Conquering the Roof

Almost all of our sorrows spring out of our relations with other people.
● A. Schopenhauer

Walking in, as ever, I peered up at the vast expanse of stone and carvings and height culminating in sky and experienced a slightly overwhelming sense of trespassing. Curious that so legendary a structure should allow vermin such as us unfettered ingress and egress.

Rome, my nickname for the building, seems to hum on show days. Only one today, but echoes and movement seems to bristle in the atmosphere. A young twentysomething of unknown origin slumped on the front stoop, peering about alertly tucked inside a black hoodie, chewing on the tassel and deliberately eluding my gaze. Two elder men inside clustered at the box office window, conversing with the attendant in smoke-hewn baritones obstructed by thick Wisconsin accents. Stagehands navigated the loading ramp on the west side of the building, ushering massive black parcels against gravity, their clothing puffed and rustled by the bullying eighty-five degree September interloper wind.

I have wasted too much of this blog yammering about myself; let’s explore the building. Such a day demands a visit to the roof.

People I don’t recognize mull around the Ballroom and for a while I loiter against the walls. Mental debating ensues but eventually I push myself out onto the floor and stride purposefully across it, ducking between table-and-chair setups and avoiding a newly-waxed portion.

Locating a doorway behind the stage and resolutely ignoring the “do not enter” sign, I thread my way up several flights of curved metal stairwell, the setting so cramped that I slouch involuntarily and unnecessarily. Previous passerby have encased the cement walls with graffiti: a dragonfly, a rather accurate rendition of Sylvester, nameless initials. Several flights recede completely into shadow and, as ever, I have forgotten a flashlight, but refuse to turn around. Two distinct spiderwebs, and likely several smaller ones, attempt to block my passage.

A doorway to the hulking dome of the Pantheon passes, multihued lights emitting a starchy electric glow at low grade. Then a passage to the curtain wires, propped ajar. Finally I encounter the doorway to the roof, warped into a locked position, and shove my entire length against it twice before popping through the doorway into a surge of sunlight and gauzy humidity. The view immediately seizes the breath and l almost forget to attend my foot positioning, lest I misstep and literally tumble off the side of the building.

Folding against the steep incline, I crest the main portion to position myself on the apex. By way of greeting it offers a rather spectacular view of the valley, the Domes, the stadium, and downtown, replete with a great many buildings I cannot identify, not having occupied this city for long. The thick wind tears my hair and whips my shirt and the heat loosens the tar, leaving the undersides of my hands caked with powdery black. Perched as an eagle, sitting cross-legged against the wind, I watch a train pull in to the valley.

Eventually I descend, and the universe tears in again with more gusts to the extent that I actually foresee a rather painful tumble, but force it not to materialize. Former frontiersmen have engraved their marking on the inside of the door. ALL STAR WEEKEND, with a lopsided heart below it. I saw dead animals here! Family Force Five. The Human Abstract 2008. I talked to a ghost up here. Almost drenched in a longing to remain, I haul the cement closed behind me; as one would the cover of a coffin, or a tomb. The corkscrew stairwell seems to contain a greater atmosphere of menace on the descent.

Returning to reality, I canter like a horse across the Ballroom’s expansive wooden dance floor, and my gait ricochets spectacularly in the massive, presumably deserted ballroom. Laughter ricochets in my wake.

Cramming people into walls.

A decaying mouse trapped in the office walls emits a stench somewhere between an abandoned bin of food-based rubbish and dust. In our pursuit of the critter, Lionfish (one of the promoters) removed an autographed, framed Poison poster from the wall to reveal a gaping maw that once contained an air conditioner prior to the office renovation.

“Hey, cool!” Fisherman, our website manager, loped around the corner with his hands tucked in his jean pockets. “Find any money stashed in the walls?”

“I’ll bet we could fit someone in there,” I noted, considering the possibilities. Perhaps one of the art guys; they tend to run scronny.

Tetra, a computer graphics boy who always arrived toting a skateboard or bike and helmet, rounded the corner in pursuit of the commotion. “What’s all this?”

