Columbia living is so completely random. The latest addition to the mosaic is one Ms. V&Y, who I met ages ago. We both still had each other's cellnumber still in our respective programs, though completely unused to this day. While this status in frequency may not change, the mosaic does...

"He wakes up at 9:30 a.m., two hours after his shift should've began.
Phonecall: 'Hey, I'll be right over. Sorry for the lateness.
'It's too late. You're history.'
'You mean, fired...'
'Sorry,'
' ... '
Of all the stuff he'd done, it's not showing to work that got him. He types it later."

I'm a border jumper! "We set off from this small town south of El-Paso, with my ID drivers card (which's not for drivers) to raid Vino from California like my American counterpart, Playboy Prez Bush raids oil from that one place." Vino, vino, nosotros quieros vino. "She's a border jumper!"

The Wednesday Headache

This job (Lakota) is making me nervous. Late on payroll, always scrapping for money, and now talk about my hours... I used to call this place my Fortress of Solitude. Now I fear the fort is sinking in the sand. Me with it? Yet to be decided. Either way, ... Bollocks!

This chick walks ahead. "Nice legs," I think. I see her glaring at me.
"OK," I begin thinking, until the legs grow nearer, enough to tell her identity of Ms. Particles. She beams a cutesy smile, and upon signal reaction I beam back.
"Damn," I think. She got me again.

2 for Tuesday

The bird sat for a moment on the pavement as I approached my machine. It started to fly, forgetting that its wing'd been broken — possibly by a motorist. It continued trying. An old man across the street shouted "Kill it," from his alcohol-parched lips, wheelchair. With pity, I drove away.

"My Mommy Loves Me," in white letters across a little boy's T-shirt, the boy is happy, possibly victim to obesity and/or ADHD. His mother scrawls alphabet characters on an etch-a-sketch, quizzing him. Unamused by this, he sways, laughs at me for some reason. A usual day at the Post Office.

Sentimental Sunday — Part 2

What a night. Everyone in the world was having a get-together. Campfires, S'mores, and songs songs songs.
But something was missing. Ms. 2012 texted me as I was chowing down a chapter of my book; the text was of a disconcerting nature, meaning she wasn't coming out. Dejected and with not much else to do, I decided to stay inside my apartment that night and do nothing.
Oh, and then here came Ms. Kitty, who just happened to be heading to the same Summer Solstice gathering to which I was invited just that morning. A quick drive into the country and we were at this gorgeous house set back into the trees, with a lake, a huge firepit, and an awesome house equipped with a complete, jealously-inspiring library, guitar in every room, vaulted ceilings that smelled of cedar and flowers, and a ton of dinner in the way of your basic cookout spread. Oh, and there was merriment. Refreshments, compliments of Eastgate and your friendly neighborhood liquorman, Music, compliments of years of your friendly neighborhood guitardude not having much to do but play guitar for about a decade, Time on the dock, Frolicking in the forest, Stories nearing the edges of every social spectrum (and some smack in the middle, too), etcetera.
Promises, promises; I had to leave to go and see the brand new Mr. & Mrs. Yates, equipped with some champagne and my tunebox, we traded songs on into the nighttime, took various pictures with Messrs. Rosenblatt and Epping not all of them sobering, and dined on fine chocolate, fresh fruit and top-notch Shakespeare's.

Now it was somewhere in between the time I played for the new married couple my song called "The Marrying Kind," and the time that Mrs. Yates played a song she'd written across the world for her then-boyfriend and now husband, that I was taken aback, however briefly. After Mrs. Yates finished her ditty, she recalled when she'd written it, and quipped something to the tune of: "Wow, that was a long time ago. I was single back then, ..." and that made me think. What sort of perspective will my songs have after I'm married? Will I ever be married? The song that I played was about a certain type that I've run into quite a bit, whom are not the marrying kind. At least not yet...
My mind went to the mock-proposal I gave Ms. 2012, the one she accepted with the same heartfelt comical way: with a real smile and a real kiss. And with that thought through my head, and her having bailed on such a great evening, I declined the invitation back to KOPN, to Mr. Dustin's place, to Ms. Musical Skin's place, to Mr. Peterson's "Day," and even to stay, and went home wondering if it will ever work for me and another woman.

