Adventures with Michael: A Helluva Night

Saturday arrived and I didn't know what the hell to do with myself. My roommate was at work doing inventory for the weekend so I had the apartment to myself. I had spent a majority of the week with “swinging shifts” at my new job as well as doing mandatory OT and here I was with some money, some time, and not a damn thing that I wanted to do. Shit.

Before I went too morose I go and pick up a new camera lens: Canon 50mm F1.8. I've been getting into night photography and having seen what shooting at 2.8 could do I decided to follow the suggestion of several other photography sites and pick up that lens. MSRP: $139 (at least according to the store I would pick it up from). Hellbent just to do something I got into my car and went to the Summit. I ate a steak sandwich at Zoe's Kitchen, bought “The Killing,” on Blu-ray, and wound up purchasing the lens for $122 (tax included). “Sweet!” Canon was apparently having a sale, so...

Back at the apartment and I drop some stuff off as well as pick up my camera, batteries, and my tripod. I have no clue where in Louisville I wanted to do some night shots when the image of the police substation parking garage came to mind. Screw it, I thought, I'm going downtown. I call Michael and tell him I'd be there in half-an-hour. Making one last check I again got into my car and hit the road.

And I got stuck in traffic on 71 heading south.

An hour later I'm walking up the sidewalk and almost reach the concrete awning for the Federal Projects building when he calls me on my cell. “When are you coming?” “I'm downstairs, dude. I just got here.” “Good thing on the timing...”

Not to discuss too much personal stuff but Michael's been dealing with some gastrointestinal virus for the past six months and, in my opinion, living where he does doesn't help. I wouldn't live there but then again I have lived in my share of bad places so who am I to make judgment? After signing in I take the seventeen floors up to his place and sit in his living room area while he puts on his shoes. Warren Oates was on TV in an old episode of “Lost in Space.” The sound is off so I have no clue as to what's going on except that Oates is spraying for bugs outside of the Jupiter and Will Robinson is interrogating him about it.

Back on the road but walking this time we're heading to Market to go to the Nulu “Flea Off Market,” which is a collection of electric and artistic people selling eclectic and artistic stuff. Or junk. Having taken some pics by the old Baer Fabrics building we finally arrive. One set of tables are against the side of Toast on Market, a popular Louisville breakfast/lunch spot (read: good food, long time to get it), while the other seems to be against a backdrop of cargo containers. There are some arts and crafts but mostly odds and ends such as old comic books, hardback books, and 50s copies of Popular Science. I stop at a tent where one guy is selling his photography niche: panoramic shots. I'll admit that he had some really cool stuff and told him such.

Michael had disappeared on me and I found him sitting in a chair. “Can you help me carry this back?” “Uh, no. Why?” “It's thirty dollars.” “That's a good deal. Maybe for an extra five they'll help deliver it.” He walks over to talk with the woman presiding over that “booth” and I went to take some pics. When I returned he stood there, cash in hand, and put it into his pocket. “What happened?” “Eighteen dollars is not thirty is what she told me.” I shrug and we walk out of there.

We're heading downtown begins wrenching like it's eating itself. Dammit. I need something to eat. I remember that some time ago my friend Jamie and I ate at La Rosita, a Cuban restaurant a little ways ahead. I set that as the next point to get to and we walk into a restaurant in which the only people inside were the ones running it – they even had the lights off in the back area. The downtown Louisville location of La Rosita does not have its liquor license as of yet (even though there's a neon Budweiser sign in the window) which is a shame because the food is really good. Michael brings up the point that someone must be sitting on their liquor license, trying to get them shut down because they have a prime location. Maybe it's true. I order some guacamole (which I rarely eat but they have some great guacamole) and some sort of Cuban meal of green bell peppers, onions, sausage balls, and cheese that had been wrapped together in aluminum foil and cooked. Good stuff. Michael has some of the guacamole and comments on how authentic it is and I share my meal with him. He relays a story on how a woman once taught him how to make it: “avocado, cilantro, and lime juice.” I might try that one day.

A little bit later we're heading down Market to where I have an idea the police substation is at. Months ago we had wandered around and found a police station with a cool dilapidated garage and I commented that I would come back to photograph it. Now, I was going to do it. I vaguely figured that it was somewhere after second street but before fifth. A woman walks beside us, talking on her cellphone, and Michael claims that he's met her buy doesn't remember how he might know her. I take a look at the buildings at night and point out the ones I want to come back and take pictures of such as the Old Spaghetti Factory. I rattle off the fact that it use to be a clothing factory called Levi Bros and that if you go behind it you can still see the “painted ad” on the back of the building. Heading toward Fourth Street Live we pass by a guy playing guitar on the sidewalk and take another left to zag over to the location which is on third street (I wasn't far off).

The police substation, according to what one officer told me, used to be “the old LG&E building,” Now it's a small, gray police station with POLICE in black letters on the lamp globes that aren't lit. Next to it is the parking garage that goes down into a basement level. That was our destination. We walked around and looked to see if anyone was around I walked inside and setup my camera. The place is dry, dusty, and dirty. Some type of van seat rests against the left wall. One of the back windows has a bullet hole in it. Light comes from a fluorescent one in the upper left corner of the room, the tungsten ones outside showing through the windows, or the ones behind me. I fiddle with the camera settings trying to get “the perfect shot,” not really knowing what I want to capture until I see it. Michael stands behind me with the empty tripod case watching out for cops or anyone else in the area. I move up, down, left, right, stand, and even sit on the floor trying to see what I can do with my camera.

And here's where I break the story with a lesson: while shooting RAW is the way to go (trust me on this one) and following the advice of other photogs and getting a 50mm lens is well worth it, night photography does cause a certain strain namely in the battery department. I was shooting seventy-to-eighty meg images (with a jpeg thumbnail) and shooting at night with batteries I thought would be fully charged. In the middle of a shot the red light below the black dial on my camera continued glowing red for what I deemed too long a period of time. I shut the camera off and tried turning it back on.

Nothing. Zip. Nada. No “sensor cleaning” on the display. I couldn't get anything to register on the display. Fuck.

“Either I broke my camera or the batteries are dead. I'm hoping it's the latter,” I said as I walked toward the overhead florescent light. Looking at the electronic display on the top the battery light was blinking so... yeah, my camera battery had died. I hoped that was the least of my problems.

I packed the camera into the bag and collapsed the tripod and put it inside the case. Michael and I walked into the parking lot filled with standard cars and police vehicles when an officer in an SUV passed by us. We waved at him and Michael said that God was working at least to the fact that we were able to shoot in the parking garage and leave before being discovered by someone on patrol and subsequently questioned. I imagined myself going, “Yes, sir. I'd love to show you the pictures I took but the batteries died.”

I needed to piss badly and wanted to stop somewhere in Fourth Street Live but held it until I got back to Michael's apartment. The plan was to take “Guido” (his name for his black Cadillac) over to the Monkey Wrench to see his friend Kellie's band, Son of the Widow, perform. It was only 8pm and I have nothing else to do so...

