Inverse Valediction

This new Blogger format is terrible! Look at all the white space. Not only am I rusty after having not written anything serious in months, but the blank canvas stretches for days! You sit down to bang out a few words and Blogger wants to remind you about how small your penis is. Pretty decently sized, but you don't have to be all in my face about it.

All this feels wrong. Every sentence gets deleted and rewritten and shitty. My work voice has overtaken my creative voice absolutely; I mean, I just used a goddamn semicolon in a blog post. This isn't the New Yorker! Or Highlights! This was Exit Theory. It all used to flow so naturally. Honestly, it feels good to get all this out and admit how awful I am now. Blank slates are always good, right? Blankness, or the inherent blankicity of things, seems to be a common theme I've touched on twice in two paragraphs. Let's make it a blog post!

I get wrapped up easily in appearances. For years I've tried to impress people by doing what I think they would want me to do to impress them. Read that sentence again, and hit yourself with a hammer. This is how I thought, and it's how a crazy person thinks. These rules which seemed so important are actually very dumb, and were always this way. It's a lot like trying to recapture the "good times," as nebulous and treacherous as those can be--things today are smaller, and more insignificant, and how didn't you see that before, you dummy?

One could spend time focusing on the past, and mistakes, and shames. And indeed I do, and often, as I find myself startled awake just before dozing off, remembering how I accidentally shook a man's hook instead of his left hand. And that's just a "for instance," but really, that's the kind of thing that shoots into my brain right at the moment of slumber. I suppose it's better than a gun? It's certainly no less startling. But again, these are the types of things a person--a bearded, lazy, out-of-practice, back-in-the-game idiot--needs to embrace.

Regrets just get to be so much baggage. So, I'm going to say goodbye to my old way of doing things. I'm going to bite into the neck of life and shake the shit out of it until I feel confetti or whatever courses through life's veins dripping from my chin. Bring it on, huge Blogger work space. Time to see whose proverbial penis is the biggest!

Stay young, however you can

Even the word is ugly—“budget.” But as I sat down and started calculating numbers, crunching figures, and setting long-term goals, an awful seed began to germinate. I’m scared that I started to grow up.

I never figured myself to be the guy to plan things or take precautions. For as long as I can remember, that was something that the weak had done; those too scared to live life at full throttle kept receipts in their wallets like Costanza. But when you can see things itemized on a list—I spent how much on shitty DVDs I bought to decorate my shelves?—reality rushes up like high tide. You can drown on responsibility.

I’m enjoying this box of wine, because as far as I can tell, it will be the last one I ever have access to, ever. Things that I thought were small, like my “meager” booze budget, have ballooned larger than the GDP of many third-world countries. Part of me is proud, and part of me is eyeing AA pamphlets.
The point of all this is growing pains—the figurative ones, not the real ones—are like mountain cats. You can hear them scratching, but you never see them until they pounce. That’s one positive, I suppose: I’m going to stop spending frivolously, and instead carry a large knife.

The summer before I went to college for real (no post-secondary enrollment option shit), I worked in my father’s factory in the boxing/unboxing department. At 6 A.M., I’d wake up, get out of my car, walk into the factory, grab a handful of hairnets and beard nets and razor blades, and go to work. Four hours were spent placing boxes of expertly-designed fish “products” into boxes for consumers to buy and eat while the other four were spent in a freezer throwing slabs of fish onto a forklift as they made their way to the “cooking facility” where warlocks turned it into crab and lobster and sauce. Alchemy—turning lead into gold—has been debunked, but what can you call a person who turns the meat of one species into the meat of another anything but an alchemist? I did this thing, and for money, and when I went to college “for reals” I never had to worry about money.

And then college ended, and I had jobs lined up that didn’t pan out and was on the proverbial street. Graduating from college and not having a job meant moving home to the family. This was before the recent recession where such occurrences were commonplace and expected; this was a bright badge of dishonor visible to all those to whom you described your dreams of success. And so I took a job lying to people and selling them things they didn’t need, and spent my off hours drinking. Young Adam, Innocent Adam, was a sensitive man unaware that people constantly look for frivolous reasons to spend money. With a Delorean and flux capacitor I would gladly go back in time and smack sense into these people.

I hate to say it, but two “careers” later and here I am, staring at an itemized list of what I spend money on and choking back horrified laughter. What can you do but laugh? It’s so easy to blame outside forces for my current lifestyle of paycheck-to-paycheck roughing it, but when the evidence is so pristine and goddamned organized, what can you say? In a misguided, semi-romantic sense, I always imagined that I would be my own end. Coming face-to-face with that reality is not nearly as poetic as I had imagined. And the worst part of all? Tomorrow I have to go back to work, smile at my peers, and start the process anew.

