rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

went to my first press time at the police department today.
I swear.
press time on mondays is 1:30, right? and supposedly, according to my editor, the Bloomington PD doesn’t like the IDS very much – every semester there’s a new police beat writer, and every semester, they just end up not showing up daily.
so Sam (my editor, who’s actually an alright guy) is like, “dude, you have to be there on time. every day you’re expected, you have to be there on time.”
so I’m all like, “chill your shit out, Sam. I’m on the motherfucker.”
I’m supposed to be there mondays and fridays. Gavin does the rest of the week and anything on the weekend.
I went with Gavin last thurs, just to see how it was run, and we ended up waiting for an hour and a half. I swear to god. just sat there in the fucking lobby, until a captain finally came out and talked to us. he apologized, said he was busy.
then today, I showed up at 1:25. went through the police reports, marked what I wanted to hear about.
then I waited. for 40 god damned minutes. eventually, the Herald Times reporter showed up, marked the sheet, and then all of the sudden, everything’s swinging into motion.

now, there’s two fucking things that bother me about this.
it pisses me off that I have to be there at press time precisely, and then I have to wait for 45 minutes because the city paper gets precedent over the student paper. hey: it was fucking press time at 1:30. lets get this show on the fucking road, I’ve got shit to do too.
and it also pisses me off cause I know that if I was 40 minutes late, you can bet your ass that they wouldn’t wait for me.
so that means that the HT reporter can walk in whenever the fuck they want (which they apparently do) and I get to sit on a bench in a lobby for three hours a week.
I guess that’s what it means to earn trust. if the god damned cops didn’t think we were a bunch of smarmy college kids (which we are) I wouldn’t spend my mondays and fridays sitting around a police station. fuck! I was there for two god damned hours! I had to work at 4. I had to excuse myself at 3:30, so I could go home and speedtype two reports and send them to Sam. walked into Dagwood’s five minutes late.

that there, is some bullshit.

as for the first day of class, it sucked, as I expected.
I have a 9 am. it’s a criminal justice class called “the nature of inquiry.” goes over research methods. very stimulating. I think I’m going to become a coffee drinker.
I hate classes with attendance policies. I pay tutition. if I don’t come to class, that’s no fucking concern of the professor’s, as far as I’m concerned.
the other one is a statistics course, which the professor (who is a self described “maverick from the dark ages”) said is hard – and that at least a third of the class would fail his first exam. thanks, buddy. I’m having a great day as is. thanks for helping out.

come to think of it, all of my classes are criminal justice classes.

I’m out. oh, and check it out. new link on the right.

went out tonight with Mike, Josh, Dudd, and this gy who apparently lives next to Dudd named Ryan. guy was piss drunk, kind of a chump. but it might have been the alcohol, so if I ever run into him, I won’t hold it against him.
Galia’s friend Abbey thinks I have great lips. I get that a lot. I like Abbey, she’s the motherfucking bee’s knees.
Galia’s friend Hillary wants us to be friends, even after Galia leaves town. which, like that Ryan guy, might have something to do with alcohol. but I hope not; I like Hillary, she’s a cool cat.

anyways.
I wrote this story for a fiction course I took sophmore year. it’s in the folder I’m airing out. it sucks, kind of. but youse should read it anyway.
it’s called:
three little pigs

Once upon a time there lived three brothers in the big city named Larry, Barry,
and Nathan Jr. They all lived in a crumbling row house in a demilitarized zone with their drunk and derelict parents. The parents, who preferred to not work steadily, spent most of each week’s paycheck on necessities like alcohol and cheap pot. Because of this the three boys didn’t much like to live with them, and one day, when they were no big enough to no longer be called little, decided that they would strike out and each go his separate way into the land. Their parents were not surprisingly okay with this, and offered a parting piece of advice to the three boys: “Don’t rely on nobody or nothing to help you but yourselves.” The boys didn’t pay this much notice, as their parents were drunk. They had tired of the musings of alcoholics long ago. Instead, they disappeared into the street silently, ready to try their luck with the world.
Larry, Barry, and Nathan Jr. walked three abreast down the sidewalk of their street, all of them layered up to keep out the wind. They carried everything they would ever need in knapsacks and duffel bags. Steam spilled from the cracks between the sidewalks, and it looked like the whole world might explode but Larry, Barry, and Nathan Jr. knew better. They approached the light at the end of their street and here they stopped. They gathered in an informal circle, and Larry spoke:
“Farewell, brothers! Good luck with whatever it is you do, but I’ve never left this shithole of a city. I’m going to travel.” He turned on his heel, and walked briskly down the sidewalk with his head stuffed down into his jacket to fight the cold.
Barry and Nathan Jr. watched Larry until he turned the corner, and then Barry turned to Nathan Jr. and spoke, “Catch you later. Watch me, I’ll be a somebody in this city before I die.” He turned the collar up on his bomber jacket, crossed the street, and sulked away until he was a speck in the distance.
Nathan Jr. watched Barry leave, and then looked at his watch. He was going to go job hunting, it was still early. He turned in the opposite direction of his brothers and stepped quickly off into the approaching gloom that invaded the city, even in the late morning.

