Holidays, holidays, let us now bless and cherish holidays....

The thinks you can think have nothing on the doings that you can do, if only you try. Scrape the emotional bullshit from the treads of your Blundstones and dance.

Shall we concentrate on the fun?

Moulin Rouge DVD with cut scenes and extra songs

Homebake!!! Extra-special day highlights from Machine Gun Fellatio all hail gigs with giant chinese fans, condoms rather than beachballs for the crowd to toss and roller blades- those kids do one hell of a stage show, Sonic Animation GO THE FURRY DUDES and TISM See it to believe it, you really, really must. All fun. All party atmosphere. Sydney lights. Music-lovers rather than trendoid teens. Spanky.

Kosher Theatresports. Comedy, Star Wars, music, opera and audience members straight from The Nanny. Cute interesting lads in leather pants. Potatoes and cancer. Free drinks and chocolate.

Open mic comedy night, the year's best jokes. Cacksville. More drinks. Divinely inspired pool prowess.

Dinner at The Rocks with an old, old friend. The Orient beer garden. Rediscovering old friendship. Delight at concurrent evolution. Lit up Harbour Bridge smiling a welcome home.

Blue mountains. Cold and clean and stunning vistas, hazy and happy-sad memories, new memories of friendship and comfortable togetherness overlaying the past.

They might be giants at The Metro. Mindblowingly awesome. Two hours, two encores, much dancing, huge and happy energy.

Musty fairytale secondhand bookshops with ceiling-high shelves and twisty ladders, finding treasured-memory books thought gone forever and getting back lent copies of Illuminatus and Coupland. New Leunig.

Lazy hanging-out book reading in companiable silence.

Good wine and Trivial pursuit. Rage, breakfast and more books. Reworking lyrics and falling down in helpless fits of giggles and red-faced foolishness.

Holidays. NSW. 18 months and this can be my REAL life. Priority readjustments, and much of it may exist in the now.

Oh, bloody hell...

I'd like to hide, sometimes. Hide from the television, from the People magazines and the Teen magazines and the YM magazines and oh, those fucking Maxim might-as-well-be-porn magazines. Where the girls have no body fat except for their C-cup chests, managing to get along just fine on a bmi less than fifteen...

It's not healthy, Lisa. When you were that bmi, you weren't eating. Your hair was falling out. Your hipbones were bruised, you didn't sleep, you were passing out, you were slicing your arms. You were not healthy. You were not happy.

But these girls are fine. Not to mention lusted and after and admired by thousands upon thousands of men and women alike. Thin is in, isn't it?

Fuck you, world.

I still haven't reached my target weight.

Which is a goodbad thing.

I am not my illness. I am not my illness. I am not my illness.

Sigh.

Why is it that so many of us node at work? I mean shouldn't we be utterly consumed with the amount of work we have to do, coupled with extreme amounts of dedication that even if perchance we have the opportunity to node at work, we would say, "Not me, that would be improper use of company time...." We would be so honorable to write down in our time log the "breaks" we took to node.

Of course in the real world, we are not like that. We take the time off from the pressure of work to waste company time noding to our hearts content, wasting away company time while we should be devoting it all to work. I wonder why this is? Why do we not care about the fact that someone is in fact paying me to node if I do it on company time.

Take this write-up for example. I teaching Biology today and I give out a quiz. Whats the first thing I do? I head over to E2 and start this daylog. I mean do you think the administration knows that right now they are paying me to node? I hope not, I mean I wouldn't pay someone to node. I guess it comes down to either lack of work ethic or it just isn't that important. And I tend to lead towards the latter.

The buildings of NYC rise like phantoms out of the fog, as I rise over the center hump of the bridge. The tires of my car make the familar thump-tump-thump-tump battle cry, as I descend back into the malestrom of traffic..which is only barely respited by the orderly white lines of the bridge, CASH right lane, EZ PASS all others.

Ancient warfare has been replaced by merging lanes.

shifts gears to weekend in Connecticut

Surrender to the carpet effect of multiple Newcastle bombers at Wonderland Billards. Run into old friend Dmitry and his wonderfully leatherclad girlfriend. Make plans for a night out back in Long Island over the holidays.

no sleep, mind spinning

Spend Sunday with old ex and her daughter. Old love turned to hate, replaced by easy occasional friendship (sans sex..just tension). She showed my the old victorian turned duplex she just bought.

