a melancholy URL for the [bracketed] and /slashed/

2002-06-01T16:11:00.000-04:00

a melancholy URL for the
[bracketed[ and /slashed/
@
http://bracketandslash.blogspot.com
is no more

....

however, you can read (and bookmark)
the rest of the story
@
http://blog.thehummingbird.com

2002-05-27T08:53:00.000-04:00

So I re-straightened my hair last night. Which, as I find out today, is not a good idea.

It looks "okay," but it's nothing special. I'm convinced now, after this second application that my hair is far too resilient for chemical illusions. I guess eventually I'll settle on the fact that my hair is curly and that there are women everywhere who pay pretty pennies every day to have hair that looks like mine. (That's what they tell me anyway.)

The recommended time for a straightening solution is 20 minutes max. I left mine in for 40, just to spite it, just to see what it would do and because I'm a guy, I could just cut it all out if it somehow went awry. Really all that happened was a tickling scalp and a few tinglings here and there.

Which would have been fine.

Until I started to wash it out. The water alone made the very tip-top of my head BURN. And burn and burn and burn. It was painful, I mean it.

I'll venture to say that the subsequent shampoos (and water) that I put on my head hurt more than anything I have ever voluntarily undergone. At one point, I even opened my eyes a few moment amidst the spraying chemicals to check the bottom of the tub for missing follicles "just in case." No swatches of hair, though, to my relief.

After that drama had ended, I was relieved to turn the shower head off, to get the chemicals out of my head. I applied a coat of "moisturizing complex" and some overly-perfumey conditioner and got out of the bathroom as quickly as I could. I had to see my hair. Check for bald spots, discoloration, you know, the usual things one checks for when getting out of the shower.

Really, it looked beautiful. And I basked in it. My hair looked like I've always wanted it to look: long, dark, shiny black and straight. It spilled over my forehead to the point that I could see my little locks curling at their ends without the aid of a mirror. The press of wet strands of hair on my forehead and on my cheeks felt lovely. Like smelling a first flower. Touching it. It was a really special moment, I admit. I gloried in it, recording the long stretches of hair from the center of my head to my eyebrows, over my ears and behind them, long and swoony. All to memory. Right down to the drip, drip, drip of shedding water off the back of my duckish hair.

But, alas, too good to be true. Eventually I stopped staring at myself and went on about my things around my room. Within two or three hours the hair was dry again and starting to break it's mold. It was all I could not to touch it, not to spoil the illusion. By night's end my hair was poofy and, though straight-ish, it was definitely recoiling.

And now, while I can shake my head and feel the hair move like I imagine it would if I had naturally straight hair, it's working its hardest to regain its composure. It's fluffy and fried. My hair is dried out. I burnt it on the top and my scalp is essentially charred from a lump of chemicals that sat at the top of my head too long. Thus, of course, the excruciating pains of rinsing my hair out. Now, to the touch, that patch of hairs is hard, as if permanently moussed. And my scalp is dangerously sensitive to the touch. If I think about it, I can feel it right now without even touching it.

Gee whiz. I've really done it this time. Giving in to the fashion addictions... What was I thinking?

I'm told that I can't treat it again or "else." Which, at first, sounded particularly balding. But just this batch. This batch would be irreparably fried. As it practically is now.

Oh well.

It was fun while it lasted. Even if it was just a few glorious moments in front of the mirror, all by myself. I revelled in it.

So while I'm a little lost on how to feel about all this, I can say that the air is of self-deprecation. Like laughing at myself. Laughing at some silly, would-be kid who insisted on burning up his hair with cheap-o chemicals and frying all his "long, lovely locks" to his father's, mother's and uncle's dismay.

C'est la vie though. I've still got you guys. Even if I do go bald.

Hallelujah,

2002-05-25T03:52:00.000-04:00

Oh. And hey. Just for the sake of having something exciting to tell you, I wanted to pass on that a dead crow in a nearby park has turned up as testing positive for the West Nile virus. Which, according to reports, means that the virus has now, if you will, "entered the building."

So... if I turn up dead, with a coat of black feathers about my body, a stiff beak and two orange feet hiked high into the air... then I guess you'll know what happened. But let's just hope that doesn't happen and that we all make it out alive.

That'd be a much nicer, much more storybook ending to tell my would-be grandchildren some day.

2002-05-25T02:18:00.000-04:00

Ismael (¶ #6) became a U.S. citizen yesterday. His smile could not have been more reflective of his joy. And to that great joy, I initially shook Ismael's hand in congratulations but, then, without thinking about, I hugged him. "Welcome, brother."

And I really, really meant it.

Which is so cool because I've never officially "welcomed" anyone to the U.S. before. But it felt like second nature. So I'm proud to have my good friend Ismael as an "official" U.S. citizen. If anyone deserves it, Ismael does.

"We live in a beautiful world..."

Tomorrow, Shelley's sister, Shari, is getting married to a guy named Mark. Which I guess is perfect for her. I guess.

I hope their dreams come true.

The last wedding I went to felt very other-worldly. So much so that I had to leave. Hopefully, though, my senses will be a lot less raw this time then they were at the last.

Also, my apologies that there hasn't been more going on in my life right now (if one can truly apologise for that sort of thing), but I sincerely appreciate your visits to the site. Thank you.

2002-05-19T06:12:00.000-04:00

A wee bit sick here. Sorry that I haven't posted till now.

Weekend has been very full, with working extra to save my pennies and dollars for the lastest secret (non-virtual) project.

Throat's a little tight, head's a little stuffy, worked twelve hours tonight and found this cool looking CD player/radio.

The horn is fully functional, but no cash to get it now. Perhaps later.

