Sentimental Sunday

RoKc LoBsTeR

It's official: I've got the world's worst friends.
After an unexpected early night working at the pizza place I decided to remain downtown and indulge in this fair city. So I purchased a beverage and settled into a chair proceeding to dial up what friends I do have. But one after the other showed their respective selves unavailable.
Slightly dejected, a feeling I'm growing more acquainted with recently, I stepped around the restaurant where I spotted Ms. Pratt and another woman, Ms. N-Chapstick. We three talked for quite some time, drank, and had a flippin' blast at Club Shattered, a Saturday night destination I've been trying to make for way too long. And they played Rock Lobster!
... But really, what the fuck everybody?
After we said goodbye I ended up throwing on my cutoffs (yes, I own cutoffs. Nobody was ever supposed to see them) and walking to Hardee's where — who could've seen this coming? — Ms. "It's whatever" happened to be in the back seat of a car in the queue for drive-through service. I hopped in and we ended up watching "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" and singing songs until a sunrising 5 a.m. No funny business though. As it turns out, she may be attached to some dude now. Who would'a thunk it?
... But really, what the fuck everybody?

Red Eye

The name of my first guitar is The Red Eye. I've been playing it quite a bit recently, considering that it's now my sole guitar. Back when it wasn't (my sole guitar) I didn't play it all that much. Recently, I've come back to an old friend.
I've a lot of stories with that old guitar. ... slamming around in the back of a pick-up tearing down Highway 71 playing classic rock tunes to a couple of cute stonerettes on our way to the fire ... taking the GL down to the river with Mr. Bradley (my guitar hero) and trading original songs ... playing that first open mic at that bar in Joplin — I was wearing my "Class of 2000" T-shirt and was only 20 years old at the time, and I ordered milk — what was the name of it? Kalidascope? ... watching the stars light up on one of the picnic tables in the common area of the Crowder College dorms ... OH! campfires with the CC crew: Mr. Brewer, Ms. Callaway, Mr. Rivas, Mr. JR, Mr. Gavin, Ms. Ulmer, Ms. Gina, Mr. Bashor, Mr. LaMontia, Ms. Gibson, Ms. C-Hester, such good times ... and all those songs I wrote. All those classics.
It's nearly impossible to describe. It's kind of like coming home after hard work.

Gives me the creeps

Resolving to stay inside the walls of my cell (apartment) Friday night, and after Ms. Rooftop blew off a date for that evening, I rented a few motion pictures. One of them was the psychological thriller Mulholland Dr., director David Lynch. In my desire to simply be alone that night, I activated the function on my cell phone that sends all calls straight to voicemail.
So I watched the motion picture — lights off, snacks frittered and out of sight, incense blowing, dark & gloomy inside. At a key mindtwist in the film, my voicemail light begins to blink on the cell.
The voicemail:
Hey man, here's your detailed message mutha fucka! *laughs a bit* Yeah, I was calling to see— I'm looking to get that six (__inaudible__) I'm trying to pay my new landlord, and yeah. Sooo, any time you can get that $60 to me would be cool. OK, peace brotha.
Since the call went straight to voicemail, I wasn't able to see his number. He knows who I am, so in his mind he's not mistaken. But, he is mistaken. I owe nobody but Mr. Kravitz money.
But he did leave a few clues. 1) He said "mutha fucka" and laughed, jokingly. This means he's never heard my voicemail before. 2) His voice sounded pretty familiar, and he spoke as if I should know him. 3) He ended his message with "peace."
Of course the better clue would've been if he left his name and number (like I asked in my voicemail), but nevertheless, I did scrape my brain and come up with a lead. A certain Shadowfigure has been popping up in my life recently. In the past, there'd been a level of anxiety he'd imposed on me, but all that is metaphoric water under the bridge. A few weeks ago he called me and left a voicemail inviting me to his party. He ended his message with "peace."
So, no-brainer.
I called up Mr. Darnel (the Shadowfigure) and he picked up. "No I haven't called you for a few weeks now," is what he said. Anyway, we chat for a moment and he tells me that a mutual friend of ours — the person in the middle of Mr. Darnel and mine's aforementioned anxiety — had headbutted him earlier that day. We were supposed to meet and discuss this incident sometime this weekend, but never did.
Moving along, I convinced myself that the voicemail in question was merely a wrong number. And at around that time, someone I do owe money to called me up, called me over to Snapper's, and we drank and maybe, finally, got back on good footing.
... But really, how creepy is that? And during a David Lynch picture!


