Just like the prodigal son

This past Friday all my friends went lame on me, and nobody wanted to go out. After a happy hour with the Kaiser, I was home by 7:00, and entertained myself by watching Go, which was on one of the movie channels, and reminiscing about how weird the ‘90s were in hindsight. At about 9:30, I decided I wasn’t going to completely waste the night, so I put my shoes on and headed down to the Pub.

Frankie’s waitress was not working that particular evening, and I had forgotten how truly cool that place is and why I used to look forward to going there. The place was packed, but Marti, one of the waitresses there – a bigger girl that I would totally do if given the opportunity – saw me walk in and produced a barstool out of nowhere so that I’d have a place to sit by the bar. I ended up next to the servers’ station, so I got to talk to all the waitresses that were working that evening: Misty, the super-sweet petite platinum-blonde ditz with the painted on eyebrows, who told me she was planning to be roller-girl for Halloween; Rosa, the Romanian who has the Eastern-European thing going, and is therefore harsh on the outside but totally kind once you get to know her; and Natalie, the machine, who is not the friendliest, but definitely the waitress you hope for on a crowded night due to her efficiency. Because I was at the bar, I dealt with Geoff, the bartender who was gruff with me for the longest time until I gave a $125 donation to Friends of Sinn Féin, whereupon he treated me like the regular I always aspired to be somewhere.

Anyway, the place was packed, and the people watching was spectacular. The Irish band they had playing did a bunch of very good covers, and the patrons were festive. I went outside to smoke, and found several of the regulars there, including “Drunk Josh” who moved in behind the Pub this year so that he wouldn’t have to risk any DUI liability. A beer later, I found myself talking with Diane, one of the regulars, who had shown up randomly at 11:30 and was completely sober. I asked her why she was sober and offered to buy her a beer. She told me she had just gotten off of work. I asked where she worked, and she told me that she had recently lost her job as an instructor at a local cooking school, so in the meantime, she was dancing at a local strip club to make ends meet. Strippers are to guys what firemen are to women: there’s an implied “hotness” and a presumption of “interesting” regardless of reality. That said, Diane is pretty good looking, pretty interesting to talk with, and she’s the first stripper whose real name I’ve known (rather than stage name: hers is “Jaime” – not very stripper-like, but whatever). We talked for a while before I headed home, and mused about how the night had turned out alright after all. Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. And they’re always glad you came.

Restless thoughts

Back at what turned out to be the low point of the breakup with the ex, when she called me specifically to tell me that she was seeing someone else – a doctor – my pal Meno gave me what turned out to be a mantra. I repeated it to myself without believing at the time: “She’s someone else’s problem now . . . she’s someone else’s problem now . . . she’s someone else’s problem now.” Last night I suffered from a bout of insomnia, and of course, my thoughts turned to her and to us, and I thought about certain things that she had done, and lies she had told me, and remembered a talk that we had at a sushi bar one time and all the bullshit she said which turned out to be bullshit, but I bought into it. Like plans for the future and crap like that. And I started to get all pissed off, even though I haven’t spoken to her for close to two months now. And then I thought: “She’s someone else’s problem now,” and I looked forward rather than backward, and I was able to put her out of my mind for the moment.

Best of luck, y'all!

It's kind of interesting to me how many people make it to this blog by googling "prusik handcuffs" or some variation thereof. The out-click is invariably wikipedia.

This coming Tuesday, October 30th:

I love Nip/Tuck. Let’s hope that it hasn’t jumped the shark with their move . . .

As an aside, and inspired by these promos, I downloaded Giant Drag’s cover of “Wicked Game.” I now have three versions of the song on my iPod: Chris Isaak’s, HIM’s, and Giant Drag’s, and I’m fully convinced it’s one of the sexiest songs ever. I distinctly remember getting it on with the ex to the HIM version in the cab of my buddy Meno’s truck back in February, 2005, and the experience was all the more visceral and erotic because of the “soundtrack.”

Something I remember pondering one year ago

Here's a pearl for you, dear reader:

The dog that chases two rabbits will catch neither.

