The familiar glint of the sidewalk shone differently in this light. The wind intermittent, flicked at the wisps of tattered fabric dangling from the abandoned lawn chair. A flurry of unspoken questions arose within the man passing by, and to answer them would have eliminated the soothing element of mystery twisted into each and every fiber. As the scattered ash from the cigarette of a pedestrian gently dusted a discarded newspaper, a loose shred of material snapped once, like a deadly, cloth viper.
The eyes of this rootless traveler appeared to take in the whole scene, noting the actions, but not necessarily dissecting them and interpreting them as anything past face value. A twinge of melancholy arose within his facial mannerisms as his countenance altered. It was evident that within the realm of imperfection, beauty was all-consuming. He decided to rest within its arms for just a little while.
Dusk cloaked the discarded furniture, cloaking the street in silence. By the time the garbage truck labored to a halt the next morning, he had slowly come to consciousness. The operator cleared the block of the unwanted junk and headed toward the chair, now a precious source of solace to a weary outsider. As he proceeded, the man cried aloud "No! Not this chair!", the other man shrugged his shoulders, returned to the driver's seat and slowly pulled away.
The man, relieved, sank back into the beaten, soiled material, afraid to place his full weight on the unstable frame. He inhaled and exhaled with an uneven rhythm, an outward expression of his inner turmoil. It was time to move along and he reluctantly came to terms with this notion.
As he stood, he ignited his last cigarette and paused for a moment, drinking in the sight with his tired eyes. As he flicked the excess ash off the end, it danced mid-air and came to rest upon the once beloved chair.
He was gone the next week when the garbage truck reappeared to claim the refuse of the block. As the chair entered the compactor and was obliterated, the man was in another town, wandering about and seeking a place of rest. The chair was no more.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
I Got a Head Like a Wet Cigarette
I've never been one to put much stock into the goings-on within my subconscious. This stems from the fact that my dreams are never substantial, but rather are an assortment of recountings of the prior day. As I wake the next morning, my dreams come back to me slowly and it's always the same. I often become frustrated with my ho-hum R.E.M. events because, come ON! In the non-waking hours,you can be anything you desire. Beautiful, rich, a professional thong tester, a mysterious drifter. ANYTHING. But no, my mind decides that I went to the gym before work, not after. I had a 5 dollar foot-long instead of crab cakes.
Anyway, until recently, this used to irk me tremendously. Then the recurrent dreams began.
One can assign blame to the causes of dreams to any number of things. Lingering day dreams, stress, fixation. The list goes on. I had no direct instigation for my series of repeats. I simply found myself, night after night, dreaming of a man I've never been so good at letting go of.
The dreams sort of took on a "Choose Your Own Adventure" format, with each night bringing a different set of circumstances and a varied conclusions. In one, I saw him in a supermarket, wearing overalls and strolling alongside a less than attractive older woman. In another, we spent a significant portion arguing over the new U2 album, followed by reading in bed. In still another, I saw him at random in a field and we meaningfully embraced amidst the wildlife. Every morning I would feel bewildered and a bit alarmed as to why my psyche was visiting this topic so passive-aggressively. I did nothing what-so-ever to fuel it. I went to great measures to quell the dreams and thoughts, as it were. Finally,after a week of nocturnal ups, downs, and the like, it finally subsided.
As the sun permeated my unmasked eyelids this morning, I finally felt grateful for the hum-drum dream of friends and Mexican cuisine. At least when your dreams are but a re-enactment of the day before, you don't awaken with a sinking heart and a head like a wet cigarette.
Anyway, until recently, this used to irk me tremendously. Then the recurrent dreams began.
One can assign blame to the causes of dreams to any number of things. Lingering day dreams, stress, fixation. The list goes on. I had no direct instigation for my series of repeats. I simply found myself, night after night, dreaming of a man I've never been so good at letting go of.
The dreams sort of took on a "Choose Your Own Adventure" format, with each night bringing a different set of circumstances and a varied conclusions. In one, I saw him in a supermarket, wearing overalls and strolling alongside a less than attractive older woman. In another, we spent a significant portion arguing over the new U2 album, followed by reading in bed. In still another, I saw him at random in a field and we meaningfully embraced amidst the wildlife. Every morning I would feel bewildered and a bit alarmed as to why my psyche was visiting this topic so passive-aggressively. I did nothing what-so-ever to fuel it. I went to great measures to quell the dreams and thoughts, as it were. Finally,after a week of nocturnal ups, downs, and the like, it finally subsided.
As the sun permeated my unmasked eyelids this morning, I finally felt grateful for the hum-drum dream of friends and Mexican cuisine. At least when your dreams are but a re-enactment of the day before, you don't awaken with a sinking heart and a head like a wet cigarette.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I'm Jell-O, Baby.