Two weeks later, Larry stood in the open door of a moving boxcar 600 miles away, heading west. The dirty hood of his sweatshirt hung over his head like an unwanted weight, and the creases in his jean jacket were caked with dirt from sleeping outdoors. The smell of cow shit had been steadily overwhelming the car, and Larry felt the sudden urge to dismiss himself from the train. But the track hadn’t led through a town for some time now, and Larry looked out on farm after farm, bleak sun shedding no warmth over head; only a patchwork of fields dotted with spots of melting snow. He decided the desolation before him would be an improvement of the emptiness of the boxcar, and as the train was moving slowly anyhow – so he jumped.
The train was moving fast enough, and the resounding snap! as he hit the ground was enough to let him know that his ankle was broken. He rolled down the embankment the tracks rested upon, and howled in pain when he finally came to a stop. The train slowly passed and became a shorter and smaller object in the distance. Larry rested for a moment and collected himself. He inched his way back up to the tracks, dragging his bumlegbehind him. Then onto his good foot and hopping down the track. It took him well over an hour, but he willed himself to the nearest crossing where he promptly collapsed in the middle of the road, to wait for help.
Help came.
A black and white speck approached Larry from the north, and he struggled to sit up. His ankle was now inflated like a balloon, colored like a painter’s pallet with reds and blues and blacks. The car slowed down and stopped inches from Larry, and now propped up on a hand he read the license.
“Ohio State Patrol – 563.” He read it aloud.
The car door opened and slammed, and he strained to see over the hood at what he was now quite sure was an officer of the law. The man rounded the corner of the car, and Larry now turned to see him, starting first at his spotless black shoes, to his dark brown pants with perfect creases, to the belt buckle, to the fur lined leather jacket, and finally the wide brimmed hat topping a fat, red face. He didn’t say anything, and instead sized up the cripple from behind sunglasses that reflected the sun. Larry spoke first. Tried to use humor.
“Howdy, officer. Could I ask you for a little help?”
The officer didn’t offer Larry a hand, but scanned the flat horizon that enveloped them, looked down the line of trees that marked the railroad, searching for something. “You been hopping train cars, haven’t you?”
“Well yeah, but my…” He didn’t finish the sentence. The officer grabbed him under his arms and dragged him to his feet, with Larry wildly protesting, minding him to watch his bad ankle. But the officer didn’t mind it, and Larry screamed as he was forced to put weight on it. His leg buckled. He was picked up again, more roughly, and behind the shooting pain he could hear the fat, red faced police officer reading him rights. Larry’s face was pressed against the warm hood of the car while his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was stuffed into the cruiser, and he promptly fell off the bench, so that his head lay on a floor mat with his arms uncomfortably twisted behind him. He started to cry.

