IPOD
RADIO
Rodeo, or, Now I will tell you about my puppy.
Saturday, August 16th. I have a gig working security at a rodeo in New Lenox, near Joliet. It's just over a hundred dollars for eight or nine hours of work, though for me it's fourteen because I have to set out early driving everywhere. It's an alright gig if you like drinking beer and carrying a night stick and being surrounded by Hispanic cowboys and their families and being out in the sun all day and listening to blaring mariachi music. That's three out of five for me so I'm happy. (ps I don't drink and didn't carry a nightstick)
Our team starts with four people: Me, Chris R., Kristic (?sp) his polish friend who goes by 'Chris', and another friend named Chris. Kristic's girlfriend Adida, also polish, is along for the ride. Jesse and Sergio, off duty sheriff's police, show up later. Starting at 1:30 most of our time is spent parking cars and checking to make sure no glass bottles are brought in. Things run along smoothly. Around six I see Adida walking from the front to the back of the farm (we're on a farm) carrying a small dog. As a farm there are lots of dogs running around and I don't think on it. A few minutes later I go up front where my car is parked, our 'command center', and Chris R. says he apologizes if there's a mess but tells me that he has to bring a puppy home in the car.
What had happened was that a group of cowboys' children had been running around in the barn and they found a litter of puppies. Lab retrievers, mostly black, some gold. Presumably these are barn dogs. There's no mother around. So the kids scoop up all these puppies and run back to their parents and say, 'can we keep them?' and most of the parents say, 'no.' Now we have an insight into the minds of kids seven to nine years old. If they can't keep these dogs, their next thought is 'maybe we can sell them?' Adida is with these kids by now and has collected a golden female puppy (to be named Roman). So they go around trying to sell these puppies, Chris obtains one (a black male, to be named Vorenus-he likes HBO's Rome series).
So Chris tells me that he's got this puppy stowed in the backseat foot well of my car. So I go in there and pick up this puppy, look it over. They're small, about three weeks give or take. They are fully endowed with puppy cuteness. They're underfed; puppy bellies are supposed to be pleasantly fat, these seem shallow and thin. Most of the puppies have traces of a skin infection on one paw or tail. I went around to the trunk and got a towel (I always carry not one but two) to lay down because I don't know how clean my floor is. At first look I think, 'ok I've got two cats and that's all I can handle.'
Ten minutes later: 'Ok little girl, I'll pay you one dollar for that female black lab puppy.' SOLD. The puppy in question has got this skin problem, what might've been scarring or something, on its tail and its rear left foot.
So we wrap things up at the rodeo and Adida puts the towel and puppies on her lap and I drive the team back to north Chicago, then drive myself back home. Along the way I'm texting back and forth with my friend Mike, who once nursed two abandoned kittens to health, about puppy care. He tells me that cow's milk is not the thing and that I should be using baby formula, so I stop at the Jewel by my house and hurriedly by premixed similac soy food and a can of 'good start' powder and baby bottle to feed this stuff... and some miniature crullers. It's about midnight when I get home and Mike meets me there and I have my first experience nursing this puppy with the bottle. Oh, there was cuteness.
I should mention the name. I thought about Niobe, because that was Lucius Vorenus's wife's name on HBO's Rome, and it would dovetail with the other dogs' names. Then I thought, no, I should name this puppy H.W. and ever after refer to it as my daughter and partner. I could get some pictures of the puppy in a basket, and feed it goats' milk spiked with whiskey. For a time I consider options like 'Un Chien Andalou', Ladybird, or Ike the data dog. Then eventually I stole the suggestion of one of the Chris's and named the puppy 'Rodeo'.
The puppy spent the first night in a laundry hamper with an adult incontinence bed pad laid out in it, and then things got underway that morning. I have these because my mother uses them. Five feedings, meticulously watching and training to quickly let Rodeo know that it should be peeing on the incontinence pads laid out (like paper training) and not on the carpet. Even as I'm writing this I keep looking for and sometimes finding little wet patches on the floor. One suggestion I found from the internet is to feed Rodeo where it's not allowed to pee, because dogs naturally don't want to pee or poop where they eat. Halfway through the day I decide that the baby bottle I'm using isn't feeding readily enough so I give the plastic nipple a little cut with a razor and things seem to be working better.
I start putting dressings on the puppy's tail. Whatever's happening down there I don't want Rodeo to exacerbate things by licking or biting it. I happen to have a lot of medical gauze lying around again because of my mother. I wrap the gauze around the exposed parts of tail, tape it over, and attach one end of the tap to the top of Rodeo's tail and back to keep it in place. The first one Rodeo licks and chews at and in the evening I can see it's bleeding through a little bit and it made a stain on the incontinence pad so it gets replaced, that one falls off so another one goes on. Later on that day I figure out that I should put the puppy in the animal carrier I have to begin the first steps of cage training, and then I can get my laundry basket back.
The next day it's the trip to the vet. To elide the details, the skin condition on the tail and foot is not ringworm. Got that? It's Not Ringworm. But it's some other kind of barnyard skin infection, and the prescription for that is twice weekly medicated shampoos using a toothbrush to brush the infected areas. It's possible that a horse stepped on the tail but we can't tell. Also there are daily antibiotics, and I have to start collecting poop samples. If the tail doesn't clear up it'll have to be cropped (docked? Cut off, whatever the word is for that). This tail had better heal the hell up if I'm going to be shampooing this doggy twice a week for I don't know how long. There's another appointment for Friday.
So I get home and Rode has breakfast and her morning dose of the antibiotics. I retire to watch Deathproof and eat something and then it's time for the bath. When I get back in puppy has had a milestone for living here: her first poop, on the carpet. I get a zip-loc baggy and seal it up, though now that I write about it I'd better refrigerate it or just have a fresher sample. Despite reports about Labradors being naturally water-loving dogs, Rodeo would not stop whining throughout the whole ordeal. Maybe it was my fault and it was too cold while I was working in the shampoo. But there's shampooing, careful scrubbing of the foot and tail, drying out, affixing a new dressing on the tail, and already Rodeo is having her afternoon meal, and peeing on the carpet.
I have a frickin' puppy.
Protect that bitch with your drunken life, General Ulysses S. Grant!
Saturday, August 16th. I have a gig working security at a rodeo in New Lenox, near Joliet. It's just over a hundred dollars for eight or nine hours of work, though for me it's fourteen because I have to set out early driving everywhere. It's an alright gig if you like drinking beer and carrying a night stick and being surrounded by Hispanic cowboys and their families and being out in the sun all day and listening to blaring mariachi music. That's three out of five for me so I'm happy. (ps I don't drink and didn't carry a nightstick)
Our team starts with four people: Me, Chris R., Kristic (?sp) his polish friend who goes by 'Chris', and another friend named Chris. Kristic's girlfriend Adida, also polish, is along for the ride. Jesse and Sergio, off duty sheriff's police, show up later. Starting at 1:30 most of our time is spent parking cars and checking to make sure no glass bottles are brought in. Things run along smoothly. Around six I see Adida walking from the front to the back of the farm (we're on a farm) carrying a small dog. As a farm there are lots of dogs running around and I don't think on it. A few minutes later I go up front where my car is parked, our 'command center', and Chris R. says he apologizes if there's a mess but tells me that he has to bring a puppy home in the car.
What had happened was that a group of cowboys' children had been running around in the barn and they found a litter of puppies. Lab retrievers, mostly black, some gold. Presumably these are barn dogs. There's no mother around. So the kids scoop up all these puppies and run back to their parents and say, 'can we keep them?' and most of the parents say, 'no.' Now we have an insight into the minds of kids seven to nine years old. If they can't keep these dogs, their next thought is 'maybe we can sell them?' Adida is with these kids by now and has collected a golden female puppy (to be named Roman). So they go around trying to sell these puppies, Chris obtains one (a black male, to be named Vorenus-he likes HBO's Rome series).
So Chris tells me that he's got this puppy stowed in the backseat foot well of my car. So I go in there and pick up this puppy, look it over. They're small, about three weeks give or take. They are fully endowed with puppy cuteness. They're underfed; puppy bellies are supposed to be pleasantly fat, these seem shallow and thin. Most of the puppies have traces of a skin infection on one paw or tail. I went around to the trunk and got a towel (I always carry not one but two) to lay down because I don't know how clean my floor is. At first look I think, 'ok I've got two cats and that's all I can handle.'
Ten minutes later: 'Ok little girl, I'll pay you one dollar for that female black lab puppy.' SOLD. The puppy in question has got this skin problem, what might've been scarring or something, on its tail and its rear left foot.
So we wrap things up at the rodeo and Adida puts the towel and puppies on her lap and I drive the team back to north Chicago, then drive myself back home. Along the way I'm texting back and forth with my friend Mike, who once nursed two abandoned kittens to health, about puppy care. He tells me that cow's milk is not the thing and that I should be using baby formula, so I stop at the Jewel by my house and hurriedly by premixed similac soy food and a can of 'good start' powder and baby bottle to feed this stuff... and some miniature crullers. It's about midnight when I get home and Mike meets me there and I have my first experience nursing this puppy with the bottle. Oh, there was cuteness.