Also, found this much more postmodern version that is complete not only with the CD player and radio, but with dual cassette decks and a three-speed turntable! It's two hundred and fifty bucks, but I'd definitely like to get it (or something like it) very soon. I need a new stereo anyway. The one I have is going on ten years old now and the disc changer requires that I now turn it manually. Not to mention, I've wanted to be able to listen to some of my old vinyls for such a long time now.

Geez, I really miss those things.

Goodnight,

2002-05-17T15:31:00.000-04:00

Okay, freaked out and at very last moment am now scheduling an appointment with ASE-certified Ford dealer for oil and filter change. Will also get new wipers, a rotation and perhaps an alignment, along with as many other things as I can afford.

Just thought I'd let you know.

But am waiting now for them to respond, as well as another insurance company.

Am trying desperately to get my premium below current extortionist's rate of $220/month.

Good luck, oy?

Bonne chance,

2002-05-17T04:47:00.000-04:00

Tonight I will go to bed early. (5:30a at the latest.) And wake up even earlier to make my way into the oil change shoppe and get myself a long overdue change of fluids. And maybe a brand spanking new pair of wipers, too. Heck, I might even get my tires rotated! You never know what I might do. I'm a wild and crazy guy. (I've even considered buying new tires. Wow.)

"He's a maniac, maniac...."

My friend, Ann(i)e, is in Ireland this morning. Hopefully sleeping, or at least waking up. I'm dreaming sweeping green fields and a serious lack of tourists.

That is all I have to say tonight.

Wish me luck in letting non-ASE-certified Jiffy Lube dudes work on my car.

It's 4:47 now and Stan is about to come out and play. Don't forget to visit him occasionally. He gets so lonely sometimes.

Love&doves,

2002-05-15T09:55:00.000-04:00

Goodness me, I have been so busy this week -- inexcusably occupied and I haven't read a single lick of a single book.

But, boy, am I getting good with CSS.

And I can't stop listening to Ani DiFranco:

           got a garden of songs where i grow all my thoughts
           wish i could harvest one or two for some small talk
           i'm always starving for words when you're around
           nothing on my tongue so much in my ground

           half the time i got my gaze trained on your motel door
           fourth door from the end
           rest of the time my gaze lays like a stain on the carpeted floor
           if it weren't for my brain i'd go over and make friends
           too bad about my brain 'cause i'd like to make friends.

           see the little song bird unable to make a sound
           even though she follows her words from town to town
           we both have gardens of songs and maybe its okay
           that i am speechless because i picked you this bouquet.

yum.

It seems, over the period of a weekend and half a week, that I am smiling a lot more when typing. In famed "emoticons."

Not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

But in any case, I should be careful. If not, I could very well turn into a poem.

Stan has a new drawing up this morning, so give him a visit. And tomorrow's, I suspect, shall be very, very nice, too. So look forward to it.

Oh, and for all those interested (and paying attention to the time), I don't know when the new secret project will get done. But I will try to have something accomplished with it in the next seven to ten working days. :o)

There. There's your smile.

And, hey, here's your quote for the day. From Miss Ani herself. It comes from Track 3, "Cradle and All," of the Not A Pretty Girl album.

Enjoy it and have yourself a mighty fine day. I'll be sticking to toasted oatmeal and confectioner's powdered sugar (tall, straight, extra dry).

"youth is beauty
  money is beauty
hell, beauty is beauty sometimes."

Night, loves.    (Er,.... morning.)

2002-05-10T05:02:00.000-04:00

Well, folksies, our wee little community count here is up to like 14.

Thanks so much for coming here and reading as much as you do. I really do count it an honour to have a place in your schedules each day.

I mean, that God is a real smart kid. This whole communication thing. Who knew?! It's absolutely novel! I love it.

So let's roll those credits, Tom!

credits
in order of chronological shout-outs

ally mcbeal's sister      ...      shelley
officer cakepolice      ...      keith
resident alien      ...      bananie
anonymous      ...      anonymous
shorty      ...      sarah
juju fruit      ...      aju
officer .org     ...      meg
avian uncle      ...      papabird
edward estelin      ...      . ak .
lady cray raar      ...      catherine
anonymous cinnamon twist-hater      ...      anonymous cinnamon twist-hater
century gothic gal      ...      constance
radiohead      ...      bose
  mysterious mike      ...      mike
sparrow      ...      anne
                   mum      ...      [jp/p]'s mom
imaginary flower      ...      jenn-daisy
my other brother     ...      glp
      aussieaussieaussie     ...      holly(oy,oy,oy!)

So there. You're all happily accounted for.

But, if you're name's not here and you want it to be, you're gonna have to get in line and give a shout-out like everybody else. And to do that you'll need to read the Monday, 6 May entry below. Which, if you're name's not in the credits, either means you've intentionally disregarded my simple request for a painless "here, here" shout-out the first time you read the 6 May entry, or, it means you haven't read the 6 May entry yet.

So get to it! If you are of the latter group, shame on you for being so long in stopping by. It's nearly unforgivable. But I forgive you nonetheless.

But fret not, friends, family and archnemeses, you still have a chance to be a part of this exclusive list. Call today! Additions to the coveted "Credits List" will be be available at this FREE introductory rate for a LIMITED TIME ONLY. Come 13 May, inclusions to the "Credits List" will incur a nominal posting fee. But as an exclusive offer through this blog only you can make your payments in four easy installments of only $99.95 a month. Ask our operators about the FLEX-PAY payment plan. We gladly accept Visa, MasterCard and Discover. (Sorry, no Diner's Club!)