Sentimental Sunday — Part 1

You step into the bar. It's a low-key joint. The people therein talk to each other respectively; while their voices rise slightly above the three-piece group in the back, smoke curling around the fretboard of the upright, over and quickly away from the speedy jazz hi-hat, conversation and melody do not compete, but find a compromise among the equally respectful lighting.
You order a drink: "Jack and Coke, please," sit down, and the bartender turns casually toward the bottles. The bar is warm; there are friendly faces in the wings.
The band ends on a disresolute chord emphasizing the minor 13th, and you turn to offer your clapping hands to the sax, skins and bass. It's then that you see her standing across the room with another crowd.
A "wow" manages to escape from your lips; the girl is clearly gorgeous. With the long spindle legs slid into a pair of red wedgies, solid gray, form-fitting skirt, leading eyes up to her regal collar, left exposed from the dress, almost a vulnerability until your eyes land on her face, and the brown sweep of hair crossing over to her prominent cheekbones, as if given liberty to fall across her face and be held in control with simple wristwork. It's then that her eyes mirror back into yours, and the split-second occurs: Polite activity among social settings requires one to simply acknowledge the presence of another and mind your eyes to other locales. But neither you nor she has anything polite for each other.
"Your Jack & Coke," the bartender says, and you pass him a bill. You turn back around and she's gone. The band starts to play again. In a moment your mind will start to go back to the reason you're drinking alone at some nice, yet unknown, nightclub.
"You look familiar." The gorgeous girl in gray had in her short fingers a greenback folded down the middle and pointed toward your face, while her eyes held a gaze on the busy bartender. You turn to face her a bit.
"I get that a lot, but you look familiar, too," you say.
Her face turns: big, glassy, brown eyes, dark but glowing; high cheekbones, soft, all the appearance of conforming to smiles often; deep red lips in a smile currently, something casual, a smile one would expect at a time such as this. Though, the only thing unexpected is her, and that's where the rest comes to.
... Even though this girl is gorgeous, and even though you're about to find out that she's amazing — More than Amazing, she's fantastic! — and best of all, she's suitably unattached — no boyfriend, jilted ex, hanger-on, just as free as you — it's still not possible. Your past is still very much a part of who you are, and it's not going away any time soon. Even though you're free, there's still hesitation. "Why would I want to bring anyone else into my hell of a lovelife?" It's not fair to anyone, not anymore...
So you buy her a drink, talk for a while, think an awful lot about kissing those gorgeous lips, exchange numbers and end up kissing her hand outside the club's door and climbing into a cab.

You know, at some point in the last couple-three years, I lost control. Entanglements in which I was party've become crossed and criss-crossed double-time, engaging me to implusive dramas and ensuing in me, as always, mixed feelings. Lately, the mix has thinned. "I can't get peace until I get control."

"He tries to say goodbye.
'I've got to go,' he says, knowing it may be years until they meet 'in person' again.
'Muhmsumusaaaa!' Mr. Life says, rollicking for the moment with a nighttime random.
'Well, we have been saying goodbye all week, anyway.'
He walks home and types it later."

Good movie, good times. I'm not sure if I have it in me anymore. That is, not sure if I can go out on any kind of limb, no matter how sturdy. After my fucked-up semester, I don't want drama, or even anything nonchalant. I just want peace... yeah, peace.

The Wednesday Headache

As it seems, at the moment, the dark star over me is moving into another sky. Legal issues are pushing through, relationships with women in my life are becoming more "tame," I've written two songs. I am not counting out a mirage, but maybe — Maybe — my life is settling down.

Someone stole the pint of cranberry juice I left in my unlocked car last night. Left all my clothes, Lakota gear, The Car!, my cash, etcetera. Man have I been careless with my car. I can't help it — my thoughts tend to center on less important matters than defense. Bollocks!

This place is no longer called CoMo; it's called "Ex City." History has not only been on my mind, but all over the place. Various histories, too. Accordingly so, in Ex City, hindsight provides a merciful middleground between those share the history. Additionally, more frequent reminders curtail possibility of repetition.

There's a Chopin show at the Missouri Theatre Friday. My heart longs to attend, but, however, I've an inability to do so, which stems from my lack of partner these days. It's these little things that make me wonder whether I'm any better off. Contemplation, as always, produces mixed feelings.

Sentimental Sunday

Now, random events seem to be the only constant in my life. Even with this predictable variable, I find it difficult to predict the next cycle.
And so on, until the next block of time...