There was a time when opportunity knocked and all you had to do was open the door. Today, opportunity lives in the house, and you wait until it goes on vacation before you break in and steal a necklace or flat-panel. Sometimes I miss just having a future. These days, you have to take one.

Homeless at my house

My apartment is just great. Here are some great things about it:

--Last week, it snowed in my kitchen. Above my stove is some sort of vent which is professionally covered by a piece of cardboard and some black duct tape. During a windstorm, I noticed it was getting perilously cold and investigated the cause. I saw my cat frolicking playfully as the snow came through the vent. All I could do was sigh and apply another layer of duct tape.

--I haven't rearranged my furniture in months, but I still find new and interesting ways in which to stub each toe with regularity. In these delightful situations, I hit the ground and scream a litany of profanities which invariably draws the attention of my landlady, "Pam." Pam is a great person; she cares about things and people without the slightest hint of cynicism and wants to spread the good news, as it were. But there is a dark streak to her, as evidenced whenever I fuck up around here: she invites me over to see her birds. It's one of the only times she isn't talking incessantly about the shit happening at her job or around the building or crazy tenants in 14. We just kind of stand there and look at her birds. I never know how to get out of these situations. It's me, Pam, and her birds, and after a length of time she deems appropriate, she says "goodbye" and I make the excruciatingly long walk back to my apartment. I live directly across from her.

--Laundry happens on Tuesday evenings and Saturday mornings. I'm already up for the cartoons, so why not multitask? I don't get ready or anything. I roll out of bed and gather shit up and go downstairs. Two weeks ago, Pam was giving the keys to the new girl moving in to the apartment near the laundry room. In a desperate gambit to avoid a long conversation with Pam, I ran from the staircase to the laundry room door only to nearly bowl them both over. In her infinite wisdom, Pam takes this opportunity to introduce me to the new girl. There I stand, carrying a hamper full of underwear and bath towels, hair crazy from the night before, wearing my Zoobaz with the hole in the crotch so large that if I wasn't wearing undies my penis could unfurl out of them like a mighty sail, and I take this moment to say "Hey, if you need anything, I live up in 8." I have not seen this woman since that fateful encounter. If by some chance you are reading this, girl who lives below me, I promise not murder you or anything. I'm pretty sure I won't!

My Gift to You

It's been so long since I've done this. Writing about myself feels weird; I'm used to writing about my characters. Before the end of this post, I will have waded hip-deep through a sewer in search of a kidnapped dog or something. You know, something heroic and ridiculous.

Tomorrow I travel north and see the family which is both exciting and instantly tedious. My Christmas break is like sand slipping through fingers and I need to web that shit up. Spending time with my family is great; spending days is going to be a hassle. But the booze flows freely and there are sure to be numerous gaffes. Ought to be a bizarrely good time.

There is always a crunch to see long-lost friends during the holidays, because everyone left the MOTHERLAND and moved to some far-off locale and good for them, right? But unless the Venn diagram of our lives coincides serendipitously, I have a hard time making the effort. This is probably the reason why most people remember me fondly but loath me in actuality. Honestly, I can live with that.

What else? My generosity with Christmas gifts--at least monetarily--has reached a new level this year. In regard to creativity and personality, not so much. Getting someone a gift they like is great. Getting them the means to get something they love is better, though. Sure, it's basically the gift of more work, but if you don't want the fucking free money I'll find a use for it.

Of course, this is all preemptive. Maybe everyone will love the opportunity to get out and enjoy some after Christmas sales! We are in a recession, assholes. Do your part.

Once again, I'm convinced I'm dying. That's pretty much it. I'm not sure what's killing me, but it's not me. The lack of control in the matter is distressing. I persevere still, because why not? My inner super-villain (Jungle Jim, who takes the powers of all animals in the jungle one at a time) loves torturing those around me.

National Dust: Primo

It should affect me more, but my inability to escape the teenage ennui that I embraced before really is the shits. The worst part about it is that as a form of existential torture its not even fuckin' unique; my entire generation (the lamentable, irascible, irrelevant Millennials)suffers from this. Or would suffer, if we'd get off our couches, put down the cookie-cutter fads, pull up the pants, and get our shit together.

What bothers me most is that this used to be a credible yet ridiculous lifestyle choice. Squares wouldn't give you the time of day on the street but deep inside those double-breasted jackets a dark seed of respect would gestate. It wasn't being crazy to make a point, it was being crazy because the fire was at your feet and joining the race looked so good when the beers wore off, but they never did, did they? Today you've got people killing themselves for hours about which pair of shoes looked more ironic with their ensemble. Open a newspaper and watch it bleed; it still won't make you puke like the tragically hip.

Awash in a sea of post-modern, post-post, post-transcendence troglodytes and the only thing keeping you afloat in the jetsam of fixed-gear bikes and flotsam of scarves-in-summer is your own two fuckin' hands, broken from pounding on your head to drown out the indomitable noise. But I ain't spilling bile on these good-natured folks, no sir; when family falls all you have is your peer group. I wouldn't piss on another person if they were burning, but I would point towards the nearest latrine.