So shout-out today and save yourself the risk of freely distributing your credit card number to underpaid call center college students who have their own bills to pay and would love to get a hold of your credit card number, expiration date, name, address and three-digit security code (located on the back of your card in the signature strip).

Click here for inclusion TODAY!

We look forward to hearing from you!

[Now, back to first-person singular...]

***

There's another secret project in the works. And it'll involves me here blog.

An official announcement is expected in the next 72 hours, so check back on the hour for more information!

And, as always, [inserts shameless plug] check out Lifeasastick.com! And be sure to tell all your friends.

That's it. That's all I've got from the ranch today.

Keep your heads intact.

Respectfully and capitalistically yours,

2002-05-09T04:25:00.000-04:00

For the record, I didn't get the Oreo creme pie I had hoped for. Settled for a much cheaper Oreo shake that sufficed just as well for the time being.

And I straightened my hair a few days ago.

But if I hadn't just told you, you'd never know.

Bless,

2002-05-08T10:44:00.000-04:00

Things are getting along interestingly. I'll say that.

Otherwise, I'm extremely tired. (By the way, thanks for all the many responses to Monday's request for heads-up. Very encouraging.)

Am again finding myself at the helm of another sur-secret project. This time not such a big deal, but it involves this blog and much too much time in underappreciated scripting and tinkering. Definitely not worth the trouble and the sleep lost. Will try to find an easier, less depriving way around this.

No update to Lifeasastick today. Up with the blog instead. Though I wish I'd drawn. I got a couple couple of nice 'uns towards the end of the night. Looking forward to getting those out.

Now, before I go, (because I'm very, very tired) I want to say that I've never really seen anyone arrested before.

Of course I've seen people in cuffs on COPS as much as the next bloke, but I've never actually seen it take place.

Poor lady today came into our restaurant and chatted on her invisible cell phone for almost three hours while ordering a T-Bone steak, two appetizers, desert and an entire bottle of red wine.

Everyone was up in arms because this lady was talking to herself and supposedly "disturbing other guests." But, to be quite frank, the reactions of my coworkers was pissing me off much more than this lady's fictitious conversations with the palm of her hand. As far as I or anyone else was concerned, she was having as good a time as she deserved.

But the word that immediately came to mind was a word I had not heard before. Maybe I made it up and maybe it is a real condition, previously coined, I don't know. But in any case, psychophobia seems like, perhaps, our next great struggle. Or a present one which we do not often enough encounter to talk very much about.

I must say, though, that it broke my heart to hear people conspiring to call the cops and have this lady removed simply because she was having a conversation with her own hallucinations. The idea that they could do that --rightfully-- and get away with it made me physicall ill.

The server whose responsibility it was to serve this woman was explaining his frustrations to me and his concern that she would walk out with paying. Which is a valid concern. (You can usually sense it quite a while beforehand.)

But I went on to explain to him that what this lady was suffering was, quite simply, a disability that is wholly protected under various civil rights. No distinctions are made between physical and mental handicaps. And if people were moving away from this lady or leaving the restaurant because she made them uncomfortable, that is no reason whatsoever to have her extradited from the building by a strong arm of the law.

I told him that her hallucinatory conversations were, in stark comparisons, no different than if two gay lovers were to be at a table sharing dinner together, holding hands, occasionally kissing, et cetera, to the certain dismay of more than a few guests within ear and eye shot. But simply because others may be uncomfortable with or completely homophobic of the idea is no valid reason to have those people "removed."

When we talk like that, we have mounted our high horses and taken up the thick-lipped mask of incontrovertible arrogance. Which is what made me so sick.

We can't just delete people from our social lives simply because they are not who we would choose to share our lives with, or vice versa for that matter.

I was surprised a few minutes later that, in musing, my manager asked me what I thought he should do, if he should call the police.

I asked him more lucidly than I'll ever understand, "Is she talking any louder than anyone else in the restaurant? His her conversation on the 'telephone' any louder than the rudies who come in here and talk on their phones?" As much as I think he wanted to alleviate the situation on everyone's part, I was surprised that he conceded so easily to the fact that she was in no way being an obnoxious disturbance. Just a rare occasion was all.

He let the situation go. Other workers "kept an eye on her" -- perhaps the most condescending thing I've seen to date.

In three hours' time, this lady ended up racking up quite a hefty bill. And, as suspicions had supposed, she didn't turn out to have any money. Or identification. Or anyone to call.

The manager, upon finding this out, of course immediately called the police. (Fair reason.) The cops showed up a few minutes later and within ten more minutes had her hands cuffed behind her back to a wicker chair in our lobby and the white-haired lady sat leaning forward with her hair covering her eyes. The cops went through her bags and she offered warmheartedly coupons of several sorts and as many food stamps as she had on her.

So I hated being wrong. And I hated being right.

I knew from the outset that she wouldn't be paying. (As much as one can "know".) And yet, my heart still sank for her when she mumbled, "Oh, I don't like cops" and turned herself up penniless. But in her favour I thought it only fair to give her the rightful benefit of the doubt. She deserved it. (She still does, I tell myself.)

I guess this lady'll be out of jail by noon today and will somehow make her way back to wherever she came from; probably unidentified and probably uncared for.

God only knows.

But at least He knows better than we do and'll have more mercy on her afflicted mind than all the hate and fear and intolerance that we could conjure up tonight. I know that God is good for that much. At the very least, that much.

He gives us the absolute benefit of the doubt.

Shalom, mademoiselle.

YHWHbénir,

2002-05-06T04:38:00.000-04:00

Okay, happy Cinco de Mayo and all that jazz.

