Tuesday, January 23, 2007
"Memorial Day"
Here's to the skinned knees
And sutured hearts.
Here's to the unhappy endings
And all the false starts.
- Paint It Black, from "Memorial Day"
You tell me I've got a problem with thinking, I can chase it away with a problem like drinking!
This may seem like a pretty rambling post, but that's only because I've been getting steadily more toasted throughout the evening, and keeping notes as things cross my mind.
From Varieties of Unreligious Experience: "The Bat wages war on all the insects and nocturnal vermins that afflict man and his fruit trees."
I was thinking this weekend, that Laura G. makes me feel like I'm just getting to know girls again. I'm frequently struck not dumb, but retarded. I have no idea how to progress the relationship. Cue the Skalars' "High School":
Young's St. George's English Ale is "a dragonslayer of a brew." Not as good as New Holland's Dragon's Milk, but good.
I wish Atom and His Package were still playing shows. I saw him the last time he played Chicago, four years ago. That fucking kicked ass. The punkest fucking thing I've ever seen, and it was a chubby hockey nerd playing karaoke to his own songs. Fucking great. Brilliant. I remember there was a really cute girl there, dressed in black, rocking out to the super-cheesy new-wave style songs he played. I'd seen her before, but I can't remember ever seeing her again. Maybe Armalite will play Chicago sometime.
I'm just buzzed enough right now to feel completely emotionally disconnected from what I'm doing, and be easily distracted by other thoughts that cross my mind.
It's odd to think that my typing skills are improving even as I kill brain cells with alcohol. The cerebellum will keep making neural connections and rewiring my brain. Of course, there is some sense of neuroplasticity declining with age, but I hope to maintain mine as long as possible with frequent mind-blowing, and of course the ensuing self-reflective reevaluation of my own thought processes.
The capacity for self-awareness and self-improvement is what separates humanity from the rest of the animal kingdom. Yes, I realize there is an evolutionary scale of sentience, and even though I don't know whether gorillas and chimps are self-aware, I don't advocate eating them out of caution for the possibility, despite my taste for other meats (bring it on!). I definitely think cetaceans are on their way to sentience if they're not already there, and while whale steaks are apparently quite a tasty delicacy, I must abstain for moral reasons.
One beer = one piss.
The glass of Tripel Karmeliet I just poured has a very nice head on it. It looks like clouds, and I want to eat it and its insubstantiality. Shit, is that beer tasty. The best I've drunk tonight.
I've listened to the version of "Phoenix City" on Greetings From Skamania so many times that I can whistle along with the horn solos, from soloist from soloist. I'm glad I got to see the Skatalites before Roland and Tommy passed away. It's hard to believe it's been almost four years since I've seen them. Wow.
This has been a pretty full night, even though it consisted of me, music, my beer, and my computer, and no lady friend. I could just be saying that since I'm pleasantly drunk right now. Resolved: tomorrow, I will stay late at school reading board-review shit, even if it means the afternoon nap that will inevitably result.
I was writing a letter to Laura G., and I feel like I'm much more poetic when I'm drunk. I wish it were true while I'm sober. I feel like my grammar's better, too. Go fucking figure. (Hah!) Not only that, but I can remember song lyrics better as well. My mind (AKA God!) works in mysterious ways.
Amusia is an actual neurologic condition; for example, someone suffering from it couldn't place the lyrics and the tune to "Happy Birthday" with each other. While these people are probably ignorant of what they're missing out on, I can't even imagine living like that. I hope that part of my brain is never damaged.
My first memory of using a space heater is when I was five years old in Arizona. I got to warm up in front of it after a bath. It seemed like a big deal. My parents still have that space heater. Right now I have a quiet convection heater under the coffee table I'm typing on and it's warming me quite efficiently, with heat gently percolating around the table.
I saw a flier on the Blackout Shoppers website that had "Reagan Youth" on it, even though they obviously weren't playing. Fucking. Brilliant.
For the first time in my life, I seem to be developing eczema on my torso. There's a patch on my lower right abdomen that is consistently itchy. (Eczema is usually present on face/hands/legs.) I think it's calling for some hydrocortizone.
Speaking of hydrocortizone, there are two instances in the past month where my habit of carrying a tube of it in my bag has been beneficial: Danny's sister Lisa needed some, and Dana had an itchy burn on her arm as well.
One beer = one piss. I'm on to Young's Dirty Dick's Ale. A nice light brown color, light head.
Even though I'm drunk and feel quite warm, I'm shivering. I turned up the space heater to 65 degrees. I checked my phone to see if I missed any calls or text messages, despite the fact that it hasn't left my side in six hours. I feel so alone, but I'm so drunk that I don't care.
From the Suicide Machines songs that I've heard from my MP3 player tonight, I'm amazed by the juxtaposition of melody and pure aggression displayed in their music.
Fuck Merriam-Webster for having a John McCain ad displayed on their website. Eight years ago, I might've accepted McCain despite his Republicanism, but these days he's become a panderer to the neo-cons despite their consistent fucking-over of the positions he truthfully supports (anti-torture, anti-lobbyist, pro-civil liberties). I think it's the only way he feels he can be elected president. Fuck him, he's chosen the Republican party, and they've chosen to slowly destroy the majority of humanity (in the long term) for their own gain. "Join the Movement!" indeed. McCain has seven solid crow's-feet in his smile, and they go all the way back to his hairline. Not that it's a good way to judge him, but he's as fake as Hillary Clinton, just for shittier third-party interests.
Apparently, 1/2 beer = one piss, judging from the last one.
I realize I'm getting drunk as pure escapism from the shit in my head with Laura G. Of course, I'm so drunk that I don't care, and I got drunk so that I wouldn't care. It's kind of sad. I still wish she were here. (frowny face) To quote myself IMing with Laura W.:
This Lloyd Brevette song I'm listening to, I first heard nine years ago. It's funky instrumental ska/reggae. "Stream in the Meadow." Awesome.
The more I drink, the more I shiver. Laura W. will be proud to learn I switched to water once I could barely walk. I can taste the chlorine in the Chicago tap water now.
The Toasters song playing right now - "Freedom" - is a song that I once played in my car while feeling quite lonely and rejected, and driving around the north-northwest suburbs at some point in the fall of my senior year of high school (1995 for those of you unfamiliar with my personal timeline) on my way home on a long depressing night out, the reasons for which I can't remember. The music, I can. The windows were open, too, despite chilly weather.
Despite a decent amount of caloric intake ("dinner") earlier, I'm starting to feel hungry again. And the tap water smells like a swimming pool. Cl- is essential to action potential propagation, isn't it?
I think the letter to Laura G. is pretty well done, but now I'm quite exhausted and still a bit drunk and feel like I should proofread it for redundancy when better-rested. We were supposed to hang out tonight. I left her a message seven-and-a-half hours ago and haven't heard anything.
From Varieties of Unreligious Experience: "The Bat wages war on all the insects and nocturnal vermins that afflict man and his fruit trees."
I was thinking this weekend, that Laura G. makes me feel like I'm just getting to know girls again. I'm frequently struck not dumb, but retarded. I have no idea how to progress the relationship. Cue the Skalars' "High School":
Feelings I forget, so I act the fool.I'm sitting right next to my subwoofer, and modulate the bass to suit my proprioceptive sense and fear of upsetting the neighbors.
Afraid of what I've got, now I feel like I'm back in high school.
And now I'm on my own...
Young's St. George's English Ale is "a dragonslayer of a brew." Not as good as New Holland's Dragon's Milk, but good.
I wish Atom and His Package were still playing shows. I saw him the last time he played Chicago, four years ago. That fucking kicked ass. The punkest fucking thing I've ever seen, and it was a chubby hockey nerd playing karaoke to his own songs. Fucking great. Brilliant. I remember there was a really cute girl there, dressed in black, rocking out to the super-cheesy new-wave style songs he played. I'd seen her before, but I can't remember ever seeing her again. Maybe Armalite will play Chicago sometime.
I'm just buzzed enough right now to feel completely emotionally disconnected from what I'm doing, and be easily distracted by other thoughts that cross my mind.
It's odd to think that my typing skills are improving even as I kill brain cells with alcohol. The cerebellum will keep making neural connections and rewiring my brain. Of course, there is some sense of neuroplasticity declining with age, but I hope to maintain mine as long as possible with frequent mind-blowing, and of course the ensuing self-reflective reevaluation of my own thought processes.
The capacity for self-awareness and self-improvement is what separates humanity from the rest of the animal kingdom. Yes, I realize there is an evolutionary scale of sentience, and even though I don't know whether gorillas and chimps are self-aware, I don't advocate eating them out of caution for the possibility, despite my taste for other meats (bring it on!). I definitely think cetaceans are on their way to sentience if they're not already there, and while whale steaks are apparently quite a tasty delicacy, I must abstain for moral reasons.
I can't be bothered with my life, it causes greivance, too much strife.I first saw the Fight in the summer of 2003. I remember I stopped by Dani's house on the way to the Fireside, and her friend Fletch was visiting. While I was on the phone with Marta, Dani told her I'd found the love of my life. Hah. The next time I saw the Fight play was Valentine's Day, 2005, a week or so after Marta had dropped me like a sack of old potatoes. I was able to lose myself in the show and escape for the first time since. It was quite therapeutic.
- The Fight, "Can't Be Bothered"
One beer = one piss.
The glass of Tripel Karmeliet I just poured has a very nice head on it. It looks like clouds, and I want to eat it and its insubstantiality. Shit, is that beer tasty. The best I've drunk tonight.
I've listened to the version of "Phoenix City" on Greetings From Skamania so many times that I can whistle along with the horn solos, from soloist from soloist. I'm glad I got to see the Skatalites before Roland and Tommy passed away. It's hard to believe it's been almost four years since I've seen them. Wow.
This has been a pretty full night, even though it consisted of me, music, my beer, and my computer, and no lady friend. I could just be saying that since I'm pleasantly drunk right now. Resolved: tomorrow, I will stay late at school reading board-review shit, even if it means the afternoon nap that will inevitably result.
I was writing a letter to Laura G., and I feel like I'm much more poetic when I'm drunk. I wish it were true while I'm sober. I feel like my grammar's better, too. Go fucking figure. (Hah!) Not only that, but I can remember song lyrics better as well. My mind (AKA God!) works in mysterious ways.
Amusia is an actual neurologic condition; for example, someone suffering from it couldn't place the lyrics and the tune to "Happy Birthday" with each other. While these people are probably ignorant of what they're missing out on, I can't even imagine living like that. I hope that part of my brain is never damaged.
My first memory of using a space heater is when I was five years old in Arizona. I got to warm up in front of it after a bath. It seemed like a big deal. My parents still have that space heater. Right now I have a quiet convection heater under the coffee table I'm typing on and it's warming me quite efficiently, with heat gently percolating around the table.
I saw a flier on the Blackout Shoppers website that had "Reagan Youth" on it, even though they obviously weren't playing. Fucking. Brilliant.
For the first time in my life, I seem to be developing eczema on my torso. There's a patch on my lower right abdomen that is consistently itchy. (Eczema is usually present on face/hands/legs.) I think it's calling for some hydrocortizone.
Speaking of hydrocortizone, there are two instances in the past month where my habit of carrying a tube of it in my bag has been beneficial: Danny's sister Lisa needed some, and Dana had an itchy burn on her arm as well.
One beer = one piss. I'm on to Young's Dirty Dick's Ale. A nice light brown color, light head.
Even though I'm drunk and feel quite warm, I'm shivering. I turned up the space heater to 65 degrees. I checked my phone to see if I missed any calls or text messages, despite the fact that it hasn't left my side in six hours. I feel so alone, but I'm so drunk that I don't care.
From the Suicide Machines songs that I've heard from my MP3 player tonight, I'm amazed by the juxtaposition of melody and pure aggression displayed in their music.
Fuck Merriam-Webster for having a John McCain ad displayed on their website. Eight years ago, I might've accepted McCain despite his Republicanism, but these days he's become a panderer to the neo-cons despite their consistent fucking-over of the positions he truthfully supports (anti-torture, anti-lobbyist, pro-civil liberties). I think it's the only way he feels he can be elected president. Fuck him, he's chosen the Republican party, and they've chosen to slowly destroy the majority of humanity (in the long term) for their own gain. "Join the Movement!" indeed. McCain has seven solid crow's-feet in his smile, and they go all the way back to his hairline. Not that it's a good way to judge him, but he's as fake as Hillary Clinton, just for shittier third-party interests.
Two more hours of our past. I feel like I've tried...I don't know, I don't care, I just sit and stare now.For some reason, the image of seeing some girl wearing a Horror Pops T-shirt in Quebec City just entered my head, despite the fact that it was a year-and-a-half ago.
- The Lawrence Arms, "Hey, What Time is 'Pensacola: Wings of Gold' on Anyway?"
Apparently, 1/2 beer = one piss, judging from the last one.
I realize I'm getting drunk as pure escapism from the shit in my head with Laura G. Of course, I'm so drunk that I don't care, and I got drunk so that I wouldn't care. It's kind of sad. I still wish she were here. (frowny face) To quote myself IMing with Laura W.:
Darren: I may just get drunk soonRight now I'm so plastered that I can't stand up straight and I'm drinking water.
Laura: alone?
Darren: sure, why not
Laura: ha
Laura: i've done it sure
Laura: always makes me feel lousy though
Darren: true
This Lloyd Brevette song I'm listening to, I first heard nine years ago. It's funky instrumental ska/reggae. "Stream in the Meadow." Awesome.
The more I drink, the more I shiver. Laura W. will be proud to learn I switched to water once I could barely walk. I can taste the chlorine in the Chicago tap water now.
The Toasters song playing right now - "Freedom" - is a song that I once played in my car while feeling quite lonely and rejected, and driving around the north-northwest suburbs at some point in the fall of my senior year of high school (1995 for those of you unfamiliar with my personal timeline) on my way home on a long depressing night out, the reasons for which I can't remember. The music, I can. The windows were open, too, despite chilly weather.
Despite a decent amount of caloric intake ("dinner") earlier, I'm starting to feel hungry again. And the tap water smells like a swimming pool. Cl- is essential to action potential propagation, isn't it?
I think the letter to Laura G. is pretty well done, but now I'm quite exhausted and still a bit drunk and feel like I should proofread it for redundancy when better-rested. We were supposed to hang out tonight. I left her a message seven-and-a-half hours ago and haven't heard anything.
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