It was the final weekend in which Mr. Life and me were to sprawl out on the streets of Columbia, up to no good, cruising chicks that should have warnings or disclaimers clearly marked, drinking a wide selection of the very best libations... you know, fuckin' shit up Old-School. I had no idea that we'd be staring in our own respective motion pictures. Catch Mr. Life's work (under the name Stag Dreidellich) in the erotic thriller "A Seder to Remember." My own work appears under the name The NinØ, in the erotic thriller "El Fiesta in mis Panalones!" The talented Ms. Ruth, under the name Peppers Vonschnitzberger, graces the silver screen in her erotic thriller "Colour me Peppers, ja, ja ja!?" Catch Mr. Ellingsen, under the name ... wait for it ... Cabbage Nightsnack, in the erotic thriller "Midnight Cravings." (The Catchline: "Did anyone order a ... Snack?")
[Editor's Note: I soon hope to have cover art displayed for you.][Editor's Note: Yaa! Look at our combined movie billing. It's like a Grindhaus.]


Well, the fact of it all is Mr. Life will soon be no longer a Columbia kid. He'll be part of that other state, New Jersey, or Delaware, or Portugal, or something. He could probably chart my lovelife better than me. Could probably outdrink me, that is, if we were drinking something with a heavy base of Weinerschnitzel. OH! and if there were some naked German on the cover...
Basically: "So long to CoMo Mr. Life. I expect a weekly report from you via smoke signal."

[Editor's Note: For more fun regarding the improbable life I live, I went out to my vehicle this morning to find it splattered with one good-sized egg. As I later drove the vehicle through the automatic car wash, I thought about whether I deserved this. My car welcomed a wash, I'm sure, but did actions I've taken part in or taken control of necessitate a retaliation of this sort? Yeah, there're probably a few jilted exes our there, but none that would place their retaliation in such a crude, distasteful way. That is, I'm probably expecting to be slapped w/payback, just not like this.]

Well, this weekend was surely one for the books. My life remains crazy enough to—

At noon today, I came as close to becoming convinced to subscribing to a vegan diet as, perhaps, is and will be possible. This makes me wonder ... is any girl the kind of girl to give up eating meat for? No more salami, no more steak & potatoes? ... worth a thought.

No matter how many times I watch it, I always hope Jesse and Celine decide to stay together in Vienna. My heart always breaks at their final kiss on the train platform.
"That's the way love should be, not all this garbage like my life," I say. Such is life...

Mystery cellphonenumbers at 1:30 in the a.m. usually stir feelings of anxiety and paranoia mixed. However, after answering the phone I realized there was nothing to be worried about, mostly because it'd be impossible for her to get close enough to throw me from a building now. Safe, for now.

The Wednesday Headache

Last evening, Ms. Yellowhead relayed the news to friends, with whom I was sitting, that she'd be leaving town. She asked about my instinctual "smirk;" I didn't say it was a smile of elation — and naturally! With miles between, I'll not be able to witness, nor succumb, to her hobbies.

Today will mark four days without a drop of caffeine. Not a Drop! My faculties are, surprisingly, in excellent order. No withdrawals, which is strange considering I started "The Wednesday Headache" from what I could only conclude was a lack of caffeine on Wednesday, my day off. Such is life...

This Pynchon book's getting pretty nuts. There's this stuff, Æther, which supposedly filters light like media filter info. There's this ultimate weapon, this traveler chick, this dude addicted to explosive chemicals (who I've not heard from in a while) a dynamite ghost, another ghost fucking this once chick bonkers, and ...

2 for Tuesday

" 'I promise to try not to kick you in the crotch,' she said, he rubbing his jaw, still sore from a punch-up.
'I'll promise to not throw you off any tall buildings,' he replied.
'Aww,' she sarcastically pointed to her heart, 'that gets me, right here.'
He types it later."

This note's dedicated to a friend, Ms. Benji, who has celebrated a terrific yearly passage yesterday: the birthday. I say: "Happy Birthday," and hope that your summer is going swimmingly. I trust that the next year will bring twice as many good friends, to decorate, however momentarily, your blank canvas.

It's kind of nice that nobody asks questions of me in the newsroom. I mean, if someone does have a question, which it's likely I'll be more than qualified to answer, they're direction to others is welcomed by all parties. I can still slip in and out, happily, largely unnoticed.

