Blast of Silence

Hard Times is in the can, so this morning I started David Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.  Now when I read on the train I can be a perfect caricature of a college student from 2000 who, when not soaking up Haruki Murakami novels and Galaxie 500 B-Sides, has guilt-ridden sex fantasies about a threesome with Scarlet Johansen and Terry Gross. 

So far the book is sad and funny funs.

So, I made this tape, and thought I’d present it to the staff of the local cafe.  No dice. Stalling, I’ve rolled it around in my pocket every morning for four days leaving the case with a film of DNA-laden palm sweat.  What I’ve realized is that there is absolutely no way of offering it to them without looking like I’m sleazily, awkwardly, and tritely hitting on one or all of the employees.  I can’t blame them. When I worked at worked at a cafe 3 years ago this poor sap gave a tape to one of my female coworkers on the eve of a date, and we played it as soon as he left, psychoanalyzing each track for hidden romantic messages.  Thing is, a few months ago one of the baristas made a CD for me, so I can try to play it off as a friendly tit for tat.  But she seems to have disappeared.  Whatever, I hate them and that place.  Scarlet?  Terry?  To the hunting lodge!

SIDE A

Wallias Band - Muzigawi Silt*The Strangeloves - Night Time*Johnny Davis-You Got to Crawl to Me*Defunkt-Good Times*The Clash-This is Radio CLash*The Slits-I Heard it Through the Grapevine*Jesse G-That’s Hot*A Certain Ratio-Choir*The Juan Mablean-Love is in the Air*Derrick Harriott-Black Skinned Blue Eyed Boys*The Bloods-Button Up

SIDE B

MF Doom-Meat Grinder*Marvin Gaye-"T" Plays it Cool*Ogyatanaa Show Band-Diso Africa*Prince Jammy-Throne of Blood*Fred Williams-Tell Her*Mulatu Astatge-Yegelle*The Cure-In Your House*Josef K-It’s Kind of Funny*Antonello Paliotti-In the Cave*Bridget Bardot-La Madrague*The Kinks-Can’t You See*Super Eagles-Love is the Real Thing*Yamatsuki-Yama Yama*The Flirtations-Nothing but a Heartache*The Ramones-I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend*ESG-Moody

My tape is full of love songs, not selected with an adgenda other than that they’re good songs.  Now I’m going to go throw it in the river.

I moonlight:

As a Pabst rodeo cowpoke.

And a math teacher who read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance once.

And a BBC comedy actor with a penchant for vague roles.

Oh, Internet.

*Last night I watched my B-Films with marmalade toast and a glass of Brandy.  Cracking!

*My buddy likes to send me the Friendster profiles of people he finds particularly annoying.  Make your own decision.

*My awesome mother sent me an old 1940s strip-o-gram.  A tasteful birthday striptease done The Very Hungry Caterpillar style, with each turn of the page revealing more gams n mams!  Square, indeed!

*I really hope Madeline is doing OK on her travels. 

*I am going to be paid soon so tell me what CDs to buy, movies to see, and books to read.  Then I will judge you silently.

Hey, here’s something of substance.  Today I walked into the office of  young lawyer, and suddenly I knew what he would look like at age 80.  It was as though an airy death mask was drawn over his face, and for a moment I saw him as an old man squinting into annihilating eternity.  An unnerving moment; neither hallucination nor premonition, but an idle product of a dormant imagination that welled up all on its own. No quantity of Express shirts with french cuffs or Aveeno hair product can distress the fact that this young man is going to die.  As I will die.  As you will die.  As Clare will die.  The dance comes for you; actor, teacher, and dilettante alike.

{edited for pretension}

What’s 24 you ask?  My age as of last Sunday, plus the number of hours a day I be slangin rox.  Hustle or die.

This fabulous milestone took place at the runner’s high end of an eight-show weekend; so by the time I got around to celebrating it was all I could do to stay awake.  Old man indeed.  After eating some marzipan figs, my manx cat Olive and I curled up under my favorite throw to spend a few happy moments with the Stereopticon before floating off to dreamland.  Up with life!

