That's right, I have no rods to describe the past few days. I meant, of course, that I have no words.
Ha. At least I can still be funny.
I had the best birthday so far, and I think it's because no one sang the birthday song. I made them sing Feliz Navidad instead. I got a Skate Team USA beach towel from Shauna, coulottes from Emily, a coveted skirt from Lindsay, a cake and a Chimay from the boss, a slew of neat things from Lexi--but the thing I loved most was the love. Lexi's card almost made me cry. I sang "Pour Some Sugar on Me" at the local lesbian bar/karaoke room, and got hit on by the woman who sang "Baby got Back." Then we went to the Holocene and danced it up in support of the Portland Radio Authority. Since then, though, I've worked an incredible amount of hours. Really I just picked up two extra shifts this week, but it turns out that I'm exhausted and maybe that's because I've gone out drinking almost every night this week. Or, if I don't fall asleep drunk, I can't seem to sleep. I'm sure that it's just a consequence of the mild manic phase that is soon to end.
Why is this mild manic phase soon to end, you ask? (Ooh, a guy with 'roos! must tell Shauna. He's totally gay, too.) Rejection. Out and out rejection. From crush, from schools (add you-dub to the list). No, that's it. It's more about the loss of hope, of potential paths denied to me. Oh, and I've been a bit extra-randy lately (product, too, of mild-manic phase).
The good news though is that I am on-call with the Red Cross this week, I have an assignment for 2GQ, and I'm learning how to close on Tuesday. I would also guess that I have band practice this week. It's time to start doing things.
I feel like I should spend some time describing what happened, to give you the blow-by-blow, but I feel too sensitive about it now. I'm taking it too personally. I feel like I've blown any chance of finding "the one that you love and who loves you" (thank you The Smiths, playing at Tiny's).
Just take comfort in the knowledge that this phase has allowed me access to a new found productivity. It's good, each time one begins to sink into one's own filth, to start with a clean slate.
A-mac, Shauna-bear, and I went boarding yesterday, and A-mac totally thrashed. It was really scary but really cool. We were going down Salmon from 28th, which is a really steep slope, and Shauna, golden child that she is, was just cruising down. A-mac was going, too, non-stop, and I thought, if A-mac can stick this, than I can stick this. Then it got too fast for me so I jumped off and ran after my deck. Right after I get my deck, I see A-mac fly off of her skateboard, roll down the hill, and land on her ass. She was alright, but she had this huge gash in her wrist from her watch. We all learned something from that. We walked to her new house on 22nd and Salmon and nursed her wounds.
So, why was I up until 5 in the A-M? After work, John and I went to the AAlto lounge because Steve was there, and John and I love Steve. The place was packed with Steve's super hep musician friends. Maybe I'm sexist, but the girls in the group always seem like they're just there--I never hear Steve talk about any of the girls making music. They're all pretty and well-coifed. Anyway, we drink at the Aalto--Steve is wasted and I keep pouring him water. There's something about Steve that makes me want to take care of him. Then John and I leave--I met a bunch of cute guys, but seriously, none of them sparked my interest. Gawd, what's wrong with me? I say, "Do you ever feel like you should do a cart-wheel but don't think that it's a good idea?" John says, "Let's jump the fence to the playground." He runs up to the fence and pretends that he can't jump it. I walk around it. We do cart-wheels. I'm not bad at cart-wheels--John is a little too long in the legs. Then I run to the playground across the park and we spend a good long time spinning each other on the tire swing and climbing up the slides.
Back at 2750 we talk in the nook. I finally got the dirt on his whole ex situation. Then he says something like, "now I'm really picky--she made me really picky. I go out and I think, 'No, no, no, no.'" Pause. "But I like hanging out with you." Pause. Um . . . I say, "Let's climb out on the roof!" It was so cold and windy up there. We didn't last long. I had an impulse to climb on top of him and kiss him, but I didn't.
No:Berkeley. At least I don't have to ask how to spell "Berkeley" all the time.
My boss and her boyf and his friends came into work last night. Greg says, "You want Cheryl?" I say yeah, and bring them water, beer. A lot of beer. I drink half of my shift drink with Colin, our newish 19 year old dishwasher, then move over to Cheryl's table. I get invited to the Goodfoot. I go, we run into Ryan and the other Ben, my manager's fiance, and brother, respectively. Everyone gets another beer, Cheryl and Ryan break on the floor, I do my one move. It's late so the DJs are packing up, and Ryan starts looking for the sweater he'd thrown off in the middle of some daring dance move. He can't find it, but he does find Cheryl's purse, which he carries around with him while looking for his sweater. We get into Ben's (Cheryl's boyf Ben) Caddy, drive his friends back to his place--they were visiting from Seattle--and go to work. Cheryl made me call Greg to check if next door was open--it wasn't--because she insisted that they'd open for her and have an after hours party. No such luck. Ryan says to call John and Steve, so I do. Steve didn't answer, but John picked up, and he agreed to come rock it with us. This is around 3 am.