The Monkey Wrench is a bar off Grinstead Drive that has a stage for various acts that play there as well as a rooftop deck (usually for those who want to smoke). Michael parked Guido across from Lynn's Paradise Cafe and we walked the two blocks leading up to it. Standing outside we talked with a guy who quickly went inside while a girl stayed outside. She had on a thin, white hooded sweater and wore some band t-shirt. We all introduce ourselves and she says that she's a drummer whose come to see the show. Michael and I walk inside and the doorman asks for five dollars. Michael replies that we're there to see Kellie and to hear one song and go. He lets us past and Michael rushed over to the stage and greets the drummer. A woman who walks up behind him is in a thin, red shirt and tight, black leather pants. That would be Kellie. She thanks Michael for coming and he tells her of the “cover charge situation” and she replies that he should tell Joe that's it's okay for us to be there. We walk to the bar and I order drinks for us. Some time after the first song I point to a booth on the bar side of the place which has a wall obstructing a majority of the sound. “Good call,” he says as we walk over and sit in the booth and shoot the shit.

The music. It was definitely indie but not necessarily “indie rock.” It was something slightly different and each song reinforced the point. I remember one having a slight Middle Eastern-vibe but that was about it. I can't remember a lot of the conversation – I went back to the bar and ordered a BBC Bourbon Stout which had me sailing. Michael wanted to step outside to smoke so I followed.

“This guy's a wild man,” he exclaims at a guy who looks to be in his twenties with a gray suitcoat and cheap black glasses and scraggly beard that went down six inches. The guy, Jeremy, turns to him and they begin talking. Jeremy's girlfriend walks up and we all introduce ourselves. She tells me that her name is “Eli” (short for Elijah) and we step to the side and talk for a long time. She's thin, with long, black hair. She has on a white, sueded jacket and scarf, wearing high heels. The conversation starts about fashion for some odd reason and I make mention that courdoroy, the jacket I had on, was difficult to find. “I think that clothes swapping is the best way to go. A lot of things never really go out of fashion but when I want something different I try trading with someone else,” she states. My eyes wander for a minute at the idea and I concede that no, guys don't do that. “I guess guys basically don't do it because they wear what they wear until it's going to fall off.” “You're right,” I reply.

And in a small, singular moment I see what her boyfriend sees in her: her eyes. Brown. Beautiful. I'm staring into them as she fishes a cigarette out of a pack in her purse and lights it. I'm looking at her eyes, teeth, lips, nose, and the toboggan on her head and realize in a small moment that I've been with someone like her: Jen. Or, as Michael kindly says, She Who Shall Remain Nameless. But yeah, she's standing there and we're talking for a long time. At some point she begins talking about the feelings of others, how narrow-minded culture is, pot farmers, and something else and she stops herself. “I think I just want to go back inside and draw. I've made an ass of myself.” I assure her that she hasn't (but never say that she's crazy) and her boyfriend walks over to the front door and stops. She walks up to him, kisses him, then they proceed to go inside. Her boyfriend holds out his hand and I shake it. She holds out hers and I hold it for a moment as if to kiss it. They turn and go inside.

Michael is standing and talking with a guy named Chris. He turns to me and says, “You should talk with this guy. He's an advocate,” Michael says motioning over to me. I introduce myself and the guy keeps talking about how he went to some old man's place and sold the guy insurance. “He meets me at the front door with a shotgun and is like, 'What do you want?' and I'm like, 'I'm just here to talk with you about insurance. If you would like, set up an appointment with me.' And the guy did. So I find that this guy is working for GE and is paying $145 for himself -himself only!- for insurance. Nothing for his wife. So I get his HR person on the line and start asking some hard questions because you don't know what you don't know. Know what I'm saying?”

I flip through the apps on my not-so-smartphone and tweet what he just said, “You don't know what you don't know.” Sage wisdom. Chris continues talking about how he “saves” people by getting them better insurance rates on their medical coverage which, in some small, demented way, is justified. At some point in time salespeople were instructed to believe that reallocating funds for people who don't take the time to study their insurance policies like an undergrad cramming for that One Big Final is doing a service for mankind. Whatever makes him sleep better, I guess.

Saving people money isn't Chris's only contribution to humanity: he helped sign the Neville brothers. His uncle was big in New Orleans and ran a club called The Warehouse that featured up-and-coming acts during the 60s and 70s. In fact his uncle paid $5,000 to bail Jerry Garcia and company out of jail when they were busted for possession (which led to the song, “Truckin'”) I sat on the bench next to Michael and continued listening as Chris gesticulated in “rap moves” about how he was 12 when his uncle and him walked into A&M records with the Neville brothers and watched them sign their contracts. “If you look on the back of their album, 'From the Bayou,' it'll say 'Special thanks to Chris'... that's me.” We all shook hands and he went elsewhere while Michael and I went inside to catch the rest of the show.

The doorman stopped us again wanting the five bucks. Michael and him talked for a few minutes and the doorman finally went back inside. “That was a test. He wanted to know if we really knew Kellie. He won't bother us again,” he tells me. The show ends sometime after and it's somewhere around ten o'clock. I suggest we go down into the Highlands further. Getting into Guido we drive down to the Hideaway Saloon and park by the Book and Music Exchange. I have to piss so we go into the used book, movie, and music store and I'm pointed toward the back where a blue door leads into the combination crappy toilet and storeroom. After I'm done I find Michael, point him toward the restroom, and peruse the store.

Next we're at the Hideaway Saloon or, at least, outside of it. The staircase leading up to it is lined on both sides outside the door with guys smoking and talking. The guy standing by the door says, “They're playing,” and I walk inside for a moment. The band starts and the guy standing at the door asks me for five bucks. I have no cash on me and walk outside where Michael has turned and walked toward the other side of the street. “I'm not paying five bucks to listen to guys butcher 'Norwegian Wood' on the banjo,” he says.

We pass the closed businesses on the left and I make a comment about the first time I ate at La Bodega with my friend Chad. I'm fairly drunk at this time. We stop at Cumberland Brews, because I had never been before, and we sit at the bar. I order a pale ale and sit getting drunker by the moment. The bartend is a woman with long, black hair and medium build. She tells me that she's from Colorado originally but moved when she was 4 to California then to here. She had majored in marketing but was enjoying doing bartending. Her name was Mandy and her thinner, with long black hair co-worker was Crystal who was attending UofL and majoring in photography. Her thesis would be on display in December.

Guido got parked next in the MidCity Mall lot. I noticed how the ATM on the corner had been uprooted and something else was going to go in its place. Michael wanted to go the bar I didn't, the Highlands Taproom, and we walk over there. Passing twenty-somethings lining the sides of the ramp going inside we get in and take the stools next to the bar. I'm uncomfortable as the place is packed beyond any expectation I've had for it. I suggest that we go to the Back Door and Michael nods. And we're off.

Before we leave the premises a girl calls out to Michael. I stop and she's talking directly to him while cleaning her glasses. She's short, medium build, and wearing brown shirt and skirt. Patting the concrete seat she beckons Michael over and they talk for a moment. I'm not sure what they're saying but she says that she'll be over at the Back Door as long as there's a pineapple. As we walk away he says, “I couldn't do that.” I'm in disbelief. “She's drunk and I've done that too many times before. I'm stained. Girls like her want to go for the lowest person they see.” I'm still in disbelief.

