Popcorn Songs
...and other stuff, but it's the popcorn mix I can't get enough of.Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Sleepy random thoughts
I'm going to make stickers with my two new sayings. 'Be non-linear' and 'Practicing strategic cynicism'. Half of all proceeds will go to Ensign in hopes that he'll stop holding it against me that I shot down his online auction website idea 10 years ago.
Why aren't "pitiful" and "pitiless" antonyms?
What the hell is a 'winternauss'?!
I have a meeting at the fire company tomorrow. You have to apply and then they vote on whether they want you.
Why aren't "pitiful" and "pitiless" antonyms?
What the hell is a 'winternauss'?!
I have a meeting at the fire company tomorrow. You have to apply and then they vote on whether they want you.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
A Reading at the Hedgerow
Saw a staged reading of a first-draft at the Hedgerow Theater last night. I hope that future drafts also get readings. I think it would be fascinating to follow the work through the rewrite process.
I learned a few things, too. The first use of the insanity defense was in 1843. Catholicism frowns on fortune-telling. During WWII, deaths were reported to family members via telegrams you had to sign for. Ok, I didn't verify that last bit. A free reading will cost you $5 or a guilty conscious. No one gives a shit about my comments and I should keep them to myself more. I think five-dollars' worth is a lot of comments. The Hedgerow is tiny but beautiful. Parking there is chaos. The Starbucks in Media smells funny. A tall mocha and a Wendy's cheeseburger jr. are a recipe for the worst heartburn ever.
Ensign says I should stop fucking around with theater and karaoke and start running in and out of burning buildings or shooting things, possibly at the same time. I'm paraphrasing. I did say I was going to start doing stuff like that. My CPR class is this Saturday. Must call fire company before Friday meeting.
I learned a few things, too. The first use of the insanity defense was in 1843. Catholicism frowns on fortune-telling. During WWII, deaths were reported to family members via telegrams you had to sign for. Ok, I didn't verify that last bit. A free reading will cost you $5 or a guilty conscious. No one gives a shit about my comments and I should keep them to myself more. I think five-dollars' worth is a lot of comments. The Hedgerow is tiny but beautiful. Parking there is chaos. The Starbucks in Media smells funny. A tall mocha and a Wendy's cheeseburger jr. are a recipe for the worst heartburn ever.
Ensign says I should stop fucking around with theater and karaoke and start running in and out of burning buildings or shooting things, possibly at the same time. I'm paraphrasing. I did say I was going to start doing stuff like that. My CPR class is this Saturday. Must call fire company before Friday meeting.
Labels: theater
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Karaoke and Theater Connections
It was the weekend of meet-people-in-theater.Friday, I learned my co-worker, who is a musical theater performer and occassional staff member, was moving to Boston. Good luck, Geoff.
Saw Coyote on a Fence at Stagecrafters Saturday night. Friday, I'd met one of the cast, Ray Saputelli, at my all-time-favorite non-smoking bar, Mad Anthony's. (It looks nothing like the pictures.) Since it was the last night of the show, I told him I'd catch it. They did a really great job. Technically, it's a very difficult play--a brave choice by the Stagecrafters organization.
After the show, I headed to the bar. I met Ben and Gia who are involved with Footlighters. I also met Heather, but that's a different story for another time. Apparently, Gia's birthday is sometime around now and their group was celebrating. I mentioned I just saw Coyote, they said they were with Footlighters. Really? Great. You know, I stage managed for at Players' Club once. Yada yada.
Working for George Mulford at PCS was a great pleasure. But, theater politics stink, and the show was Wit, which after about the third performance has you ready to slit your wrists. By the end, I was burnt out and just wanted it over. There was no enjoyment left.
Wit was fantastically directed and acted, but it's also a technically difficult play. Hospital and prison settings should be avoided by theaters without Broadway budgets. The sets are just too difficult to pull off. There were several times during both Wit and Coyote that I felt peril for set pieces. I admit there's little for small budget theaters to do but cope, but it becomes an unfortunate distraction during critical points in the performance.
So, Gia told me they greatly needed a stage manager at Footlighters. *Sigh* How could I refuse a girl on her birthday? I sent them an email. We'll see what happens. At least it's closer to work and home than PCS.
I also met Eileen, the owner of the karaoke business. As an ice breaker I asked how often she hired people. She very kindly reminded me throughout the night to email her. She sang harmony with me on "Anthony's Song" which I dedicated to Heather.
It's quite a crew that surrounds her karaoke business. I think they follow each other around the weekly circuit, partying to karaoke. Interesting. I sent the email.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Feed your retro arcade addiction
Tons of classic arcade games online via Java MAME-like emulator. Awesome!
Five-martini Matt--Part I
The much-anticipated, long-awaited, true-life story. Part I.
I feel it necessary to preface. The preface must include the list of times I have ever been as drunk as I am about to describe, because I do not want to create the wrong impression that I am a lush or worse. I have, in fact, never been as drunk as I am about to describe. I have come close on three other occassions. Once was in college, when the fraternity I was rushing introduced me to the game drunk driving. I was naive enough not to know you couldn't win. I have always been competitive at games. The second time was my first year back home from college, when I threw the party that got me kicked out of my mother's house. My best friend from high school and I split a bottle of SoCo and got as far into a bottle of Wild Turkey as we could. To this day, I cannot drink SoCo or Turkey. The last time was after five martini night, when Ensign, feeling left out, tried to witness the magic himself at the Berwyn tavern.
You see, four shit-faced, fall-down-and-crying drunk episodes over twelve eligible drinking years is not so bad.
So there's this big convention every year in Columbus, Ohio, called 'Origins.' It's for games--board games, miniature games, card games and roleplaying games.
That last one was why I was there about four years ago. I was helping my good friends at 9th Level Games pimp their wares, and I mean that with lots of respect. These guys are masters of convention marketing. How else could they lure traffic away from nearby tables with nary a booth babe on staff?
I rode a natural geek and clove high the whole show. (I was smoking then, and I mostly smoked clove cigarettes) My days were pimping wares, running games, getting no sleep, and basking in the glow of countless masses screaming, 'All Hail King Torg.' Actually, we did count. It was over 70, iirc. I need to find and post the video.
I'll skip the rest of the subplots.
Five-martini night began with dinner on the last full day of the show. I was very tired and very hungry. The waitress sensed my mood. She got nervous. She had a stutter and her nervousness made it much worse. I tried to be patient. According to others present, I failed miserably. Later, I would feel bad. Later, I would cry about it, but don't think it sensitive of me, because by that time I was crying about everything bad, good or indifferent. But at the moment, at dinner, I just wanted my food and my Irish coffee. Five-martini night should rightly be called two Irish coffee and five martini night, but that name is too long.
After dinner there was a mixer/party. Cake, 9th Level's frontman, really knows the industry. At shows, he's the consumate rockstar salesman--he knows everyone, can schmooze anyone, and the mixer/party is his natural element. He has an MBA, but you can't imagine him in an office. He'd be the tazmanian devil in the zoo, this whirlwind of energy dissociated by a cubicle but not contained by it. Papers must fly everywhere. So, Chris is at the party and I'm just feeding off his energy and being swept along by it. He's talking to industry big wigs, John Kovalic, Matt Forbek (not Sobeck), and on. The big wigs' names are only important because they complete a joke for Ensign.
Cake also has a penchant for martinis. He was introducing me to, as he called it, the perfection of alcohol. I was into my second Bombay Sapphire when I decided I liked them a little dirty. (For the unintiated, dirty means with some olive juice.)
I was into my third Sapphire when I caught wind of the unmistakable aroma of clove cigarettes. I found the person burning one. We compared brands. We swapped. Seconds later, I lit up a Djarum Bali Hai for the first time in my life. The event should really be called two Irish coffee, one Bali Hai and five martini night.
Halfway into the second drag, the all-too-literal metaphorical warm fuzzy mitten slipped over my head.
Time passed. I had fun. I have no recollection of what happened between the structural column by the bar where I lit the clove, and the line for the bathroom. It wasn't a blackout, there just wasn't anything interesting enough to remember in the four years since. Or maybe, it's just that everything to follow is so much more memorable.
I needed to use the bathroom, so I was in line. The line was very, very long and was moving very, very slowly. I thinkI told the guys I was headed to the john. I was in line so long, they assumed I went back to the hotel room.
In line, the three guys in front of me recognize I'm with 9th Level. They are 9LG fanboys. One of them is in a wheelchair. They start to talk to me. Normally, I might have just said a few words and been done, but how can you not stop and really talk to a guy in a wheelchair? Let alone one who's a fan of yours (if only by association) and who will most likely be completely screwed by the facilities after he waits 45 minutes to use them. Jesus, of course I was gonna talk to these guys about whatever they wanted.
They had these heavy southern drawls. And in about two minutes of talking to them, so did I. We spent the next ten minutes listening to me obsess about why the fuck I couldn't not talk in a southern accent. I looked for words you couldn't possibly say in a southern accent. I discovered there are none. All words can be inflected with a southern accent. This is especially true after five martinis. We spent another five to ten minutes listening to me apologies for not being able to lose the drawl. They were very nice about it. Maybe they thought it was funny enough to ignore. Maybe they were fanboys enough not to care. Maybe they knew they were stuck in line for another half-hour with me. Whatever reasoning we all had, we all got over it. Then, we talked about everything else they wanted to talk about in a heavy drawl.
Back in the bar, everyone from my group is gone, so I order another Sapphire and settle in a seat next to John Kovalic. He's talking. I have no idea what he's saying, but I'm hanging on every word. If I said anything, there's probably no one who remembers if it was intelligible, or in a southern drawl.
