Apr
22
Laina
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 4 Comments
“Put your hands on the car.” There were three of us, concurrently tiny. Three kids, four years, one mommy. Each trip to the supermarket was an exercise in lemming-wrangling. Produce: stop touching that. Cereal: stop hitting. Meat: get back here get back here get back here NOW. Navigating the parking lot was like transporting criminally insane lemmings to a new detention facility. Rules were vital. “Put your hands on the cart”… “keep your hands on the cart”… “okay, put your hands on the car.”
Six sticky palms planted against the side of the station wagon meant thirty seconds of safety. Pop the trunk, load the groceries, heave a sigh of relief. All hands on the car meant calmness and control. Fewer hands meant that one or more children/lemmings were engaged in possibly-fatal mischief. In that instant, calm became DEFCON-4. A brief but thrilling melee invariably followed… fumbled bananas and panic, minivan exhaust and smacked asses.
As a child, it seemed unreasonably strict. As an adult, the only thing more reasonable than the rules is the capillary-bursting anger when they’re broken. This is an aspect of the parent-child bond which will never have its own Precious Moments figurine. Read more
Jan
30
It Keeps Coming ‘Til the Day It Stops
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 5 Comments
Never have I felt like such a grown-up.
It’s not like I wasn’t asking for it. I spent years squirming past more hesitant types, gunning for front of the line… itching not only to try the next carnival ride that life had to offer, but to sit in the first car.
I was the first of my friends to smoke and drink, to fuck and work, to pile their dreams into K-car and crash it into an embankment.
I’m not sure why I was in such a hurry. But I was, and I am. When I write, I’m an old-school romantic. I give every individual moment its golden-hued, soft-focus reverence. In real life? I’m a lot less likely to smell the roses than to weed-whack them out of the way in my eagerness to see what’s behind the hedge.
Last summer, {@Boyfriend} and I discovered an abandoned WWII tank factory. Tucked away in a drowsy, antique-heavy burg, it was slated for redevelopment by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. But the Corps clearly had bigger fish to redevelop - the factory and surrounding grounds had lain dormant for so long that they’d begun to merge with the surrounding landscape. On its south side, the town had built a nature trail. Once a linchpin of national security, it was now guarded by a snarl of shrubs and saplings. The townsfolk apparently preferred recreation to exploration; the little thicket was undisturbed. Being evil out-of-towners, {@Boyfriend} and I were elbowing through foliage within minutes of spying the smokestacks. Read more
Jan
15
Biting Bullets and Assessing the Soft Tissue Damage
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, Local Public Med Skool Class of 2016, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 12 Comments
Lots of people have tried to become physicians. I don’t have exact numbers, but I’m gonna say kajillions.
The whole process is like driving the Alaskan Highway. If you dodge an avalanche, you just know there’s going to be a rabid wolf around the bend.
Some people can’t hack the prerequisites. Some people don’t get accepted. Some people don’t get funding. Others burn out in the first year… the second year… the intern year, when they’re already massively in debt. Some people go all the way, discover their own special personal relationship with Vicodin and have their license yanked. Some people go all the way and rue the day they started.
I kinda want to try. Read more
Jan
1
It Deepens Like the Tidal Shelf
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 1 Comment
We each carry our own little arsenal of things that keep us sane. If these things were dumped into a communal cardboard box, well… it would smoke and tick. It would hiss and twitch. It would smell like the bleachers in back of a vocational school. It would leak fluids that ate the varnish from floorboards. It would cut your fingertips and demagnetize your credit cards.
It would contain playing cards, both naked-lady and conventional. Whisky. Vodka. Gin. Rum. Tequila. The collective top half-inch from every bottle in a friend’s parents’ liquor cabinet. Fake tears. Real tears. Graphic sexual fantasies during parent-teacher conferences. Passive aggression. Active aggression. Calling the waitress a cuntface and the manager a faggot. Smashing your coffee cup against the pastry case and storming out. Lies, half-truths, flatteries . Tucking your chin into your chest each time you walk past a reflective surface. Concealing a workplace masturbation habit by feigning irritable bowel syndrome. Spending the duration of every hug imagining what it would feel like to pulverize the recipient’s eye socket with your fist. Prayer. Xanax . Gouging your inner arms with paper clips whenever your coworkers aren’t watching. Implying that the long-sleeved turtlenecks conceal something sexier than Neosporin . Making the moon your god. Pulling a ligament and irritating the baby by hoisting the car seat above your head, standing drenched in holy lunar silver and asking, pleading, begging, please, please, just let this one make it.
