selective memory

The G-geist household is on again in our on again/off again flirt with buying a place or renting elsewhere. The process mirrors that of any dysfunctional relationship: The initial spark of interest, the honeymoon spent reveling in newness and the unknown, hope and comfort, the hazy blinders of love, followed by the first hint that there might be...a problem, they drink to excess, say, or hate your friends, some problem that is completely insurmountable, then denial, hurt, a perfunctory fuck you pretend is a reconciliation but you know is goodbye, the cut and run in the night, broken but grateful you got out with your sanity. Because you were happier before, yeah, happier alone.

And then you run into them in the grocery store a few months later. They look great, wearing that sweater you used to pad around their apartment in on Sunday mornings. You wonder, though you know it's not possible, if it still smells like you. You lean in for a friendly hug...oh Christ, it does. They say, "It's funny we ran into each other. I've been thinking about you a lot lately." And you accept an invitation for a quick drink. Just one. For closure. You owe each other that. Just one quick drink, that's all.

The weekend. Sour-puss version.

Friday was St. Patrick's, the night many await with great foam-hatted, green be-decked, liver-be-damned anticipation. I am not one of those people. Nor do I wish to associate with and/or imply that I share kinship (ethnic or otherwise) with them. I'm not talking about the Irish, mind you--I loves me my Irish brothers and sisters--I mean the Irish-for-a-day who use the holiday as an excuse to drink to excess and who, therefore, due to lack of practice, are remarkably poor at it. Rank amateurs...taking up valuable real estate at the bar. Thank god they wear those stupid flashing buttons (is it mandatory, I wonder? Like those "STUDENT DRIVER" signs all over driving school cars?), it makes it easier to steer clear. My St. Patrick's? A coupla Crif Dogs and a root beer with my friend L, and home and hiding on the couch with G by seven. Where I sit, I had the better St Paddy's no matter what you threw up on.

Saturday and V for Vendetta. Don't worry about spoilers because I was so very nonplussed I forgot the details of the film before I'd fully exited the theater. But there are those who will find the film deeply thought provoking I'm sure. People who've never read V for Vendetta to start with, or Transmetropolitan, or other books and/or films such as Nineteen Eighty-four, or Anthem, or Brave New World, or A Clockwork Orange, or Ferenheit 451, or The Handmaid's Tale, or It Can't Happen Here, or We, to name a few, or those who've never heard of a guy named George Bush or a thing called Fox News. Those folks might be wowed. However if you read books or watch the news or pay any attention to the world at all, you, like me, will find yourself sitting in your seat going "...and?" Which isn't the fault of the original story certainly, which was wonderful, or the film, ultimately. It's that something gets lost in a fantastic cautionary what-if tale about a theocratic corporation who run the world and the terrorist(s) who try to undo them, when it's reality. I guess I needed the characters and the story-line to be way more graphic-novelly (you say English butcher, I say neologist) to be duly transported and properly entertained, or way more realistic, so I might have been edumacated about something I don't know. Terrorist are, al la Soilent Green, people? People created by corrupt governments? You don't say! Bah.

Sunday I rose at an ungodly hour for no good reason, and because of which spent the rest of the day attempting to nap. Unsuccessfully. Right up until our beloved friend M showed up for TACO NIGHT!!! (caps and exclamation for the glee, the sheer out of one's head glee taco night produces around here--see we are capable of being amused and/or pleased) and the second Soprano's episode of the season. I was all ready to hate the Sopranos. Them and their two year oh your all like a bunch of crack heads and you'll crawl back on your knees with mom's jewelry no matter what we do hiatus. But damn if that isn't a great show. The downside is that we promised Maud, who had intended to watch with us but who was out of town this Sunday, that G and Mr. Maud and I would reenact the episode for her to get her up to speed. However the episode (teeny spoiler ahead!) was mostly what was going on in Tony's head while in a coma, so it's proving difficult to rehearse. Thus far all I've got is the Wayne and Garth "diddle-o, diddle-o, diddle-o" wiggly fingers they use to usher in a dream sequence, and a lot of heavy nose breathing. (Seriously, do they mic James's snout or what? He sounds like a flipping Sleestak. James! May I suggest...Afrin?)

Just because you're paranoid, don't mean they're not after you.

Or, if you prefer, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. These adages in mind, go decide for yourself if Michael Jackson stole Thriller from a fellow nutjob named Luixy Toledo during their former lives in Italy. Or on Mars.

(via TMN)

What ever happened to humming?

Why it's so very Spring-like and lovely outside, the world is full of song. Literally. One young woman (13-14ish) harassed serenaded the entire L train car with an upbeat Spanish pop tune from Lorimer to Sixth Avenue, where, serendipitously, she was making the same transfer as I. So I was forced able to listen to her soaring voice for yet another five or ten minutes. Lucky me!