At the Back Door we walk to the back and play pool. Two things: I have not played pool in a decade and I'm drunk. And I continue to suck at pool. Michael wins and as I walk away a girl 2/3's my height and drunker than I've been all night walks up to me and is leaning into me when she says, “Do you believe in Jesus?” I respond, “Well, historically he existed...” “This guy wanted to play pool with me but he wouldn't unless I believed in Jesus. I'm an atheist.” I can tell that she's really, really drunk. “My mom is Jewish and my dad is Southern Baptist.” “How'd that happen?” “I know, right? Fucking hippies.”

I turn to see her friend who is blond, sober, and taller than her. They introduce themselves and the blond friend tells me that the brunette (who I first spoke with) is a college roommate who doesn't get to go out anymore. Her friend then speaks up about the fact that she's a mom and never gets to go out. Michael walks up and we're all talking and find out that the brunette getting drunk is payback for the time when the blond was drunk and had pictures of her eating a wafer that had been up her butt prior to that. Revenge and retaliation... We walk out to the smoking section and I tell a joke while two girls who walk up to the table we were sitting at promptly left by the punchline. Oh well.

I'm drunk and really need something to eat. We factor where to go – Sicilian pizza, etc. - when we drive by and see that Papalino's is still open. Opting for that we park and walk in. While standing in line I order pizza for us both and ask for a beer. “I'm sorry, but we stop serving alcohol at 2.” Probably a good thing seeing as I probably looked fairly drunk and a police officer stood behind the guy at the register. I walk outside and sit at one of the tables waiting for my food. A few moments later Michael walks out with both slices and seeing that a table inside is open we walk back in. We're talking while watching a redheaded chick command a group of her male friends. I split time between that, eating, talking with Michael, and watching “Major Payne” on the TV on the wall.

We're back at Michael's apartment by 3am. It's been a helluva night so I grab my camera and tripod and leave by 3:30am. I get home by 4, take a shower, and collapse. I don't wake up until 11am. A helluva night.

Oh, Epiphany

Oh, Epiphany

In one solemn moment the realization hits me. I'm walking through the Company parking lot slowly soaking under the rain and gray overcast sky and a bell rings in the back of my head. I get it now.

Not to beat the proverbial “dead horse” but I realize what had went wrong on my end with the “redheaded girl.” I didn't know how to go about things. I was wanting to “connect” and in one moment was with a woman that I didn't feel on even ground with. I was in a situation that I didn't feel I had any control over. In the back of my head I knew what it was all about but I wanted something more. Something substantial. Something concrete. I was intimidated and did everything I felt I could to impress someone and lost sight of what they might have liked in me and in its stead became a figure looking for more than a good time – I wanted to be someone for somebody. Unfortunately that wasn't on the “available options” list. If I had to do it all again... I don't know. Would I trade the experience? No. However I don't believe I would've bothered having anything else to do after the initial night because I would know that nothing would come from it. Junk love. I guess that's how it goes...

I'm sitting at work talking with a co-worker, Randall, and chatting via e-mail with another co-worker, Rachel. Randall appreciates music refs pre-2000s because he stopped listening to music after hearing “she thinks my tractor's sexy.” He's a few years older than me and has a degree in psych. I asked him what his story was and he tells me bits and pieces of how he wound up in Kentucky. We discuss language for a moment and he concedes that after moving down here from Michigan it was pointless to use words with more than three syllables. I make the snarky comment that it's “no country for smart men.”

Rachel is interesting being a seemingly avid reader. I saw her in the cafeteria today and invited her to come sit and talk with me for a little bit. After, we chat back and forth through e-mail (and she's decently verbose) She makes the comment that she finds me interesting and refreshing to talk with someone who doesn't talk down to her. I thank her for the compliment and remember all the times that I've heard someone tell me, “It's nice to talk with someone intelligent for a change.”

So I'm back to walking in the rain and piecing together things and it really is like those moments when you're watching a movie that shows the “important” scene at the beginning and takes another hour-and-a-half to get back to showing you why that scene was important. The redheaded girl and Randal and Rachel all get lumped together into the puzzle that provides the clues to why I get depressed, where my confidence lies, etc. I realize that more than anything I like to be appreciated for being smart and I rarely, if ever, feel that happens to me by ones I'm interested in as if this Christianity-steeped backwater that so fears intelligence as if it's the “bad apple” from the tree in the Garden of Eden wholeheartedly believes that intellect is a bad thing. Sure, you can be smart in a “savvy” way but to exude thought in a way that doesn't showcase me in some ComicCon nerd-way is beyond peoples' understanding. I am not the smartest person in the world and I have no problem with admitting that. Just because I am intelligent it does not make me rich and not every rich person is smart. I grew up middle-class poor with no real direction except for what I thought I might like to do. I worked up from having speech problems, biting a teacher and failing a grade to being in an advanced program in high school. But, that's a story for another time.

And I also realize my disconnect between how other people see me and how I see myself (also reason I had problems with the redheaded girl). I have no clear idea as to how others view me. Inside, I find myself the same schlubby 285-pound nice guy whose head looks like a block of cheese with a nose and set of ears. To others I look confident (at times), know what I want, etc. Inside I still feel like I have to be the “nice guy” and that no one wants me for who I am (again, carryover from being the “big guy”) I lived a lifetime where it was easier to believe that no one was interested in me because I was fat or weird. Now I just don't always know how to relate and I'm not in tune with the “princess complex.”

And my epiphanies are all rolled up into these thoughts; these “facts.” It's difficult for smart people to feel appreciated and the less they are the more we feel lost and have problems communicating and experiencing. Just an observation.

How It Goes I Do Suppose...

“It's been a while...” -Staind

So it has. I've been blogging more and more infrequently because I just haven't wanted to. And God knows I've had a bunch of shit going on.

First and foremost is the fact that my savings are gone. Done. Depleted. I shelled out at least $1800 on my teeth in the form of two root canals and a crown. No fun. On top of that I had to go to Urgent Care then Jewish Hospital in order to find out that my next biggest obstacle is whatever the hell is going on with my gall bladder. It seems that I either have gallstones or a bladder infection. At any rate I have to watch how much I eat and what I eat. Big fun.

Next on the order of things: I may have a girlfriend. I'll say that her name is Allison and that she's cool. I like her a lot. In the event that she runs across this blog this'll be all I can say about her for the moment because she seemed to get upset with the idea of me writing/blogging about her so again, that's all that I'll say about her.

A small part of my soul died on Wednesday and I damn near cried. I went to orientation for a shitjob through a temp agency. While the job may be alright and there'll probably be benefits better than others I'm not holding my breath for what all I can do for the company. Been there, done that, got screwed-over.

And so I've been learning a lot during my sojourn in unemployment. The big thing is that I do not handle change which may not bode well in the future. When Jen left and suddenly I had to fill a big emotional void with nothing, that sucked. When I was fired and found myself not knowing how to get another job or what I was going to do with my life again, a void I had to fill. Maybe it's learning and maybe it's growing up but it hurts like hell. I know that I need to figure out a way to work for myself and I believe I can do that through photography but the starting point is eluding me. For the moment I'm reading a book about the business of photography and seeing what I want to do next. I'll keep ya posted.

I don't know what else to write about now. My car is on the fritz again (radiator, I think) so I'll have to pick up “lead balls” to put into the system in order to “fill” any holes that may be leaking (or so my friend suggests). I guess that I'm just tired and down to the end of my “unemployed days.” I get to call Allison tomorrow to schedule for Saturday after which I'll have a better idea as to where I'm heading.

