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Current mood... hmm...
Jul. 15th, 2001 08:59 pmWell, I WAS going to be watching some gas tanks explode at 7 am- except that the poo monkey who was gonna be picking me up at 5:15 never showed :| Me not happy- I left DM's birthday at Downtime for the chance to watch those fuckers blow, and instead, I wound up standing in front of Lots O' Bagels for about 45 minutes (by the end of which time, my own gas tank was in danger of going redline- heh). Actually, the waiting wasn't the worst thing- standing there watching sunlight gradually permeate the sky; hearing the rattle of those roll-up doors, as people began to leave their houses and do their Sunday thang- kinda reminded me of Westworld, when they'd turn the robots on in the morning :) Unfortunately, I couldn't really enjoy it, my mind being stuck on how I wasn't going to be able to watch the tanks explode (since I didn't know exactly where it was, knowing almost nothing of Brooklyn geography as I do, and a frantic search on the Web was of no avail- not to mention that Mr. Potatohead didn't answer his phone :|). A pity- it was briefly a pleasant reminder of what it used to be like going home after a night of tomfoolery, back before a midnight- 8 am job shift soured me on the joys of staying up all night once and for all.
Now, some folks might actually wonder what the hell is so frickin' amazing about watching a bunch of defunct gas tanks get detonated- especially as there's been a good deal of controversy about the distinct possibility that the detonation will send oodles of vaporized lead paint chips into the atmosphere, hence *cough* Umm...:| However, I am a reconstructed anarchist, whose greatest childhood delight used to be knocking over the block buildings I'd so carefully assemble beforehand; as someone who ranks Brazil among his favorite movies, all I can say is- burn, Baby, burn!!! :D To me, leaving Downtime and loading a heavy canoe (since we were gonna be watching the explosion from the middle of a lake, unless the Coast Guard got frisky) would have been a small price to pay for such joy. Actually debated taking a three- hour kayaking trip out to Liberty Island as a consolation prize; then, the frustration- induced energy began to fade... I remembered I'd been up all night... ZZZZzzzzz... Well, at least Lynn has come home; otherwise, today gets a big fat :|.
Hmm... Downtime itself was *shrug*; I've been there less than a dozen times in my life, usually at a friend's instigation. It was good to see DM (and Tia!) on his birthday, but I've honestly never been a huge aficionado of the goth scene per se (says the guy whose LJ name is "Coyotegoth")(Shaddap)(:D). Nothing against it, I hasten to add... just... *shrug*. I honestly got into that simply because my best friend Winter started dragging me to DT and Byzantium, and introducing me to NYCgoth, whence I met some rather cool people... and so. (Well, I DID watch the Hunger about 30 times in college, largely because Lynn had it playing in her room CONSTANTLY- dunno if that counts. Loud music + crowds + lots of ciggy smoke = not a natural Coyote hangout :P) More happily, tho, I did get to say hi to Snarf, and a few others; finally bumped into DM, and bought him a beer. Somehow, that's a really New York City thing: DM, I consider a fairly good friend- but I only tend to see him either online, or at a loud, dark nightclub. Something about the idea of paying to enter a club, buying a friend a beer for his birthday, and splitting shortly thereafter so I can watch some abandoned gas tanks blow up (not that I'm all that much of a night owl anyway, these days)... I dunno; it seems odd, somehow. It bothers me, and I'm not sure why it does- which is also, come to think of it, a very New York City thing.
Still, this isn't about DM, or last night, or even the gas tanks. It's more the usual malaise that creeps up whenever I'm alone/tired/being in a condition of lowered emotional defenses. It seems like ever since I've gotten this computer, I've been using it to keep myself distracted. Chat rooms, games, AIM, ICQ- even meandering LJ screeds like this one... it's all static; empty noise. Oh, there are some genuinely great people -of which you are no doubt one- who I've met online/IRL through the Net... but 90% of my computer time is wasted, utterly and completely; time that could be better spent having my nose hairs bleached, or volunteering for the local chapter of Young Republicans for Christ, or.... I dunno; as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." I hardly ever read for pleasure anymore, come to that; my short-term memory is largely shot; I'm too used to absorbing information between clicks of a mouse.
Of course, having said that- what do I do? I've always been hell on wheels about NOT doing things: quitting Sunday School (what a bloodbath THAT argument was); quitting jobs (too numerous to count); etc, etc. When it comes to actually ACCOMPLISHING things, though- to choosing a star, and sailing beyond the sunset- I tend to come up short. I don't know- as far as this Internet thing goes, the solution would seem to be obvious: "Spend less time on the Net; get your lazy ass in gear, and do something REAL." Ahh- but, but, but... but the friends of mine (of which you are more than likely one) who I only ever see on the Net; but the long, boring downtime at work (they don't mind us being on the Net and downloading God knows what, but just TRY and read an actual book, no matter how long you've been waiting for a job); above all, the lack of a goal.
