uberkrunk_5

it was that night at your friend's house, at the party.
i had no idea that dryer sheet was hiding in my trouser cuff.
you laughed as if you'd break, and i saw it--
your face...your eyes...
i pretended not to notice, but that's when i knew.
if only your falling out of love had been as obvious
or as felicitous.

I hate when uppity douchebags spend their existence making your life miserable but then have the nerve to let loose with some power plays, snarl you up with some politics, then smile wider than a Buick and sign all their emails as your "Brother/Sister in Faith." I have a hard time believing that my true Brother/Sister in Faith would spend so much time trying to screw me over. To react to their garbage in a less-than-ideal way, however, makes YOU look like an ass, so you have to be careful to take the high road--even though that may end up being the least efficient way to get next to nothing done. Grrrr. Lol.

Oh well. Plans for Mardis Gras have survived. My plans, to be specific (it's my turn to captain the kitchen on Sunday anyway). Pork with guajillo chiles, red beans with peppers and smoked ham, creole style cornbread with cheese and jalapenos, rice, pseudo-king's cake, all for about 120. The cake layers (maybe 15"x28") are all done and maybe the frosting made and a crumb coat on by noon tomorrow. The pork is pre-cooked. Major work to do on Saturday, with maybe 6 helpers and a staff meal at 1:30ish (roast chicken, parmesan polenta, salad).

The street I grew up on had a rather nice-sized park at the end of the street. There were at least three baseball diamonds, an area I remember using as a soccer field, and a couple patches of trees and overgrowth that had a few trails running through it. Call it urban bucolic. These trails were simultaneously fascinating and disturbing--littered with the occasional shopping cart, spots with old campfires and rusted cans of pork and beans, chunks of cement here and there to sit on and maybe browse through some of the old porn magazines you'd find here or there. For us younger kids, these were excursions into anthropology as we wondered who brought all this crap in... and how'd they decide where to put it? Did that older kid from down the street steal the Hustlers from his dad's collection? This was our opportunity to share something with the people who'd otherwise have nothing to do with us (or vice-versa)--some chance for connection or social interaction through a double-blind.

There were tracks that bordered one complete side of the park, shared by public transit and Conrail. I can only notice this attrition in retrospect, but the number of trains passing though did certainly dwindle down as I grew up. Our house was far enough down the street for their 2 a.m. heraldry to be merely ambient...not completely something you could ignore, but nothing that would keep you from sleeping. There was a sense of mystery to these, as well, and I'd easily find myself somnolently imagining where they were coming from and where they might be going to. Who was driving these things past our street so late, and what kind of families did they have to go home to?

My own dad was a steelworker, so I'd imagine the trains delivering to one of the coke plants on tracks I'd never seen but had been told ran right through the mills. The conductors of these late-night lumbering locomotives might have the chance to see and talk to my dad--privileges seldom afforded me since he worked so much and used his precious time at home to catch up on sleep or abuse my mother and I. Still, I dreamed of the chance to keep an eye on him somehow, see what he had to put up with at work, make sure that he was keeping himself safe while so many of his coworkers were having debilitating accidents (some fatal). My father was such a Herculean figure to me (admittedly, more out of fear than anything else), and it didn't make any sense to me that he, himself, could be Stockholm syndromed into a life of concession, doing so much work at something he did not enjoy. It confused and saddened me that he didn't seem to demand better treatment from the world like he demanded from mom and I.

You have just been SECRET CHIMPED!!! Whatcha gonna dooooo?

I close my eyes, and I am floating.
Spent, senseless save for telegrams coming in from my body via Pony Express.
I am on my back. stop.
Something sounds crinkly. stop.
Attempt to teleport to France failed, please advise. stop.

I'm in several places at once as I imagine the sky through my closed lids, denying sunbeam daggers,
smelling zebrawood, flashing through familiar faces and favorite smells
as I watch machines tear me apart and portion me out to others like so many leftovers,
my head nestled in a familiar lap and cheeks being stroked.
Why does there need to be any more?

