Mood Surgery

Even as I do
One thing
One moment,
I know
That I must undo it the next.

I promise
To try not to deny
Myself
This.
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Man, I wiped out soooo bad skating home from work this morning. Not like, injury bad or anything. Embarassing bad. Oh man.

I'd just passed this hot chick who'd been walking in the same direction. Once I was a few feet beyond her I went for a few pushes to regain my speed, and right in mid-stride my board went into this crazy huge speed wobble. It must have looked really hilarious, 'cause I went on for like another 15 feet or so flailing in every direction but straight trying to regain a semblance of balance, and ultimately had to bail. I rolled like three times (thank you very much, o few remaining ingrained ju-jitsu instincts- I'd be missing a lot of skin if not for you) and managed to use the remaining momentum of the last spin to propell myself back into a standing position facing back toward the hot chick.

There wasn't really much else I could do; I stood straight up, grinned my biggest grin, waved, and said "hi there!" like I was greeting an old friend. She seemed to get a mild kick out of it.

So then I dusted myself off, picked up my board, and hightailed it the hell away from there.

I really really really gotta get that thing tuned up before I kill myself, by injury or humiliation or whatever.
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Kurt Vonnegut wrote an entire book trying to come up with something worse than death. He failed.

What I've been trying to think of is something better than orgasm. I'm failing.
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Because I'm bored and overtired and can't sleep. And lame. Let's not forget lame.

[my name is]: mud
[in the morning i am]: getting ready for bed
[love is]: a momentary lapse of reason
[i dream about]: weird faceless impending doom

-W I T H .T H E. O P P O S I T E. S E X-
[what do you notice first?]: noticing me. except not. smile
[last person you slow danced with]: people still slow dance?

-W H O-
[do you have a crush on?]: several people. mostly passing
[easiest to talk to]: about what? i'm gonna go with my dog on this one

-H A V E .Y O U .E V E R-
[fallen for your best friend]: not in any serious way. although i've had about a zillion girls become best friends AFTER the infatuation. yeah, i'm that guy


-W H O .W A S .T H E .L A S T. P E R S O N-
[you talked to on the phone]: will, i think
[hugged]: claudette
[you instant messaged]: annie
[you laughed with]: the crew at work

-D O .Y O U / / A R E .Y O U-
[could you live without the computer?]: it would take some adjustment, but i managed without for 25 years
[what's your favorite food?]: whatever's cheap and available and not gross
[what's your favorite fruit?]: apples are nice. bananas are easy
[what hurts the most?]: severe burns. the pain is unrelenting
[trust others way too easily?]: not bloody likely


-N U M B E R-
[of times i have had my heart broken? ]: once big and a few tiny. and one somewhere inbetween
[of hearts i have broken?]: profoundly? three. to my knowledge, at least. what a shitty business "love" is
[of boys i have kissed?]: one
[of girls i have kissed?]: does anyone actually keep track of this kind of shit? i honestly have no idea
[of drugs taken illegally?]:6382945765629020485759840 or so
[of tight friends?]: zero
[of cd's that i own?]: it's been a few years since i've counted, but i'd guess around 500
[of scars on my body?]: innumerable
[of things in my past that i regret?]: one


-O.T.H.E.R.T.H.I.N.G.S.-
[i know]: very little
[i want]: a lover
[i have]: too many posessions
[i wish]: i knew what to do with my life
[i hate]: i really don't hate much that isn't so fundamental as to make you cringe
[i miss]: being the centre of attention. wanton sex
[i fear]: heights. dying before i do something worthwhile
[i hear]: not so well
[i search]: for meaning in the retardedest little scraps of things
[i love]: myself every night
[i ache]: yeah
[i care]: now yr just putting words in my mouth
[i always]: am ten minutes late
[i dance]: badly
[i cry]: once every ten years. or so it seems
[i do not always]: make dumbass entries like this
[i write]: because i can't not
[i confuse]: life and reality
[i can usually be found]: no i can't.
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All this week I've been thinking, "crimeny, I've gotta stop living off these homemade veggie burritos." Every damn time I'd check my poo out before I flushed, it had this eerie neon green glow to it. Unsettling.

