~~~QUICK USE OF OTHER PEOPLE'S WORDS TO SET THE TONE~~~
"There is no safety anywhere: a humpback, a cripple - they all have the trigger that sets love off." Maurice Bendrix
"Hatred seems to operate on the same glands as love: it even produces the same actions" Grahm Green
~~~QUICK USE OF SOMEONE ELSE'S WORDS TO DESTROY THAT TONE~~~
I'd rather choose my soul to lose
than leave around one confusing loose desire
Don't know if I'll ever learn
Can't wait till I get my turn
to burn in the infernal hellfire
I'm waiting for my last ride while
the bugle of my backside blows a blues in 'B'
Hope I don't run out of gas
Bet my sacrilicious ass
ain't nothing down there that scares me
Oh, yeah, and you know I'm in league with Satan
and you know there can be no debating my hell-bound trail
I was born with a tail
I'm evil, yeah, and I run free
There's molten leather in me so lets get the hell
Got the goods, brother, bring it on
My mother done brought me up wrong
And you can use my dick for a walking stick as well
Oh, yeah, and you know I'm in league with Satan
and you know, there can be no debating my hell-bound trail
I was born with a tail
I'm on a hell-bound trail
Born with a tail
Alright
It's time to fly the finger, yeah
that middle finger brings your point in and drives it home
On my head there's no crown of thorns
This evil scout has earned his horns
I'm gonna hop on top of your mom before I go
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, you know
I'm in league with Satan
and you know there can be no debating my hell-bound trail
I was born with a tail
I'm on a hell-bound trail
Born with a tail
~~NOW MY WORDS, FOR WHATEVER MOOD YOU WANT~~
Maybe Tomorrow
Have you ever wanted to crumple your entire life up and throw it away?
Wrap the whole oozing at the edges, unappetizing, soggy mess into a tidy piece of rubbish and - in one self-assured motion - toss it aside, confident in the knowledge you're starting completely anew. The only thing you take with you is the important life lessons you've learned, and maybe a little spending money. I mean, we must be pragmatic about these daydreams to make them seem attainable.
I'm not an unhappy person. Really. And there are a few redeeming traits that I've wrangled from my 34 years of existence that I'm not completely put off with.
I've got a small, mostly neurotic family that I love - despite their peerless ability to drive me insane. I've been lucky enough to meet a dozen or so people whose company I truly enjoy. And who enjoy my company. And treat me better than I sometimes think I deserve.
My Volkswagen GTI's got enough giddy-up under the hood that I enjoy driving her.
I've got some baseball photos from the 1960's on my wall that look pretty impressive.
There's a few shirts that I actually look pretty smart in.
I like my book collection. Or rather, I like the way the books I've kept reflect on me. There's also occasional glimpses of redeeming quality in my music collection, though I'll be the first to admit it's woefully skimpy, and there's a few too many of those CD's hanging around from the many times I joined that mail order music service and didn't return the little card. I hate that damn card.
There's also a nice bottle of red wine that I picked up last week, and haven't opened. And a sleek aluminum framed Trek 7000 that doesn't get ridden nearly as much as it should.
I've got a really nice set of knives that make eating even an average cut of meat feel special. There's a jade plant in the corner of my living room/office/dining room that's doing well. My Bose 201 speakers produce very nice sound. Oh... and the bed frame I got a few years back is a rather decent piece of furniture.
I've also accumulated some rather cool knick-knacks that are semi-artistically spread out about my meager life-space. A wrought iron street sign from where I grew up. A giant bleached cow skull I found in the woods when I was 13. An antique globe that lights up. A carved wood, mantle clock that my father started but never finished. In fact, I actually completed the work, though where my father stopped and I took over is embarrassingly obvious.
Other than that single page - the majority of what's left of my life (once you remove me or course) isn't worth more than a few thousand bucks at an estate auction. And most of that comes from the baseball cards I accumulated as a teen and forgot about. OK, so I didn't forget about them. And sometimes lay them out in my own dream team. Oh yes, meager existence.
So I have this meager existence.
Not that there's anything really wrong with a life bereft of physical possessions. "Things" aren't what makes life interesting, right? Just a little more - comfortable.
But seriously: take a look around for yourself. Is there anything you'd want of mine - to be a part of your life? Not counting what I haven't already named.
There's the awful and uncomfortable mismatched furniture accumulated from friends who got married and "upgraded" their life. I know you don't want that. The hodgepodge kitchenware? Same. My wobbly desk? The worn, rust colored carpet? The underwear with holes in just the right places to snag your member as you walk into a room, requiring you to awkwardly try and nudge it back where it belongs without anyone noticing. I KNOW you don't want that.
The remote control with the battery so low you need to re-aim it 3 times to switch channels. The disassembled electric guitar. The tape of game 7 of the 1979 World Series. The air conditioner that rattles when you run it on high. Crap, crap, crap and crap. Crap the lot of it.
The problem is... it's my crap.