After exiting the train and fully top-side I was joined on the sidewalk by a young man who had a very convincing Elvis groove working for him. Replete with gyrating hips and mimed vintage microphone. My whole walk to work! Right next to me! All five blocks! Yep! Just me and singing at full voice gyrating Elvis! No Elvis, thank YOU very much!

You'd think, now safe at my worky place behind walls and windows, that I'd be free from the insufferable howlings of addled freak-shows unable to enjoy the impromptu concerts supplied by my fellow, Spring loving Americans. But no such luck! Right outside my window there is a man working his way through the entire Motown cannon. A medley of sorts...one or two lines of whatever words he can remember in his drunken state a song, followed by a quick segue to the next. The Supremes should be able to sue this caterwauler would be proud!

Oh blessed Spring! So long awaited, and so brief. Thank fucking God.

A heavily veiled analogy I totally blow at the end.

Do you remember the "It" girl from high school? The girl everyone was dreaming about being with, or being? The girl whose name would be blurted out before you could even finish the question "Who is the most popular gir..." no matter who you asked in school--band geek, sports freak, outcast, cheerleader, chess team captain, loner--because her status, her place at the top, was inescapable; was THAT established and certain.

Remember how much power she had? Just one "hello" from her in passing would totally change your seating options at lunch. An overheard "call you later" would earn you an invite to every A-list house party for the rest of the year. A date with her? Being her best friend? Dude... Set. For. Life. Even teachers would start being nice to you and sh*t. Change your F's to C's.

Did you ever wonder why she was the "It" girl? Like, who decided she'd be the IT girl? Because when you really thought about it, she wasn't the prettiest girl in school. She didn't have the greatest face or the slammingest body. There were other girls who were equally good looking, but who were crazy smart and wicked fun too. Like that fox in your English class for example.

When you figured out that IT girl's popularity and status was totally manufactured, was a baseless consensus born from nothing, and persisted solely because of the same brand-recognitive inertia that heightens the worth of all kinds of otherwise worthless crap--like designer clothes and trendy, stupid, overpriced vehicles and corporate media--did it piss you off? Were you all filled with righteous indignation and rage at the system and the man in all of the man's many forms...or did you vote for these sons of bitches?

Everyone poops.

G's a little bit more into the going's on of the stars than I am. However everyone is by comparison, if you take "into" to mean "pays any attention at all." I'm way more interested in what that old woman across the street is up to--the one who is endlessly arranging and rearranging of her garbage bags and garbage bins, by size, weight, color, who knows. All day, all night, with the garbage...what the hell is THAT about?--over keeping up with Hollywood.

I always thought my lack of interest had to do with having musician parents. Something about understanding at a very young age that entertaining is a job. That some folks mow lawns or fix plumbing or teach classes, and others get up on stages or in front of cameras and do stuff. I always knew, like the famed children's book says, everyone poops. Which is the one great joy I get from shows like the Oscars...watching the parade of gowns traveling down the red carpet and guessing what they have to go through to use to toilet while wearing them. My aunt got married in one of those super princess for a day pouffy white beaded things with a train, and she needed four assistants to use the toilet. I use that gown as my gauge. "Here comes Charlize Theron in a (three potty assistant) gown designed by..." "And here, the lovely Keira Knightley in a Vera Wang (gotta take that whole bad-boy right off, two assistant) gown..." "Just arriving, the very pregnant Rachel Weisz, wearing a (looks practical and stretchy, I say she can lift that thing up herself. No assistant and therefore the winner of the most attractive) gown designed by..."

More human than human

The Philip K. Dick android is missing.

Since the comedic art imitating life, creepy nano-reality, sci-fi wet-dream possibilities are totally endless with this one, I'm not even going to try. You'll have to write your own. I'll get you started with this.

(via my west coast G)

A dream deferred. Twenty some-odd years.

So me and my friend R were hanging out in his bedroom de-seeding a half ounce of homegrown he 'borrowed' from his mom's secret stash. The plan, that time anyway, was to keep the few choice buds for ourselves and sell the shake to someone stupid enough to buy it, a freshmen most likely, to get the money to go to The Police concert at the Spectrum.

We were seeding the pot the old fashioned way--with an album cover. We used Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti because, well, it was just the right record. For aesthetics and tradition, sure, but more for its unbeatable functionality. It was designed to be the right tool for the job (place the pot along the 'stoops', tilt cover in a slight downward slant, tap lightly on the surface, and viola! all the seeds roll right into the die-cut apartment windows and collect in the jacket pocket). Like one of those hand-held ball bearing mazes. For pot.

That afternoon we also decided to move to New York. We were going to move to New York and start a band and write best-selling novels about our exploits. And we'd live next door to each other in a building just like the one in the picture. No, we'd live in THAT building. Be neighbors with Lou Reed. Starting the day after graduation. Give or take a day.