Sunday night was spent down in Hyde Park with my fiends Bernard "Ben" Stiegler and Irvin Eustus Carbuncle Carsten the 8th.  Putting a damper on our jolly sausage fest was Suzanne, a philosophy student who loves Norwegian Death Metal who is twice as awesome as that makes her sound. 

The four of us traipsed over to the Falcon Lounge, one of my favorite Chicago bars, where Irv treated me to birthday booze.  The Falcon is always rocking with mid-eighties electric soul, and full of middle aged black men.  Two fellows behind us were playing chess, the one facing me tapping the pawns in his graveyard to the beat of "Rock With You."  Beyond him, I noticed an lithe gentleman with an eye-catching gray pompadour/curly mustache combo.  He was draped in a overlong coat that looked stitched together from Rick James’ throw-pillow upholstery.  It was then Suzanne let is in on the rumor that the Falcon is a "Down Low" pick up spot.  Cooler still, there’s a greasy-spoon next door with a serving window cut into the bar wall.  You can stand in the bar and order their specialty: a bed of french fries with a slice of pizza on top.

Today at work I received some birthday cards from my family.  My Death Metal Aunt has sent me Something Weird Video’s EXTRA WEIRD SAMPLER.  This evening I will watch it with more intrepid, mature eyes.

My Death Metal Aunt is my mother’s elder sister, meaning she’s in her late fifties.  She’s a librarian at Old Dominion University and a rabid fan of Goth Metal, Japanese gore, Italian horror, Mexican wrestling, and American sexploitation films.  When we holiday in Virginia with my grandparents my aunt always makes a point of bringing up the latest bloodbath movie she’s see in an effort to scare the squares, (or so it seems).  That’s the thing.  My Aunt would be so much cooler if she didn’t seem bound to convince the family how idiosyncratic she is.  Like when my Grampa puts on Bing Crosby’s Christmas Hits and my Aunt suggests Cradle of Filth* or the Genitorturers.  At times she also seems to insinuate that my mom is some kind of sellout living a phony American Dream, which is inexcusable.  My mother is an eccentric saint, who just happens to be awesome, if slightly more conservative (preferring The Broadway Melody to The Gore Gore Girls). 

In any case many thanks to all my friends and family who made my birthday feel special.  Much love.

Coming soon: Chicago Fun Places Reviews!!!!

*the most unintentionally hilarious band on planet earth.

Last night I met Marcy.  She’s an art student who likes figurative painting, without all the "conceptual bullshit." (her words) 

I asked her what painters excited her, and she came back with someone I’d never heard of: Odd Nerdrum.  Aside from having the most fugawesome name on record, this Norwegian paints good.  Like, old masters good.  The intellectual underpinnings of his work are pretty interesting too.  He demands to be referred to as a practitioner of KITSCH, because art is the elitist playground of the untalented.  Check it out, the rants at the bottom are a gas.  Anyone who reads Juxtapoz is probably on this guy’s tip.  Or anyone who rabidly favors facility over, well, conceptual bullshit.

After our conversation I just got up and left.  My game is unstoppable.

I spent all day Saturday with The Notorious IRV.  Just spinning discs.  Practicing.  This Saturday night at midnight Friendpower is curating DANSYLVANIA 2005.  Details will follow.  Just come.  Don’t kid yourself.  Our taste is beyond impeccable.  And this hubris will have absolutely no repercussions.

OMG, I am an old old man.  Item: I bought a box of Good and Plenty, ate half of it, then SEALED IT WITH SCOTCH TAPE TO SAVE FOR LATER.  Tonight I will eat them two at a time (one purple one white) while watching MacNeil/Lehrer and listening to Myron Floren records and dry-crying.

