Now how in the hell did you get there so soon

What better time to decide to write a blog post than when I have a 1200-3000 word paper to write. How do I even think in terms of word counts anymore anyways? I stopped taking classes that required word counts on papers halfway through college. Let's hope this idea of school was a good one. So far I do in fact feel like it is the right one, but it's not easy to get back into the swing of things, that's for sure for sure. Too bad the words I typed here can't go towards my pitiful word count of 579. Time to crack a book that could start a forest fire if read outside of a walk in refrigerator. Ugh.



I'd much rather be making one of these on the couch with Ms. Rad while watching HIMYM.

This blog, right here

...probably one of my favorite blogs at the moment. Everyday it's got random good shit. Check it out when you're not busy pouring over every word I type.

http://claytoncubitt.tumblr.com/

Dear Ron Dellums:

Ron Dellums, Get on a boat.
Ron Dellums, ROW.
Ron Dellums, GET OUTTA HERE.
Ron Dellums, GO GO GO.

Sincerely, a concerned citizen of Oakland.

I think tonight I'll to go the Main branch of the Oakland Public Library to get some interneting done. I can't do that www stuff at home anymore because I'm too cheap and my neighbors are all too smart and have locked their routers. So I figure instead of sitting at Whole Foods surrounded by yuppies, I'd try the public Library on 14th and surround myself by crackheads, homeless and generally smelly people. Also, it can't hurt to sign up for a library card and begin to get acclimated to the environment beyond puking on the steps across from the Ruby Room. After all, I'd like to
(maybe) be employed there sometime in the (maybe) near future. There's too many things I want to figure out about school that starts in 49 days (counting today) and I better put my mind at ease by doing said interneting about school stuff.

PS: Fuck all this Michael Jackson garbage, I am o-fficially sick of it.

Apathy? Maybe?

I drove to work in silence today. It was a strange change of pace from my usual NPR morning edition and coffee. This morning it was just me and the coffee. Even the coffee was more present and aware of what was going on than I was. It was as if I didn't even have to tune out the world, I just simply wasn't there. This week has been a mush of floating through and being too tired with the world to do anything. Do, nay, FEEL anything. It will wear off, I know it. But being tired sure is tiring.

The reason I don't care about any avenue of fortune telling is the same reason I won't skip to the end of a book. It will come. Just let it happen.

(Hell, I even refuse to skip around a magazine.)

Thought for Tuesday

I purchased a package of Hanes boxer briefs last week from Target. Typically not my favorite purchase to make, but like toilet paper, towels, milk and any other number of things, a necessary purchase to make from time to time. There are certain things I think should be supplied to us, certain things we need. Like for example, women shouldn't have to pay for tampons. But I'll save that for another time.

Today I am wearing a new pair of said Hanes Boxer Briefs. They're black, size medium, and really pretty comfortable. I noticed just now while in the midst of a trip to the John, that they were inspected by #21.

So I'd like to send this blog post out to #21 in whatever god forsaken country you're in, making my underwear. You did good, real good.

Poetry Month

I am really glad it's no longer poetry month. Who decided that April was the month that should be dedicated to poetry anyways. I have no reason to be bothered by this, in fact, it really doesn't affect me at all. But now that it's over with, I feel better.

That's all. Carry on.

'E', 'H'

Often I find my mind wandering off from reality to contemplate things much larger than my widening world can encompass. There is an array of topics that I tend to fixate upon, none very important, all fairly narrow in scope despite their large philosophical elements. Now, that makes it sound like I find myself to be important in thought and that all fleeting thoughts deserve contemplation. This is far from the truth. Let me explain.

Walking from the gym to my car today I began to contemplate the syllabic make up of individual letters. The way in which, if asked, you would write out the pronunciation of all 26 letters in the English alphabet. Understandably you will have to suspend some reality in order to have success in this venture. It is easier to spell each letter out with simply it self. That's cheating. And the question can be raised; "How do you spell somethings' sound with itself?" Don't think about that. The challenge comes in using more than one letter to create each letters sound. Here's what I was able to come up with:

'A' - "ay"
'B' - "be"
'C' - "see"
'D' - "dee"
'E' - "...

Then I hit my first road block. How do you spell that sound your mouth makes thousands of times a day. The letter 'E' is obviously going to be a part of the spelling of many of the other 25 letters cohabiting the alphabet, but how the hell do you spell it? I have no idea so I'll keep going...

'F' - "eff"
'G' - "gee"
'H' - "...

So I got to 'H' and realized that the very language that I am currently trying to dismantle and explain is doing me dirty. The only spelling I can conjure up for 'H' is "a-c-h-e". But any moron knows that's a verb referring to pain & suffering. I am stumped. Only 8 letters into my very very important experiment and I have no where to turn. Since I just spent 40 minutes at the gym reading an article in The New Yorker on Adderall, I will continue my quest to solve all (or nearly all) 26 letters.

'I' - "aye"
'J' - "jay"
'K' - "kay"
'L' - "el"
'M' - "ehm"
'N' - "en"
'O' - "oh"
'P' - "pee"
'Q' - "kue"
'R' - "are"
'S' - "ess"
'T' - "tee"
'U' - "you", "ewe"
'V' - "vee"
'W' - "double you"
'X' - "exse"
'Y' - "why"
'Z' - "zhe"

So there, I have done it. The question I want to know now is why does 'E' get the most play. It occurs in (roughly) 20/26 of my renditions of the English Alphabet in syllabic form. Yet, it cannot be defined in this manner? This is a question that will likely plague me for many more walks to and from my car. For now, I apologize that you have read this and am going to regretfully inform you that; no, I cannot in fact return the time you have spent reading this posting. All apologies.