I should mention the name. I thought about Niobe, because that was Lucius Vorenus's wife's name on HBO's Rome, and it would dovetail with the other dogs' names. Then I thought, no, I should name this puppy H.W. and ever after refer to it as my daughter and partner. I could get some pictures of the puppy in a basket, and feed it goats' milk spiked with whiskey. For a time I consider options like 'Un Chien Andalou', Ladybird, or Ike the data dog. Then eventually I stole the suggestion of one of the Chris's and named the puppy 'Rodeo'.
The puppy spent the first night in a laundry hamper with an adult incontinence bed pad laid out in it, and then things got underway that morning. I have these because my mother uses them. Five feedings, meticulously watching and training to quickly let Rodeo know that it should be peeing on the incontinence pads laid out (like paper training) and not on the carpet. Even as I'm writing this I keep looking for and sometimes finding little wet patches on the floor. One suggestion I found from the internet is to feed Rodeo where it's not allowed to pee, because dogs naturally don't want to pee or poop where they eat. Halfway through the day I decide that the baby bottle I'm using isn't feeding readily enough so I give the plastic nipple a little cut with a razor and things seem to be working better.
I start putting dressings on the puppy's tail. Whatever's happening down there I don't want Rodeo to exacerbate things by licking or biting it. I happen to have a lot of medical gauze lying around again because of my mother. I wrap the gauze around the exposed parts of tail, tape it over, and attach one end of the tap to the top of Rodeo's tail and back to keep it in place. The first one Rodeo licks and chews at and in the evening I can see it's bleeding through a little bit and it made a stain on the incontinence pad so it gets replaced, that one falls off so another one goes on. Later on that day I figure out that I should put the puppy in the animal carrier I have to begin the first steps of cage training, and then I can get my laundry basket back.
The next day it's the trip to the vet. To elide the details, the skin condition on the tail and foot is not ringworm. Got that? It's Not Ringworm. But it's some other kind of barnyard skin infection, and the prescription for that is twice weekly medicated shampoos using a toothbrush to brush the infected areas. It's possible that a horse stepped on the tail but we can't tell. Also there are daily antibiotics, and I have to start collecting poop samples. If the tail doesn't clear up it'll have to be cropped (docked? Cut off, whatever the word is for that). This tail had better heal the hell up if I'm going to be shampooing this doggy twice a week for I don't know how long. There's another appointment for Friday.
So I get home and Rode has breakfast and her morning dose of the antibiotics. I retire to watch Deathproof and eat something and then it's time for the bath. When I get back in puppy has had a milestone for living here: her first poop, on the carpet. I get a zip-loc baggy and seal it up, though now that I write about it I'd better refrigerate it or just have a fresher sample. Despite reports about Labradors being naturally water-loving dogs, Rodeo would not stop whining throughout the whole ordeal. Maybe it was my fault and it was too cold while I was working in the shampoo. But there's shampooing, careful scrubbing of the foot and tail, drying out, affixing a new dressing on the tail, and already Rodeo is having her afternoon meal, and peeing on the carpet.
I have a frickin' puppy.
Protect that bitch with your drunken life, General Ulysses S. Grant!
The Most Magnificent experience within comprehension... yet.
Today I decided around 1:30 that I would get stoned and take a bike ride. I thought it would be an interesting experience, and a good test of the Great Experment. 2 o'clock comes and I go downstairs and prepare my works, a disc and Do it To it. This turned out to be an auspicious and impressive set of hits. Finely ground, firmly packed, totally vaporized and inhaled. Very quickly I began to realize that this was as stoned I had been since the first time it happened, by far. I mean, some dizziness (still dizzy as I'm writing this an hour later), disorientation, and what must have been some very fruity posture.
Preparing for a bike ride is a challenging thing. There's clothing, and complicated back pack and mp3 player rigs, Helmets and gloves. And that's all without even sitting on a bicycle. I felt very nervous about this as I approached the garage. This was far beyond any physical activity I'd done while stoned. Driving is undemanding because there's no balance involved. There was a good chance that I would be too slow to notice something or fall out of balance and cause a pretty bad wipeout. That would be no good. But straight I know I can fucking OWN the two-wheel ten speed, so I proceed anyway. Time to push it to the limit, bra. I maneuvered the bike down the driveway and pedaled away into the new blacktop streets feeling childishly far from home, no idea what to expect.
Immediately I was plunged hands feet and head into one of the most wholly rewarding experiences of my life. With a newfound clarity I had appreciation for this masterful form of operating a two wheeled velocipede. The relaxation and then the power as I pumped myself up the first hill, and the pleasure with which I went into the relatively low gear that would carry me through this long (not very long) bike ride. I steered around onto the prairie path and there the voyage began. A sunny day, over a softly grey-white path with green on either side and comfortable blue above. Right away things were feeling magical, like a fantasy world with some write-guy's injection of goofy steampunkism to explain bikes instead of horses. The riding alone was completely mind-blowing, self-propelling myself on a device of incredible mechanical advantage typically taken for granted. This was only a beginning.
The people were next, and the realization of how happy I was to see them as compared with the ill-will I had for my fellows just this morning while shopping for groceries. What I was feeling was a complete diametrical opposite of what I knew surely was myself just two hours ago. Then there was resentment and anger but later on only joy as they biked past me with their helmets on their heads and sunlight flashing over them. And just then the tail end of the Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid soundtrack was playing whistfully, talking about an old friend's betrayal and the ensuing loneliness of the outlaw. Our opening scene was pure love, romantic and otherwise, for everyone I passed. This first chapter was a high note.
Then things took a cue from the change of music as the doors' Strange Days album played as my Fated Trip, if you will, turned into a magical mystery tour of epic proportions. The surroundings were new and magnifcent, for they inspired and frightened me at the same time, dips and bridges and climbs. There was the sudden exciting reminder that this was my first ever stoned bike ride, sprouting a good, excited terror for the feel of my hands on the bars and my feet pumping the pedals. Just past the bridges the true adventure set in as the familiar path was seen. Every bump and arrangement of trees was exhilirating. Occasionally I threw open my mouth and shouted incoherently into the wind with bliss. And in the midst of this thrilling moment there was a dulcet note.
This note that stopped the string section was of percussions as my feet and abs had been pumping their requisite mile or two and now a brilliant, breathtaking feeling was ocurring on me. Where my legs met my abdomen there was this pulsating and tingling warmth like the kindling of a fire in belly. (hee hee, belly) It completely filled me up and controlled me in a relaxed and unconcentrating exctasy. Now I wonder that this should frighten me as I was still pedaling rather fast on a light bicycle over an admittedly bumpy and rutty prairie path. And Stranege Days played and love me two times babe, the poem about the pulsating stallions as they crash a stagecoach that absolutely consumed me, and then moonlight drive. I was fucking stoned and fucking loving this. This was fucking going to the Eleventh notch on the oh my fucking god meter in my head.
The next part was the strange and frightening climax. A team of men dressed identically in pale white khakis and white polo shirts like an executive wierdo team-buidling warrior within troupe out for a prairie path walk. Or seeing the frisbee and football (soccer) in their members hands I suppose it's just a very well organized IBM Men's Saturday out for some men in their late thirties and forties. And I ride right on past going out. The warmth on my abdomen were like warm butterfly massages trickling up my skin or some sensual harem girl or belly-dancer's fingers. I was going all out fucking poetic on this one. Then I realized just how far I was away from both my home and where I was going and it began to grip my throat with worry. Or maybe that was just the chinstrap? How long could this go, as people are strange when you're a stranger is playing in your ears, and you are very far up the river? Then I broke through from the trees that had surrounded me and I was in villa park, pumping on my bicycle with the wind whipping up my legs and past my face and sunglasses. I had arrived at Shangri-La, the park to which I'd meant to go and quench my terribly cotton-mouth thirst at the drinking fountain and look at the children's playthings. I bent over the fountain and sucked clumsily at the water with lust and pleasure, like an ancient olympic victory. I looked at my distorted reflection on the zinced fixture of the fountain and laughed goofily. Everything began clicking in my head as I righted the bike and began backwards with refreshed pallette.
I felt vicotirously proud, and even ventured a few stalker's glances at the backsides of the people as I powered myself past them. For a moment things became very sexual as I slowly rolled into the denouemont of this ride. Soon Jim Morrison was beginning to sing about when the music's over and I settled in concentrating about how to write (right) this and bemoaning everything I'd have forgotten an hour later. Already slipped my mind how I'd dangerously shot the gap between two passing trucks in the street and merely laughed in my inebriation? I passed by the group of white-clad IBM executives, as I was heading in and they were heading out. The music became wild and elsatic as the last bridge was crossed and the last dangerously sharp corner was navigated through safely. And then it was only up the hill and around the cars and back into the garage, stow the bike and come inside and refresh myself with well deserved water. As the music finally comes to a close I look up and see just an hour has passed since I first inhaled and got so thoroughly stoned. Just an hour? It felt like it had lasted forever, but having ended at all it ended too soon. And I am happy.