She's done good without me. Of course

So on to the finale

Stopped by julz on the way back to NY. Time for the big talk. Five months of occasional fuck filled weekends obviously meant something different to her than it did me. I was comfortable with the way things were. No forced, trite words of love, just easy times.

sounds nice, doesn't it?

So I get ultimatum: walk and never speak to her again, or give her a shot. I wanted to run for that door, run and thank all applicable powers that be I got away so easy.

enter conscience

I stayed...out of guilt. The wrong reason? Yes. I know that. Staying was shittier than leaving. She countered every argument, every warning I could throw at her with:

"How do you know, if you don't try?"

I do know. I have tried.

Last pitch plea. As I rise off the couch.

"I don't know what I'll do if you leave..I won't be responsible"

what?!

the ultimate guilt trip

so i stay, and give her what she wants.

leave an hour later, sick and angry, make the ride back to the center of Long Island in under two hours.

I'd so rather be alone.

This is wrong
I awoke this morning a few minutes before my alarm was set to go off.
“Well. That’s odd,” I thought, and promptly rolled back under the covers for a few more minutes of peace. I didn’t think to wonder why until my stomach performed the gastrointestinal equivalent of slapping me upside the head when I turned on my side.
Bah.”
I knew exactly what that feeling was and did my best to ignore it. Stupid stomach. I had a final in half an hour. The least it could do was wait until I was finished.
I turned again, lying on my back; my stomach officially decided to give me the finger.
My body jumped up seemingly under its own volition, as my knee would have given out if I had knowingly tried to do the same thing. I scanned the room frantically, looking for a garbage bin, a cardboard box, an empty container of any sort. Considering the fact that I haven’t taken out the trash in well over a month, it’s not really a surprise I didn’t have any luck. I walked quickly to the door and carefully down the hall. I gagged about three feet away from the bathroom and prayed to Bog I would get there on time. I rushed in and headed for an open stall.
I’m not going to try to describe the mechanics of vomiting with a torn ACL. Suffice to say, it added a whole ‘nother level of discomfort to the procedure. After I was able to breathe again, I walked over to the sink… and then back to the toilet. This lovely cycle continued for about ten minutes. I hobbled back to my room after waving away an offer of help from some poor unfortunate who wandered in to the lav at the wrong time. I got dressed, gimped my way to my Intro toexam, vomited again, offered my apologies, and gimped my way back.
I’m in my room now as I write this, shirtless and sweating. Christ, I want to open a window, but that sort of thing is strictly Against the Rules when you’ve got a fever. The only thing I can hope for now is that everything’ll all go away when I close my eyes. Yeah. And monkeys will fly out of my ass.

Today will be spent resting and getting ready for my return trip to New Orleans. I was there just two months ago for a noder gathering and to visit with some friends of mine, who used to live in Nashville.

I'm going back there to "escort" one of them home. This person, some of you may or may not know, has gotten into a spot of trouble and needs to return back to Nashville. They asked me to help them out and I agreed- Jay to the rescue or something like that. It's not exactly a rescue, really. This person is pretty much capable of making the trip on their own. I guess I'm going for a few reasons, at least only a few that I can figure out.

1) Company. The road trip thing is done best with someone else in the car, in case something goes wrong or exhaustion takes over and makes driving impossible. It's good to have a co-pilot. Also, going on a road trip alone can be really damn boring- I've done it tons of times and entropy sets in when the driver starts talking to themself.

2) Friendship. More than just company, I feel this person needs the reassurance of seeing and being around a familiar, friendly face. Right now this person doesn't have a whole lotta friendly faces to look upon, and certainly none of them are in New Orleans. I am trying to be a friend to everyone involved with the situation, ready to bend my ear or offer advice to those in need- this person included. This is what I've been called to do. As a friend, it is my duty to perform.

3) The past. This person and I go back a ways. We've seen each other in some unique situations that most people haven't. Having that kind of connection with someone, especially in a time of extreme transition, can be comforting.