Read more
Nov
19
In Remembrance and Celebration of Your Beautiful Girls
Filed Under Best Of, Existential Angst-astic, Social Ishizzles, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 7 Comments
Thank god for Tragedy Coworker. That’s all I’m saying.
I don’t work with him directly. I don’t even see him that often. He’s still had a bigger impact on my life than anyone who’s ever filled out my performance report. Managers have spent years trying to make me stop oversleeping and peppering my flowcharts with bubbles like “NOD AND PRETEND YOU KNOW WHAT ‘FIDUCIARY’ MEANS” and “OH, SHIT : NOW YOU’RE REALLY FUCKED.” Without trying - without even being aware of it - Tragedy Coworker made me grateful. Permanently grateful. Reverent, even… praising everything from chaos theory to the solar winds for my undeservedly-blessed little life.
He’s tall, dark and one of the nicest men you’d ever hope to meet…. friendly, funny and open with everyone from guys with name tags on their shirts to guys with conference rooms named after them.
A few years ago, something awful happened to him. We’re talking the worst thing in the world. We’re talking something so horrific that I can’t talk about it. Hell, I hold my breath when I think about it, lest the idea get too comfortable in my body.
You can probably guess. Read more
Sep
18
Writer’s Catechism
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, Geekery, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 1 Comment
This is why we do it:
Because we have to.
Because it’s impossible to be an impartial observer unless you’re a Zen Buddhist or a fence post. Because chewed-up ballpoints feel better than splinters or koans.
Involvement empowers. Neutrality protects. There are those who are fundamentally compelled to grasp live wires just to see what they feel like. When that handful of amperage is figurative - when you’re walking into a war zone, a strip club, a border crossing - there are no better rubberized shoes than pen and pencil.
Because there is a right way to say things. Not one right way - a right way. It isn’t like solving for X. It’s more like weaving an afghan with dandelion fluff and straight pins. In other words, equal parts charming and finicky.
If you’re doing it correctly, it’s more craft than art. The craft keeps you improving. The art keeps you interested. Artistic discipline is a seventh-grade earth science teacher. She doesn’t explode or ignite things too often… just frequently enough to keep everyone awake, alert and receptive to marvels which aren’t actively ablaze. Read more
Aug
30
And Heaven Is a Place You Can Never Find Your Cigarettes - Pt. III
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, L'Amour, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 8 Comments
[Apologies for the enormous delay. While exhausted and bombarded, we're all doing swimmingly. And we're now the proud owners of a pen specifically designed so inmates can't use it as a weapon or a crack pipe. Eat it, Mont Blanc.]
I lurched into a parking spot adjacent to the courthouse, jumped out, slammed my door and ran. As I hyperventilated in the lobby, a kindly lawyer steered me towards the pre-trial area.
“Is the person you’re looking for already incarcerated?” he asked.
“Not unless he gave His Honor any sass-mouth,” I said.
“Well…,” smiled the lawyer, guiding me out of the elevator, “Let’s just hope he didn’t.”
I scurried across the dim marble atrium, grabbed {@Boyfriend} by his freshly-purchased suit and held tight.
There hadn’t been any sass-mouth. There’d been a bloodthirsty assistant D.A., a pile of unfriendly case law and a judicial ultimatum. Everyone - including {@Boyfriend’s} attorney - seemed to agree: this wasn’t winnable. Sure, he could’ve exercised his right to a trial. But in some cases, standing on principle just makes you an easier target. In most cases, a definite bitch-slap is preferable to a potential beat-down. There are those who can afford to risk brutal legal penalties, and kudos to them. May they never be forced to graduate and exchange their Che Guevara t-shirt for a captain’s hat. Read more
Jul
7
And Heaven Is A Place You Can Never Find Your Cigarettes - Pt. I
Filed Under Best Of, Existential Angst-astic, L'Amour, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, Social Ishizzles, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 6 Comments
So here’s how it went down.
