It's Just Crazy Talk

That's all I did that weekend. January 7-9. Crazy talk.

For the record I don't think that I've ever talked as much as I did that weekend. That's really all I can remember.

Friday night kicked off with bowling at a local franchise called Incredible Dave's. The Louisville Active Singles had an event there and I decided to go. Several people showed and we all had a good time -I've never bowled as good a game as that night. I ran into a guy named Matt who I had met before when I was a part of the film group I co-created.

“How about John and Jen, huh? They're engaged.”

And I'm breaking a resolution I had made notably the one that said I wouldn't talk about them. Here is a guy giving me the 411: she moved in with him in June, they both still drive her car, their relationship is “clingy” (“they can't be without each other for more than five seconds...”), she's making him go to college, and they're engaged. What does one say about that? What do I say about that? “Uh... wow.” Good for them – they got what they wanted.

Saturday and I had multiple conversations with others mainly in regards to relationships.

Saturday night/Sunday morning I have the longest conversation I've ever had with my first ex-girlfriend, Rebecca. She was kicked out of the house of the friend she was living with and was in a hotel waiting to go to a safe place and then move to a relative's place in Roanoke. We started getting into our personal lives and went into “naked chat,” which I had not done with her before. It's intimacy without physicality. It's uncorking what we keep bottle up. It's the baring of souls. It's the dark side of relations.

And she relays to me her sexual exploits: some of what she's done, how far she's gone, S&M, etc. She tells me of the point that's not pain nor is it pleasure. She tells me that she's afraid to “be” with me because when it comes to being physical with me she's scared to take away what she loves about me: the fact that I approach sex and love as if it's new.

Maybe it's an excuse. Maybe there's truth to it.

We talk for four hours. I wake up the next morning feeling stripped to the point of nothing left inside me. That's the only downside to all of it – emotional depletion.

Resolve / Everything is Not Lost Just Misplaced

It’s the post-holiday “remember your incarcerated” rush on the call system. Monday and Tuesday were brutal. Further evidence that I need to find the EXIT sign.

Aside from that I bid a not-so-fond farewell to 2010. Talking with my friend Norma she called it my Year of Exploration and looking back, it was. I found out a lot about myself that I never knew: my “spot” is my back, I do have a bending point (and can be wrecked), I missed doing photography, I need to find a general direction as to which way to go, I’m done being the “nerd in the room,” sometimes other people are shit, and hey, I enjoy rough sex. And sensuality. More than you wanted to know, right?

So I’m at the place where I’m taking a long look not at what I’ve done but where I’m going; not so much with trepidation (but there’s plenty to go ‘round) but with curiosity. And a sense of optimism. And the realization that everything is not lost as long as I can take the wheel back and drive.

This is the part of the blog that’s ethereal so if you’re not gonna believe or indulge in belief in what I’m going to say, feel free to skip to the next paragraph. Alright. So last week I did what I finally needed to: I sent a farewell letter to Jennifer. I kept thinking back at sitting in the Heine Bros. coffeeshop and watching her divert the group of people she was with just to avoid me. Sorta amusing, sorta sad, sorta pissy. I got tired of having her as the ghost of my loneliness; a monster reminder of failing (even though there was way more going on than just me screwing up). And so I wrote it all up, repeated it to a friend of mine, made some grammatical changes, and sent it on Friday. The result? No response. By Monday morning some weight was lifted and, call me “empathic,” I think she let me go. I at least felt it. The only way I can even begin to explain it is that I connect with people on varying levels and some of them others can’t, or won’t, believe in. I’m plugged into the metaphysical or I’m wrong. We then get down to the semantics of belief, who we are, spirituality… and it all becomes an unraveled discourse. And it’s always been this way for me but Jennifer engaged me on an intellectual level that opened it up and I haven’t closed that door. The only problem is that I was still connected with her. She let me go, severing most of the connection and I’m happier for it. I hope she is, too. Believe it or no.

So I’m kinda looking forward to 2011. Not in fear and not quite optimistic as hope but as my “getting’ shit done” year. In theory. Before “cleaning my slate” with last week’s e-mail I sat and figured out some of the list:

- Start a website again. I want to showcase my writing, movie reviews, and photography. Maybe that’s all a tall order… I’m trying to curtail and make some money instead of spending more effort and money than I have to do so.

- Deal with finances. I’m trying to pay for my life, pay on some medical bills, and save for my trip to NYC or on the City of New Orleans. I’ll have $200 saved by next week.

- I may have to get a new car. Not liking that idea mainly because I don’t want to go through the hassle.