But just because it's mine - does that mean I have to continue to pretend to want it? The answer is no. In fact, because it is mine, I own a special disdain for it that you could never appreciate. Well... unless we were somehow related, I died, and willed it to you. Only then could you truly appreciate the crap I've saddled myself with.
But the life I want to throw away is much more than just things. There's other parts I doubt you'd want either.
My job? Ever since I got laid off I've been commuting 60 miles to DC to write copy as a consultant. The $23 an hour I get isn't bad. But no health insurance, and an office of 5 people - none of which I'd invite to my fictitious new life isn't that appealing.
My wit? There was a time when I though it was pretty keen. I mean... you can't pick up a copy of Cosmo without finding at least three lists touting how very important women find a sense of humor. Yet, what's it gotten me? I'm no closer to sleeping with the girl I met three weeks ago (who gave me her number) than I was before I got her number. And I was goddamn funny on the phone when we spoke. Well, funny in an "I'm terrified to be talking to you and it comes out as dry wit and sarcasm" kinda way.
How about my health? I'm pretty fit, despite the fact that my gut seems to be searching for a little extra room around my waist. But then if you must know - my Dad went and died of a heart attack when he was just 48 years old. If it's truly hereditary, as my doctor told me when she was trying to scare me into laying off the smokes, then that leaves me with what, maybe another 18 years?
Fuck!
If I'm about to reinvent my life, I better get along with it.
Of course, the best part of the dream of throwing your life away is imagining the you that will emerge on the other side. A caveat here: one of the rules reinventing your life is that the new you isn't subject to any of the forces that cornered you into where you are now. In the new life, things like having to find the money to pay rent... Or buying shirts that are acceptable where you work, yet not a complete sell out to your dwindling anti-establishment principals... Or what anyone in your old life thinks of the new... is removed. All gone.
So who am I? No, that's not right. So who will I be? Yes, that's the right question.
I could be a guy who gets up at 5:30 each morning and rides his bike for 21 miles before the sun comes up. And then rides another 25 at dusk. This new me can name the members of US Tour De France team NOT named Lance Armstrong. He'd have 4 touring bikes, one hand built track bike, 3 percent body fat - and look really good in a tee shirt. This guy has a passion and persistence that infuses everything in his life, and everyone who knows him knows there's nothing he can't do if he puts his mind to it. This guy gets laid a lot.
Or maybe I can be that guy who can name every Elvis Costello album, the year they were released, and who produced them. Of course he owns them all. Vinyl all. He even owns the shitty ones, because Elvis has earned that respect. What he doesn't own is anything marked "Greatest Hits" or "The Best of". That would be wrong, and if this guy has to explain why to you, he wouldn't take you very seriously. This guy would hang out in the back of bars and be recognized by all the members of the local music scene. Maybe he even writes on music for the local alternative paper. He can speak knowledgeably about any artist: from Annihilation to Warren Zevon. He's a music snob and proud of it. This guy gets laid a lot.
Maybe I could be the guy whose house is stacked full of thousands of books. All read. All remembered. Maybe he owns a used and rare bookstore? Yeah, that sounds cool. You wanna talk about John Irving? Fine, but this version of me will engage you about The 158-Pound Marriage just as thoroughly as when we discuss A Prayer for Owen Meaney. This version of me has also seen all the films shown at the Cannes film festival. And can tell you who wrote and directed each of them when he feels like showing off. He's always a step ahead of what's cool. Not because he's up on such things, but because he defines them. This guy gets laid a lot.
And then there's the me that runs the scuba shop somewhere tropical outside the continental US. He's been living at this place long enough that the locals actually respect him, even if his occasional guests from the states make asses out of themselves and wind up getting bailed out of jail... Or stitched up in the local hospital after wandering into the wrong bar, and talking to the wrong woman. This version of me can retell his life by revealing the story behind each tattoo. This guy gets laid a lot.
I guess there's something to be said for the American with the mysterious past, now living in New Zealand . His story about why he's there is that he's always wanted to live somewhere that you could pick your house up and take it with you (as they do in New Zealand) when you move. But most people would know that's not the real reason. I think a fair number of the bluish gray-eyed local women would take an interest in this guy, sensing deep, unnamed pain, and want to help him. This obviously involves a lot of sex and therefore, this guy gets laid a lot.
And since we're just dreaming here, we can also throw in the musician fantasy. The international jewel thief. And the guy who emerges from nowhere with the 101 MPH fastball. Obviously... (wait for it)... these guys all get laid a lot.
I'm pleased with myself and pleased with all the new me’s I've come up with.
So now I have a plan. Now I just have to decide which new me I want to be. A monumental task, considering I've only got about 18 years left to live. It's a task I'll take up first thing tomorrow however, since there's a Joe Strummer tribute at the Ottobar I'm late for. Tomorrow I promise I'll sit down and complete reinvent my life. But for now, I gotta throw my "going to a show" Sonic Youth tee shirt in the washing machine and make my way to the bar. But definitely tomorrow...