I'm just starting on another Sapphire when Cake, Dan and Kyle come back to the bar looking for me. I have consumed a monumental number of gin-soaked olives. Much later, I would be dubbed the 'Olive Nazi.' But that is an altogether different story and not in the next part of this one, which is still to come...
I feel it necessary to preface. The preface must include the list of times I have ever been as drunk as I am about to describe, because I do not want to create the wrong impression that I am a lush or worse. I have, in fact, never been as drunk as I am about to describe. I have come close on three other occassions. Once was in college, when the fraternity I was rushing introduced me to the game drunk driving. I was naive enough not to know you couldn't win. I have always been competitive at games. The second time was my first year back home from college, when I threw the party that got me kicked out of my mother's house. My best friend from high school and I split a bottle of SoCo and got as far into a bottle of Wild Turkey as we could. To this day, I cannot drink SoCo or Turkey. The last time was after five martini night, when Ensign, feeling left out, tried to witness the magic himself at the Berwyn tavern.
You see, four shit-faced, fall-down-and-crying drunk episodes over twelve eligible drinking years is not so bad.
So there's this big convention every year in Columbus, Ohio, called 'Origins.' It's for games--board games, miniature games, card games and roleplaying games.
That last one was why I was there about four years ago. I was helping my good friends at 9th Level Games pimp their wares, and I mean that with lots of respect. These guys are masters of convention marketing. How else could they lure traffic away from nearby tables with nary a booth babe on staff?
I rode a natural geek and clove high the whole show. (I was smoking then, and I mostly smoked clove cigarettes) My days were pimping wares, running games, getting no sleep, and basking in the glow of countless masses screaming, 'All Hail King Torg.' Actually, we did count. It was over 70, iirc. I need to find and post the video.
I'll skip the rest of the subplots.
Five-martini night began with dinner on the last full day of the show. I was very tired and very hungry. The waitress sensed my mood. She got nervous. She had a stutter and her nervousness made it much worse. I tried to be patient. According to others present, I failed miserably. Later, I would feel bad. Later, I would cry about it, but don't think it sensitive of me, because by that time I was crying about everything bad, good or indifferent. But at the moment, at dinner, I just wanted my food and my Irish coffee. Five-martini night should rightly be called two Irish coffee and five martini night, but that name is too long.
After dinner there was a mixer/party. Cake, 9th Level's frontman, really knows the industry. At shows, he's the consumate rockstar salesman--he knows everyone, can schmooze anyone, and the mixer/party is his natural element. He has an MBA, but you can't imagine him in an office. He'd be the tazmanian devil in the zoo, this whirlwind of energy dissociated by a cubicle but not contained by it. Papers must fly everywhere. So, Chris is at the party and I'm just feeding off his energy and being swept along by it. He's talking to industry big wigs, John Kovalic, Matt Forbek (not Sobeck), and on. The big wigs' names are only important because they complete a joke for Ensign.
Cake also has a penchant for martinis. He was introducing me to, as he called it, the perfection of alcohol. I was into my second Bombay Sapphire when I decided I liked them a little dirty. (For the unintiated, dirty means with some olive juice.)
I was into my third Sapphire when I caught wind of the unmistakable aroma of clove cigarettes. I found the person burning one. We compared brands. We swapped. Seconds later, I lit up a Djarum Bali Hai for the first time in my life. The event should really be called two Irish coffee, one Bali Hai and five martini night.
Halfway into the second drag, the all-too-literal metaphorical warm fuzzy mitten slipped over my head.
Time passed. I had fun. I have no recollection of what happened between the structural column by the bar where I lit the clove, and the line for the bathroom. It wasn't a blackout, there just wasn't anything interesting enough to remember in the four years since. Or maybe, it's just that everything to follow is so much more memorable.
I needed to use the bathroom, so I was in line. The line was very, very long and was moving very, very slowly. I thinkI told the guys I was headed to the john. I was in line so long, they assumed I went back to the hotel room.
In line, the three guys in front of me recognize I'm with 9th Level. They are 9LG fanboys. One of them is in a wheelchair. They start to talk to me. Normally, I might have just said a few words and been done, but how can you not stop and really talk to a guy in a wheelchair? Let alone one who's a fan of yours (if only by association) and who will most likely be completely screwed by the facilities after he waits 45 minutes to use them. Jesus, of course I was gonna talk to these guys about whatever they wanted.
They had these heavy southern drawls. And in about two minutes of talking to them, so did I. We spent the next ten minutes listening to me obsess about why the fuck I couldn't not talk in a southern accent. I looked for words you couldn't possibly say in a southern accent. I discovered there are none. All words can be inflected with a southern accent. This is especially true after five martinis. We spent another five to ten minutes listening to me apologies for not being able to lose the drawl. They were very nice about it. Maybe they thought it was funny enough to ignore. Maybe they were fanboys enough not to care. Maybe they knew they were stuck in line for another half-hour with me. Whatever reasoning we all had, we all got over it. Then, we talked about everything else they wanted to talk about in a heavy drawl.
Back in the bar, everyone from my group is gone, so I order another Sapphire and settle in a seat next to John Kovalic. He's talking. I have no idea what he's saying, but I'm hanging on every word. If I said anything, there's probably no one who remembers if it was intelligible, or in a southern drawl.
I'm just starting on another Sapphire when Cake, Dan and Kyle come back to the bar looking for me. I have consumed a monumental number of gin-soaked olives. Much later, I would be dubbed the 'Olive Nazi.' But that is an altogether different story and not in the next part of this one, which is still to come...
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Format changes
Back to the old format with a few changes. Can you tell that it's a holiday and my family is 400 miles away? (I'm on-call for work this Thanksgiving weekend.) There's a poker game tonight, though. Rock on!
Remix
Skimming my friends' blogosphere, I found the idea of the 'Text Remix'. Not all the ideas are new, but it's still fun to connect them to the word remix. I just had to try it!
One of the key elements of the remix, is that multiple sources are sampled and combined into the new expression. That's where the talent lies: finding personal connections between disparate sources, giving them juxtaposition, layering them and presenting them.
My effort here isn't personal enough, because the connections are not something you can go find on demand (as I just tried to do). They must be discovered serendipitously, remembered, and brought to the cutting room later.
I take as sources: Shakespeare's sonnet 125, the Star Spangled Banner and the Pledge of Allegiance. I find sonnet 125 a bitter piece, and it comes through in the remix.
Were't aught to me I bore the canopy
Whose broad stripes and bright stars
With liberty and justice for all
Would take my oblation, poor but free
Have I not seen dwellers
Give proof through the night
Through the perilous fight
Have I not seen dwellers
Forgo simple savour
Lose all and more
Have I not seen dwellers
Pitiful thrivers
Laid great bases for eternity
So proudly we hail'd
Great bases for eternity
And in their gazing spent
Were't aught to me I bore the canopy
Whose broad stripes and bright stars
And the Republic for which it stands
O'er the land of the free
One of the key elements of the remix, is that multiple sources are sampled and combined into the new expression. That's where the talent lies: finding personal connections between disparate sources, giving them juxtaposition, layering them and presenting them.
My effort here isn't personal enough, because the connections are not something you can go find on demand (as I just tried to do). They must be discovered serendipitously, remembered, and brought to the cutting room later.
I take as sources: Shakespeare's sonnet 125, the Star Spangled Banner and the Pledge of Allegiance. I find sonnet 125 a bitter piece, and it comes through in the remix.
Were't aught to me I bore the canopy
Whose broad stripes and bright stars
With liberty and justice for all
Would take my oblation, poor but free
Have I not seen dwellers
Give proof through the night
Through the perilous fight
Have I not seen dwellers
Forgo simple savour
Lose all and more
Have I not seen dwellers
Pitiful thrivers
Laid great bases for eternity
So proudly we hail'd
Great bases for eternity
And in their gazing spent
Were't aught to me I bore the canopy
Whose broad stripes and bright stars
And the Republic for which it stands
O'er the land of the free
Fluff
You fiddle elaborate fluff
Fingers too frantic
Feet about water
Barely a leg up
Whispering only
Moments of language
Left wanting
Fingers too frantic
Feet about water
Barely a leg up
Whispering only
Moments of language
Left wanting
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Lucine and Dolan in the land of Thirlwell
I'm reading Thirlwell's Politics. What a fantastic book! They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I needed to write some prose because it's been too long since my last effort. To break the writer's block I made his style into a writing exercise. This is the result.
Dolan loved Lucine. It is possible that Dolan did not know what love was. It is equally possible that it did not matter. His notion of love was wrapped in passion, steeped in sacrifice, and delivered without regard for meaningless details like fairness and reciprocity. It was grown-up puppy love. It was dog love.
Lucine was very uncomfortable with Dolan’s sense of love. She was appreciative of his love, and even grateful for it sometimes. But Lucine did not have the same notion of love that Dolan had. She did not understand his love. That made Lucine very uncomfortable.
I would tell you what Lucine’s sense of love is, but I cannot. I can tell you about Dolan’s because he is just a character. I made him up. I know everything about him. Lucine is real. I do not know everything about Lucine.
Lucine loved Dolan. But there were subtleties to Lucine’s love. It came in different flavors. Some flavors built slowly over time and others were sharp for a moment then faded quickly. Lucine imagined Dolan as an indulgence, an appetizer or a between-meals snack. She was surprised to find how long he lingered on her palate. Lucine’s love for Dolan felt slightly dangerous and spicy. It tasted good to her, but was impossible to get rid of. He was garlic and onions.
