answered. She was lovely. I would walk down the street with her, and other women couldn't take their eyes off of her. She looked incredible in Seven jeans, and even better in a little black dress, with just a hint of makeup. There was no one that looked like Ananta, she was unique, in a universe of sameness. She could cook too, god could she cook. But despite her many talents, some that I have outlined here, and others that are unmentionable, I had to end things last night.

This worries me. What will it take to feel happiness again. To feel comfortable waking up beside someone else. I have had the nagging feeling that things were not right for sometime. I tried everything to love Ananta, but the truth is, I am full of anger and hate.

There is no love.

Pool Rule

I've never dated a girl that could wear a bikini, and I've never dated a girl that could drive. So when Unice picked me up in her dad's black STS, and announced that she was wearing her new burgundy two piece from american apparel under her wool dress, I was fuckn' impressed.

I had called in sick to work, and wound up feeling fully recovered by 11am. So instead of doing the honorable thing by going into the office, I decided to give Unice a call to see what she was up to. She's the one I had mentioned in an earlier post, the one I met at a club last week. Well, as it turns out, Unice is 23, she told me last night, I am ok with that, really.

My parents are in town, and since they are staying in a 25th floor penthouse in the most prestigious neighborhood in the home town, I thought it would be fun to go for a swim. My parents had invited me earlier in the week, raving about the pool room, and how the ceiling is actually the floor of a fountain outside.

I introduced my parents to my new friend, and we got the key for the pool as they were headed out shopping for the day. Perfect.

Unice is hot. Black hair, quarter length sleeve on her left arm, and the tiniest silver stud, pierced above the left side of her lip.

Unice is very thoughtful, bringing along a pony of Absolut, and an 840ml bottle of Minute Maid. I can't remember what rule number it was, but no drinking was definitely on the list of rules posted on the wall. Thing's were going along well. We're in the hot tub, admiring the water ceiling with our late morning cocktails, when Unice decides she wants a cigarette. I think that was pool/spa rule number 3, no smoking, but I haven't had a cigarette in almost a week on account of my illness, and the vodka made it seem ok. So now we're drinking, smoking, and laughing in the hot tub, the timer for the air jets set to a maximum of 15 minutes.

Pool/Spa rule number 7 is wear appropriate bathing attire. Unice's bikini is without doubt very appropriate for the occasion, but rule number seven is in breach when she drops her top and we are going at it on the edge of the hot tub. It's a weekday. I figure the chances of someone walking in are minimal, and besides, the vodka makes the fact that Unice is half naked ok too. Before I know it I am naked as well, and Unice has my shorts at the other end of the pool, she wants me to chase her I suppose, so I get out of the hot tub, and we are running around the pool.

Rule number 4 posted on the wall of the pool room is no running on the pool deck. Unice and I are half drunk, and running at the same time. A two rule combo violation of the utmost ignorance. So just as we're running up the other side of the pool deck towards the hot tub, we can hear the pool room door being opened. Unice makes it to the hot tub with a large splash, I am too far behind her to make it to the cover of the hot tub. There's water all over the pool deck, and this, added to the distraction of the little old japanese woman standing in the doorway in complete horror, causes me to slip and do the half splits in front of the poor woman. Unice is hysterically laughing in the hot tub while putting her top back on, and I am lying on my back, naked, and in great pain. The japanese lady is nowhere to be found. I assume she is off to get security, the police, or her husband, so we decide to vacate the area immediately.

Later in the evening, the rest of my family arriving for dinner, my dad is showing me some of the cool building features of the penthouse, one of which is that you can watch all the common areas on closed circuit television in the comfort of your living room. As he calls up the pool room on the large TV, I can see that I left the bottle of vodka by the hot tub, and without doubt provided some great entertainment for anyone that happened to be watching earlier in the afternoon.

Unice and I plan on going for a drive next week.

Poor Unfortunate Soul

For an accurate visual representation of the hell I have endured over the past five days struggling with a high fever, codeine induced psychosis, minimal food, and wretched lung regurgitation , click HERE.

I have almost fully recovered, and will be back soon enough to entertain you. Until then, I suggest you take a peek at some of the stellar shit that Greg is going through.

Bed Written

The nostalgia cycle is already cannibalistic to the point where we're getting nostalgic for what happened this past Tuesday.

-- Robert Thompson, professor of media and popular culture at Syracuse University (via NYpost)

The week started out quite legendary. So what happened? I'm sick. I've been in bed for 2 days. I am surrounded by empty chip bags, chocolate bar wrappers, packages of cigarettes, and about 8 super big gulps cups. I am sustaining myself with short trips to the seven eleven. There is no food in the fridge, except for an avocado that I will eventually be able to drink in another day or two.

I watched movies, romance movies. Before Sunrise, followed by Before Sunset. A one two knock out punch of love. They should have never made a sequel to Before Sunrise, but like the lovers in the film, Jesse and Celine, the filmmakers just couldn't leave well enough alone. And now, the lovers admired so much in the 90's for keepin it real, by not exchanging any personal information, and leaving their evening of romance untainted by the damage of the day to day, have gone and ruined it all. By the time Before Sunset fades to black, we can pretty much assume that Jesse will leave his wife and child for his lost love, Celine. How lovely.

Forgive me for being the cynic, but this is the kind of bullshit that really fucks with the real world. Celine and Jesse barely know each other, they've never had to grocery shop, pay the bills, deal with each others families, or clean up after one another. Who wouldn't fall in love spending the evening whiling away the hours in Vienna and Paris? We're not exactly talking about love triumphs all, now are we.