“We decided we’re going to cram you in the wall,” Fisherman informed him with his trademark lack of voice inflection.

Tetra bent and attempted to peer between the wall and the insulation, his bright lavender hoodie presenting the impression of an actual illuminated guppy. “Sure,” he nodded agreeably. “I could fit in there. Easily.”

. . .

In response to an e-mail inquiry; yes, my boss knows I blog at work.

Law School in a Nutshell

What's it like? The quick answer.

There's a Monty Python skit (genuises, the lot of them) wherein Michael Palin enters an establishment and proffers payment for the honor of having an argument. He follows the directions precisely but winds up in the room for abuse.

Ding!

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be lawyers

And the more he talked to me
The more he reached me
But I couldn’t let go of LA
City of the fallen angels.
● J. Mitchell



Mondays always present the feeling of giant heft, a massive machine attempting to turn over. They involve an assault of paperwork amassed from the weekend; and, on the twentieth such as today, the ever-distasteful task of filing sales taxes.

Currently enduring the arduous process of acquiring and threading through new box office personnel. Hopefully I won’t unnecessarily assault them during the interview process; I tend to default into cross-examination mode. Also, I resolutely refuse to ask them where they “see themselves” in a decade. A, what a ridiculous question. B, they’re all twentysomethings – the honest among them would reply with, “Alive, God willing; though, considering what I ingested last night...”

Weeding through resumes steadily chisels at my faith in humanity. There’s the one who employed acronyms in her cover letter (“SYL”). The one who used “their” instead of “they’re.” And, my personal favorite, the one who obviously employed a Microsoft Word Template and neglected to completely attend the input fields: the grey text along the bottom reads Insert Address Here. Better leave the “attention to detail” box unchecked for that one.

Someone sent me the most fabulous photo of a sign out in front of a merchant’s cart in the country: Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be lawyers – make them be farmers and such. Heh.

Didn't need eyebrows anyway.

It's weird... people say they're not like apes.
How do you explain football then?
- M. Hedberg



Activities in which I would voluntarily participate to get out of shopping for clothes:
- Endure the entirety of a Celine Dion album.
- Subject myself to Titanic (incidentally, I respectfully request those three hours of my life back).
- Clean saddles until the glycerine irrevocably pruned my fingers.
- Clean my storage closet. (Would likely necessitate the acquisition of a Hazmat suit.)
- Implement the Dewey Decimal system for my innumerable books.
- Tackle the storage gutters of an entire suburb.
- Count the kernels in a bowl of rice.
- Scorch off my eyebrows with a Zippo lighter.
I draw the line at watching football, as that has no physical component. But golly, it's close.

A changing physique and altered circumstances necessitated the acquisition of additional strips of fabric seamed and trimmed and collectively referred to as "clothing." One benefit of my former career, I suppose - the most monumental morning contemplation amounted to "Black suit, brown suit or blue suit?" Still. Small sacrifice.

Completely missed the shopping gene - I like my money tidily esconsed in a savings account, multiplying. Plus, once you acquire additional stuff, you have just unnecessarily complicated your existence. I don't need stuff - everything I desire has no tangible personification.

When Dad and I cruised Rodeo Drive in LA he strolled in to this particularly ritzy shoe shop and dove straight for a pair that had the two salesmen tripping over themselves in adoration of his taste. (Italian Men : Shoes :: Foxes : Small Rodents. I myself have never noticed anyone's shoes unless the "one" happened to also have a mane and periodically emit a neighing sound, but I seem to defy all stereotypes.) I wandered over to one of the tasseled amalgamations of leather and stitching, staring blankly, and one of the salesmen followed: "Your father, he has excellent taste, does he not?" Actually, my thoughts had focused the entire time on why people wasted such spectacular leather on shoes when it would perfectly accentuate a saddle. But he didn't need to know that.

