Joff the Road and Then Some
I vacillate, wildly. A half hour ago found me stuffing my face with cheap, local Chinese (fried tofu with secret sauce and vegetables!), and blasting Beatles songs, because if a locus is needed after careening across the country, it’s bound to be found in food and pop. There’s something entirely settling, like, fix-me-in-a-fixed-point-of-time settling, about comfort food and catchy hooks. Baby, Lennon really does make time visceral, and when you’re groping for coherency, he comes in handy. I could do without Revolution 9, though.
It’s 6:45pm, and although my body isn’t sure whether it’s 6:45, or 5:45, or 4:45, day, night, evening, whatever, I can take comfort in the knowledge that the turmoil in my stomach, and my impeding rush to the bathroom is quite scheduled. I may have made it from Los Angeles to Hicktown, Illinois in the most haphazard manner possible, but dammit, something’s going to be regular here.
I probably should clarify. My family left South Los Angeles at 2pm Pacific Time. We drove through the desert (I slept!) and arrived back in Phoenix at 6pm, Mountain Time. I was able to salvage five hours of rest, which mostly consisted of me bitching about my travel itinerary and stuffing my face with low quality greaseless pan pizza. We, or rather I, reluctantly left for the airport at 11. I spent two hours groping for sanity while meandering about a fluorescent airport. My flight left at 1:28am, Pacific Time. It landed at Midway at 5:35am, Central Time. I quickly, as far as quick goes when you’re haggard, snatched my luggage and hopped on the L’s Orange Line. The L dropped me off at Adams and Wabash, after subjecting me to the kind of humanity that flotsams itself on public transportation at 6am. I then walked about ten blocks to Canal Road and ran through the gauntlet of homeless that congregate outside Union Station and blemish the stones with their stench, feces, and hopelessness. Somehow, I managed to procure a ticket for the 8:25 line back to Hicktown. I waited an hour in the lobby while mean-faced, wart-filled, squat-titted, butch-wannabe-sexless-heterosexual train employees glared at my abject, tired deafness. Luckily, I was able to restrain (or the sight of several very large policemen whose presence screamed “tossed salad” helped restrain) myself from eviscerating them and even successfully boarded the train as well. The train deposited me in Hicktown at 11am. I walked a mile home, made some ramen, and promptly died at some point.
I would be asleep, but I do so love writing philosophy papers on nothing particularly important. Also, I was kind of horny and spent a bit of time scanning my buddy list for potential booty calls. I’m never one to let a sea of away messages discourage me.
In the mean time, I’m picturing myself on a boat in a river. With Lindsay Lohan. Hey. I love redheads and she’s legal. Right? Right?
…
Don’t judge me
If you’ll kindly look at the comments section from my previous column, you’ll notice that M. left a very kind letter. I’m never exactly sure what to do when someone writes something that nice. Standard par for course is to deny that I have anything that resembles writing ability and to enthuse on my general suckiness until each comment he made is properly negated. I won’t do that. My writing is the only thing I have going for me (other than my rock-star good looks, my dark, brown, curly locks, my winning personality, my surprising humility, etc) and I won’t deny that I can write passably well. I’m not sure I’m a better writer than most, but it’s good enough for me and it had better be good enough for you or I’m going to have to cry or something.
There aren’t many options left for the appeaser if self-castration is removed from the list. I suppose I could blanche, turn red, clasp my hands behind my back, and grind my bad leg into the ground like a bad Loony-Tunes caricature, but that wouldn’t do anything and the sight of myself doing that in one of my many mirrors could damage my fragile psychological health. One would find me crawling in padded rooms, babbling something about wiley wabbits and hunting for tossed salads.
I could also simply say thanks. But, isn’t that a gyp? The guy spends a bit of time writing something nice and all he gets for his efforts is a “thanks, dude. You like, totally rock and shit.” The term thanks bothers me. Someone takes the time to do something nice and for his or her efforts, get something that doesn’t take much to give back. It’s kind of like getting the crap beat out of you in grade school, and for your efforts in dragging your mangled body to the disinterested lunch lady, who’s too busy combing her mustache to notice the fact that you’re bleeding all over her Keds, you acquire a half-hearted sorry from the captured bully. Sorry doesn’t give me back my left testicle, and thank you doesn’t give him back his pride. Hell, he just complimented me. That would wound anyone’s pride.
