rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

so the guy at work who knows where to get tacos called me today, about an hour before I had to be at the newspaper. I was trading in a bunch of video games I don’t play anymore before heading to the gym. he was supposed to call me about tacos, so I picked up.
wrong. he was out in the middle of nowhere on his day off, somewhere hiking, and he had locked his keys in his car. he needed a ride. if I picked him up, I’d A) skip going to the gym B) run the risk of being late and C) definitely not get a shower before getting to the office.
so I declined. “I can’t, man, I’ll be late for work. call somebody else.” he wasn’t pissed, but it wasn’t good form, which means I’m probably not getting tacos through him for a while. eh. fuck it. that’s okay, I’ve only hung out with him a couple of times in the past months, and every time I do, I remember why I keep it so infrequent. he’s condescending.

and how about that Eliot Spitzer? I mean, wow, what more can you say? it’s a shame he resigned so quickly, as I was hoping for at least two or three more press conferences of watching his wife look uncomfortable. 
and did you see the hooker? the New York Times wrote a story about her, and it pulls liberally from her Myspace page. now that shit is investigative journalism. I think it’s pretty questionable decision to publicly identify the prostitute, but all rules go out the window when you fuck Eliot Spitzer for money. and on a side note, she’s actually pretty hot.

Eliot Spitzer is the governor of New York. before that, he was the state’s attorney general, and he was big on bringing down organized crime. and apparently, he’s a ramrod straight, stuck-up, holier-than-thou dick. a real 110 percent kind of guy.

and now, he’s apparently involved in a prostitution ring. he’s been banging prostitutes. in a perfect world, he’d be actually involved in the prostitution ring, but that’d be way too good to be true. either way, there will be no better news story this week. hands down.

we’re two days into the acquisition of Icky Thump. it’s starting to stand out more. more killer tracks. more things I’ll remember. as of now, my favorite track is the last one. “effect and cause.” I’ve got the album on now, I need something to think about.

after work tonight, I found myself racing home to catch a television show, I shit you not. rerun comes on Monday mornings at 1 am.  it’s on cable, about a mild-mannered high school chemistry teacher who finds out he has terminal lung cancer, completely bugs out and starts cooking crystal methamphetamine. yes.
maybe it raises some interesting questions. about appreciating, or experiencing life as opposed to living it. maybe it doesn’t. but I get something out of it. maybe that’s enough.

Mar and Mar’s roommate arrive tomorrow. before they arrive, I need to clean, get some groceries, go to the gym, clean some more, and erase all the porno and any Google searches for “gravity bong” from my laptop. groceries are only kind of necessary. I’ve got nothing in my fridge right now, except the remains of a chicken I cooked last week. half a gallon of milk. one beer. so it’s just as much for me as for them.

“a martyr for my love for you” is the track that’s on right now. if I were in a worse mood, I’d pen something about how this applies to me, but it doesn’t. maybe once.

tomorrow will be a good day. Mar is coming here. Mar is coming. here is me and Mar. try and handle it: 

“Doom” is on the tube.
I wrote a review of this for the student newspaper, long ago.

this is the scene on, right now. I’ll transcribe.
The Rock, who plays the leader of the space marines and has turned evil, is facing off with protagonist Karl Urban. of course, they’re both armed. we’re about ten minutes from the end. and obviously, it’s about to get heavy.

The Rock: you gonna shoot me?”
Karl Urban: yeah, I was thinkng about it.
The Rock: whatcha got left?
Urban: half a clip. you?
The Rock: I’ve got (dramatic pause) one round (fires immediately)

I happened to give it a decent review. but mostly, the movie was panned. but I’m taking it all back; people who think “Doom” sucked are missing the point. “Doom” is about blowing monsters up on Mars. in this aspect, the movie delivers. what more you could possibly want from it is beyond me. so if you gave “Doom” a bad review, you’re a stuck-up prick. I feel very strongly about this.

so now, while I’m sitting here, I’ve got the animated version of “The Hobbit” on. this is what introduced me to all of the J.R.R. Tolkien books. I forgot that it spends a good chunk of its 75 minutes tied up in songs. but it’s still pretty rad. the animation looks like the foldout of a Zeppelin album.
“The Hobbit” is a really fucking cool book. I’m not going to lie; I could never get all the way through the Lord of the Rings trilogy. always lost me halfway through the second book, but I’ve read “The Hobbit” a dozen times. the one thing I always remember thinking: Gandalf is a such a fucking dick. if he’d just hang out with Thorin and Company, then half of the shit they stepped in could have been avoided. the entire novel, Gandalf disappears. 

this flick is moving fast. it’s at the scene where Bilbo Baggins and Gollum hold a contest of riddles. 
“a box without hinges, key or a lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.”
it’s an egg.

