Superinky Fixations

It wasn’t like any big surprise, being told I was passed up for the job I interviewed for a couple weeks ago. Though it still sucks and kind of stings nonetheless. I must remind myself that this is all part of the greater plan, the plan I call OPERATION: ESCAPE FROM H.E.L.L. (harrowing, evil, lackluster, loserville).

Ok, so I learned something new this weekend. When people are in public wearing headphones, but not actually listening to anything, just with the headphones hanging on their necks… and it’s really even more specific than that - these headphones have to be those big suckers, think Princess Leia buns on their necks, right? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen those posers walking around! Well, it’s the new thing all the young kids are doing now to indicate that, yes, I’m here in public (or at a party, or an event, or what have you) but if it’s not cool enough and I’m not into it, I’m going to put my headphones back on. It’s this silent cue that they believe somehow they are cooler than you and are, in fact, anticipating that whatever may be about to happen or could happen at any moment will not be interesting enough for them to participate in, or even hear.

This disheartens me, but does not surprise me. It’s comforting in a way, knowing there are people more cynical and bitter than me.

So we were rock stars last night. I love it when bretty and I are vibing each other and things just happen without any discussion and conflict. There’s a mutual desire for adventure and it just takes a small catalyst to get us going. I was actually in my pajamas last night when he asked if I wanted to go to a show. And it wasn’t the one we’d talked about.

By the way, "Team America" was frickin’ hilarious America! FUCK YEAH! followed by a short jaunt to our local wings joint, Fire on the Mountain. Though neither of us eat wings, we do like the Portland Wings, which, by the way, amount to chiknuggets of some sort, totally vegetarian, and the sauces kick butt. Though I’ve eaten El Jefe, it was punishing, and now I opt for the Extra Hot.

Instead of Berbati’s, we ended up at Towne Lounge and caught some psychedelic spaghetti western rock by a band called Spindrift. Come to find out the lead singer/guitarist played with BJM on a tour in 2002. What a small world it is after all. I recommend streaming "Legends of God’s Gun" and I defy you to tell me they aren’t the soundtrack to the Clint Eastwood movie you never saw.

Oh, but what makes it extra cool is that the show was so late, and we were enjoying our drinks (my new favorite, the gin martini with a twist) and bretty fell asleep in the booth. Very rock and roll, in my humble opinion. Oh, and I forgot to mention the sexy cowgirl in the bikini top giving herself a spit bath in the bathroom which, by the way, she described to me as "very cool" and then she gushed about the towel dispenser. Tripping much? My objective self is suddenly questioning whether I, if I’d never heard of the Towne Lounge, would bother to go to there based on this strange and disjointed description.

But really, the Towne Lounge. It’s in an awesome building. Beautiful really. Anyway, they’re playing again today. And hell, it’s just $4. Sure, it’s not too original of me, going to see the same band 2 nights in a row, but if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?

They came today, my BJM tix, further enhancing my commitment to the pilgrimage, now just 45 (?) days from today. I’m so excited I may just post a photo of the tickets themselves to prove what a big dork I am. No one has ever heard of BJM, and if they have, they are ambivalent or actually don’t like them at all. I think perhaps I am one of maybe 2,000 people in North America who adore them above all others; who revere them as some revere, oh, say Elton John or Neil Diamond or, fuck, Clay Aiken, I don’t know. I’m rambling and wonder why this is such a big deal to me. I’m grasping I guess. Don’t want to spend much more time thinking about it too deeply.

Bretty wants to see Caribou tonight. We saw them last year when they were Manitoba, but apparently they were involved in some kind of lawsuit and had to change their name to Caribou. Perhaps Manitoba the Province found Manitoba, the rock-electro-IDM (how I abhor that loathsome pretentious term) threatening to it’s very nature, bastardizing the name of Manitoba throughout the land. Fuck, is there some other band called Manitoba or something? Reminds me of Ambulance Ltd and how they have to call themselves Ambulance Ltd and not Ambulance, cuz there’s some loser band from the 70’s called Ambulance.

Um, but it’s $15 per person and frankly Ii don’t know if I like them all that much. And it’s fucking hot as hell and Berbati’s is a furnace. Now, if it were !!! performing on a 90+ degree night I’d be much more inclined to drop the cash money and shake my ass. Manitoba, I mean flipping Caribou, I’m not so sure. Fun? Yes. Deathly hot and uncomfortable? God yes. Is it worth it? Let’s see how I feel at 10pm.

I hope all my friends move to Portland and live here forever so that they can keep me company and then our ghosts will keep each other company when we’re dead. How comforting.

… because I must numb myself to the pain of my unfulfilling career…

Only 52 days until my pilgrimage begins. I shall spend the evening in reflection and meditation.

For your listening pleasure and my Tuesday night, fresh organic lettuce induced, sexed up mind trip meditation…

Death From Above 1979
"If Love_is_the_Drug" Brian Jonestown Massacre
Adam Green
Louis XIV

I’ve basically taken the last 3 days off of work, hoping I’d garner an attitude adjustment by the sheer absence from my Cubicle of Stress. No such luck.

I hoped my crush on Johnny Knoxville would distract me from my own woeful life enough that when the first of the week snuck up on me I’d at least have the inclination to get dressed. I watched the director’s commentary of "Dig" over the weekend, bringing the total number of times viewed since the dvd release to 4, hoping I’d at least get somewhat inspired by musical genius/mania.

I even prodded bretty to the point of booking our flights to San Fransisco this July for the pilgrimage to the Brian Jonestown Massacre summer 05 tour kick off. I bought the concert tickets and even suckered another couple to put us up at their place. Basically, I’ve forced them and bretty to participate in my psychedelic pilgrimage whether they wanted to or not.

