i smoked three cigarettes last night. i don't know why either.
i unironically declared my love to a lesbian last night. she responded like any self-respecting lesbian would: by thereafter flirting and teasing me so much that it might be illegal in 17 states.
i got a little excited and took the turkey out of the oven about 15 min too early so some of it had to be returned to the heat. so it goes. my grilled (that's right motherfucker i grilled on thanksgiving) acorn squash was ridiculous though. so the lesson: i should stick to cooking on the grill whenever possible. the squash was an inspired effort though: the grill is without a cover and the squash, and therefore also the charcoal, was rained on fairly steadily for about 15 minutes. somehow i was able to keep it afloat.
i'm at work eating free pizza and all i want is some mashed potatoes. i've been responsible for the potatoes for three straight years now and it seems like they're getting better each year. maybe next year i'll succeed in fully cooking 95% of the bird, and then two years later the whole thing.
you know what i'm completely in the minority on: feeling that guitar hero is crap. if it were faithful to the art of playing a guitar, that would be one thing, but as it is you're just pressing buttons on a video game controller that happens to be shaped like a guitar and following along with grating monotonous songs that are about two times longer than they should be. and it's quite possibly the worst game ever for non-participants to watch. it's like being at a karaoke bar watching the little ball bounce along through the syllables only there are no drunk jackasses making fools of themselves (also known as the only reason anyone ever does karaoke).
i just realized the back collar of the sweater i'm wearing right now has a gash in it like a dog was using it as a chew toy. not sure where that came from.
i've got these two tiny little eyelashes at the extreme outside corner of my right eye that don't stick out away from the eyeball like they're supposed to, instead somehow sticking off to the right but the bottom one goes up and top one goes down so they keep interlocking and i've got an almost constant desire to pull them out only they're so small i can't grab them. it's infuriating in the same way that briefly losing the tv remote is.
i didn't speak to my parents yesterday and it was a holiday. i'm not sure if i should feel bad about this or not. i'm sure they ate turkey and all that. i guess i don't like things that feel obligatory. actually i hate things that feel obligatory. like in high school i used to be violently opposed to the concept of thank you cards. this was a semi-major issue in the weeks after my graduation party, of course. my stance: if you are someone who would be offended at the lack of receipt of a thank you card then really you don't deserve the sentiment contained therein. it's this simple: don't fucking give me anything if you don't want to fail to receive a thank you. i don't really care. i'm not greedy, i don't need things. there is too much use of the phrase "thank you." the two words at this point mean nothing. even if the true desire to give thanks to someone did manifest itself inside me, i don't think it's always necessary to vocalize it. isn't it ok to just appreciate something? do we always have to prove to everyone else how we feel about something, as opposed to simply having the depth of sensation that in itself makes it easily apparent to the casual observer. expressing gratitude has become far more important than experiencing gratitude. these social crutches like automatic "thank yous" and overrampant hugging and cheek-kissing and melodramatic hello/goodbyes and all the supposedly civil but ultimately meaningless things we do when conversing with people do nothing but put up walls around ourselves, our true selves, which are our only "selves" worth a damn.
ok enough of that.
i still would like to learn how to play the piano.
the pictures i take with the grainy pixelated camera on my cell phone are better than anything i take with a proper camera. i'm a shit photographer but a good seer. sometimes it's good to be talentless in some aspects of life. it's endearingly human. and i like it. for instance i could never be attracted to a model. when i was a kid i was the best hitter on the baseball team but couldn't field for shit. i get crushed at chess to inferior brains all the time. i beat superior running talents in college regularly. i can't find a musical beat to save my life but can effortlessly divine a cornucopia of complex themes and symbols in a piece of literature. i once made 116 free throws in a row but could probably let a similarly skilled player beat me off the dribble 99% of the time. i could tell you the winner of every super bowl and every world series since 1960, but would not remember your name upon meeting without having to be reminded two or three times. i can multiply moderately large numbers almost instantly yet received Ds on consecutive college calculus classes. while drunk, i can draw a map of the united states with all state boundaries on a styrofoam cup but i don't know how to operate an ipod. without the benefit of a watch, i can precisely and consistently run at any desired per-mile pace but i have no sense of speed control when behind the wheel of a car. i'm a terrible public speaker but an amazing one-on-one conversationalist.
i don't like that there are precious few pictures on this blog. here is one:

Film Review: Stranger Than Paradise

Stranger Than Paradise (1984), Jim Jarmusch.
Not going to say much here cause frankly I don't have much to say. It was quite good though, and I enjoyed it; certainly worth the scant 89 minutes of its runtime. I even laughed out loud a couple times (especially when the old aunt says "son of a bitch"), but I didn't like it as much nor do I think it's as good as the other Jarmusch film I've seen recently, Down By Law. For one thing, Tom Waits and Roberto Benigni are not in this one, though Richard Edson does a good job. If such a thing as a scene-stealer exists, it's Edson here. And he's quite a bit better than either John Lurie or the girl.
Still, I did enjoy this film and I can say that it is good. I can imagine that the French must have loved this movie, because it very strongly reminded me of an old French film, such as a Godard: black and white, spare scenes, few actors, mundane but beautifully realistic dialogue subjects. Actually, one thing that is very notable about this film is the almost perfect utility of every scene. They are extremely efficient in that nothing superfluous ever happens. No exposition, no fluff, no fading in and out of the emotion of the scene. It just gets to the point and cuts to the next one. This is very impressive for such a dialogue-heavy film. Very impressive, and very instructive from a writing perspective.

debtless

so i'm positively erumpent with joy and therefore feel the need to share with you the news that i passed through a pretty important moment in any person's life today: i paid off the last of my student loan. that, coupled with the fact that i'm ridiculously scrupulous about carrying credit card debt, means that i have absolutely no debt right now. completely non-beholden. free. another way to look at it: if i were to die tomorrow, no one would care. i can now view with unfettered scorn that big stupid national debt calculator on sixth avenue. going forward, i will also have $200 more to spend each month, something i hadn't thought about until just now.
it's a good feeling. anomalous in these irresponsible times, especially for someone of my age. so i guess i'm "better" than most people. livin the high life.

invariability

i'm going to relate something for you which probably isn't remotely surprising or shocking to anyone, but that doesn't mean it isn't noteworthy. it got me to thinking, at least.
you see, it pretains to stereotypes--what they are and what they mean to both us as a populace and them as the -typed. is it justification for the generalization when it manifests itself, often repeatedly? is it condemnation of the generalization when it does the same, because maybe that's just an inherent way of life, a wholly natural action that happens to be propagated by a marginalized group? is it in any way deductive to even define these "stereotypes," any more than it is to attempt to divine understanding simply from a person's diction or his hair color or his waist size? am i, as a member of a majority, often looking down my nose at the subjects, actually the one being manipulated--fooled into rejecting the presence of individuality by the recognition of a shared trait that is really in no way inherent but actually ascribed by me upon them? or are they unfortunate and unknowing actors in a play that's been scripted for them by someone else, relegated through time, circumstance, and repetition to merely doing what's expected of them? are they ignorant byproducts or are they beautiful naifs? am i an ugly definer or an enlightened discerner?
decide for yourself. what follows is as truthfully as i can relate something i witnessed on an F train this morning.

i was standing in the closed entrance well of the subway car when several people entered through the opposite door, including one black woman, perhaps 28-30, who stood in the other half of the entrance well to my left. also boarding the train was one large black man of similar age who ended up directly opposite the woman after the doors shut behind him. the woman was wearing a black overcoat and some kind of skirt/dress that left her whole black-stripe-stockinged lower leg exposed, and below that a rather garish pair of black, red, and excessively silver heels. it was this silver which briefly caught my eye. what caught the man's eye was neither silver nor brief. i'm not sure how long it took me to notice that this gentleman was doing some serious perving on the woman, but to say that he was "checking her out" is akin to saying that the bomb we dropped on hiroshima did "a little damage." the woman wasn't leaning against the doors like i was, instead standing about a foot in front of me, so i couldn't get her reaction to the man's leerish affrontery, but i can assure you that while i am in no way prudish, it was surely making me uncomfortable. of course, just as i had about reached my limits with his slow up and down rape-eyed stares, what did the man do but start to slowly lick his lips. i'm not sure how i kept myself from laughing. thankfully by this time we'd nearly reached bryant park and i didn't have to ponder if i'd have to intervene in a felonious assault by the time we got to queens. then, to my surprise both the woman and the man exited in front of me at my stop. here i became truly curious and lagged behind slightly to see what would transpire. of course, if you've been reading this whole thing, you can probably guess: the woman reached into her purse, scribbled what can only be assumed was her number on a card, and handed it to the man. sufficiently amused by this resolution, i passed them on the stairs went about my business, smirking and philosophizing.