Some budz of mine are watching Arcade Fire tonight.  Let’s take a trip down Bragging Rights Lane shall we?  I spent the night at their stage manager’s sublet in NY, she is awesome.  Yep.  And I met the dude doing video for them tonight, he’s awesome.   That’s right, fuck all’ya’ll.  But get this, I won’t be seeing them tonight because, check it,  I’m just bored with them now; I only listen to Amon Duul, and Saves the Day.  You know, REAL shit.

Have a great time everyone.

No repercussions.

Hey, get this!  I flushed my pager down the toilet!  As I stood fastening my belt, it toppled out and into the porcelain with a splash.  After a moment’s deliberation I figured I should flush it, right?  So I did.  It did not go down.  This sign strengthened my flagging adventurer’s spirit; I quickly reconsidered and decided I would salvage the pager.   I turned to go to the kitchen, devising ways of fashioning two disposable forks into a makeshift grabby claw, forgetting that the toilet was sensor operated. 

This time the pager did not survive.      

Meanwhile, all over town, people were busy following their dreams and challenging themselves to better, more creative human beings.

Pretty textbook weekend bros, smokin bluntz and bangin slutz.  Watched some Ultimate Fighting, and got banned form the El Centro mall - busted a deuce on their baby changing changing table.  That was some cold revenge ish, cuz those coin operated airplane rides are TOO SHORT, agreed?  I hope so, cuz otherwise you’ve got a Figure 4 coming, with a middle finger to make it an even 5.  Blaow.

Last night I gave myself dance whiplash.

With these guys: XBXRX.

And this guy: Bobby Conn.

Laura has braces. 

War is indeed Hell.  I braced my body against the rusted shell of the El Camino as a hail of rounds flew over my head.  An eerie calm followed- full of the metallic sounds of my breath: rapidly fogging the lenses of my protective mask.  A small insect clawed across the back of my hand, oblivious.  Life goes on.  I darted a look through the car’s shattered window and sent a volley of ammunition into the hulk of a van my enemy was using for cover.  I knelt down, heart pounding.  I checked my magazine.  5 rounds left.  My only option was to draw their fire.  I was empty, only useful as a distraction and a target.

I stood and sent a volley ricocheting off the van.  My enemy, now the most important person in my life; brother, deathbringer, raised his head and fired.  I walked toward him.  A brief suicide march.  A grim smile played across my lips.  A round flew by in the opposite direction.  To my left, someone was charging me, he seemed to hover in slow motion, his two guns blazing.  As ammunition burst against my body, he became an angel of death, beautiful and terrible to behold.  I screamed like a 10 year old girl.  This is paintball.

The ComedySportz paintball trip was twice as fun as thought it would be.  Three days later I still have tender spots all over my body as well as a few crimson bumps left me as souvenirs by my six-legged woodland friends.  Bless them.

We played in Joliet at the aptly named "CHALLENGE PARK XTREME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 

We arrived bleary-eyed, hung over, and too early.  Before long the park was crawling with teens and little kids, all dressed like fun-size riot cops.  I fell in love with CPX!!! immediately.  It featured a snack bar, skate park and a slew of theme-oriented paintball battle areas including The Jungle of Doom, Crash Site (South American Guerilla Tactics ), Fort Courage (Old West Indian Siege), Armageddon (Post-Apocalyptic Town), the aforementioned field of junked cars, and The Town of Bedlam(a sort of main street USA).

This main street mock-up was the most popular course for all the teens, out front was a perpetual queue of young men who needed a respite from a week of High School PE, Halo 2, and carving dragons on their Trapper Keepers.  All the building facades in Bedlam had names like “Xtreme Records,” “Bedlam Town Hall,” and “Club P8T.”  One building bore a sign reading “Brass Eagle,” an ode to the high-powered handgun. Over time, the sign had been strategically blasted with paint.  It now read “Ass Eagle.”  The gallows humor of little soldiers.

I was shot in the face, back, heart, leg, hand, and survived a near miss to the groin.  It was only towards the end that I started to give as well as I was getting.  My paintlust is whetted. 187.  1. 8. 7.