OK, I guess that's it for now lovelies. The past week has given me a lot of twists and turns, which more and more, as I recall, is ever how my life turns out. ... Maybe I'll call up Ms. N-Chapstick. Maybe.
Maybe not.

I fuckin' made Ten American Dollars last night! How? I sang; my guitar did most of the work.
Last night was such a blast I have no idea. I would have made more had it not been for this weirdo with the mandolin/guitarra come barge in on my corner. Bollocks!

Days like today are what life is all about. As Mr. Collins and me opined earlier: "The sun shines through all this Æther like plasma through a beating heart." Waking up inside warm arms to someone beautiful, walking into the morning mist, sunshine all around. Captured! — as Ms. Trinklein emotes...

"Love...
Love until the pain of keeping
it bottled up kills you.
Pour it unto the earth at
a flooding rate."

Go ahead, start that stopwatch. I went down to the business place and bought some — ready for this? — "Exceptional Resume Paper: Includes Professional Resume Guide". Ten Dollars American. I even got fancy manila&clasp envelopes into which to put information printed on this special grade.
Now, I'm like an international playboy.

The Wednesday Headache

Double payday! I'm sitting on a nice pillow of electronically filed cash. Perhaps I'll use some of it to pay back debts incurred over the last year. Yes. Yes I will. (Well, put money toward those debts, anyway.) Maybe even insert some class into the transaction. Yeah, class it up.

After receiving a thoughtful comment regarding the abstract version of myself available at facebook.com, my train of thought shifted toward hireability. While being content's a plus, I'm now asking myself: "Should I consider contentment?", "Do I have a choice?"
There is one place I'd like to become an option — fingrzcrossst.

I dreamt of Ms. Smythe last night. She'd come to visit, said she'd a time machine.
"Oh Phillip, the future is so beautiful," her voice authentically hers as I remember. She described futurepeople accurately capturing their otherworldliness.
Anyway, it was good to kiss her again — in the dream, of course.

"He calls up a good friend.
'I don't care that you blew me off. I only cared then because I'd a "nice" date & a weird/stressful weekend — was looking forward to scotch & sunset w/you. Call me soon, sushi & sake.'
He closes his phone after leaving the voicemail and types it later."

When I look at the jobs seemingly available to me through a Web site devoted to exhibiting them, I wonder what it is I am doing at all. Like a future is not for me; breaking rocks and cleaning toilets is for me. Like I almost succeeded in kidding myself.

Sentimental Sunday

So I just had a date with a girl who's friend was my part-time lover who blew me off for some other dude and is now in Arkansas, and who had told this new girl — the one from the date that just ended — that she could steal me away from her when me and my part-time lover were putting in some hours. I was just blown off by a good friend of mine because she's drinking with some friend who'd previously blown her off for unrelated issues. I blew off this new date, the one from tonight, to hang out further into the night so I could hang out with the friend, who'd blown me off already; I hadn't been privy to this information until moments ago.
Nevertheless, a lot of things have happened. I finally made it back into E-gate to say "hi" and drink a few with my old partner in crime Mr. Naro. In the past, when I was under the Gate's employ, we'd become so inebriated that important matters regarding store security, our respective luvlives, and our respective supporters and dejectors became mixed in a ritual we partook in every Friday.
But the highlight of the week occurred on Thursday when I took the guitar downtown.
For the past year or so I'd been using a guitar which belonged to Ms. Youngs' father. She needed it back for personal reasons, which left me with my old guitar that I played on back in high school. There're stickers on the back, the neck is ever-so-slighly warped, the bottom end of one of the frets catches the high e string — it'd been a while since we'd met. Now, forced upon each other, I became reacquainted with an old friend. I did this downtown, playing songs for random people, singing a few, etcetera.
You know, I feel a little dejected now that Ms. Amur ditched me — which doesn't surprise me all that much. But you know what else? I'm totally missing the sunset.
Man I hope there's one tomorrow. (Wait. I'll be working. I won't be able to see it.) I hope there's one Tuesday. (Wait. Same deal.) I hope there's one Wednesday. (Wait. You promised Ms. "It's Whatever" you'd see her that night.) Yeah, but she'll probably blow me off, too.