Now we roll the bittersweet credits as the tale comes to an end and the author gets to eat a tremendous clif bar and some incredible chocolate chip cookies, and inbetween writing he can get up to see Jim Rome burn the shit out of the royals for allowing Four back to back home runs to the victorious ass white sox? Suddenly I see the great appeal of Jim Rome's style. And already the process comes to a close, One hour to get stoned and take a special ride, and one hour to sit and happily recount the entire experience. (and still pleasantly high).
Today I decided around 1:30 that I would get stoned and take a bike ride. I thought it would be an interesting experience, and a good test of the Great Experment. 2 o'clock comes and I go downstairs and prepare my works, a disc and Do it To it. This turned out to be an auspicious and impressive set of hits. Finely ground, firmly packed, totally vaporized and inhaled. Very quickly I began to realize that this was as stoned I had been since the first time it happened, by far. I mean, some dizziness (still dizzy as I'm writing this an hour later), disorientation, and what must have been some very fruity posture.
Preparing for a bike ride is a challenging thing. There's clothing, and complicated back pack and mp3 player rigs, Helmets and gloves. And that's all without even sitting on a bicycle. I felt very nervous about this as I approached the garage. This was far beyond any physical activity I'd done while stoned. Driving is undemanding because there's no balance involved. There was a good chance that I would be too slow to notice something or fall out of balance and cause a pretty bad wipeout. That would be no good. But straight I know I can fucking OWN the two-wheel ten speed, so I proceed anyway. Time to push it to the limit, bra. I maneuvered the bike down the driveway and pedaled away into the new blacktop streets feeling childishly far from home, no idea what to expect.
Immediately I was plunged hands feet and head into one of the most wholly rewarding experiences of my life. With a newfound clarity I had appreciation for this masterful form of operating a two wheeled velocipede. The relaxation and then the power as I pumped myself up the first hill, and the pleasure with which I went into the relatively low gear that would carry me through this long (not very long) bike ride. I steered around onto the prairie path and there the voyage began. A sunny day, over a softly grey-white path with green on either side and comfortable blue above. Right away things were feeling magical, like a fantasy world with some write-guy's injection of goofy steampunkism to explain bikes instead of horses. The riding alone was completely mind-blowing, self-propelling myself on a device of incredible mechanical advantage typically taken for granted. This was only a beginning.
The people were next, and the realization of how happy I was to see them as compared with the ill-will I had for my fellows just this morning while shopping for groceries. What I was feeling was a complete diametrical opposite of what I knew surely was myself just two hours ago. Then there was resentment and anger but later on only joy as they biked past me with their helmets on their heads and sunlight flashing over them. And just then the tail end of the Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid soundtrack was playing whistfully, talking about an old friend's betrayal and the ensuing loneliness of the outlaw. Our opening scene was pure love, romantic and otherwise, for everyone I passed. This first chapter was a high note.
Then things took a cue from the change of music as the doors' Strange Days album played as my Fated Trip, if you will, turned into a magical mystery tour of epic proportions. The surroundings were new and magnifcent, for they inspired and frightened me at the same time, dips and bridges and climbs. There was the sudden exciting reminder that this was my first ever stoned bike ride, sprouting a good, excited terror for the feel of my hands on the bars and my feet pumping the pedals. Just past the bridges the true adventure set in as the familiar path was seen. Every bump and arrangement of trees was exhilirating. Occasionally I threw open my mouth and shouted incoherently into the wind with bliss. And in the midst of this thrilling moment there was a dulcet note.
This note that stopped the string section was of percussions as my feet and abs had been pumping their requisite mile or two and now a brilliant, breathtaking feeling was ocurring on me. Where my legs met my abdomen there was this pulsating and tingling warmth like the kindling of a fire in belly. (hee hee, belly) It completely filled me up and controlled me in a relaxed and unconcentrating exctasy. Now I wonder that this should frighten me as I was still pedaling rather fast on a light bicycle over an admittedly bumpy and rutty prairie path. And Stranege Days played and love me two times babe, the poem about the pulsating stallions as they crash a stagecoach that absolutely consumed me, and then moonlight drive. I was fucking stoned and fucking loving this. This was fucking going to the Eleventh notch on the oh my fucking god meter in my head.
The next part was the strange and frightening climax. A team of men dressed identically in pale white khakis and white polo shirts like an executive wierdo team-buidling warrior within troupe out for a prairie path walk. Or seeing the frisbee and football (soccer) in their members hands I suppose it's just a very well organized IBM Men's Saturday out for some men in their late thirties and forties. And I ride right on past going out. The warmth on my abdomen were like warm butterfly massages trickling up my skin or some sensual harem girl or belly-dancer's fingers. I was going all out fucking poetic on this one. Then I realized just how far I was away from both my home and where I was going and it began to grip my throat with worry. Or maybe that was just the chinstrap? How long could this go, as people are strange when you're a stranger is playing in your ears, and you are very far up the river? Then I broke through from the trees that had surrounded me and I was in villa park, pumping on my bicycle with the wind whipping up my legs and past my face and sunglasses. I had arrived at Shangri-La, the park to which I'd meant to go and quench my terribly cotton-mouth thirst at the drinking fountain and look at the children's playthings. I bent over the fountain and sucked clumsily at the water with lust and pleasure, like an ancient olympic victory. I looked at my distorted reflection on the zinced fixture of the fountain and laughed goofily. Everything began clicking in my head as I righted the bike and began backwards with refreshed pallette.
I felt vicotirously proud, and even ventured a few stalker's glances at the backsides of the people as I powered myself past them. For a moment things became very sexual as I slowly rolled into the denouemont of this ride. Soon Jim Morrison was beginning to sing about when the music's over and I settled in concentrating about how to write (right) this and bemoaning everything I'd have forgotten an hour later. Already slipped my mind how I'd dangerously shot the gap between two passing trucks in the street and merely laughed in my inebriation? I passed by the group of white-clad IBM executives, as I was heading in and they were heading out. The music became wild and elsatic as the last bridge was crossed and the last dangerously sharp corner was navigated through safely. And then it was only up the hill and around the cars and back into the garage, stow the bike and come inside and refresh myself with well deserved water. As the music finally comes to a close I look up and see just an hour has passed since I first inhaled and got so thoroughly stoned. Just an hour? It felt like it had lasted forever, but having ended at all it ended too soon. And I am happy.
Now we roll the bittersweet credits as the tale comes to an end and the author gets to eat a tremendous clif bar and some incredible chocolate chip cookies, and inbetween writing he can get up to see Jim Rome burn the shit out of the royals for allowing Four back to back home runs to the victorious ass white sox? Suddenly I see the great appeal of Jim Rome's style. And already the process comes to a close, One hour to get stoned and take a special ride, and one hour to sit and happily recount the entire experience. (and still pleasantly high).
Ok, let me tell you about my day.
Last night the power went out so sizable chunks of today were spent adjusting to this. Total elapsed outage time, 21.5 hours. Eating melting ice cream before it becomes totally unrecognizable, driving two big bags of frozen meat to a friend's house because his refrigerator still had power and I could charge up my phone over there.
What I decided to do was to write a letter to John and Tina. These are the two friends of mine with whom I got stoned. By August 15th they'll be in Fairfield, California. (Home of Jelly Belly jelly beans) They're moving there because they're just about done with the midwest and I guess Marijuana being illegal out here stresses them out a scosch. As an aging 24 year old who lives in a little asshole of a suburb, is chained to his dying mother, and has trouble making new friends that don't live 30 miles away, this is pretty upsetting. I had planned for some time to write them a letter that I'd give to them before they leave, that they'd open upon settling into their new place out there. So my project while the power was out was to write this thing.
Maybe I've been made very anal about my writing after some years of college, but I started with brainstorming/outlining, then wrote a rough draft, and now I'm going to write up a final draft. I have this fancy faux telegraph stationary that I got from 'The Boring Store' in Chicago, which is actually a spy store, which I'm going to use. So I'm writing about how much I'm going to miss them, thanking them for being really good friends to me, telling them what I love about them, and trying to make some plan that I'll go out there this winter inbetween semesters and visit them.