Of Gratitude & Glee

I'd like to call back summertime
And have her stay for just another month or so
But she's got the urge for going
And I guess she'll have to go.
- J. Mitchell

For all my generalized abhorrence of holidays, one aspect bears considerable appeal: my beloved Christmas lights. Tiny bursts of unadulterated glee, marching one after the other in a parade of euphoria. I can scarcely wait to raid Stein's and embellish the existing insanity in my apartment. Drive around at night and gawk at others' creations (icicles have an irresistible appeal, despite their ubiquitousness in suburbs). Cruise home along the lake at night and catch a bright sprig of new color, then detour to investigate.

I clearly recall our first encounter, Christmas lights all but nonexistent even in a city overrun by Roman Catholics. They seemed the embodiment of magic - pinpricks of stars, glowing within reach, inspiring levity in everyone, brightening the psyche of all who set gaze upon them. People complain so extensively about this country, and I genuinely cannot understand why. As though they grew enveloped by all the treasures, and thus immune to their pizzazz. I'm so bloody grateful to reside here, yet all they do is complain.

Hurrah for Earplugs.

“Same dances in the same old shoes
You get too careful with the steps you choose
You don’t care about winning but you don’t want to lose
After the thrill is gone.” ● Eagles

Because I’m insane a nice person, I agreed to catsit for the weekend. Turns out I instinctively cut a wide birth around the small meowing things at the stables due to an innate survival instinct that directed me away from allergy-instigating objects. You know that saying, the cat will always gravitate toward the one person who despises it? Correct. Atop its innate inclination to investigate new objects and rub against them (what are you doing? No, no; stay on your side of the room, please), a thunderstorm activated its “must find and follow human” proclivities. In all fairness, the thing does have charm, and the whole “let’s play” concept almost approached tolerably cute until thunder tore into the sky and HOLY CRAP, CAT HAS CLAWS. CAT HAS CLAWS. Needless to say, I’m slightly dazed today for lack of proper slumber.

One thick pair of cold weather running pants, one pair of winter socks, one tank top, one Monty Python Silly Walks shirt, one H.I.M. shirt, one pair of gloves, and one purple mountain bike later, I successfully braved the elements to terrorize the neighborhood on bikeback. Not quite as entertaining as its equine equivalent, but you do what you can. On one hand, clearly my biology requires greater proximity to the equator. On the other, the universe has a verrrrrry formidable opponent.

And ever onward. Three black-clad and multi-hued-haired teenagers clustered around the side steps at the venue when I pulled in, evidently seeking prime positioning for the show this evening. Our bar manager Tower A slunk against the front stoop tucking in to a bag of McDonald’s, his massive 6’8” frame folded against the thick breeze. He almost bears comparison to Turtle of Entourage in his attire – today, an oversized Orchid purple windbreaker and matching flat sneakers, which clashed spectacularly against the constellation of tattoos webbing both arms.

Past the harangued weekend box office girl (tattooed, but I like her anyway), up the eighty-plus year old stairwell, into the offices. I started fishing through my backpack for office keys only to have a completely illuminated hallway and ajar entryway halt the process, and as I strode down the hallway two voices chattering in quick Spanish ceased. “Umm. Hello.” Evidently we’re recarpeting this weekend.

I located mice remnants in my office and executed my standard pushup routine with a slight measure of trepidation, expecting to encounter Remy or his counterparts. (Hmm… perhaps ought to enlist the assistance of the aforementioned furry creature? Whoa. Insight.) Noticed too late that I ought to have invested in a foam mat or something – I have acquired a sizeable tailbone bruise as payoff for my attempts to better myself via sit-up. Nothing compared to horse tumbles; just enough to twinge.

Currently positioned in the conference room amidst the scattered, dust-adorned innards of a gutted office. Stacks upon stacks of portable filing cabinets, bearing the names and dates of upcoming shows. A rack of mail, partially-opened, with a row of green sticky tabs protruding that bear such eloquent text as You won’t believe this crap and You’ll hate this crap. Partially-melted scented candles, the wax slightly coated on the edges. A rolling chair with metal backing, a box of unopened Green Day bobbleheads stacked upon it. Miniature replicas of a violin and harp, signed by someone of presumable repute.