It was a mistake. It was One of Those Things. It was also what’s known as an “ungraded misdemeanor”, which is a deceptively cutesy term. Rip the tag off your mattress? T.P. the sheriff’s Taurus? That’s an ungraded misdemeanor, pal.
As it turns out, the legal definition is the only benign thing about it.
It’s not the sort of thing you laugh about with friends years later. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania may not grade it, but most people eagerly issue a big ol’ “F”, for “fuck-up”. So do a number of public interest groups. Viewing the offense a little less disdainfully is a one-way ticket to Wingnut Terrace. It’s not quite “publicly raping the corpse of the puppy you just murdered with an Iraqi-manufactured shovel”… but suffice to say, it’s not a hell of a lot more popular.
______
During a particularly raw patch last winter, {@Boyfriend} and I split up. We were apart for thirteen days, each enlightening as it was grueling. Discoveries were made. Plane tickets were purchased. Diet Coke was employed as a food group. The fourteenth night, I borrowed my mother’s Buick and flew up the turnpike, blinking back tears and blasting spooky, atonal college rock. “A lot’s happened in the past two weeks,” I’d meekly offered, “And, y’know, I still have some of your socks…”. When I arrived, we sat at opposite ends of the couch… both thinner, more washed-out, wiser. Not wise enough to know exactly why I’d come, but enough to stare and squirm until it became apparent.
______
We lasted about fifteen minutes before touching knees… then foreheads… then grabbing one another, tight, like the last strong sapling at the edge of the ravine.
Relationship v2.0 has been more… More. Better and harder, truer and more complicated.
One of the complications? The looming specter of my beloved’s incarceration.
It will be a brief stint, admittedly. In addition to the wildly popular “seven to ten” and “twenty to life”, our penal system also dishes up smaller offerings…. an extra-value meal, if you will, of sentences measured in hours rather than days.
This is less of a consolation than you’d imagine. There is only one ideal length of jail time. It is the same as the ideal rib to fracture, or the ideal quantity of trichinosis colonies on your pork chop: none. Anything else is a bitter compromise.
______
“Let me get this straight,” I’ve joked, “We were apart for two weeks and you managed to incur criminal charges? Truly, my love is an umbrella which shelters men from their deviant impulses!”
Joking’s one of the only things you can do, really, other than gnawing your cuticles and re-ironing your trial clothes. Whether you stand accused of murdering or littering, you’re innocent until proven guilty. Assuming you can post bail (and weren’t littering, say, fragments of prostitutes’ skulls), your first lambada with the law is liable to be brief. The wait is the surprising part… surprising and absolutely maddening.
______
Televised justice has a lot more in common with porn than reality. It’s dispensed hard, fast and smokin’ hot. One minute, they’re hauling a body out of a greenhouse. The next, they’re interrogating a mulch distributor. There’s a Lysol commercial, witness badgering (”Are we to believe that soil aerator embedded itself in the victim’s sternum?”) and then - et voila! - wrongs are righted, handcuffs are applied and it’s time for Jeopardy!
In actuality, weeks, months or - in the case of particularly heinous charges, years - may elapse between crime and punishment. The court system’s a massive Rube Goldberg machine; it’s easy for cases to ping-pong through multiple delays and postponements. Even under ideal circumstances, both sides must be given sufficient time to build their cases. However, criminal defense attorneys aren’t usually keen on client participation. They’re more personal assistant than therapist. They take your information, they take your money, then they scurry off into the shadows, presumably to polish their horns and practice Sam Waterston-style eyebrow acrobatics. As the defendant, your duties are limited to writing checks and refraining from further shenanigans. Your only reminders of the impending Big Event are an empty wallet and uneasy stomach.
Pre-trial anxiety’s a nasty little gremlin, though. At first, it’s small, fuzzy and easy to cram under the bed and ignore in favor of more pedestrian pains-in-the-ass. But as the day of reckoning grows closer, the beastie under the bed gets progressively louder. Work problems, family problems, small appliance fires… they’re all drowned out by a shrieky, screechy, gavel-banging, bone-rattling fear.
_______
The day before {@Boyfriend}’s trial was a productive one. We ran errands, made phone calls, composed neat little bulleted lists. At around 11 PM, we stopped at a gas station to check off a few final items, like fueling the car and stockpiling cigarettes.
Oh, and finally losing it.