This is difficult enough for me, but for some reason I wind up listening to this clip of Jack Kerouac from Woody Allen's Manhattan, where he talks about moving on in life and talks about the last page of his book On The Road. I thought the book was kinda pretentious when I read it three or four years ago but I knew it had been good. So I get it off my shelf and start reading the last page where Sal talks about the last times that Dean came out from California to visit him in New Jersey and the ways that each man expresses his deep and abiding love for the other. But their time is always short, and Dean Moriarity always has to go and catch a train to get back to his wife, and Sal is left to think about his past adventures with Dean, and he thinks about Dean, and again he thinks about Dean. And suddenly I start weeping. I'd been crying some on and off before this but I mean, lips curled back, can't breath, hands clenched over my face like a child bawling. I can't stop thinking about how terrible it is that these friends are leaving me, and how being friends with them is going to be a herculean task, and probably by this time next year we'll be distant and I'll be as alone as I've ever been in my life, and I still have to write out the final draft of this letter.
So I figure I'll go downstairs and play a record while I do it and along the way I pass a TV so I turn it on to catch the end of the Sox-Tigers game. The Sox had fought back from a big deficeit to tie the game and take it to the 14th inning, and in the top half Matt Thornton gave up a two run homer after pitching brilliantly for three innings or so. I come in for the bottom half of the inning, and I thought the Sox would go up and out in order. But then there's men on first and third and the Sox have already scored one back. Thome strikes out on a foul tip and then Nick Swisher nails a three-run, Game Winning, Walk Off home run off the closer Joel Zumaya, winner winner chicken dinner. So I flip out and put on my Sox hat and spin my cats around until they're dizzy and play Go Go White Sox and now I'm all cheered out and my cats are peeved at me. And I still have to write out the final draft of this letter.
It's a real roller coaster ride these days.
Last night the power went out so sizable chunks of today were spent adjusting to this. Total elapsed outage time, 21.5 hours. Eating melting ice cream before it becomes totally unrecognizable, driving two big bags of frozen meat to a friend's house because his refrigerator still had power and I could charge up my phone over there.
What I decided to do was to write a letter to John and Tina. These are the two friends of mine with whom I got stoned. By August 15th they'll be in Fairfield, California. (Home of Jelly Belly jelly beans) They're moving there because they're just about done with the midwest and I guess Marijuana being illegal out here stresses them out a scosch. As an aging 24 year old who lives in a little asshole of a suburb, is chained to his dying mother, and has trouble making new friends that don't live 30 miles away, this is pretty upsetting. I had planned for some time to write them a letter that I'd give to them before they leave, that they'd open upon settling into their new place out there. So my project while the power was out was to write this thing.
Maybe I've been made very anal about my writing after some years of college, but I started with brainstorming/outlining, then wrote a rough draft, and now I'm going to write up a final draft. I have this fancy faux telegraph stationary that I got from 'The Boring Store' in Chicago, which is actually a spy store, which I'm going to use. So I'm writing about how much I'm going to miss them, thanking them for being really good friends to me, telling them what I love about them, and trying to make some plan that I'll go out there this winter inbetween semesters and visit them.
This is difficult enough for me, but for some reason I wind up listening to this clip of Jack Kerouac from Woody Allen's Manhattan, where he talks about moving on in life and talks about the last page of his book On The Road. I thought the book was kinda pretentious when I read it three or four years ago but I knew it had been good. So I get it off my shelf and start reading the last page where Sal talks about the last times that Dean came out from California to visit him in New Jersey and the ways that each man expresses his deep and abiding love for the other. But their time is always short, and Dean Moriarity always has to go and catch a train to get back to his wife, and Sal is left to think about his past adventures with Dean, and he thinks about Dean, and again he thinks about Dean. And suddenly I start weeping. I'd been crying some on and off before this but I mean, lips curled back, can't breath, hands clenched over my face like a child bawling. I can't stop thinking about how terrible it is that these friends are leaving me, and how being friends with them is going to be a herculean task, and probably by this time next year we'll be distant and I'll be as alone as I've ever been in my life, and I still have to write out the final draft of this letter.
So I figure I'll go downstairs and play a record while I do it and along the way I pass a TV so I turn it on to catch the end of the Sox-Tigers game. The Sox had fought back from a big deficeit to tie the game and take it to the 14th inning, and in the top half Matt Thornton gave up a two run homer after pitching brilliantly for three innings or so. I come in for the bottom half of the inning, and I thought the Sox would go up and out in order. But then there's men on first and third and the Sox have already scored one back. Thome strikes out on a foul tip and then Nick Swisher nails a three-run, Game Winning, Walk Off home run off the closer Joel Zumaya, winner winner chicken dinner. So I flip out and put on my Sox hat and spin my cats around until they're dizzy and play Go Go White Sox and now I'm all cheered out and my cats are peeved at me. And I still have to write out the final draft of this letter.
It's a real roller coaster ride these days.
So I should tell you about the great experiment.
Since of several weeks ago I decided to put a halt to my straight-edge hard core academic ways, in favor of becoming a pot-smoking fornicater, the most readily available first step in this transformation was to begin smoking marijuana. (easier to get a controlled substance than to get laid. My eleven-year-old self is rolling over in its shallow grave)
I suppose my first brush with the stuff was the 22nd. A couple of my friends were smoking right before watching Doctor Horrible's sing-a-long blog. I had proper instruction on how to use a pipe, and was even able to manually operate a lighter! I was well on my way. In hindsight after a few hits I knew there must have been some effect because I thought the sing-a-long blog was amusing. After Angel, Joss Whedon just lost me.
A few days later I had obtained my vaporizer (too much of a vajayjay to use a pipe or bong like everyone else) and announced my plan to my friends to go home, set up my record player, and get stoned. Probably out of concern for my wholly n008i5h ways they offered to come over, maybe to prevent me from doing anything too embarassing. Just a guess. They brought their dogs and we gathered in my basement and messed around with the vaporizer like a bunch of aunts and uncles at christmas time trying to get the remote control car to work. But as high-level users themselves they fired the thing up. The device in question fills plastic bags and quickly filled bags were being passed around, though I recall most of them were handed directly to me.
I can't put a number on exactly how much was smoked, and whether I consumed a great or mean amount. They outranked me when it came to prepping crucibles. (the vape has a wirescreened container called, in some places, a crucible) Generally, I think it was the equivalent of packing between two to three bowls at least. It could've been more.
At first with all the heavy inhalations, I had the reasonable thought that I was getting a bit dizzy from a head rush. This dizziness didn't pass. I think I knew what was coming because as they kept on filling these bags and handing them to me I soon started contemplating just getting rid of them. Like the old reel of Lucille Ball working the conveyor belth at the chocolate factory. I guess I had the idea to try and put a record on so I went to the office chair by the player, and that's when it hit me. Lost track of time, where I was, who was around. Felt quite a lot like I was blacking out and that was a helpless fuckin' feeling. When the Wild disorientation passed, commonplace disorientation set in. It felt like there was a cymbal perfectly contained within my head, the edges of which just brushed against the inside of my ears, and the thing was being strummed by Richard Manuel. I don't remember how long I was in that chair holding on to the arms of it. Johnny asked if I was ok, and Tina pointed out, he's stoned. There was a buttload of tingling along the back of my neck and shoulders.
Somehow I crossed the room to where I'd left a bag of oatmeal raisin cookies I'd bought for the occasion. Tina suggested that I eat something so I tried out one of these cookies. Usually I'm down with cookie monster, but right then I had to use two hands just to hold this cookie. I took a bite out of it and had to concentrate entirely on chewing it to keep it in my mouth; felt like it was an ordeal. When I swallowed it down I started to panic, because the whole rest of the cookie was waiting for me, with just one small bite taken out of it. That cookie got put down for later. I think around then I noticed that maybe twenty minutes had gone by since the expeirment had started.
Either of their own whim, or as part of some clever scheme to push forward my experience of being thoroughly stoned, my friends decided that it was a good time to run an errand to the petstore to pick up some leads for their dogs, and I was to come along. Looking back on it, and giving great credit to marijuana, I didn't feel genuinely anxious or afraid about this. I felt ingenuinely anxious about this, but that's a far lesser concern. It was hard to go up a flight of stairs, which is one of the limitations of smoking in the basement. When we got to their car in the driveway they had to move the seats around. One of their dogs is a corgi puppy, Bruiser, and I had to hold her in place while they moved the seats around. This was an actual responsibility and I began to get nervous that I was finding a way of doing this simple job in a disastrously mistaken way that would earn the everlasting ire of my friends. But since it was just holding a dog everything turned out alright.
In the car my experience took a sudden J. Alfred Prufrock turn for the worse. Either the cookie, or the dreaded cotton mouth, made my mouth go suddenly very dry and sticky. In the footwell there was a gallon water jug. I wound up stuck with indecision: Do I dare to impugn upon this waterbottle of my friends? These good people who trust me with their marijuana and their animals? In the state you're in, in a moving vehicle with an awkward jug like that? You'd spill water all over yourself, and then what! They wouldn't be able to take you anywhere. And they wouldn't have anymore water! That would be a fine payback, wouldn't it? That water didn't get drank. Johnny pointed out along the way that I was going to need Tea Shades, because my eyes were obviously red. We stopped to get some food, and I had the most intense hot dog eating experience I have ever had.