That being said, I met a lovely woman at the club Tuesday night, I am in love with her. We spent the night making fun of all the gross drunks at an all night diner, exchanging views on the world, and swapping favourite song titles. I think I will marry her. Oh wait, that could be a problem.

We Will Become Silhouettes

To be, is not to be.

If too many people like you, you're doing something wrong.

-- Charles Bukowski to Sean Penn (New Yorker)

I am not a winner. I assure you.

Traffic is up, way up. I salute you.

Now I worry. Will I still be able to keep failing?

I even sold a painting for more money than I was expecting, so I went out for a ridiculously expensive meal to celebrate. I spilled on the table cloth, and slouched in my chair. It owes me. I'm talking about art, it owes me about 28,000 thousand dollars, that fucker.

Check out Jared's new Postal Service video.

FYI - YAFL

So I'm sitting at the bar and she shows up and clenches my arm telling me to never go and the other one yells that I have to tell her to fuck off or she'll never walk away.
-- Greg the Boyfriend

I better start hanging out at college bars, drinking peppermint schnapps, and lifting weights. I am going out tomorrow to buy a track suit. Then I am going to the nearest KFC to get myself a bucket of original crispy chicken. It has to be a bucket though, no boxes, a fucking bucket I tell you. I have always been attracted to the bucket of chicken, it is the ultimate fashion accessory of American decadence. It goes well with one story motels, large tv's displaying hard core porn at an alarmingly loud volume, and wood panelling. I'll carry it around, my very own bucket, wearing a track suit, walking and eating at the same time, grease all over my face. Up and down the avenue, I will stare people down as they look at me in disgust, while I throw chicken bones over my shoulder.

Not a care in the world.

Carlola

Dear Kids,

Your Aunt Viv and I would both like to apologize for the incident which occured on Thanksgiving this year. We both felt strongly about the turkey neck, but certainly those feelings are not as strong as the feelings for the members of our family.
Please accept our apologies. I'm sure next year will be much better.

love,
Uncle Jay

-- Uncle Jay's Message, Superbad

every morning
your gaze

penetrating the scratched glass
reflections of the shops near by
entice me to spend! spend!

every morning
your eyes

you are stiff, solid, and stoic.
the gaze of the slimy drip unwanted
forever, the only thing that changes is

your outfit...

I will call you Carlola,
and you will be mine.

The Life Dramatic

Adventure People Dave, and Mary, find adventure through the hands of a Child

I had been thinking all the time, while I was asleep, of what I had just been reading, but my thoughts had run into a channel of their own, until I myself seemed actually to have become the subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V.
-- Proust, Swanns Way

When they make the movie of your life
They're going to have to ask you
To do your own stunts
Because nobody nobody nobody
Could pull off the same shit as you
And still come out alright

If you're losing your wings
Feather by feather
Love the way they whip away
On the wind
-- (smog), Feather by Feather

As it often does, the week ended with a Sunday afternoon at the cinema. I like to sit close, within the first two rows from the screen. Why would people want to sit near the back? I want it as spectacular as I can get it. The adventure unfolded in a flicker of light and sound. Bill Murray as Steve Zissou, in The Life Aquatic. Blue seas. choppers, and diving gear with emblems. It is here, in front of a massive sheet of vinyl. sitting in the dark, where I can forget everything, and become part of the fiction. Then the credits roll, and I walk home with a stomach ache.

Every night the past week, I dined with a different party. Often celebratory, sometimes melancholy, but never dull. Sake, sakune, yakitori, coconut rice, bottle after bottle of wine, pitchers of sangria with endless tapas, flat cut sashimi, Makuayaw Kai, tomolives, havarti, spicy peppers, pints of beer in dingy bars on the strip, and cosmopolitans overlooking the harbour. A night didn't go by where I dined at home. The fridge is empty, and useless.

There were moments throughout the week worthy of a film crew. The band I recently joined practised until 2:30 in the morning Friday. Until finally someone in the residential space above the warehouse found the fuse box, and cut the power on us. So we took a guitar, and two candles out to the couches. I sang Woody Guthrie songs by candlelight until the sun came up. The next night I got into an argument on my street. Not the one I live on, but the one that I share a name with. It was late, and cold. The breath from our heated voices filling the air like a smoke stack fills the atmosphere with unknown dangerous material.

There was violence too. I got ripped off by a drug dealer on the corner one night. He took my twenty dollar bill, and slipped me two plastic kinder egg surprise containers, of course they were empty. Well, I took off after him, up the alley, I snuck up behind him and just as I was about to grab him, he bolted. The sound of a chase through an alley, feet pounding on cold grey concrete, it was exhilerating. He was screaming, "fuck you!" the whole time we were running. Which was a mistake, because it slowed him down. I managed to kick his foot which tripped him, sending him tumbling to the pavement face first at full speed. I reached into his jacket pocket to take back my twenty dollars while he held his face in pain, rolling around benaeth me at the top of the alley. I returned his empty plastic eggs.

And now it's Monday. I have swept the broken glass from the floor, and washed the blood off the sheets. I even bought some groceries, so that maybe I could make my fridge feel wanted. I have a special guest, someone to cook for, to look after, to hug repeatedly. A different kind of week altogether, but still, the drama continues. I find my thoughts clouded with worry for someone that really, simply deserves better. I am lucky, I learn this more and more each day. So tonight, I will dream of Cate Blanchett reading Proust aloud, the transformative powers of a dark theatre on a Sunday afternoon, and the toys of my youth.

Prognosis

Thanks, Terry...

It's early morning, maybe 6?
I can hear your naked feet shuffle on the stiff hardwood floor,
a comforting sound to the man that loves you.

Some things never change...