Disproportionate angst.
Torn jeans.
Notes in class.
Heavy guitars.
That's right-I am presently trapped within the grasp of mid-nineties alt rock. Particularly Pinkerton as a whole, but of course more specifically, El Scorcho. I'm not certain if it's the opening profanity or the misaligned harmonies in the chorus but I am yet again captivated. There's something so comforting and reassuring about being engrossed in the early high school soundtrack. Probably the fact that in reflection, the all-consuming tribulations of those distinct years are minute comparatively to life from there on out.
I recently sanctified our defiled porch and was rooting through my nearly forgotten possessions. I came across a journal I kept from 10th to 12th grade which I had then entitled The Diary of Nikki Walter-Frank. (yes, I lacked discretion even then) As I read the mundane details of my existence, my face became inflamed. In 11th grade, my primary preoccupation was the fact that my romantic life was forever scarred and invalid because my boyfriend of less than 6 months and I had broken up. Each chronicle was intermittently peppered with hopelessly shitty lyrics which I thought at the time were sheer, heartache genius. Once I had reached the end of that terrible dreck, I was so compelled by the poor structure and lack of substance that I decided to trash it. Farewell, downtrodden teen Nik. You are gone, and unfortunately, not forgotten.
Thank you, Rivers Cuomo, for inciting me to relive my petty, teenaged delusions once more. Those melodic reminders of yesteryear do it to me every time.
Torn jeans.
Notes in class.
Heavy guitars.
That's right-I am presently trapped within the grasp of mid-nineties alt rock. Particularly Pinkerton as a whole, but of course more specifically, El Scorcho. I'm not certain if it's the opening profanity or the misaligned harmonies in the chorus but I am yet again captivated. There's something so comforting and reassuring about being engrossed in the early high school soundtrack. Probably the fact that in reflection, the all-consuming tribulations of those distinct years are minute comparatively to life from there on out.
I recently sanctified our defiled porch and was rooting through my nearly forgotten possessions. I came across a journal I kept from 10th to 12th grade which I had then entitled The Diary of Nikki Walter-Frank. (yes, I lacked discretion even then) As I read the mundane details of my existence, my face became inflamed. In 11th grade, my primary preoccupation was the fact that my romantic life was forever scarred and invalid because my boyfriend of less than 6 months and I had broken up. Each chronicle was intermittently peppered with hopelessly shitty lyrics which I thought at the time were sheer, heartache genius. Once I had reached the end of that terrible dreck, I was so compelled by the poor structure and lack of substance that I decided to trash it. Farewell, downtrodden teen Nik. You are gone, and unfortunately, not forgotten.
Thank you, Rivers Cuomo, for inciting me to relive my petty, teenaged delusions once more. Those melodic reminders of yesteryear do it to me every time.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Box Office Poison ala Carrot Top
This may very well be one of my favorite movie reviews of all time. "Justin" is truly a man after my own heart.
http://www.mutantreviewers.com/rchairman.html
http://www.mutantreviewers.com/rchairman.html
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
On the Subject of Trade Shows
There is a sea of khakied, extroverted creepers and I am the only aquatic pedestrian. They leer, they stop and grasp at conversational straws and they self-inflate their profession like there's no tomorrow. And at trade shows, maybe it IS all about the moment. Relentless networking, tireless rejection, and cold calling. No wonder these fellas are so forward. Rejection's sting is significantly reduced when it occurs day in and day out. As I look into the white collar, leathered face of a 40-something lifer in sales, I can see the realm of underlying emotion that surges just beneath the surface. The social neediness, the isolation, the loneliness, and the sheer frustration with, yet addiction to this field.
I was speaking with one such gentleman today, though he kept his creep factor at a minimum. He was more interested in selling the plight of the salesman than the product itself. And he didn't say anything I found groundbreaking. My father has been in sales for years now so I have an idea of what it entails. Long hours, memorization, constant availability, ceaseless networking, countless phone calls, and other perpetual, unforeseen expectations. The man was insistent on preaching to the choir about how “everyone thinks it's so easy” and subsequently, just how wrong they are. After a few moments of “ I know's” and “I hear that's”, he finally shut up and realized his attempts of conversion were unnecessary.
