Daylight come and me wanna go home
I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing better than a hot shower. It tops even sex and motorcycle riding (sometimes) in terms of marginal value. Too much sex leads to chafting, weariness, urinary tract infections, and a strange decline in my libido. Too much motorcycle riding leads to pain in both my body and my wallet. Too much hot showers leads only to cold showers and pruny hands. Taken as a whole, the occasional loss of hot water, and the not-so-very-aesthetically pleasing aspects of pruny hands (although it takes massaging to a whole new level), has lower overall Jon-deflating power than pain that makes me walk like I've been raped, and issues with the little man down there. Certainly, all three will bring me up when I've been down, and I've certainly been down, baby, but only in the shower can anything and everything be done with near perfection (I have learned, though, that I need mad-contortionist skills to perform oral sex in the shower).
I have eaten in the shower. The hot water made the apple sweeter. I have performed various sexual acts in the shower. I have soaked. I have written. I have thought. I have dissolved. I have shouted. I have sung. I have done everything that encompasses the life I need. Were I given a choice between an evening with a Penthouse model, and a nice, long, hot shower in an incredible bathroom, I would most likely go with the shower (I think...), because I know that the shower is a guaranteed good thing. Besides, if I'm lucky, I might be able to lure the Penthouse model in with me. Come on. Dual heads? Rain-head? Hot water? Steam? Pruny hands? Yeah. That's the ticket.
So, if you haven't gathered, I took a nice, long, hot shower tonight and that was the egress of my troubles. I didn't do anything but stand there and let the hot water run over me, for a very long time. Then, I cleaned myself because I realized that my roommates would eventually break down the door in a crazed, mad rush for the toilet. The last thing I need in this apartment is a roommate writhing on the bathroom floor, screaming something about Francis Bacon and bladders (I know, it's a myth, even so).
Between soaking and soaping, I did a bit of thinking. I thought about three things, actually: motorcycles, road tripping, and Phoenix. Anyone who knows me knows that I absolutely adore motorcycles, much to my family's chagrin. I'm afraid they're just going to have to accept that motorcycles will always be part of my life. It's not just the danger than enthralls me, but the adrenaline rush and the absolute freedom I experience when floating around the road. I can't think of anything else that gives me that sensation. I can tell you for sure, that given a choice between a night with several Penthouse models, and a brand, new motorcycle, that I'd choose the motorcycle in a heartbeat and leave the Penthouse models to gyrate in their own whatever. You heard me. Motorcycles are better than all the sex in the world. I know a few of you are thinking that I probably haven’t found the right partner yet, but I've had enough partners and sexual encounters to know that sometimes, a machine tops a woman. Having a motorcycle means I need to do some money things. I will call my mother tomorrow and tell her not to send me money for shipping. I will man up and take care of my shipping with my own money, even if it means I might have to drink less in April and May.
Of course, thinking about motorcycles leads to the inevitable thoughts about road trippin'. It's been awhile since I've had a really good road-trip. I'm not talking about those one-day 700-mile dashes on the highway. I'm talking about those séances on small roads through small towns. I believe the last time I had a really good road-trip was when The Lynn (She gets her name mentioned because she's good like that) and I took the PCH, or the 1, down from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Looking back, I wish we left earlier, because by the time we hit Big Sur, the sun had gone and the rest of the road was pitch black. Even so, it was marvelous and quite spiritual. We stopped many times on the way just to scope out the environment and the stars on some mountain road. I also had religious experiences with jellyfish, and a seagull that found it fit to shit on me, but that's a story for another time.
I want to go on a road-trip from Normal to Phoenix. I have friends on the way that wouldn't mind letting me shack up, and I'm buying a tent soon anyway, so gaps in between friends can be spent at camping grounds. I'm also hoping that my Uncle won't mind if I crash at his place. I don't know my Uncle very well and I'm sorry about that. He has, recently, been spending a bit more time with the family, which makes me happy. I've seen him more times over the last few months than I had in a combined decade. I think part of the reason he's doing the family thing is that my sister and I are grown and are a bit more people to him. Also, his new fiancée(?) D. is hot shit and we all like her very much. My Uncle is invited partially because everyone wants to hang with D. more. D. is from Scotland and has this delicious accent. She's also on my side about the motorcycle issue, which improves her standing greatly, in my book. But, yeah, I'd love to shack at my Uncle's place for a day or two before heading down to Albert Quirky to visit Dardybums. It's in Colorado, outside Denver, which means beauty abound and nice, winding mountain roads.