We got home. things played down. It was about four hours after the venture began. I think I was coming down, because ascending and descending stairs was becoming a controllable matter once more. My friends said it was time for them to go home, and strongly advised me to take a nap. The process was, if nothing else, completely exhausting. At least it felt that way. They left, I hope I thanked them a lot, I fed my cat. Then I pulled out an old winter blanket, the big kind you can snuggle up under, and took that nap. I'm *pretty sure* I had a wank before I went to sleep because I wanted to see what that would feel like stoned. Purely scientific. I was up an hour and a half later, still a bit out of sorts, and organized the record collection.
A stoner is me.
Since of several weeks ago I decided to put a halt to my straight-edge hard core academic ways, in favor of becoming a pot-smoking fornicater, the most readily available first step in this transformation was to begin smoking marijuana. (easier to get a controlled substance than to get laid. My eleven-year-old self is rolling over in its shallow grave)
I suppose my first brush with the stuff was the 22nd. A couple of my friends were smoking right before watching Doctor Horrible's sing-a-long blog. I had proper instruction on how to use a pipe, and was even able to manually operate a lighter! I was well on my way. In hindsight after a few hits I knew there must have been some effect because I thought the sing-a-long blog was amusing. After Angel, Joss Whedon just lost me.
A few days later I had obtained my vaporizer (too much of a vajayjay to use a pipe or bong like everyone else) and announced my plan to my friends to go home, set up my record player, and get stoned. Probably out of concern for my wholly n008i5h ways they offered to come over, maybe to prevent me from doing anything too embarassing. Just a guess. They brought their dogs and we gathered in my basement and messed around with the vaporizer like a bunch of aunts and uncles at christmas time trying to get the remote control car to work. But as high-level users themselves they fired the thing up. The device in question fills plastic bags and quickly filled bags were being passed around, though I recall most of them were handed directly to me.
I can't put a number on exactly how much was smoked, and whether I consumed a great or mean amount. They outranked me when it came to prepping crucibles. (the vape has a wirescreened container called, in some places, a crucible) Generally, I think it was the equivalent of packing between two to three bowls at least. It could've been more.
At first with all the heavy inhalations, I had the reasonable thought that I was getting a bit dizzy from a head rush. This dizziness didn't pass. I think I knew what was coming because as they kept on filling these bags and handing them to me I soon started contemplating just getting rid of them. Like the old reel of Lucille Ball working the conveyor belth at the chocolate factory. I guess I had the idea to try and put a record on so I went to the office chair by the player, and that's when it hit me. Lost track of time, where I was, who was around. Felt quite a lot like I was blacking out and that was a helpless fuckin' feeling. When the Wild disorientation passed, commonplace disorientation set in. It felt like there was a cymbal perfectly contained within my head, the edges of which just brushed against the inside of my ears, and the thing was being strummed by Richard Manuel. I don't remember how long I was in that chair holding on to the arms of it. Johnny asked if I was ok, and Tina pointed out, he's stoned. There was a buttload of tingling along the back of my neck and shoulders.
Somehow I crossed the room to where I'd left a bag of oatmeal raisin cookies I'd bought for the occasion. Tina suggested that I eat something so I tried out one of these cookies. Usually I'm down with cookie monster, but right then I had to use two hands just to hold this cookie. I took a bite out of it and had to concentrate entirely on chewing it to keep it in my mouth; felt like it was an ordeal. When I swallowed it down I started to panic, because the whole rest of the cookie was waiting for me, with just one small bite taken out of it. That cookie got put down for later. I think around then I noticed that maybe twenty minutes had gone by since the expeirment had started.
Either of their own whim, or as part of some clever scheme to push forward my experience of being thoroughly stoned, my friends decided that it was a good time to run an errand to the petstore to pick up some leads for their dogs, and I was to come along. Looking back on it, and giving great credit to marijuana, I didn't feel genuinely anxious or afraid about this. I felt ingenuinely anxious about this, but that's a far lesser concern. It was hard to go up a flight of stairs, which is one of the limitations of smoking in the basement. When we got to their car in the driveway they had to move the seats around. One of their dogs is a corgi puppy, Bruiser, and I had to hold her in place while they moved the seats around. This was an actual responsibility and I began to get nervous that I was finding a way of doing this simple job in a disastrously mistaken way that would earn the everlasting ire of my friends. But since it was just holding a dog everything turned out alright.
In the car my experience took a sudden J. Alfred Prufrock turn for the worse. Either the cookie, or the dreaded cotton mouth, made my mouth go suddenly very dry and sticky. In the footwell there was a gallon water jug. I wound up stuck with indecision: Do I dare to impugn upon this waterbottle of my friends? These good people who trust me with their marijuana and their animals? In the state you're in, in a moving vehicle with an awkward jug like that? You'd spill water all over yourself, and then what! They wouldn't be able to take you anywhere. And they wouldn't have anymore water! That would be a fine payback, wouldn't it? That water didn't get drank. Johnny pointed out along the way that I was going to need Tea Shades, because my eyes were obviously red. We stopped to get some food, and I had the most intense hot dog eating experience I have ever had.
We got home. things played down. It was about four hours after the venture began. I think I was coming down, because ascending and descending stairs was becoming a controllable matter once more. My friends said it was time for them to go home, and strongly advised me to take a nap. The process was, if nothing else, completely exhausting. At least it felt that way. They left, I hope I thanked them a lot, I fed my cat. Then I pulled out an old winter blanket, the big kind you can snuggle up under, and took that nap. I'm *pretty sure* I had a wank before I went to sleep because I wanted to see what that would feel like stoned. Purely scientific. I was up an hour and a half later, still a bit out of sorts, and organized the record collection.
A stoner is me.
It appears, things aren't going to work out.
With a little reflection it becomes pointedly clear that this girl isn't into me. My approach was frought with errors but the more I console myself I'll just say that if she wasn't into me, then there was nothing I could do about that.
Hell of a football game. Now we're going to go back and watch some tape and prepare for next Sunday. Got a hell of a team coming in here.
With a little reflection it becomes pointedly clear that this girl isn't into me. My approach was frought with errors but the more I console myself I'll just say that if she wasn't into me, then there was nothing I could do about that.
Hell of a football game. Now we're going to go back and watch some tape and prepare for next Sunday. Got a hell of a team coming in here.
Upon review, I should've broken this up into a few seperate posts. But since I don't know that anyone other than myself will ever read this anyway it mitigates my concern.
Why... so... serious? OR: Love and Herb
So I have this problem, and I figured it would be good for me to type it out a bit.
-The problem: Love, or the lack thereof.
-Corollary problem: I am a good-for-nothing, sullen, stuck-in-my ways coward that's so mixed-up he would shit himself if he ever got what he wanted.
Maybe I'm a little hard on myself. If so, then working that out is part of the purpose of this writing. Enough wasting your time, here's the deal. The woman's name is Miranda. I'm pretty sure I'm in love with her. I may not have a big enough sample size. But I'm happy when I'm around her, excited when I'm going to see her, and anxious when we're not in touch. She's beautiful, she's intelligent, she's artistic. I've known this girl maybe since I was nineteen or eighteen? When I first met her she was dating a friend of mine who I'm still pretty close with. Back then, I was fond of her. Wish I'd been dating her then. I live in one suburb by this friend; the woman live twenty miles south.
That was then; skip forward about five years. For me, a lonely, pathetic period and for her a series of bad breakups at college and a pair of half drug/half depression induced 'episodes' that each time have landed her out of school and back home, where-in we'd hang out. The first of these was in October '07. I got to take her to the SGChicago halloween party. At the time I only knew I was fond of her and that she'd had a rough time lately. I'd forgotten how beautiful she really was, and after that I got the bug. Move forward, December '07. I arrange with her a day-trip to the Shedd Aquarium (PS if you don't live in a city like Chicago with a world class aquariam, sucks to be you) Went to the aquarium, went to dinner, on the way home I asked her in my crude, 'never done this before' way if she would go out on a date with me. The chatter was brief-she was going back to school in January, which I knew when I asked her. But she conceded that the day had pretty much already been a date, and within the whole 'I'll be gone in a few weeks' scenario she says 'sure'. At eight months remove I'm not sure of the exact words but it was a yes, not sounding like I'd crushed her hand in the car door, not like I'd given her a million dollars. We went to see Sweeney Todd later that month. She had new years plans, and that was that.
Skip forward to June. Miranda's back from school after another 'thing'. Her, I, and our mutual friend Mike hang out a few times. We see Iron Man, play a game of Morton's List. I'm reminded why I asked her about dating months ago. So I get in touch with her... I should pause here to say that aside from calling her parents' house where she stays, the only way to get in touch with Miranda is through messages on her Livejournal. She doesn't like to answer a cell phone when she has one, or text messages. Nothing thus far has been left on the beach head of this livejournal page, though. Anyway. I get in touch with Miranda about going to the Taste of Chicago on July Third when the city shoots off the fireworks. She's quite excited about this, says yes. Again, we pass the whole day. Pretty good time, I don't know if it was any good as a 'date'. We have food, we complain about how it gets cold, watch the fireworks, walk the streets to the train station and so on.