I believe my favorite part of this convention is lunch-time. It's not because my cup runneth over with free eats, either. It's the Sandwich Sultan. Each day, a few minutes prior to 12, a Haitian hotel staff wheels in the summation of everyone's mid-day dreams: about 300 cellophaned half-sandwiches. You present a lunch ticket which likely cost the convention around $20.00. The event schedule allots 1.5 hours for what professes to be a buffet. Call me a sloppy American, but to my ears, buffet signifies myriads of steaming, untouched dishes of C-grade food just waiting for me to attack with unbridled and unlimited vigor. This “buffet” consists of aforementioned sandwich-halves, microscopic bags of chips, and drop fruit from a suburban orchard. The Sandwich Sultan takes your ticket and promptly informs you “only one half sandwich”. One half sandwich?! I'm sorry, do I look like a 3 year old? 'Fraid this machine needs a few hundred more calories to be sated. I've witness more than a few suave, distinguished businessman attempt to swipe an extra wrap or two. To my sheer delight, the S.S. was quick to call them out on the folly of their treachery and demand immediate return of the edibles. Some were indignant and others sheepish. Either way, I did a piss poor job of masking my snorts. I was going to attempt the “clueless cute ditz” move and see if my marginally presentable appearance could garner me an additional half, but then reality set in and it dawned on me that Sandwich Sultans cannot be reasoned OR flirted with. One half sandwich. No more, no less. Sucks to be that guy. I wonder if he and Open Bar guy drew straws for tasks and S.S.'s was just a little shorter. Nonetheless, this proved a great source of amusement in my day, other than faux smiling and impersonating all attendees and vendors alongside my mentor/father, Rodger K. Walter.
I think the most prominent piece of knowledge I've attained is that you can get a ton of free bullshit by merely walking around at these functions. Various writing implements, tote bags (one style of which I've been intently lusting after), notepads, chip clips, the works. Yesterday, I was struck with an intense desire to learn about water in the many displayed facets. Today, I'm periodically shifting from left cheek to right cheek in a last ditch attempt to stay awake. It's a shame, too. So many individuals in life make quite a handsome living in sales. As it were, I feel immensely uncomfortable when forced to seek out business or ask for money. Call it being a Walter or my good, old-fashioned German/Hungarian/Irish pride, but either way, I could never truly excel at this. It's most unfortunate, because from what I've gathered over the years, and in these few days, you can make an exorbitant income by essentially knowing your shit and being personable. All I know is that if one more of these testosterone laden, follow-you-to-your-car-and-hurt-you types approaches my father and comments on my exterior, I'm going on a booth and ego destructing rampage all over the 5th floor of this Marriot Marquis. I cannot convey enough the type of crowd at this event. Just booths and booths of middle-aged, Caucasian men who think lewd comments are kindness and endless conversations will make a sale. Selling anything pertaining to water/water treatment plants is certainly a male-dominated profession. I've counted the females actually working at this thing and there were 5 (other than me) out of approximately 275. On the rare occasions I pass another living XX-chromosomed human being here, we just sort of exchange empathetic glances and go about our separate paths.
This place is ripe for psychoanalysis, but unfortunately, I have not the will, nor the laptop battery left. They actually CHARGE you to have electricity at your booth. In fact, dad and I looked into how much it would cost to have wireless at the booth. No joke-$750.00! I have decided to pass and commit this to blog when out of beautiful, bustling Time Square and back into a place where I'm permitted to consume more than a half sandwich per sitting and utilize internet for under a grand a day.
I was speaking with one such gentleman today, though he kept his creep factor at a minimum. He was more interested in selling the plight of the salesman than the product itself. And he didn't say anything I found groundbreaking. My father has been in sales for years now so I have an idea of what it entails. Long hours, memorization, constant availability, ceaseless networking, countless phone calls, and other perpetual, unforeseen expectations. The man was insistent on preaching to the choir about how “everyone thinks it's so easy” and subsequently, just how wrong they are. After a few moments of “ I know's” and “I hear that's”, he finally shut up and realized his attempts of conversion were unnecessary.
I believe my favorite part of this convention is lunch-time. It's not because my cup runneth over with free eats, either. It's the Sandwich Sultan. Each day, a few minutes prior to 12, a Haitian hotel staff wheels in the summation of everyone's mid-day dreams: about 300 cellophaned half-sandwiches. You present a lunch ticket which likely cost the convention around $20.00. The event schedule allots 1.5 hours for what professes to be a buffet. Call me a sloppy American, but to my ears, buffet signifies myriads of steaming, untouched dishes of C-grade food just waiting for me to attack with unbridled and unlimited vigor. This “buffet” consists of aforementioned sandwich-halves, microscopic bags of chips, and drop fruit from a suburban orchard. The Sandwich Sultan takes your ticket and promptly informs you “only one half sandwich”. One half sandwich?! I'm sorry, do I look like a 3 year old? 'Fraid this machine needs a few hundred more calories to be sated. I've witness more than a few suave, distinguished businessman attempt to swipe an extra wrap or two. To my sheer delight, the S.S. was quick to call them out on the folly of their treachery and demand immediate return of the edibles. Some were indignant and others sheepish. Either way, I did a piss poor job of masking my snorts. I was going to attempt the “clueless cute ditz” move and see if my marginally presentable appearance could garner me an additional half, but then reality set in and it dawned on me that Sandwich Sultans cannot be reasoned OR flirted with. One half sandwich. No more, no less. Sucks to be that guy. I wonder if he and Open Bar guy drew straws for tasks and S.S.'s was just a little shorter. Nonetheless, this proved a great source of amusement in my day, other than faux smiling and impersonating all attendees and vendors alongside my mentor/father, Rodger K. Walter.