OK, one more thing. a co-worker turned me on to this: ever imagined what the “Garfield” would be like if you cut Garfield out of the comic strip? pretty fucking depressing is what it would be. check it out. 

tonight is a good time to write. friday night, late. the weekend. most of you’ll miss this, I bet.

my apartment is up for rent. if anyone would like to move in, I can put in a good word for you. my landlord has a beard. this is news to me; I hadn’t seen him since July, and now, since Tuesday, he’s shown the place six times. tracking mud all over this motherfucker, talking the place up. it’s all lies. if he refers anyone to me with questions about utility bills, it will not go well.

I’ll go ahead and state the obvious, again - the blog has seen some pretty heavyhanded self-reflection over the last couple of weeks. it was triggered by a falling out I had with a friend here. I’d say it was because I got dumped, but that’s not really the case, as we weren’t really dating. I don’t know. felt like getting dumped.
point is, I’m in Charlottesville by myself. I live alone and work bad hours, so I don’t know a lot of people. so when something bad happened – like the above – I retreated into my head, took it unnecessarily hard, and here we are. I’ve felt like I should do something drastic, something scripted. like prepare a monologue, that would wrap everything up nicely, that I could deliver to this person. maybe get the last word, and then, I could become the protagonist in a romantic comedy. I could save some face. I’d be like John Cusack holding the boom box over his head, outside the girl’s house, in that movie that I’ve never seen. anybody?
but there’s more to it that that. copy editing is getting old. I never, ever, thought this is what I’d be doing when I got out of school, and I’ve been contemplating a career change. to what, I don’t know. no idea. add to this a currently half-assed attempt to work overseas, stir well, and you could say I’m having an exceptionally-early midlife crisis.
I wonder if everybody does this, or has thoughts like this. I’d assume so. what’s difference is, I tend to post them on a personal website where all of my friends can read them. then, I bitch about how conflicted I am over sharing personal thoughts, which is stupid and self-serving. but with that aside, I’ll say the blog is great in this respect: I can go back and realize how goddamn ridiculous I’ve sounded in the past, and realize how caught up I get in the moment. I mean, last month I wanted to jump a bus queue; now, not so much. see? reflection isn’t always a bad thing.
anyway, I see this person every once in a while, and for all of my flailing about, I’m probably lucky she still talks to me. which is good. momentum is pointing toward me leaving here soon, and I refuse to think of Charlottesville as the year in my life I wasted, bitching and moaning and feeling sorry for myself. that’s the idea.

ok, enough of that. Big Mar is coming to visit me on monday, and she’s bringing her roommate, Melissa. I’m looking forward to this. I get to play both tourguide and host, and I’m gonna put some effort into it. and I’m going to clean. fuck, I may even cook. we’ll see, let’s not get our hopes up.

to end: I bought Ickey Thump by the White Stripes today. no standout tracks as of yet, rather, just a solid album. also, put in an order for Blonde on Blonde. so that some day, an advanced civilization will come across my fossilized record collection, and will realize just how fucking cool I really am.

Patrick Swayze has pancreatic cancer. fuck!

 I’ve been just a torrent of emotions on here lately. but I’m fine. no, really, I’m fine. I’d go back and delete a week’s worth of writing, but where would the integrity be in that? I wrote it, I’ll leave it up there, but really. I’m trying to take myself less seriously, so you should, too.

edit: here’s the scene, man. I’m almost done with my laundry, it’s past noon and I’m eating Cheerios. and I went back and read what I wrote last night, and then Smith pointed out that I’m being melodramatic, and my brother, who came by and woke me up an hour or two ago, pointed out this website to me.
and it’s hilarious and a little bit sad, because I do like about half of these things. this one seemed very pertinent to this. I mean, come on. I keep a blog, for fuck’s sake. and for that alone I should be beaten unmercifully with rods.
anyway. about last night …

I’m at my dad’s house in Alexandria and I’m writing this on his computer. it’s because I just fucking love to ‘blog so goddamn much. we went to Primo’s tonight and caught up. I had the greek salad.

I saw a segment of this game show once, which is probably staged, who knows. the show has something to do with a lie detector test. from what I understand, they ask you personal, embarrasing, damaging questions and the idea is, if you answer truthfully, you win a lot of dough. if not, a disembodied voice says “false” and you lose, both the money and your dignity. that’s the gist, I don’t know the ins and outs. but it doesn’t really matter. please stay with me.
so the part I saw, they had this woman on there. and she admits, through a line of questioning, that not only had she fucked around on her husband, but that she was in love with someone else on her wedding day, she secretly wants this someone else, and so on. you get the point. the husband and her family are sitting in the front row. his head’s in his hands.
I can’t believe it’s real. I haven’t done any looking into it, and I don’t even remember the name of the program, but I just can’t bring myself to believe it. it’s like prostitution in its purest form. I mean, if this episode was any indicator of the suffering you’d cause, the money can’t possibly be worth it. 

but whatever, that’s not really what I’m driving at. 
the last question – the question for all the marbles – is “do you believe that you’re a good person?”
camera pans in on the woman’s face. she pauses. the crowd is hushed.
she says, “yes, I do.” and the disembodied voice says, “that answer is false.”
and she loses all of the what has to be imaginary money.