Now, here's where I make the first of many a blunder. She invites me to hang out with a few of her friends, who have jobs with awkward shifts. I said no-it had been a long day and... these people are basically strangers to me; in hindsight this was an inexcusable mistake. It was a considerable chance that I let go-she was nominally introducing me to her gorram friends. I hand't gotten more than a hug from Miranda previously; didn't even get that when I dropped her off. If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm new at this.
A a week goes by; that would make it about a week ago. Miranda mentions that it's an anniversary of sorts for her on her LJ, I ask what the appropriate gift is, and she answer scarf. I know ahead of time that I can't buy a person's affection. However, I'm willing to be that I can at least buy her Attention, or put in a bid for it. This is why guys pay for dates and give gifts, isn't it? So I run out and get a scarf, and drive down to her place to drop it off. I can't imagine how awkward it would've been to call her people and announce this delivery, (partly because It's been nine years ago since I was dating anybody) so I leave it where it'll be found. Vindicating my theory about bidding for her attention I get a proper phone call the next day when she gets it. Recalling her distaste of phones, this is big. We resolve to 'hang out', and the next day or so we go see Hancock. We're back on hugs at least.
Here's where the anxiety comes in. One of the topics of conversation between me and Miranda on that ride home is getting stoned. In my short twenty-four years I've been complete straight edge: no booze ever, no drugs ever, no copulation ever. (The last one has more to do with incompetence/antisocialty as you maybe can tell by now) I'm not uptight about this-my brother drinks, and my best friends get stoned and copulate. In the words of Chris Rock, if you're going to be with someone you have to be into what they're into. If she's a churchgoer I gotta go to church, if she loves IHL Hockey I have to love the Chicago Wolves games. She like getting stoned, so I'd had better give it some solid consideration. I'm not saying Miranda or anybody else would really judge me about using or not using marijuana, but I don't want her to 'not judge' me. I want this woman to love me, plain and simple. So my personal decision about avoiding all substances? That's about to go right out the car window.
Skip forward to this past weekend. Miranda, like everybody else, wants to see The Dark Knight. I'm taking advantage, and with some further LJ kibbutzing we arrange to go see this. We're actually starting with three people because the aforemention friend Mike wants to see it too and Friday is his only open night. At this point I'm holding. (If you're not 'hip' like I am now, then know that 'holding' is slang for 'in possession of controlled substances') Ironically, I got the marijuana from a friend of mine-the friend that was dating Miranda five years ago. He says it's 20-something grams. Like a Chinese newspaper, that means nothing to me. Mike and I go down to her neighborhood and meet Miranda at the house of a friend of hers. This would've been one of the friends from the abortive post-Taste thing, who's also her connection for marijuana. She had little gift for me: a piece of concrete with the words 'Dark Knight' and the date written on it, because I'd said over the phone that the plan was set in stone. So I produce the weed, she gets excited and painstakingly tries to instruct me through my first pipe hit. Miranda seems excited about it. I learn a few things right off. 1) I don't have the manual thumb dexterity to operate a conventional lighter; Miranda has to do it for me. 2) I'm a sissy who can't stand pipe hits, which may be for the best because I take shitty pipe hits anyway apparently. 3) It's going to require a copious amount of marijuana before I actually get high. I only took one real hit, didn't feel anything beyond a sharp unpleasantness in my throat, and wound up leaving the remaining twenty or so grams of marijuana with her. Best that it get put to good use.
So we get to the theater later than I would've liked. As it's opening weekend there aren't any seats together. So no sitting next to Miranda. Cinemark moviegoers, three of you who sat in contiguous seats deserve to get stoned. Well, just two because I can accept not sitting next to Mike. We see the film-it's good-and then we have to go homeward. By now I'm desperately trying to be a little smarter and a little more active. Rather than drop Miranda off, I drop off Mike first. Not entirely my idea since he had work pathetically early in the morning, but it meant driving north twenty miles to drop him off, then south twenty miles again before I could drop Miranda off. If I could've taken a knee to keep the clock running I would've. What's more instead of taking Miranda straight home, we stop at my house that I can lend her a copy of Slaughterhouse Five, then go to the Diner-a denny's by any other name. (double irony-the friend who supplied the weed and used to date her also years earlier supplied me with the copy of slaughterhouse five)
I had a plan in this, mind you. Eight months ago when I'd asked her if she'd be inclined to date me, I had waited to near the ass-end of the evening. I thought, if she's uncomfortable with the idea at least I won't be forcing her to remain in awkward circumstances. I had promised myself before this past evening that I was going to say a few things to her in clear, unambiguous terms: "Remember when I said I wanted to date you eight months ago? I still feel that way," and "I'm happy when I'm around you and sad when I'm not." I'll credit myself only with the following: I said just what I planned to say. I don't know if it was because it was late, or because Miranda didn't want to let on to anything, but I can't tell, or can't recall how she reacted. She didn't break into hysterical sobs, and she didn't thrust her boobies into my hands and say 'Take me NOW!'. Conversation kept up, I didn't push at the topic. Don't think that it wasn't some nervous shit for me. When the night was over and I dropped her off we had a hug, but I said to her 'If we keep up like this eventually I'm going to start pushing for kisses.' Maybe it sounded too much like a joke because everything I say sounds like a joke(bad joke, depending on your taste); maybe it sounded funny because I'm timid. She chuckled. I meant it.
Anyway we talked a lot for the rest of the evening/morning. (It had been a late showing of Dark Knight) We have a 'pinky swear' agreement to go to a ropes course together, though I don't think pinky swears are actually binding agreements and I'll leave it at verbal confirmation. If that was Saturday morning I figure I'll wait for Monday at least to go to her LJ and post listings of different ropes courses in the area.
Now at this point, already I'm seeing some of the therapuetic value here. I'll be able to look back on what I think has been the most objective retelling of the facts that I'm capable of providing. What's really bothering me is Marijuana and no, it's not because of paranoia. I had believed of myself that I was a straight edge. I believed that before I even knew the term, and believed it the first time I was surrounded by drinkers and smokers: highschool, 15 years old. I believed this about myself in the way some people believe that a man died on a cross for their sins, that ketchup doesn't belong on hot dogs, and that Roger Moore was the best James Bond. But I really want to make something happen with Miranda and I think that participating in her interests will be important to that. In fact I'm already regretting that I didn't give a more expeditious effort to smoke marijuana in front of her when I had the chance. But I didn't like how it felt so I said so and took just the one hit. Fuckin' stubbornness at work.
I suppose I'm just scared and nervous is all, scared of changing things. Because I know for darn sure that I'm going to use Marijuana again, not because it was fun or anything but because it seems that it's going to be of some importance to getting more involved with Miranda. Maybe just tangential importance, but I can't cut corners on this because I don't get many opportunities to be with a girl I may well be in love with.
Christ, I don't want to screw this up.
Why... so... serious? OR: Love and Herb
So I have this problem, and I figured it would be good for me to type it out a bit.
-The problem: Love, or the lack thereof.
-Corollary problem: I am a good-for-nothing, sullen, stuck-in-my ways coward that's so mixed-up he would shit himself if he ever got what he wanted.
Maybe I'm a little hard on myself. If so, then working that out is part of the purpose of this writing. Enough wasting your time, here's the deal. The woman's name is Miranda. I'm pretty sure I'm in love with her. I may not have a big enough sample size. But I'm happy when I'm around her, excited when I'm going to see her, and anxious when we're not in touch. She's beautiful, she's intelligent, she's artistic. I've known this girl maybe since I was nineteen or eighteen? When I first met her she was dating a friend of mine who I'm still pretty close with. Back then, I was fond of her. Wish I'd been dating her then. I live in one suburb by this friend; the woman live twenty miles south.
That was then; skip forward about five years. For me, a lonely, pathetic period and for her a series of bad breakups at college and a pair of half drug/half depression induced 'episodes' that each time have landed her out of school and back home, where-in we'd hang out. The first of these was in October '07. I got to take her to the SGChicago halloween party. At the time I only knew I was fond of her and that she'd had a rough time lately. I'd forgotten how beautiful she really was, and after that I got the bug. Move forward, December '07. I arrange with her a day-trip to the Shedd Aquarium (PS if you don't live in a city like Chicago with a world class aquariam, sucks to be you) Went to the aquarium, went to dinner, on the way home I asked her in my crude, 'never done this before' way if she would go out on a date with me. The chatter was brief-she was going back to school in January, which I knew when I asked her. But she conceded that the day had pretty much already been a date, and within the whole 'I'll be gone in a few weeks' scenario she says 'sure'. At eight months remove I'm not sure of the exact words but it was a yes, not sounding like I'd crushed her hand in the car door, not like I'd given her a million dollars. We went to see Sweeney Todd later that month. She had new years plans, and that was that.