Lucine was raised Catholic and grew into a devout non-practitioner. This ensured enough guilt to make any decision fall between complicated and impossible. She was close with her family. Her family cultivated a sense of Noblesse oblige that had outlived their means. Lucine was a middle-class Catholic girl who believed she had to do her part to save the world. Lucine was very busy and felt very guilty.
Dolan was raised Catholic and grew into a devout agnostic. His family was not part of his life. He was an artist and musician. He subscribed to no medium. Everything he did was art by definition. Dolan could be very pretentious. Sometimes it was charming. His pretention was tempered with a self-deprecating sense of humor. Sometimes it was funny.
Lucine and Dolan were fated to go separate ways. It was not an easy separation. Once Lucine recognized the doggedness of Dolan's love, her guilt weighed heavily. She allowed a sense of obligation to affect her notion of love. It multiplied the guilt. It created resentment. I have seen a good definition of love, and I believe resentment is its opposite.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Different Drummers
The inestimable Ken brought this to my attention: Different Drummers.
If I do not want what you want, please try not to tell me that my want is wrong.
Or if I believe other than you, at least pause before you correct my view.
Or if my emotion is less than yours, or more, given the same circumstances, try not to ask me to feel more strongly or weakly.
Or yet if I act, or fail to act, in the manner of your design for action, let me be.
I do not, for the moment at least, ask you to understand me. That will come only when you are willing to give up changing me into a copy of you.
Crossed Wires
A few years back I started writing a play that I was calling 'Crossed Wires'. I got about four scenes into it before I ran out of gas. Here's to another push...
Crossed Wires
Crossed Wires
Spain
If this is Spain
It's just her eyesight that tells him so
'Cause he's lost in these aisles of ozone
She takes his hand and they both know
This must be Spain
It's her description that sells him for
The image of all its shows
The thought of all she knows
About this Spain
About this electric scenery
They're huddled in the shadow of the CRT
He shows her how he has to feel to read
Never any other shared such ecstasy
Right in front of Spain
The salesmen can't believe
The sight of their audacity
The sound of their viscosity
Must be heard in Spain
And they're basking in the glow
Of the TVs and columns and rows
And they wonder why not everyone goes
To experience Spain
It's just her eyesight that tells him so
'Cause he's lost in these aisles of ozone
She takes his hand and they both know
This must be Spain
It's her description that sells him for
The image of all its shows
The thought of all she knows
About this Spain
About this electric scenery
They're huddled in the shadow of the CRT
He shows her how he has to feel to read
Never any other shared such ecstasy
Right in front of Spain
The salesmen can't believe
The sight of their audacity
The sound of their viscosity
Must be heard in Spain
And they're basking in the glow
Of the TVs and columns and rows
And they wonder why not everyone goes
To experience Spain
Labels: songs
Monday, November 21, 2005
He's got the letters on his face
The parenthetical lines are sung by a 2nd voice.
His mother says it's just a phase
(But his face reads a different way)
It will pass in several days
(Unlike acne's pothole maze)
He took 40 pills today
(Benzol-peroxide tastes like souffle)
He can't make it go away
The kids in school think it's a treat
(He rubs his nose and they all cheat)
But he can't take another week because
He's got the letters
on his face
con his face
dawn his face
He's got the letters
on his face
beyond his face now
The hospital can't make it right
(At least his isn't Mennonite)
The letters change again each night
(Alphabet soup makes him uptight)
Doctors say they'll win the fight
(And the nurses don't cringe at his sight)
Lawyers just file copyrights
There's only two cases in the world
(And one of those is just a squirrel)
Plastic surgeons only give referrals because
He's got the letters
on his face
lawn his face
pawn his face
He's got the letters
on his face
gone his face now
His mother says it's just a phase
(But his face reads a different way)
It will pass in several days
(Unlike acne's pothole maze)
He took 40 pills today
(Benzol-peroxide tastes like souffle)
He can't make it go away
The kids in school think it's a treat
(He rubs his nose and they all cheat)
But he can't take another week because
He's got the letters
on his face
con his face
dawn his face
He's got the letters
on his face
beyond his face now
The hospital can't make it right
(At least his isn't Mennonite)
The letters change again each night
(Alphabet soup makes him uptight)
Doctors say they'll win the fight
(And the nurses don't cringe at his sight)
Lawyers just file copyrights
There's only two cases in the world
(And one of those is just a squirrel)
Plastic surgeons only give referrals because
He's got the letters
on his face
lawn his face
pawn his face
He's got the letters
on his face
gone his face now
Labels: songs
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Edward R. Murrow
Saw Good Night, and Good Luck. today. I have an Edward R. Murrow documentary set up next in my Netflix queue and I wanted to see the new movie first. It's a demure period piece, shot black-and-white, and capturing more smoke on film than the combined efforts of Cheech, Chong, et al. What little music there is in the movie is wonderful. It's a quiet movie that uses music only between scenes. I will be looking for the soundtrack. While the subject matter is riveting, the movie fails to be compelling drama. I hope the documentary will be more engaging.
Sunday is list day
Today, I awoke at 6:45AM, with only a slightly upset stomach. Not bad for just under 5 hours sleep after a good night's partying. Today is list day.
Last night I consumed (for the record, it was not the same as 5 martinis)
I feel spectacular all things considered.
Met some fantastic people at Mad Anthony's last night. This may be the beginnings of a great new tradition. I just need to find people who want to go get drunk and sing. The bar is non-smoking, which is fantastic for me, but no good for Cake, the only other person I know who's ever said, "Hell, ya, let's go karaoke!" So, I just need to figure out how to build this Saturday night karaoke club.
My reading list as of today (it gets longer faster than it gets shorter--(requisite "that's not what she said") )
Looks like I've had my first Netflix mail problems--they normally get the movie returns in a day. Four days ago I dropped them at the Norristown post office. First and last time I use it for Netflix, I think.
Things to do soon
Last night I consumed (for the record, it was not the same as 5 martinis)
- 1 Guinness
- 2 Bombay Sapphire martinis
- 3 shots Bailey's with coffee
- 1 shot Jaegermeister
- 2 cokes
- 2 glasses of water
I feel spectacular all things considered.
Met some fantastic people at Mad Anthony's last night. This may be the beginnings of a great new tradition. I just need to find people who want to go get drunk and sing. The bar is non-smoking, which is fantastic for me, but no good for Cake, the only other person I know who's ever said, "Hell, ya, let's go karaoke!" So, I just need to figure out how to build this Saturday night karaoke club.
My reading list as of today (it gets longer faster than it gets shorter--(requisite "that's not what she said") )
- Underworld - Don DeLillo
- Before You Know Kindness - Chris Bohjalian
- The Glass Key, The Red Harvest & The Maltese Falcon - Dashiell Hammett
- The Mysteries of Pittsburgh - Michael Chabon
- The Lady, The Chef, and the Courtesan - Marisol
- Politics - Adam Thirlwell
- A Feast for Crows - George R. R. Martin
Looks like I've had my first Netflix mail problems--they normally get the movie returns in a day. Four days ago I dropped them at the Norristown post office. First and last time I use it for Netflix, I think.
Things to do soon
- Clean the house
- Find a Val Kilmer quote from every movie he's been in--"Why, Johnny Ringo, you look like a ghost just walked over your grave."
- Switch to using only a laptop at home
- Find a use for all the flat screens the above decision will free up
- Pay the bills, dammit!
- Find a place to put away the summer clothes
- Harass Mike about the next poker night
Karaoke Saturday Baby!
Whoooooo! Karaoke Saturday, baby!
Yes, I'm a little bit drunk. Not drunk enough not to drive home, which means, not drunk enough not to check my email and yada yada yada. Which is why I went and got drunk to begin with. Lousy plan, I know. But I sang three good songs and tried out some of my new Sinatra for the first time. You never know what the music is going to sound like, sometimes is cheesy muzak.
So I think I pulled a major fuck-up. I hate not knowing. Do you pre-emptively apologize and hope you get credit for recognizing the fuck-up? But what if you only imagined the fuck-up... or it's just a gaff and not a full-blown fuck-up? Is it worse to treat a gaff like a big fuck-up? I decided to get drunk to stop thinking about it. Unfortunately, without a designated driver, it's not possible to get that drunk... only to get drunk enough not to worry about it anymore... but not so drunk as to stop thinking about it. Dammit.
I hate that my damn insecurities make me high-maintenance. But how the hell do you not be insecure about things you can't know? Sure, sure... don't worry about things you can't control and all that. Easier said...
I saw Capote today, too. Good stuff. Powerful and sad. I wish it would have been about more than just In Cold Blood, but it's better that way than 3 hours long.
I also met Laura for coffee at Borders. We walked around Chestnut Hill for awhile. We talked about houses, college, jobs, sinuses and a teensy bit about politics. In all, it was a very pleasant afternoon. We share insecurities--that's really nice.
I spent way too much money on books.
Guess I'll veg in front of the TV until I pass out.
Yes, I'm a little bit drunk. Not drunk enough not to drive home, which means, not drunk enough not to check my email and yada yada yada. Which is why I went and got drunk to begin with. Lousy plan, I know. But I sang three good songs and tried out some of my new Sinatra for the first time. You never know what the music is going to sound like, sometimes is cheesy muzak.
So I think I pulled a major fuck-up. I hate not knowing. Do you pre-emptively apologize and hope you get credit for recognizing the fuck-up? But what if you only imagined the fuck-up... or it's just a gaff and not a full-blown fuck-up? Is it worse to treat a gaff like a big fuck-up? I decided to get drunk to stop thinking about it. Unfortunately, without a designated driver, it's not possible to get that drunk... only to get drunk enough not to worry about it anymore... but not so drunk as to stop thinking about it. Dammit.