The night before paintball I participated in another wicked manly activity that I also managed to fag up:  po’no.  After the Hot Karl, I went over to a bar called the Twisted Spoke for their late night Saturday tradition “Smut n’ Eggs.”  Black garbage bags are taped to the windows, breakfast is served, and bad pornography is screened.  I was planning on going alone, but luckily was able to rustle up a couple of female companions.  If I had been forced to eat my omelet and watch Blonde Cocksuckers all by myself, I probably would have walked in front of a bus.  As it was: laughs a million! 

After a weekend of such brutish entertainment, Sunday night was a time for relaxation, contemplation, and mastication.  Ation. 

Madeline and I went to a fine Italian restaurant where I dined on fine pasta, sipped Pinot Noir, and mispronounced everything I ordered.  After dinner, we watched The Constant Gardener.  It’s uneven, but pretty.  That director is a poet of the slums, but he can’t leave actors alone to just play a scene in a static environment.  He’s in love with the crowd and the chase.

Speaking of the crowd.  To get back to my experience of “Agoramori,” I found some interesting remarks in Paris Spleen by Baudelaire: “It is not given to every man to take a bath of multitude; enjoying a crowd is an art; and only he can relish a debauch of vitality at the expense of the human species on whom, in his cradle, a fairy has bestowed the love of masks and masquerading, the hate of home, and the passion for roaming.”

“Multitude, solitude: identical terms, and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet.  Or the ass eagle.”

That’s who I am. 

Having departed the aphrodesiac-drenched vales of The Satyricon, I’m now on to Hard Times by The Charles Dickens.  The only other story of his that I’ve read is the oft-parodied A Christmas Carol, which I read to my mother 2 Chistmases ago, of course doing all the voices (OMG! Off the gaydar!).  While I’ve looked at the pages of A Tale of Two Cities in sequentail order, to say I read it is to stretch the word to the breaking point.  French people get their heads cut off, this one chick knits a lot, and dude dies so that his beloved can be happy in the arms of his look-alike. That’s ATT2C.  I’ve also read Classics Illustrated: David Copperfield, which rules.  Hard Times is making me finally understand Dkkknz’s charm beyond postcard-ready yuletide ghosts and cripples.  Dkkknz iz just alright with me..

I delivered some Xmas postcard catalogues this morning.  The season of cheer allready has its battering ram at the gates of Fall, while Halloween cobwebs are scarsely on the walls.  The catologue in question featured a catoon courtroom: an exasperated judge calls to a smug lawyer while the defendant, Santa Claus, eyes a pack of elves piling into the witness stand.  "Counselor, how many character witnesses do you have!?"  Milk shot out of my eyes.  And I had drunk no milk. 

Another caption read: "Santa, when I said show me your briefs I meant your legal briefs!"  Guess what this picture was of!

Yesterday I had a great lunch with Annie Zipper.  We talked life, love, and shop over bowls of noodles from Tokyo Lunchboxes.  Consensus: our jobs are kind of rediculous, but thank God we have’em right?

My job.  I am reminded of how an soldier in the American Civil War described the battle of Fredricksburg.  To paraphrase: "Hours of sheer boredom punctuated by moments of extreme terror."

Last night I had dinner with Meredith at an 1930s Chinese restaurant called the Orange Garden.  Time spent with Meredith is really swell for a morose introvert like me, because you can always count on her to talk at length about her boyfriend’s staff infection while you silently shovel Kung Pao Chicken into your mouth.  The ambieance of the restaurant was nostalgically wonderful; a depression-era lunchcounter with a few dragony floureshes.  And yummy yummy tea! 

My chinese zodiac sign?  Same as my street name, player.  THE COCK.

Ben "My Parent’s House Just Got Destroyed By A Fucking Hurricane" Stiegler is getting the red carpet treatment tonight in honor of his 25th birthday.  I plan to get him drunk, well fed on vegan food, and take him to see some punx rox. 

If I see you this weekend, look out.

BEE TEE DUBZ listen to my friends Meg, Dave, Paul and Tony aka Descolada.  They are good music.