- Have to figure out if I can live on a “freelance life” and how to do so. I’ve been heading this direction painfully slowly for the past few years (I know, I know) but taking this year to clean things up I just may be able to do it…

- Or move. I need outta the River City. So long and thanks for all the fish. Been fun but it’s time for me to go.

- And I’ve gotta find another crap job. Something to get by on. I’ve done this too long and it’s killed my psyche, some relationships, and hurt a lot of things. Sure, I’ve been able to get “off the ground” per se but the house I’ve built is on quicksand. I can’t keep losing pieces of foundation while adding wood planks to it.

- The project to complete for the year: “Numbers.” I stopped writing on it because I got more into dating and ran into a dead end. It’s been a year so I think I can dust it back off, re-edit, and go at it again. This time I’m going to finish at least a first draft of it.

That’s all I’ve got. Oh yeah: gotta get back to exercising. And find a doctor for my diabetes medication. Have an audience with the Pope and save the world at 8. See ya ‘round.

Not To Be That Guy But I Am That Guy

When I was growing up I always found the lives of others fascinating. I was friends with a guy who went on two tours in Vietnam and after returning was a janitor. Another friend of mine was a native Cherokee Indian. When in Cali I got to know a guy whose face could've rivaled a rockcliff and who had seemingly “been there, done that.” I've always found these people intriguing but I swore I would never be them.

Too late. I already became one.

Not that it's a bad thing. Some part of me still wants that success. I'm not deluding myself with the idea of endless parties and money flowing like water -I would just like something in that suburb. The older I get the farther away from that I seem to find myself.

Case in point: Tuesday night I went to trivia at Molly Malone's off Shelbyville Rd. Incidentally I ran into an old high school friend of mine and I joined him team. We won the $25 gift certificate.

But I digress. I was catching him up on the past 8 years of my life which included my trip to California, then to Georgia, then back to Louisville. I had worked for Ban Dai, been a radio show programmer, sat and listened to Wes Craven, met Ray Bradbury and Dean Koontz, and even visited Roswell, NM. And in a moment I had the realization:

I had became that guy. The one who bounces everywhere. The one with adventures.

And maybe it's part of that I feel so conflicted about. I find myself torn in this techno-society with my laptop, camera, smartphone, Blu ray player, etc. I'm a slave to all the tech geeky crud in my apartment. On the other end I enjoy my privacy, my freedom, my ability to go wherever I want and do whatever I want, my lack of interest in most network TV. I think for myself and try to live life without having to consult eHow or Wiki for instructions (although I'm still bad at tying a tie).

I'm not living in a shack or writing a manifest on my theories on life. I'm just riding the fine line between living life and experiencing the world and a lot of the time I feel alone on this journey. Then again, it may have always been this way.

And I'm still thinking of the Neverending Highway. The open road, the people I meet, the places I go, wherever I sleep (preferably Days Inn because they have pools). I just think I need another adventure...

The Wasteland Outside is the Wasteland Inside

“By myself but not alone...” -Metallica

It was easily the hardest, loneliest Christmas that I've ever had.

People were asking me beforehand what my plans for the holiday were. “Nothing.” Which was true. Christmas was going to be like any other Saturday to me. I was going to get up and do whatever I usually did on a Saturday.

But I couldn't. It was Christmas.

The difference, aside from not being around my immediate family (parents, brothers and sister) was the fact that Christmas day you can count on one hand the amount of places open. Gas stations. Chinese restaurants. A coffee shop or two. A few liquor stores. That's all.

Because everyone else is at home with their families, friends, and significant others doing the Christmas thing: giving and receiving gifts. And that's what it's really about.

My day started around 3pm when I left the apartment and drove across town to the one Heine Bros. that happened to be open, get a coffee, then head back to the apartment. I stopped off at Bowman Field liquor store and shot-the-shit with Scott who was working until 7pm when he had to go across town and eat Christmas dinner with his family.

I got back to my apartment around 6pm and my uncle and I decided to go out to eat at Umai, the Chinese buffet not far from the apartment complex where I live. It was $40 total for the both of us. Steep for a Chinese buffet; maybe it was the fact they were open on a holiday. I'm not making my way back there anytime soon.

Sunday fared better -I went and got a spiced mocha from Sonoma coffee cafe and my uncle and I went to a friend's house before going to my other uncle's house. At the other uncle's house we stopped by for a few minutes. His wife, son, and daughter-in-law were watching the game. My aunt asked a few questions (“How was your Christmas? Has your social life changed since you moved?”) and I'm a little bit irked -I'm tired of dealing with people who only live for “social status.”