I hate that my damn insecurities make me high-maintenance. But how the hell do you not be insecure about things you can't know? Sure, sure... don't worry about things you can't control and all that. Easier said...
I saw Capote today, too. Good stuff. Powerful and sad. I wish it would have been about more than just In Cold Blood, but it's better that way than 3 hours long.
I also met Laura for coffee at Borders. We walked around Chestnut Hill for awhile. We talked about houses, college, jobs, sinuses and a teensy bit about politics. In all, it was a very pleasant afternoon. We share insecurities--that's really nice.
I spent way too much money on books.
Guess I'll veg in front of the TV until I pass out.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Pay yourself first
Four out of five money managers agree
To ensure domestic prosperity
Pay yourself first!
Suppose this financially sound advice
Applied equally to heart and soul and mind
What would payments made look like?
When your sole is aching, have a seat
If you're missing friends, it's time to meet
Too busy, too tired, too far behind?
Pay yourself first and you may find the time
But there's no mere market economy
That fulfills the needs between you and me
What then will be our currency?
The weight of letters, the words of poems
All moonbeams and sweat, our perfumes and colognes
Washing of arms, nibling of toes
All of the things that each of us knows
Whatever the cost, you deserve no less
Lest the balance be shown on your countenance
And if not for the now, to one day reminisce
Pay yourself first!
To ensure domestic prosperity
Pay yourself first!
Suppose this financially sound advice
Applied equally to heart and soul and mind
What would payments made look like?
When your sole is aching, have a seat
If you're missing friends, it's time to meet
Too busy, too tired, too far behind?
Pay yourself first and you may find the time
But there's no mere market economy
That fulfills the needs between you and me
What then will be our currency?
The weight of letters, the words of poems
All moonbeams and sweat, our perfumes and colognes
Washing of arms, nibling of toes
All of the things that each of us knows
Whatever the cost, you deserve no less
Lest the balance be shown on your countenance
And if not for the now, to one day reminisce
Pay yourself first!
Friday, November 18, 2005
Darla
What I find most amazing about Sarah Silverman is how she can talk about sex like most people talk about picking up their dry cleaning. She's ruder, funnier and more honest about sex than... anyone, really. She should be the spokesperson for sex education. It doesn't hurt that she's smoking hot, too. I think Hollywood execs must be intimidated by her or concerned about the moral majority, because there is no other reason she's not a superstar by now.
Which leads me to Darla, the only person I've met face-to-face who can talk about sex like its dry cleaning. No, I don't literally mean Darla or the actress--I'm speaking figuratively and names have been changed to protect the innocent. (If there is such a thing, to quote my favorite movie to quote.)
Erik has gently harassed me enough that I'm out there dating again.
So, Darla and I met at Un-Thanksgiving last night. It was an interesting program, but did not include enough Native Americans or American Indians or whatever you want to call them. And it's pretty much an unforgivable insult in my eyes to have another speaker prattle on longer than your keynote. So, this vegetarian pot-luck dinner and presentation was more of a subculture rally than an actual historical presentation of what happened to the 'Indigenous peoples of turtle island.' It was still moderately interesting for the first hour, but the tofu pot-pie was cold and even the delicious vegan gravy couldn't warm it up enough.
So, some of you must be thinking, "What the hell kind of dumb-ass takes a girl to a discussion of the genocide of the American Indians on a first date?!"
You either get it or you don't--it cannot be explained, so I won't bother to try.
There was backup plan in case it sucked. Quizzo at the Roosevelt. Darla was completely unaware of the quizzo phenomenon. We played. We lost. One round we didn't even listen to the questions, we just talked.
She comes alive in dark and dingy places in a way I've never experienced before, surrounded by skin suddenly glowing from a light within.
Which leads me to Darla, the only person I've met face-to-face who can talk about sex like its dry cleaning. No, I don't literally mean Darla or the actress--I'm speaking figuratively and names have been changed to protect the innocent. (If there is such a thing, to quote my favorite movie to quote.)
Erik has gently harassed me enough that I'm out there dating again.
So, Darla and I met at Un-Thanksgiving last night. It was an interesting program, but did not include enough Native Americans or American Indians or whatever you want to call them. And it's pretty much an unforgivable insult in my eyes to have another speaker prattle on longer than your keynote. So, this vegetarian pot-luck dinner and presentation was more of a subculture rally than an actual historical presentation of what happened to the 'Indigenous peoples of turtle island.' It was still moderately interesting for the first hour, but the tofu pot-pie was cold and even the delicious vegan gravy couldn't warm it up enough.
So, some of you must be thinking, "What the hell kind of dumb-ass takes a girl to a discussion of the genocide of the American Indians on a first date?!"
You either get it or you don't--it cannot be explained, so I won't bother to try.
There was backup plan in case it sucked. Quizzo at the Roosevelt. Darla was completely unaware of the quizzo phenomenon. We played. We lost. One round we didn't even listen to the questions, we just talked.
She comes alive in dark and dingy places in a way I've never experienced before, surrounded by skin suddenly glowing from a light within.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Cochise
I doubt this is historically accurate, but then, it wasn't meant to be. It was based on impressions I got from flipping through an American Indian History book in the library. It was one of the songs I wrote while in BBH, but it didn't really fit the personality of the band.
There are the soldiers
Intolerant of their foes
Correcting our opinions
On what we think we know
They teach the children
Cowboys and Indians
Learn to shoot a guy, boy
And wear our uniform
They are accepting donations
To the general's war fund
For protection of children
From the native pagans
There is the federal marshall
Telling Indians have slaughtered
Fathers, wives, sons and daughters
As they tried to run
And he swears he saw Cochise
There are Apache
Strong on hunting bows
It's only where they point them
That the general can't condone
But when the reserves of land fell
To muskets of men
Crying eminent domain
He raised his spear to battle
Turned his hatchet to scalping
Painted lines upon his face
But there are no pictures of Cochise
Only generals' right-hands
Only sepia white men
Put to black and white
There are uniformed soldiers
With their feet upon barrels
Bearing wounds made with arrows
Who stole from the fight
To claim they killed Cochise
There are the bodies
Strewn about cacti
Wondering whether they'll die
With prickers in their sides
Then are the generals
Dividing what they've won
Deciding what the people
Should know about what's been done
So there are no pictures of Cochise
Only general's right-hands
Only sepia white men
Put to black and white
There are uniformed soldiers
With their feet upon barrels
Bearing wounds made with arrows
Who stole from the fight
To claim they killed Cochise
There are the soldiers
Intolerant of their foes
Correcting our opinions
On what we think we know
They teach the children
Cowboys and Indians
Learn to shoot a guy, boy
And wear our uniform
They are accepting donations
To the general's war fund
For protection of children
From the native pagans
There is the federal marshall
Telling Indians have slaughtered
Fathers, wives, sons and daughters
As they tried to run
And he swears he saw Cochise
There are Apache
Strong on hunting bows
It's only where they point them
That the general can't condone
But when the reserves of land fell
To muskets of men
Crying eminent domain
He raised his spear to battle
Turned his hatchet to scalping
Painted lines upon his face
But there are no pictures of Cochise
Only generals' right-hands
Only sepia white men
Put to black and white
There are uniformed soldiers
With their feet upon barrels
Bearing wounds made with arrows
Who stole from the fight
To claim they killed Cochise
There are the bodies
Strewn about cacti
Wondering whether they'll die
With prickers in their sides
Then are the generals
Dividing what they've won
Deciding what the people
Should know about what's been done
So there are no pictures of Cochise
Only general's right-hands
Only sepia white men
Put to black and white
There are uniformed soldiers
With their feet upon barrels
Bearing wounds made with arrows
Who stole from the fight
To claim they killed Cochise
Labels: songs
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Sandy Says
Sandy says, "There's lines in the middle.
You go too fast. There's the brakes. Won't you hit them?"
I asked, "Would I get caught if I sped?"
She said, "I can't tell you the future if I'm dead!"
Sandy says there's stars in the sunshine
They write words and tell things to her
I'd swear if I weren't mad
I'd tell everyone they'd been had
She displays her disinterest
As I try to uncover this
Complex incongruity
Of why she still stays here with me
Sandy says, "There's little icebergs in the ocean.
They're my friends and I love their crazy motions.
But how I hate to hear them cry.
Oh me, oh me, oh my.
If they could raise their consciousness,
That would be their best defense."
But I just watch them melt away
Searching for something to say
Sandy says, "Cassandra had it comin'.
They only listen when you don't know nothin'."
The sun is settling down
As we run from another town
Labels: songs
Oldest Memories
Sometimes I try to remember back as far as I can.
I heard once some people remember their cribs. My memory only goes back to about 3 or 4 I think.
The oldest fully-formed memory I have is lying in my bed in my parents’ house in Wesleyville or Lawrence Park or wherever it was. It wasn’t the farmhouse. The bedroom had pale blue walls, or maybe they just looked that way because it was night and the big lights weren’t on. I’m pretty sure I had a nightlight. I still have a nightlight, but it’s in the bathroom now. Maybe that doesn’t count. It may have been the moonlight that spilled through the double windows set into a dormer that gave the walls their ethereal color. I don’t remember curtains. But, then, I don’t remember much except the shape of where the ceiling slope gave way to the dormer, the angles and the play of light and shadow over them. I think my bed sat nestled in the dormer and the door opened on the wall opposite the bed. The harder I try to look at these old memories, the fuzzier they get, as if you can only see them clearly if you don’t look too closely or straight at them.