Roughly around that same time, Barry rolled out of a girl’s bed back in the city, in a bad mood, no less. His hair stuck out in the back, and he tried vainly to smooth it down while he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand. He looked around the dingy room and its barebones furniture. It smelled of piss, his clothes were gone, and he had no idea where she was; he couldn’t even remember her name. He hated this place, suddenly, not just this toilet of an apartment but the city with its cold streets, everything covered in dirty salt meant to melt the snow, grey skies, and its stupid residents who took your clothes in the early morning and hid them somewhere. He pulled on the one remaining item, his boxers, and stumbled out into the hall to the kitchen. She was there, making eggs. She asked him if he wanted any.
“Want some eggs?” She offered her plate to him. “I can make more.”
Barry didn’t want eggs. He wanted his fucking pants, and he told her so rather rudely. She was taken aback, and stood there with her mouth agape for a second, and then she tripped up over her words when she said, “I was washing them for you.” She motioned to a closet next to him in the hall that hummed from inside: a washer and dryer.
He found her sexy for a second: standing there, hair on her shoulders like that, bare legs, only a large night shirt on. Barry liked his girls vulnerable, and he was happy to be in control. He pressed on. “If I had wanted my clothes washed, bitch, I would have asked you.”
He pressed too much, and she turned mean. “You know, you try and do something nice for somebody, and this is what you get,” she said loudly, no longer friendly. “You didn’t want your clothes washed, you smelly motherfucker? I was doing you a favor. I see you at a club last night, and I waste my night on you. Out of sympathy! Fine, don’t eat the eggs, they’d be wasted on you.”
She went on, screaming, but he had turned away, and walked into the bathroom and relieved himself. He finished, checked his hair in the mirror. When he opened the door she was waiting for him. She shoved his half washed clothes into his hands. There were still soap streaks on them.
“Get the fuck out of here, you piece of shit. You weren’t even worth the five minutes you lasted.” She shoved him towards the door, clothes in hand, until he stood in the hall. She slammed the door in his face, and he listened to the click click click of dozen locks. He hadn’t even protested. He pulled his clingy, soaked jeans on and checked his pockets. His wallet was gone. And where the fuck was his watch? He pounded on the door.
“Hey, my wallet’s in there. And my watch. Hey!” Barry searched for her name. “Angela!” He wasn’t sure that was it. But it had an A in it, he knew that. “Angela, open the door.” He kicked at it. “Open the door!” He kicked harder, and the door shook. He kept kicking. “Open the stupid fucking door!”
Now he was throwing all his weight into it. Neighbors were coming into the hall, peering at the neanderthal throwing himself at the girl’s door. Someone told him to get out, before the police were called. He kept pounding and screaming.
Five minutes later, two officers came through the door leading to the stairwell. Instinctively, they had their hands on their holsters. Barry turned to them, assuring them there was nothing wrong, that the bitch just wouldn’t open the door so he could get his wallet and watch. Then he’d be gone. Really. If anything, they should arrest her for larceny or being a bitch or some shit like that. And they really didn’t need to handcuff him, because no, he was NOT causing a disturbance, goddamnit, he just wanted his watch and wallet, and he just needed them to get her to open the door, and then he’d be out of there. He kept reasoning with them when they pressed him against the wall and then pressed handcuffs on him, and then reasoned some more when they led him out to the squad car. This was getting to be a family thing.

Nathan Jr. had gotten a job with one of the taxi companies. His shift came at night – late night, like graveyard shift late. It was a horrible job to have, carting all the drunks, drug addicts, and dregs all over the city at all hours of the morning, when he wished he could sleep. But he needed work to pay for the studio apartment he rented. Had taken it because they were always hiring people who knew the city, who would sacrifice themselves to work at 3 am. It was dangerous. And unhealthy. But it was work.
He sat at a light, no other traffic on the streets, waiting for it to turn green. He bit a hunk out of a tuna sandwich he had made for himself, and decided that one, he would use white bread next time, and two, he needed to use more mayo. Definitely not enough in this one.
A fare approached his car, and tried the front passenger door. He was a big man, wearing a faded Buffalo Bills sweatshirt. It was way too cold for only that. Nathan Jr. leaned over across the seats and spoke to him through the glass.
“Hey, man. Get in the back. You can’t sit up front.” It was too dangerous to let anyone sit in the front seat at 3 am, God knows what was wrong with this guy.
“Come on, bro, come on. I want to sit in the front.” The man hopped from one foot to the next like a child who had to use the bathroom.
“No. Get in the back. Where do you want to go?” The light changed, but Nathan Jr. waited. It was cold, he was the only one around. He figured to just wait for the guy to sit in the back, safely behind the glass.
Suddenly, the driver’s door was ripped open, and many hands were dragging him to the curb. He panicked and swung his body about and screamed, but someone kicked him in the side, and he couldn’t see, for his jacket had been pulled up and over his head. Someone was going through his pockets looking for his fare money. When they couldn’t find it, someone was standing over him, holding him by his collar. “Where’s the money?”
Nathan Jr. screamed some more, and he was hit in the face. His nose felt smashed in. He was asked again. “Where’s the goddamned money?!” It was Buffalo Bill. “I’m not playing with you.”
Nathan Jr. indicated that it was in a pouch in his glove compartment, and then they were rifling through the car in the middle of the street. He glanced around, hoping a passing motorist would call somebody who would do something. When he saw that there was no one, he just wished they would leave him there.
“I got it! I got it!” Somebody had gotten it.
“How much is there?” Buffalo Bill and the others all rushed over to him to dig through the pouch. Nathan Jr. laid on the curb with his hands to his mashed nose and groaned.
“Seventy fucking dollars? That’s all?” They were pissed. It had been a slow night, but they probably weren’t going to ask Nathan Jr. for an explanation anyway.
“How much in his wallet?”
“Ten.”
The crowd shifted back towards Nathan Jr. and he cringed, and apologized for the lack of money in his wallet and pouch. It didn’t come out that way though. “Jesus, please, I’m sorry, just take what you want, Jesus…”
Somebody grabbed him, and he could hear them talking amongst themselves. They had not yet decided what to do. They took his class ring and his Blessed Mary necklace that he had gotten when he was twelve and his parents were still sober enough to remember him. And then they must have decided because they were gone, vanished into the streets, like wind, but not graceful enough to be wind. Maybe farts in the wind.
Nathan Jr. laid on the curb and thanked God he wasn’t dead. It started to snow a little, and now he decided to get back into the car, its door still open. The owner’s manual and flashlight and kleenex and other things that made up the glove compartment were strewn about on the seat, and he pushed it all aside and sat down. His tuna sandwich was mashed into the floor mat. The light was red again, and he still hadn’t seen a goddamned car. Where were the police when you needed them?