The last few days have been a little on the exhausting side. Good times all around. At 4 I must attend to the j-o-b, a place to where I've attended recently not to work but socialize. Soon, I'll find if my socialization had a consequence unforeseen.
Well, not completely unforeseen.

Hookah at Ms. Amur's. Drinkin' at Eastside Tavern's. Here's a creedo I thought of a while ago: Give more than enough. Take as you need. Live like you can. Do what you will.
You like?!?!?! Tell me obsequiously!
Now my heart is grown outta season. Pray for all.
(Nothing's Real.)

What's up with me? Today, I go from being lost in the throes of regret, to super excited, to bawling depressed, to flirty & fun, to loving life's twists, to crying mad, to anxious and restless inside. I'm turning my brains inside out, all this moodiness. ... I've got to get out.

Before I knew anything, I worked at a student publication where twice weekly I met with Mr. Weimer to discuss various occurences to which university police were party. Below, a media release summarizes a recent accomplishment of his. In lieu of communicating my "congradulations," I post them here. So: "Congradulations."

MEDIA RELEASE

Sept. 19, 2007
Contact: Captain B. Weimer
Office (573) ###-####
Cellular (573) ###-####

On Sept. 14, 2007, Captain Brian Weimer of the University of Missouri-Columbia Police Department (MUPD) graduated from the 230th session of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s (FBI) National Academy. The 230th session ran from July 9, 2007 through September 14, 2007. Specific courses attended by Captain Weimer were:

ÿ Interviewing Strategies Through Statement Analysis
ÿ Advanced Computer Crimes for Police Supervisors
ÿ Seminar in Investigative Interviewing
ÿ Fitness in Law Enforcement
ÿ Contemporary Issues in Police and Media Relations
ÿ Executive Leadership

(Additional information on the graduation is in a media release from the U.S. Department of Justice and is included with this release.)

Captain Weimer is a 15 year veteran with MUPD and is currently assigned as MUPD’s Administrative Support Captain. In addition to being a graduate from the FBI’s National Academy, Captain Weimer also holds a Masters of Science in Criminal Justice from Columbia College and is a graduate of the Southern Police Institute’s Administrative Officers Course in May 2000.

MUPD 6-2007

###

2 for Tuesday

Today is a good day for food. One super chick next door gave me a couple slices of her homemade banana bread. Scrum-tru-lescent! Doing d-livries I ended up partaking on a tasty apple-stuffed bear claw, and a super-tall dagwood sandwich. Makes me sad to know that pizza'll be my dinner.

You know, if I got high all the time and had a computer ... wait I lost my train of thought. I'm reading something slightly interesting at the moment. Why is it that everyone in the world is trying to get me high in some capacity? Have I truly/finally gone ... bananananaz?

My part-time lover met a new man. They share similar interests, while we share only one. Apparently they had a "fantastic" weekend. She never said "fantastic" with me. And why should she? Together they're young, hip; I'm old, square.
"Don't act so surprised P-bone. You always knew ... "
Se la vi.

Sentimental Sunday — Part 2

Ms. Swearengen and I stopped in front of Lakota, after screening a doc, to say "see you later" before turning in for the night. I figured I'd stop into the coffeeshop to check my messages, say "hi," and just generally be around for the moment. It's as I rounded the roast, not five minutes ago, that I looked back across the mildly filled room: Several people in the throes of their own academics, several conversations with myriad topics, severald known and unknown happy faces smiling back at me.
—Makes me sigh inside. I really love this place. I really love this place.

