The light swirled around her, as if afraid to land. Feeling simultaneously honoured and unworthy. I feel the same. Felt. Practiced unawareness. (Em)powered by eyes on her. Protested indifference. Yes... you. In the angelic orchestra of her voice, only I can hear that one sharp note. Cutting. Pushing me closer and closer to freedom. A sneer in smile's clothing. I've seen behind the green curtains of the windows to her soul. It's... almost unappealing enough.
"Do you ever read writing and wish that it was about you? That you caused the epic fucking swell of emotions? That you were the only one capable of the rescue?
Do you ever read writing and feel it so intensely? Like every word is an angry and desperate misfiring neuron? Like every line break is a welcomed necessary reprieve?
Do you ever read writing that you just don't want to end? With sentences spilling like sand through your fingers? With images appearing and then dissipating like sea smoke as temperatures inch upwards?
Do you ever read writing and realize that it is yours? And wonder if you can ever achieve it again? And wonder..."
Then she put down her pen, put her journal in her night table and tried, once more, to get some sleep.
Ladies, sometimes I am reading your blog posts about your boyfriends, or about dates you went on, and thinking, "Holy sweet crap. I'm glad that I'm not that guy." Not because you aren't collectively lovely.
It's just that I'm a pretty private dude.
And some of you chicks talk about some shit.
True story.
I don't think that I could date a female blogger who writes (literal) posts about her relationships.
I don't need a girlfriend writing:
"Dear blog, It is 9 am on a Saturday and Peter is on the couch, in his boxers, eating cereal, watching English soccer and woohoo-ing whenever Liverpool scores. I'm going to beat him."
Or
"Dear blog, Peter once again floated the idea of buying a new one when I asked him to scrub the toilet. I'm going to beat him."
Or
"Dear blog, Motherfucker brings that French maid uniform into the bedroom again and I am going to cut him. He just doesn't look good in it!"
It would be totally different if I wasn't a blogger and didn't "know" so many of you people. I just don't want you nosy bastards knowing my business.
No offense.
If I wasn't a blogger and a girlfriend wanted to tell me about a post she wrote about me, I'd probably react like this...
"I don't give a shit. Now get in that kitchen and make me a GODDAMN sammich!!!"
Wait. That doesn't really sound like me at all. What about this one...
"That's super. You are so cute when you get excited about your little stories. Now why don't you go to the mall and buy yourself something pretty while I watch "The Wire?" *slap on the ass* Go on. Git!"
Hmm. That's not me either. (IS NOT!)
Maybe...
"I love you, sweetie. I really do. But, I'll love you just *that* much more, if you can tell me about how you shared our dirty laundry, with everyone on the planet with internet access, at half time. Cool? Cool."
Thaaaat's the right ballpark.
Also, what if you are dating a blogger and things end badly? As delightful as I am, it has happened in a relationship or two of mine. (No, really!) Granted it was always their fault, but whatever.
"No, Peter, I am not really interested in a polygamous lifestyle."
I don't need a jilted ex writing a "So, we broke up, now let me tell you about Peter's Rainbow Brite tattoo on his ass and his strange Oprah fetish" post.
Hypothetically speaking.
Maybe if I had nude photos to bust out for some Mutually Assured Destruction action. I dunno.
So, yeah, I could probably never date a female blogger that talks about her personal life.
Today, dumplings, I am going to tell you three facts about me.
And here they are:
1) Despite what the picture in the header (look up) seems to indicate, I totally have an upper lip. And, while I'm no lipologist, I think it is a fairly standard upper lip. You can't see it, but I am making faces now to prove it is there.
*Pouty face*
*Kissy face*
*Elvis face*
2) You are never going to receive a text from me in text speak. I just can't do it. If I want to know how you are doing, I am going to type out "How are you?" I even use commas. Of course, I don't mind if you do it. I probably won't even notice. I am not sure what my deal is with it. It's not like I feel too mature to do it -- says the guy currently listening to Dashboard Confessional's MTV Unplugged album. I have strange rules.
3) The universe likes to mess with me when it comes to receiving gifts. No matter who is giving them, or what the occasion, usually at least one gift just doesn't work out -- through no fault of the gifter. From this Christmas alone...
a) Despite their willingness to ship Lids.com gift cards to Canada, you can't actually order hats with them to be delivered to Canada. Gah? I'm no Alex P. Keaton, but that seems like an odd business practice to me. Now I am going to have to charm a dirty American friend or family member into acting as a baseball cap mule.
b) I received three shirts that don't fit.