“You want anything?” I asked, walking towards the mini-mart. “Soda? Snack? Some… ummmn… jail money?”
The ride home was miserably grim. {@Boyfriend} focused on the road; I stared at streetlights and attempted to keep my tear ducts clamped by force of will alone. After a few miles of silence, {@Boyfriend} murmured, “Hey… I’ve got the perfect song for this occasion,” and turned on the stereo.
Fucking indie rock. You wouldn’t expect Kryptonite to be quite so twee, would you?
I’d held it together for months. I’d made hundreds of anal sex jokes. I’d been fine, fine, perfectly fine.
“Will you come visit me when I’m in prison?” lilted The Beauty Pill, “My outside sweetheart / Bring me birthday cakes with contraband inside / Outwit the guards?“
The second the parking brake was up, I buried my head in his t-shirt.
“What’s wrong?” he said, stroking my hair.
“This… this is just… really, really sad!” I said, wiping my eyes on his shoulder, “I’m sorry…”.
We held each other, tight, terrified little saplings bracing themselves for Hurricane Justice. After a few minutes, we grabbed our assortment of jail supplies and headed inside to stare at the ceiling and count the hours.
May
29
God Only Knows What I’d Be Without You (An ADD Autobiography) : #1 & 2
Filed Under Best Of, Existential Angst-astic, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 7 Comments
Memory isn’t stored in neat, contiguous sheets, like cerebral lasagna noodles. It’s more like pasta salad. Events, places and sensations are wound into a multitude of tight little spirals. With every conscious moment, they’re stirred and stirred again… rising to the top, sinking to the bottom, falling beneath the picnic table of time. The whole bowl’s slippery and unstable. Your personal history doesn’t always cling together in chronological order - or any discernible order at all. The scent of Mr. Sketch markers can nestle beside the taste of your first girlfriend’s lip gloss, or the time you ate a bad batch of mussels, or any one of a thousand other things, depending on the day. Memoir usually ignores this, as well it might. Human memory is a turbulent goo. It’s messy, mayonnaise-y and doesn’t lend itself to narrative clarity.
These are my memories, however, and they and I agree: narrative clarity can suck it.
A straight line may be the quickest jaunt between points A and B, but it’s not the most scenic. Life may be linear, but that’s not necessarily the most beautiful or truthful way to document it. It’s difficult for an audience to empathize with a life in full, or for an artist to portray it with Kodachromatic vividness. Individual moments, though? Forget noodles - they’re more like bullets. Small enough to hit the mark, big enough to blow things open.
You’ll see what I mean. Read more
May
16
Put Your Hands On Your Desk and Sit Still - Pt. III
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 6 Comments
I spent a month with my hands on my desk, sitting still. Neither self-discipline nor negative consequences had managed to pin me down. The thing that finally did the trick wasn’t Ritalin, per se… it was one of its unexpected side effects. Perspective. Lots of it. Heavy as lead and twice as dangerous.
Stillness invites introspection. It’s why we’re drawn to forests and mountaintops. It’s why prisoners devour Bibles and G.E.D. coursework. Our brains can churn away almost anywhere (insert obligatory titty bar joke here). When given a small pocket of peace, though, they can delve into real mischief. Ask your average hermit. Ask Ted Kazcynski.
Left to its own devices, my brain churns like an epileptic Amishwoman. It screeches and crashes, slaps on new gears while gnashing existing ones. Methylphenidate manacles a small piece of the contraption. A few cogs and sprockets are segregated, slowed and stopped. They’re able to kick back in a lounge chair, enjoy a nice cold slug of WD-40… and finally comprehend the lunacy of the greater whole. Read more
May
2
Put Your Hands On Your Desk and Sit Still - Pt. II
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 1 Comment
Thing is, I was hoping the game would be changed from Intramural Shoe-Gazing to something a little more, I don’t know… normal? Popular? Liable to result in varsity letters, half-naked cheerleaders and glory?
I’d spent so much time feeling lazier and ditzier than the glut of humanity. I imagined other people’s brains as Habitrails, with thoughts darting through neat little tubes. Mine felt more like a hamster wheel… stuck in a weird frantic stasis. I secretly hoped it would be a simple swap. A trip to PetSmart, a Schedule II controlled substance… end result, whirring metal is replaced with sleek acrylic and everyone’s happier. After a single pill, however, I knew that wasn’t gonna happen.