Then -just about ten minutes ago, actually- I remembered that I'd put one of those blue Sani-Flush dealies into the tiolet reservoir last Sunday.

So let's break it down:

Blue water+ yellow pee+ tinge of brown= Halloween green. And to think I almost payed good money to go to art school when I can learn so much domestically.
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Aaaaaaaand we're back in business, baby.

What a taxing week. Been sliding by on far less sleep than my body deems necesarry, and it's beginning to reflect. Eyes are set on perma-squint, and karmic hypochondria is in full effect. Stuff is good though. It's all been very momentous in an only-I-would-give-a-shit sorta way.

Tuesday morning I'd already been up all night sanitizing this soon-to-be former shithole, and had gotten so caught up in the zeitgeist of creating a household not reminiscent of some neanderthal opium den that I went apeshit rearranging its entire layout. Much improvement made. I even got rid of the plaster-cast anal sex mannequin that was monopolizing my de facto couch. Wish I'd taken a picture of that thing now. Anyway, by 9 AM or so I was spent and wanted nothing more than to crash for like 16 hours, but this was an impossibility:

-Orkin dude came by at 9:30 or so to begin the first wave of insect annihilation. So fucking stoked about this. Cockroaches are like house-herpes. I only hope you scuttling little cunts fucking die in agony. Killing never felt so good. Results promising so far.

-Landlord came by around 10:30 to take measurements for the huge, beautiful window (that opens, even!) that he's been promising for two years, and that will soon become the wonderful transformative centrepiece of what has thus far been "the other room" that I never use. In other words: I will soon have a functional "living room."

-Dell technician came by at about 11, and basically gave me a new computer. New hard drive; new motherboard; new CD-RW; new bunch of crap I don't know of or understand. Thank you very fucking much, extended three-year warranty. Remind me to tell the story of how I got my more-upscale-than-me stereo sometime.

So I ended up awake till 2 PM or so figuring out howta reinstall Windows. Barrel of monkeys, that was. Slept three or four hours, headed off to go jam with This Mess (who is trying, within absurdly limited constraints, to compose an entire new set and album) and went from there to work until 6 AM. This became the pattern for the rest of the week, and I'm thankful it's almost over. Not that this isn't all very cool and shit, but I've been like, on the verge of falling asleep standing up.

Saturday is gonna be another species of marathon altogether. Playing two different shows with two different bands. Checkit:
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I hope I don't miss Arkata again this time around because of some retarded show with Blackout 77. Ugh.


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Yo. My computer's fried. Anyone who needs to talk to me should do so by phone.

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I bet that you love me like I love you
But I should know that gambling just don't pay
So I look up to the sky
And I wonder what it'll be like in days gone by
As I sit and bathe in the wave of nostalgia for an age yet to come

I always used to dream of the past
But, like they say, yesterday never comes
Sometimes there's a song in my brain
And I feel that my heart knows the refrain
I guess it's just the music that brings on nostalgia for an age yet to come

Ah, nostalgia for an age yet to come
Nostalgia for an age yet to come

About the future I only can reminisce
For what I've had is what I'll never get
And although this may sound strange
My future and my past are presently disarranged
And I'm surfing on a wave of nostalgia for an age yet to come

I look, I only see what I don't know
All that was strong, invincible... is slain
Takes more than sunshine to make everything fine
And I feel like I'm trapped in the middle of time
With this constant feeling of nostalgia for an age yet to come

Ah, nostalgia for an age yet to come

About the future I only can reminisce
For what I've had is what I'll never get
And although this may sound strange
My future and my past are presently disarranged
And I'm surfing on a wave of nostalgia for an age yet to come

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The first time we ever really kissed, she told me matter-of-factly, without skipping a beat, "you should do that more aggressively."

Hrm. I'd spent years refining my take on the art of kissing; from that first wanton thrust of the tongue down one Peggy Poirier's esophagus as we sat watching Good Rockin' Tonight in my grandmother's concrete-floored basement, wrapped in a sleeping bag to stave off the bitter cold of what I'm pretty sure was winter 1990, to the first kiss in six years with girl-who-hates-my-guts-now, who declared afterwards, "Wow. You've gotten really good at that. You used to just shove your tongue down my throat and flail it around like a retarded monkey."