2nd Generation Misanthrope

Apparently someone in my family whom I've never met has (had) a fascination with car crashes. A handful of these prints were found among an envelope of old family photographs dating as far back as the 1920's.

No one seems to know who took them, and everyone seems to be wondering why they were taken. The why isn't part of the mystery I'd like to solve. I'd like to think I know the answer to that.

I'd rather get cancer

One more thought. These things. I don't understand it. Do the Chinese women WANT to look like a creepier Darth Vader? Is the sun really that awful on your face. Seriously.

The Monks

I "discovered" this band yesterday. God, its SO GOOD. I think more and more that I was born in the wrong decade. Garage rock will carry me through the summer heat.

I am currently reading this:



(though the cover of my copy is hideous compared to this one). It's taken a little while longer to get through than I usually like. I try to devour a book every 10 days or so. But I blame the weather.


Next I am going to dive into this behemoth. It's nothing like what I usually read, and is really quite long. But I'm interested to read about this scumbag. Especially in his own words...

There is no Devil, it's only God when he's drunk

The stale air of monotony is suffocating me on this Tuesday that feels like a Monday that just won't quit. Something about a Tuesday makes for the most point in a 5 day work week. That fat cat Garfield told us we were supposed to hate Mondays; that's easy. Wednesdays; you're halfway there. Thursday and Friday need no explanation. But its Tuesdays that are Gods gift to humanity. "They" say heavy rain is God crying on us from above. Well, Tuesdays are God's shits after a long night of drinking shitty beer.

Maybe I wouldn't have as much to complain about if I had less time on my hands in this 8' x 8' beige walled "office" I sit in every morning. I'm lucky I get to leave and have a dose of freedom, but even that is draining at times. I recognize how well I have it, getting to drive around, go to a different Subway every day for lunch, end my days early if possible. It doesn't mean I don't wish for better in this part of my life as I have received in all other aspects. It would be nice to have some enjoyment from this dump.

And the second day of the week NEVER helps. So in conclusion, fuck you Tuesday. You stink like beer farts.

Oh, and PS. I want to go swimming while I still can.

100% of the time, all of the time

I have a new plan. I devised it last night while considering the things in life that make me happy. These days it's not hard for me to put my finger on what makes me smile & makes me feel relaxed; great. So in an effort to be 24/7 PMA, I found myself thinking about the things that rainbows & unicorns are made up of.

Though it has only been in my grooming regimen for 6 months, I love going to the barber shop. I have tried a handful of different ones, and upon finding the one that works best for me, sitting down in that worn chair of a bygone era relaxes me. It works 100% of the time, all of the time.

Back to my plan. Starting with my already scheduled trim for tomorrow afternoon at 5, I will make sure to get a haircut every payday. It is a small gesture to myself. Do something right, even if the day or week has been a sea of wrong. All I need now is to find a shop that will give me a hot shave and I'll be set. I'd like to be able to add that into my routine. Maybe every Saturday morning I get a hot shave after my pot of coffee poured over whatever book I'm immersed in. Ideally that shop would be walking distance from home. Hey, a boy can dream, right?

For now I'll stick to haircuts and the pleasure that is derived from sitting down and being asked "Just a haircut today?" and my simple reply, "That's all I need."

TAT2 TV

None of this means anything. Despite what TV wants you to think, tattoos mean nothing. Don’t get yourself worked up about the significance of a tattoo. It’s a drawing on your skin. Who cares what it means. Use your skin like a beat up car so when you end up dead it looks like you lived. Don’t park it in the garage every night and wax it every Sunday in your pristine front yard. Mark it, scuff it, fuck it up. That way you know that you did something right. This is a hard notion to grasp when you decide to get tattooed for the first time.

I spent a year debating getting tattooed. Fearful for my future. Fearful for what a tattoo would do to my life. The suspense was unbearable as I decided that the first one was going to actually happen. It was going to transform from a piece of paper hung next to my bed to real blood and ink and skin and future failure (inevitably). So I paid the deposit. Then hyper-ventilated.

Then came the Nightmares. Every type of failure. Misspelled words. Horribly placed tattoo stencils. Crippling pain causing half finished work for eternity. Inevitable unemployment (thanks to said tattoo). I was a wreck. I was a wreck because I thought I should be. I thought I was changing my life for good. And for the worse.

It’s hard to say why the tattoo hurt. In retrospect, less because of the physical pain, and more as a result of the adrenalin that could not be contained. Think New Orleans flooding mixed with the earthquake of ’89. I couldn’t see straight. But it wasn’t the kind of adrenalin that PCP gives. I was destructible. This adrenalin made me want to vomit. Unfortunately (for me, fortunately for the shop) I couldn’t. Then, somehow, it was done.

That was it. Count me out, I was done for.

Time may have passed between my first and second, and then my second and third. But the itch was there. I couldn’t scratch it. Incessant buzzing in my ear that wouldn’t go away. I realized what little tattoos mattered. I realized that if it feels good, you should do it. No one cares about the story behind you getting out of a shitty relationship and tattooing a humming bird on your hip to mean that you are finally free. The intrinsic value of a tattoo should matter to one person. Don't expect the world to care about your deeply emotional meanings. Maybe you would be better suited with these than a real tattoo if that's the case:

Payday used to be so exciting. It used to hold promise and hope. Direct deposit used to feel like sitting on Santas lap as a young lad. With spending power and little responsibility every 2 weeks was like a birthday party, thrown by you.

Too bad now all a paycheck does is make me realize how little money I have and how tight the impending 15 days will be. It's a very good thing I enjoy Mac 'n Cheese.

Ugh.