on the way back from the Video Saloon tonight, some guy called me a faggot and told me to “come back here and get bitch slapped.”
he was drunk, and with a lot of his friends. not to say that I would have started a disturbance with him if he was alone, but hey, it’s a mitigating factor.
god, I wish it was a month ago, and these people weren’t here again.

anyway, I found an old folder full of bullshit on my computer. which means, inevitably, I’m putting it up here. one word document at time.



so. most of this stuff is over two years old.
here’s the one titled:
diary that never was

You spend too much time worrying about what’s going to happen and you miss what does.
I wish I knew what to say sometimes. I’ve tried to say it out loud, but I can’t seem to find the words.
I read that some preacher wants to erect a statue celebrating Matthew Sheppard’s death in his hometown.
Ashton Kutcher has endorsed a presidential candidate.
Is it true that you can sleep easier after you’ve cried?
It’s about time to give up.

We’re walking to a party, it’s cold. Four in a row. I followed in the rear with friend one, trading glances at friend two, about how goddamned stupid he is and I felt like shit. I’m not pulling hours at a sports bar and contemplating suicide. I should cut him some slack.
We took turns spitting out pop culture references. We think in terms of professional wrestling, comic books, blockbusters… but not the stupid kind. We like our movies to have substance.
We’ve never read those books, but after the movie came out, we can’t get enough. I suppose we should be grateful that we’re reading at all.

I watched as the two drunks stumbled around the living room slowly, to the tune of a bass heavy club hit. Alcohol can make the worst enemies friends. I haven’t had enough to feel that, though. I watched the skinny kid with the tailored jeans and the gel heavy hair lean in and zoom in on her ass with his digital camera.
No doubt they will be online and for the world to see within hours.
This girl has a father. And a mother. Uncles and aunts. Friends. I don’t know any of them.
I almost hit him. For a second. A hot flash.
I sipped more of a vodka heavy coke. Talked about football with the guy I haven’t seen in a year.
All the while, the infant slept in a blacklit bedroom, coddled by three teenage girls. Two of them arguably drunk. After half the party has filed out to drink publicly, I go to get a look at the kid. They all look the same when they’re so young.
“Do you want to hold her? Want to hold her?” No, I don’t. “Here, sit down.” Not a good idea. I’ve been drinking, never was much for babies in the first place. But it’s too late, she’s in my hands. I’m actually holding the kid. Half empty cups of beer litter the apartment, mud has been tracked across the floor. The three girls are still talking to me, rapid fire. “Hold her head up, watch it, watch it.”
As I’m bottle feeding a month old human life, I’m secretly praying this kid doesn’t grow up to be an alcoholic, or a hooker, or something else equally horrible. It doesn’t need to be like that. It doesn’t need to be here.
Do babies get shots, like puppies? So they don’t contract rabies? Puppies are easier to house train. I think I’ll settle for a dog.

students are coming back to town.
and I’m feeling indignant towards them. like this is my town now.
“fuck you, I’ve been here all summer while you went back to Cincinnati and Long Island” kind of indignant. which is ridiculous, cause I’m just as much of a guest as they are.
it was crazy busy at work today. and I showed up 45 minutes late. apparently, I forgot to turn my cell phone off of vibrate, so it went off and I didn’t hear it. and apparently, my home phone doesn’t fucking ring anymore. who knew?

yeah, so work sucked.

I got the police beat for the IDS.
it wasn’t like I was in the running. I didn’t apply for it. the city/state editor knows me, has seen that I can write a half coherent sentence, and threw it to me.
to be specific, however, there are two police beat writers. the other one is Gavin, who was the summer’s editor-in-chief, and is really a cool guy. he’s the primary beat writer. I’m secondary. we switch off from going to the daily police media briefings at the city paper, the Bloomington Herald Times. Gavin will probably go to three weekdays and any weekend meetings, and I’m basically there on his days off.
that’s fine with me. small town law enforcement takes this shit seriously, so if you miss a meeting, they get pissed at the paper and revoke it’s priveledge to be there. and then you look like a dick, and don’t get any stories from anyone.
and I’m also writing for campus and the nation/world sections, so I’d be more than happy to let somebody else carry the load. Gavin is like the A game reporter, anyway. it’ll be cool to work with him.

what else.
Mar comes back at the end of the week. I haven’t seen her since May. I wonder if she looks different? what if Mar comes back, and is totally “goth”?