My sister: You don't look like an XXL.
Peter stretches arms forward and sleeves end up halfway up his forearms.
My sister: Hmm. Oh well.
(They'll just be swapped. No biggie.)
c) Remember how I was looking for "Her" for Christmas? Well, my family didn't find her. I'm not sure how hard they really looked, but whatever. Instead, they went out to get the iPod Nano dealie. However, after doing some research they settled on this little dude instead. And I actually was more pleased with it than I would have been with the iPod. I was charging it up on Christmas Day when it konked out. Seemed odd, but I left it charging. The next day I went to check it and it was completely dead. Nothing. Sometimes consumer electronics are duds out of the box. It happens.
I mentioned it to my sister. My mother jumped in and demanded it back. The next day she forced my father to drive her to a store an hour and a half away -- in a snow storm -- to swap it for a new one. That night I plugged it in.
The next day it was also dead. I fielded many questions about whether I was doing it right -- "Uhm... I think I can manage to plug it into a USB port."
I got two duds in a row, from two different stores. What are the odds?
[My mother again reclaimed the broken machine. And when the dust settled this time, this gorgeous beast ended up in my greedy little hands. I love it. I've already put a bunch of music, a David Sedaris audio book, an episode of Oz and a bunch of pics of the ACN on it.]
So, yeah, presents often don't work out for me. I'd be afraid if a girlfriend gave me a gift certificate for free hugs. The next day I'd wake up and she'd have lost her arms in a trasher accident. Where am I meeting girls that run thrashers, you wonder. Don't ask me about my business, nosy.
Enough about me. (As if that is even possible. Sheesh.) Tell us one thing about you. And it has to be about YOU. Don't try to pull any "Despite not having hips or legs, whales have both hip bones and leg bones"* business. And it can't be something you yoinked from your "100 Things..." post. Tell us the first thing that pops into your head.
Other than to her and her family, and to the producers trying to figure out how to write this into the "plot" of Zoey 101, this isn't really a big deal. I mean, come on, haven't we all been knocked up or knocked someone up at 16.
No? Oh. Never mind.
When watching this on CNN Headline News early this morning, I heard one of the funniest things ever.
EVER.
They said that this pregnancy announcement will likely delay the release of Lynne Spears' (the mother) book on parenting.
Parenting.
Let that sink in for a bit.
I laughed SO hard.
I would want to read that book. For real. However, there are a few others that I would probably have to check out first.
These include:
"O.J. Simpson's Guide to Impulse Control and Good Decision Making"
"Hitler's Hanukkah Stories"
George Michael's "Use the Washroom BEFORE You Leave Home." (with forward by Sen. Larry Craig.)
"Pam Anderson (Lee Rock Bouvier Terwilliger Hutz McClure Stu Simpson) on Marriage"
Alec Baldwin's "Putting the Fucking Dirty Little Pig Kids First"
So, I don't really feel like posting anything today. I'm not very chatty.
But, it's not you. It's me.
Well, maybe it's a little bit you.
Who the hell knows?
I will tell you that I recently discovered this site: http://songza.com/
I've been using it to track down rare songs that have been tough to find as mp3s.
One of these songs is a Canadian classic, The Gandharvas "First Day of Spring." A song I love to listen to every year on, well, the first day of spring.
I realize that is not today. But, if it makes you feel any better, I did crank GnR's "November Rain" on my iPod this morning. Of course, there are no hard and fast rules, as I also listened to The Cure's "Friday I'm in Love."
I can think of at least two things wrong with that title.
"First Day of Spring" always reminds me of an apartment I lived in during university. (Not THE apartment that I've blogged about in the past.)
We lived on the top floor of a big house that was divided into 5 apartments. And directly below us there was a bit of a Three's Company situation going on. A blonde girl, a brunette girl and a dude of indeterminate sexual affiliation.
The brunette had one of the top ten best faces I have ever seen in real life -- if she was a bit thin. So, I had a little crush on her. And, as was my custom at the time, I was working on my seduction by osmosis plan.
Hoping that by being in the same space, something will just happen.
I know, right?
The male roomie down there had a thing about playing the same song all day long. And one of these songs was, of course, "First Day of Spring." And since I loved it, I was cool with that.
Even my roomies didn't mind. However, one of my roomies was dating a girl... The EVIL Megan that I mentioned yesterday. In the pantheon of people I hate, she'd be nestled between J-Lo and the dude that created "Family Guy."
Megan would often be alone in our apartment, and we later found out she would stomp on the floor like a mad woman any time our underneath neighbours turned their stereo above barely audible.
