Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Ways FDR and I are different

1. I don't and probably will never have polio
2. He was good at spider solitaire.

It is a good thing I don't believe in profundity. It's 2:12 AM and I have been trying to arrange two deck's worth of virtual cards into numerical order by suit. It is maddening and I am giving up and I am blogging about how it is maddening and about how I am giving up. There is something to be said for banality, specifically when soundtracked by nice headphones in turn soundtracked by Cursive, Okkervil River, and Margot & the Nuclear So and So's. Someone should say something.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

This song needs a title


On the cloudiest night through a satellite's eyes
You can see it
The people below throwing stones
Sleep in attics and basements
There's a war we all know and we're scared
That we'll have to go fight it
So for several years we have done all we can do to spite it

The final frontier has been cleared
Now it's closed so we're clinging
To what we've got left
Our few honest attempts at a living
And halfway around the world
People are dying
And on birch street the leaves on the trees
Laugh but look like they're sighing

I want to know
Where you think you are going
And god help your soul
If that's what you believe
For a couplet I sold
What was left of my integrity
And I don't have goals

But I will have an apartment
In a city full of people
And a subtle, sinking feeling
We're all equals

I wouldn't expect to hear those words from you
So I bid a fond farewell with this excuse

I want to know what I don't know
I want to know what no one knows
I'll learn to swim so I will float

Or I will tread water and gracelessly sink below
Like death is a puzzle and I learned where the pieces all go

So on every goddamn cloudy night through every eye of every satellite
I am foaming at the mouth
And with every stone you people throw at bleeding hearts and broken bones
I am laughing
And that war we'll one day have to fight is as visceral as a synapse fired
I am waiting
I shook the hand of father time I spit in my own and I looked him in the eye
I am not sorry

Saturday, March 28, 2009

I am the only one who thinks I'm going crazy

Today was a showerday which was a good thing because my hair was sticking up in ways that would have made my seventh-grade self green with envy. In addition, even though I use the Official Deodorant of the NBA (TM), I feared I would begin to smell. How do they even know the formula works the same on a near seven foot black man as it does on an overweight white kid? I probably sweat less than him in any case.

Either way, that's not what this post is about. It is about shampoo; specifically, it is about Head and Shoulders Anti-Dandruff shampoo. Last time I showered, I ran out of the shampoo I like to use, which smells like citrus, which is good because people love when people peel oranges and clementines in their general periphery. I was forced, then, to use my back up bottle of shampoo. I wet my hair, which is, in full disclosure, a fairly new showering habit. I squirted some of that sweet stuff into my hand and it felt fucking bizarre. I've never touched that slime that snails leave behind when they snail around, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say the textures are one and the same.

Alarmed, I checked the expiration date. This needlessly sent me into an existential crisis. My shampoo expired in November of 2007. This meant, among other things (like why it felt so weird), that I bought it -- well, my mother bought it -- before I left to come here. Dubious hygienic practices aside, it dawned on me that these 40 fluid ounces have watched maniacally from the top shelf on my closet everything I have done since August 23rd, 2007. It has borne witness to every blowjob and every breakdown, every friendship and every failed friendship, every time I've made a bad decision and every time I've made love. There's more alliteration and parallel structure where that came from, but you get the point.

It's my backup bottle of shampoo. It knows it will never be the most loved, but it knows it's the one I'll come crawling back to when my sweet citrus has died at last. So it waits. And it remembers.

My hair was wet and so I bit the bullet. Washing the shampoo out of my hair gave way to one of the more disgusting textures I've ever felt, but war makes people do terrible things.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

True Fact

True Fact: If I never shave again, eventually I will have a FULL BEARD