Pat Robertson called for the assassination of Hugo Chavez on the 700 Club. AND one!

Rex Grossman, the starting QB for the Bears, went down for the season a week ago, and so the battle for the starting spot has been between Chad “teams have so little faith in me that that Dallas Cowboys pay me NOT to play for them” Hutchinson, and unproven rookie Kyle Orton.
god. damn it. (yeah, so it happened a week ago, and it’s old news. did you think I haven’t been thinking about it nonstop since then?)

Smith has already developed a system of communicating with Josh upstairs. it’s called the “stab at the ceiling with a broom stick and scream ‘Martin’” technique. he usually stumbles downstairs in five minutes or so. quite sophisticated.

I found 118 dollars on my desk today, when I decided to throw away loose paper. I kind of halfway remember misplacing that about a month and a half ago. I was drunk when I lost it (read: dropped a notebook on top of it) and actually didn’t get that mad at myself about it. just said to myself, “fuck it,” and moved on.
which, more than anything, goes to show that I’m probably clinically retarded.

my Dad’s family is from Philadelphia.
my grandmother grew up in Scranton. she met my grandfather in the forties, up there. he fought in the war. was at Okinawa, I believe. they moved down to Philly, he managed an A&P, had four kids: Chele, Dad, Chickie, and Susan.
all the kids went off and had big families, that now get together and have fun and pound beer and do drugs and stay up late at weddings and reunions. it’s fun.
anyway, what was I talking about…

ohyeah. Chickie and Susan and their families live in Penn. Chele lives up in Massachusetts. it was her family that got the beach house this week. the beach house that was in Jersey. which is like an hour and a half from where a lot of the family lives. and from which I just returned.

oksoanyway.
all of my aunts have kids. Chele is the oldest, so her kids are the oldest. all grown. she’s got three, one’s married, two have kids, and the third is 27 and a law school grad. they were all there.
so Chele’s entire family was there. that’s like, ten people. what with wives and boyfriends and grandkids and such. all in one house, all week.
and why my family does anything, they do it en masse. “hey, we got a beach house.” that means if you’re related by blood (or not), you can come down and sleep wherever there’s room.
so my brother and I took them up on it. slept on the couch all week, more or less.

there were a lot of people there through the week. people came, people went.
people got claustrophobic, got pissy every once in a while, but got over it. that is the defining characteristic of my dad’s side of the family: they’re accepting. which is beautiful sometimes. I could come in with the words “horse cock” shaved into my scalp, and somebody would still be happy to see me.
I got a nice sun burn, which will hopefully peel into a nice sun tan. ate about a dozen hoagies. “bodysurfed” (which is part grace, part drowning). played a lot of Pacman down on the boardwalk.
hung out with my cousins.

there’s fifteen cousins, altogether. they all, for the most part, stay in touch. except me.
seriously, for a few years back, I didn’t see anyone. Mar would go out to see Dad and go to Philadelphia for a few days, and come back and say, “the Cirillis aren’t dead, Matt. thanks for asking.”
and it’s stupid that I don’t keep in touch, cause my cousins are fucking cool as shit. I hung out with Courtney and Brigid for a day or two mid week, and I wish there wasn’t a divide that growing older, drifting apart inevitably brings.
I always had the feeling I was a little on the outside anyway; I was the only boy my age for about a decade, and I’ve always lived farthest away, but my cousins were awesome anyway. I spent a good part of my childhood in sleeping bags at my aunts’ houses, I was up there for about a month every summer until I was ten.
this might not have struck them as very meaningful or important, but I had a lot of fun with them. and they mean a lot to me, even if we were just fucking around and drinking beer for a day or two.
but anyway, Court and Brigid go to school in Pittsburgh. and I may be going to Pittsburgh a few days in October. which means I’m looking them up.
so if either of youse read this, I’m officially inviting myself to the gem of western Pennsylvania, the Burgh, to sleep on your couches and raid your fridges.
as of right now.
there. no turning back now.
so yeah, I had a good time at the beach. I hope they make this a yearly thing. I could totally swing going to the shore a few days each August.

hung out with my brother, a lot.
I think I’ve seen more of DC at night then I have during the day. we always end up driving around, just bullshitting. stop at like three different 7-elevens for Snapple. I think he should give guided tours.
“that’s the gas station I saw get robbed by a crackhead two weeks ago.”
“that’s where Justice Breyer got mugged while jogging.”
“this is the neighborhood white girls with political science majors from the midwest move into when they get an entry level job at their congressman’s office.”
“I once passed out in that Metro station.”
“this is where Marion Barry was arraigned.”
you know, that kind of shit. it’s quite funny.