The Gaslight Anthem have coiled through three songs thus far in the Rave, employing the time between them to noodle through guitar licks and gleefully pound the backbeat. No idea whether these constitute actual tracks, as I have no working knowledge of their catalog, but they seem above decent without vocals (which leave something to be desired for the non-punk-aligned among us). Hurrah for earplugs.

After all that.

People will tell you where they've gone,
They'll tell you where to go
Until you get there yourself
You never really know.
- J. Mitchell



En route passing a graveyard adjacent to a house adorned with Harley-Davidson garb, I experienced a fluttering, exuberant trepidation. Almost what one would encounter prior to a horse show, or an eagerly-anticipated assignation. I could not pin it to anything in particular, and eventually realized: I'm excited for the day. I'm excited for a perfectly ordinary day! I'm headed to work voluntarily because I sincerely enjoy it. How marvelous.

We interrupt this program to annoy you and make things generally aggravating.

Hup two heh hay hoo hay hoo heh heh HEH heh hep hep eee eye eee eye oh huh hup hup hup huh hup one two one two yeah hey yeah yeah yeaaaaah hey one one hep hep hep yep yep.

Right, so this would be soundcheck. You’re not missing anything, I promise.

Sometimes you live right.

The venue almost seems deserted after the abject chaos that unfurled yesterday. The interview panel setup on the Landing. Men in blue shirts and headsets scuttling about like cockroaches, steering wheeled boxes of equipment from the immense conglomeration of metal we call an elevator onto the Ballroom floor. At one point a rather massive fellow wandered into the Landing, strode purposefully into one of our promoter’s offices and hissed, “When are you gonna be done with that computer? I need to send an e-mail.” We locked the doors from that point forward. Other than that, your typical fare for a Ballroom live broadcast of a world championship fight.

Tech N9ne this evening (no idea; don’t ask) so I pulled in to three towering black semis backed against the loading ramp and various tour-clad gentlemen striding around pretending they’re important. Everyone’s a rock star – just ask them.

The weather has regrettably dipped to an extent that precludes my beloved evening bike rides. Sigh. I always enjoy playing Paperboy – weaving past the woman who walks her yippy Sheltie every night at 6:30, and the smattering of skateboard-toting teenagers who generally slink and snarl and unleash their angst upon the universe. Most of all, gawking at the houses and admiring the yards. Hopefully this weekend.

Our art fellow produces rather fantastic stretch canvas photographs, so I enlisted his assistance to decorate my office subsequent to replacing the deafeningly white walls with a deep teal color. At this point I have Joni Mitchell and Walt Disney on either side of my door, a show jumper coasting over a Swedish oxer and the Castle from Walt Disney World on my left, and a giant spread of horses grazing in a paddock amidst morning fog on my right. A few more photographs and some Christmas lights crisscrossing my ceiling, and I believe I shall have stamped myself upon the structure. Have I mentioned that I adore this non-toxic atmosphere? It seems as though I upgraded from Preppie to Hippie.

As I type, the stagehands have elected to check the PA system in the Pantheon by blasting the Hell Freezes Over version of “Hotel California.” Sometimes you live right.

Adventures with Allergies, Vol. 1

“I’m sick of following my dreams.
I’m just going to ask ‘em where they’re going
and hook up with them later.”
● M. Hedberg



● Awoke with an entire parallel galaxy crammed inside my nasal cavities, and the most peculiar sensation of falling every time I repositioned myself.
● At the gym, skittered through two languages before remembering the English for “good morning.” Now reasonably certain the bloke at the front desk presumes me a nutter.
● The world seems to exist in shutter speed, each frame skittering itself against the next in a peculiar array on which I cannot quite focus my perceptions.
● Operating on auto-pilot as my innards attempted to align themselves, mistakenly inquired to our box office girl, “How’s your day?” I typically do not employ that expression unless I actually care, as women consider it the prompt for a twenty-minute conversation. Spent the duration of the monologue mentally recapping the stocks I have earmarked for possible investment. If I can manage to navigate the website given my current precarious state.
● It’s only one o’clock. One can only imagine what else shall ensue.