4) Visual confirmation of my ID at the car rental company. I was asked to provide my check card number to the car company- that's the only practical service I'm providing here, as a friend, to this person. In order to dump their stuff into a truck and transport it here to Nashville, a valid credit card is needed and I'm, apparently, one of only a few people who can provide this service for this person. Well, there's always good ol' dad, but the situation this person is in is so convoluted that talking to dear ol' dad about it, trying to explain the how's and why's and wherefores would be a nightmare. No, I wouldn't want anyone to have to endure that kind of misery- eight hours of cold disappointment from one's father, with nowhere to run to and escape the quizzical glares from said parent of, "How in the world did you get into this mess?" So, off I go to New Orleans to save a friend in need from abject misery.

I guess I should probably go get some rest now. I'll be on the plane tomorrow morning (Wednesday) at 7:40 AM, which means arriving at the airport some two hours early. Should I take my laptop with me? Hmm... I guess so- I might have some extra time on my hands at the airport and I can always get some writing done. I can sleep on the way back, in the truck. I hope my stomach can handle the trip- the change in my sleep schedule might have adverse effects. But I guess that's what they created stomach medicine for, isn't it?

It's been two years since I've been on a plane. I've ridden planes a lot in my life (more than twenty times), you'd think I would have gotten used to it by now. But, still, I'm always pensive the night before.

Should I double-check my will before I leave? How morbid is that?

3:50 pm

I just came home throgh the most beautiful afternoon. The sun had just set, leaving the sky pale blue above and pale rose at the horizons. The merest sliver of a moon hung low above the field, while jets left sunlit contrails across the heavens. Above me, flocks of migrating birds made their staggered Vs and Ws in the darkening sky. Gorgeous.

And I thought of you, all of you on E2, and how pleasant it would be to relive it here for you. Consider it a gift, for whatever festival of light you choose to celebrate.

Love,
evilrooster
My sister has two kids. I visited her last weekend and we exchanged gifts early (she will be out of town for Christmas). While I was there I noticed that her oldest child had brought a gift home from school and I had a vivid flashback to childhood.

There on the table was a round mass of white ceramic clay with a single handprint in the middle. M's name was written (scrawled, really) across the bottom in bright red. It was the standard Kindergarten holiday gift to Mom. It has been some twenty years since I brought my own version of this project home, and it is highly doubtful that my mother could find mine (if it exists at all). I do not even remember the last time I even thought about this whole deal.

After a long tussle, I had M put his hand in it to prove that it was his. He thought that was very funny and he couldn't believe I made him do it. That's OK, I can't believe I'm an Uncle.

From the present going backwards....

I just got a mix tape in the mail from P_I along with a swatch of material with the words "I Am A Shameless Agitator" on it. Getting mail from noders is the best thing after a day of nothing at work.

Some random thoughts....

Whenever I listen to music by a musician or band that is either currently broken up and/or deceased, I can't help but think for a moment that I'm listening to the voice of someone who is dead, that in a way, it's like hearing the dead speak in the world of the living. I guess you can't really think about it too much, lest losing the point of why you listen to said music at all, for your own, living and breathing reasons.

You know what this place is, Ellie? This is a place where the dead speak. Oh, no, Ellie, not right out loud. Their markers speak, their gravestones. This isn't a scary place, Ellie. It's a place for rest, and for speaking. Can you remember that?
----Pet Cemetary

Bart tells me I should turn my recent rash of dramas encircling me into a piece of fiction, make everyone a character. I do not know when, if ever, I will be ready for that. I am still having fleeting visions I don't want, memories I never had myself but are being impressed upon me from an outside source. You can't just write about emotions; you have to give them bodies and personalities. No one will be interested unless they are characters they can in some way relate to, and I can't even relate to them yet.

Every day lately I'm finding myself in a position of defense about the holidays, and why it's not that I'm depressed, it's that I don't really fucking care. It's hard for people to believe that, as if by saying that I'm automatically just in denial. If they'd seen my last few years of holidays, they'd think differently, maybe.