I was awakened in my memory, but I don’t know now if it was the monster in the closet or the one under the bed that did it. I don’t know which of those I believed in because my memory has been tainted by all the movies and stories that teach you children believe in monsters in closets and under beds. Maybe it was a bad dream that woke me.
I don’t remember anything else about that house, except a picture of the front surrounded by identical houses around it, like you would find in a real estate listing. The houses were tightly spaced, with just enough room for an alley to the backyards on one side—or maybe two tire tracks worn down into a driveway. There was a covered porch. It feels like it should have been a side-by-side duplex, but the memory can neither confirm nor deny.
The next thing I still remember was at the farmhouse. It was an eerie overcast day. Overcast days should be gray and misty, but I remember the sky was a light amber and the world beyond the sliding glass door of the living room looked sharp, more in focus. It was the strange light you get when the sky over you is cloudy, but the sun is low and streams in from beyond the cloud cover. But the sky was a solid mass that day. My dad called me over to the window to watch something—or was that added by my imagination after? There was a single set of telephone poles on the far side of the dirt road. At the top of one about three poles down was a gray cylinder with wires coming out of it. Maybe it was glowing. Again, I don’t know if I’ve added that since, now that I’ve seen a transformer explode all on it own—next to a gas station no less. Whether it was glowing at the time, or not, I knew for some reason I should be watching the transformer. A blue-white stream of light shot from the sky and blew the top of the pole to smithereens. I think it was lightning. And that’s all I remember about that.
Blue must be my favorite color, because I remember the walls of the hospital as sickly blue and not green like everyone says they were. There was a crack in the plaster wall that ran from floor to ceiling. Apparently I’d come close to dying and that’s why I don’t remember anything that led up to the hospital and surgery. Unless maybe my sinuses had been suctioned by the ear, nose and throat specialist before the hospital--I remember that. I remember I was unhappy about it, but no specific sensations. Tonsils and adenoids were removed. Who the hell knows what adenoids are anyway? I researched it once and turns out adenoids are capable of regrowing. I was in the hospital bed, obsessed with the giant crack in the wall, and the toy model X-wing fighter my family got for me. I loved that X-wing until I got the Millennium Falcon, and then, well, it wasn't a fair competition.
I heard once some people remember their cribs. My memory only goes back to about 3 or 4 I think.
The oldest fully-formed memory I have is lying in my bed in my parents’ house in Wesleyville or Lawrence Park or wherever it was. It wasn’t the farmhouse. The bedroom had pale blue walls, or maybe they just looked that way because it was night and the big lights weren’t on. I’m pretty sure I had a nightlight. I still have a nightlight, but it’s in the bathroom now. Maybe that doesn’t count. It may have been the moonlight that spilled through the double windows set into a dormer that gave the walls their ethereal color. I don’t remember curtains. But, then, I don’t remember much except the shape of where the ceiling slope gave way to the dormer, the angles and the play of light and shadow over them. I think my bed sat nestled in the dormer and the door opened on the wall opposite the bed. The harder I try to look at these old memories, the fuzzier they get, as if you can only see them clearly if you don’t look too closely or straight at them.
I was awakened in my memory, but I don’t know now if it was the monster in the closet or the one under the bed that did it. I don’t know which of those I believed in because my memory has been tainted by all the movies and stories that teach you children believe in monsters in closets and under beds. Maybe it was a bad dream that woke me.
I don’t remember anything else about that house, except a picture of the front surrounded by identical houses around it, like you would find in a real estate listing. The houses were tightly spaced, with just enough room for an alley to the backyards on one side—or maybe two tire tracks worn down into a driveway. There was a covered porch. It feels like it should have been a side-by-side duplex, but the memory can neither confirm nor deny.
The next thing I still remember was at the farmhouse. It was an eerie overcast day. Overcast days should be gray and misty, but I remember the sky was a light amber and the world beyond the sliding glass door of the living room looked sharp, more in focus. It was the strange light you get when the sky over you is cloudy, but the sun is low and streams in from beyond the cloud cover. But the sky was a solid mass that day. My dad called me over to the window to watch something—or was that added by my imagination after? There was a single set of telephone poles on the far side of the dirt road. At the top of one about three poles down was a gray cylinder with wires coming out of it. Maybe it was glowing. Again, I don’t know if I’ve added that since, now that I’ve seen a transformer explode all on it own—next to a gas station no less. Whether it was glowing at the time, or not, I knew for some reason I should be watching the transformer. A blue-white stream of light shot from the sky and blew the top of the pole to smithereens. I think it was lightning. And that’s all I remember about that.
Blue must be my favorite color, because I remember the walls of the hospital as sickly blue and not green like everyone says they were. There was a crack in the plaster wall that ran from floor to ceiling. Apparently I’d come close to dying and that’s why I don’t remember anything that led up to the hospital and surgery. Unless maybe my sinuses had been suctioned by the ear, nose and throat specialist before the hospital--I remember that. I remember I was unhappy about it, but no specific sensations. Tonsils and adenoids were removed. Who the hell knows what adenoids are anyway? I researched it once and turns out adenoids are capable of regrowing. I was in the hospital bed, obsessed with the giant crack in the wall, and the toy model X-wing fighter my family got for me. I loved that X-wing until I got the Millennium Falcon, and then, well, it wasn't a fair competition.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
The Children of God
I think this is the first song I ever finished. Prior to this, I'd only writting jingles and sections of songs. Carnivals and tragedy are recurring themes in my songwriting...
Minnie's a mime and she smiles for the words she knows
Back to the alley she goes
She loves her family
She knows they're all she's got
She walked against the wind again today
But sometimes those crowds don't ever pay
There's the juggler and the one man band
The bearded lady and the three-handed man
The arcade owners and the friendly whores
The slippery children who can picklock doors
And everyone's an owner of everything
Cover your pockets while they sing,
"We are the children of God"
She meets her Mickey by the bumper cars
They're in the back, he wants to go real far
She says, "Mickey, aren't you moving fast?"
He doesn't want it, but he knows she'll ask
And he says, "But, what have we got to lose?
Only some names that we didn't choose.
Still we are the children of God."
Nine months later, Minnie didn't live
She died in labor but the twins made it
He drops them off at the orphanage
Rings the bell and hides behind the garbage
"I'll see them next time I come around,"
He says to himself as the trucks leave town
Now they are the children of God
I was very influenced by folk singer-songwriters during the time I wrote this. As John Gorka put it, "You write sad songs because when you're happy, who wants to sit around and write songs?"
Minnie's a mime and she smiles for the words she knows
Back to the alley she goes
She loves her family
She knows they're all she's got
She walked against the wind again today
But sometimes those crowds don't ever pay
There's the juggler and the one man band
The bearded lady and the three-handed man
The arcade owners and the friendly whores
The slippery children who can picklock doors
And everyone's an owner of everything
Cover your pockets while they sing,
"We are the children of God"
She meets her Mickey by the bumper cars
They're in the back, he wants to go real far
She says, "Mickey, aren't you moving fast?"
He doesn't want it, but he knows she'll ask
And he says, "But, what have we got to lose?
Only some names that we didn't choose.
Still we are the children of God."
Nine months later, Minnie didn't live
She died in labor but the twins made it
He drops them off at the orphanage
Rings the bell and hides behind the garbage
"I'll see them next time I come around,"
He says to himself as the trucks leave town
Now they are the children of God
I was very influenced by folk singer-songwriters during the time I wrote this. As John Gorka put it, "You write sad songs because when you're happy, who wants to sit around and write songs?"
Labels: songs
Sunday, November 13, 2005
They named me Flower-Eater
It was a date and I was being auditioned by the friends. I was too dumb to know that, then, of course. Any ability I had to size up a social situation and constructively participate didn't come until about 30. This was years before I had a prayer of not making an ass of myself.
So, we strutted to the bottom of the Chestnut Hill to a bar there in an old colonial style building. Her friends already had a table. Saying hello was about the extent of my social skills I think. Maybe by sheer strength of personality I'd made it through a few sentences. Small talk is something I try to practice everyday now. It's like exercise. Do it daily and it's not hard. Every day you skip will be that much more pain the next time you go.
The more out of place I feel, the more likely I am to do something completely crazy. Once the conversation went beyond hello, I didn't have much to contribute. In my defense, I was outmanned, sitting at a table with four women. I didn't realize the tactical perilousness of my situation, I just knew two things. I had absolutely nothing to add to this conversation, and I was bored out of my mind. That probably showed. If I mentally undressed them... ya, that probably showed.
Now, my memory is rusty and my vision's tired, but I think it went like this. The girls were wondering whether the flowers on the table were real, what kind were they, were those in season now, blah blah blah. I told a story about eating the daylilies that grew behind my mom's house. Yup, did it all the time. Loved them. You're making that up, they said, or some such expression of disbelief. Then I ate the flowers on the table.
And that's when they named me Flower-Eater.
It's a fact I didn't pass the audition that night. But I bet they all still remember it.
Sometimes I wonder if I should miss the crazy-ass fucker who would just grab a bouquet of flowers and chomp away. Ensign might say he's called five-martini Matt now. I don't know.
So, we strutted to the bottom of the Chestnut Hill to a bar there in an old colonial style building. Her friends already had a table. Saying hello was about the extent of my social skills I think. Maybe by sheer strength of personality I'd made it through a few sentences. Small talk is something I try to practice everyday now. It's like exercise. Do it daily and it's not hard. Every day you skip will be that much more pain the next time you go.