Skip forward to June. Miranda's back from school after another 'thing'. Her, I, and our mutual friend Mike hang out a few times. We see Iron Man, play a game of Morton's List. I'm reminded why I asked her about dating months ago. So I get in touch with her... I should pause here to say that aside from calling her parents' house where she stays, the only way to get in touch with Miranda is through messages on her Livejournal. She doesn't like to answer a cell phone when she has one, or text messages. Nothing thus far has been left on the beach head of this livejournal page, though. Anyway. I get in touch with Miranda about going to the Taste of Chicago on July Third when the city shoots off the fireworks. She's quite excited about this, says yes. Again, we pass the whole day. Pretty good time, I don't know if it was any good as a 'date'. We have food, we complain about how it gets cold, watch the fireworks, walk the streets to the train station and so on.
Now, here's where I make the first of many a blunder. She invites me to hang out with a few of her friends, who have jobs with awkward shifts. I said no-it had been a long day and... these people are basically strangers to me; in hindsight this was an inexcusable mistake. It was a considerable chance that I let go-she was nominally introducing me to her gorram friends. I hand't gotten more than a hug from Miranda previously; didn't even get that when I dropped her off. If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm new at this.
A a week goes by; that would make it about a week ago. Miranda mentions that it's an anniversary of sorts for her on her LJ, I ask what the appropriate gift is, and she answer scarf. I know ahead of time that I can't buy a person's affection. However, I'm willing to be that I can at least buy her Attention, or put in a bid for it. This is why guys pay for dates and give gifts, isn't it? So I run out and get a scarf, and drive down to her place to drop it off. I can't imagine how awkward it would've been to call her people and announce this delivery, (partly because It's been nine years ago since I was dating anybody) so I leave it where it'll be found. Vindicating my theory about bidding for her attention I get a proper phone call the next day when she gets it. Recalling her distaste of phones, this is big. We resolve to 'hang out', and the next day or so we go see Hancock. We're back on hugs at least.
Here's where the anxiety comes in. One of the topics of conversation between me and Miranda on that ride home is getting stoned. In my short twenty-four years I've been complete straight edge: no booze ever, no drugs ever, no copulation ever. (The last one has more to do with incompetence/antisocialty as you maybe can tell by now) I'm not uptight about this-my brother drinks, and my best friends get stoned and copulate. In the words of Chris Rock, if you're going to be with someone you have to be into what they're into. If she's a churchgoer I gotta go to church, if she loves IHL Hockey I have to love the Chicago Wolves games. She like getting stoned, so I'd had better give it some solid consideration. I'm not saying Miranda or anybody else would really judge me about using or not using marijuana, but I don't want her to 'not judge' me. I want this woman to love me, plain and simple. So my personal decision about avoiding all substances? That's about to go right out the car window.
Skip forward to this past weekend. Miranda, like everybody else, wants to see The Dark Knight. I'm taking advantage, and with some further LJ kibbutzing we arrange to go see this. We're actually starting with three people because the aforemention friend Mike wants to see it too and Friday is his only open night. At this point I'm holding. (If you're not 'hip' like I am now, then know that 'holding' is slang for 'in possession of controlled substances') Ironically, I got the marijuana from a friend of mine-the friend that was dating Miranda five years ago. He says it's 20-something grams. Like a Chinese newspaper, that means nothing to me. Mike and I go down to her neighborhood and meet Miranda at the house of a friend of hers. This would've been one of the friends from the abortive post-Taste thing, who's also her connection for marijuana. She had little gift for me: a piece of concrete with the words 'Dark Knight' and the date written on it, because I'd said over the phone that the plan was set in stone. So I produce the weed, she gets excited and painstakingly tries to instruct me through my first pipe hit. Miranda seems excited about it. I learn a few things right off. 1) I don't have the manual thumb dexterity to operate a conventional lighter; Miranda has to do it for me. 2) I'm a sissy who can't stand pipe hits, which may be for the best because I take shitty pipe hits anyway apparently. 3) It's going to require a copious amount of marijuana before I actually get high. I only took one real hit, didn't feel anything beyond a sharp unpleasantness in my throat, and wound up leaving the remaining twenty or so grams of marijuana with her. Best that it get put to good use.
So we get to the theater later than I would've liked. As it's opening weekend there aren't any seats together. So no sitting next to Miranda. Cinemark moviegoers, three of you who sat in contiguous seats deserve to get stoned. Well, just two because I can accept not sitting next to Mike. We see the film-it's good-and then we have to go homeward. By now I'm desperately trying to be a little smarter and a little more active. Rather than drop Miranda off, I drop off Mike first. Not entirely my idea since he had work pathetically early in the morning, but it meant driving north twenty miles to drop him off, then south twenty miles again before I could drop Miranda off. If I could've taken a knee to keep the clock running I would've. What's more instead of taking Miranda straight home, we stop at my house that I can lend her a copy of Slaughterhouse Five, then go to the Diner-a denny's by any other name. (double irony-the friend who supplied the weed and used to date her also years earlier supplied me with the copy of slaughterhouse five)
I had a plan in this, mind you. Eight months ago when I'd asked her if she'd be inclined to date me, I had waited to near the ass-end of the evening. I thought, if she's uncomfortable with the idea at least I won't be forcing her to remain in awkward circumstances. I had promised myself before this past evening that I was going to say a few things to her in clear, unambiguous terms: "Remember when I said I wanted to date you eight months ago? I still feel that way," and "I'm happy when I'm around you and sad when I'm not." I'll credit myself only with the following: I said just what I planned to say. I don't know if it was because it was late, or because Miranda didn't want to let on to anything, but I can't tell, or can't recall how she reacted. She didn't break into hysterical sobs, and she didn't thrust her boobies into my hands and say 'Take me NOW!'. Conversation kept up, I didn't push at the topic. Don't think that it wasn't some nervous shit for me. When the night was over and I dropped her off we had a hug, but I said to her 'If we keep up like this eventually I'm going to start pushing for kisses.' Maybe it sounded too much like a joke because everything I say sounds like a joke(bad joke, depending on your taste); maybe it sounded funny because I'm timid. She chuckled. I meant it.
Anyway we talked a lot for the rest of the evening/morning. (It had been a late showing of Dark Knight) We have a 'pinky swear' agreement to go to a ropes course together, though I don't think pinky swears are actually binding agreements and I'll leave it at verbal confirmation. If that was Saturday morning I figure I'll wait for Monday at least to go to her LJ and post listings of different ropes courses in the area.
Now at this point, already I'm seeing some of the therapuetic value here. I'll be able to look back on what I think has been the most objective retelling of the facts that I'm capable of providing. What's really bothering me is Marijuana and no, it's not because of paranoia. I had believed of myself that I was a straight edge. I believed that before I even knew the term, and believed it the first time I was surrounded by drinkers and smokers: highschool, 15 years old. I believed this about myself in the way some people believe that a man died on a cross for their sins, that ketchup doesn't belong on hot dogs, and that Roger Moore was the best James Bond. But I really want to make something happen with Miranda and I think that participating in her interests will be important to that. In fact I'm already regretting that I didn't give a more expeditious effort to smoke marijuana in front of her when I had the chance. But I didn't like how it felt so I said so and took just the one hit. Fuckin' stubbornness at work.
I suppose I'm just scared and nervous is all, scared of changing things. Because I know for darn sure that I'm going to use Marijuana again, not because it was fun or anything but because it seems that it's going to be of some importance to getting more involved with Miranda. Maybe just tangential importance, but I can't cut corners on this because I don't get many opportunities to be with a girl I may well be in love with.
Christ, I don't want to screw this up.
I have disappeared for some time.
Despite the ontical being of this post, I'm not actually back I don't think.
If it makes you feel better though, I am unhappy while I am away.
Despite the ontical being of this post, I'm not actually back I don't think.
If it makes you feel better though, I am unhappy while I am away.
To complete the previous post, I am indeed in that rotten honors college, albeit a month late.
But, there are good times as well. I have become a proper pet-owner for the first time since I was a child in single digits, and I pulled a goldfish named Alvin out of his fishtank and requested of my mother, "go park?"
His name is Zell and he'll be three years old in March. I'll be taking Zell in from a house with other pets. For some time it had been just Zell and another cat, but recently they've gotten a dog as well and this cat has been increasingly anxious and reclusive in the presence of more animals. Zell spends most of his time hiding, typically in a closet or the bathroom where his bed is. It's not really the dog's fault, as it's an old boxer and doesn't really look for trouble. The going theory is that for Zell to come to a home with no other pets will be less stressful for him. (and conveniently less stressful for his current household)
I went and picked up the last night. Tina, who has been taking care of Zell for the longest time took me into the room where they'd set up his bed. The moment I walked in, Zell got up and jumped out of the room, I think to go hide under a bed. Of course I don't begrudge him this, as now he's going to be holed up in a room at my house for the next two weeks, and after that merely cooped up in the house at large.