Phoenix is constantly in my thoughts. I don’t know what to think of it. The warmth appeals to me, and the mountains that are practically in my parent's backyard is as inviting as a succulent meal laid on a dinner table. I very much want to climb them and ride mountain bikes down their sides as fast as I can. I'm a bit afraid of scorpions, though, but have assured myself that I will be wearing big-ass shoes that will flatten any arthropod that waves its fucking tail at me. My only problem with Phoenix, other than the crushing heat of summer and the lack of anything that resembles green and water, is my complete unfamiliarity with the area. It sound silly, especially coming from me, to hesitate going somewhere completely new, but I've always had a sanctuary in Chicago waiting for me. If I was fed-up with the unknown, I could simply head back to my precious grease-land and recuperate. Chicago is home. Phoenix isn't yet. It'll take some time, but I think I can make Phoenix home. If I can't, everyone knows that I'm heading to Central California. But, all my family is in the Southwest. I really want to try to make that area home before I leave them all hundreds of miles away. Certainly, I could make it with all of them far, and I have before, but I have done and will do a lot that will make my mother’s mental state go awry. The least I can do is provide her an easy avenue of visitation, if I won't do anything else she asks.
I have put out tendrils to the deaf community in Arizona and no one has picked them up. I am beginning to think that deaf people in Arizona are a closed lot and that I will have to pry them open much like an oyster gets shucked. I am relentless and I do not give up. I will make friends and have lots of them.
Yeah. Shower thoughts.
-----
The past week has been very much an exhibition of insomniac Jon. I have stayed awake to obscene hours, fretting over my inability to sleep. At first, I blamed the blue light. The blue light is part of a USB hub, which has sat quite uselessly on the top of my computer housing. I bought it with dreams of a functional hub from which I could plug in all sorts of accessories. It was one of those dreams, which would appear on T.V. with hazy outlines and cheesy love music. The dream was not to be (cue melodrama). It and my printer had a huge row and the printer decided not to work as long as the hub was plugged in. I had to plead with the printer for a good afternoon before it would work. Unfortunately, my methods of persuasion involved unplugging the damned hub. It came to me that I could alternate between hub and printer as needed, but once the hub was out and the printer was in, the hub stayed out and the printer now sits on my bookshelf with a very smug appearance. Snotty shit, it is, but I need the printer more than I need the hub. So, the hub hasn't been doing much but gathering dust and emitting that damned blue light. The fucker cost me fifteen bucks, too.
When I write that the hub emits a blue light, I'm not talking about a cute little blue snatch in a cute little blue box. I'm talking about the kind of light that casts a hellish glow in a dark room. Lighthouses everywhere use this hub in order to ward ships off from impending doom. Riceboys use this hub to create cool, but pathetically wanting effects in their souped up Hondas. There is a special room in hell, where these hubs are lined up. The room is full of people trying to sleep in the drilling noise of blue lights.
Yeah, the blue thing has been keeping me awake. I felt its oppressing wave lengths pounding against my eyeballs and I'd open them to see the blue looking at me and casting little blue shadow-things on the wall. Well, the other day, I had enough of that shit and I unplugged the hub. The blue light went, but my insomnia stayed. I think there's other things on my mind that need pondering, but in the mean time, the hub is dead and it's just passing time being a dust residence.
----
I need to take more pictures.
I have eaten in the shower. The hot water made the apple sweeter. I have performed various sexual acts in the shower. I have soaked. I have written. I have thought. I have dissolved. I have shouted. I have sung. I have done everything that encompasses the life I need. Were I given a choice between an evening with a Penthouse model, and a nice, long, hot shower in an incredible bathroom, I would most likely go with the shower (I think...), because I know that the shower is a guaranteed good thing. Besides, if I'm lucky, I might be able to lure the Penthouse model in with me. Come on. Dual heads? Rain-head? Hot water? Steam? Pruny hands? Yeah. That's the ticket.
So, if you haven't gathered, I took a nice, long, hot shower tonight and that was the egress of my troubles. I didn't do anything but stand there and let the hot water run over me, for a very long time. Then, I cleaned myself because I realized that my roommates would eventually break down the door in a crazed, mad rush for the toilet. The last thing I need in this apartment is a roommate writhing on the bathroom floor, screaming something about Francis Bacon and bladders (I know, it's a myth, even so).
Between soaking and soaping, I did a bit of thinking. I thought about three things, actually: motorcycles, road tripping, and Phoenix. Anyone who knows me knows that I absolutely adore motorcycles, much to my family's chagrin. I'm afraid they're just going to have to accept that motorcycles will always be part of my life. It's not just the danger than enthralls me, but the adrenaline rush and the absolute freedom I experience when floating around the road. I can't think of anything else that gives me that sensation. I can tell you for sure, that given a choice between a night with several Penthouse models, and a brand, new motorcycle, that I'd choose the motorcycle in a heartbeat and leave the Penthouse models to gyrate in their own whatever. You heard me. Motorcycles are better than all the sex in the world. I know a few of you are thinking that I probably haven’t found the right partner yet, but I've had enough partners and sexual encounters to know that sometimes, a machine tops a woman. Having a motorcycle means I need to do some money things. I will call my mother tomorrow and tell her not to send me money for shipping. I will man up and take care of my shipping with my own money, even if it means I might have to drink less in April and May.