There aren’t any physiological effects… at least not for me. Pity. Some members of the neurotypical hoi polloi find the stuff rather delightful. Me? My hands, heart rate and temperement remain rock-steady. However, there’s never any doubt that the relevant molecules have been absorbed and begun raising a ruckus. So how does it feel? It feels like… it feels like… analogy time! Read more
Apr
24
Put Your Hands On Your Desk and Sit Still - Pt. I
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 5 Comments
Maybe it really is a task, and I’m not up to the task, maybe the answer is don’t ask.
The Loud Family - Don’t Respond, She Can Tell
Carve out a place of quiet within your body
Failing that, within your mind
Failing that, rant and rave and
kick shit over until
(mercifully for all involved)
You die.
J. Thumbscrew
I. It’s the only drug I’ve ever taken for which there is no ritual. Everything from penicillin to the Pill has merited some consumption-time commemoration… licking off the plastic dropper, giving my abdomen a celebratory poke. Recreational substances, of course, are all ritual; the thrill begins well before they hit your lungs, your nose or your frontal lobe.
Methylphenidate (that’d be Ritalin, to those of you with advanced degrees or brand-name drug coverage) defies ceremony. I clutch each tablet firmly, as though I’m afraid it’ll squirm free of my grip or be swiped by a roving band of junior high schoolers. Open mouth, slug beverage, pop in pill. It seems like the next step ought to be “await greatness”, but it’s not. A physician friend noted, “… it’s not a feel-good drug,” and right she was. It’s also not a feel-bad drug, really. It operates on a different continuum. Well… for me, at least. Read more
Mar
25
This Is Your Heart Flashing Before Your Eyes
Filed Under Dating/Mating, Existential Angst-astic, L'Amour, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 1 Comment
We wandered in around sunset. It was located next to a Sunoco and labeled, simply, “RESTAURANT”. It was the perfect destination for two easily- and perpetually-amused souls who’d spent the day tooling around the Poconos, subsisting on trail mix and laughter. I’m sure we were each hoping that the menu would be as brusque as the sign… “COW! VEGETABLE! STARCH!”
RESTAURANT was actually DECENT. The food was passable, the waitress was friendly and the restrooms had vending machines full of hilarious adult novelties. Midway through our meal, a young Mexican family sat down in the booth behind us. They had two children - a girl of about four, and a boy who was still small enough to be toted around in a baby-bucket car seat. The girl was sweetly rambunctious. The boy reminded me a bit of J.Q., who as an infant had been similarly dusky and dark-haired. When his father stood him up on the table, he looked around in wobbly, wide-eyed amazement. After a few minutes, I caught his eye. He gave me one of those slow-blooming baby grins. I grinned back, popped a potato chip in my mouth and began wondering what the hell I was going to do with my life.
It’s damned unfair, isn’t it… how constricted we are by a single lifetime, by a strictly linear timeline? We get no do-overs. You can be resuscitated a thousand times in a video game. You can switch jobs, phone companies, fabric softeners. You can exchange your burger for a BLT. But every “choice” is a single stitch in a contiguous whole. It’s a vast lumpy sweater knit from a single thread, and knit only once. You can vary the pattern at any time, but you can never pick up missed stitches. You can’t look back on your deathbed and say, “Oh, fuck it… I’m going to unravel this thing and make an afghan instead.” Read more
Mar
12
Advice You Didn’t Ask For : Weight Loss
Filed Under Best Of, Existential Angst-astic, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 16 Comments
Once upon a time, I was fat.
Not “chubby”. Not “curvy”, except perhaps by a definition broad enough to also include Epcot Center and the Hindenburg.
I couldn’t cross my legs. Couldn’t wear corduroys without the thighs growing mangy. Couldn’t wear a bra without red welts circling my torso… angry lashes from the Gods of the Underwire.
Mar
4
The Calmative
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, Quickie, The Compleat Thumbscrew | Leave a Comment
[Note: if you've never felt like this, you've probably never done anything worthy of horrific guilt. Maybe you should try harder?]
In order that it be given proper reverence, What You Did must be experienced alone. To be understood in its entirety, it must be the entirety… the same shade staining your hands, your skies, your soul.