The more out of place I feel, the more likely I am to do something completely crazy. Once the conversation went beyond hello, I didn't have much to contribute. In my defense, I was outmanned, sitting at a table with four women. I didn't realize the tactical perilousness of my situation, I just knew two things. I had absolutely nothing to add to this conversation, and I was bored out of my mind. That probably showed. If I mentally undressed them... ya, that probably showed.
Now, my memory is rusty and my vision's tired, but I think it went like this. The girls were wondering whether the flowers on the table were real, what kind were they, were those in season now, blah blah blah. I told a story about eating the daylilies that grew behind my mom's house. Yup, did it all the time. Loved them. You're making that up, they said, or some such expression of disbelief. Then I ate the flowers on the table.
And that's when they named me Flower-Eater.
It's a fact I didn't pass the audition that night. But I bet they all still remember it.
Sometimes I wonder if I should miss the crazy-ass fucker who would just grab a bouquet of flowers and chomp away. Ensign might say he's called five-martini Matt now. I don't know.
No sleep till St. Louis
I have an insanely early flight tomorrow at 6AM. I should be in bed, but I can't sleep.
You see, she wrote back. And I'm ecstatic. I'm full of those butterflies from first dates. It's a good feeling. Energizing. But not for sleep. I close my eyes and I see the myriad memories, so many good ones.
She was sitting at table in the rec center under Wismer Hall, studying. I worked A/V and hung out there a lot--ping pong tables, need I say more? This wasn't our first meeting. I was sitting with her and we were talking about how whiny Steve was. I don't remember what else we talked about--how sad is that? Years later, I remember she told me she noticed me because there was something feral about me. I don't know how I took that when she told me. But the older I get, the more of a compliment I find it. (My hair was long and curly, then, before the great recession began. Not that I'm sure my hair had anything to do with it.)
She was living with her parents and I had a roommate, so we necked in our cars for hours. We were like a couple of high schoolers. I never had a car in high school, so I missed that whole scene. Cars create that special sort of intimacy that only mutual discomfort can bring. Making out in a car sucks, and that makes it kinda good, because it's a sacrifice. We want this thing so much, we're willing to defy geometry, anatomy and circulation to make it happen--and that's just the necking. Maybe petite people can make out comfortably in cars. She was pretty tall and I sure as hell wasn't petite.
That's the problem with fucking airplane seats. You're forced to be intimate with the person on either side of you--just by being there, you're in each other's personal space. Add the discomfort factor and, unless you're making out like you're in a car, it's just miserable. I hate airplanes.
You see, she wrote back. And I'm ecstatic. I'm full of those butterflies from first dates. It's a good feeling. Energizing. But not for sleep. I close my eyes and I see the myriad memories, so many good ones.
She was sitting at table in the rec center under Wismer Hall, studying. I worked A/V and hung out there a lot--ping pong tables, need I say more? This wasn't our first meeting. I was sitting with her and we were talking about how whiny Steve was. I don't remember what else we talked about--how sad is that? Years later, I remember she told me she noticed me because there was something feral about me. I don't know how I took that when she told me. But the older I get, the more of a compliment I find it. (My hair was long and curly, then, before the great recession began. Not that I'm sure my hair had anything to do with it.)
She was living with her parents and I had a roommate, so we necked in our cars for hours. We were like a couple of high schoolers. I never had a car in high school, so I missed that whole scene. Cars create that special sort of intimacy that only mutual discomfort can bring. Making out in a car sucks, and that makes it kinda good, because it's a sacrifice. We want this thing so much, we're willing to defy geometry, anatomy and circulation to make it happen--and that's just the necking. Maybe petite people can make out comfortably in cars. She was pretty tall and I sure as hell wasn't petite.
That's the problem with fucking airplane seats. You're forced to be intimate with the person on either side of you--just by being there, you're in each other's personal space. Add the discomfort factor and, unless you're making out like you're in a car, it's just miserable. I hate airplanes.
Better Descriptors
No reminiscence quite so satisfying as a love both sour and sweet.
I wrote this poem in frustration with a girlfriend's terms of endearment. To this day, I'm not sure if anyone but she and I understands it. (For anyone in the know, a few lines have evolved since it's first 'publication.')
Better Descriptors
What's behind this battalion of words
This squadron of stanzas, syllables unfurled?
Consider this an ultimatum served
Better descriptors: an exigency!
When asked to describe a woman who
Regards me as nice and sweet and cute
What are the so-simpleton word I would use?
Synonyms, similies and gobbledygoo
Luvsy-duvsy drivel eschewed
Detecting a message directed toward you?
Better descriptors: an exigency!
Suppose by some congressional finding
Our love be deemed legally binding
I'd testify you were mine only lessee
But only the lessor would I be
Poppycock! Now the meter's been shot
My lingua's glossus is in a cravat
The anatomy of the perfect poem, this surely is not
Still, better descriptors are an exigency
Yet for all my pedantic, equestrian play
For all I contemplate, calculate and gauge
These words may return to haunt me one day
But still I say
Better descriptors: an exigency!
I wrote this poem in frustration with a girlfriend's terms of endearment. To this day, I'm not sure if anyone but she and I understands it. (For anyone in the know, a few lines have evolved since it's first 'publication.')
Better Descriptors
What's behind this battalion of words
This squadron of stanzas, syllables unfurled?
Consider this an ultimatum served
Better descriptors: an exigency!
When asked to describe a woman who
Regards me as nice and sweet and cute
What are the so-simpleton word I would use?
Synonyms, similies and gobbledygoo
Luvsy-duvsy drivel eschewed
Detecting a message directed toward you?
Better descriptors: an exigency!
Suppose by some congressional finding
Our love be deemed legally binding
I'd testify you were mine only lessee
But only the lessor would I be
Poppycock! Now the meter's been shot
My lingua's glossus is in a cravat
The anatomy of the perfect poem, this surely is not
Still, better descriptors are an exigency
Yet for all my pedantic, equestrian play
For all I contemplate, calculate and gauge
These words may return to haunt me one day
But still I say
Better descriptors: an exigency!
Are you sup enough?
I've been trying to harass Erik and Ken to create an interactive Flash or web story/game with me. This one is awesome. Don't play if you're squeemish. If you're Tarantino-cool enough, play sup!
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Joe Eigo is incredible
Moves only seen in anime or wire work. I don't see the wires. Incredible.
http://www.compfused.com/directlink/227
http://www.boreme.com/boreme/funny-2004/m_j_eigo.php
http://come.to/jeigo
http://www.compfused.com/directlink/227
http://www.boreme.com/boreme/funny-2004/m_j_eigo.php
http://come.to/jeigo
Harry-Alergenic
I wrote this song in '92 or 3 for Bernie Bernie Headflap's first fanboy. Harry, wherever you are, man, thanks.
Harry spun in circles on the floor
Slid glasses down wet nose
With eyelids almost closed
He'd see it all much more clearly
Than we could prophesy* in frequencies
Sounding syllables from black boxes
We'd thought we'd never heard before
Rubbed at eyes since coming in
Scraped lid-skin much too thin
With fingers trembling
Like they've not known this note before
Straining to reach the next semaphore
Lost in smoke from the atmosphere
Worse his antihistimine's kicked in again
Set his mind toward turbulence
Ushered up the mosh-cockpit
The ground's around here isn't it
Like flying some concord jet
Eyes closed to up-rushing wet pavement
Lost in smoke from the atmosphere
Thick with sounds only he could hear
* It was Al who pointed out my original lyric "prophecize" wasn't a word and that "prophesy" was correct.
Harry spun in circles on the floor
Slid glasses down wet nose
With eyelids almost closed
He'd see it all much more clearly
Than we could prophesy* in frequencies
Sounding syllables from black boxes
We'd thought we'd never heard before
Rubbed at eyes since coming in
Scraped lid-skin much too thin
With fingers trembling
Like they've not known this note before
Straining to reach the next semaphore
Lost in smoke from the atmosphere
Worse his antihistimine's kicked in again
Set his mind toward turbulence
Ushered up the mosh-cockpit
The ground's around here isn't it
Like flying some concord jet
Eyes closed to up-rushing wet pavement
Lost in smoke from the atmosphere
Thick with sounds only he could hear
* It was Al who pointed out my original lyric "prophecize" wasn't a word and that "prophesy" was correct.
Labels: songs
Bernie Bernie Headflap
Al, Chris, Moses and me. The original Bernie Bernie Headflap. "Better living through BBH." We'd wanted to trademark it. I think we'd named the first ten albums or something before we'd had ten songs. It was incredibly fun fantasy.
We won two or three battles of the bands at our college. Earned ourselves the right to open for 'Live' on campus. That wasn't as much fun as the battles of the band--too much pressure. But I remember the sound & light guys seemed to like us better than 'Live', as people if not as a band, I'm not really sure. It didn't matter. Either way, that kicked ass.
Winter of 1994 was the end of my involvement. I was in the middle of a crisis that has yet to be put on paper, working two jobs*, dating, and acting as taxi for a bunch of the band. Something had to give. I gave up the band. Being broke only sucks if you have debts and responsibilities. That wasn't a problem until I was out of college.
The band was wrapping up recording our first solo CD at Creep Records. They took my name off, and relaid most of my tracks I think. That doesn't matter because the songs are divine.
BBH has gone through a lot of evolution since I left, but it still exists as Al's brainchild. Seems fitting, since the band was named after an idea his dad had--and Al always was the most prolific songwriter among us.