Guilty Pleasure

Last night I was watching the Red Sox kick the crap out of the Rockies and I realized that I had forgotten to eat dinner. I didn't feel like ordering a pizza, and I'd had Chinese for lunch. My refrigerator is a typical bachelor 'fridge, with more condiments and beverages than actual food in it. So I opened my pantry and began to go through the cans. Tuna was too depressing, and beans/chili would wreak havoc on my stomach. My eyes alighted on the perfect meal in a can: Dinty Moore Beef Stew. I love this stuff. With a slice of white bread to mop up the gravy, it is truly sublime. I washed it down with a cream soda, and was eminently satisfied at the end of my meal.

Royale with cheese . . . .

Vice Report

I more than make up my membership fees at the warehouse clubs on booze and smokes. Today's damage at Sam's Club:

Bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon: $24.12
Carton of Marlboro Reds: $44.25
Tax man: $5.54
Total: $73.91

The bourbon, in particular, was a pretty good deal, even if I didn't really need another bottle of bourbon in my cabinet. Now I've got four varieties of bourbon in there, to go with all the different rums I've collected over the years (Cuban, Jamaican, Puerto Rican, spiced) as libations primarily for the guests.

Feeling October

I actually really like the feel of October as a month. It's not quite winter, but the weather's cooled down and you get to break out the long sleeved casual-wear. Right now, I'm listening to Type O Negative's "Bloody Kisses" album, not because it's particularly good, but because it feels very Octoberish. For the past couple of days, I've been watching, off and on, one of my favorite October movies: Donnie Darko. This is like the sixth time that I've seen this flick, and I think I'm finally starting to understand what it's about. As cryptic as it is, it's got a real earnest appeal to it, and I have loved it since the first time I ever watched it. Among the best parts of the movie is its awesome soundtrack.

Joy Division's "Love Will Tear Us Apart," is on the soundtrack, and I hadn't listened to it in a while, but it's on a mixtape that a girl made for me like seven years ago. I started thinking about how cool it used to be to make and give a mixtape to someone back in the day. Or what it felt like when somebody gave one to you. I mean, making a mixtape took thought, and effort, and planning. To quote Nick Hornby's High Fidelity:

To me, making a tape is like writing a letter — there's a lot of erasing and rethinking and starting again. A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You've got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention (I started with "Got to Get You Off My Mind," but then realized that she might not get any further than track one, side one if I delivered what she wanted straightaway, so I buried it in the middle of side two), and then you've got to up it a notch, or cool it a notch, and you can't have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can't have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you've done the whole thing in pairs and...oh, there are loads of rules.

I used to go all out with the mixes that I'd make, with ornate liner notes, and everything. I compiled my last for a girlfriend back in January of 2003. I had a truck back then, and she had a car, and both still had tape decks in them. I don't think they even make vehicles with tape decks anymore. Women of my generation will someday have collections of mixtapes that boys made for them in high school and college and they won't be able to listen to them because technology will have forsaken us.

I sort of mourn the passing of the mixtape, even though I would never give up my iPod, or the playlists on it. I was inspired to find the aforementioned mixtape and to download those songs that I didn't already have on the 'pod, in order to make a playlist of the songs on the tape. Took me about fifteen minutes to do.

"Goodbye Art"

A couple of weeks ago, when all the monks in Myanmar were protesting, I told a couple of people: “I’m not going to be impressed until one of those motherfuckers immolates himself.” Because one of the most powerful pictures that I remember seeing as a kid was the one of the monk in Vietnam that had burned himself in protest. The balls on this guy. Particularly when you read the account of it. The incident was witnessed by David Halberstam, a New York Times reporter, who wrote:

I was to see that sight again, but once was enough. Flames were coming from a human being; his body was slowly withering and shriveling up, his head blackening and charring. In the air was the smell of burning human flesh; human beings burn surprisingly quickly. Behind me I could hear the sobbing of the Vietnamese who were now gathering. I was too shocked to cry, too confused to take notes or ask questions, too bewildered to even think.... As he burned he never moved a muscle, never uttered a sound, his outward composure in sharp contrast to the wailing people around him.

Which brings me to the whole point of my post. In my e-mail inbox this morning, Robb sent me the following video, which is pretty frickin’ awesome. Ladies and gentlemen, the “goodbye art” of Phil Hansen: