Monday, December 23, 2002
Actually, Bob, the drug is GHB, not to be confused with GBH, short for Grievous Bodily Harm, an offence under English law, and also the name of a punk band who, I'm sure, are crying their eyes out for ol' Joe Strummer. (Oh, and confidential to Melle Mel: did you know that Joe Strummer's real name was John Mellor?) But thanks, Bob, for the contribution (though what's that about Foxy on the floor? Went over my head). And thanks for the mail thing too. It did occur to me as I was putting my mail on hold for the holidays that anyone could put anyone else's mail on hold, since all you need to do it is the mailing address; no identification required. It does seem a bit odd that, what with all the hoopla about identity fraud and people swiping each other's credit card solicitations and what not, the post office makes it so easy to play around with others' mail. Got to be a lawsuit in there somewhere.
Someone sent me this list of the 50 Most Loathsome People In America. I don't agree with all their choices but it's kinda funny. I liked their take on Tom Clancy:
America's Tolstoy. Writes vast epics in which all the characters are either enemies or law enforcement operatives trying to reach the ear of the president. Describes an SS-20 the way Flaubert would have described Emma Bovary's dress. In a staggering indictment of our intellectual climate, he is beginning to be taken seriously as a literary figure.
Someone sent me this list of the 50 Most Loathsome People In America. I don't agree with all their choices but it's kinda funny. I liked their take on Tom Clancy:
America's Tolstoy. Writes vast epics in which all the characters are either enemies or law enforcement operatives trying to reach the ear of the president. Describes an SS-20 the way Flaubert would have described Emma Bovary's dress. In a staggering indictment of our intellectual climate, he is beginning to be taken seriously as a literary figure.
An altogether frustrating weekend. And now I come to work and find out that Joe Strummer is dead. Great. Not to get all music snobbish or anything, but the AP story begins:
Joe Strummer, the gravel-voiced lead singer of the legendary band The Clash, whose hits ``London Calling'' and ``Rock the Casbah'' electrified the punk scene, has died at age 50.
Yeah, I'm sure all the young punks were really electrified by "Rock the Casbah." Give me a break.
Anyway. My weekend. Melle Mel was away, visiting the folks, which I'm sure she'll tell you all about. Friday I was supposed to go to a Sonics game with the other Mike G. (that's basketball, y'all) but I was feeling shitty, that here-comes-a-cold feeling, so I blew him off and was in bed by 6pm. Tried to sleep. Couldn't. Tried to read. Couldn't. Watched a terrible fucking film called Mumford which I rented from Netflix in a moment of...stupidity? Yup. Total doggerel but folks seem to love it so what the hell do I know?
Saturday, Michael A. came over and we tried to resuscitate our screenwriting careers. Did some writing exercises but couldn't generate momentum. We both ended up sleepy so he left and I napped. Later, forcing myself to leave the apartment, I hooked up with the Mikes and we went to see a late showing of Adaptation, which is about a screenwriter with a nasty case of writer's block. As played by Nicolas Cage, he's a hopeless neurotic who's filled with self-loathing, whines about being bald and fat, and jerks off constantly, at one point to the image of Meryl Streep (well, her character.) Needless to say, I identified heavily. The other Mike G. went home right after the film and seemed out of sorts; he claimed to be hung over but of course, in my self-centered way, I figured he was pissed at me for not hanging with him the night before. Michael A. wanted to go to the Baltic Room but I went home and watched bad TV.
Sunday I managed to let the day slip away from me and then headed up to the Drift On Inn around 4. I started with $60 and in two hours I was up $500. Man, I felt great, knowing, with absolute certainty, that I could piss away a couple hundred and still walk away three hundred up, a nice little amount to spend on my vacation, to fritter away on friends and loved ones. See where this is going? The Jets were playing the Patriots on the big screen TV (that's football, y'all) and I really wanted to watch the game which was only in the 2nd quarter, so of course I hung around. The Jets won but I didn't. When I left at 10:30, I was down a hundred bucks.
So of course I feel like a total loser on the ride home, berating myself for my compulsiveness and stupidity, wondering why why why I didn't walk away when I should have, the same old story every time you lose. This is why the other Mike G. retired from blackjack and I'm thinking, loathe as I am to think it, that maybe I should too. See, I'm planning this month of purity in January, giving up everything as I (sometimes) like to do -- booze, drugs, coffee, smokes, meat, food, air, etc. Well, I say a month but, in truth, it might go longer, it might go until I "get my shit together." Yeah, right. I was thinking I'd keep gambling as my only vice but after last night....this is exactly the kind of thing I need to eliminate, behaviour that fills me with self-loathing. Even now I can't let it go.