Of course, thinking about motorcycles leads to the inevitable thoughts about road trippin'. It's been awhile since I've had a really good road-trip. I'm not talking about those one-day 700-mile dashes on the highway. I'm talking about those séances on small roads through small towns. I believe the last time I had a really good road-trip was when The Lynn (She gets her name mentioned because she's good like that) and I took the PCH, or the 1, down from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Looking back, I wish we left earlier, because by the time we hit Big Sur, the sun had gone and the rest of the road was pitch black. Even so, it was marvelous and quite spiritual. We stopped many times on the way just to scope out the environment and the stars on some mountain road. I also had religious experiences with jellyfish, and a seagull that found it fit to shit on me, but that's a story for another time.
I want to go on a road-trip from Normal to Phoenix. I have friends on the way that wouldn't mind letting me shack up, and I'm buying a tent soon anyway, so gaps in between friends can be spent at camping grounds. I'm also hoping that my Uncle won't mind if I crash at his place. I don't know my Uncle very well and I'm sorry about that. He has, recently, been spending a bit more time with the family, which makes me happy. I've seen him more times over the last few months than I had in a combined decade. I think part of the reason he's doing the family thing is that my sister and I are grown and are a bit more people to him. Also, his new fiancée(?) D. is hot shit and we all like her very much. My Uncle is invited partially because everyone wants to hang with D. more. D. is from Scotland and has this delicious accent. She's also on my side about the motorcycle issue, which improves her standing greatly, in my book. But, yeah, I'd love to shack at my Uncle's place for a day or two before heading down to Albert Quirky to visit Dardybums. It's in Colorado, outside Denver, which means beauty abound and nice, winding mountain roads.
Phoenix is constantly in my thoughts. I don’t know what to think of it. The warmth appeals to me, and the mountains that are practically in my parent's backyard is as inviting as a succulent meal laid on a dinner table. I very much want to climb them and ride mountain bikes down their sides as fast as I can. I'm a bit afraid of scorpions, though, but have assured myself that I will be wearing big-ass shoes that will flatten any arthropod that waves its fucking tail at me. My only problem with Phoenix, other than the crushing heat of summer and the lack of anything that resembles green and water, is my complete unfamiliarity with the area. It sound silly, especially coming from me, to hesitate going somewhere completely new, but I've always had a sanctuary in Chicago waiting for me. If I was fed-up with the unknown, I could simply head back to my precious grease-land and recuperate. Chicago is home. Phoenix isn't yet. It'll take some time, but I think I can make Phoenix home. If I can't, everyone knows that I'm heading to Central California. But, all my family is in the Southwest. I really want to try to make that area home before I leave them all hundreds of miles away. Certainly, I could make it with all of them far, and I have before, but I have done and will do a lot that will make my mother’s mental state go awry. The least I can do is provide her an easy avenue of visitation, if I won't do anything else she asks.
I have put out tendrils to the deaf community in Arizona and no one has picked them up. I am beginning to think that deaf people in Arizona are a closed lot and that I will have to pry them open much like an oyster gets shucked. I am relentless and I do not give up. I will make friends and have lots of them.
Yeah. Shower thoughts.
-----
The past week has been very much an exhibition of insomniac Jon. I have stayed awake to obscene hours, fretting over my inability to sleep. At first, I blamed the blue light. The blue light is part of a USB hub, which has sat quite uselessly on the top of my computer housing. I bought it with dreams of a functional hub from which I could plug in all sorts of accessories. It was one of those dreams, which would appear on T.V. with hazy outlines and cheesy love music. The dream was not to be (cue melodrama). It and my printer had a huge row and the printer decided not to work as long as the hub was plugged in. I had to plead with the printer for a good afternoon before it would work. Unfortunately, my methods of persuasion involved unplugging the damned hub. It came to me that I could alternate between hub and printer as needed, but once the hub was out and the printer was in, the hub stayed out and the printer now sits on my bookshelf with a very smug appearance. Snotty shit, it is, but I need the printer more than I need the hub. So, the hub hasn't been doing much but gathering dust and emitting that damned blue light. The fucker cost me fifteen bucks, too.
When I write that the hub emits a blue light, I'm not talking about a cute little blue snatch in a cute little blue box. I'm talking about the kind of light that casts a hellish glow in a dark room. Lighthouses everywhere use this hub in order to ward ships off from impending doom. Riceboys use this hub to create cool, but pathetically wanting effects in their souped up Hondas. There is a special room in hell, where these hubs are lined up. The room is full of people trying to sleep in the drilling noise of blue lights.
Yeah, the blue thing has been keeping me awake. I felt its oppressing wave lengths pounding against my eyeballs and I'd open them to see the blue looking at me and casting little blue shadow-things on the wall. Well, the other day, I had enough of that shit and I unplugged the hub. The blue light went, but my insomnia stayed. I think there's other things on my mind that need pondering, but in the mean time, the hub is dead and it's just passing time being a dust residence.
----
I need to take more pictures.
posted by Jon at 10:59 PM
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