It's like you agreed to be this person, just to make it easier for everyone. And it's like with yearbook. Everyone's in this big hurry to make this book about what happened, but it's not about what really happened, but what everybody thinks is supposed to happen. Because if you made a book about what really happened, it'd be a very upsetting book.
----My So-Called Life

Earlier today, I checked the Pictures of Everythingians for the first time in a long time. I looked at my first images of Ken and Birch and how it came to be that I would be attracted to these guys based strictly on their words and good looks, or maybe as they would say, their ways with a camera. I also found what was my first image of Carson. I remember looking at it for the first time in that tiny attic apartment 2 addresses ago (read: 2 years) and, combined with IRC chat, would turn into a friendship and love and then nothing, a void. I wonder if anyone ever found me there and wondered things like I wondered about these guys, who would all impact me and some of which would move here to New Orleans and have all these freaky things happen to them. PS: We really need to update that thing. It does need to stay, I think.

A brief synopsis of the last week:

Tuesday: Carson brings by his bed to store at my place, Ken and Bryan move it in so he doesn't have to come inside. After he's gone I cry for a little and I don't really understand why. We wait for Ted in baggage claim, on the way back hit a drive thru daquiri bar. Ted made me mix CD's and bought me titanium single flare flesh tunnels (blue) and a book. We all eat chicken tortilla soup and cornbread I'd made earlier. We hang with Ken and Bryan for many hours until we get some time alone.

Wednesday: After I get off work, we hit Rings of Desire and Ted gets a new pair of titanium captive bead rings. Ted makes us all chicken and black bean stew. Thursday: After I get off work, we hit Port of Call rent Run Lola Run and Harold and Maude, get stoned, give each other foot massages, watch a killer thunderstorm through the window in the living room, and fall asleep.

Friday: Jim Monahan (owner of Monahan's and Molly's bars) died, Ted and Bryan got trashed at Monahan's while I was at work. When I get home, they're both crashing out. Go out with Ted and Ken to Juan's, crashed early. Bryan passed out on futon

Saturday: Breakfast at Le Madeline's, showed Ted the Tree of Life, walked around the Quarter, watched the NYC Calypso Tumblers perform, bought sunglasses, watched High Fidelity, got gussied up for my company's Christmas party (where we basically just refilled our drinks and holed away in the lobby by ourselves).

Sunday: Breakfast at Denny's, I stole a Denny's mug, Bryan hangs with Ted while I'm at church, we play a game of Trivial Pursuit (another in which Ken kicks all our asses) and then they take off to meet up with Suzy for a "last night out" and drinks. I get drunk and play sappy songs for Ted. Wake up at 4am to drive him to the airport.

I will spare all the sap and mush for my homenode.

And just like that, I'm back in my old grind again. My grind is, currently, finishing up the last of the Dixie 6 pack I didn't finish on Sunday, catching up on sleep, and trying to relax.

It is wild to find new love, to have friends draw near, to have the residual calamity of living your life in close quarters with such an odd array of misfits. We are the island of misfit toys.

Here I am. Anonymous.

Unfortunately, no matter where you go, there you are. And I make poor company.

But I have things to say. Please bear with me.

I got $50 from my father yesterday, and decided I wanted to go the mall with Dan, Kevin, and Brandi. Kevin and Brandi left in Kevin's car, and Dan and I went in his car.

Kevin and Brandi got there first, followed closely by Dan and I. Dan started to race into the parking space beside of Kevin, much the way he normally does.

Crash!

Dan inadvertently pulled out in front of some girl and she smashed into the rear left side of Dan's car. This started to spin us, but we didn't spin far. That's because the front of the car went into the side of Kevin's car.

Relax, no one was seriously hurt. The other girl wasn't hurt at all, and her bumper was just a bit scratched. Kevin and Brandi were completely unhurt, and there was just a scratch or two on Kevin's car, I think.

Dan's car, however, suffered a bit of damage with a badly crunched rear left fender. Nothing that anyone is going to notice, among the rest of the dents, however.

Dan wasn't hurt at all, and I'm not really hurt, either. My neck hurts, but 3 Extra Strength Excedrin and double-chocolate mocha iced cappuchino work wonders.

At any rate, I got a cool new book at Waldenbooks - Eternally Bad: Goddesses with Attitude. Lots of humorously-paraphrased myths of goddesses from various world cultures - goddesses who are not all sweetness and light. *grins* I love it.

W00t! Got my green belt in Shotokan Karate today! Only six more Kyus before Black Belt ...

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