Soft & Chewy Candy

The beat goes on. The great job search of 2011 goes on. The chaos in Libya goes on. Other people keep having conversations, and I can't focus on what I'm doing because of how highly attuned I am to their topics. Maybe I should start interrupting. That might not go over so well.

The lady serving me clam chowder today in Ipswich asked if I was okay. Do I look like I'm not okay? I might ask you the same question. Better, I might ask it of your chowder, which often has bits of sand in it. Maybe that's how you know they're real clams.

Can an outside chance of something happening ever be turned into an inside chance?

If this whole enterprise doesn't make sense to you, understand that you're not alone. I am alone with these thoughts. Your choices are to pity me or envy me, which will it be?

I wrote up to three jokes on the train today, while closely monitoring the conversation happening in the seat next to me. Are they worthy?

The battery level monitor on my computer is lying. It also defiantly notes that it is (plugged in, not charging). Why should I even offer you the pleasure of direct connection to current? It is wasted on you, voltaic pile of garbage.

Scrabble in Hausa.

INVERT SUGAR

This is a poem I'm working on eventually:

This was the fear they scooped out of Admiral Ackbar's head

It had concessions made to it

It was real, like xenotransplantation or peach trees

Don't steal it.

A Fat Free Food!

"True love is priceless. For true love we pay a price. There's nothing can keep me from loving you, not fire, not ice." -B. Harper

We'll wake up bright and early

Woke up this morning to the sound of coughing and the need to bang keys. That's the most beautiful sound I can think of, keys rattling against a bed of Nick Cave music. Sun coming in, but not streaming, more like trickling through the condensation on the storm window. Why is light always streaming in fiction that you read? Streaming is not the only mode of light. Keep those keys moving, no time to stop. And maybe that's what these fiction writers are thinking, they have to keep the keys moving. There is no bread on the table if the fingers aren't tapping. It's so much fun to hear them tapping as you watch the words march forth on the screen, as I am doing now.

JD does long form posts much better than I do; witness this one. This is the way the post ends Not with a bang but a whimper.

Sometimes I try to understand everything at once

Sometimes I try to understand everything at once:

Everyone else, to a man, was saying Good Luck, but I preferred to tell her Congratulations to be leaving that harried, always rushing place that took up so much of her life. Good Luck? An insult almost to her. I expect that she'll do good things; luck shouldn't have too much to do with her trajectory after she's gone from here.

* * * * *

My father became obsessed temporarily by the prospect of capturing the twin rocks as we saw them. It strikes me that they may have held a certain mystical taste of the past, to him.

* * * * *

Bad news for you: I got a twitter account. If I started saying the word 'tweet', though, it would feel like giving in. Twitter is entertaining. It gives me little doses of people whom I think are funny. Is this so frightening?

* * * * *

A full life, that's nice. If I come off disjointed, it might be on purpose, have you considered that? Do you answer these questions? I try not to bother, but I care just a little too much, you can tell.

* * * * *

Short on time, long on options. Shortfalls I fear are the ones that cut between you and I, but at least now it doesn't seem like there are many of those. Look at your picture and be happy, not regretting anything that has happened in the long stretch of time behind. Happiness doesn't come without peril, but I pray this is right, and I think it is.

Lorne Michaels' Couch

I have been away from the blog.

With good reason.

I went swimming in Walden Pond and the Atlantic Ocean.

I ventured into the Allston Cafe with A.

I ate quiescently frozen confections.

I piloted a bumper boat.

It was a fun weekend, as you can tell from my dry, adjective-free descriptions.

It really was a good weekend.

Some days, they last longer than others

But really, it was a fantastic day. I'll run it down, if I could. And since I have final say on all decisions related to this ole blog, I will. That's right, I said it, I have full editorial control, and I'm exercising it right now. Witness:

-Woke up too early, only about 6 hours of sleep. That's unfortunately becoming the standard for weekends.

-Watched TV for a while, then had an interesting conversation with Allan about the rules we live by in society, and how none of them really matter in the end. There's nothing that you exactly have to do, we concluded. (Italics mine, obviously)

-Headed out to Market Basket. It was crowded, but cheap, as always. I purchased a pork roast for the future, and some bison hot dogs, which, hot dogs being hot dogs, will probably taste the same as hot dogs made from any other meat.

-Swung by Alex's on the way back to drop off a gallon of cheap milk and some blackberries.