Does any of this really make me feel any better about the daily fucking grind that is my career? Absolutely, unequivocally NO. 

There is this tiny part of me that cares about my job, I know there is. Or, rather, I know there should be a tiny part of me that cares.

Yet as I sit here retrieving voice mails from my completely full mail box, I am reminded over and over of the hellacious trivialities that send people over the edge before they even leave me a message. By the time I get them, they’re spent and angry and ready to take it out on anyone. Anyone, of course, meaning Me.

So, I’ve detached myself to the point of complete apathy. This can’t be healthy. At the same time, shoud things remain status quo, I’m plotting my escape for mid September. This thought excites me and gives me hope.

3 glasses of red wine talking, loud, and well, not exactly clear but somewhat cogent. And I’ve been wanting to say this for at least a solid 24 hours, so I’ll say it now: Johnny Knoxville: HOT MOFO.

Even hotter in a dress.

I want to lick him.

I am disgusting. I know it, I accept it. Ewww. Except it’s yucky.

Kinda.

I’m fried. Completely spent. Is it possible I’m having an existential/mid 30’s crisis stemming directly from the angst & frustration over the four wasted years trudging away in a dead end job, my soul eaten away into a tiny shred of it’s former self? Or maybe it’s the low grade fever talking.

Okkervil River was one of those shows where I felt like I was some sort of coma patient awakening into a world that marched on without me. It reminded me of when Bretty & I went to Hem earlier this year, and to a certain degree when we saw Ambulance Ltd, too. The audience was going crazy singing along and cheering and dancing and I’m embarrassed to say that I’d never heard them (though I’d heard of them) before last night. And they did not disappoint. They had fully won both of us over by the end of their short set. I can’t seem to find their website, though, so I can’t link you…

Climber, then Richard Swift opened the night and Earlimart finished it up. It was a long night, really, and a bargain at $5. Yes, I wrote that correctly. $5. In fact, perhaps this speaks to my age and need to get my eight hours sleep. But for fuck’s sake, what is up with four bands performing at the same show? I’d have gladly paid $5 for three bands. Hell, I would’ve paid $7 to see two bands, maybe more.

I’m spoiled by Doug Fir, too, with its inhale-deeply-and-without-fear-of-2nd-hand-smoke policy, crystal clear acoustics and intimate vibe. I couldn’t sleep for ages last night, because I kept thinking I smelt a cigarette burning. Oh, but it was just me. Yuck.

Oh, but Bretty did score some free tix finally to Dorlean tonight at the Doug. They must’ve lifted our black list status… yeah! I heart them.

Sometimes I just need a day off. For no reason other than mental wellness. Mental wellness and rest. Mental wellness, rest, and recuperation from the prior evening’s excessive partying. And not the rock star orgy-with-groupies-partying haters. Though I’d certainly love to claim a night of debauchery is my excuse for cutting out of work today, it’s far less interesting and hardly worth mentioning. So I won’t bore you.

The interview.

Who knows? Who cares? I was me. I wore what I felt most comfortable in and I didn’t pretend to know things that I don’t. It was a good long interview with lots of back and forth exchange. But my cynical attitude regarding the institution in which I work keeps me from, what’s the over-used, tired lame cliche?… putting all my eggs in one basket? I’m checked out and detached and just biding my time until I figure out what I want to do when I grow up.

In the 4th grade I had a piano recital one Sunday morning at the Longview Public Library. Cold, gray rainy day; typical NW spring weather. Except the mountain blew it’s top and I was scared and crying cuz I didn’t understand quite what was going on. The recital was canceled. Whew! I always hated recitals. Perhaps I was crying partly from relief.

Then we went down to the Cowlitz River. I can’t remember if it was May 18th or sometime later that week. We watched millions of logs & trees, several homes, and many cars chugging down the river slowly. We wore face masks so as not to inhale ash. My mother filled the bathtub with water thinking we’d have to drink it (yuck) or at the very least wash our dishes in it. And school was dismissed for 2 solid weeks cuz Jimmy Carter declared the region a disaster area.

Ash everywhere. For weeks and months and then slowly it faded away. I remember a boy in the 3rd grade; there was a picture of him playing in the wreckage in National Geographic magazine.

I wouldn’t mind if Mt. St. Helens blew up again. Blew up something fiercely massive, or at least seriously enough so that I didn’t have to go to work for a while, but still get paid. I have quite a few natural disaster hours accrued, or whatever they call them, inclement weather pay or something of that nature. It’s have to be a pretty damn big one to affect us down here in Portland, but it could happen.

Bring it.

Me. Job interview. In the morning. And I’m doing my best to mellow out and chill the flip out and remember how totally cool and awesome I am and how much I so totally deserve a good job. And that any respectable place would be lucky to have me working for them cuz I’m so quick and thoughtful, decisive, creative and downright interesting. I’m doing my best to convince myself of these things.

The outfit is picked out. The underwear is clean, including a brand new bra, camisole and tights.

I’ve jotted down several points to discuss in the interview. Ok, I recognize that that may be going a bit far. But why the hell not? Let them think I’m a nerd. People want to hire nerds. Nerds are reliable and responsible and detail oriented. I can be a nerd.

Oh, but I’m so bitter, so jaded, I’m not sure I can hide the seething underbelly of my hatred of the system that serves to keep me locked under a glass fucking ceiling.

Though I’m sure I’d take this job if it were offered to me, I can’t say that I’m totally psyched.

This makes me ambivalent and surely it will show in my interview. At the same time, just about anything has got to be better than what I’m doing now.

If only. If only. If only I knew what I wanted to do when I grow up. If only the answers would clobber me, or at least make themselves explicitly clear enough to penetrate through my thick skull.

Good luck to me. Send me good vibes please… around 9am tomorrow morning. I need them.

mmmmmmm