Moses left next after me, I heard. He was teaching at Rutgers and had a girlfriend or wife or something. I guess they asked Chris to leave at some point. I bumped into Chris at the Valley Forge Brewing Company one night some years back. He said the style of BBH had changed to where he no longer fit in. He was working for NovaCare and moving to Connecticut with his girlfriend from college. We talked about putting together a band to do Tom Waits covers in coffeehouses. I think we both knew it would never happen, but it was incredibly fun fantasy.
* So what if it was a comic book store and a games distribution warehouse? hours are hours, dammit!
We won two or three battles of the bands at our college. Earned ourselves the right to open for 'Live' on campus. That wasn't as much fun as the battles of the band--too much pressure. But I remember the sound & light guys seemed to like us better than 'Live', as people if not as a band, I'm not really sure. It didn't matter. Either way, that kicked ass.
Winter of 1994 was the end of my involvement. I was in the middle of a crisis that has yet to be put on paper, working two jobs*, dating, and acting as taxi for a bunch of the band. Something had to give. I gave up the band. Being broke only sucks if you have debts and responsibilities. That wasn't a problem until I was out of college.
The band was wrapping up recording our first solo CD at Creep Records. They took my name off, and relaid most of my tracks I think. That doesn't matter because the songs are divine.
BBH has gone through a lot of evolution since I left, but it still exists as Al's brainchild. Seems fitting, since the band was named after an idea his dad had--and Al always was the most prolific songwriter among us.
Moses left next after me, I heard. He was teaching at Rutgers and had a girlfriend or wife or something. I guess they asked Chris to leave at some point. I bumped into Chris at the Valley Forge Brewing Company one night some years back. He said the style of BBH had changed to where he no longer fit in. He was working for NovaCare and moving to Connecticut with his girlfriend from college. We talked about putting together a band to do Tom Waits covers in coffeehouses. I think we both knew it would never happen, but it was incredibly fun fantasy.
* So what if it was a comic book store and a games distribution warehouse? hours are hours, dammit!
Labels: theband
Friday, November 11, 2005
Coolest webapps ever
The folks at 37signals are doing awesome things on the web.
Host photos at the village.
I haven't found free calendar hosting that stacks up, yet. Anyone?
Host photos at the village.
I haven't found free calendar hosting that stacks up, yet. Anyone?
The original popcorn song
Sleeplessness, dreams, fear and the ghost of hubcaps past
It's been a long time since I dreamed during "nightsleep" and remembered it. But when I'm sleepless and manage a quick nap, it's almost always dreaming. I woke around 2:30 this morning after going to bed around 11. I read a chapter or two, checked email, played a game of spider solitaire, went back to read in bed, and finally got a 20 min nap in around 4:30. While napping, I dreamt I was driving at night along a dirt road, there may have been more to the dream, but I only remember the headlights going out and me struggling to get them back on, not knowing how to work the car's controls. I woke with that tingling feeling I get when I wake up from dreaming right before the bottom of the fall, or just before the monster eats me.
In college, a few friends and I were in my car driving deep in Pennsylvania Dutch territory. We turned off the main highway onto a little side road for who knows what reason. We were joking, laughing, basically oblivious to most of what was around us. We weren't drunk and hadn't even been drinking. I didn't do that. I was driving on instinct--flying casual, as it were. We rounded a corner that I reckoned would take us back to the highway when all hell broke loose. The car lurched like it hit something. There was an enormous thud from the front passenger side and a grinding of metal that sounded like something really important broke. The car stalled. The headlights went out.
I'm not normally superstitious, but right then I was scared shitless.
The car was still coasting when my roommate, Al, sitting in the passenger seat asked, "Did we hit somebody?"
"No fucking way. No fucking way!" I wasn't trying to convince myself of it, there was just too much flying through my head to say anything else. I knew there hadn't been anyone there--I wasn't ignoring the road, just not actively concentrating on driving. I would have known if there was someone there to hit.
Brian in the backseat pulled himself halfway into the front between us and said, "Should we go back and look?"
That was when I realized how terribly frightened I was--that I didn't want to go back and look, even if there had been someone there. If I'd thought there had been someone, it would have been easier. I could have gone back and done what I needed to do to help the person. But I was certain that we hadn't hit a person. But we'd certainly hit something. If not a person, then what?
"We gotta go back and look," Al agreed with Brian.
Maybe it was the story I'd heard a few weeks before that paralyzed me. A friend had confided in me about a date that ended at a lookout point near a lake. She said that one minute everything seemed normal, then lights appeared over the lake, moving too fast to be a boat and where no car could have gone. There was a noise coming from the same direction, something between a hum and a buzz. The lights raced toward them over the lake growing bigger and brighter until you couldn't mistake them for anything man made. In a panic, they flung themselves onto the ground and rolled under the truck, as the sound grew lounder and the lights brighter. They huddled together as the deafening sound and the play of shadows on the ground told them the lights were hovering over the truck. The car horn went on and off in the din. If there'd been anyone to see, I wonder whether the headlights were flashing.
She said it ended so suddenly, she wonders whether it ever really happened.
The headlights on my car began to flicker. I turned the ignition and the headlights died. The engine didn't turn over. My stomach made up for it.
I put the car in park, but I wasn't ready to get out.
"Do you guys really think we hit someone?" I asked.
Brian cracked first, "Shit, I don't know."
"It doesn't matter, we need to go make sure we didn't," Al said. He had a habit of shortcutting arguments.
"Dammit." I got out of the car and circled around the front to the passenger side, watching the direction we came from. Al and Brian were climbing out.
"If we hit someone, wouldn't we see damage?" I pointed at the unblemished front and side of the car body.
"You lost a hubcap," Al said.
We all looked back from where we came, at the bend in the road where something happened. The moon was out enough for us to see ourselves and the car, but trees covered the road behind us. There it was pitch black and we couldn't see a damn thing. The roof of an old farmhouse reflected light a ways back from the turn.
We all started walking slowly back down the road.
It's some sort of medical fact that when you can't see your other senses become more acute. All of us must have heard, smelled, felt or tasted something, because we all stopped walking together and none of us looked eager to go into the blackness under the trees.
"If the car starts, we can turn around and point the headlights down there. We won't see anything without light anyway," I tried to sound more reasonable than frightened. I think I failed. They agreed. We walked back to the car and got in.
It would have been a miracle that the car started, if it hadn't stalled as soon as I took my foot of the gas.
My voice started as a low rumble and built to a scream repeated, "No no no no no!" I was beating on the steering wheel. If there had been neighbors, if there had been anyone out there, they would have come looking at the racket. But there wasn't anything, except whatever we'd hit and some old farmhouse that was probably abandoned. That meant no phone. In the age before mobile phones, that meant we were up shit's creek.
We sat silently in the car for quite awhile.
I turned it over again and didn't let off the gas. It started and kept running. I played a delicate game of balance with both feet on the brake and gas to get the car in gear and we were moving.
We were back to the highway when Brian asked, "Are we gonna go look?"
I was hoping to avoid the question. "I'm afraid it'll stall if I try to put it in reverse. We'll drive back up the highway to where we turned the first time and make a loop."
We did it. We couldn't see anything. We didn't stop for fear of stalling. The headlights cycled dim and bright all the way back. None of us said a word the rest of the way.
The next morning, the car wouldn't start. I described what happened to a guy I knew at the auto parts store. This was back when I still did some of my own car work. He said it sounded like the alternator went. I had it replaced before noon. I have a scar to prove it. Eventually I had to replace more parts--the car's electrical system never fully recovered from that night.
I drove back to the bend in the road by myself. I found the largest pothole I'd ever seen, next to a collection of hubcaps leaned up against the faded picket fence around the farmhouse. I didn't stop. I didn't see my hubcap.
In college, a few friends and I were in my car driving deep in Pennsylvania Dutch territory. We turned off the main highway onto a little side road for who knows what reason. We were joking, laughing, basically oblivious to most of what was around us. We weren't drunk and hadn't even been drinking. I didn't do that. I was driving on instinct--flying casual, as it were. We rounded a corner that I reckoned would take us back to the highway when all hell broke loose. The car lurched like it hit something. There was an enormous thud from the front passenger side and a grinding of metal that sounded like something really important broke. The car stalled. The headlights went out.
I'm not normally superstitious, but right then I was scared shitless.
The car was still coasting when my roommate, Al, sitting in the passenger seat asked, "Did we hit somebody?"
"No fucking way. No fucking way!" I wasn't trying to convince myself of it, there was just too much flying through my head to say anything else. I knew there hadn't been anyone there--I wasn't ignoring the road, just not actively concentrating on driving. I would have known if there was someone there to hit.
Brian in the backseat pulled himself halfway into the front between us and said, "Should we go back and look?"
That was when I realized how terribly frightened I was--that I didn't want to go back and look, even if there had been someone there. If I'd thought there had been someone, it would have been easier. I could have gone back and done what I needed to do to help the person. But I was certain that we hadn't hit a person. But we'd certainly hit something. If not a person, then what?
"We gotta go back and look," Al agreed with Brian.
Maybe it was the story I'd heard a few weeks before that paralyzed me. A friend had confided in me about a date that ended at a lookout point near a lake. She said that one minute everything seemed normal, then lights appeared over the lake, moving too fast to be a boat and where no car could have gone. There was a noise coming from the same direction, something between a hum and a buzz. The lights raced toward them over the lake growing bigger and brighter until you couldn't mistake them for anything man made. In a panic, they flung themselves onto the ground and rolled under the truck, as the sound grew lounder and the lights brighter. They huddled together as the deafening sound and the play of shadows on the ground told them the lights were hovering over the truck. The car horn went on and off in the din. If there'd been anyone to see, I wonder whether the headlights were flashing.
