Tired of paying hundreds of dollars in therapy? Fed up with prescription pill addictions and office furniture couch-sores? Has your psychologist stopped seeing you since you made a pass at him? Or maybe you're an amateur analyst and are looking for a chance to gain experience as an advice columnist. Bloggers: substitute these posts for therapy sessions and readers: comment away.
22 April 2005
Ancient History
The other day I was telling a story from when I was a kid. I actually started a sentence, "Well, when they first invented the VCR, ..." at which point I began to break down inside. And outside.
I think I might be dead on the inside. Do you ever feel that way? It's Friday. It's nice out. I have lots going on in the next few weeks. And still, I feel pretty empty, creatively. I feel like the vanilla ice cream at Baskin Robbins - good enough for most old people, and that's about it.
I also had a dream that I had to take care of a baby last night. I kept trying to get the birth mother to straighten up, stop acting a fool, and take care of her newborn, but after she put it in a pillowcase and started swinging it over her head I decided to step in. I can't fucking believe there is anything inside me that wants children, so what the fuck is that about? I mean, if I knew I would want babies one day, I wouldn't have aborted all those fetuses back before the long-term drug abuse (surely) scarred my insides.
I'm just kidding. I totally still would have. I have no sense of consequence.
I just found these psychotic toys at SCHMANCY. The sheep has multiple personalities in its belly. The crocodile is a pillow biter with a severe anxiety disorder. And the hippo is autistic: he won't speak but he likes to solve puzzles.
I just thought if you were reading this blog, you could relate.
My roommate finally bought toilet paper on Sunday. We went almost a whole week. My other roommate avoided the situation altogether by leaving town for four days. I managed to make my secret roll last until sweet victory came Sunday morning in the form of six fresh rolls in the bathroom cupboard.
It's the little victories that count the most. I remain broken and unloved, but totally comforted on the backside.
1. The radio playing in my office is a little perplexing... WHY would an "oldies" radio station (and by "oldies" I mean 70s and 80s, not 50's and 60s) play the same songs every day? I'm assuming that in Top 40 radio there are all kinds of deals between record labels and radio stations limiting the number of songs you hear on any given afternoon to about 12. Fine. However, when you are no longer in the competitive world of billboard 100/ratings radio - when you are free to play whatever songs were hits twenty and thirty years ago, then why would you insist on playing the same three Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam songs every motherf*cking day?!! Lisa Lisa didnt get that much play in 1985 when those songs were in the top 10. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Then it's "Looking For a New Love" then "Caribbean Queen" then "Funkytown" and finally "Let's Hear it For the Boy." And WHY am I the only person in my office that is driven nuts by this? Everyone else is singing along off key while I pray for my iPod batteries to hold up just a little longer.
2. WHY won't you fucking buy a roll of toilet paper? We ran out in my apartment on Tuesday. Which means we were running low since last weekend. And yet nobody will buy toilet paper. There are three of us in the apartment. I have bought the last 100+ rolls of toilet paper for our apartment (because I get this awesome designer brand) and I have ordered some more which will be in next week. But my roommates don't know that. They know I have been supplying the toilet paper all year, and that we're out now. And neither one of them has bought a roll in the past three days. WHAT ARE THEY USING?!! For shit's sake, we have a 24-hour deli right next door to us - we're on the first floor, even. It only takes half a second to go pick up a SINGLE ROLL. I'm not suggesting they buy a four-pack, even. Just a single roll. What the hell is wrong with them, and how the hell are they wiping? I have a half-roll that I 've been hiding in my room to tide me over. It's like Survivor, or some shit.
3. WHAT will I have for lunch? What about dinner? I never know. Never! I have a box of frozen strawberry waffles, so that should get me through the next 8 breakfasts. After that, I'm totally screwed.
Despite commenting on others, I've yet to post here. In order to catch up, here are some weird things about me that you can feel free to analyze and/or snicker at:
For most of my adolescent and teen years I compulsively counted syllables. Not like with numbers, but if someone was talking or I was watching TV, I would keep track of the syllables, usually by silently clicking my teeth together. "U" and "O" sounds got clicked on the right side of my mouth, while "I", "E" and "A" sounds got clicked on the left side. I thought that I'd discovered the secret to life, and if I ever lagged behind too much I'd die. Sometimes I still catch myself doing it.
