on inauguration day

I'm at work, digging ditches for the state of Florida.* I almost called in this morning so I could go downtown and watch the state I love get handed over to those who would plunder and pillage her, or at least catch the parade (hell, I love a parade). Instead, I took my shower, laced up my boots, and came into work. I might as well do my job while it still exists.

Tomorrow night I'm going to see a show at the Engine Room (Adolescents, Lower Class Brats, Love in Arms, and Ka Plaa). I need it. It's been a while since I got to bang shoulders with like-minded individuals while loud music crashes down on our heads. Once you get used to that kind of release, it becomes a necessity. Going without a good show feels almost like going without sex or solid food - sure, you can live that way, but why?

Will I make it to work Thursday morning? Well, there's a reason I didn't give in to that urge to play hooky today.


*I do not actually dig ditches for a living. 

the first working day of the new year

I'd rather be at home, wrapped up in quilts, with my mean-ass cat grumbling away on my belly. But were I both home and awake...

I'd rather be putting together the wire shelving I got for Christmas, now that I've realized what I plan to do with it. For years, I've kept all my exacto blades and markers and glue and other tools of the diy propagandists' trade in the top drawer of my living room dresser. It's handy, but I have to dig through it to find anything. But wire shelves + some sort of rubbermade bins purchased on the Target gift card I also got as a present = a way to keep all that shit at hand and ready to go. I just cemented this plan last night, now I'm chomping at the bit to put it into effect. Which leads to...

I'd rather be working on a new zine that I'm kicking around. But more on that later, because it involves getting a handful of people to write things for it. I don't know if you know this, but the majority of people I hang out with are a) funny as shit and b) convinced they can't write. "Just send me that story in an email," I tell them. "I will edit it to make you look good, but not change what you say. That's what I do." Herding cats, I tell you. Which leads us back to my first point.

In Which I Think of Rearranging My Home

I live in a very small apartment. I have a living room, a bedroom, a smidgen of a kitchen, a dab of a bathroom, an afterthought of a closet. All told, I lay claim to about 550 square feet. I've been here almost 7 years.

I've always been fascinated by small living spaces. Gypsy carts, sailboats, treehouses, airstream trailers. A place for everything and everything in its place. I've got everything tetrised into this place like you wouldn't believe. Folding chairs stuck in corners for when guests come over. Pans stored in the oven. My computer on a rolling bass amp so it can be tucked behind my falling-apart big chair when it's not in use. A fold out couch the size of a small love seat. Bookcases on every wall possible. Zines, hats, and other goodies hanging from the ceiling.

I love my little place, even with all the clutter. But all of a sudden I am so fuckin bored with how it's set up. The time has come to shuffle my belongings, clear out what I don't need, kick the dust off of everything and see where it settles. I think tonight I'll start with the kitchen. That's got to be the easiest room to break down and rebuild, right?

that time of year again

You gotchyer day people and you gotchyer night people. Oh, sure, daytime is great. Sunshine, warm air, blue skies, green trees. Lunch, a fine meal. Folks are hustling and bustling, jobs get done, houses get built. Kids play in the park, families walk around Lake Ella. Nothing wrong with daytime.

But I perk up as the colors fade out of the world and everything goes grey, black, and silver. Anything's possible at night. When I'm lacing up my boots and headed out the door into the moonlight, I might just get dinner and come home again. Or I might run into a crowd of freaky weirdos and get swept into the darkness, stumbling up my front steps later with the dawn behind me, adventure clinging to my clothes.

I know plenty of people who get depressed as the nights lengthen, who need special lamps and trips to sunnier climes to survive the winter. Not me, buddy. I need a hooded sweatshirt and ten dollars for beer. A knit cap for my shaved head and good friends to laugh in the shadows.

Two parades (pretty much) go past my house every year. The Springtime Parade celebrates all that sunshiny brightness, the blooming dogwoods, the chirping peeps, fresh cut grass. It happens at ten in the morning in April and my parade parties have grown increasingly baby-friendly and kid-filled. The Winter Parade, coming up in a month, glitters in cold darkness. It's an event of flames throwing ghosts against the walls and people banging rocks together to scare off the prowling predators. We drink, we eat seared meat, we cheer for the parade until it ends and then cheer for ourselves long into the night. I love this season!

as far as the eye can see

from Ryan Register's flickr

Last night I dreamed that I was in a van with a few people, riding on the bridge to St. George Island. The sea on either side was full to the horizon with dolphins, leaping and diving. As we neared the shore we could see people walking into the water, splashing in the shallows, hugging and petting the large animals, laughing with joy over the amazing gathering.

My sister Jessie wanted to join them but felt afraid. I urged her into the water. "Go!" I told her, "Go! When will you see this again?" and she smiled and went.

So, Jess, I don't know what you're feeling unsure about doing right now, but I think I'm in favor of whatever it is.

straggler

All my friends are married or sober or laid up somewhere canoodling with their sweet baboo every night after work. They're buying houses and having babies and, I dunno, going to bed at ten on Friday night.

And that's great. I am honestly happy for all of them. If you can find love and stability in this life, fuckin' hop on it. Hug it tight and be joyful. But cheese'n'rice, do you know where that leaves we few confirmed bachelors and late bloomers?

Bored. Very, very bored.

I mean, I can entertain myself. I'm good at it. Ask my mama - I've been sneaking off with books or going for long walks my whole life. As an adult, though, I've cobbled together a happy little band of friends and drinking buddies and guys I go to shows with. Folks I could call on a Tuesday night or a Saturday morning to go split a pitcher or drive down to the beach or just sit on a stoop and reinvent the world. And now I can call a dozen people and get nothing but "maybe later". Later days, y'all.

I miss my friends. I miss having a crowd around at the drop of a hat. Nothing ever stays the same, and maybe it's me. Maybe I've just missed so many normal milestones in my adult life that I'm now hopelessly left behind. But it doesn't feel like that. I adore the babies, I admire the new homes, but I don't feel that pull for myself. I like living alone - I just didn't sign up to spend all my leisure time that way.

kinda sorta birthday party

I tell you what, we run my mama ragged. It doesn't matter if we're talking about a full Thanksgiving dinner or three frozen pizzas (with toppings added) and a salad. Doesn't matter if the guest list is every cousin and 15 friends or the nearest and dearest, complete with babies. We are just gonna wear my mama clean out.



Last night we got mama to throw herself a small bash in honor of her birthday, something she's not all that into. Basically, we all want to descend upon her and then eat cake. It was a lickety-split sort of evening. If you sat still more than five minutes, you probably had a baby, a cigarette, or a slice of venison pizza in your hands. And those babies are wiggly buggers!



Waylon crawled four-on-the-floor for about a day and a half before going straight to the tripod stage (adorable) and is now racing along. This, in turn, sets Owen back a little. His easily-manipulated little friend can now hold his own - a good lesson for any child to learn!





That bruiser of a boy, in the mean time, was trying out this whole "walking in shoes" thing for the first time, and handling it like a champ. I fed him ice until we were both soaking wet and chilly, but he kept popping that wee mouth open like a birdie.




In the end, I know I had a good time. When we get together, no matter what, we make each other laugh. Oh, we're a lucky bunch.