Fire From the Sky

It appears that this is it, friends. Hurricane Gustav is expected to make landfall soon, and the consequences could, and are expected to be, extreme.

I just finished watching the mayor's press conference, in which multiple people referred to this storm as "surpassing Katrina", "the storm of the century", "the most horrific thing this city will ever have endured", and "a storm that will break records", among other colorful blurbs. I know this is intended to startle people into leaving, and it works. Those are sobering words.

I was going to stay in the city this time and ride the hurricane out. A sick part of me wishes I had stayed behind for Hurricane Katrina. And there's still a huge part of me that wants to be here for this. How often to you get to see the drowning of an American city? How many people can say they lived through and witnessed the death of a metropolis? I wanted to experience it.

However, the option of staying here is now off the table, as the building I was going to take refuge in is being shut down. It's a ghost town here, save for some stragglers and armored humvees. It looks like a police state.

People have told me not to speak like that. That a city won't die; that it'll return. And that's true to a degree. No matter what happens, people will return, and businesses will eventually re-open. But it will never, ever be the same. It's death as far as most are concerned.

I don't know what I'll do if I get wiped out again. I don't look forward to the prospect of being homeless once more. I barely have the funds to get out of town, much less struggle through the uncertainty of things if this IS "The Big One".

I will not return if this is another Katrina. I will not endure this process again.

I wasn't quite ready to leave this town behind yet, but here it is. I'll be packing the most treasured of my possessions into the Jeep and hitting the road with an expired and now doctored temp tag, and low coolant. Hopefully I won't overheat or end up in a jail somewhere.

Beyond that, I'm setting time aside tonight to take a bath in my roomates' bathroom, since this may be my last chance. I'm going to eat some of their food since it's only going to spoil in the refrigerator anyway ... and I'm not going to worry about mopping the floor.

With a heavy heart and a bitter taste in my mouth, I bid you all adieu ... for now.

Irrationale

I find it physically painful to restrain the urge to keep driving ... and driving and driving and driving ...

I want to go everywhere. I want to do marvelous things. I want to be in very specific somewheres at very specific sometimes.

I want to eat everything on the planet simultaneously. I want to drink anything until I burst. So long as it's cold.

I want to feel sick. Lovesick, homesick, carsick, sick from being full. Sick from simply being well too long.

I don't want to be HERE, doing whatever THIS is.

I want to feel fulfilled. I want to feel validated. I want to create things I'm actually proud of.

I want to be unafraid. I want to be unconcerned.

I want to be emotionally transparent. I want to be intellectually stimulated. I want to be free.

I want to weep from the pure hope of it all.

I want to be many things that I am not, nor will I ever be ... because I simply don't have the capacity.

But, mostly, I don't want to have to try. And so it goes ...

Dear Anonymous Twat

Your comment stating something to the effect of "working part time is for kids. why don't you get a 2nd job or a real one? you're too old for that shit" was a rollicking good time, and one hell of a read. However, I will have you know that I DO, in fact, work 2 jobs. You could actually say I work 3. The third just happens to be brutally unprofitable.

With that, I will leave you to hopefully choke to death on an overflowing bowl of syphilis-riddled cocks .... you crusty, unwashed douchenozzle.

With An Abundance of Love,

- Me



I am now off to watch some of my favorite guys and gals tear things up onstage and engage in general mirth, merriment, and all things .... good.

This Is Not Charming

Being dirt poor in America is an interesting beast. It's a different standard. Take, for example, me. Checking my bank balance today, I saw that I had $3.05 left to my name. Keep in mind, there is no savings I can dip into or secondary account to transfer funds from. This is it. That's all I have. I found myself rolling change from an old jar, scrambling for nickels and dimes ... spending around 30 minutes sorting through it all and meticulously wrapping it to come up with $9 total. I then found myself driving to the bank with my gas gauge lit up, far past empty ... standing in line, trying to figure out how I'm going to "play it cool" that I'm attempting to deposit $9 in rolled change. Do I go with the "Oh, hey ... I figured it was time to clean out the old cup holders" bit? Do I say nothing, slide it to the teller and give a sly smile indicating that I'm fully aware of the ridiculousness of the situation? In the end, it was sort of a mixture of the two ... only dropping the cup holder line when the silence became awkward.

As I'm driving away, I get a call from work. They want to see if I can come in tomorrow. I say "yes", as I eyeball my gas gauge ... wondering if I'll even make it home, much less all the way to downtown tomorrow. My prideful nature has gotten me into many a jam in the past, and it seems that pattern won't be stopping any time soon.

Then I'm back home, cooking Ramen noodles stolen from a roommate, trying to figure out how I'm going to make it until the 15th of the month. That day happens to be my birthday ... but, more importantly, it's pay day .... and I may be looking forward to a check of anywhere from $0 - $70. Happy birthday indeed.

And, while I'm as broken and stressed and destitute as I am ... I'm cooking those noodles on my functional gas stove, typing this to you on my high-speed internet connection, with my electricity still running. My cell phone still works, although mostly to intercept calls from desperate creditors. Meanwhile, there are bums standing under the overpass that probably have more money in that can they're shaking than I do in my bank account. In this country, it's possible to be penniless and still passable to the naked eye. We are broke because we're living to the very brink of our means ... all desperately clawing to eek out some semblance of normalcy. By any means necessary, it seems ... even if that equates to not eating for a couple of days or staying locked in your room because you can't afford the gas. Every time I walk down the street, I know I'm passing others like me. Those who sit on the edges of their bed at night, wondering what the hell they're going to do. Trying to figure out what they can sell or pawn or how they can re-arrange things to just scrape by for another week. But, you wouldn't know it unless they told you. Their jeans look ripped simply to fit the fashion ... their t-shirts seemingly faded for the same reasons. The line between poverty stricken pity case and street savvy hipster have been blurred. I thank my lucky stars every day for this. As long as the entire ass portion of my jeans doesn't blow out completely, I can still pass in public.

I remember a time when I didn't half seriously consider mugging drunken frat boys on Bourbon Street as a possibility.

I remember a time when I didn't research plasma, marrow, and sperm donation on the internet.

I remember a time when I didn't make jokes about eating toilet paper or fighting pigeons for French fry scraps in order to survive.

I think about those times quite often. Those were good times, those times ...

... and now that goddamn Michael Jackson song is stuck in my head.

Inauguration

I always feel strange when dipping my toes into a new internet medium. How do you properly start things off without making it seem like you expect doves to be released and dwarves to play woodwind instruments heralding your presence? Not that I wouldn't appreciate it. But, expect it? Nah.

My other blogs are either dead and buried or subject to prying eyes I'd rather not deal with. So, I've set my nerd ship asail and have landed here. This secluded digital island seems just about right.

I know I want to make this place different. I'm not exactly sure what this will turn into. What sort of path I expect this blog to take, if any at all. But, here I am ....

Now release those doves.