She said it ended so suddenly, she wonders whether it ever really happened.
The headlights on my car began to flicker. I turned the ignition and the headlights died. The engine didn't turn over. My stomach made up for it.
I put the car in park, but I wasn't ready to get out.
"Do you guys really think we hit someone?" I asked.
Brian cracked first, "Shit, I don't know."
"It doesn't matter, we need to go make sure we didn't," Al said. He had a habit of shortcutting arguments.
"Dammit." I got out of the car and circled around the front to the passenger side, watching the direction we came from. Al and Brian were climbing out.
"If we hit someone, wouldn't we see damage?" I pointed at the unblemished front and side of the car body.
"You lost a hubcap," Al said.
We all looked back from where we came, at the bend in the road where something happened. The moon was out enough for us to see ourselves and the car, but trees covered the road behind us. There it was pitch black and we couldn't see a damn thing. The roof of an old farmhouse reflected light a ways back from the turn.
We all started walking slowly back down the road.
It's some sort of medical fact that when you can't see your other senses become more acute. All of us must have heard, smelled, felt or tasted something, because we all stopped walking together and none of us looked eager to go into the blackness under the trees.
"If the car starts, we can turn around and point the headlights down there. We won't see anything without light anyway," I tried to sound more reasonable than frightened. I think I failed. They agreed. We walked back to the car and got in.
It would have been a miracle that the car started, if it hadn't stalled as soon as I took my foot of the gas.
My voice started as a low rumble and built to a scream repeated, "No no no no no!" I was beating on the steering wheel. If there had been neighbors, if there had been anyone out there, they would have come looking at the racket. But there wasn't anything, except whatever we'd hit and some old farmhouse that was probably abandoned. That meant no phone. In the age before mobile phones, that meant we were up shit's creek.
We sat silently in the car for quite awhile.
I turned it over again and didn't let off the gas. It started and kept running. I played a delicate game of balance with both feet on the brake and gas to get the car in gear and we were moving.
We were back to the highway when Brian asked, "Are we gonna go look?"
I was hoping to avoid the question. "I'm afraid it'll stall if I try to put it in reverse. We'll drive back up the highway to where we turned the first time and make a loop."
We did it. We couldn't see anything. We didn't stop for fear of stalling. The headlights cycled dim and bright all the way back. None of us said a word the rest of the way.
The next morning, the car wouldn't start. I described what happened to a guy I knew at the auto parts store. This was back when I still did some of my own car work. He said it sounded like the alternator went. I had it replaced before noon. I have a scar to prove it. Eventually I had to replace more parts--the car's electrical system never fully recovered from that night.
I drove back to the bend in the road by myself. I found the largest pothole I'd ever seen, next to a collection of hubcaps leaned up against the faded picket fence around the farmhouse. I didn't stop. I didn't see my hubcap.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Of epiphanies and verisimilitude
A very good friend of mine's, Ken's, favorite word is verisimilitude. While describing the epiphany I had last Sunday to him, he managed to ascribe the word verisimilitude to it. I like that, because it makes me feel this is less of an existential mid-life crisis than I might otherwise believe.
Sometime between ordering and finishing a venti caffe mocha (I gave up coffee as a morning ritual, but allow myself the occasional treat) I came to a perfectly clear understanding that nothing I do in my life has any importance. Everything I do is either money-making or pointless entertainment. Ok, everyone needs money, sure. But it's not like my job is too important, or even that I'm very important in my job. I'd stopped identifying myself by what my job was some years ago. I think part of my epiphany was that I'd never redefined myself. I just sort of left myself undefined...
Some people say you're defined by your relationships with people. I have not a lot of friends, but enough. It wasn't until after college that I formed any lasting friendships, but I was more of a socialite in college--drinking and parties make that easier. Bars aren't the same as college parties. I can't do bars all the time now and I don't want to. If I could find Karaoke at something besides a bar, I would have a new 2nd home.
Unable to answer the question of how to define myself, or do anything of importance, I decided to ask a different question. The one I settled on was, did I know how to survive? Not the eat, sleep, work, etc. survival issues. I meant, of the things that might kill me tomorrow, have I taken time to learn enough about them to have a realistic chance of survival? What kills people? Diet and health, cars, guns and fires was the list I came up with. I probably didn't know enough about any of those things to save my own life, let alone anyone else's.
Enter the plan of action. I don't know if it makes sense. It's even harder to explain to the people I'm talking to about it, but it's something. Something is better than nothing. I'm hoping that somewhere along the plan I'll come up with a better one or find the meaning I'm looking for.
Diet and exercise is something I've worked at on and off for years. I'm overweight, but still carry myself pretty well (or maybe I just believe that, lol.) So, back to the daily exercise and small diet changes--I like food too much to really diet. Besides, I believe in exercise more than I believe in fad diets.
I'm enrolled in the Red Cross course, "Community First Aid and Safety." It's 8:30AM to 5:30PM, zoiks! But it covers adult, child and infant CPR and basic first aid.
I plan on contacting the Lower Providence Gun Club to see they offer instructional classes or workshops. I know enough people who know enough about guns that we'll figure something out.
Bobby Ore Motorsports offers professional driving instruction--and not the kind you need just to get your license. It's a tad expensive, but looks like the most fun. So, my next vacation is planned.
The Montgomery County Fire Academy does not allow the public in their training program. It's a matter of insurance and liability I'm told. The man I spoke with suggested I volunteer with a fire company. I must admit, I'm least sure about this one. Not that I wouldn't volunteer--it will be weird to just walk in and offer, but I can do that. The problem is I can't imagine what I'll say when they ask why I'm volunteering. Somehow, I don't think, "because I want to go to the MCFA courses," will be a good enough reason for them.
I should add gardening in there. Being able to grow food seems important.
So, that's the plan. Maybe this is mid-life crisis. Maybe I'm just crazy (or crazier). But maybe it's what my friend, Ken, said. Verisimilitude.
Oh, and if you know my grandparents, don't tell them any of this--they'd die of worry.
Sometime between ordering and finishing a venti caffe mocha (I gave up coffee as a morning ritual, but allow myself the occasional treat) I came to a perfectly clear understanding that nothing I do in my life has any importance. Everything I do is either money-making or pointless entertainment. Ok, everyone needs money, sure. But it's not like my job is too important, or even that I'm very important in my job. I'd stopped identifying myself by what my job was some years ago. I think part of my epiphany was that I'd never redefined myself. I just sort of left myself undefined...
Some people say you're defined by your relationships with people. I have not a lot of friends, but enough. It wasn't until after college that I formed any lasting friendships, but I was more of a socialite in college--drinking and parties make that easier. Bars aren't the same as college parties. I can't do bars all the time now and I don't want to. If I could find Karaoke at something besides a bar, I would have a new 2nd home.
Unable to answer the question of how to define myself, or do anything of importance, I decided to ask a different question. The one I settled on was, did I know how to survive? Not the eat, sleep, work, etc. survival issues. I meant, of the things that might kill me tomorrow, have I taken time to learn enough about them to have a realistic chance of survival? What kills people? Diet and health, cars, guns and fires was the list I came up with. I probably didn't know enough about any of those things to save my own life, let alone anyone else's.
Enter the plan of action. I don't know if it makes sense. It's even harder to explain to the people I'm talking to about it, but it's something. Something is better than nothing. I'm hoping that somewhere along the plan I'll come up with a better one or find the meaning I'm looking for.
Diet and exercise is something I've worked at on and off for years. I'm overweight, but still carry myself pretty well (or maybe I just believe that, lol.) So, back to the daily exercise and small diet changes--I like food too much to really diet. Besides, I believe in exercise more than I believe in fad diets.
I'm enrolled in the Red Cross course, "Community First Aid and Safety." It's 8:30AM to 5:30PM, zoiks! But it covers adult, child and infant CPR and basic first aid.
I plan on contacting the Lower Providence Gun Club to see they offer instructional classes or workshops. I know enough people who know enough about guns that we'll figure something out.
Bobby Ore Motorsports offers professional driving instruction--and not the kind you need just to get your license. It's a tad expensive, but looks like the most fun. So, my next vacation is planned.
The Montgomery County Fire Academy does not allow the public in their training program. It's a matter of insurance and liability I'm told. The man I spoke with suggested I volunteer with a fire company. I must admit, I'm least sure about this one. Not that I wouldn't volunteer--it will be weird to just walk in and offer, but I can do that. The problem is I can't imagine what I'll say when they ask why I'm volunteering. Somehow, I don't think, "because I want to go to the MCFA courses," will be a good enough reason for them.
I should add gardening in there. Being able to grow food seems important.
So, that's the plan. Maybe this is mid-life crisis. Maybe I'm just crazy (or crazier). But maybe it's what my friend, Ken, said. Verisimilitude.
Oh, and if you know my grandparents, don't tell them any of this--they'd die of worry.
It took so long for Popcorn Songs
One night every week
My friends and I go totally geek
And play boardgames and other stuff
But it's the popcorn mix I can't get enough of
I need your popcorn, please
Not some chocolate candies, cookies or sweets
I need your popcorn next to me
If I've got to reach for it, it'll get messy
Sometimes there's conflicts
And the night's pushed back or totally nix'd
When this happens I'm in fits
'Cause I can't get my popcorn fix
And I need your popcorn, please
Not some chocolate candies, cookies or sweets
I need your popcorn every week
When I miss it I'm incomplete
Labels: songs
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