The Summer's (Almost) Out of Reach

Oh, little online diary... How is everyone out there? Anyone still reading this?

A lot of things have been going on in my world. I almost wrote a blog called, “Notes on Not Turning 40” and it still resides somewhere in my laptop. I'm not going to call it back up or cheat ya by doing the copy-and-paste but then how would you know?

Ahem.

Well, I'm not 40 so I guess that's a good thing. I have three friends that I know turned 40 this year: Julia, Jamie, and Tamara. Julia's birthday is a week after mine while Jamie's and Tamara's were within days of each other. I spent some serious bank on hanging out with both of them; no regrets.

I wanted to write a column in which I allude to those things that I've learned but I think I'll save that for my end-of-year wrap-up. I recall turning 25 and blathering about what all I've learned in life up to that point and now it seems I learn, or relearn, things yearly. If there's anything I can say for sure it's that I'm a guy who's 34 but passes for late 20s which causes a little bit of issue when the only available girls are in their twenties and there is a little bit of a “creepy” factor when you're toward your mid-thirties and aside from a bunch of stuff have nothing of status to show for it. I'm more than a man-child but less than the “responsible” single parent 30s male. How it goes I do suppose...

So... I'm talking on the phone with my mom tonight who informs me that my sister is under a lot of stress. Apparently she's lonely as well and lumps all of her brothers and her uncle (ergo, my roomie) into the “helplessly single” category that she doesn't want to be in. Hey, each of our stories are different and for what it's worth my brothers have the “steady” girlfriends. My own story is a bit more complicated.

I've been watching a lot of movies lately; more than at any other point of the summer. In the space of a week I watched “Mirage” (with Gregory Peck), “Rise of the Planet of the Apes,” “Diabolique,” “Ed Wood,” and “Panic Room.” “Mirage” had some interesting ideas but fell into aging itself by its end in delivering a heavy-handed moral message that today's society wouldn't stop for a second to receive. “Rise of the Planet of the Apes,” proved that damn, dirty CGI apes could provide the backdrop for an interesting drama and sign me up for whatever is next in the series. “Diabolique” is a French film that has been called “the movie Hitchcock never made” (trivia: someone beat him to getting the rights to adapt the book for cinema) and has one of the best twist endings I've ever seen. “Ed Wood,” is a beautiful black-and-white jaunt back to the 50s cinema and the touted “worst director of all time,” Edward D. Wood, Jr. (although I think Uwe Boll may have him outdone). “Panic Room” I had watched a decade ago and, having seen director Fincher's previous fare, “Fight Club,” I was not overly impressed. My friends and I wrote it off as being an “apology” to the women of Hollywood and media for the misogyny of “Fight Club.” That may have been so at the time. Removed from that point in time “Panic Room” is an intelligent, well-crafted drama that I appreciate more now than I thought I would. Some movies are just ahead of their time...

Oh yeah. I almost forgot. The “employment” thing. I've been searching for jobs through sites such as Monster.com, Careerbuilder.com, and Mediabistro. Added to this is figuring out how to market myself (more than ground chuck, less than prime cut) and figuring out the freelancing world. Which brings me to...

Focusing. This has been my problem for the past few months. While May and June were essentially the “freefall” from being fired, and July became my vacation and getting sick from a tooth infection, by August I'm fine and trying to “pull myself up from my bootstraps.” What did I want? A life where I could go to a coffeeshop with my laptop and work for a while then go home and do whatever. Well, I have that minus the cashflow coming in. In the “venture forth” ideology just because you bought the ticket and are standing in the station doesn't mean you're guaranteed to go anywhere – you still have to board the train. Here's to hoping I get a good seat.

I keep thinking back to my life before my trip. The big question then, during, and after is, “What next?” My friends Cheryl and Rob and a few others want to know my next move. At best all I can tell them is that wherever I get an opportunity is where I'm going whether it's Chicago, Seattle, New York, or L.A. (will also consider Denver) That's the best answer that I have.

Other things on my mind tonight: a friend and I were talking the other night and we got into a discussion about personal politics. I can see how other people relate to other people and the implications of such but as for myself I don't/can't play the political game. I spent some offtime mulling this one over and I think back to my foray into the politics of people: SPC-TV. While in college I was part of a student run TV station and witnessed firsthand what happens when people get, lose, take, and receive power. The little bit of “power” that I had came from the fact that I wasn't afraid to call out those who abused it and I had been respected by the advisors and thereby had an “untouchable” status. I was jabbed at other ways and have learned a few things from it such as never conceding when you're down because the wolves are more than eager to rip you apart. Sometimes I question the idea of responsibility in leadership when those who come into power often have no concept of such; no consequence nor conviction I guess. Maybe the answer is to say, “Fuck it,” and beg, borrow, and steal. I don't want to believe it but that's the direction the train is rolling to.

As I tell my friends this is the part where I take the conversation offramp. I got a lot of things churning around in my head tonight and can't articulate any more for the time being.

Adventures with Michael Episode 1: Outside the Back Door

For those of you who are non-locals there's a bar in Louisville called The Back Door. No, it's not a gay reference; it's the most neutral bar in the area. Residing on the east side of the MidCity Mall it's a bar where most of the locals, especially those living in the Highlands, congregate. No matter creed, color, age, or orientation the Back Door serves anyone and everyone in-between. The drinks are fairly cheaper than other bars and their pub menu is pretty good. I recommend the Door Knobs (fried breaded mushrooms).

Saturday night's adventure started around 1am. We had previously came from a friend's birthday party held at a farm in Canmer, KY which found us traveling the first twenty minutes with fog on the windshield that didn't want to go away. Arriving in Hikes Point after midnight we went to McDonald's and “shot the shit” outside before driving over to the bar.

It was packed. I managed to wrangle a booth that apparently sat three people before us. Michael stood in line waiting to order some beer while I sat in the booth. A while later he showed at the table with a pitcher of beer.

“Ever have Falls City?”

“No,” I replied.

“Well, they ran out of Stella. Ever have Oberon?”

“No.”

“Well, I asked what else they had. I asked them if it tasted anything like Stella and they said, 'No.' So I ordered this.”

I wasn't a fan of it. However, I wanted to get drunk. I had spent most of the rest of the day in the sun at the farm going through 5/6^th of the bottled Schlafly that I picked up and still didn't feel drunk. I'm diabetic. What was up with that?

We're sitting in the booth people-watching. He cracks a joke every now and then but my mind is elsewhere. I don't know the location. Michael points out a blond woman standing next to a group of guys who are taller and more muscular. The blond is flirting between two guys. She's older and is wearing a ring on her ring finger.

“Y'see her? She still thinks she has it. Back in the day I bet she was something. She still thinks she is but her chest dropped years ago. She's still trying to hold onto the idea.”

The sound in the room is from the volume of people talking and the amount of people inside. Michael is surprised by the fact that back in the day he could go there and it was a quiet bar – not anymore. I nod and agree still off in my mind somewhere.

Now I'll point out two women who'll come into play later. The first is a young girl – 5'2” at best, white shirt, red mini-skirt, with high heels to match her short, jet black hair. The second woman is a little older with brunette hair, leopard blouse hugging her curves, white skirt, and tan high heels who moves like she has the money to or is in search of it.