I think the most prominent piece of knowledge I've attained is that you can get a ton of free bullshit by merely walking around at these functions. Various writing implements, tote bags (one style of which I've been intently lusting after), notepads, chip clips, the works. Yesterday, I was struck with an intense desire to learn about water in the many displayed facets. Today, I'm periodically shifting from left cheek to right cheek in a last ditch attempt to stay awake. It's a shame, too. So many individuals in life make quite a handsome living in sales. As it were, I feel immensely uncomfortable when forced to seek out business or ask for money. Call it being a Walter or my good, old-fashioned German/Hungarian/Irish pride, but either way, I could never truly excel at this. It's most unfortunate, because from what I've gathered over the years, and in these few days, you can make an exorbitant income by essentially knowing your shit and being personable. All I know is that if one more of these testosterone laden, follow-you-to-your-car-and-hurt-you types approaches my father and comments on my exterior, I'm going on a booth and ego destructing rampage all over the 5th floor of this Marriot Marquis. I cannot convey enough the type of crowd at this event. Just booths and booths of middle-aged, Caucasian men who think lewd comments are kindness and endless conversations will make a sale. Selling anything pertaining to water/water treatment plants is certainly a male-dominated profession. I've counted the females actually working at this thing and there were 5 (other than me) out of approximately 275. On the rare occasions I pass another living XX-chromosomed human being here, we just sort of exchange empathetic glances and go about our separate paths.
This place is ripe for psychoanalysis, but unfortunately, I have not the will, nor the laptop battery left. They actually CHARGE you to have electricity at your booth. In fact, dad and I looked into how much it would cost to have wireless at the booth. No joke-$750.00! I have decided to pass and commit this to blog when out of beautiful, bustling Time Square and back into a place where I'm permitted to consume more than a half sandwich per sitting and utilize internet for under a grand a day.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
On the Subject of Scooters
[The bold, enlarged font denotes the most alarming line in the entire exchange.]
John: for real, I'm going to get a motorcycle learner's permit tomorrow.
John: for real, I'm going to get a motorcycle learner's permit tomorrow.
| 41 minutes |
12:37 AM me: HAHAHA what?!?!?!
12:38 AM John: I truly never believed that I would be applying for a motorcycle license... ever.
This is a lot like the time I drove that pick up truck,
or the time I drank that miller lite,
except both of those times I was black out drunk.
me: I hate to be the one to break it to you but,
12:39 AM 1. The fact that you are aware of hues and tones outside of ROY G BIV is going to be an enormous hindrance
2. I don't know that Express slacks will mesh well with a Harley
3. See 1 and 2
John: lol.
12:40 AM Don't worry, I have a super gay thing to ride all picked out.
Think: scooter.
me: oh jesus god.
John: It comes in a delightful shade of cyan melt.
matches my producer pant collection really well.
me: hahahaha wow. you couldnt have said ANYTHING that would have caught me more off guard
12:43 AM John: I think this is one of my terrible ideas that I'm going to regret instantly. Like the seventh baked potato that day we got drunk and did nothing but eat baked potatoes,
or, that time I decided it was okay to drive a pick-up truck.
but both of those times, again, I was really drunk.
12:44 AM me: im far more concerned that this is a sober decision, to be honest
John: I know.
Let me run my math by you.
Me + Scooter = faggy.
but!
me + nothing else = already faggy.
me + scooter = hazard to myself and others.
but!
12:45 AM me + any degree of frustration related to transportation = pre-conditioned near sui/homicidal rage.
me + carshare/SEPTA = 500/mo on transportation.
me + scooter = money up front, and then 100 miles/gallon.
12:46 AM there is the first equation, though. That one still bothers me. (me+scooter = faggy).
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Ocular Outrage
It is a well known fact amongst my immediate family members that I wholly abhor anything disturbing involving eyes. This includes watching people put in contact lenses, touching their eyes in general, any and all eye injuries, etc. This in mind, my father, in his senility/infinite desire to torment, led me to the slaughter via this link: http://www.unoriginal.co.uk/footage6_4.html
Honest to God, I almost vomited from merely seeing her resting face as I copied the link. I didn't want to sleep another night knowing that other people weren't suffering with this imagery.
Honest to God, I almost vomited from merely seeing her resting face as I copied the link. I didn't want to sleep another night knowing that other people weren't suffering with this imagery.
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