I wish I had some of those cool, triangular cinnamon crisps that Taco Bell used to carry. Does anybody remember those? They were my favourite. As a child, I think they were the only reason I went to Taco Bell with my mum and actually liked it. I know this because they didn't have chalupas back then. And since they've stopped carrying the really cool, triangular cinnamon crisps as of quite a few years ago, several chalupas a month's consumption have happily taken their place.

My apologies to everyone who's been coming here consistently, only to an empty blog. This should not be the case any longer, now that the secret project is fairly public.

At the moment, I am fighting off some mouthy little sores that I seem to be afflicted with. They've been resident for several days strong now and I'm waiting for the hour that they decide to relinquish my body. Work is difficult with them as the nature of my job dictates that I need to talk a lot. And so talking hurts -- a lot.

Just curious --a show of hands-- who here is actually reading this thing?

If you're reading this right now, do me the quick favour of clicking the "comments" link directly below this message and posting a shout-out. Would be encouraging to know that people are actually visiting this page and that I'm not just talking to the wind. No worries if you've never commented before; I promise not to hold it against you. And if you're a regular, speak up anyway, just for the sake of numbers. A brief "Here, here" will suffice to encourage me.

Tidings in that.

I hope all is well on the various homefronts.

Per a good friend's request, I'll make an attempt at visiting Bob Evans this afternoon/evening and picking up a nice Oreo creme pie. I've heard they're to die for. And Lord knows I could die for something right now.

So I'll let you know how that goes over.

Keep in touch,

2002-05-02T07:01:00.000-04:00

A special thank you to those of you who've been checking back regularly. I really do apprciate your patronage. Unfortunately, the new project has been keeping me tremendously busy. I expect that by the end of the week I should be back to full-time blogging again.

In the meantime, however, please do bother to check out lifeasastick. Would love to have you there, too. And to tell as many people as you can about it.

Be good to yourselves..

Regards,

2002-04-30T10:52:00.000-04:00

It is finished.

The secret project is complete.
www.lifeasastick.com

Have at,

2002-04-29T14:36:00.000-04:00

I had convinced myself as a child that beyond the walls of my elementary years, the world would be kinder.

The world is still so cruel.

2002-04-28T08:43:00.000-04:00

I never wake up this early on Sundays. Or any day for that matter.

But I have a story to tell.

Some of you will have been waiting for it. If you are, this is the lowly anticipated "bean" story.

On Thursday afternoon, I took a trip uptown to a fine little suburb-et-city here called Royal Oak. I'd never actually been there before and so, some anticipation came with the trip when I went there for the first time on Monday to drop off film at a small camera shoppe there.

Today I am here to pick up my negatives.

It's such a nice 'burb of kulture kids, coffee drinkers and late afternoon lunchers. The place is quaint; there are sweeping storefront windows into which you can see the muted worlds of several hundred people and their animated conversations. It's a truly sacred moment for me and I smile knowingly at the faint conversation I am having with the spring's first cool breeze.

After picking up my film, on the brief walk back to my car I approach a clumsy old lady whose hands are fully occupied with two white styrofoam cups with lids. Her grey hair is thoughtlessly disheveled. Underneath one arm is a plastic grocery bag filled with what appears to be lettuce or kale. Over the opposite shoulder, her purse.

I snatch it.

Just kidding. Seriously, though, as I approach her I notice that she has stopped suddenly along the sidewalk and is obviously waiting for something. Or someone. But the stop was so sudden, and so absentmindedly in the middle of a driveway, that I realise her stop was unanticipated.

She looks around emptily at the passing traffic, looking as though she might expect someone pull off into this driveway and to help her out in some way. I'm throughly confused and, quite honestly, curious. I try my best in fifty feet or less to figure her out.

And then I realise that she's waiting for me. She's holding carefully the plastic bag of vegetables beneath her arm, but still manages to hold the two styrofoam cups out away from her as though she were maintaining some invisibly precarious balance on the edge of yet some further invisible cliff, trying not to fall.

"...sweetheart?" she says.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Will you pick this bean up for me?" I look down and sure enough, there's a small, slender green bean there.

"What do you want me to do with it?" I ask suspiciously. My tone is pleasant and I simultaneously check her for motive and a weapon.

"I'm from Grosse Pointe and I want to show people that beans grow in the streets of Royal Oak," she says in a thick but intelligible Russian accent.

She appears harmless, and particularly so with the two non-biodegradable cups of coffee in her hands, the plastic bag and her purse all weighing her down.

I smile, laughing at myself for the good luck it must have required to have walked myself into this very unique woman.

I have no idea how the correlation between this bean and the upper-class residents of a distant Grosse Pointe has anything to do with this homely little lady who, given the benefit of the doubt, is spunky enough, at least, to have come outside today and gotten herself two twelve ounce helpings of coffee.

"Sounds good then," I say, noting her very well-aged smile. Disarmed, I bend down to pick the tiny green bean from the walk.

She laughs slightly. And so do I.

"Irrigation," I tell her with a casual smile, walking on. A moment later I turn around, as if just remembering my manners, to wish her a good day.

"Thank you," she says. "You made my day."

And so, ma'am, did you -- for me.
Merci beaucoup.

2002-04-26T14:25:00.000-04:00

Just had one of the bestest conversations with one of the bestest people in the world.

Man that feels good.

2002-04-25T04:08:00.000-04:00

Goodnight, moon.

2002-04-24T20:26:00.000-04:00

Is 8:18 now. Slept somewhere in here -- for about three hours.

The secret project is coming along nicely and am getting warm (p)reviews.

