Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Post Coitum Omne Animal Tristis Est

Halloween, costumes, trickery...heck, even slutty Rainbow-Brites aren't that interesting anymore. Actually, the slutty Rainbow-Brites can be kind of interesting, at least in the lizard part of the brain with a shine for misanthropic sexual terpschiore. But the rest of Halloween isn't really. I'm probably a dry sourpuss, yes. I've never been "into" costumes or role-playing or any of that shit, though, participation isn't unprecedented. I did Agent Cooper at Crystal Lake South once or twice, I could really channel him ("Diane, sexual feelings about cheerleader uniforms are not unknown among *cough* G-men"), but since then most of my costumes have been conceptual failures, except for Andy Warhol, and that white powder wigged flower only bloomed once (2000?). If you come to my house for Ginger Ale and Fruity Pebbles some morning I can show you the polaroid of me as the Pop Art Man Child himself posing on the Empty Bottle couch with the one and only Isaac Brock. I'm kind of a whole late 70's striped shirt and tie era there, didn't break character once the entire night, more Bowie than Glover. Rumsfeld After Dark (don't ask) and Gay Suburban Dad On The Down Low (Kids In The Hall channeled via Jim J. Bullock Too Close For Comfort) carried me through the last few years and now I am costumeless, and not missing it.

"Where is your costume" a friend barged into the bookstore and asked last night, when we were giving away free books to the kiddies (instead of candy) as is ancient Myopic tradition. My reply was, I am proud to say, gunshot quick: " I'm sorry. I'm still getting over this little virus called 'self-respect'." I was immediately, mercilessly and quite correctly booed by several 'Ween attired people, including three or four co-workers, a mom and her two small children, one of which was dressed as, I think, a telemarketer. Headset and clipboard? What else could it be? PA? Old Navy management? Good to see kids aim high these days. Oops, did I just pull a Kerry?

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Monday, October 09, 2006

Ben Franklin Was the Original Raw Dog

We have one customer at the store that the Dude can't abide. (The Dude being me, and not Lloyd Bridges, Jr.)(Although I'm more the Sam Elliott type, I'd imagine.)(Or hope to be. More than the John Turturro type, anyway.)He's a weird shifty stoner burb bra, always wears a purple shirt, Umbro shorts circ '94 mormon teen recovery summer camp, filthy mock Burberry slippers and no socks come rain or shine. His toes are grisly battlegrounds of germs. He has curly kind-of red blonde hair and a moderate staring/mouth gape problem, which in toto is pretty par for the typical bookstore habitue, but we'll call him E.E. Kummings Kreep 'cause there was a 'situation' where he bugged us for three weeks for some Cummings hard cover we had yet to price sitting in a pile somewhere that he wanted dearly, every single clerk at the store including the manager hassled multiple occs., which became A THING, instead of simple customer request, so STRIKE ONE on dude.

The other night near closing time, when I was shutting off the lights, turning off the air conditioners, making sure Leonard had food, avoiding the upstairs ghost (there is one! female!primarily benevolent but bristly!), tapping my "hoof" to the Darkthrone closing music playing downstairs and keeping one eye in a just-incoming copy of Garry Wills' short bio of Saint Augustine, when who should appear? Burberry feet diapers himself. "Hey" he sez, "do you know people in this neighborhood?" With no small amount of trepidation, I answered him in the affirmative. That I did, in fact, know some people in this neighborhood pretty dece. "Well, I'm really looking for something, man." By this point, my colon was churning pre-fart fear bubbles, but I did not flee. "I'm looking for a way to touch the sky, man". I must have stared at the poor bastard for at least 45 seconds, making no gesture. I had no idea what he was talking about, momentarily metaphoriacally incapacitated, mind racing..."is this a sex thing? a code among the young and actionable? I've only given one blow job in my whole life. Oops, I mean two. Mostly for show. Not prepared dear loving god, not me. wait. does 'reach the sky' mean he wants to stretch muscles more? calves tight, lumbars in square bricks, phalanges cracking? is he asking about a yoga studio? i know one on Division. The woman with the horse racing helmet and the elliptical little smile works out there and damn, Jackson, if she isn't foxy six kinds. Yoga pants are one of God's Great Gifts. I see her once or twice a week on her bike. No...no. he wants drugs! of course. Drugs! Hendrix! In the Sky! So easy." Brain banter over, and so much inner relief found, I told him to go to Rodan. You can't get "Legal Coke" (thanks Redman) passed your way under the table in a matchbook for 2 Jacksons, but you can get the white stuff that delays the sunrise (or ruthlessly makes it irrelevant). That guy, though. Still creepin'. And he'll be back. I bet you don't have to deal with people like that at your job. No, you deal with editors, or the bottled water dude, or the UPS guy or Lois Weinberg. Imagine how fucked up he'd be if he was really into Blake?

*******Quick notes*******

1) "The Departed" is C+ in the Scorsese pantheon, I guess. Crazy Jack Nich acting naners, Damon looking worried, Leo D wincey and tough and doughy, cheezy Joyce quotes from young teen toughs, nice Coat Rack stabbing at the convenience store. You'll like it. On DVD.

2) They were playing Franz Ferdinand and the Strokes the other night at the Continental. As in, from 4 years ago. What a dump. People. I don't go out for, like, 9 months and this is the best you can do? Can we at least get some Wipers? Do people listen to the same thirty songs over and over again and nothing else FOR THEIR ENTIRE LIVES? I'm not asking for Jandek here, or the Tall Dwarfs or something outlandish. Just, you know. A different Morrisey album.

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You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.

Shit is real M.I.A. 'round here, and I don't mean the Sri Lankan singer or RAMBO. Actually, I do mean RAMBO. Anyway. It happens. I forget about the blog, or just don't feel like it most days. But, I'll try more in the future. Especially because Ozzie gets linked, and people seem to read it. Still. Which mystifies me. Because you could be listening to Tim Kinsella right now, bathing in the triumphal splendor of the Make Believe record that came out last Tues. Hometeam on some Edgar Cayce blue highways, y'all. Fate is knocking on the door. Did you read the thing in A.P.? I never laughed so hard in all my life. I LOVE THAT GUY.

Fantasy Baseball ended rather drably. 4th, 6th, 6th in the various Yahoo leagues. Josh tattooed my ass right out of the "Baseball Club" playoffs by the second week of "post-season" play. For a guy with access to a computer for less than an hour a day for most of the summer, totally without ESPN, Comcast Sports Net or access to Hawk Harrelson's "greased tee", that isn't too bad, I guess. I'm not playing fantasy football or basketball this fall/winter, because I'm trying to "have a life", which includes such gordian concepts as "going out with friends" or "meeting friends at the bar and watching them get drinky crow" and flirting with female representatives of my "peer group" at "parties" which might lead to acts generally consistent with or precipitating an (albeit) drastically amended form of "propagation of the species". My only make out partner the last few months has been the couch, where I fell asleep reading Spengler's Decline of the West on Thursday night and drooled on the armrest.

I'm a reading maniac now. Pure bookstore zen. I just hold a book in my hand and the ol' subconscious munches leitmotifs like a little bunny munching lettuce heads in the garden of heavenly deeeeee-lites. 2 minutes remaining on the terminal. Be back soon. XOXO.

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Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Wow. I just lost a pretty decent post on this crappy library computer. Sometimes you have to take a sign from above and just not try. Peace out.

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