Is that even it, though...? I'm sure that if I forced myself, I could find at least half a dozen better uses for my time (hell, I've been to five museums in the last four days, for a start) but... but what stops me? Lack of time? Ha- I'm usually up by 11; not at work until 4. Apathy? Well, I AM generally rather passive- in a cynical sort of way- but it's not precisely that I don't care; more that... hmm... that I don't allow myself to focus on it- the whole "mental static" thing again. I don't know; I wanted to be a film student, and talked my way into one of the nation's better film schools with no portfolio and no practical experience. I wanted to return to proofreading (as I discussed a few entries ago)... and here I am.
I think it's fear; I think I need to terrify myself into doing something crazy and adventurous again, like the Boston/NY AIDS Rides or joining the circus. I don't wanna be sitting at this computer when I'm fifty, still moaning like Marley's ghost... gaah. Enough of that. Instead, since you've been so nice in listening to this rambling jeremiad, I'll play you out with a happy song:
It's 1993. Broke and near despair, Our Hero walks onto the Big Apple Circus lot at Lincoln Center's Damrosch Park, drops the name of an acquaintance to the lot superintendent, and gets a job. The first few days are fine; hauling muddy, heavy electrical cables hither and yon. Cake. Then, I go along for winter quarters; whole new ball game. I'm in South Carolina; I know no one; "lonely" is a woeful understatement; the crew thinks I'm a joke (later, I find out they were taking bets on when I'd quit.) Hard, HARD work for out-of-shape l'il me- including carrying stringers around (sections of metal framework; weigh about 250 pounds; have a way of digging into the shoulders of the two poor SOBs carrying them; almost certainly a substantial contributor to my later back problems, although I wore a weightlifter's belt.) We'd lift them up onto our shoulders... well, the front guy would lift his; I'd either somehow wrestle it onto my leg, and pop it up with my thigh muscles (Christ forfend you drop it), or someone would lift it onto my shoulder- with commentary a'plenty, you may be sure. I'm barely able to carry the fucking things once they're in position; they constantly snag on the tent's sideropes as we walk them into position, with an excruciating YANK on one's shoulder each time. I pad my shoulders with everything from towels to sweatshirts, to no avail. Each night, my shoulder has a fascinating new collection of bruises and welts; each morning, I think about quitting. By the end of winter quarters, things are a LITTLE better with the crew- hell, we've been drinking together for six weeks- but physically...
The season begins in Prospect Park; by the end of the first evening, I'm on the verge of collapse. I ask to be allowed to leave, mumbling something about blood sugar problems; disgust in my supervisor's eyes, as I trudge to the subway. Two weeks of shows follow- I'm nervous all through them, thinking about the loadout- and entire fucking SEASON- to follow.
Come the night- and I tell myself I'm NOT quitting. (After the first night, I've been sleeping on the lot- living in my nice, comfortable apartment, with no one making fun of me, is a temptation not to be borne.) The show ends; the first part of the loadout- grandstand seat backs, grandstand seat cushions; yadda yadda-goes fine. I'm saturated with adrenaline, running to and fro, actually doing things right for a change. And then- the stringers (There are ringside stringers, but they're l'il things- wouldn't hurt a fly.)The first guys take theirs; then the next- I'm up. The brace is removed, the stringer lowered- and the moron I'm lifting with lets it roll on his shoulder- my hands are firmly braced, and it bends my right wrist WAY back. AGH!!! I could leave... but I don't. I grit my teeth, gut it out- and go back for another. And another. Before I know it, we're done, and on to the (MUCH easier) ringside section. I keep until we're done with that, and we break while the cupola is lowered onto the tent truck- a slow, painstaking (but physically easy) process. THEN, I tell my supervisor what happens, show him my wrist (nicely swollen, a la Popeye) and ask if I can bag. He laughs, tells me I showed great "chootspah", and says sure- I'm in my bed, out like a light.
Three months later, I'm no longer a newbie; I've seen most of the house crew come and go. The stringers don't snag on the sideropes anymore; I'm lifting them up onto my shoulder myself, and even sometimes lifting them above my head, as the stringer brace (which holds it up) is placed. Arduous as shit... but it feels good.