Sentimental Sunday — Part 1

I've been thinking of the game of baseball. Let me be clear. Not the game on the diamond in which scores are home-runned in, double plays are made, base stealing is done, etcetera. No, the politics of luv converted to be graded by the terminology of the American sport (so you can relate on the sly what gets home-runned, and what kind of double plays are made, and what a stolen base might be).
While lying in a strange bed with three strange women and one strange man I was given an education on the qualifying nature of this conversion of luv-life to baseball terminology. Here goes:

1st base — Kisses
2nd base — Clothes off
3rd base — Going down
Home run — Penetraesh

Unhappy with this hierarchy at this point in my life, I resolve to update these high school-type qualifiers with things, I feel, reflect a more realistic approach to luv-life:

1st base — Sex
2nd base — Happy dreaming alongside each other/long weekend-type vacation
3rd base — Surviving that first real fight/meeting parents
Home run — Complete trust

Yeah, because any idiot can fuck around. Sex is the new kissing. Any qualms? You know how to reach me.

You know, all this talk of baseball is coincidental with the fact I just developed pictures taken from when I attended my first professional baseball game this summer. Gander, I beg you.









That's it until next week. Everyone, find someone to love.

My plan to call in sick to the pizza place unraveled last night after Mr. Mirtsching spotted me looking into the establishment. My false excuse would've been: "Back hurts. Can't work." But he witnessed me standing up straight. I say: "So much for low profile." I work at 4. Bollocks.

Last night, Mr. Epping poured a pitcher for a group of photo students. Inside the pitcher was some dark, bubbly, mystery liquid. He asked us to guess what it was. My guess — honestly — was CocaCola. I swore to this obsequiously. It was really Newcastle. ... I think I've a drinking problem.

Speaking of eating, I just ate a peach purchased at The Root Cellar. —Fucking Phenomenal!

You know, anywhere's good, —long as there's good food there. I hear the shrimpi is tasty in Alaski. I understand the sushi's gran(d) in Japan. I follo that the tortillo is molto in Mexico. The orangie gets the glori in Californi. The Cheeses make me dance and prance in France.

What is it that raptures my tongue so? Why it's the Banana&ChocolateChipMuffin I consumed this morning, that's what. Purchased for mere dollars at Main Squeeze, this Muffin caused a lifting in my heart that is comparable to a first kiss, lotteryluck, and other somesuch. You'd better buy one soon, Bitch!

2 for Tuesday

While driving a huge amount of coffee north of town, I was struck with a simple notion. I no longer dread my days. Sure, I work nonstop a good deal of the week, but no longer do I wake up with a feeling of instant disappointment. I feel free now.

Did I tell you about the blues festival? Well, —highlight: Some hippies stopped me on the street and asked if I'd play them a song. We sang and played music and they gave me shots of Patron. Does this make me a hippie too?
"Nah P-bone. You've got a job!"

Sentimental Sunday

The other night I wrote a song. As I marked the name and date on my list of songs ("Lovely" — 9/8/07) I realized that I've been writing fairly consistently a song a month for the past five months — a far cry from the days in which I believed a curse had been placed upon me, a curse which sapped energy and creativity to produce bits of melody, chord and lyric. The song regards a woman for whom I've a hopeless crush, really something quite green and goofy.
As I looked closer at my list, and discoursed to myself alone in my cell (apartment), I noticed that the last song I'd written ("Good thing" — 8/18/07) was inspired by a woman to whom I'd, at the time, become more or less attached. And before that, I wrote a song about a girl ("Hollie" — 7/24/07) for whom I'd felt an immediate attraction, which occurred several months before we ever kissed. And yeah, even when my lovelife wasn't so great, I still was able to write a really cool song about what I was going through/what was to come ("The Marrying kind" — 6/30/07). It's then after reading over the list that the obvious became less opaque: I wasn't inspired with those by which I kept company — that was the curse and now it's over.
So, for now, the inspiration I glean will need to come from afar, as it has for the latest song on my list. I'll tell you what's reassuring, though. When I write songs, the chords and melody usually come first, while the lyrics're dreamed up later. Sometimes I hang on to progressions and melodies for years, just waiting for a good thing to come along. (I've got a neat little straightforward number regarding a tonic 7th chord verse that emphasises a nifty intervalic third stepdown in the bridge, which includes — Yes! — a tritone. I've got one that blends a minor iii and vi in the verse, really freakin' pop-music hammer-ons, too, and breaks for a chorus on the tonic, subdominant and a nifty octave slide to the bridge key change. The only thing I need now is lyrics.)