Nothing important really happens for a while. I put in an order for the Door Knobs (fried breaded mushrooms) and we sit and eat them. After Michael is dying for a cigarette so I point him to the outside smoking section. He asks if I'm going to follow and I just want to sit there and finish the drink I have in front of me. I do so and walk into the smoking area and speak with him. We then decide it's time to go.

The next, friends, is a lesson in watching the human condition.

Our cars being parked next to each other we stood beside them talking. Michael goes through a few cigarettes while I relate the fact that I don't know what the hell is up with me – part of me just wants to be alone and I don't know why. Maybe my natural defense for being alone. Again, I'm relaying this while standing next to the two cars that came in together: a four-door sedan and a sport-utility one. Three girls had poured out of them earlier when we were walking from the lot toward the bar. Suddenly, one of the girls walks to her car. She's short in a straight black dress with pinned-up brunette hair and glasses. Michael starts talking to her:

“Wow, that was quick. Are you good to go home?”

“Yes,” she said as she opened her car door.

“Not even drunk. In this town that's a rare flower.”

She stops. “Yes. A rare flower.” She shuts the door, cranks the engine, and takes off.

Michael turns to me. “Remember how she came with two other girls? She's not getting laid tonight and she's pissed about that.”

Some time later one of the other girls comes out and gets into her sports-utility vehicle. Michael says something and she smiles. He turns to me and says something about her being upset and not getting laid either when a guy pulls up in a small, white car and rolls down the window, talking with her. They drive off together.

“I'm thinking that the other girl got to go home with someone else. That girl is pissed upset about her choice.”

A couple walk toward us: a black man and a blond-haired woman. The woman banks left while the guy approaches us. He asks us if we like the Nappy Roots and proceeds to sing us a song. After completing we tell him that we don't have any change. He proceeds to sing us another song when a white van pulls up and calls for him. He runs toward it and it leaves.

Minutes later a blond wearing a thin, gray shirt and black “skorts” walks up to us. She's cute but pretty drunk. She tells us her name but we get it incorrect. I ask her questions that she avoids directly answering. She leaves us to go inside the Back Door.

The girl with the jet black hair and red miniskirt walks outside the bar with a group of friends. She walks over to a four-door sedan and gets inside while a few others pile in the car. A tall, lanky guy in a white t-shirt and shorts almost gets in the car when a group of friends shouts, “Hey Drew! Don't fuck her!” He runs from the car over to the group of guys who shouted at him. Michael says that the guy looks like a marionette. A girl in a black-and-white striped minidress runs to the car and crowds in from the right side. The guy runs back and gets into the left hand side and the car takes off.

A group of guys gets into a large, red Ford F-150 and begins to leave the parking lot when the brunette I mentioned earlier, along with a blond friend, approach the truck and make it stop. The blond starts bartering with the guys inside and the brunette says, “Because I have never been to a White Castle before.” They're let in and the truck takes off.

Michael and I try getting the drunk blond girl's name right. I think it's “Stasha.” Michael says that she may be Russian or Eastern Bloc. She passes by us another time, waving as she leaves the parking lot.

A guy walks out to his car parked two spaces up from us. He's tall, thin, with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Michael says something about the guy going home alone. He shrugs as if luck is against him for the night.

“Man, are you a model or something? You should be a model,” Michael tells him.

A friend walks up to the guy standing next to his car and gets into his jeep. They take off for somewhere.

I mention the fact that it's been a weird night because none of the chicks in the bar seemed to notice me. His reply was that it seemed that most of them were after the taller and more muscular guys who were in there. I see the point of truth in that and realize that is one of the only times when I've been to that bar and watched that happen.

The drunk blond girl returns and we wave her over to us. Michael asks if she's looking for a boy and she shrugs. Held in her hand is an empty pack of American Spirit cigarettes. Stasha stands next to me for a moment before leaving for the Back Door again. Michael comments that she's a “lost soul.” We call it a night and leave.

Hey Look! A New Blog Post!

It's a beautiful, lazy Sunday here in Chaslandia (I'm petitioning Google to put it on a map). I look at my personal blog and it's been over a month since I've posted anything. In fact the last posting found me burnt out and tired of damn near everything around me. So let's catch up, shall we?

July 1 – July 15 I went on a two-week long trip. I spent a few days with my friend Rob and his wife Vicky and kid Elijah in Warrenville, IL (about an hour outside Chicago). Being so wrapped-up in my own life it was nice to be out with friends and not have to worry about the rest of the bullshit surrounding me. July 4^th I finally went to the top of the Sears/Willis Tower for the first time. It's amazing.

July 5 – 7 I took a series of buses out to Seattle, WA. My trip in which initially had the veneer of being a business trip became personal and I practiced the art of “just being.” Just being me. It made all the difference in the world. I blew through money, did a few things I didn't think I would (spent $110 at a Deja Vu), and walked around Seattle. A lot. I enjoyed myself and didn't mind the rest of the world.

July 15^th I returned to my life in the ebb of the West Coast vibe. At the very least the world had changed temperature and it was friggin' hot. For the first week back I felt like a stranger in my native land as if my happiness was now looked down upon. It was odd.

It's been a month solid that I've been back and the world has settled down. In the interim I met John Carpenter (“The Fog,” “Halloween,” “In the Mouth of Madness”) and walked by Henry Winkler a few times. I gained a new FB friend named Syntheia. I returned to the film group that I formed and have been seeing what I can do/be with them. To cap everything off I had a tooth infection which led me to be “down” for a few days and to a $1200 combo root canal/crown.

But the world isn't completely horrible. Yes, it's been 3 months since I was let go. Yes, I'm out a little bit of money. Yes, I've been applying and haven't had any callbacks or interviews. No, all is not lost.

Broken Funkin’ Record

Say that three times fast.

It’s 1am EST as I begin writing this and the funk/depression of unemployment, and a few other factors, is hitting me pretty bad. I talked with a friend, my ex Rebecca, who asked what my status was.

“Tired. Burnt out. Flailing. Lost.”

“Well, you’ve always been at least two of those.”

“Which two?”

“’Flailing’ and ‘lost.’”

And she might just be right. Every day that passes seems to stretch on with no end in sight. The roomie came home today and mentioned a Yahoo! article about finding a job and that it was best to find a position to submitting your resume to places that you would like to work at. Problem is that I have NO place in this town where I really want to work. Don’t let this be confused with refusing to work; that’s another matter. But some Corporate entity where I feel my skills would best be put to use? I honestly don’t know of any here.

The other stinger for all of this is that my skills – typing, data entry, computer bullshit – can be used damn near anywhere. A lot of entry-level positions require the skills that I have but when applying online most of the companies that are hiring for these are going through temp services which means that I’ll be back in the temp racket soon enough. Bully for me.

I’ve been meaning to update on everything going on with me but even writing has felt antithetic to an extent. In the midst of figuring out who I am and what I’m good at I walk away from it a lot because sometimes this shit just feels painful to do. And I’m getting lazier at it which is of no use to those who may enjoy reading whatever I throw up on here if they enjoy any of this at all. In the stead I’ve been journaling while trying to figure out some new mystery story. I handwrote three pages about the toll that fear of reprisal has on being a writer.

