18/30: TFW: TBT/FBF

Never underestimate your capacity for:

                                           creative cosplay

                                           the duckface you mock in others

                                           hair so bad you swore never again until today,

                                           then, the mirror, the howcomenoonetoldme?

Never overestimate the social market for:

                                          creative duckface

                                          the cosplay you mock in others

                                          eyehangs so bad you swear next time will be sun

                                          glasses, or more water, or sleep, or no allergies.

Okay, fine.

It was the summer of pastel sweaters, went so

far to flirt with polos, didn't like yacht rock but

wanted invites to the parties. didn't have a 401K

but could agree about Murakami and headfake through

a conversation about Rose. far less responses to 

this post from when, but you were less connected then/

whatever

happened to that scarf?

Never underestimate your capacity for:

                                               nostalgia for coping-benders

                                               nostalgia for drunk poetry readings and the afterlaughs

                                               nostalgia for inadequate grocery stores

                                               nostalgia for the people with the droning speech and 

                                               single college anecdote 

soyoungthen.

Never overestimate your tendency to:

                                              overfilter photographs of milk/ cookies.

                                              self-congratulate for reality television

                                              idle judgement on a brew of coffee as your frozen

                                              pizza burns.

but at least I--

It was the winter of mixed drinks. like most winters,

punctuated by January's forced moderation and the 

half-week of snowball fights. the best thing about it,

even then, were the pictures of friends, best ones,

collapsed in banks outside rest areas. action shots

snowballs quick and in-frame. that was a time ago,

now, algorithm calculated for nostalgia,

for when it snowed,

when we were

there, naming our adventures

when that was even a frame

we'd all be in.

 

               .                                

11/30: Knives For Sale

"Why on earth would you ever need a knife?”-- Concerned Younger Sister
“In case I need to stab someone. Duh.”-- Me.

This collection of knives
For sale to not the highest,

                But first

Bidder.

I want them gone. My wrist action

Is tired, I don’t fancy a quick garrotting

Any more.

They are sharp, clean, in good condition,
they should go to someone I know,

Who will use them well.

I’m neither as tough
Nor noble

As I thought.

So here, for  a reasonable-- I’m not
Asking much; pick them up or walk.

We’ve been having this conversation too long.

And either way
You’ll get them.

When Coffee Becomes Whiskey

and emotional entitlement in the name of sincerity.

There's a disturbing upward trend in the amount of espresso needed to be enthused about things. Function I can do just fine, but in work and relationships and finding new places to live and responding to the question "what's new?" ("increased hair loss!") there's a certain amount of enthusiasm that's wanted by the askers. Not just an "I'm-so-excited" sort of enthusiasm, but the more specific, emotionally subdued, but still intense sincerity of an answer. The sort of convincing that can deflect the follow up "are you REALLY fine" question, usually from old friends or people at the bar who especially pride themselves on being genuine and not phony.

and yes, sometimes you need a person to shake you out of auto-response, but the whole "people never say what they mean when you ask them how they are" meme, one passed down from generation to generation of sincere, artistic, caring people (who are just searching for SOME sort of human connection in this increasingly disconnected yar blargh ermpha hrmpha) fails to recognize a few basic things:
One is that sometimes people are actually fine. Not great, not awful, not particularly qualifiable, just, you know, alright. No one's died, no one's got a raise, the level of laid-getting remains steady as what it has been, the movie was decent.
Another is that if you are my friend and you trust me, after the first "wait, really? because you look sorta. . ." (which yes, annoying questions are a basic tenant of friendship) then respect the fact that, at the very least, I don't want to talk about it. And just as likely, I am telling the truth. If you think I am constantly lying about my emotional state at all times, then you have shitty taste in friends.
Aaannnnnnnnnnd, if you're a stranger, keep in mind that while every now and then an honest "you know, I've had a shitty day" is refreshing, you really want me to be fine. Or at least you don't want me to be all "Yeah, I'm not having a good day, but unless you're about to cut me a check for 200,000 and give me a full deep-tissue massage, there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it, kiddo."
It is important when dispatching ostensibly well meaning strangers that you call them "kiddo," especially if they're old and fought in a war.

All this relevants to the in-between-strangers-and-friends relationships that occur around moving, as I'm about to go do some paperwork on a spot I want to move into, and all the attendant lite schmooze that requires, and after four shots of espresso and an egg fried with spinach onto flattened bread, all I really want to do is take a swing.

Raging gracefully

I have, upon much consideration, changed the title of this blog to one that didn't involve a pun about corpse-fucking. I'm not sold on "thats no way to make friends" as a blog title, but I like it as the title of SOMETHING, so here it is for now.

The new Nacho Picasso record is even better than the last two, and it all moves a little bit tighter. If you see me wandering around hillman, lake city muttering kicking down windows, high on cocaine! you can blame Seattle's burgeoning prominence on the national hip hop scene, and remember that singing it is probably better than doing it.

Feeling angry? Unsatisfied with the current level of critical discourse? Witness the usual mix of incisive verbosity and lowbrow brutality in Andrew Falkous' evisceration of a music reviewer. Granted, Falco is (as usual) a little bit tough on the lad-- it's a thankless job, I know-- but by and large he had it coming.