No, what gets my teeth a-grindin' is the helplessness. And that big middle finger I give the high-brow Ivory Tower Society gets shoved right back in the old mug. As kid, it was running to and fro, trying to score ladies and flee from responsibility and the culture feeds on that. Being the clown is all fun and games until the paint comes off and then what? Just a fuckin' slob with greasy hands and a silly wig. You can cram 15 people into a phone booth but you can't pick up the goddamn receiver.

While it may sound all bleak and boo-hoo, remember that a fella's gotta have a little respite every now and then. You got to strip yourself bare, go find a cave, and throw a bone through your nose. Live like a wild person and fight for supremacy. Don't misunderstand: I'm not sayin' go join a commune with their psychosomatic dogma what makes you feel guilty for living and even guiltier trying to find the escape hatch. All it is is this: sometimes, you gotta go just a little crazy. If people push you away, bite the motherfuckers. Like, with your goddamn teeth. Supersanity is the deadliest disease sweeping this great United States of America, and if you vaccinate yourself with a little crazy they wrap you in a blanket and toss you on the fire.

And that, suckers, is when those toes start to get red hot again...

Psychotic Reactions

A potpourri of thoughts. For instance:

--While I haven't seen it, there is no way "The Social Network" makes up for the myriad ways in which Facebook ruined my life. If we can have cars with built-in breathalizers, we need computer monitors with the same. Facebook chat and cheap rum mix like George W. Bush and the NAACP.

--Some entrepreneurial young person will put together a montage of Julia Roberts' face over the past fifteen years, and it will horrify you. Also, she played herself in Ocean's Twelve, a movie which is primarily blamed for my skin cancer.

--Blogger has a few suggestions for labels for this post, and they include the following: scooters, vacation, and fall. Prescient in all the right ways. Did you hear? The CEO of Segway died whilst riding a Segway. While not the literal definition of "irony," that's a pretty fucking close shave.

--It's fall in the Midwest, which can mean only one thing: hipsters in Uptown now feel vindicated for never taking that scarf off. Without knowing it, I just fulfilled one of Blogger's labels! Thanks for the tip, computer.

--My entire stereo system was built in the early 1990s; I either have to replace the entire setup or shell out big bucks for a new turntable. At times like this, I have to ask myself: "How much do I want to listen that goddamn 'Mountain' album?" And the answer is always "a lot."

--Looking back, the only celebrity deaths that have really made me feel shitty have been comedians. I didn't go to class for a week when Richard Pryor died and I called in sick the day after Greg Giraldo passed. I also did a shit-load of prescription drugs those days, so their legacy lives on!

--O.J. Simpson beats the murder rap. Kobe Bryant is acquitted of rape charges. Magic Johnson beats AIDS. I'm just saying.

That's it for tonight! Hooray!

Carrying the Zero

As a skeptic, I am very interested in how the universe works. Currenlty I'm reading a book by Michio Kaku called Parallel Worlds, which has been the source of many, many nightmares. Theoretical physics has always been a weird interest of mine, because these guys are spitballing reasons as to why the universe is the way it is--philosophers in a scientific sense. But the things these cats can do... We've got scientists, probably somewhere in Switzerland, teleporting atoms across the room. Ladies and gentlemen creating blueprints for a physically-accurate time machine... These things terrify me. I have had nightmares about this.

In Back to the Future II, Marty travels into the future, and meets his future self, a loser. According to this book, this type of travel is not only possible, but likely on a quantum level--we could travel through a wormhole into a parallel universe and meet a different version of our own person. And this is the idea that I find mortifying: what if parallel Adam is more success than me? Better looking? What if he's some secret agent? Is that version more real than me? It's terrible to think about unrealized potential, but that's the lynch pin of M-Theory, and it really scares me.

It's hard to describe, but the feeling is like, "What would I do if I disappointed myself?" In a solitary universe, who cares? Who you are is who you are. But I've got millions--infinite!--versions of myself I have to live up to. As self-centered and sociopathic as it may seem, the one person I'm afraid to let down is myself. Somewhere in the jetsam of the multiverse, a version of me is lounging on a yacht, firing nuclear missiles at some Eastern European country. He just doesn't care. Adam Prime, though? Feeding his fat cat, writing his blog. How unfortunate.

On the other hand, how can you compare? A million different versions of myself won the lottery, bought big houses, and bet on contests that required a human being to die. Only one version is as messed up, vulnerable, crazy, and self-aware as me. That must count for something. I mean, on the bright side, all these geniuses can't figure out how to reach these alternate realities, so who do I have to impress? Myself? I'm not there yet, but it's coming. In the meantime, things are going to work out just fine.