(Ok, I may have made the "retarded monkey" part up myself. But you get the picture.)

GWHMGN was still a little conservative, kiss-wise, for my tastes, but my point is that I've grown to appreciate the subtleties of kissing since the days of groping girls in the back seat of a rusted Chevette while the guy next to you pukes cheap sherry out the window (not that I'm necesarrily above that now; it's just hard to find Chevettes these days). A kiss should be nuanced, even if it is fueled by raging, unbridled lust. Skipping right ahead to full-on tonsil tag is like reading the last page of a book first; you miss out on all the breathtaking highs and lows and mysterious in-betweens, and you've maybe even spoilt a great surprise ending.

A kiss is also, quite possibly even moreso than sex, the ultimate collaboration. Where a kiss goes, what it becomes, and what route it takes in getting there... these things are up to neither and both of you. It is an act of pure mutual intuition, and, as with any sympathetic interaction, you accomodate the flourishes and gestures and eccentricities of the other to create something wonderful and unique as you find your own place in the equation.

So it was in this spirit of accomodation that, when we last kissed, I kissed back with her kind of forcefulness. Afterwards, she said, matter-of-factly as always, "man, what's with you shoving your tongue down my throat like a retarded monkey?" (Ok, ok, I threw the monkey part in there myself again.)

Well, hrm. Confusing. "But that's what you're doing!" I tried to convey my consternation with a cutesy grin: "you did say I should be more aggressive." Well this was awkward. The moment was obviously fleeting, so I said "look, let me show you how I like to kiss, ok? Just follow my lead." Nod.

Our bodies were already pressed together, but I looked from some distance into her eyes, and stroked her neck with the tips of my fingers as I leaned forward to nuzzle her lower lip with my own. There's passion in subtlety too, y'know. We played like that, taking tiny sucks of each other's lips, flirting with tiny slips of the tongue, until we found a rhythm that fit. And with rhythm came momentum. And with that I'll leave the description alone. That momentum is, I think, better than any dictionary definition of "sensuality."

We stopped after a minute or two. All she said was "oh," and I knew she understood. Our surroundings started to seep in again and she had to go. We split up as we crossed the room. I walked to one end of the bar to grab a beer, and she walked to the other end to grab her new manfriend. I wonder if he'd understand.

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I broke my only pair of glasses last night. I'm absolutely 100% fucked without them. So I went to the bar and dumped a full beer on my crotch. The whole thing. I hadn't even taken a sip of it yet.

System Shit is playing the Attic tonight. C'mon out and watch more of my life fall apart onstage. It's free or cheap or something.

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You can't get a suntan on the moon.

But I wouldn't mind a holiday there.
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(Hey. What I'd planned on doing when I sat down at the computer just now was to edit in the remainder of the pigeon story, and lop off the retarded woe-is-me preamble from this entry.

But I've decided to leave the whiny bits for two reasons, and they are thus:

1) A nice comment made at the bottom that brought to my awareness a contingent of my readership that I wasn't aware existed: people who are actually wrestling with similar issues. I must admit; it's comforting. I figured everybody just read this thing for trainwreck-type entertainment.

2) I'm leaving it as a testament to the sort of entries you won't find here anymore: as of this morning, I have a new journal for that lonely drunken post-bar loser crap. I wake up mortified every morning after posting an entry like that, and I've finally realized that humiliating myself willingly and repeadedly on full display for people I know and interact with on a daily basis isn't therepeutic; it's stupid. And now I can let it all out without mincing words. No more half-measures or subtle allusions, baby. Only pure, unadulterated pathetic emo shite. Don't worry; Mood Surgery is still my baby, and will still be updated on its customary completely-erratic basis. Free of all that other crap, this thing is only gonna get more interesting. And that is all I'm going to say about that.

So scroll down a little for the completion of the pigeon story.)