My friend, Kyle, called today (from Indiana) and we talked for 44m:33s. Or so my cell phone said. It felt like much longer. We really got to catch up. I told him the things about here, the tentative plans for the future, the secret project, the indecisions, the F grade, my trip to the hospital. He and our good friend, Lark, want to make a weekend trip to see me here in Detroit.

What a blessing to chat.

I ordered Chinese food a little while ago. It will be here within the hour. Cashew chicken and General Tsao's (my favourite). Shelley and I will share the dishes. I couldn't go out tonight because I am too worn to drive -- fatigued over the secret project.

Before you go, take a look at RELEVANT. You'll be a better person for the trip. (Guaranteed.)

2002-04-24T12:33:00.000-04:00

It is 12:30 now. I am halfway there. Or 40%.

Perhaps I should go to bed now... (Thanks for the well-wishes.)

2002-04-24T04:14:00.000-04:00

I'm up late tonight working on a secret project... Wish me luck.

2002-04-23T14:13:00.000-04:00

OK. So the >>Ben Kweller<< kid didn't work out.

But I've got something new. Something with lots more potential.

"I don't need to walk around in circles / walk around in circles
walk around in circles / walk around in."
-- Soul Coughing

This is good pop stuff. Unfortunately, in my investigative footwork about the band I discovered that they are no longer together. Go figure. Is always my luck to find out about a band about an eon after the fact. Like the Counting Crows. I didn't even find their stuff till 2000. (Their first album released in '93.) That is, of course, excepting the ubiquitous "Mr. Jones."

So I'm downloading a heap of >>Soul Coughing songs<< right now; checkin' those out. The song that I quoted a few lines ago about the circles is called "Circles." Some of their other titles are "A Plane Scraped Its Belly on a Sooty Yellow Moon," "American Girl," and "Sugar-Free Jazz." Based on their titles alone, I bet these kids would have turned out to be a great techno group if they'd wanted to be.

I first heard these guys on NPR the other night when their song "True Dreams of Witchita" was featured. A very nice acoustic, sub-rock song. It had a truly Kansasean feel. Complete with DJ scratches at the end.

Also, keep an ear open for >>Zero 7<<. This ambient jazz-soul duo from the UK can really put out. But I've only heard one of their songs (and lots of rave reviews). So I'll let you know if they suck or not. But based on what I've heard so far, this band is pretty screaming cool. They'll be a tough act to follow. Especially when the chick is singing,

"I lie awake / I’ve gone to ground
I’m watching porn / In my hotel dressing gown..."

But rest assured, Anne McCarthy gives Zero 7 her exclusive endorsement. She says they're cool. So they must be. Right?

2002-04-22T04:24:00.000-04:00

Um. I did something today.

I know it was meaningful. At the very least, it felt good.

Oh yeah. I laughed. And later in the evening, I listened.

Please note that this, among other [..:: placestogo ::..] at your left, is one of the most wonderful places you can go. FallonFey.com rules and I strongly encourage you to press the "this" in the previous sentence in order to relieve yourself of some much unneeded stress. God wants you to laugh. I think we are supposed to. I mean, look at what a funny thing it is. To giggle and chuckle and bust a.... Nevermind. Anyway, I want you to find something happy and hopeful.

I did, and it's just e pluribus unum.

Later in the evening, my good friend, Ismael, from Mogadishu, Somalia, talked about Detroit-American racial relations and, in his own words, with no provocation from me, he likened the divide between blacks and whites here in Detroit to "two different countries."

He noticed of his own observations, that 8 Mile Road is the demarcation line between Detroit and the suburbs that ultimately separates blacks from whites here in the metro area. (Polarisation, my mum likes to call it.)

My friend Bridget, the vintage iron-on girl, calls Detroit "the Segregated South of the North." I laughed and cried when I heard her say it the first time.

But I am always surprised by Ismael's candor on this topic. He is actually quite outspoken once we're talking about it. He assures me that I am not overreacting or being irrational.

But then again, I guess candor has no reason to hide.

He told me of how, before he came to America, he did not think that black people lived here. I was shocked. He cites Hollywood, not oddly enough.

He also thinks that (the majority of) black people do not take advantage of their good fortune here in the States. He explains to me how blacks do not have it so nicely in other countries. He calls those who are here and not taking up chance or are lazy, ignorant. This is refreshment to my ears (and my conscience).

Ismael is a smart man. I respect him immensely and I stayed at least an hour past my work to talk to him. He apologised in his thick accent for having kept me so late. I rebuff. He smiles, saying, "You never leave with the kitchen crew before, yes?" I nod my head with a smile and agree.

As we are on our way to our cars, I ask him which is his. He points past my Ford Aspire to the powder blue Toyota four-door wagon --a late eighties, early nineties model-- to say, "I like Japanese cars. They do not quit."

I point to my car and can't help but laugh as, in my mind's eye, I watch my eight-years-newer car die about ten years before his.

He tells me how he paid for his car in full, up front and does not have to worry about payments. I tell him that I pay $125/month for mine, and still have four more years to pay on it. I had heard that Africans were known for their putting every cent of every dollar down on the cars that they buy. Nice, for some reason, to know that that's really true.

Before we'd gone out to our cars, we had talked about capitalism and how much worse its manifestation is here than he had expected. He seemed genuinely disappointed.

"Americans work, work, work. They do not stop," he says. "They make this much money, but have credit cards and loans. They save this money, then pay bills. Then tomorrow another bill comes."

"I have friends in Norway. A friend in Sweden. Friend in Holland. Friends in England tell me, say, we work 40 hours. That is it. My friends say, 'we do not work in the summer.' They work 20 hours a week and that is it." I am green with envy at a better system. Socialism rings again in my ears.

He tells me more.