I know that this isn’t news. it takes a sour son of a bitch to actually own up to being a bad person. the rest of us, however believe we’re decent people, and that we aren’t part of the problem. (aside: that’s why we have empty sloganeering that passes for political movements.) me? in college, I would avoid General Mills products because GM’s a subsidiary of a tobacco company, but I’ve grown lazy and complacent. and now I smoke the occasional cigarette, albeit poorly. I tend to blow smoke in people’s faces. and fuck it, say what you will. I can handle the ridicule for that kind of stuff. 

but I’m not talking about how I bought a jacket at the Gap that was made in Vietnam in what could be sweatshop conditions.
and I’m not talking about getting a burger at Wendy’s and all of the physical pain that a living animal endured at a stockyard in Colorado so I can have it my way.
and I’m not talking about someone I made fun of when I was in 7th grade gym class. I’ll rot in hell, but most kids are cruel – they’re kids, and they don’t always know better. I was no exception.
these are all bad things.

but what I’m driving at: on an individual basis, most of don’t remember the terrible things they say to others. sometimes, it doesn’t even dawn on you how awful you’ve made someone feel, until a long time afterward.
I’ve done this. and, I’ve apologized. and I’m not looking for restitution – you know, sometimes you say or do things you can’t take back, and you change in someone’s eyes. I get that.
I know you can’t be the light of the world to everyone. I just want you to know that I get it. or, I’m trying to get it. and that, god damn it, I want to be a good person and I’m terrified of being like the woman on the gameshow.

Matt’s text message to Phil: email address
Phil: phil@email.com
Matt: thats the gayest email Ive ever heard of
Phil: my email has a 12 inch penis

I’ve started the first sentence of this about a million times. keep deleting it. gotta set the right tone, man.

this guy I know here, he offered to let me move in with him in June if my lease runs dry. I went out and saw his place today. he lives in the sticks. pastures behind the house. pastures across the road. no internet access. no television. cheap rent. sparse furniture. plenty of storage space. he keeps weird hours. says he has a few jobs, “all of them legal.”
the bills, altogether, would be cheaper than what I’m paying here. I’m just keeping my options open, is all.

someone’s getting pulled over outside. 

“corona” by Calexico is a great song. not as good as the original. but if you’ve got big plans for an evening, and are leaving your house in five minutes, put this on, because that’s its time. roommate in Calif. was big on Calexico, which was funny, cause Calexico was also his beat, and he put this on one Friday night before he and I and this dude, Chris, headed down to Mexicali for the evening. we got tanked. that part was OK, but the music beforehand was better.

I’m not in a sour mood. just contemplative.
this really isn’t a blog. there’s way too much self-censorship going on here for that. every word I write – alright, not every word I write – but a lot is carefully chosen. I often write with motive. example: I’m seeking your pity, I’m trawling for laughs, vindication. vindication for what, I don’t know. it’s just a word that comes to mind.
I mean, I’ve been writing this thing for over three years now. am I growing as a person? am I treading the same ground? asking the same questions? coming to the same conclusions? painting myself into the same corner, gathering the same results? making the same, stupid mistakes I’ve made, over and over again? fuck, are these personality traits? 

maybe the blog is one giant cry for help. maybe, I should just get it the fuck over with. go for broke and list out my insecurities and shortcomings. but that would make for some heavy reading, and this is your lunchbreak. don’t want to harsh your buzz.

what I really want, is for you, to read this, and think, this Matt, he’s worth my time. there’s a lot going on upstairs. he’s a prize-winning novel, just waiting to spill out. but that’s all bullshit. you already know that I’m not that special, I’m just prolific, and there’s a difference. okay. I just want you to know, that I’m thinking about you too. all of you.

I spent an early part of tonight thinking “you don’t know how it feels ” by Tom Petty actually applies to my life. it doesn’t fit entirely. see, recently, my opinions of my situation (my environment, my job, my mood) and my self esteem have been changing with the minute, so it’s hard to definitely say anything. but at about 9:45 pm on saturday night this early March of 2008, ”you don’t know how it feels” was how I felt. and you may be thinking, “that’s weak.”  but say what you will. some day, I’ll come back and remember.

there are four copy editors at the Daily Progress right now. I’m one of them, and there’s one too many. simply not enough newspaper to edit or design. and depending on your situation, this could be a sweet gig. if you’re living in your hometown, in a semi-permanent environment that offers you a respite from a shitter-job and a decent salary and a reference that’s resume-worthy, the place would be perfect. it’s not a lot of work; rather, it’s just a job to fall asleep at.
but I’m not ready to fall asleep.

and that’s it. there’s nothing more to it right now. I’ll not remember tomorrow, but I’ll come back here. sooner or later.
I am not ready to fall asleep.