Sentimental Sunday

During a storm, there are times when the leaves become as calm as dazed cattle, the clouds part and allow the sun to project a more complete range of colors through the disheveled mists, as if the medium of air were somehow infused with an efficiency to transport light that has a quality that's not unlike heavenly.
Saturday, I attended the second round of my Offender's Education course, a class imposed on me because of my criminal infraction (DWI), for which I've yet to go to court. The class was great, and I feel that the world would enjoy a better fate if it were not only for those who've had the misfortune to be put in a situation similar to mine.
After class, I took the guitar out to Stephens Lake Park, where I joined Ms. Myers and company lounging. We sang a few songs, stood on our hands, and after a few hours went back to East Campus where we dined on organic BLTs and a juicy mango. We read aloud the classic, "Slumber Party" by Christopher Pike, which is an erotic thriller.
A quick trip to Cooper's Landing and the sun set. Watching this from the dock, I couldn't help feeling completed in a personal, internal way. As darkness of night ensued, we watched the show: Belly Dancers and Fire Breathers. Afterward, too, singing around the campfire.
And after we'd climbed up the downtown building adjacent from the KOPN studio, a great ball of fire, followed by a handful of other explosions fireworked over downtown. It was at this point I lit one of a remaining handful of Egyptian cigarettes satisfied, and turned to Ms. Myers and said: "This has got to be one of the best Columbia day's I've had."
And it was. Yeah, it was a bummer that Mr. Peterson and his roommate had to act like jackasses and almost get everyone thrown in jail (while they escaped over the other side of the building of which we were all on top) but that was the only drag. And, they're still young so I guess I can't be too mad at them.
The weekend ended with a long convo with Ms. Wright, my only incorruptible friend.

Of all, here's a thought: The best thing a friend can give another friend is perspective.

Inspired by a cute little vegan, I've decided to curtail my caffeine intake to zero percent for a while. The inspiration came in transit -- as if from nowhere! -- while waiting for a sororitygirl to turn left. I tossed the FTOSFR outta the mug, into traffic. Why? Control over my body.

In the hour that I slept last night, I had a dream of Ms. Walker. My hair was short, blond. She introduced me to her boyfriend while her leg continued brushing mine under the table. After a moment, I leaned in and we kissed — and during kissing I awoke alone.

"The phone gives the text-message signal. She says she'd like to get her jacket from him — He doesn't drop it off.
'I'll have to face her,' he thinks, 'and I feel like an idiot.'
His redemption from being a transitory man will be harder than envisioned.
He types it later."

Out delivering coffee, I spotted a provocative little number crossing the street. Dark, sleek, mysterious, easily a 5-footer, she seemed more afraid of me than me of her. But who would kill whom? "Story of my life," I said, watching the blacksnake slip through the grass. She spared me today.

Justice

Scenarios turn and it was my turn to send a crazy text message last night. "Why'd you have to have a boyfriend" it read. Boy do I feel stupid. How can I be hung up on her, Ms. Particles, even now? Yes, it's surprising to me that I caught myself looking through my fakebook and resting my eyes momentarily on "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square," and remembering the last time I'd played it. It wasn't for no reason, though, maybe it was. And no matter how many times I forget it, it really hurt when she said it was all a mistake. Yeah. It didn't hurt right at first, but in retrospect...
It always hurts.
And it doesn't help that Ms. Yellowhead is always around. And, Ms. Babe will be around, tempting and just as much a potential burn as the rest.
At least, though, I've figured up what is really bothering me. It's something to do with justice. I'm not so naive as to think that justice exists among lovers and couples. Nevertheless, the world would enjoy a better fate if even the greater half of us would simply believe that such a concept is worth trying to live up to. In other words: Just because one can get away with sleeping around and keeping a lover at home, it doesn't mean that one should. Ms. Particles knows this, I think, and that's why she says I was a "mistake" (and that's why I feel terrible). Ms. Yellowhead, in all appearance, hopes to develop an even larger harem, pulling from a pool of potentials that include a number of friends and acquaintances to me. This bothers me, too. And, because there's no justice, (a pretty face can get away with just about anything) I've really no other choice than to watch others walk over my idea of justice for their own desires — desires that I once prized, regrettably, as much as the throng. I was once on both sides of the harem...
The history doesn't end there, admittedly. If it could be described as a book, I'd like to think that instead of learning the story from turning forward one would simply read subsequent chapters — as if starting into my life was like starting in the center of a book. However, the true nature of my life works in a circular pattern, requiring footnotes and more chapters.
And the real joke of it all is that the conflict never changes, even as the narrative proceeds. Such is life, right!?!?!?!?!