Ok, so yeah. I'm really drunk (as must've been painfully apparent to anyone who saw the show tonight) and I'm kind of just drooling out of one corner of my mouth and staring at this screen with nothing better to do, 'cause everybody I was with tonight took off for some party but I didn't want to go just in case the people I invited here actually showed up. And they didn't, but that's cool because I'm not really comfortable having company when my place is this much of a shithole anyway.

Even my Seahorse kiss friend didn't kiss me tonight. So much for that tradition. That just cemented it. I'm some kind of fucking eunuch. Is it really so freakishly fucking horrible to just not want to always be alone? Jesus. I mostly want to be alone anyway, but I can't even find someone to spend like 4% of the time with.

Sad. Like as in both "dejected" and "pathetic." Mostly pathetic, I guess. Fuck off.

Whatever. Since I can't sleep; the story:

Last night at work, opening the door to step outside for a cigarette, I stumbled into this pigeon. The little dude was right in the entryway having some kind of muted seizure. I squatted next to him and tried to figure out what his deal was for a couple minutes, and he was pretty obviously all fucked up. He wasn't bleeding or outwardly injured in any way, so I figured he'd flown into one of the windows and had some kind of serious internal damage. He didn't seem able to fly, and was not responding to my close proximity. He just sat there twitching his wings and making spazzy head gestures. And no sound, which I found particularly odd and thus distressing.

Now, I hate pigeons as much as anyone else. They're flying rats, and don't fucking get me started on rats (more on them later, actually), but I can't just sit idly by while some creature is flailing about in obvious agony right in front of me. Just as I was trying to figure out how I could maybe put the thing out of its misery, it mustered up the energy or willpower or whatever to fly again. Fucking thing almost flew right into me. Instead, he flew straight up, banged into the overhang, fell two or three feet, bolted in the opposite direction, pulled a full 180 and fucking smoked himself into one of the upstairs apartment windows. I've never seen anything remotely like that before.

As if he weren't disoriented before. I was surprised he wasn't dead at this point. Dude fell like 30 feet. I ran over to see if he was still alive, and, sure enough, he was, and he was more fucked up than ever, twitching and flailing and finally just settling into silence and what I figured had to be imminent death.

My coworker Jeff came back outside (he was somehow traumatized by pigeons in Picadilly Square as a child -that's all he'll tell me, I swear- and had bolted for the door the minute the little guy had taken flight) and we sorta fretted for a few minutes as we finished our cigarettes. We stubbed them out and sorta shrugged in a hey-what-can-we-do-anyway? fashion, and were just about to head back inside when the pigeon spontaneously became animated again and flew up ten feet onto the ledge! I ran over to see how he was doing, and he looked positively crazed, even for a pigeon. Dude looked like he was in serious agony.

I started pacing back and forth trying to think of something I could to to help. At this point I'd have put the thing out of its misery myself, but there was no way for me to get at the poor thing, and no tools approprite to such a task at my disposal. I entertained the idea of calling the police, but I would've been laughed outta the city for that, as I'm sure you can imagine. And then I remembered: Animal Control! I'd never have thought of it if Cara hadn't worked there for awhile. Maybe, just maybe they wouldn't hang up in a fit of laughter.

So I ran inside, 411-ed the number and called. The dispatcher laughed a little, but good-naturedly and mostly at my obvious embarrassment. She said that they do indeed take the occasional "pigeon call," but will only send officers if means are provided for access to the bird. In a profession that mostly deals in vicious dogs and mutilated cats, it is understandable that ladders are not considered staple tools of the trade. We hung up, and agreed that I'd call back if and when I managed to rustle up a ladder.

So Jeff and I split up; he to go scour the back shop for the ever-elusive produce ladder; I to go check on the status of the bird.

He was gone. Flown away. Simply astounding.

I am unwaveringly positive that he flew away, because I checked every inch of that ledge, and every corner of that parking lot. It is an enclosed lot, and there's nowhere to go but up.

Pigeons are a nuicance, yes, but that little guy was positively inspirational. See, I have had two prior experiences with ties to this one that ended on far crappier notes, and they will take the form of my next two entries. Or possibly one, if I'm feeling wordy.

Next episode: The Rat.
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