DELETE

but, you know what? fuck all that. cause the beach ruled, all sorts of dumb shit happened this week that I’ll think of mentioning later. and it’s almost 2 am. and I’m tired. so welcome back. stay up.

tomorrow’s a big day.
bought a twelve pack of Snapple. gotta have something to drink, that’s the truth. though, if I drink twelve Snapples tomorrow, I’ll probably get sick.
so maybe I’ll only bring four or five.
I’M READY TO ROCK.

I’m either a driving machine, or a glutton for punishment. where the fuck did I put that atlas?

… I just kind of realized, I don’t even need the map. it’s a pretty straight shot. I’m parked on 8th out in front of my building. go down two blocks to Indiana Ave, hang a left. two blocks up to 10th, hang a left. up to the light at Walnut, hang a right and go north. under the train bridge, then take a left on 14th. go past the porno shop, up to Rogers, hang a right and go north. hang a left at the second light, that’s the bypass, go west.
then, 37 north to I465 east to I70 east for a long, long long time, to I76 east (the dreaded Pennsylvania turnpike, where only the strong survive), and then back onto I70 south at Breezewood (who ready the story? did you read the story? go back a few posts), to the Beltway south, arcross the Cabin John bridge, to the George Washington Parkway where you go east along the Potomac. the woods clear past Roosevelt island, and the monuments are visible across the river. the Mall. Washington Monument, the Capitol, Licoln and Jefferson Memorials. they do look nice at night, white marble lit up. very inviting, inspiring – even to me. the Pentagon is on the right around here, and can be seen, but it just looks like a massive government building. which it is, so no suprises there.
go down past National airport, through Old Town, over the Wilson Bridge (which is the other end of the Beltway, and is a traffic monstrosity, like 6 lanes of traffic each way), then five or so more miles.
here, the river is always immediately to your left, but by now it’ll be dark or dusk and you won’t be able to see it well. you’ll see the lights across the river farther down from DC, which are homes in Maryland. then, and watch for the sign or it’s easy to miss, you hang a right on Waynewood Blvd. then an immediate right on West Boulevard Dr, another quick left on Doter. end of the block, on the obtuse corner on the left.
white Miata and the Subaru in the driveway. Dad and Debbie’s house.
poof.
you’re there.

I’ll be back in a week.

Galia moved out today.
wasn’t teary or emotional, like passing a torch of some kind. she’s just living at her dad’s house across town now. not like I’m never gonna see her again.
Galia’s parents both live in town. and she shared an apartment. it had taken me a while to wrap my mind around that when we first lived together sophmore year, but I’d probably go nuts living at home through college myself.
either way, with two houses between two parents and Josh, who until recently had his own place too, she wasn’t here that much. I, at times, honestly felt the apartment was more mine than it was hers.
I remember one time, she walked in after I hadn’t seen her in about a week. I was in the middle of something in the kitchen and she came in behind me, and I turned around and was surprised. first thing out of my mouth was, “what’re you doing here?”
she said, “uhhh, I live here.”
well, technically.
and over the last few days, Galia kept on making note of how it wasn’t even an apartment, just a place where people stored stuff. Josh has stuff here. Mar has stuff here. she was moving out, one box of shit after another, every other day.
well, fuck, I live here. 24/7.
even so, Gally was a pretty good roommate. never was late on rent. and beyond that, we got along pretty well, when she was here.

Smith moved in today.
was sitting in the living room, watching teevee with him and Josh, and he had his bare feet up on the coffee table. I was about to be like, “son, get your stankass hoof off the furniture.” then, I remembered he lives here now. and his stankass hoof can go wherever the fuck it wants.
so right now, it’s me and Smith and Josh. Josh moves into his apartment (the one rieght upstairs) in a week or two. but it’s not vacant yet, so he’s on the couch.
and nothing is put away; a lot of Smith’s shit is in the living room, along with Josh’s bike.
Smith, however, comes with perks. moving in with Smith is like signing up for an entertainment system. he’s got every video game system known to man, plus a million games for each of them. DVDs galore, surround sound, that kind of shit.
I, meanwhile, watch a TV with a 19 inch monitor.
fucking dark ages, I know.

oh. and, I rearranged my room this morning, as Galia just gave me her bed. she’s got this thick freestanding double mattress, which beats the shit out of the old twin that I was sleeping on before. my feet hung off the end. time to step up in the world. larger bed. more room to roll around.

and.
I got off work on friday. so I’m driving. waking up early (early means like 8 or 9 am) and driving. all day. should be fun. the possibilities will be endless.
like:
I might stop to get an egg mcmuffin. or. I might not.
I might upperdeck a toilet at a truck stop ten miles outside of Wheeling, WV. or. I might not.
you can just fill in the blank with the rest of these, you get the idea.

thas it. an thas all.