Yuck.

Peaches frighten me. Fuzzy or smooth? Pick a side. Don't just perch there all half-furred and calm.

Also, the terd who keeps ringing my cell only to hang up after hearing my voice has no idea with whom he is contending. Who rings someone at 5:30 in the morning?

None at all.

“Would it be rude of me to inquire if there is any insanity in your family?”
● You Were Never Lovelier



The full-time experience proves most fascinating. Everyone here dresses casually, so I have reverted to my default preppie mode of emulating Fred Astaire’s casual attire. Speaking of, TCM aired the 1949 Fountainhead on Monday night – vintage movies never abandon their appeal. About time for another viewing of Cover Girl.

Never a dull moment, here. I pulled in this morning to three giant trucks in the front lot, with army-ant stage hands scuttling about unloading equipment for the live broadcast of the Fighting Championships tomorrow. Evidently in addition to our internet stream it will air on ESPN with a feature on NBC.

We conversed at length with GWAR’s manager today, and acquired the rights to execute a live, pay-per-view stream for their concert on Halloween - the first of its kind, really. We will hash the particulars of the contract later this week.

I can’t believe this is my lifeeeeeeeeeee.

Well, excuse my excitement.

Random update. We have a meeting tomorrow to renegotiate a ticketing contract – it bears comparison by mass to the Oxford English Dictionary, with page after page of the proud, tiny print I find so invigorating. Triton blithely suggested that I photocopy the contract and sleep with it under my pillow this evening.

Hah. Hah.

Running

I run a lot. It keeps me from smacking people with blunt objects. Never far enough, long enough, fast enough to grind the rust off of my anger and thereby render it operable. But, at a high enough velocity, I can almost pretend I’m clutching Winfield’s back as he gallops across an open field of weeds; my fingers coiled in his long mane, the feathery tips of weeds licking my bare feet, the sense of possibility all encompassing and expansive and endearing.

About sixty-two today; bloody cold.

Of Age

Altair in Mathmagic Land. The papers say 27. Odd. I feel 17. People tell me I look 22. The reflection seems the same as always. My mentality oscillates between 70 and 12; both points where one cannot perceive the utility in societal norms or any behavior that does not have a direct correlation to personal enjoyment.

So I suppose 27’s as good a number as any.

The Perils of Bank Deposits

Traversed this morning over the river and through the woods to one of our banks, situated between Far Far Away and Far Far Far Away (roughly), and they had the nerve to not even greet me with cookies.

Anyway, I’m plucking through the latest Time in the lobby whilst they confirm the money straps when the manager emerges from her throne – er, office – to commute amongst the peons. I notice peripherally, between an analysis of the current mortgage market and a precaution against embarking upon real estate ownership, that she has aimed herself toward the money counting room, which never bodes well. Sure enough, she emerges with that false levity in her manner that makes my eyes want to roll into the back of my head and implore that she Reach the Point Now, Please.

“We have a bit of a problem,” she emerged from the teller’s area with a ten-dollar piece of legal tender in each hand. “This is a real bill, and this is a fraudulent bill.” She then, needlessly, proceeded to highlight the numerous disparities between them, in the event that I lacked the capacity for visual inspection.

“…so,” I segued back into my body as her voice indicated the impending demise of her speech. “We need to deduct this from your deposit.”

Really? I never would have guessed! “Fine.”

The entire ordeal would not have proven quite so aggravating had she not eyed me with all the suspicion amassed in years of tellerdom, as though I had painstakingly employed hours I do not have at my disposal in a nonexistent basement to construct the bloody thing myself.

Encounters

All romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café.
● J. Mitchell

Biking outside in the mid-seventies, I often break my own nothing-sleeveless-nothing-too-tight clothing mandate to don second-skin biking shorts and a tank top. Most occupants of my neighborhood remain indifferent whether I’m sporting jeans or an Elton John lime green track suit; but, when I hit a main road and thus encounter the snooty types of bikers who cram their oversized bodies into fruity little outfits with sponsorship names plastered on their butts, then I topple into trouble.