By the time we found out what she had been doing, the damage had already been done with the neighbours. I tried to explain to the dude that it was our roommate's evil girlfriend stomping, but he still wasn't impressed.
A couple of weeks later, I was arriving at the apartment just as the brunette -- Nicole! Yes, that's it -- was leaving. She said, "Hi. How are you?" I answered "Asparagus" or something... But, at least, she didn't seem to hate me.
I was relieved.
A couple of weeks later, I was parking my car just around the corner from the apartment. Me and two friends got out, in the middle of an argument we had been having for blocks.
And it was about the girls living below us.
One dude was saying that he preferred the blonde.
I was horrified. "What!? Are you out of your damn mind?"
Just as the three of us turned the corner to the front of the house, the third dude loudly said, "I'd fuck the shit out of the both of them."
Then I looked up and saw the three neighbours sitting on the front step. Mouths open. Looking at us.
I opened my mouth to say something as we walked by them and up the stairs, but nothing came out.
However, later that week I was walking home and ran into Nicole a block from the apartment. We walked it together and I even managed a little small talk. "I... I like nice weather."
She didn't seem to hate me at all.
Score!
Not long after this, I was out at the campus bar. I had just finished an exam. It was BRUTAL. One of those deals where everything you were told wouldn't be on it was, and vice versa. I was in a bad mood. I ran into a dude I knew from residence. We were discussing the exam. Loudly. He felt the same as I did. That we had gotten jobbed.
Then something happened.
Because my body and brain were in no way used to staying up all night studying, or attending classes and what not, my anger went to another level.
I was ranting like a lunatic. Vein sticking out of my forehead and all. My friend was egging me on.
I think the last thing I said about the professor was, "I'll fucking kill him, chop him up and encase him in concrete!"
Just then, my buddy looked over my shoulder and said, "Oh, have you ever met my friend Nicole?"
I turned. It was her. She looked traumatized.
Knowing that the universe had won this one, I put my hand on her shoulder, said, "Take care" and wandered off.
Wow. For a dude that wasn't chatty, I can sure ramble, eh?
Anyway...
Happy Thanksgiving, Americans. Enjoy some turkey and football.
The blind goes up. Blinking. Blinking. Coming into focus. The harbour is so flat. Glassy. Orange and red leaves from the other side Reflected so perfectly. Idyllic. Serene. Looking right. Further. The sun shining off of the lighthouse. So bright. Looks almost Photoshopped. But, it's not. Or a camera trick. But, it's not. Looking further right. Open ocean. Seas are choppier. A little. There is one wave. Bigger. Whiter. Angrier. Longitudinal and transverse motions fighting. For control. So close to the mouth of the harbour. Too close. Moving. Threatening to come in. Closer. Closer. ... Just missing entering the harbour. The calm remains. For now.
I am not usually one to discuss news or current events in this space.
Mostly because I am pretty self-absorbed.
However, sometimes a story is just SO huge that a person can't not bring it up.
And I don't mean the Barry Bonds thing, because, let's face it, unless they make being a sac de douche a felony, he won't spend day one in the hoosegow.
Sadly.
I think a few months of him having to watch his own huge acne-riddled back in the shower would be good for him.
What I am, of course, talking about is Lindsay Lohan and the rough 84 minute stretch that she did in the pokey.
84 minutes.
Seriously?
Why not just make her sit through a screening of JUST MY LUCK? It is 103 minutes long and twice as painful.
In tribute to poor LL, here is a short list of things that I have spent more than 84 minutes doing:
Your mom. (Come on. It was too easy. And just sitting there. Like your mom.)
Showering. (I once sang the entirety of Journey's Greatest Hits and didn't get out until the hot water heater spit the bit.)
Crafting an e-mail reply to Clink describing how I feel about Anna Friel on "Pushing Daisies." (I apparently know a lot of different ways to say "I LOVE her.")
Trying to get sideburns even.
Playing Scrabulous on Facebook (x1000)
Learning to play "Sister Golden Hair" on guitar. And then never picking one up again.
Trying unsuccessfully to forget that my mother's cell ringtone is "My Humps."
Sitting in a jail cell. (When I was a kid, my grandfather was the local jailer. He used to lock us in for fun. And sometimes got sidetracked before letting us out.)
Pondering why Lo doesn't get more burn on "The Hills."
Trying to convince myself to hit "publish" on this. Stupid NaNoBloMo. It makes everything seem like a chore that you don't want to do, yet feel obligated to.
posted by Peter at 9:58 AM