We roll the Caddy over to John's house, and Cheryl's up front honking the horn. John walks out of his house wearing his requisite tie. We go to the Montage, but Cheryl doesn't want to go in, which is good because there were some dudes in there wearing face-paint. We get back in the Caddy and John looks like a scared rabbit. Ryan calls Sarah, who I know has been asleep for a couple of hours, and wakes her up saying, "Hi Sweetie. Is it OK if I come home with your co-workers and your boss and Ben and we have a party?" I hear Sarah on the other end of the line, half asleep, say Yeah. Now Cheryl is starting to feel bad about waking Sarah up, and I feel pretty awkward that I'm driving around North East Portland in a Cadillac with my boss, her boyfriend, my manager's boyfriend, and my bewildered co-worker. But, OK, I've already bought the ticket, so I guess I might as well finish the ride.
We pull up to Sarah and Ryan's house, and it's completely dark. Ryan blows into the house, turns on the lights, turns on Outkast. Sarah comes downstairs in her pajama pants and glasses, with a bump in the middle of her forehead that I gave to her earlier in the night. Now I feel awful. Actually, I feel a lot better because I finally get to pee. Sarah's house is awesome. The furniture, the paint, everything. She even has a bar downstairs, and makes us all some drinks. At this point in the evening it's completely unnecessary for any of us to have any more to drink. But, rock on, Ryan made Tater-tots. John points out that Sarah's drink menu from Thanksgiving says "Royal Tiger . . . a great after dinner drink." So Sarah makes Royal Tigers for everyone: Kahlua, Triple Sec, and Soy Milk. They are good.
We go back upstairs because Sarah's brother wants to go to bed and his bed is right next to the bar. By now Cheryl can barely stand up and keeps saying that she wants to go to bed. Ryan and I decide that she needs toast with Pumpkin and Port spread. She eats it, we all share the toast. John is elected to drive us back to his house. Cheryl is passed out next to me, dangling off of her seat belt. That was probably the most bizarre part of the night, sitting next to passed-out-boss. I didn't know what to do. If she were just my friend I probably would've propped her up or something, but I just sat there. I call Lindsay--it's about 4:30 now--and she's awake for some odd reason, so she agrees to meet me at John's house. John and I try to convince Ben to let us drive them home, but he swears that he's good to go. Lindsay rolls up in her Otto's Sausage Kitchen Sweatshirt, and I say goodnight to John and we hug. Lindsay looks at me and says, "Well, what happened here?" "It's a lot fucking weirder than it looks, Linz."
The cold lingers on. I keep smoking. I keep feeling like poop. I keep thinking: Emphysema. Emphysema is better than lung cancer, isn't it? Cancer is such a nasty word. Chemo, Cancer. The Hard Cs. Emphysema sounds like it could be an Italian delicacy.
Who am I kidding?
I have an Airport Extreme Card now, so I'm blogging from Tiny's on Hawthorne and 12th. I know all these people I see around.
Lindsay and I had this intense conversation at the Basement Pub last night after seeing "Buddy." Ryan has a new lady friend, so now Lindsay is facing the future. That is, she's facing Noah, head-on, without any distractions. I wondered about my insistence on remaining self-sufficient. I lie in bed in the mornings and wonder about my inability to shake this crush like the piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe that it is. What I need is for someone to come up behind me and step on the toilet paper so that it's no longer stuck to my shoe.
Had the first Indieokie practice today. It went fairly well, considering I didn't know any songs. I'm pretty quick at picking things up--sometimes. I'm excited about it. Douglas and Lisa and Jane are all supportive and nice--and there to have fun.
New song lyrics I thought up while dishwashing tonight
You can touch me in all the wrong places/And I'll still make all the right faces/I'm used to faking it, I don't mind./You don't have to say that you love me/When you're lying below or above me/Don't need to hear that shit, I don't mind.
Still some work to do on that one.