-The sun came out. Allan cursed its appearance for not having come earlier.

-Unloaded, did some dishes, played some scrabble.

-Worked on a mix CD for Ms. A. Russell.

-A nice run through the park, then down Commonwealth and through some of Brookline then back home on Harvard.

-Quick shower, watched Scary Movie with Allan for a bit, then grabbed the car and picked up Guru at the T stop.

-Drove to the Kendall Square area. Guru and I met Daniel at Helmand, maybe the only Afghan restaurant in Boston, although who knows really. Dinner was really good, chunks of lamb in a spicy, rich tomato sauce with lentils and peas and rice, followed by this amazing pistachio-cardamom ice cream with pineapple and figs. All in all a very rich and extremely satisfying meal that left me just a little too full.

-Walked out in the rain to a little Turkish cafe/pizza joint. The lady there made us coffee, and then was genuinely surprised when we turned down cream and sugar. Nice lady, her.

-Said goodbye to Daniel and Guru and I drove off to Coolidge Corner to meet with Alex, Maria, Allan, Anmol, and Lanthi for the event of the year. Tommy Wiseau and Greg Sestero live, in person, to take questions before a late showing of the gloriously bad The Room.

-Wiseau was rude, lacked charm, and was nearly incoherent, clearly inhibited by any number of recreational substances. That said, he is one of the most fascinating people I have ever seen. I could not take my eyes off him the entire time (my video will follow at a later date, once I've had time to process everything I saw this evening). Greg Sestero smiled serenely throughout, but gave one-sentence answers to any questions tossed his way, and pretty clearly did not want to be there. One of the most interesting things to consider was the obvious psychic trauma of promoting your heartfelt, serious, but truly awful movie as a "black comedy", when it would be clear to even a child that this film was meant to be taken seriously, but never has been. It's sad in a way.

-The movie was fantastic. It was bad beyond your wildest dreams of what a bad movie can be. Awful dialogue, senseless plot, bad acting, pointless exterior shots of San Francisco that probably take up about a quarter of the movie, pointless characters, complete lack of continuity, overall lack of connection to reality. All the same, the extreme badness of it is compelling. And I urge everyone to see it. You can borrow my DVD.

-Decided, as did everyone else, to skip the Wiseau autograph session, at least partly because we're all a little scared of him. Walked home boisterously talking about our impressions of the film and atmosphere in the theater (Rocky Horror Picture Show type-stuff, probably at least 75 percent of the audience had seen the movie enough times to be able to quote lines and throw plastic spoons at the screen at appropriate times).

-Everyone parted ways. I walked out in Brookline to get the car and consider a few things. It was chilly but great for walking in a sweater. Thought about the nature of love and how you're the only person who can decide if you love someone, pretty much.

-Came back and laid down not one but two blog posts.

It was a great day.

She'll tell you how I suffer

Today:

-encountered ms. F. in the train station, plans to meet later, news of too many children being birthed by our high-school classmates. It would appear that at least 5 of my classmates of 2004, probably more, have already had children. What is the world coming to? To what is the world coming? snicker

-Henry Miller is an amazing writer. He says what he means, it would appear. I like that. What more can you ask? He's not afraid to be vulgar, and he has no qualms about venting his spleen about any acquaintance, friend, lover, etc. The truth is paramount, although that's only true if you believe that the narrator is perfectly honest. Obviously he's not, but it still makes for a fantastic read.

-In other news, I have a problem with believing almost everything I read. Not so much with Henry Miller, because you know from the outset that you can't trust him, but with other things, like political arguments, or most any New Yorker piece. What do we know apart from what we read? It seems like at least half the things I know I learned from reading them, therefore I believe most of what I read, because it's a way to learn things.

-Make no mistake about it, though, Miller's Tropic of Cancer is quite dirty, unapologetically so. It's about Paris, and it's full of whores, pricks, chancres, and piss. When you read it, you feel as though you have to hide what you're reading from your neighbors on the train or bus, for fear that they might catch a glimpse of a particularly filthy passage and report you to the politeness police, or the ministry of truth.

-From the Boss: Your eyes get itchy in the wee, wee hours

Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations
Lost souls callin' long distance salvation
Hey, mister deejay, won'tcha hear my last prayer?
Hey, ho, rock'n'roll, deliver me from nowhere