Tina as it turns out had one of the previously mentioned cat-relaxing pheremone thingies. However, we forget to pack that in with a selection of Zell's toys. Something came up, you see. I had presumed that the folks would have a cat carrier. They have two cats after all. It seems they'd loaned out their cat carrier at the precise time they were shipping out one of their cats. After some deliberation we decided that Zell would therefore be carried in a firm cloth laundry bag. It was nobody's first option but it was the best we had. Who knows but perhaps being in the dark helped smooth over kitty's reported carsickness. (No puking, whoopee) The drive was uneventful. While I had the cat in the bag I satisfied my curiosity and found that this kitty weighs twenty pounds. From what I understand, that's one heavy kitty.
But, there are good times as well. I have become a proper pet-owner for the first time since I was a child in single digits, and I pulled a goldfish named Alvin out of his fishtank and requested of my mother, "go park?"
His name is Zell and he'll be three years old in March. I'll be taking Zell in from a house with other pets. For some time it had been just Zell and another cat, but recently they've gotten a dog as well and this cat has been increasingly anxious and reclusive in the presence of more animals. Zell spends most of his time hiding, typically in a closet or the bathroom where his bed is. It's not really the dog's fault, as it's an old boxer and doesn't really look for trouble. The going theory is that for Zell to come to a home with no other pets will be less stressful for him. (and conveniently less stressful for his current household)
I went and picked up the last night. Tina, who has been taking care of Zell for the longest time took me into the room where they'd set up his bed. The moment I walked in, Zell got up and jumped out of the room, I think to go hide under a bed. Of course I don't begrudge him this, as now he's going to be holed up in a room at my house for the next two weeks, and after that merely cooped up in the house at large.
Tina as it turns out had one of the previously mentioned cat-relaxing pheremone thingies. However, we forget to pack that in with a selection of Zell's toys. Something came up, you see. I had presumed that the folks would have a cat carrier. They have two cats after all. It seems they'd loaned out their cat carrier at the precise time they were shipping out one of their cats. After some deliberation we decided that Zell would therefore be carried in a firm cloth laundry bag. It was nobody's first option but it was the best we had. Who knows but perhaps being in the dark helped smooth over kitty's reported carsickness. (No puking, whoopee) The drive was uneventful. While I had the cat in the bag I satisfied my curiosity and found that this kitty weighs twenty pounds. From what I understand, that's one heavy kitty.
This is a letter I've just now sent to one of the deans where I go to school. It, I hope, convey something about how very frustrating it is to do anything with these people.
Dean *Names changed to protect the innocent*,
My name is Morgan ______, I expect you remember me from the meeting yourself and I had in early January following my transgression with the Honors College. At that meeting you gave me your card and suggested that were I to have any doubts or questions that I would be well advised to contact authorities such as yourself through e-mail. I have such a concern and hope to communicate it herein.
At the conclusion of our meeting in January I felt entirely certain that due to the nature of my offense my admission to the honors college would be declined, and deservedly so. At the time this was no great concern compared with what I perceived to be the very real possibility of being removed from UIC entirely. As I said to Dr. *Names changed to protect the innocent* at our meeting (I think on Jan. 11th) I hadn't bought my textbooks based upon that contingent. However I found to my relief that there was no complaint filed and moved on, still a student though not in the honors college.
The Friday before last, January 25th, I happened to check my UIC e-mail account and found a half-dozen letters from the Honors College informing me of a new-student social and an Honors College Fellows reassignment. I expect this is some slight clerical error, in which my email address has been left on a list it shouldn't have. At the beginning of this past week I paid a visit to the Honors College office and asked in person, and to my surprise I was told that I was in fact a member of the honors college. So I read through these various letters, and sent an E-mail to this honors college fellow to set up an appointment, and then made another trip to the Honors College to ask what was an 'Agreement Form' which I had just then read I was required to have this professor sign, and also what the 'Honors Activity' was that I was supposed to do.
I was informed, again to my surprise, that the Honors Activity was something I was to have discussed my honors follow some weeks ago and have turned in on the very day that I was first asking what it was. The nature of Honors Activities and Agreement Forms I expect were related during the honors college orientations held in the weeks before the beginning of spring semester. I was pulled from my orientation for to sit for our meeting. As I've said I gleaned at that meaning that I was no longer in the Honors College, as it was in no way suggested that I make an effort to sit for a later orientation. Now I find that perhaps I was not removed from the honors college then, but may be removed from it now that I have found out only too late that I required some array of forms which I'd never seen previous to be turned in yesterday which are required of members.
I would characterize my main question about these past events thus, am I or am I not in the Honors College? If not then the emails and information I've received are erroneous and I may go forth with my classes. If I am, then it would seem that I am in an untenable situation.
I greatly appreciate any light you can shine upon this confusion,
harshgrimcon
Dean *Names changed to protect the innocent*,
My name is Morgan ______, I expect you remember me from the meeting yourself and I had in early January following my transgression with the Honors College. At that meeting you gave me your card and suggested that were I to have any doubts or questions that I would be well advised to contact authorities such as yourself through e-mail. I have such a concern and hope to communicate it herein.
At the conclusion of our meeting in January I felt entirely certain that due to the nature of my offense my admission to the honors college would be declined, and deservedly so. At the time this was no great concern compared with what I perceived to be the very real possibility of being removed from UIC entirely. As I said to Dr. *Names changed to protect the innocent* at our meeting (I think on Jan. 11th) I hadn't bought my textbooks based upon that contingent. However I found to my relief that there was no complaint filed and moved on, still a student though not in the honors college.
The Friday before last, January 25th, I happened to check my UIC e-mail account and found a half-dozen letters from the Honors College informing me of a new-student social and an Honors College Fellows reassignment. I expect this is some slight clerical error, in which my email address has been left on a list it shouldn't have. At the beginning of this past week I paid a visit to the Honors College office and asked in person, and to my surprise I was told that I was in fact a member of the honors college. So I read through these various letters, and sent an E-mail to this honors college fellow to set up an appointment, and then made another trip to the Honors College to ask what was an 'Agreement Form' which I had just then read I was required to have this professor sign, and also what the 'Honors Activity' was that I was supposed to do.
I was informed, again to my surprise, that the Honors Activity was something I was to have discussed my honors follow some weeks ago and have turned in on the very day that I was first asking what it was. The nature of Honors Activities and Agreement Forms I expect were related during the honors college orientations held in the weeks before the beginning of spring semester. I was pulled from my orientation for to sit for our meeting. As I've said I gleaned at that meaning that I was no longer in the Honors College, as it was in no way suggested that I make an effort to sit for a later orientation. Now I find that perhaps I was not removed from the honors college then, but may be removed from it now that I have found out only too late that I required some array of forms which I'd never seen previous to be turned in yesterday which are required of members.
I would characterize my main question about these past events thus, am I or am I not in the Honors College? If not then the emails and information I've received are erroneous and I may go forth with my classes. If I am, then it would seem that I am in an untenable situation.
I greatly appreciate any light you can shine upon this confusion,
harshgrimcon
I'm ambivalent about blogs, but this I have to type somewhere.
There are certain things I don't like to say. At the absolute top of that list is the phrse, "Your ass is bleeding."
I'm my mothers primary caretaker. She's got MS, and while I've never taken the time to learn the details and medicinal terms for the disease, she's had it for years and only has the use on her left hand and head, pretty much. A few years she had some kindney stones and went into the hospital, where she developed Bed Sores on her butt. Of all the fucking places for that to happen, it was in the hospital. I should point out that an infected sore is what finally killed Christopher Reeves. This evening as I was transferring my mother from her wheelchair to her bed, something happened which opened up one of the lesions on her backside, and there was a trail of blood left on the floor and her bed. This is not uncommon. I was required to say to her, "Your ass is bleeding."
I'm not a nurse, I'm just a young man who does the best that he can to take care of an invalid. It's not a job for which I was ever prepared. Even if I were a trained nurse, I would never have wanted this job in a million years.
There are certain things I don't like to say. At the absolute top of that list is the phrse, "Your ass is bleeding."
I'm my mothers primary caretaker. She's got MS, and while I've never taken the time to learn the details and medicinal terms for the disease, she's had it for years and only has the use on her left hand and head, pretty much. A few years she had some kindney stones and went into the hospital, where she developed Bed Sores on her butt. Of all the fucking places for that to happen, it was in the hospital. I should point out that an infected sore is what finally killed Christopher Reeves. This evening as I was transferring my mother from her wheelchair to her bed, something happened which opened up one of the lesions on her backside, and there was a trail of blood left on the floor and her bed. This is not uncommon. I was required to say to her, "Your ass is bleeding."
I'm not a nurse, I'm just a young man who does the best that he can to take care of an invalid. It's not a job for which I was ever prepared. Even if I were a trained nurse, I would never have wanted this job in a million years.
OCTOBER 2008
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