I had a dream once that Christopher Walken gave me a blowjob. He somehow convinced me that it wasn't gay.
Until I was about 15, I was convinced my parents had hidden surveillance cameras around my house in order to catch me masturbating.
Saturday afternoon I decided I didn't know enough sports trivia. So I watched and memorized CBS's "25 Greatest College Basketball Players." I really studied and practiced listing them in order. During commercial breaks I would re-list them in my head, even recite them out loud, while imagining different scenarios in which I might be able to insert this newly acquired info into conversation. I imagined the faces of those who know me, shocked that I could even name ONE college basketball player, let alone 25 greats.
Similarly, about five years ago I had a sudden panic that I might one day be challenged to recite the lyrics to "Baby Got Back," so I listened over and over until I had memorized the entire song. It hasn't come up yet, but I think I could still pull it off in a pinch.
For the record: Julius "Dr. J." Irving, John Havlichek, Isiah Thomas, Elgin Baylor, Danny Manning, David "the Admiral" Robinson, Ralph Sampson, Akeem Olajuwon, Christian Laettner, Elvin Hayes, Tim Duncan, Jerry Lucas, Bill Bradley, David Thompson, Patrick Ewing, Michael Jordan, Jerry West, Wilt Chamberlain, "Pistol" Pete Maravich, Bill Russell, Earvin "Magic" Johnson, Oscar Robertson, Larry Bird, Bill Walton, and Lew Alcindor (aka Kareem Abdul-Jabbar).
Since last November or so, I've been experiencing many sleepless nights. I'm traditionaly nocturnal so this is not a complete surprise. But I also loves me some sleep, so its been somewhat troubling.
Most of the time I sit in bed, crank up the headphones, and think of a million projects I want to take on. Occasionally I will have an idea so "brilliant" I will sit up and write it down immediately, only to discover a crumpled piece of paper with a bunch of nonsense on it a few days later.
One night I was listening to Cavedweller and I thought it would be fucking fantastic to edit together all three Lord of the Rings movies into one 45-minute short film, take out all the dialogue, score it with Cavedweller music and call it "Lord of the Cave." I couldn't stop thinking about it. I would re-listen to all the songs and place them with a particluar scene in the movie in my head.
I wish I was still the person with nothing better to do than these kinds of projects, ridiculous or not. I wish I didn't spend all my free time yakking on the phone, reading magazines, and watching Veronica Mars.
Who am I kidding? Veronica Mars is an excellent show! I'm sorry I said that. I never meant to hurt you, UPN. Please don't take away America's Next Top Model.
Anyway, I guess my point (if there is one) is that most of the time I can't tell if the ideas I have are the best idea ever or the worst idea ever. It seems like they are one or the other. Or both. Once I wrote a treatment for a screenplay called "American Funk" which was basically an "Enemy of the State" style run-from-the-government action film starring Mark Wahlberg as... Marky Mark. You know... Marky's in trouble, he needs help, and there's only one thing he can do: he has to get The Funky Bunch back together! Because in my world The Funky Bunch was more than a band (in fact, they weren't much of a band): they were an elite team of crime fighters. They were patriots.
But I neglected mentioning this to most people I know because (a) I don't want them to think I'm totally insane (too late) and (b) I don't want anyone to steal my idea for what could possibly be the biggest blockbuster hit ever. EVER!
This morning in the shower I couldn't stop obsessing about the song "We're an American Band." I kept wondering about the lyrics. Does it go "We like to party down/We're coming to your town," or is it "We're coming to your town/We like to party down"?
Because if it's "We're coming to your town/We like to party down," that's like an invitation. They're saying, "We're coming to town, so you know, hook us up! Come party with us! We love to party."
But if it's "We like to party down/We're coming to your town," that's more of a warning, right? It's like, "Hey, we totally party wherever we go, and we're coming over, so watch out."
Everything is fine here, except for some non-ironic sadness about the Pope. I did see my doctor the other day and you know what she told me? For a week she wants me to a.) eat no sugar b.) eat no pasta c.) when I go out to eat, eat no starches. But it's such a crazy, retarded scheme that for now I have no problem with it because it's like this absolutely insane experiment that I find hilarious. I'm sure the sobbing will ensue sometime this weekend.