But this doesn't end here...

Monday morning and the holly-jolliness permeates the air. How was Christmas? Sunday was nice... I felt like a buzzkill and for the most part tried keeping to myself. I logged onto the Internet and saw how everyone else seemed to have it better and in a moment I made a decision:

I deactivated from Facebook.

Tired. Lonely. Hurt. Angry. Living in a hole. Driving around Christmas day wasn't any different than watching the “outside” world of some “Dead” movie. I felt like shit. I felt unappreciated. And within five minutes I disconnected from everything.

Hopping off the FB shouldn't be that big of a deal, but it's became that. Forget people calling you, or texting you, or e-mailing you -Facebook is how everyone stays “in the know” about what's going on with you without expending any effort other than mouse-clicking. Maybe in some 1950's sci-fi serial this seems like an idea ripe to go wrong but in 2010 it's a reality. Call it burn-out. Call it a social experiment. I wanted to call it quits.

The first person to contact me was Norma who was concerned because she saw my name “blacked-out.” I assured her that I was alright and that I needed some time to disconnect and detox from the Internet because I felt less than everyone else on there. She understood.

The second person to contact me did so the next day. Daniel, an editor for an online magazine I do movie reviews for, was concerned about what had happened and why. I gave him a little more concise, a little more expounded explanation and told him that yes, I would be back on Friday.

Jamie was the third person. He actually called me and left a voicemail. I called him back and told him yes, I was burnt out on everything and everyone and so forth. We talked a few ideas about Friday night but that was about it.

Finally Eric texted me and said that Wendy and Angela were asking about me, what had happened, was I alright, etc. I gave him a call and assured him that I was just taking a rest from it all and I would be back as soon as possible. We talked about a few other things and that's as much as I remember of the convo.

On Friday I returned and everyone was glad to see me again. My friend Debbie was concerned as were a few others but... I really needed the time away. I can only absorb so much of the world and show that my life is only as real as the fake props behind me. The columns on my mansion are made of Styrofoam and the rocks that align the waterfall are made from paper mache. Please don't touch anything -it's just been spray-painted.

The Hot Chick Barrista Geek Who Came in From the Cold for a Beer or Two

Action? Adventure? Chas thrives on these things.

8pm and my uncle Roy and I finally returned to the apartment from a day spent dropping off presents, getting me a cellphone, trying out an Indian restaurant, fixing my bookcase and doing laundry. Call it a hurricane of activity.

I decide that by 9pm I'm going up to the Heine Bros. coffeeshop to do some reading. When I get up there who happens to be there but Molly, a girl I met a few weeks back who worked up there. She fell in love with the fact that we have a lot of the same tastes in music and gave me her e-mail address which I mailed and she didn't reply back to. So, I figured that was that and I didn't know if I would see her again. And there she was, wearing her black mini-skirt and high-heeled boots. I ordered a tea and she walked up to the counter and talked with me for a bit before I went back to my table and sat to read “The Big Sleep” by Raymond Chandler.

A few minutes before close I got back up to talk with her; ask a few questions. She asked if I wanted to go out for a beer and I'm like “Sure.” She invited me to stay after close until she could leave.

If there's anything to note about the “conservative” area of town is that they love their sleep and there's nil chance that a bar is open on a Sunday night after 10pm. And that's understandable but not convenient. She and her co-worker leave by 10:42 and Molly and I walk down to Indigo Joe's, a sports bar. They closed at 10. I offered for her to come over to my place and she agreed.

In the back of my mind I'm really apprehensive about this. Working for 3 years for a service that deals with the bad outcomes of society... erring on the side of caution, here.

So we're back at my place in Roy is in bed sleeping. I close his door and we sit in the living room talking about our lives and listening to music. The first song I played for her was “English Girls Approximately,” by Ryan Adams. As minutes wear on I get more tired and she starts noticing. She goes through her hair a few times and I do everything not to kiss her or touch her because I'm trying to do that right thing (but is it ever really?)

By 12:30am she needs to go and I walk her out to her car. We agree that we want to spend more time around each other but she can't give me a schedule. She does give me her number which is the first to go into my new phone. I walk back to my place but stop over to my car to get my book out. She drives off, waving.

Stay tuned...

That IS The Droid I'm Looking For

My cellphone, like a lot of other things in my life, is just about dead. With technology, glasses, and just about any other product made since the last half of the twentieth century the shelf-life has became three years. As of now if my cellphone does not get charged on a nightly basis the “low battery” indicator will continuously blink. Having the phone since November 2007 it was about time to trade-up.