This morning I couldn't find my hat, this fleecy toque that the other Mike G. bought me from Old Navy of all places (we have matching; mine is grey, his is black). I looked all over for it, distinctly remember having it on at the movies, but where the hell is it? I have other hats to wear but I wanted to wear this one so badly, couldn't stand the thought that I'd lost it and wouldn't be able to wear it on vacation. The lost hat became the symbol of everything that was frustrating me about myself and I made myself late to work in my futile ransacking of the apartment trying to find it. Melle gets back today and I'm hoping that somehow that will make the hat return too.
This is probably the last blog until 2003. Don't miss me too much. Merry Happy and all that.
Oh, Bob says everyone's writing books next year. I've got mine already: "A is for Acid: A child's pictorial guide to drugs."
A is for Acid it unlocks the door
B is for Basehead who always wants more
C is for Cocaine, you'll feel like a king
D is for Downers, you won't feel a thing
And, well, you get the idea. I need someone to illustrate it though. Jimmy, wanna collaborate?
Joe Strummer, the gravel-voiced lead singer of the legendary band The Clash, whose hits ``London Calling'' and ``Rock the Casbah'' electrified the punk scene, has died at age 50.
Yeah, I'm sure all the young punks were really electrified by "Rock the Casbah." Give me a break.
Anyway. My weekend. Melle Mel was away, visiting the folks, which I'm sure she'll tell you all about. Friday I was supposed to go to a Sonics game with the other Mike G. (that's basketball, y'all) but I was feeling shitty, that here-comes-a-cold feeling, so I blew him off and was in bed by 6pm. Tried to sleep. Couldn't. Tried to read. Couldn't. Watched a terrible fucking film called Mumford which I rented from Netflix in a moment of...stupidity? Yup. Total doggerel but folks seem to love it so what the hell do I know?
Saturday, Michael A. came over and we tried to resuscitate our screenwriting careers. Did some writing exercises but couldn't generate momentum. We both ended up sleepy so he left and I napped. Later, forcing myself to leave the apartment, I hooked up with the Mikes and we went to see a late showing of Adaptation, which is about a screenwriter with a nasty case of writer's block. As played by Nicolas Cage, he's a hopeless neurotic who's filled with self-loathing, whines about being bald and fat, and jerks off constantly, at one point to the image of Meryl Streep (well, her character.) Needless to say, I identified heavily. The other Mike G. went home right after the film and seemed out of sorts; he claimed to be hung over but of course, in my self-centered way, I figured he was pissed at me for not hanging with him the night before. Michael A. wanted to go to the Baltic Room but I went home and watched bad TV.
Sunday I managed to let the day slip away from me and then headed up to the Drift On Inn around 4. I started with $60 and in two hours I was up $500. Man, I felt great, knowing, with absolute certainty, that I could piss away a couple hundred and still walk away three hundred up, a nice little amount to spend on my vacation, to fritter away on friends and loved ones. See where this is going? The Jets were playing the Patriots on the big screen TV (that's football, y'all) and I really wanted to watch the game which was only in the 2nd quarter, so of course I hung around. The Jets won but I didn't. When I left at 10:30, I was down a hundred bucks.
So of course I feel like a total loser on the ride home, berating myself for my compulsiveness and stupidity, wondering why why why I didn't walk away when I should have, the same old story every time you lose. This is why the other Mike G. retired from blackjack and I'm thinking, loathe as I am to think it, that maybe I should too. See, I'm planning this month of purity in January, giving up everything as I (sometimes) like to do -- booze, drugs, coffee, smokes, meat, food, air, etc. Well, I say a month but, in truth, it might go longer, it might go until I "get my shit together." Yeah, right. I was thinking I'd keep gambling as my only vice but after last night....this is exactly the kind of thing I need to eliminate, behaviour that fills me with self-loathing. Even now I can't let it go.
This morning I couldn't find my hat, this fleecy toque that the other Mike G. bought me from Old Navy of all places (we have matching; mine is grey, his is black). I looked all over for it, distinctly remember having it on at the movies, but where the hell is it? I have other hats to wear but I wanted to wear this one so badly, couldn't stand the thought that I'd lost it and wouldn't be able to wear it on vacation. The lost hat became the symbol of everything that was frustrating me about myself and I made myself late to work in my futile ransacking of the apartment trying to find it. Melle gets back today and I'm hoping that somehow that will make the hat return too.
This is probably the last blog until 2003. Don't miss me too much. Merry Happy and all that.
Oh, Bob says everyone's writing books next year. I've got mine already: "A is for Acid: A child's pictorial guide to drugs."
A is for Acid it unlocks the door
B is for Basehead who always wants more
C is for Cocaine, you'll feel like a king
D is for Downers, you won't feel a thing
And, well, you get the idea. I need someone to illustrate it though. Jimmy, wanna collaborate?
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