Which brings me to yet another point to grouse upon: placating. My friend Diane called me a few days back and wanted my opinion/editorial expertise on a poem she wrote for Stephen Hawking. While talking on the phone with her Facebook was brought up and I talked about blogging, journaling, and what-have-you and a point came across that maybe some shit should just be kept to myself instead of publishing it to the masses (who would have to actually LOOK for this blog, mind you). “If some girl is interested in you and she looks you up on Facebook then reads something bad you wrote about somebody or something else…” Well, fuck. I learned my lesson from obliterating the bridge I had with Mojo so… yeah. I know about this. I made a mistake. I’m never going to get that one back.

Speaking of soundbites as of late I was hanging out at Sully’s down on 4^th Street late Friday night and ran into a woman I haven’t seen in nearly nine months. She was drunk alright but could handle more than I ever could. My friend Michael was hanging out with me, hitting on her, and both were joking back and forth about me. At one point she said, “Charles is too smart to have any fun.” That hurt. A bit. A lotta fuckin’ times it feels that way…

Saturday night and I began falling in love with someone… again. Gawd she looked beautiful – cherry red lipstick, black-and-white striped shirt that hugged her body, black Capri pants. I’ve been turned down by her before but everything got really person again. The best lines I could come up with were “You make me stupid,” and “I like you a helluva lot.” Romantic, right? I pursue love like a tragedy. Her response: “You’d probably be good for me but I would just wind up burning down a house or something,” which equates to, “No, I’m not interested in you because it would be serious and I am crazy. Literally crazy.” Damn me…

Speaking of love I’m pretty much done. Finito. Take me off the list. Remove my ad. I have done that, actually – I am no longer on Plenty of Fish nor OKCupid. A fellow LSC member as well as traveler named Jerry was pointing me toward the singles hiking group that meets Thursday night but with it raining and whatnot, I might not end up going. Then again I’m supposed to go watch my friend Amanda perform outside the coffeeshop where she works.

Anyway I’m just done with the whole mess of it. I’m unemployed, tired, burnt out, blah, etc. and if the only ones I can find I am not even remotely attracted to then it’s over. So many respond “Don’t give up,” etc. My only other option is to “play along” like I can date and have relations when I’m SO late into the game. I swear that I’m the last person in a long line and whenever I try meeting someone it’s like I have to go through this game where sex is the proverbial “pot o’ gold” at the end of it all. Sorry. This dog is fucking tired. Whatever you might have to offer is probably not worth my time anyway.

I just want out, people. That’s all. Cash in my chips. Let me go on down the road. Pray for the sweet blackness to envelop me as I close my eyes. Is that too much to ask?

I swear that I’m only here as some being’s cruel attempt to humor themselves. “Well, I feel so broke up I wanna go home…”

The Heartest Part...

And we're back.

For those not keeping tally I've been unemployed for at least a month. April 28^th; that's the day everything went to change. I'm not sure if it'll be back...

Since then I've been doing numerous things including gaging my life. Unemployment does that to ya; it's like I was dating a chick who not only threw me out of her place but told me that my “going away” present was to the tune of $3,900. Aside from that there's the door. Please shut it on the way out.

And apparently this chick called “employment” is important. She makes you look good when you're with her. Gives you a sense of purpose. Once you lose her “single leprosy” kicks in and your fairweather friends scatter to the four winds. If you're able to pick up another within two weeks you're good; otherwise it's the whole “crossing endless desert to find an oasis”-thing trying to find another. If you know anything about me and relationships then you know I'm not in a good spot right now. Not at all. Once the love is gone it's just a matter of both sides playing their cards until one calls the other's bluff.

So I've been wracking my brain and trying to find a job doing what I really want to do. My problem is that I no longer want to do customer service work (thankless and soul-crushing as it is) and... I don't want to live in Louisville any longer.

There. I said it. Are you happy now?

I've not been wanting to stay in this town since 2008 but I have because of medical issues, car issues, etc. I've spent the last year+ trying to “live life” and got banged around a lot. I guess that's what happens when you spend years avoiding it because of depression and anxiety, not to mention not really having a “friend” base. As I've pointed out in previous blog postings – everything has pointed toward me going out and pursuing what would really make me happy because it just hasn't happened yet.

Happiness. I try to understand the concept. My dad is Presbyterian to the core which makes for no “warm fuzzies” that everyone else in life gets. I don't ever remember my parents saying anything to me about doing well at spelling or really paying any attention to the minutiae of my existence. Maybe I carry that with me and pass it on to others without them understanding. Maybe life is a matter of feeling “appreciated.”

Sunday my friend Michael and I were sitting at Highland Liquors having a few beers and watching the traffic on Bardstown Rd. Michael called me on my proverbial “bullshit” and challenged me to go back into my writing. I find myself not knowing entirely what's wrong with me but acknowledging the hint of truth to what I say: that I can write whereas not a lot of others can. My movie blog gained some notoriety, my writing at Mojo was top-notch, etc. Why? I know film like a mofo. In my lifetime I had one poem published by a campus book, helped form a newspaper, helped a friend of mine start her magazine, became a movie critic, etc. I just wished I had been paid more.

But I enjoyed doing it for the most part (exception: reviewing horrible movies). And there's a truth in the fact that if I'm not vomiting what's inside me on a page or blogging it I don't feel good. There's a release of sorts that comes from this creativity and I'd be stupid not to follow it.

And folks: have I been dumb.

I've also noted that I'm a firm believer in the Calvinistic principle that everything happens for a reason. I think that I was “terminated” not just because I was burnt out (although I think that was the official “unofficial reason”) but that it needed to happen. Life's lessons aren't the five-minute wrap-up morals of a thirty-minute show. Sometimes they hurt in order to help. I take the fact that my friends Andy and Michael are pushing me to get back into filmmaking, me getting “released,” and all the subsequent depression and long-looking and combing-over of my life as a huge sign pointing to “it's now or never.” And yes, Elvis is singing.

I stand wandering between the button that says “RESET” and the highway “EXIT” sign. I have the opportunity to “make a go” in a city of my choosing (currently: Chicago or Seattle). I've been weighing the pros and cons not only of the two cities themselves but also of leaving the 'Ville. I don't know why I'm hesitant – that trepidation that comes with making some decision. I've been here before but it's been nearly a decade. Last time I threw my life into the wind and tried making a go in California. I lost but not without some lessons gained. This time around I don't want to lose again.

I weigh the “worst” that can happen. I imagine either a plane ride or a bus ticket back to Louisville. And what would I be doing once I got back? Same damn thing I'm doing now: looking for work, going to trivia Meetups, having coffee, etc. There would be no change. Maybe a few things lessened due to lack of funds but honestly I would fall back into this routine again if it exists and I'm pretty sure it would.

So, I have nothing to really lose except the $3,000 or so that will be in my bank account by the end of the month. Hopefully $4,000 by the time I want to leave in July. The most difficult part of all of this isn't so much trying to “cash in” any sort of favors it's really... following my heart. I'm not wrapped into whether or not I have kids, or the mortgage, or even something to impress everyone else (though it would be nice). I think I'm just going to try following what makes me happy as difficult as that may be.

First step in all of this is that I'm taking a sabbatical of sorts. I've spent too much time on Facebook and it seems that most of my “friends” are incommunicado or just don't want to talk with me. Maybe they're busy. Maybe it's unemployment “leprosy.” Either way all I can say is that the loneliness of it all is still here and just like those times when I called ten friends and not one would answer, I'm completely there again. Here's to staying off the grid for a few...