What a strange night last night. I barely made it out of this lame bar with my penis attached/intact. All water under the bridge now. It feels like I should have more to say, but I can't seem to come up with a thoughtful 50 this time. Sorry. Se-La Vi.

Generosity is my whole thing. It's my new attitude. It's my follow-through, my practice. I kept doling out the generosity today, and I think I'll continue tomorrow.
The world is a bad place when individuals become selfish about such small things. I think I'd like us to pray for them.

Last night I stopped into my fortress for a quick cup. Ms. ?Eyes? was there, and she looked straight at me and said "Hell-o Phillip" with her inflection. Having seen and heard, I realize even now that I still feel a hopeless longing right here *tap chest* for her.
Stupid.

Having finished helping Mr. Eckel move into his new digs, for nearly nothing, I couldn't help feeling that things, cosmically, are back in line. Considering how Ms. Shopgirl simply helped me ... "Sure, I'll do it." ... my only repayment for generosity is more generosity. Hate sounding cliched but: "Pay it forward."

If currently politics isn't officially a joke, it is now. I really love this country for the reason that I don't have to dodge bullets, RPGs, crooked cops, etcetera, to get by. Nevertheless, I dislike being belittled. You and I shouldn't put up with it, but, what alternative is there?

I'm heading home. After some really long shifts, I've finally got some time to myself. I never missed showering so much. It's been eight days. Though, it's amazing, I don't smell. It's true. Numerous objective noses can't be wrong! I've "a good pH."
—Yeah: shower, shave, food, book, ****, sleep.

2 for Tuesday

"Round about 10 a.m. Central time, 7 a.m. Alaska time, he found himself stopped at a red light behind an SUV with a license plate reading: '7AM 3DF'. At that point, any regret about his recent job decision vanished.
'Exactly why I didn't go,' his soliloquy.
He types it later."

The other night I traded songs with a kid: 17 years old, dressed in dark, playing on a church stoop for no one in particular. His lyrics and chords evoked thoughts of my own childhood, making me glad for a reason I can't yet describe. Everybody has to grow old.

Sentimental Sunday

[TIMESTAMP: 15:27 CST 09/01/2007]
A woman told me recently something rather cliched: "You've got to realize: When you close one door you open another." I believe her.
Not much has changed. Many things've happened. Apparently, I care enough about myself not to ditch into the first job offer. And, I care enough about myself to be happy where that job turns out to be. I wouldn't've been happy in the north, no matter how I try to reconcile my logic. Though, I don't know why I should be so picky. After all, I was rejected from the job that I really wanted. Shouldn't I be a mess and accept anything, no matter how cold?
There's only one girl that would completely understand what I did, but she's long gone...
I still miss being kissed, though I'm no longer halfway deluded into thinking I deserve the kisses I'd like.
Sorry I don't have more, and that what's here isn't great. It's been a long month.

[TIMESTAMP: 12:10 CST 09/02/2007]
I'm starting to feel better about staying in this area of the equator. I figure if I were more eager to go, then I would. Since I'm not, I'd better not. I do not regret rejecting my first (hopefully not last) journalism job offer.
I predict that in the coming days I'll feel fine. Good friends will be around me and I'll have a world of options unfold, which is all any man can ask for. Of course, as always, I'll continue to try to stay out of trouble. But, as history tells, I'll make no promises.
What a lush life I have.

So I just rejected my first job offer. This could come back to haunt me. Yeah, it's all those bad decisions that turn up being the ones regretted. "What's the matter with you! You should take whoever gives a fuck, at least, P-bone." Yeah, or maybe I'll take what's right.