These are the suggested Indieokie songs:
Bikini Kill: Rebel Girl
Unrest: Cherry Cherry
My Bloody Valentine: You Made Me Realise
Neutral Milk Hotel: Holland 1941 (or whatever it's called)
New Bad Things: Josh Has a Crush on a Femme From Reed
Swell Maps: Vertical Slum
Big Star: September Gurls
Strokes/Christina Aguilera/Freelance Hellraiser: A Stroke of Genius
Halo Benders: Don't Touch My Bikini
New Pornographers: Letter From an Occupant
Quasi: Our Happiness Is Guaranteed
White Stripes: Fell In Love With a Girl
Wire: I Am the Fly
New Order: Love Vigilantes
I guess we'll just see how this goes.
John invited me to go bowling with his housemates (he calls them "the boys") last night. I took some extra Advil Cold & Sinus and steeled myself. I dusted off the old ball and shoes. We went to a bowling alley and it was too busy. We drank in the "Players Club" bar. Patrick spilled his 12 ounces of PBR all over Matt. One tough looking guy was wearing a shirt that said "It's all in the past bitch." We left and went to the Bonfire, then to Holman's. John asked if they had any tofu sauce for his french fries and the waitress (really cute) said "This is Holman's." It was funny at the time.
Then I went home. Alone. As usual. Rejection letters come in all forms.
Maybe going bowling will take away all of my sorrows.
The ranch, with it's open spaces and the rolling hills and the neighbors with their healthy bounding dogs. Chaparral. Honky Tonk bars.
Anthropology with its insistence on field work and initiation. A discipline which takes extreme liberties in borrowing from other disciplines. A discipline which sees self-analysis as a cornerstone to impartiality.
A sound-proofed basement and the potential for recording, a space dedicated to music.
My inability to see anyone else as a prospect when I've had one chosen for me, it seems, by the universe and all of its interminable machinations. I can't think outside the box about love. And although I know my past actions well enough, I still see this crush in a fatalistic manner. I see it as tragically impossible. I also see it as one in a series of many tragically impossible crushes, all of which I've, to the greater extent, recovered from. So I'm taking the higher moral ground by insisting that I'd prefer it if I could cultivate a lasting friendship rather than a fleeting but passionate romance. Am I lying to myself? Perhaps. But there is more than one person involved, and I am, in this equation, less than half. It's all well and good to profess one's undying love, but it's also rather imposing to do so. To profess one's undying friendship, however, seems nobler and to some extent farther reaching.
I think I'm getting a sinus infection. I am not pleased. I have some homeopathic remedies now, but do those really ever work?
Two hours until I have to be at work. It's never enough time.
I'm getting more excited about going to merry old England and jolly old NYC.
If Lindsay and I move out of this house, I don't know what will become of my identity.
John called last night and left a message while I was at work. I called back a little later but his housemate said that he had "stepped out for a bit." What does that mean? I think that it's code for "he doesn't want to talk to you." Maybe he just stepped out for a bit BECAUSE he doesn't want to talk to me.
I have tonight off so I must do something exciting. I think I'll go see Bubba Ho-Tep. Is that really exciting? Not really. Maybe I should go out. But I don't feel like drinking so much. What can one do besides drinking or seeing a movie or both? Board games?
living in 2750. Lindsay and I are thinking about moving out, in spite of our big old lease penalty. We don't like el landlord. The house has leaks.
songwriting. I haven't been able to match words and music in a while. I know that people go through phases when they aren't as prolific, but still I worry. I have been learning songs like "Every Rose has its Thorn" and "Without You." I used to write songs fairly easily, even if they weren't good. What I need, I think, is a collaborator.
Grad schools and fellowships. Where are the rejection letters?
Alcohol. I really drink a lot. I feel normal when I've had a couple of beers. What's that about?
general health. I don't exercise so much anymore. Skateboarding has helped me to get out of the house and at least walk around. No more yoga--it's too expensive. And the dishwashing is pretty labor intensive, so is serving. I do a lot of running around and hauling things, I guess. My body aches, though.
Catnip. My cats go nuts over it, but I have to wonder if it's any good for them.
I finished _The Portrait of a Lady_ today. I think I have a new favorite book. Now I'm moving into the absurdist genre: En Attendant Godot. I've been jumping countries and periods and genres like a horny bunny rabbit.
I tried skateboarding today but kept getting scared of my incredible speed. I'd like to blame it on my Cancerian tendencies, but truthfully I'm just a wuss.
"Doctor: ain't there nothing I can take. Doctor: to relieve this belly ache?"
I have to wash dishes tonight. I'm going to look on the bright side: I had a burrito for dinner.
I'm going to get dressed and go thrash in the sunshine. Maybe I'll get a Stumptown Coffee, too.
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