Enter Best Buy, home for tech geeks like me. I'm pretty sure that I've spent enough there to put something though junior college at the very least with having bought my laptop, most of my movies (Blu ray and DVD), and music from there. Seeing as they were having a sale on “smart phones” I wanted to jump the T-mobile ship and go over to Verizon. After dropping off my sister's Christmas presents to my brother (working in a church off of Southside) we went into the lion's den: the shopping mall area on Outer Loop.

For those who don't know there are two bad times of year when it comes to driving on Outer Loop and trying to get into the mall area. One is Christmas and the other is Valentine's Day. To it's credit it took us only twenty minutes to get through the traffic and into the Best Buy lot. My uncle and I walked in and I went to peruse phones while he wandered other where.

No T-mobile. Not necessarily a bad thing but I didn't know if my credit check would go through. When I asked a rep about this he commented, “They won't let us have more than three vendors at any location. We have ATT, Spring, and Verizon.” I probably passed around the phone I was eying at least 4 times before a salesrep approached me and I questioned him about it. A rep named Doug decided to wait on me and we went to a computer in the less-habitated area of the store which was located next to computer monitors and networking equipment.

My credit passed. Did I want the responsibility of a $600 phone? Did I want to add $30 per month to my cellphone bill? Fuck it; I wanted the cellphone. I signed my name on the dotted line, bought a scratch-proof cover, and left the store. While Roy drove I played around with it.

BTW, it's an HTC Incredible. Touch screen, video/camera, etc. Yeah buddy.

My Car Needs a Priest

Through the cold of the Saturday afternoon, and following the “drama” of a near run-in with Jen, I walked down to the Goodyear to check up on my car. I had imagines, maybe blindly, that maybe, just maybe they had looked at my car.

No such chance.

When I brought it in around 1:30pm I told them, “I think the rotors need replaced. I think the brakes do as well.” The guy, probably in his late fifties/early sixties, asked me for my keys, said the car should be looked at by 5, and I waved off and went down to the coffeeshop.

The time I returned was 3:30pm. Nothing. Not even moved. I had my book with me and delved a little more into that while an HDTV fixed to the wall broadcasted the UofL game. I continued thumbing through the book looking for the meaning of my life “self-help style.”

Sometime after 4 a guy sat next to me and we started talking. He’s easily in his sixties however he has that “conservative” veneer – well-groomed, laid-back manner, the guy not hurting for money. His white hair was slicked-back and teeth were perfect. He relayed the fact that he was there because his van was in the shop and needed to be looked at. He drives instead of flies because he sells medical equipment. I talk about flight a little bit and bring up Unclaimed Baggage –a store in Alabama that sells items reclaimed from lost baggage. The conversation then moves to the Internet and Facebook. “I don’t have a Facebook page. I don’t need one…” he says and murmurs something about customers hunting him down or something. A 30-something young, black woman sits the right of him against the wall and concedes the fact that yes, she’s a Facebooker.

4:30pm. Still nothing. The traveling salesman is summoned and his vehicle is ready. He waves off and I sit and talk with the black girl for a few minutes. She’s a military brat and since her mom is still in the military she basically moves around to the period of every 4 years. She’s moved from Atlanta to Columbus (OH) and recently to KY but is preparing to move back to Atlanta. “I have family down there.” When asked more about moving she relayed that she likes having her kids get an idea of other cultures.

“Sir, can you come with me?”

The guy who took my ticket, who was having my car looked at, came over to me and I stood up. I followed him to the side garage and to my vehicle which happened to be the last in line. The undercarriage was jacked-up to 6 feet. We ducked under it so he could show me what was going on.

“Your brakes and rotors are fine. The real problem here is that you have an oil leak that goes from here (points to engine) to here (points to somewhere in the middle of the car).” His fingers pluck the “Texas tea” muck from the beam that goes down the center of the car. He shows me the freeze plug and that it’s about dead. And I’m leaking transmission fluid and coolant.

“Basically,” I said, “it’s somewhere between ‘life support’ and getting a priest.”

“Yeah,” he relays. “It’s dependent upon how much you wanna spend on it.”

He gets me to schedule a “de-greasing” whereby they clean the undercarriage and find out what’s going on. The mechanic who looked over my car tells me that he had to put in 3.5 quarts of oil. I thank them and walk outside where my car is already parked in front of the doorway. I get in and head home.