Derezzed,

-C

Is There Anything Else Left?

“Meantime life goes on all around you...” -Bob Dylan, “It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)”

The question above is what plagues me tonight. Or, rather, this morning. Is there anything left?

Last week I hung out with my friend Jamie. I did my usual back-and-forth about what I should do because that's been the issue – what the hell AM I going to do? I have a cellphone bill, car insurance, healthclub membership, and need diabetes meds (which is an entire issue unto themselves). And I need to live. What do I want to do?

Getting “kicked out,” “laid off,” or “terminated” makes you look at your life and career goals for good and ill. Can I stay in Louisville in order to satisfy and sustain who I am and/or want to be? The most astute answer came from Jamie who said, “You know this place. You know what it's about. It's always going to be here.” This is true. And as I've been saying it doesn't take a lot to get a shit job in this town but having done so in order to pursue my creative side... it's just not cutting it anymore. I've had 8 years of making my life pay for my art and just got more into debt which goes to show that life IS about pursuing your wants because those people who see that you don't want to be doing what you're doing, no matter how good you may be at it, don't find reason to like you. And I can't fake not caring.

And so I've been toiling away at what I should do and where I should be. I can write. I can do photography. I'm fairly skilled at both. I just have to choose one in order to “get in.” I've been considering doing unit still/set photography. My friend Norma suggested seeing if any porn companies would be interested. Har har...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“If you're not happy with yourself it doesn't matter where you go – you're going to have the same problems.”

The first point of contention came from one of my coffeeshop Meetup regulars named Danny. He's done the “video store world” before and has been out to several places. When asked what I'm up to I usually present the “What Color is Your Parachute?” book and tell him that I'm working on it. He tells me the colors of his; I haven't gotten that far. I feel like I'm flailing and languishing.

What do I want to do? I want to be on the road. Concrete. Steel. Asphalt. Blacktop. I want to see a gray or black ribbon stretch forever into the horizon cutting through a forest, lined with telephone poles with birds sitting on the wires. I want the sun at my back as I walk down the pavement, backpack on my back and beholding only to myself. I want a disappear “breather” from this placid mass consciousness that I find myself Facebook checking into. I need the purge.

Being on the road was the only thing that ever made sense to me. I can dissect a movie, deconstruct music, or even tell you the underlying themes of a novel. But the road – I get. I understand it. I miss it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“So, what are you going to do?”

Both Teresas at the coffeeshop Meetup are looking at me and asking the same question for entirely different reasons. Teresa M is looking at me and asking because she has information that she thinks I know but in reality I don't. Teresa T is looking at me and wanting to know what my next plans are. I entertain Teresa M's question.

“Do about...?”

“Of course you know... we have some of the same friends...”

“Know about...?”

“Jennifer and John getting married.”

It's at this point that the sound from the table suddenly stops. My friend Ronald claims that I looked like a deer in headlights when she told me. I didn't know how to react except to ask more questions.

“How long ago?”

“A few weeks. She's back in Omaha now. Apparently she's been unemployed for the last six months and has moved back. John's still in town waiting out the end of his lease.”

So there you have it – some people do win. Some people get exactly what they want. In the case of Crazy and Psycho (Jen and John) I got “used” by Jen to go over to John and in turn didn't become a footnote; I wasn't anything at all. I have been selectively “erased” from their story of how Jen was oppressed by then boyfriend Kurt and “miraculously” found her independence and love of life in “best friend” John. She moved in, they got engaged, married, and now both are to live “happily ever after” in Omaha.

To paraphrase a friend of mine, “where do you send the 'Go Fuck Yourself,' fruitbasket?”

To her twisted credit she gets to live her “romance.” Sometimes life is plain shit when the shitty people get their happy endings.

Back to the story. My first response was, “You know? Not ever having to hear 'You know that he's my best friend and I don't think of him in that way,' again in my life is the best silence I could've ever bought.” Both Teresas smiled at that one. I thought again a moment later and said, “Sometimes, people just deserve each other.”

And that's how love is sometimes, friends. Some people are starcrossed and fated. Some people deserve each other.

So I spent the collective part of Monday in a slump because... I don't know. That fucking hurt. But I talked with my friend Norma and was able to calm down and she reassured me, like everyone else within the ten-mile radius, that it was a good thing. I'll never have to see either of them again for the rest of my life (fingers crossed). Not that I'm afraid of them in any way, mind you, I just don't think it'd be a good idea if me and either or both were in the same place at the same time. I have no clue as to what would happen.

And so we see that life is about the changes but I wish the changes didn't feel so sudden. Crazy and Psycho are going to live out their “romantic fantasy” and I have to pursue after whatever I'm heading toward. Sometimes it's about saying, “What the fuck?” and moving on.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Prior to those events a friend of mine was logging on and reconnecting with her former exes. Her mission: to obtain the 'validation' she so craved but didn't feel being exuded by her husband. We begin to talk and, as usual, fall into the ole “fantasy” what-ifs and whatnot. At some point during the chats on Facebook there becomes a change: the subtleties in conversation reflecting that “what-ifs” are not possible.

And I didn't really think of them as being possible. Sometimes talk is just that -talk. A few days later we get into the fact that while I care the world about her and consider her a good friend of mine that it's not my job to provide for her what she's wanting. Incidentally she wants to end the fantasizing with me because she felt it would be an “obstacle” of sorts in my efforts to try to find something “real.” I half-heartedly agree with the statement but understand what she's trying to do: grow up. We, as humans, have this condition whereby we cling to unresolved and unrequited feelings in order to feel appreciated if we can't find love elsewhere in the world. Trust me; I know this by heart.

She then continues on to tell me that her husband let her “stray” for a moment in time. She went to visit an ex who had moved in nearby and she stayed the night with him. Note: nothing past “first base.” She awoke in the morning (fully clothed mind you) and realized that she wasn't where she wanted to be; that she missed waking up next to her husband.

Which then begs to question: is our idea of monogamy based on growing up, maturing in “love?” Or do we become complacent with what's familiar to us and it's just easier concentrating on one person? There are people who tout the fact that they can be in more than one relationship at one time but these people have to make an art, a living, at being in some sort of “love.” For most of us we're too stressed out to be in a relationship with more than one person. I remember being questioned about if I was seeing someone else and I replied, “I only have TIME for ONE person!” which was more than true. Dating someone and trying to see others on the side might as well be a full-time occupation and I don't even have time to watch TV.

Again, I digress. I felt a little saddened. I felt a little like some kid caught up in a perpetual machine being ran by adults as if I didn't “get it.” But I did. Nothing left unresolved – no more fantasies.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Final thought: is there anything left for me? Before I went to St. Louis I had spent a week being stressed-out due to the weather and the fact that the only way to get inside my car was by opening the back hatch and sliding through. Then, I got fired. I had nothing else and, not wanting to wait the weekend out with my thumb up my ass, I kept my plans on visiting the STL.

Which went okay. But this isn't about that trip. This is about the fact that, in all reality, there's nothing left for me here. I've spent the past 8 years taking shit jobs because, seemingly, those were the only ones I knew for certain I could get. The Master Plan was to wait out the shitjobs while pursuing whatever dream I had. During the past 3.5 years at the Company I have worked as a Weekend Audio Operator for the local CBS affiliate, filmed a sexual harassment PSA, and been a movie critic/entertainment blogger and freelance photographer. I'm here to say that: there's nothing else to do here. I've damn-near done it all.