Take today. I’m twirling along, admiring the crystallized sorrow of a gigantic weeping willow (it seems to embody the abandoned dreams of all the skies) and enjoying “Heartache Tonight,” when a triad of the aforementioned fruity bikers clip past on my left, calling to each other over the wind. As I sport a mountain bike with the resistance jacked to the highest setting, bikers typically pass with a slight hand wave. But no; no pleasantries or concessions to decency today! One particularly clever one in the pack decided to pull right in front of me, his back tire about two centimeters from clipping my front, and then pointedly adjusted his seat positioning. They all shared a hearty laugh and glanced back at me.

Guys ought to gang up on these types of people instead of the gays, on the grounds that they give that half of the species a bad rap. What was I supposed to do? Swoon?

And just when I fear that between excessive ingestion of lawsuits, an abnormal fixation on abnormal psychology, and one too many court room appearances I have acquired a genuine apathy toward every other human on earth, I encounter someone who intrigues me, and every sprig of inherent interest I ever harbored reignites. There’s a bloke at the gym who speaks to me occasionally. He has this whole towering thing where he actually does not actively make any motion but his 6’-plus kind of boasts all over my 5’6” and I involuntarily relinquish the ability to think properly or feel my knees. It’s rather enjoyable, sometimes, to abandon your otherwise ironclad self-control.

In completely unrelated news, I passed a mirror today and almost recognized myself.

Delicious Recklessness

“You just want someone to talk to,
they just want to get their hands on you.”
● Eagles

Meandered outside for a walk at 1:47 this morning because, as previously discussed, freedom has infused me of late with a delicious sense of recklessness.

I spied with my little eye…

… two stray black cats who roam the apartment lot, tucked beneath the left rear tire of a large SUV.

… one skittering shadow accompanied by a series of tiny nails, presumably the silhouette of a squirrel concerned about the state of his nuts. You and me both, buddy.

… four silently observant security cameras.

… one University of Illinois College of Law license plate on the back of a particularly handsome Jeep.

… one Kentucky license plate in the parking lot of an adjacent apartment complex.

… Deneb, Vega and Altair aligned in the Summer Triangle.

… two illuminated windows in a condo revealing a dark-haired fellow crouched over a keyboard, tapping furiously and occasionally pausing to gulp unknown contents from a Styrofoam cup (methinks Neil Young would not approve).

… one proud figure in blue/orange flannel pants and an orange fleece jacket, smiling for no particular reason at her reflection.

Stopping in to Work on a Saturday Evening

Q. How many security guards does it take to clear a puddle?

A. Four. One to actually do the work, two to stand on the stoop smoking and observing, one to insert massively nugatory criticism.

Remind me why I pay these people.

The Floor. It Vibrates.

Hinder soundchecking downstairs… they sound like the watered-down aggrandizement of Aerosmith and every mediocre hard rock band that ever blew out a garage.

The Dizziness of Freedom Is Intoxicating

I had not realized how far my psyche had progressed from this point two years ago. Perhaps it’s due to my abandonment of the attorney lifestyle. Perhaps it’s attributable to my sheer will and determination. But I seem to have emerged from the darkness.

Now the official in-house counsel and CFO of a concert venue. No more clients. No more court rooms. No more suits. No more suicidal tendencies. No more rat race. No opposing counsel eyeing my rear end like a slice of turkey. No visiting clients in prison on holidays.

I’m FREE. As of now, I’m a free attorney-turned-businessman.

Sometimes it just hits me: this is my life, and I can do whatever I want.

Isn’t it marvelous?

I should have done this two years ago.

THUPTHUPTHUP

SIRIUS INTERNET RADIO APPLICATION FOR THE DROID NOW AVAILABLE.

An entire station devoted to Broadway. A '70s station. Opera. Bluegrass. All my beloved niche markets, available at the brush of a fingertip.