I grumble at health insurance, explaining to him all the other insurances that swallow up our dollars each month: the dental insurance, the vision, the cars, the homeowner's, the personal articles, so on.

A curveball goes through my brain that echoes thoughtfully between Seattle, London and Sweden. It's tough to know what we know. To want what we want. A socialist system in a capitalist world. Ha.

I am grateful for Ismael, my Muslim friend. My respectable, upstanding, intelligent friend.

He will not say how old he is. His youngest brother is 32 and lives in Vancouver, WA. I have heard suspicions that he is 39 or early fortysomething. But it's so unbelievable. He is tall, thin, and in excellent health. A killer smile and a full set of crowded white teeth. And aside from the recession of his hairline, in conjunction with his lack of wrinkles and his abundance of good cheer and quick-moving, hard work ethic, you'd guess at most that he was edging on his thirties -- but not a day more.

Amazing how that works.

We talked about love. He mentioned severity in honesty. I pondered different kinds of love. And that to say I don't love someone is vastly different from loving someone but realising that you may not work out.

As great a conversationalist as Ismael is (English is his major of study), love of this calibre becomes too difficult to discuss and an inevitable barrier of expression through the spoken languages sets in. I understand what he is getting it, but I let it go at that.

Still so much to chomp on.

He tells me very casually that he is getting married next month. (I did not know until today that he even has a girlfriend.) I ask without the least bit of restraint if I can go, assuming that he'd be honoured that I'd even want to go -- his understanding that I'd want to go not simply to say that I went, but because I love him, trust him and would want to honour his union with my presence.

He looked at me and smiled with his big white teeth the way he does, leaning backwards a little from the waist and said, amused, "You cannot come. It is in Somalia." He laughs again. I laugh in return.

So I won't be there for that. But he'll be back afterwards, and married. I can congratulate him then.

I learned so much from Ismael tonight. I always do.

I tell him how much I love learning new things, new world views, other people's perspectives, his perspective. And so I think he was honoured tonight. We connected and stamped it with our smiles.

Ismael shakes my hand firmly and says, "You very good man" and promises to see me on Tuesday.

It's so good to be alive.

Grâce à Dieu,
[jp/p].

P.S. - Ismael's dream is to own a gas station. We mentioned native "priority." I got to say priority for him. He couldn't think of the word. I don't think I'd ever seen his face beam as much as when I said "priority." Life is hard as a foreigner; you do not always get priority. In fact, it is rare. But Ismael does not complain. He gives thanks.

2002-04-21T00:17:00.000-04:00

I went to a thing I didn't wanna go to tonight. A men's bachelor party. Now, of course I know that to say "a men's bachelor party" is redundant, but I err on the side of purpose.

Fact is, I don't enjoy "guy" things: steaks, sports, Britney Spears-gawking, farting, cigars.

Now I just miss my darkroom. Like a part of me has been locked up into the attic. A very integral, very sane part of myself, unwillingly locked away.

I wish I was making pictures.
Making pictures. Making pictures. I'd be making pictures right now if I could be making pictures.
There are so many negatives sitting around.
So many undeveloped stories.
Somebody, save this.
Don't forget.

This. Life.

Forever yours,

2002-04-20T19:31:00.000-04:00

So it went. It very much went. Up, up and away.

So far away, in fact, that I never got it back. I406 Alpha III is missing in action. And what's more, he's out there with no tags or tokens or numbers of any kind to bring him back. *Sniff, sniff* I do hope that he isn't lonely or cold.

But such is the life of the model rocketeer and his many faithful rockets. We spent a solid hour in glue and parachute strings and decals together. And now...

I'm just proud that he and his big bright parachute went down soft and pretty into the horizon -- gently onto someone's lawn. Or freakishly into traffic. (In which case, a lack of ID might be a good thing.)

C'est la vie, my friends.

2002-04-20T14:57:00.000-04:00

I need to get a new job -- or move.

So I bought a rocket yesterday. The I406 Alpha III to be exact. Complete with A- and C-grade engine compatibility.

And just as soon as I get my tailfin matter together I'll call someone up and beg their company for flight. Or go it alone and be grateful for an extraordinary amount of extrasocial independence.

Blessings,

2002-04-20T01:29:00.000-04:00

Tonight was gorgeous.

(Pictures to follow.)

2002-04-19T17:20:00.000-04:00

By request, I am supposed to make a confession here alluding to the fact that, in high school, when Titanic had just come out, that I closed my eyes during "the Kate scene." That is supposed to be unnecessarily funny. That I was that "uncultured" at the time. I am shamed.

Furthermore, apart from this confession by request, I am further admitting that I also closed my eyes when I saw it again on DVD at bible college.

Ha. Now have a nice day.

2002-04-19T04:03:00.000-04:00

Looks like Ben Kweller could be the next great thing.

He and his band were on Conan last night. I wasn't really paying all that much attention, though, as I was here, writing at the computer. But I realised I was tapping my foot. Which is almost always a very tell-tale sign of good music on the horizon. (And, not to mention, that Conan is practically the only late-nighter to bring really great semi-subterranean, "uncool," independent rock to midnight television.)

So I made a point to listen a little closer towards the end of their set, so that maybe I could catch a line of chorus, type that into a search engine and, from that snippet, figure out who the band was, download their songs, et cetera. You know the routine.

"I am wasted but I am ready..."

It sounded really good. Not so much that he was wasted and ready, but that he and his friends could really rock out.

"She goes above and beyond her call of duty, she is a slut but her ex thinks it's sexy, sex reminds her of eating spaghetti, I am wasted but I am ready."

After the commercial break, I still didn't catch the name. However, with a little snooping around was able to figure out who this cool post-punk weezer-esque rocker kid was.