I know everyone on the lot by now; one night, a bunch of us younger folk are bored, and frisky (always an interesting combination); it is decided, after a few beers, that climbing up the tent sidewall and having a picnic of sorts (read: no food; yes alcohol) up by the cupola, would be a sterling idea. We boost each other up, then more or less rappel our way up the sidewall (kids, don't try this at home)... and we're on top of the tent, a misty night landscape spread out before us. It's a full moon; the supervisors are all abed/out drinking. I'm looking into the eyes of the woman I made love to last night, and I'm smiling at the way things wound up- just a old circus hand, I am... She asks what I'm smiling about; I tell her; she smiles back, and I am warmed right down to my toes.
"I'm glad you didn't quit," she says.
"Yeah," I say. "Me, too."
Now, some folks might actually wonder what the hell is so frickin' amazing about watching a bunch of defunct gas tanks get detonated- especially as there's been a good deal of controversy about the distinct possibility that the detonation will send oodles of vaporized lead paint chips into the atmosphere, hence *cough* Umm...:| However, I am a reconstructed anarchist, whose greatest childhood delight used to be knocking over the block buildings I'd so carefully assemble beforehand; as someone who ranks Brazil among his favorite movies, all I can say is- burn, Baby, burn!!! :D To me, leaving Downtime and loading a heavy canoe (since we were gonna be watching the explosion from the middle of a lake, unless the Coast Guard got frisky) would have been a small price to pay for such joy. Actually debated taking a three- hour kayaking trip out to Liberty Island as a consolation prize; then, the frustration- induced energy began to fade... I remembered I'd been up all night... ZZZZzzzzz... Well, at least Lynn has come home; otherwise, today gets a big fat :|.
Hmm... Downtime itself was *shrug*; I've been there less than a dozen times in my life, usually at a friend's instigation. It was good to see DM (and Tia!) on his birthday, but I've honestly never been a huge aficionado of the goth scene per se (says the guy whose LJ name is "Coyotegoth")(Shaddap)(:D). Nothing against it, I hasten to add... just... *shrug*. I honestly got into that simply because my best friend Winter started dragging me to DT and Byzantium, and introducing me to NYCgoth, whence I met some rather cool people... and so. (Well, I DID watch the Hunger about 30 times in college, largely because Lynn had it playing in her room CONSTANTLY- dunno if that counts. Loud music + crowds + lots of ciggy smoke = not a natural Coyote hangout :P) More happily, tho, I did get to say hi to Snarf, and a few others; finally bumped into DM, and bought him a beer. Somehow, that's a really New York City thing: DM, I consider a fairly good friend- but I only tend to see him either online, or at a loud, dark nightclub. Something about the idea of paying to enter a club, buying a friend a beer for his birthday, and splitting shortly thereafter so I can watch some abandoned gas tanks blow up (not that I'm all that much of a night owl anyway, these days)... I dunno; it seems odd, somehow. It bothers me, and I'm not sure why it does- which is also, come to think of it, a very New York City thing.
Still, this isn't about DM, or last night, or even the gas tanks. It's more the usual malaise that creeps up whenever I'm alone/tired/being in a condition of lowered emotional defenses. It seems like ever since I've gotten this computer, I've been using it to keep myself distracted. Chat rooms, games, AIM, ICQ- even meandering LJ screeds like this one... it's all static; empty noise. Oh, there are some genuinely great people -of which you are no doubt one- who I've met online/IRL through the Net... but 90% of my computer time is wasted, utterly and completely; time that could be better spent having my nose hairs bleached, or volunteering for the local chapter of Young Republicans for Christ, or.... I dunno; as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." I hardly ever read for pleasure anymore, come to that; my short-term memory is largely shot; I'm too used to absorbing information between clicks of a mouse.
Of course, having said that- what do I do? I've always been hell on wheels about NOT doing things: quitting Sunday School (what a bloodbath THAT argument was); quitting jobs (too numerous to count); etc, etc. When it comes to actually ACCOMPLISHING things, though- to choosing a star, and sailing beyond the sunset- I tend to come up short. I don't know- as far as this Internet thing goes, the solution would seem to be obvious: "Spend less time on the Net; get your lazy ass in gear, and do something REAL." Ahh- but, but, but... but the friends of mine (of which you are more than likely one) who I only ever see on the Net; but the long, boring downtime at work (they don't mind us being on the Net and downloading God knows what, but just TRY and read an actual book, no matter how long you've been waiting for a job); above all, the lack of a goal.