Film Review: No Country for Old Men

No Country for Old Men, 2007, Coen Brothers. Fine film. Reminiscent of Fargo in the good ways: not a funny film but many instances of humor, superb dialogue, engaging and eccentric villian, and of course a wise but humble cop tying it all together. Also, I'm told by a gentleman with the good fortune not to be seated in the front row that the photography was excellent, particularly in the first 30 minutes. From my poor vantage point, I can't confirm this but I strongly suspect it's correct.
Now let me tell you why I can give a complete, aggressive, and untempered recommedation of this film. There are two reasons actually, and I'll give you the short one first: Javier Bardem. I have no idea what constitutes an Oscar-type performance and I don't know if he will be in the conversation but that doesn't really matter because he was extremely good in this film. His character, and the way he played it--all the way down to his enunciation (which I found intoxicating)--are enough on their own to recommend this film.
Second, and this is more personal, but the guiding theme and philosophies jibe very well with how I view the world. Shit's going to happen whether you want it to or not. It's even going to happen whether you choose to do anything about it or not. You could call it "destiny" but that doesn't seem quite right; "inevitability" is better. I'm not going to give much anecdotal evidence here because I wouldn't want to spoil anything cause it's fairly new to theaters still, but suffice it to say it's there.
Also, in an odd way, I think that the theme of the title is in good harmony with my snuffing-it-at-60 plan. No Country for Old Men. What's the point of playing out the string? What do you like? You like to be alive, not just alive. Tommy Lee Jones verbalizes this well at the conclusion of the film, and while some people no doubt leave the theater with a feeling of unfullfilment because of the lack of a clear resolution, for me it was just the opposite: enrichment and satisfaction.
At least for me, this film both requires (not from the front row) and demands, not just a first, but a second viewing.

i've got a noland bull's-eye on my phone. i'd have rothko too but the light wasn't right cause it's just a cell phone after all, and his orange turned out kinda brown. damn shame messing up orange.
i've almost weaned myself off of the wetting eye drops. 6 weeks since the surgery. that's good healin.
mother i don't think you've ever read this before thank goodness but if you are now, please hide your eyes. i was as high as i've ever been last night. maybe it was the 4.5 hours of tap budweiser that preceded it but lordy those two bowls i shared set me dizzy. dave and i were literally crying laughing walking in the cold talking about hamster wheels. don't even ask me about the show at the knitting factory. i got the paranoid jumpy jitters for a while and had trouble focusing on anyone who dared talk to me. i made an epiphanic and amorous exclamation to someone late friday night and the recipient was at the show and was adorably concerned about me. made me smile (an actual smile not just a cannabic smile). if that doesn't say all you need to know about my lot in life, i don't know what does.
i realize that van gogh is pretty famous and starry night is too but that painting had easily the largest crowd around it of anything in moma last friday. seemed odd. i was able to walk right up 6 inches from both the aforementioned rothko and noland and stand there for 3 or 4 solid minutes without bothering anyone behind me waiting for a view. warhol's soup cans were similarly dismissed. a huge pollock and a huger monet were probably the 2nd and 3rd most popular pieces in the museum. i will say that the monet--something like "clouds reflecting on a pond"--produced the finest effect of anything on me: after a couple minutes of staring from a normal distance away from the probably 30-foot wide painting, the clouds really started to seem as though they were drifting and floating across the painting. it was surreal, and positively sublime. a similar, if much more frenetic, effect was produced by a mondrian called "broadway boogie woogie."
the previously number-one-ranked football team of my alma mater was defeated tragically close to the end of the season on saturday. i'm supposed to be pretty upset by this, but i'm not. my favorite pro team very nearly lost to a rival on sunday as well but that wasn't really causing me any distress either. i think i'm getting too old to stress out about sports. i enjoy them, but throughout their duration i am fully aware that the outcome really doesn't matter much to me.
if someone were watching a videotape of my weekend he or she would be hard-pressed not to say "sheesh this guy drinks too much." it seems like i share the same feeling at the front end of many weeks. not this one though. 27 is a good age to be in new york city. 28 will be a good age too, but probably slightly less so. 29, 30, 31.........you understand the pattern. it doesn't really get better, presumably. the time of your life. is it ok to know it's the time of your life while it's happening, and not merely much after the fact. can you forsake the warmth of nostalgia by superheating the glory of the act itself? i am molten. now.
the whole point of my stated and reinforced claim to willingly leave this earth after just 60 years is that you don't need all those later years if you live yourself out before you get there. out loud out front outside out of bounds out out out out. my 81st year is living vicariously through my 27th right now, sensing and savoring and experiencing and remebering my 27th year all at once. i want to get to 60 and just be too exhausted to have any desire to continue. i want for the world to be too exhausted to let me continue. do not begrudge me.