So, instead of anything, I’m going to relate a particular incident. It’s not really interesting, or exciting, or even amusing to most, but it’s M. to the letter.
I do so adore intelligent people. Not only can you talk to them about most subjects, but also if they are truly intelligent, they can make intelligent subjects amusing. Even if you aren’t talking to them about anything particularly intelligent, their insights on situations are spectacular and opulent. M. is quite intelligent.
I was seated in M.’s summer adobe at Krug dorm, a few summers ago. Krug is the general mishmash dorm on Gallaudet campus. It was designed, I think, to hold juvenile delinquents. If the 60’s style tiling and large cement walls don’t scream comfort and toothbrush rape, I don’t know what it says. In any case, its denizens, who included me at one point, do what they can to make everything homely and less nerve-wracking. I spent too much time listening to Nirvana and riding my motorcycle. My roommate was too busy being Mormon to do anything but pine for his promised girl, who was busy being religious and boring back home. M. set up his toiletries in bizarre formations. M.’s roommate, lined his shoes in formation.
The shoes were astute. They were numbered by colour, function, style, and value. Each was set, heel to the bed, and toe to M, in a perfectly straight line. The shoes never left the line. Occasionally, a pair would disappear for a bit, but they always managed to reappear in formation at random intervals.
One afternoon, M. and I were chatting when I noticed that he couldn’t stop looking at the formation. I tried a few times to get his attention, but to no avail. The shoe line had M lined up. Finally, the grandiose entrance of M.’s roommate, the original rich, Californian, gansta white-boy, broke up this play.
M. drew his eyes from the shoes to the man.
M: How can I fucking concentrate when this line of shoes is looking at me all the time? I wake up in the morning and immediately want to go back to sleep because I know I can’t measure up to that damned line of shoes?
Ladies and Gentlemen, M., the only man I know who couldn’t compete against perfectly formed lines of shoes. Actually, he managed a lot longer than I would have, Eventually, I would’ve taken to crawling across the floor in the middle of the night and tapping shoes out of line just to mess with the sheer perfection of it all. Ain’t that a bitch?
--------
According to the Beatles, I Feel Fine, so I'm going to get back on time and head to the bathroom.
It’s 6:45pm, and although my body isn’t sure whether it’s 6:45, or 5:45, or 4:45, day, night, evening, whatever, I can take comfort in the knowledge that the turmoil in my stomach, and my impeding rush to the bathroom is quite scheduled. I may have made it from Los Angeles to Hicktown, Illinois in the most haphazard manner possible, but dammit, something’s going to be regular here.
I probably should clarify. My family left South Los Angeles at 2pm Pacific Time. We drove through the desert (I slept!) and arrived back in Phoenix at 6pm, Mountain Time. I was able to salvage five hours of rest, which mostly consisted of me bitching about my travel itinerary and stuffing my face with low quality greaseless pan pizza. We, or rather I, reluctantly left for the airport at 11. I spent two hours groping for sanity while meandering about a fluorescent airport. My flight left at 1:28am, Pacific Time. It landed at Midway at 5:35am, Central Time. I quickly, as far as quick goes when you’re haggard, snatched my luggage and hopped on the L’s Orange Line. The L dropped me off at Adams and Wabash, after subjecting me to the kind of humanity that flotsams itself on public transportation at 6am. I then walked about ten blocks to Canal Road and ran through the gauntlet of homeless that congregate outside Union Station and blemish the stones with their stench, feces, and hopelessness. Somehow, I managed to procure a ticket for the 8:25 line back to Hicktown. I waited an hour in the lobby while mean-faced, wart-filled, squat-titted, butch-wannabe-sexless-heterosexual train employees glared at my abject, tired deafness. Luckily, I was able to restrain (or the sight of several very large policemen whose presence screamed “tossed salad” helped restrain) myself from eviscerating them and even successfully boarded the train as well. The train deposited me in Hicktown at 11am. I walked a mile home, made some ramen, and promptly died at some point.