I'm strapped down. Very real diesel exhaust chases away my imagined perfumes,
and the loudening rumble of the ambulance makes it harder to dance.
I'll be coming back again. What's left to accomplish this time?
What's even accomplishable?
I become my own Clarence and tally my absolution.
Das was Ich geschlagen habe, zu Gott wird es mich tragen nicht!

It's a dream. I know it's a dream, but this doesn't keep me from feeling like it's real. I'm in a field on the edge of a forest somewhere in middle earth, apparently, and there's thunder in the distance. It gets louder, and the sky's blackening in the south. It's horse hooves. Armies are heading my way, and all at once I comprehend what's happening:

It's the holidays. They're coming to get me, picking up speed, weapons drawn.

RIP Jocelyn Chang
http://www.coolcleveland.com/blog/2010/11/jocelyn-chang/

I've never seen Paul lose his temper, but today was the day.

He had a fight over the phone with his son several states away. I left the room to give him some privacy, but he must have hung up. He went quiet for at least an hour, which means it must have been really bad. He was fussing with a frame for a painting, and the material wasn't cooperating. Finally he screamed at it while he tore it apart and threw it on the floor and went out front.

This is about my thing for him as a substitute dad. He's always been great to me. He doesn't pay me an hourly wage, but has been generous about showing me how things are done, and more than generous whenever I'm short on bills. Plus he usually buys lunch every day. He's open an easy to talk to, and lots of other things my dad never was. I was scared a little today. It doesn't make it any less weird that his son and I have the same first name. I was afraid of doing something to attract his anger. His opinion and approval mean a lot to me.

It also became relatively apparent today that someone who talks about their church as much as I do is never going to get laid. Ever.

World to David: Fuck you.
David to World: No dinner first?

It's okay for everybody to owe me money, but I'm evidently not supposed to let that affect me. My last school system can stiff me for $1000, delinquents can steal my car and be sentenced to pay back $1200 without actually having to ever make any payments to the court or to me, and I've been waiting over a month now to get paid for a gig I played my ass off for. What the poop? Each case is a migraine's worth of paperwork and phone calls with the burden being squarely relegated onto my shoulders and the buck being passed back to me.

Hello! Poverty?
There is a possible bright spot, though. If I can keep in contact with Dr. Liva from CSU, he said he's pretty sure they could free up some money for me to come play for them next year (they have NO horn players). Part of me wonders why there aren't any horn students at a place that'd let you study with the 2nd chair of the Cleveland Orchestra's horn section. Does he suck? Another part of me is just exhausted and says to take the money and run. Study there for at least a year on their dime and see if that'd give me enough credits to renew my licensure. I don't have to plan on completing a grad degree there, but at least it'd open up some options.

I miss options. It's weird how much I've just gotten used to not having them.

Two more shows, and I will be done with the pit orchestra for Tri-C West's production of 1776... and the sound guy has almost figured out what the fuckity fucking fuck he should be doing. All the leads are really pretty good, and it's been a fun group to play with. The horn part for the second half of the show just keeps on getting higher and quieter, which is more than a bit sadistic, but the pit boss has been sweet about not caring--octave down, optional mute, someone might actually hear me.

There are lots of big dialogue breaks, though, and I've been reading a lot of Chomsky, going almost cross-eyed with rage at what awful hegemonistic bastards we have running our country and wondering how the hell we haven't had the living shit bombed out of us yet. Pissing off the rest of the world just doesn't seem like the best non-proliferation strategy to me

Ian: Hey, did you guys notice I'm not wearing black today?
Me: You mean, like you did last night when we played the vigil?
Ian: Yeah.
Me: But nothing says "Christ our lord is risen indeed!" like a tuba
player tricked out like Johnny Cash on a bender.
Ian: I love you, David.