I went to the Verizon Wireless store today.
I hate those places.
I’ve never really been in one before. I delivered this fat guy his meatball sub at the Sprint store a couple months ago. asshole made me wait while he dealt with a customer. like I wasn’t working too.
but yeah, this was my first foray into a cell phone store for service.
see, I got my phone from my dad, who signed up for this family plan; sent me and Mar a phone in the mail. I don’t even pay for the motherfucker. it’s nice, I have to admit.
but my battery sucks. dies after about a day and a half. so I went in, got it replaced. (warranty!)
those people are not very friendly. maybe, it’s cause they’re in their late 20s or early 30s, and they’ve realized that their career consists of fixing the lowest common denominator’s cell phones for decidedly mediocre pay in a strip mall over by the Burger King. or maybe it’s something else. who can say?

beyond that, I didn’t do anything today. was going to go swimming with Galia, over at Gretchen’s pool – her family has a pool – but I bailed. Gretchen didn’t know I would be coming, and I get a strange vibe from Gretchen. I told as much to Galia, and she understood. which means I’m not just being difficult; there’s something actually there.
elswheres, I bought a couple of albums. some remastered Arthur Crudup songs. Crudup was a bluesman, originally wrote and performed “that’s all right” that Elvis got famous with. also got that Gorillaz CD that came out in 2000. one with Clint Eastwood on it. it was used, and I like the Gorillaz. if that’s a problem, fuck you.

the Crudup album has this little advertisement on it:
denoised, enhanced and remastered by our world audio technology.

I like that to a point. but at the same time, I probably would have bought the regular old gutteral Rhino CD if it were available. this is the only Crudup CD I’ve been able to find in town, and I’ve passed it by a half dozen times.
I mean, the original recordings sounded a certain way. weren’t recorded on the best of equipment, of course; this was the 40s. I like that sound. that’s what I expect from a blues album recorded in the 40s – for it to sound like it was recorded in the fucking 40s.
I was just thinking about this on the walk back from the record store. not a big deal by any means. the record will virtually sound the same.

that’s about all. I want to get going, get this trip underway. I’m serious, it’s eating on me. I haven’t done anything all night, and I feel like I’m treading water. I want to fall asleep on an interstate in Ohio, turn the music loud. feel like I’m flying. stop at truck stops. big gulps and mud flaps. the chronically overweight red states, followed by DC, then the chronically blue and working class shore. the beach. Atlantic boardwalks, 80 degrees in the day, 65 at night. the Bruce Springsteen vacation. decent food, food cooked at home on a stove (I ate Subway today, for a change of pace … jesus christ). my brother. my dad, and his wife (yes). my cousins. aunts and uncles. the American highway experience.
I’m ready to go.

the Chicago Bears kicked off the season by showing the Miami Dolphins how the game of football is meant to be played. (read: not by a bunch of pansies in pastels, in 60 degree weather)

yeah. I love football. only sport I follow passionately. what is this “base ball” you speak of?
and right, Shaq’s plenty fucking tough. but get on the line, motherfucker, and see what happens when Alex Brown bowls over your ass. you cry like a bitch.
even so, I guess I should be more specific; I don’t really love all of football. I love the NFL, to a point, but when it gets down to it, I love the Bears. all other teams, they can fuck off. die in fiery plane crashes. as long as Chicago walks away.
I’m not going to try and rationalize my love of the team. there’s no rationale behind it. I am, however, a football realist. I know when my team will suck, and I’m not afraid to admit it. but not this year, I don’t think. the Bears, who last year were 5-11, have and will improve. I think they’ve stepped from ‘blows’ to ‘lame.’ they’ve entered mediocrity. I’m thinking 7-9, maybe 8-8. that’s worth something, and I’ll still watch near every game.
oh, and just to be mean spirited:
I want to give a special shout out to Brett Favre and the Green Bay Packers. yeah, they own the Bears every year. it hasn’t been a rivalry for about a decade. but Favre is a recovering alcoholic. can’t handle the sauce. so the fact that he’s had major personal demons to struggle with brings joy to my cold, shriveled and tiny heart.