I would be asleep, but I do so love writing philosophy papers on nothing particularly important. Also, I was kind of horny and spent a bit of time scanning my buddy list for potential booty calls. I’m never one to let a sea of away messages discourage me.
In the mean time, I’m picturing myself on a boat in a river. With Lindsay Lohan. Hey. I love redheads and she’s legal. Right? Right?
…
Don’t judge me
If you’ll kindly look at the comments section from my previous column, you’ll notice that M. left a very kind letter. I’m never exactly sure what to do when someone writes something that nice. Standard par for course is to deny that I have anything that resembles writing ability and to enthuse on my general suckiness until each comment he made is properly negated. I won’t do that. My writing is the only thing I have going for me (other than my rock-star good looks, my dark, brown, curly locks, my winning personality, my surprising humility, etc) and I won’t deny that I can write passably well. I’m not sure I’m a better writer than most, but it’s good enough for me and it had better be good enough for you or I’m going to have to cry or something.
There aren’t many options left for the appeaser if self-castration is removed from the list. I suppose I could blanche, turn red, clasp my hands behind my back, and grind my bad leg into the ground like a bad Loony-Tunes caricature, but that wouldn’t do anything and the sight of myself doing that in one of my many mirrors could damage my fragile psychological health. One would find me crawling in padded rooms, babbling something about wiley wabbits and hunting for tossed salads.
I could also simply say thanks. But, isn’t that a gyp? The guy spends a bit of time writing something nice and all he gets for his efforts is a “thanks, dude. You like, totally rock and shit.” The term thanks bothers me. Someone takes the time to do something nice and for his or her efforts, get something that doesn’t take much to give back. It’s kind of like getting the crap beat out of you in grade school, and for your efforts in dragging your mangled body to the disinterested lunch lady, who’s too busy combing her mustache to notice the fact that you’re bleeding all over her Keds, you acquire a half-hearted sorry from the captured bully. Sorry doesn’t give me back my left testicle, and thank you doesn’t give him back his pride. Hell, he just complimented me. That would wound anyone’s pride.
So, instead of anything, I’m going to relate a particular incident. It’s not really interesting, or exciting, or even amusing to most, but it’s M. to the letter.
I do so adore intelligent people. Not only can you talk to them about most subjects, but also if they are truly intelligent, they can make intelligent subjects amusing. Even if you aren’t talking to them about anything particularly intelligent, their insights on situations are spectacular and opulent. M. is quite intelligent.
I was seated in M.’s summer adobe at Krug dorm, a few summers ago. Krug is the general mishmash dorm on Gallaudet campus. It was designed, I think, to hold juvenile delinquents. If the 60’s style tiling and large cement walls don’t scream comfort and toothbrush rape, I don’t know what it says. In any case, its denizens, who included me at one point, do what they can to make everything homely and less nerve-wracking. I spent too much time listening to Nirvana and riding my motorcycle. My roommate was too busy being Mormon to do anything but pine for his promised girl, who was busy being religious and boring back home. M. set up his toiletries in bizarre formations. M.’s roommate, lined his shoes in formation.
The shoes were astute. They were numbered by colour, function, style, and value. Each was set, heel to the bed, and toe to M, in a perfectly straight line. The shoes never left the line. Occasionally, a pair would disappear for a bit, but they always managed to reappear in formation at random intervals.
One afternoon, M. and I were chatting when I noticed that he couldn’t stop looking at the formation. I tried a few times to get his attention, but to no avail. The shoe line had M lined up. Finally, the grandiose entrance of M.’s roommate, the original rich, Californian, gansta white-boy, broke up this play.
M. drew his eyes from the shoes to the man.
M: How can I fucking concentrate when this line of shoes is looking at me all the time? I wake up in the morning and immediately want to go back to sleep because I know I can’t measure up to that damned line of shoes?
Ladies and Gentlemen, M., the only man I know who couldn’t compete against perfectly formed lines of shoes. Actually, he managed a lot longer than I would have, Eventually, I would’ve taken to crawling across the floor in the middle of the night and tapping shoes out of line just to mess with the sheer perfection of it all. Ain’t that a bitch?
--------
According to the Beatles, I Feel Fine, so I'm going to get back on time and head to the bathroom.
posted by Jon at 5:30 PM
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