old soul

(the topic of this post certainly does justice to the title of the blog.)
for any students in the class of folg, i've got a little homework assignment for you. ruminate on this: for the second time now in the last couple years of my life i've been told, without any flippancy, that i'm an "old soul." this from two wholly disparate personalities too: one was a 22yr old hippyish girl who was working as our receptionist and the other a 35ish (sorry kim don't know your age) female friend who had been married for i think 10+ years. this subject is topically revelant of course because i just celebrated a birthday this past weekend.
when the naifish receptionist dropped the moniker on me a ways back i didn't take it as terribly complimentary, nor for that matter do i think she meant it so. i can't recall the exact context of her exclamation but she was a subordinate of mine and i want to say it had to do with some kind of delegation of responsibilities. as it were, ms kim called me the exact same thing on saturday only (i assume) she was being complimentary. she asked how old i am now and was impressed by my relative youth.
so what exactly does it mean to be an old soul, and what does that say about either myself or the way i present myself to the world? there are very contrary ways of approaching these answers but i'm inclined to think it means a person is a mature or otherwise composed individual who gives off a kind of reserved or aloof or judicial veneer. on the other hand, an old soul could just be a curmudgeon, a beat-down man who's so depraved he's lost even the impression of innocence.

let me tell you why i don't like parents. not my parents, of course, but people who have kids.
they are obscenely self-centered while assuming the air of a benevolent altruist, which invariably causes them to affect extreme defensive and superior attitudes when confronted with anything but pathetic admiration. this is hardly an attractive characteristic.
let's take me as an explanatory case. i'm single, 26, live alone, and would be considered irresponsible in just about every facet of life. the straight community would consider my demographic to be easily the most egocentric group out there. (by "straight community" here i mean all those people who are married with kids in the suburbs and go to church and watch oprah and the today show: that vast nebulous mass of people who think they're living the american dream.) the reason the straight community feels this way is that they consider my lifestyle to be unfulfilled, and that my void is filled by egocentric diversions or thoughts. i suppose i can't speak for all of my social class, but i think it's just the opposite: i think my lack of life fulfillment (in their eyes) frees me to be more open-minded and especially more sensitive toward others.
someone who has a kid has a one-track mind. the only thing that matters to that person is the health and happiness of their child. and, while anyone who's ever truly been in love with someone--or, let's be honest, simply in love with being in love with someone--will tell you that this is indeed a noble pursuit, it has absolutely nothing to do with the greater good.
it is not hard to love or to care immensely for someone. i believe it's what we're hard-wired to do; it comes natural to us and, logically then, we have an endless supply of it to give. so when a parent focuses all his energy on his child, he isn't sacrificing love for all in order to give more love to one, he's just neglecting and ignoring all but the one. he's taking an extreme stance of self-centrism and projecting it upon his child instead of himself. this doesn't make it any better or any less what it is.
so parents: don't ever act like you're better than me or my ilk simply because you exhalt another human being who also happens to share your dna. it's hypocritical and it's unbecoming. i love and respect everyone, except, at times, you.