In this vein, self-denial is not self-punishment. It is clarification by way of purgation. Self-flagellation is explosive. The crack of the lash and the film of frenzied sweat are both bits of shrapnel, bursting outward into the world. Purgation is implosive. It is sodium hydrofluoride - burning from within, leaving skin unscathed while turning bone to chalk. You watch all the supports snap. The tense little linkages unhinge; the spine crumbles. Structure collapses, slides to the floor and into grotesquerie. And at the center of that malformed mass lies the heart of the matter.
The first things to go are the essentials. No use starting slowly. Rose-colored glasses are inappropriate eyewear for staring down the sun.
Food. It represents nourishment and renewal, and is therefore out. The body must be periodically placated - the perils of starvation outweigh those of sustenance. Any protein, fat and starch must be consumed sans pleasure. They are a necessary evil. They are the dregs of fuel required to accelerate into a brick wall.
Sleep. Sleep is out. It repairs and - more importantly - it distracts. Healing is a venal sin. Hiding beneath pillowy unconsciousness is a mortal one. Wounds of this type should not be fixed by the body or ignored by the mind. No matter how heavy your eyes grow, there is a degree of will capable of keeping them open.
Small automatic comforts. Adjusting an itchy clothing tag, relaxing into your subway seat. Watching the sun slide behind skyscrapers. Slipping an ice cube in your drink. No. No, no, no, no.
Yours is not a world of comforts. It is the center of the blast, the day after, preserved perfectly within your chest cavity. Everything is itchy and uncomfortable and gray. Everything is hushed, sanctified, turned towards the one thing which still matters… the fallout.
This is your place of reflection. Alone, unwashed hair, cloak of dust, eyes burning, mouth dry. It is possible to focus on other things in a temple, on an ashram or atop a yoga mat… not here. There’s no hiding, no looking away. You stare down your transgression. You let it surge and swell and wash over you, unsure of whether you’ll wind up cleansed or fossilized.
No deities will be dispensing forgiveness from on high. This is a private matter between you and yourself. It ends when it is over.
When is it over?
When blinking isn’t cowardice.
When breathing isn’t decadence.
When your fingers unclench, the branding iron drops and what’s done - and what’s been done - is done.
Feb
18
Turning Japanese
Filed Under Best Of, Existential Angst-astic, Geekery, Social Ishizzles, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 11 Comments
Dancing on the legs of a newborn pony
Left right, left right
Keep it up, son
[...]
You are a fever
You are a fever
You ain’t born typical
- The Kills, “U.R.A. Fever”
The difference between having a typical and an atypical young adulthood is like the difference between being Japanese and waking up in a gutter in Tokyo.
There’s no preordained path for teenagers and twentysomethings. Some paths, though, bear more boot-prints than others. It’s not what you do - go to college, go to work, go to the red-light district in Amsterdam - so much as the number of people in your peer group meandering alongside you. If you stick to well-populated trails - “high school”, “college”, “job at ExecuCorp”, “vacations in Cabo” - you’re able to define your place in the world. Scrawling your initials in common mile-markers helps you establish where you’ve been, where you’re going, where you fit.
It’s like being a salaryman named Hattori. You were raised in Japanese culture. You were educated in Japanese schools. You have a Japanese name, Japanese friends, familiarity with Japanese customs. You’re capable of ordering take-out, buying a bus pass and discussing game shows on which housewives debase themselves to win small appliances. These things seem simple and mundane. They’re not. They are a massive, complex set of skills, a doctoral degree in gliding smoothly through life. Read more
Jan
28
Straight Outta Compton
Filed Under Busted Heart Blues, Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 2 Comments
… is where I assume I’ll be pointing my rental car, at approximately 110 MPH.
One of the benefits of traveling solo is the ability to take little side trips which anyone else on earth would find phenomenally stupid, dangerous or (ideally!) both.