2 for Tuesday

So I got a message last night, the subject of which didn't exclude the pros and cons of a "fuck buddy." That, and saltpeter. My plan, about a year ago, was to use one to cancel the other. My advice: "The worst things happen when you do them to yourself."
[But don't take that as any kind of critique. I love you babe, and it's a certainty that you'll get yours someday. If I weren't a common mark for women who're attached to someone else, I'd see to it personally. I'd love to see you when our respective lives are given a little metaphoric saltpeter, in fact, I promise to see you then.]

Today marks the third straight day in a row that I have experienced an inability to sleep. My body is filled with energy, and it's not related to substances — in fact, I'm currently on a break from substances. While on this break, though, I've rented some nifty French existentialism. Yaa!

The second I woke up, my neck's ability to turn was given question. A muscle stiffens now on my left shoulder leading up behind my ear. And no amount of rubbernecking offers relief. I slept not a wink last night, dreams of history. It's always something with me, isn't it.

Sentimental Sunday

The day's shrinking continues.
A lot of issues circulate overhead, and are beginning to bleed into one another. How about complication: After making a mark of me, the lady-gaddabout has her sights set on a good friend (well, not completely well known, but genuine all the same). The course of action I've set up for is to allow things to simply play out. Nevertheless, a gentlemanly stature could override. Such is life...
The greater percentage of friends've left town. It's quiet. ... But not totally quiet. Example: "The crew" and me are on the move at this very second. Watch for the next timestamp.

TIMESTAMP—13:59:11
So, I slept it off. A night of bad gammon, radio transmission and a huge music library at the laboratories of 89.5/KOPN, more hippie shit, and honey beer has brought me right back around for another full cycle week. Right now, I'm reading the paper's wire offerings, and they are kinda lame. And you know, last night I could've had yet another round of "history repeating." Well, maybe... probably not. The stage was set, though. She was tired of her boyfriend, and vocalized it discreetly. She and I exchanged glances that remain no more ordinary than friendly, which offer a skeleton romance upon retrospect within a fallout. She is beautiful, a fact I've observed for a cycle you could call lengthy.
However, fortitude came to me while listening to a really sexy song and looking through a tiny window to the night lit by the kind gleam of the moon. Fortitude: Even if history were to begin to write again the same story for me, which remains somewhat unlikely (she's a good girl, someone her boyfriend and friends can trust (but then again, how many times've I had the mixed feelings in my stomach on documenting that disruption of paradigm)), I feel bolstered inside. I hesitate to state that "I've changed" without stronger evidence than "I was fortified after looking at the moon," but I would've passed the test last night, fortified.

RANDOM EXCHANGE:
"So you have a girlfriend?—" playing with her hair—
"—no—"
"You want a girlfriend?—" pointing fingers toward air as if addressing an invisible list—
"—no—" laughing now—
"I know lotsa girls,"
"No, no. I'm through for a good while."

I do miss kissing though. It seems like it's ages since I've kissed a girl that really wanted to kiss me back — for more than just kissing for the moment. Last time it was a bittersweet night, due to semester's end ... the last really great kiss. *sigh* You know, one of those kisses that comes after a really fun date, and the two of you are laughing and walking and you catch a bit of her eye smiling like yours must be, and you both slow walking, and stand just a hair closer than usual, and: "I'm having a good time," and you see her lips, carrying a subdued glow of the streetlight on the soft, unpainted, crimson, thin skin, and your hand softly touches the cool back of her forearm — maybe it's a touch cold outside — and eyes close and your lips brush hers, soft at first, as if in stalemate where both hearts offer only louder cries of breaking, and it feels right, sinking into a warmth that comes from a mixture of the pulse doubling and the background light fading away, toward a high that would perhaps last for days, weeks, random phone calls, a return to romantic playfulness, dates, and smiles that match eyes with nothing more behind them than the genuine romance shared, trust for the moment...
But I suppose I should be concerning myself with more important issues — like tomorrow's wire offerings! So that's it for now. Hmmm, quite a literal post, No? Not my usual fucked-up mess of words, Right? Regardless, be good fuckers!

Strange, disturbing news folks. Seems that one of the previously documented lady-gaddabouts' prospective-marks is a good friend of mine, who is honest, sensitive and worth it to someone who cares, which is not the lady-gaddabout in question. Torn, I observe a bit of radio silence, or at least pseudo-naming silence.

It's a little funny. Ms. Yellowhead waits seemingly around every corner, every turn. Last night, she interjected during goodbye shots. Even now, she's just over there, in the coffeeshop.
*Hrumph*
At least she didn't spoil goodbye shots. You should have a fun summer, Ms. Amur. Remember: "Keep the lipstick black."