Is that even it, though...? I'm sure that if I forced myself, I could find at least half a dozen better uses for my time (hell, I've been to five museums in the last four days, for a start) but... but what stops me? Lack of time? Ha- I'm usually up by 11; not at work until 4. Apathy? Well, I AM generally rather passive- in a cynical sort of way- but it's not precisely that I don't care; more that... hmm... that I don't allow myself to focus on it- the whole "mental static" thing again. I don't know; I wanted to be a film student, and talked my way into one of the nation's better film schools with no portfolio and no practical experience. I wanted to return to proofreading (as I discussed a few entries ago)... and here I am.
I think it's fear; I think I need to terrify myself into doing something crazy and adventurous again, like the Boston/NY AIDS Rides or joining the circus. I don't wanna be sitting at this computer when I'm fifty, still moaning like Marley's ghost... gaah. Enough of that. Instead, since you've been so nice in listening to this rambling jeremiad, I'll play you out with a happy song:
It's 1993. Broke and near despair, Our Hero walks onto the Big Apple Circus lot at Lincoln Center's Damrosch Park, drops the name of an acquaintance to the lot superintendent, and gets a job. The first few days are fine; hauling muddy, heavy electrical cables hither and yon. Cake. Then, I go along for winter quarters; whole new ball game. I'm in South Carolina; I know no one; "lonely" is a woeful understatement; the crew thinks I'm a joke (later, I find out they were taking bets on when I'd quit.) Hard, HARD work for out-of-shape l'il me- including carrying stringers around (sections of metal framework; weigh about 250 pounds; have a way of digging into the shoulders of the two poor SOBs carrying them; almost certainly a substantial contributor to my later back problems, although I wore a weightlifter's belt.) We'd lift them up onto our shoulders... well, the front guy would lift his; I'd either somehow wrestle it onto my leg, and pop it up with my thigh muscles (Christ forfend you drop it), or someone would lift it onto my shoulder- with commentary a'plenty, you may be sure. I'm barely able to carry the fucking things once they're in position; they constantly snag on the tent's sideropes as we walk them into position, with an excruciating YANK on one's shoulder each time. I pad my shoulders with everything from towels to sweatshirts, to no avail. Each night, my shoulder has a fascinating new collection of bruises and welts; each morning, I think about quitting. By the end of winter quarters, things are a LITTLE better with the crew- hell, we've been drinking together for six weeks- but physically...
The season begins in Prospect Park; by the end of the first evening, I'm on the verge of collapse. I ask to be allowed to leave, mumbling something about blood sugar problems; disgust in my supervisor's eyes, as I trudge to the subway. Two weeks of shows follow- I'm nervous all through them, thinking about the loadout- and entire fucking SEASON- to follow.
Come the night- and I tell myself I'm NOT quitting. (After the first night, I've been sleeping on the lot- living in my nice, comfortable apartment, with no one making fun of me, is a temptation not to be borne.) The show ends; the first part of the loadout- grandstand seat backs, grandstand seat cushions; yadda yadda-goes fine. I'm saturated with adrenaline, running to and fro, actually doing things right for a change. And then- the stringers (There are ringside stringers, but they're l'il things- wouldn't hurt a fly.)The first guys take theirs; then the next- I'm up. The brace is removed, the stringer lowered- and the moron I'm lifting with lets it roll on his shoulder- my hands are firmly braced, and it bends my right wrist WAY back. AGH!!! I could leave... but I don't. I grit my teeth, gut it out- and go back for another. And another. Before I know it, we're done, and on to the (MUCH easier) ringside section. I keep until we're done with that, and we break while the cupola is lowered onto the tent truck- a slow, painstaking (but physically easy) process. THEN, I tell my supervisor what happens, show him my wrist (nicely swollen, a la Popeye) and ask if I can bag. He laughs, tells me I showed great "chootspah", and says sure- I'm in my bed, out like a light.
Three months later, I'm no longer a newbie; I've seen most of the house crew come and go. The stringers don't snag on the sideropes anymore; I'm lifting them up onto my shoulder myself, and even sometimes lifting them above my head, as the stringer brace (which holds it up) is placed. Arduous as shit... but it feels good.
I know everyone on the lot by now; one night, a bunch of us younger folk are bored, and frisky (always an interesting combination); it is decided, after a few beers, that climbing up the tent sidewall and having a picnic of sorts (read: no food; yes alcohol) up by the cupola, would be a sterling idea. We boost each other up, then more or less rappel our way up the sidewall (kids, don't try this at home)... and we're on top of the tent, a misty night landscape spread out before us. It's a full moon; the supervisors are all abed/out drinking. I'm looking into the eyes of the woman I made love to last night, and I'm smiling at the way things wound up- just a old circus hand, I am... She asks what I'm smiling about; I tell her; she smiles back, and I am warmed right down to my toes.
"I'm glad you didn't quit," she says.
"Yeah," I say. "Me, too."