Thus, today will feature a West L.A. intersection notable only for being name-checked in an Electric Six song, Compton and (assuming no caps are busted in my ass) Tijuana. “I’m not really sure what Tijuana offers that’s wholesome,” I mentioned to a friend, “Actually, scratch that… unwholesome! Unwholesome!” “Well, I know what there is for MEN,” she began. “Yeah, I was thinking about that,” I said, “Maybe I could scratch off the ‘paying money for sexual favors’ checkbox by hiring a street hooker to make out with me or something.” “Um… be sure to use a dental dam,” she said. “Huh, I always wondered what those were for!” I said, “But upon further reflection, maybe I’ll just get my picture taken with a zebra-painted burro.” Read more
Jan
25
And When Your Car Crash Comes, Don’t Be Misled
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 4 Comments
[Ed. Note, Updated: after getting this on paper (so to speak), I was amazed to feel... well... pretty chipper. I'd forgotten what a fantastic catharsis running off at the mouth could be. Huzzah.]
[Ed. Note: this post is incredibly fucking depressing. This is because I'm incredibly fucking depressed. It happens. I'll survive. I always do. However, be sure to tune in tomorrow for a cheerier post... from a different time zone.]
The first thing that hit - well, after the Buick - was the parenting reflex. It’s both horrifying and comforting. However deeply you’ve doubted yourself, that quick jolt of panic immediately confirms that your nurturing circuitry is wired and live.
“J.Q.! Are you okay? Are you okay, baby?” I said, cutting the engine and yanking the e-brake. I flung open my door, flung open his door, jumped into the backseat. He’d been protected by a five-point restraint and a puffy winter jacket; he was completely fine. “What happened to our car?” he squeaked, wide-eyed. I yanked him out of his car seat, scrambled out of the car and walked to the side of the road. The rear of the Civic was nicely squished, the bumper dangling by a few bolts. Read more
Jan
22
191 Days (IMYILY)
Filed Under Busted Heart Blues, Dating/Mating, Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 11 Comments
I was hesitant to write about it at first. I’d done nakedly personal before (and personally naked, in the case of a few sordid tales). But falling in love was different. I wanted to treat the butterflies and fireworks with proper sanctity; I wasn’t sure if spray-gluing them to adverbs and adjectives was the right way. I was also terrified of tempting fate. Since seventh grade, I’d felt a missing spot within me, an empty tooth socket uncorrectable by conventional orthodontia. I wanted to love and be loved. Don’t we all? There’s a reason it’s near the top of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Friends, family, career, hobbies, talents, social life… they’re all wonderful and fulfilling. But none of them were the right fit for that little tender place… none of them soothed that simple and painfully earnest ache. Until miraculously, fantastically, something - well, someone - did.
I eventually decided that I ought to be just as honest with my happiness as I’d been with my pain. I’d swung for the fences with my heart… it would be disingenious not to follow suit with my keyboard.
I’m so glad I did. I couldn’t do the emotions perfect justice, but I damned well tried. Nothing can take those words away. They are gorgeous and bubbly, scared and hopeful, amazed and overwhelmed… just like it was. Just like we were. They are a linguistic talisman… a little rock or piece of wood held in hand, a reminder to myself. I can feel that amazing. I can be loved.
I can’t read them now. I just can’t. But I’m glad that they’re there. For once, the end hasn’t murdered the beginning. Or the middle. Or even itself. The talisman remains… although I need to tuck it away in a drawer for the moment. Read more
Jan
13
Secrets & Lies
Filed Under Best Of, Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 8 Comments
I actually do like animals. But I was a crappy temporary cat-mommy due to never being home and decided that my Hep New Urban Lifestyle couldn’t include pets.
The Hep New Urban Lifestyle is 90% posturing, 10% late nights at Dirty Frank’s.
A lot of Jul v.2.0 is posturing. When years of timidity and passivity crumble, you recoil way too hard in the opposite direction. Then you look at yourself with a little objectivity and cringe at the times you spoke too loudly, laughed inappropriately, talked incessantly, used purposefully-obscure words, dyed your hair neon red even though you’re 26, it screams “attention whore” and you could’ve made infinitely better use of the two hours a week it took to maintain. It’s like perpetually waking up after a bender and thinking, “Oh, Christ… what did I say last night?”
Periodically, I go really fucking numb. “Depersonalize”, in shrink-speak. I almost always try to hide it, because one tiny scrap of normal brain tissue in my frontal lobe sticks around to remind me, “Hey, looks like you have no soul! Better conceal THAT!”