went into work tonight, tried to work my magic, get friday off. it was fucking painful. my hope is pinned on my coworker Logan taking my shift – and that’s assuming that I get my other coworker Shawn to cover for Logan on his subsequent 4-8 shift on friday, cause Logan does not want to work a double. then, I’d take Shawn’s wednesday 4-8, so he wouldn’t be overloaded.
and all of this falls through if Logan decides he doesn’t want to do it, cause he said he needed time to think about it. mull it over.
it is a lot to ask of him. he’s not even a driver, he’s never picked up the bread from the bakery, and it’ll probably be at least kind of busy during a friday lunch rush. plus, he’s closing the night before.
and, dad and Debbie offered to buy me a plane ticket so I could just fly out there friday night instead.
but. I’m still trying to drive, because those plane tickets are fucking expensive, especially at this late date. matter of fact, I’m pricing them right now, and they’re getting pretty high. 340 round trip? maybe I’m just bad at finding deals. or is that good?
whatever. if I can take a car, I will.
and. at the same time, I know this is a lot to lay on a motherfucker, but Logan’s a big boy. and it’s not like I’m throwing him to the wolves, here. I’m asking him to deliver subs for five hours. drive around in his car and listen to his radio. they’ll pay him, last time I checked. (here’s where Smith jumps in and scolds/corrects me on how I’m fucking Logan, and how I’m rationalizing a bum deal for him. go, Smith, go)

also.
I went to the Comedy Caravan at Bear’s tonight. with Galia’s friends Gillian and Gretchen.
three Gs. weird.
anyway, I’ve never even been in there before, let alone for a show. I guess they have national comics in there every monday and saturday. who knew?
it was pretty fun. drink specials, lively crowd, etc. one comic, and I’m not sure if this was just part of his act or if he was serious, is a vegan, a homophobe, and a bit of a racist all at the same time. usually, being a vegan will qualify you as a sure bet of being very PC, but this guy had his own agenda.

that’s gonna have to be it for now. stay up, young world.

and now you know. courtesy of Pat.
Kyle wants to walk the earth, like David Carradine in “Kung Fu.” wants to walk all the way through South America. right now, though, he works part time as a night shift janitor at the hospital back in Valpo. time to get your priorities straight, Ace. when you do, that’ll make one hell of a trip, down through South America.

okay.
I’m ready to go. ready to go ready to go ready to go.
can’t wait to roll out east. take a break. eat decent food (maybe). kick it with Mike. see relatives. speaking of which, if you’re a relative, and you’re reading this, are you going to the beach? when? how? you flying? swimming? going by motor-car? holla at your boy, I’m dying out here, Indiana is a wasteland right now.
I pulled a big ol’ stupid and forgot to request off in advance. supposed to have requests in by weds, cause the schedule gets made for the next sunday through saturday on the preceding thursday. follow all that?
long story short, I have to work until 4 pm friday. and then, when I get off, I’m getting in the god damned car, and I’m driving to god damned DC. that’s a long way. especially to start at 4 (realistically, 5) pm. I’ll be up all night. call me, keep me awake. it’s gonna get rowdy.

elsewheres.
so, turns out, Josh has moved in.
I kind of forgot about this.
his lease ran out. and his apartment (the one above us) doesn’t open up for a few days yet. so now it’s like having two roommates. only the best part is, those roommates are in a relationship, and they bicker, make up, cuddle, then bicker some more. if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to hear them hump through the pillow I’ll wrap around my head to drown out any noise I’ll pick up in the middle of the night…
nah, I’m just kidding. without a doubt, the walls are too thin here, and the idea of me hearing them would mortify Galia. and that’s fine with me.
it’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a semi-permanent houseguest.
I’m just kidding again, though, seriously. he needs a place to stay, and it’s only a few days, then Galia moves out – and Smith moves in – and Josh’ll still be on the couch for a while, cause his apartment still probably won’t be vacated – but by thurs or friday, I’ll be out of here for a week, and hopefully he’ll have moved upstairs by then.

so I watched “2001: a space odyssey” tonight. quite epic. but, I must say, I’m not a huge Stanley Kubrick fan. sorry, but that motherfucker loves extended silences, long shots. and that’s not really me.

and to end.
I’m listening to the White Stripes’ new album right now. it’s choice. you knew it would be.
and Peter Jennings died. didn’t know he had cancer; well shit.
and Netanyahu resigned his post in the Israeli cabinet. please don’t take this as anti-semetic, cause I don’t mean it to be, but those fucking zealot right wingers are as big a part of the god damned problem over there as every slum raised, mosque educated “martyr” in Gaza. I’m so happy I don’t live there.