Ben Kweller's the kid; Ben Kweller is the name.

They're on ATO Records. Same label as Miss Patty "Queen of Good Folk" Griffin. And Sire David Gray, too. And some other guy who I haven't listened to yet but that, given the ATO track record, I may be reporting on very soon.

Keep an ear to the ground. Come back here for more.

Sometime tomorrow (i.e., today) I'll let you know what I thought of the Ben Kweller gigs that I've leeched from the 'Net.

Sleep easy, kids. I'm going to bed. It's 4 AM and the Bedtime Monster is walking up the lane.

Nighty-night!
[jp/p]

[P.S. - Here's the review from NinerOnline (UNC-Charlotte's paper).]

BEN KWELLER "Sha Sha" (ATO, 3 stars)

What happens to a teen-ager when the big hype goes awry?

Ben Kweller, who had a brief hold on the spotlight with the alt-rock band
Radish in 1996, can answer that: One minute he was the cool 15-year-old
rock hope lunching with Madonna, the next he was toast. He responded by
disappearing and changing focus, and returned last year as a wry singer-
writer building songs around lines such as this, from "Wasted and Ready":
"She goes above and beyond her call of duty, she is a slut but X thinks it's
sexy, sex reminds her of eating spaghetti, I am wasted but I am ready."

Kweller's aptly named "Sha Sha" is a festival of alternating currents every
bit as nonlinear/nonsensical as that chorus. It delivers positively delirious
wordless vocal hooks ("sha-sha," "ba-bop-bap-ba") in the Brian Wilson
tradition, as well as snarly three-chord rhythm-guitar riffs cribbed from the
Nirvana fakebook. Its songs celebrate junk culture, but do so via disarmingly
smart melodies that don't always fit into tidy two-bar sound bites. It frames
Ben Folds sensitive-guy musings with elegiac French horn and piano.

As he knits these jumbled elements, Kweller, now 20, balances hormonal
rock `n' roll against a desire to create lasting melodic art. Impulsive
but with an ear for the grandiose, he's aiming for something that hits
high, low and middlebrow all at once, and while that occasionally proves
beyond his reach, just hearing Kweller take those flying leaps is a rare
pop pleasure.

-Tom Moon

2002-04-17T15:08:00.000-04:00

Okay, now, I always knew that Red Meat was funny, but gee whiz, it seems I'd forgotten just how funny it was!

Sorry to do this to you folks, but you've gotta check these out. They're top of the hilt.

I originally had like eight or nine of these strips up here, but realised very quickly how grossly tacky that was. So now I only have four. To get more Red Meat, click on the 'redmeat' link at left and ... nevermind, actually, just click here for the God and priest clips. You can figure the rest out later. This guy has tonnes of strips and they're almost never the same, but his recurrence of about 30 different characters keeps the rotation expectant without the danger of monotony.

Hope you enjoy these. For some reason the "God" ones were particularly funny today. The others are just as good, so have at. redmeat.com

2002-04-16T22:51:00.000-04:00

I got out the typewriter this evening and wrote. I wrote a faraway friend and told her of the coming of spring and ice cream cones, Emmett the cat and Over the Rhine.

It felt nice to write. But one of two things is happening.

I am becoming either increasingly dissatisfied with my writing or I am in the mud of being forced to perpetually rediscover what a terrible writer I really am.

Both of these possibilities seem equally horrifying. The latter, unfortunately, being the most shameful of them all.

Someone should tell me. Or tell me otherwise.

'Cos this well is getting dry.

2002-04-16T14:56:00.000-04:00

Today it is just plumb hot.

I haven't done anything worthwhile yet and I'm off to work at four. It's three now.

Hope your day is sunnier (and cooler) than mine has been so far.

Have at,

2002-04-15T02:15:00.000-04:00

It's been a crazy weekend.

I took a few days off from posting and e-mailing just because getting away from the computer seemed like a well-deserved vacation.

Shelley was good enough earlier this week to bring me lots of saltine crackers and 2 two-litres of ginger ale for my tummy as I recovered from the "Infinite Sickness" (which, thankfully, lasted less than 24 hours) earlier this week.

On Friday, I took a visit to the ER after dislocating my jaw. That was an experience to behold.

At first it was funny, then it was frustrating. An hour later, it was excruciatingly painful.

It happened at 3:00.

By 4:00, after a very long and very embarassing drive to the hospital (I tried desperately to cover my unintentionally surprised-looking face :-o ), I was admitted to the hospital where I was signing papers left and right.

I was glad that they admitted me as quickly as they did and gave me a stretcher to lay down on. But as I lay there, the pain increased exponentially and as the pain increased, time seemed to come to a standstill. I was moaning with my pain and it was like having a tooth pulled without the drugs. Eventually, though, the nurses came by again (I presume after processing the obligatory paperwork) and told me they were going to administer an IV. Now, under normal circumstances, I'd care. But as you can imagine, I hadn't a care in the world to the fact that this nurse was about to stick a needle in my arm and then leave it there, stuck with tape. I practically invited it. Anything to herald in a realigned jaw.

Next thing I know, she shoves an oxygen tube into my nose and I want to care, but I'm in too much pain to say anything or even think about complaining. She tells me its oxygen. (I think, "Yeah, right.")

The only subsequent memory I have to that was hearing the turn of a canister valve behind me and a hiss flowing into my nose through the so-called "oxygen" tubes.

There were two doctors and a couple of nurses at my bedside. One of the doctors quipped, "I bet he's in his car by now...."

"....and on his way home," the other doctor chimed in.

My best guess was that this meant I was supposed to be asleep by now. To which supposition, two indistinguishable hands touched my face and with not the least flinch from me, popped my jaw back into place. Which, little lucid as I was, I got no glowing sense of relief. Despite the two very long hours since the accident occurred and my frustrated anticipation of the relief, I didn't get to enjoy it (nor either, thank God, the accompanying pain of a doctor's hands ungraciously shoving a jaw back into place).

As I would have told you the story had Shelley not been there, I left five minutes later. But instead, as I understand, it wasn't until almost an hour later and many silly comments later that I (in my mind) left on my own power, walked into the waiting room, found Shelley and made my way home.

It's nice to be back in one piece again, off the Immodium A-D's, the IV's and those heart monitor stickies.

It's even better to be able to pick up the phone and have the person on the other end actually understand what it is I'm saying. It's amazing what you can't say when you don't have full use of your tongue and teeth and lips. Just you try and say "jaw" without those three working like a well-oiled machine together. Another highly underappreciated body function made possible by the jaw? Swallowing. (That includes the swallowing you have to do that has absolutely nothing to do with drinking.... I'll leave it to your imaginations what you do when you can't swallow and spitting isn't an option.....)

Lastly but not leastly, a very big thanks to doctors, friends and family everywhere who deciphered what I said and put up with my antics in cheap sympathy for my situation. And for those of you who laughed at me in my misery... I forgive you. But just this once.

Anyway, that was my weekend. Hope it was good for a laugh.

And oh yeah, on Saturday, I went with our chuch to Canada where we went curling. That's right, we shoved 42-lb. stones down 138-ft. sheets of ice and swept brooms in front of them. YAY!

Sounds like fun, doesn't it??

And they call it a "pastime"...

But as much fun (and hard work) as it was, I'll go with baseball over curling any day.

Or, heck, smoke-filled bowling lanes for that matter.

Crazy Canucks...

Oh yeah, I guess you wanna know how I dislocated my jaw:
(A drumroll, please....)

I yawned.

2002-04-12T22:31:00.000-04:00

This week has been such a disappointment. And I still have a huge paper to write that I haven't even begun to start thinking about. *sigh*

I have no idea what's going to happen now.

Anyway, I'm totally wiped out for the day.

Went to the ER with a dislocated jaw and.... nevermind, I'll tell you later. I'm way too tired to go over that whole mess again.

I'm spent.

Later.

2002-04-11T21:19:00.000-04:00

5½ gigs of hard drive space, spent exclusively on MP3s. Illegal MP3s at that. (What a shame.)

Am cleaning my sordid excuse for an apartment-turned-bedroom up tonight, trying to exonerate my absence from work after alleged post-sickness discussed yesterday and the evening before. (To note: I am almost fully-recovered. This is both good and bad news. Am gracious nonetheless.)

In sad, "I used to receive really geeky, free christian music in the mail as a purported 'street rep'" news, I am always in the process of hocking those old CDs, books and miscellaneous propoganda that I don't read, listen to or believe in anymore. (Check out my stock at half.com. If you buy from me I will be your friend.)

However, the worst news is that I'm stuck with this really cheesy "techno" CD from some chick on N'Soul Records who apparently isn't around anymore and probably got caught up in some seedy sex scandal in a hotel room after her low turnout shows.

But that's all speculation.

In any case, I reluctantly threw it into the trash -- disappointed not because the CD sucks, but because I don't make one lame penny off the deal.

Go fig.

Salut my friends.

2002-04-11T16:02:00.000-04:00

Man, I am tired. Taking one more day off from work. (A luxury not much longer to be enjoyed.)

And anyway, what kind of person spends an hour a day on his "blog," then this is all he has to say?

Right.

Well, as some of you will notice, I prettied up my blog a bit. Feels much nicer. A lot more like home. Feel free to leave comments. I and so-and-so worked very, very hard to bring this to your desktop. So have at it.

In other news, it was revealed last night on the one and only cool Late Night with Conan O'Brien Show that the very lovely and most excellent Patty Griffin has a new album out this year. 1000 Kisses from the folk-balmed lips of a queen in her own right.

Take a good listen. I haven't yet.

In the MP3 player now:
Ron Sexsmith, Foolproof from the Blue Boy album.

2002-04-11T01:20:00.000-04:00

Much better now. And now very, very tired.

(Thank God for everything I don't know now.)

2002-04-10T17:04:00.000-04:00

Very, very sick.

2002-04-10T16:27:00.000-04:00

I am sick.

2002-04-09T23:34:00.000-04:00

Tonight marks my first official blog entry and I admit, with some embarassment, that I was excited as I made my way up the stairs to my bedroom here and fired up the computer to make, this, my first official entry.

Two things have been decided today:

My biggest pet peeve:
(Keep in mind that I am a waiter.) People who, when I bring them their coffee, insist on informing me that they are "straight coffee" drinkers and, thus, won't be needing the creamers that I'd already placed on their saucer. Which is fine. But why do they look at me as though I should take them off the saucer?! Take them off your own self or ...oh, I dunno... don't use them?!

That's thing one.

Thing Two:
Church marquees --the ones with the infamously corny jokes on salvation and attendance-- are a lot like Dubble Bubble wrappers. They're never the least bit funny, enlightening or edifying, no matter how much you want them to be. And, what's worse, they never will be.

One day somebody will figure these things out.

That's beef.

Keep it easy,

2002-04-09T03:59:00.000-04:00

I'm guessing I'll get the feel of this eventually. (i.e., once this wee page gets a bit more personality than she has right now.) Then she'll be on swimmingly. The both us.

2002-04-09T03:40:00.000-04:00

I have no idea what I'm doing. But this could be fun if I did.