QUITE POSSIBLE I MIGHT DIE FROM HAPPINESS.

Things I Miss About Law School

Other than the mind-numbing, teeth-disintegrating stress.
● The sense of purpose.
● Always having too much reading or briefing to breathe, and just adoring it.
● Bounding out of bed at six in the morning with my stomach an absolute coil of barbed anxiety.
● Knowing my mother would never even consider driving four and a half hours to arrive unannounced.
● My wonderful, wonderful, beyond fabulous apartment. Completely adored that thing.
● The piano teacher Koreans who lived below me in said apartment. In my second bedroom (the art room) I could hear the students playing, and they always had some strange concoction wafting through the floorboards so I never felt alone.
● Taking a walk around the pond on the premises of said apartment at night, just meandering around and glancing in the windows, wondering what transpired within.
● The Plant Man at said apartment. This Neil Young doppleganger had an entire garage and apartment of plants.
● Tucking into the library or the Auditorium, all of us studying together alone.
● Happening upon a group of high-wire 1Ls and emitting some variant of loud noise. They ricochet like super balls.
● Listening to Sirius radio during the four-and-a-half hour drive to school every Sunday evening.
● The skydivers who soared right over the freeway roundabouts the three hour mark during warmer months.
● The ladies at the gym every morning, who decided to adopt me as a surrogate daughter and always inquired as to my progress.
● The guy at the coffee shop who would ask me every morning as I acquired four shots of espresso, “Are you an attorney yet?” When I shook my head he would shrug, “Keep trying.”
● Warmer, longer summers.
● The entire town essentially revolving around orange and blue.
● The cherry trees that lined the road leading to my parking spot at school.
● Studying at the arboretum, and taking breaks to watch the horticultural students investigate one thing or another.

Days of Holly?

I hate holidays. I hate being forced to take a day off from work. I hate the insinuation that I should spend time with a family whom (with one member’s exception) I abhor. I’m jealous that people in the world actually look forward to visiting their mother on these types of occasions. I hate the emptiness of open hours. I hate that I can’t ride horses anymore, because “days off” have meant “days spent riding” for as long as I can remember so now they’re days of mourning for what I can’t have.

So, yeah. I hate holidays.

Open Letter to Don Henley

Dear Sir,

One Mr. Kenny Chesney has seen fit to inflict a song titled “The Boys of Fall” upon a hapless, unsuspecting country music public. Said unwilling recipient has not engaged in any activity meriting such outright abysmal treatment, but I digress. You seem to delight in your role as the trigger-happy legal enthusiast. Why not target someone who actually deserves it?

“The Boys of Summer” makes me ache inside. You really ought to heed its legacy. A blathery meander to nowhere about football, of all things. Honestly.

Signed with every ounce of admiration,

A concerned fan.

I never realize how interesting I am until I talk to a stranger.

The Date.
Me: So, do you engage in any hobbies other than soccer?
Him: No, that's basically my life.
Me: Oh.
Him: What television are you into?
Me: I don't have a tv.
Him: Oh.
Me: Have you read anything of merit lately?
Him: What?
Me: Who's your favorite author?
Him: I don't like to read.
Me: Oh.
What a relief my enjoyment of life has no direct correlation to my dating status; goodness! I should have played the "Did I mention I'm bisexual" card. I'll bet that would have enlivened the conversation.

Stopping by Walgreens on a Saturday Evening

Clerk: [after eyeing me with a motive I was unable to deduce and scanning my Chapstick] I had a duck come in and try to buy some of these the other day.
Me: A duck?
Clerk: Yes. I asked if he wanted to pay by cash or credit and he said just to put them on his bill.

Whatever they pay him, it’s not enough.

Dad, Psychotherapist.

Dad's analysis of me: "You're a great person to talk to. But you just make it as difficult as humanly possible for anyone to get to know you."

Boy, just when you think no one knows you at all...

Hmm, Continued.

Why do people drive in circles to find a close parking spot at the gym? You're going inside to sweat. Defeat the point, party of one?