It all comes down to: where do I want to go and what do I want to do? Years ago I came back here for logistical purposes. I've stayed here for the past three due to fear of wanting to be out there; fear of being hurt. And now... what choice do I have? If I want to get into film I have to go to a CITY that fosters that environment as opposed to one in which the only things in the pond are the “big fish.” I've never had the wanton need to be the “big fish in a small pond”; I always thought that it made the water stale. I've been alternating time between “What Color is Your Parachute” (to help me focus) as well as handwriting my screenplay, “No Love.”

What DO I want to do? Where DO I want to go? I've been working on these questions for the past month and haven't gained much ground on either but I'm trying.

The best thing I can do for the moment is what I DON'T want to do: I do not want to do customer service work. I do not want to spend another holiday mulling about on my lonesome (or with my uncle) because the rest of my relatives are off doing their thing.

The only answer that seems to be forthcoming from this place is that I need to find somebody to be with. I will give credence to the fact that yes, being with a woman helps me focus and feel better about being me. However I don't want to be with someone just because it'll help my status or because they'll keep me here. I don't feel like I gain anything by shitkicking around this town. I want to be out in the city. I miss it.

I'm getting more tired now as I write this. It's probably the Schlafly beer kicking in. I'm hoping to travel to NYC and/or Seattle. My friends want me to move to Chicago. I have no clue as to the next step.

See ya next time,

-Chas

A Return to Form

So right now as I write this sentence it's 1:32am EST. To once again quote Cage the Elephant, “Ain't no rest for the wicked...”

For those of you who have known me for years and have been following my blogs (as opposed to following me which forces me to get a PO) (just joking, people) I've been alternating between writing and photography and whatever I can and in doing so becoming a “creative mercenary” of sorts; following whichever way the money is traveling or the opportunity takes me. In doing so I have amassed followers on my standard Wordpress movie blog as well as working as a Movie Critic for Mojo, WLKY.com, LouisvilleKY.com, Wiregrass Parenting Magazine, and Alternative Revolt Music Magazine. The only apparent problem with this (aside from it being low-income work) is that while I can expound on just about anything there's only one thing I know how to write about:

Film. Movies. Motion Pictures. Cinema. Life at 24 frames a second.

Not one to sit on my laurels but for a moment let me extoll what I've accomplished: I've been listed twice on Gather.com as a “Cool Person to Know.” I made the first round of TotalFilm.com's “600 Movie Blogs You May Have Missed.” My own personal movie blog peaked at 44,000 hits in a single month. I did all of this without advertising and just plain plugging-away and being honest with my reviews and talking about what I loved.

And then life happened. I was in a relationship which followed by the freefall of breakup. I spent months figuring out who Chas really was and found the deepest, darkest part of my soul (sorry, Google maps will not help you find it). I've fought diabetes back and forth. Survived nearly being creamed by a semi-truck, spinning out on I-64. And finally I'm sitting in the calm of unemployment.

I have a friend of mine named Andy who took me out to St. Louis and brought me back to Louisville as a favor to me. He's a former Radio-TV major who went into the Army and has made a career of it. We talk back and forth about life and whatnot and I've sought advice from him as to what to do. Weeks again the wind was kicking up and whispering to me to follow the one thing I know about, movies, and a chorus among everyone else that echoed the sentiment. Even a friend, Tamara, suggested that I go after it.

On one hand I don't know why I've waited so long to return to the field but on the other I know why: I had to grow up. I had to go out and learn and attain those “rites of passage” that seemingly eluded me before. After the failure of the PSA made for The Company I vowed not to come back for a while; to wait for a time in which I had a Story to tell. After breaking up with Jen I had those B.S. “phantom” moments when I would be sitting in a movie theater and missing someone watching a movie with me. All that shit has been flushed out of my system.

For those not in the “know” I've been working on my own personal, indie movie project called “No Love.” I initially sell it to people as being about “bad sex” and other relationship problems that we find ourselves not wanting to talk about. I've been watching “anti”-romance movies such as “Closer,” and “(500) Days of Summer” to get an idea. I recommend both movies, BTW. I'm trying to be as honest as possible in writing this thing.

Writing the screenplay. Did I ever mention that I'm horrible at it? Let me back that thought up: I'm good at doing dialog and writing for myself but when it comes to submitting a screenplay for others to consider in competitions or whatnot I have format problems, etc. Ultimately I have found that there only rule for screenwriting is that your actors have to understand what's on a page; that you were able to communicate what they need to do. As far as I know Michael Bay writes his out on napkins and hands them to the actors the day they are needed on set. Again, as far as I (or anyone) knows.

So I've been actively working on this screenplay for the past few months in my “slow and easy eventually gets something accomplished” sort-of way. Per se, I've been averaging typing out a scene a week for the past two months. This past week I've spent 2 hours a night at coffeeshops plugging-away at new scenes and writing down notes/thoughts for others.

But how did it start you ask? Well, I'll tell ya:

I spent most of last year trying to date. Some dates were cool; others not so much. Every-other conversation I've had has been about what either side wants out of a relationship. You ever get to a point where after absorbing near-everything that “bottling up” makes you want to do something with all that info stored? Yeah, that's how it started. That and a scene from a Sam Rockwell movie (hence the title “No Love”)

If writing this screenplay has made me learn or appreciate anything it's that in writing about matters of the heart I've had to learn to trust my heart which I'm not so keen on. Call me Spock if you must but I've spent a long while trying to take the path of “least resistance” and subside on making a living by not doing what I love in hopes to eventually do what I love. One of the lessons I've learned in life is that never comes a helluva lot faster than someday (which never seems to come. Thankya Mr. Fogerty) and living hand-to-mouth doesn't do shit for ya. It doesn't impress others. It doesn't make you feel better about yourself or your world. It just makes the rest of the world “dim” the longer you do it. Maybe there is something to doing what you love as opposed to just doing something. Shitkicking around accomplishes nothing.

Back to my heart; the single-piston engine that it is. I've had to go back and remember conversations. I've had to go back and remember different dates that I've had with women. I've had to go back and drudge up Jen for all intents and purposes. It's not so much “vicarious re-living” as it is sifting through the moments that hurt and trying to remember something good. The funny thing about this is that when you're in the breakup all you can do is cover over the bad stuff with all the good stuff and whatever you miss. Once you've “moved on” it's anything you can do to remember anything that was good at all. Which is where I'm at.

Wow. I just realized how much I've written so far. I didn't expect to; I guess not being as “stressed-out” by my former job the fluidity of my language has returned. Maybe the order to restore my faith in the human race will follow. We'll see.

Returning to the subject at hand: “No Love: the Movie.” I'm doing this step-by-step. I'm going to shoot it digital. I'm going to need to raise the money for the resources to do it with. I'm hoping that people will walk away talking about it, saying more than the message was “Chicks suck,” because I'm trying to be as honest as I can about things. But I'm really just hoping that it'll be done.

On that note I close out this blog entry. Wish me luck. Make a donation should I ask for it. And hope the best for me. I would appreciate it.

Note: blog uploaded 2:22am EST