I have reused sex toys without washing them first. Read more
Jan
4
Talkin’ ‘Bout a Resolution
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 7 Comments
It’s a new year.The ball has dropped, the dust has settled, the drunkenly fumbled pigs-in-blankets have been scarfed up by opportunistic terriers.
So… what are you going to do?
Notice I didn’t ask what you’re not going to do. Negative resolutions are terribly monotonous. Yes, yes, yes… you’re not going to drink as much, smoke as much, cram quite as many queso-slathered chimichangas down the ol’ gullet.
You’re definitely not going to take any more sheep tranquilizers, even if the young lady proffering them seems really cool, even if she attends Veterinary Science classes at Vo-Tech on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
These are fine goals, noble goals, goals which will last for, oh, a week or so… maybe two, if Enchilada Enclave gets shut down for health code violations. But they’re not what I want to know about. Read more
Dec
4
Better or Verse - "Big Gulp"
Filed Under Bad Poetry, Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 1 Comment
[Ed. Note : primary writing done last winter. I made a good deal of solo late-night convenience store runs, replenishing my caffeine and sugar levels and occasionally shaking my fist at the security cameras and silently imploring, "WHY! IS! THIS! MY! LIFE?!" Every poem I've written since the age of sixteen has included at least a touch of goofiness. For me, the seriousness of the medium well-nigh demands irreverence. If I ever find myself in sequiny black-tie regalia, you'd better BELIEVE I'll be mooning someone. ]
I am become a Paul Westerberg song
Destroyer of self
And not all that easy on anyone else
These emotions go like Bubble Yum
And occasionally beef jerky
(What I mean to say is,
they stay in the mouth
tediously long
before you work through them
or just spit them out)
Mindsets you can purchase at 7-11
Don’t tend to be terribly healthy Read more
Nov
26
Cold Snap
Filed Under Dating/Mating, Existential Angst-astic, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 6 Comments
How forgetful we are of cold and of hurt.I can’t remember winter. Funny, considering I’ve experienced over two dozen of them. Yet I’ll be damned if I can carry an accurate impression of the season from year to year. Superficial memories abound. Snow, cocoa, wet chilly wool? Those, I keep. Darkness, despair and marrow-deep cold? They begin to fade with the sun of each lengthening day. By the time the first crocus wriggles up, they’re gone. Disintegrated and blown away across newly-verdant fields. For the next seven or eight months, the word will evoke naught but eggnog and evergreens. Winter has once again been Sanitized For My Protection.
It’s like childbirth. Nature, cruel and clever, knows to slip you an amnesiac. Why else would you do such a thing again? You can never recall why things were so blackly, bleakly challenging. The past is erased, as it your ability to stave off a repeat… to run screaming for your diaphragm or one-way tickets to Ft. Lauderdale. Read more
Nov
15
NaCroPoTiPe
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 19 Comments
Okay, so it doesn’t trip off the tongue quite as easily as “NaNoWriMo” or “NaBloPoMo”. “NaCroPoTiPe” sounds kinda like the Aztec god of crappy holiday candy (”Aw, damn… gummie Quetzalcoatls again!”). However, while it may lack the “prestige” and “other participants” of the aforementioned events, NaCroPoTiPe is a special time. A special time… and a special place.What do you say… are you ready for National Crotch Poking Time Period?
I Have Always Been One of Those Ladies Who Takes a Really Long TimeA really long time. A reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally long time.
I was made aware of this issue fairly early in life.
“Why won’t you come yet?!” spat my first boyfriend, scowling and flopping next to me in bed. I was embarrassed, upset and strangely guilty… I felt like he wanted his time back. “I could have been licking a non-defective woman!” was the implication, “Or at the very least engaging in petty vandalism behind the Econo-Mart!” Read more
Oct
31
Slipping Serotonin Serenade
Filed Under Existential Angst-astic, The Compleat Thumbscrew | 6 Comments
I’m in the kitchen when I feel it coming on.It’s homebrewed, differing from other drugs only in raw materials… peptide chains and nucleotides instead of bleach and brake fluid.
The most wonderful substances in the world are cooked up in the ol’ brain-pan. Runner’s high, mother’s love… they well up, they swell up, they go splashing synapse to synapse.
And then there’s the dark matter. Would it be cynical to say it’s more impressive than those sparkling spurts of ecstasy? Oh, but it is, in its way. Read more