I'm Not Smooth

Merriam-Webster's online dictionary defines "smooth" as: excessively and often artfully suave

It defines awkward as: lacking dexterity or skill AND lacking ease or grace AND lacking social grace and assurance

That sounds more like me.

Saturday was Kevin's annual pub crawl, and despite the pouring rain and gale force winds that made the walk down Hancock Street a tad bit miserable, it appears that a good time was had by most. Although, I guess I can't really prove that statement since there were probably at least a hundred people there this year, and I didn't even meet a majority of them. There were so many people that they were split up into groups and staggered into 30 minute intervals at the bars. At the very beginning myself and some others ceded from this grouping and formed Team 1.5, which consisted of myself, Fil, Evan, his girlfriend who's name I can't remember, Sioux, and some of her friends (also who's names I can't remember.) We picked up members along the way, like Andy, Eric and Christine, and a few others. That was us, Team 1.5.

Anyway, to the crux of this story. I've known Sioux for a while. She's a friend of Kevin's and would hang out occasionally. Always seemed really cool, pretty cute, and hell, she earned my belching merit badge during the crawl, so what's not to like. We always seemed to get along pretty well, so I think to myself, "hey I should try and get her number today and see what happens." So we're going through the crawl and there doesn't seem to be any moment that would lead naturally to it, and before you know it we're at the last bar. And since we're at the last bar, and the night's winding down, I think, "Well, might as well just do it." So I'm mustering up some courage. You'd think this would be easy after 18 Coronas and a shot of something or other, but no, even then for me it's really not. So I'm mustering...and mustering...and I'm muster--aww, crap, she just left.

Story's not done yet, though.

I leave shortly afterwards and go home. And I'm thinking to myself, "You know, I could wait until the next time I see her and say something then, but on average that's like once or twice a year." So I decide that when I get home I'm going to send her an email. I can get her address from the fantasy football league we're both in. I realize very well that this is probably going to come across as "Mr. Drunk Email Guy" but I don't care. I really feel like I want to say something, and given our history I don't particularly want to wait until the far side of winter. So I get home, type up something short, ("Hey, I think you're really cool, we should hang out sometime.") throw in a little witty, check carefully for fumble-fingered typos, and send it off before I can second-guess myself. There, damage done. Nothing I can do about it now, so I might as well go to sleep.

(This is pretty much what I mean about being not smooth, if you were wondering. There are really much better ways of going about this type of thing. I was hoping however that maybe I could claim to have an endearingly awkward thing going on, because I'm all about sugarcoating.)

Sunday was a day for recuperating, eating way too much good food (courtesy of Laura's parent for her birthday), and worrying. How will the email be received, perceived? What will the response be? If I can detour here for a second: Is it silly that either possible answer---"Sure, let's do it." or "Nope, not interested."--- made me nervous? The second because that's not the answer I want, and the first because...well, then I have to back it up. I have to, if you'll pardon the lingo but it is apt, represent. Each possible answer carried their own specific case of jitters.

Anyway, although this blog has been forming in my mind all yesterday, I was witholding writing it until, you guessed it, I got an answer. I don't want to write a long blog and leave my two readers hanging without a climax. That repsonse came this morning. (Note: I can't check my Yahoo email at my desk at work, but I can log in to Yahoo and see when I have email at least, and who it's from. We have two computers in the caf where you can check your email from thouhg. So I get to work at 8am, and see that she responded, but I can't realistically check it until I go to break at 9:30. That was a long 90 minutes.)

And the conclusion? She'd be interested in hanging out, but she doesn't like me "that way." Ahh, well. Not a happy ending to this story, I'm afraid. There are people that will tell you that the trying is as important as the succeeding. I disagree. While the trying is important, and I'm glad I did in this particular case, succeeding is always better. But I guess it's back to the drawing board, so to speak. Better luck next time and all those wonderful platitudes.

Setting the mood

Although it's well documented that I'm not a fan of the encroaching cold of later fall and the hints of impending winter, I do so like the mood of October. Especially as it gets closer to Halloween. It's the horror geek in me, really. I found myself thinking

(losing myself in)

about this last night. I was hanging out with my friend Krista, and we ended up watching some of Halloween 4 and 5. Now neither of these movies are particularly scary; in fact, Dr. Loomis is so unhinged in Halloween 5 that he makes the movie really funny. But even still, when I was leaving I found myself extremely aware of the following:

It was a a cold night, dark and quiet, for the city. I walked across an empty courtyard and to the street. The wind was rustling through the trees and sending fallen leaves scratchily dancing across the sidewalk. As I walked up the street towards my car, I heard the footsteps of a solitary figure behind me.

Now, typically, these are not the type of thing that I would particularly notice, but at this time of year? Well, I managed to freak myself out a little. Not badly, but more like those nights when we'd walk around Bear Cove park. That feeling of a heart slightly racing, but deep down knowing you're not in any real danger. It was pretty neat. And even though the spell was slightly broken by the wad of toilet paper on my windshield, I still did check the backseat of my car before driving anywhere.
...
Speaking of mood, for too long mine has been uniformly negative. Even when it didn't need to be. It was like when not experiencing a legitimate high or low, my default position was to feel negative about things. Rather than neutral, which would seem a more proper option. I pretty much just came to this realization last week, and I made the decision to try to rectify that. Not that it means I'm going to try and be all roses and sunshine, grinning in idiotic bliss all the time, but more that I'm going to try to not be negative about things unless I have a reason to be. I think that will be better for my own mental state of mind, and let's face it, I don't really hang out with any goth girls that would find consitently dark and moody to be hot.

Full Circle

As a response to my last blog---regarding the new amp part not the stolen iPod---Paul the Pirate (Yar!) asked if I felt like I had come full circle buying that amp at South Shore Music since I had bought my first guitar there.

I thought about it for a while last night. My first impression was to say no, because to my mind that initially implied an ending. Started here, ended there. But if I can interject math for a moment, that’s a line, isn’t it? Not a circle.

So after some more thought, I think it does feel like it. For I had indeed bought my first guitar there. Or, more correctly, my parents had, under the stipulation that I had to take lessons for at least a year. That first guitar was a Mako something or other and at the time I thought it was cool because it looked like the guitar Reb Beach played in Winger’s “Magdalene” video. (In retrospect, probably the only actual cool thing about that guitar is that its brand name shared the name of a type of shark.) And now, 18 years later I’m buying top of the line, grade A equipment. For probably five times the price at that. The type of gear South Shore Music probably didn’t even sell back then; they’ve actually developed into quite the respectable little store with some really good gear. Back then I didn’t know thing one about playing; nowadays I do OK for myself. Oddly enough, my guitar teacher still works there, and without fail I see him every single time I walk in there, even if it’s only for two minutes to buy strings.

So, yeah, I guess a full circle has been drawn as far as that’s concerned.
...
So in a somewhat related matter, I was probably just slightly younger than the age where I first started playing guitar when I first started reading horror novels. And, like how before I started playing guitar, I was playing a tennis racket as a faux guitar, before I really settled into horror authors I liked, I just would buy anything on the book rack at Curtis Farms that looked like a horror novel. It was my start, sort of a prelude to feeling out the genre. I remember stopping specifically buying “The Devil’s Touch” by William Johnstone there. I believe that was my first horror novel. It was about a Satan worshipping cult that took over a small town, and my first night after reading it, I put a crucifix on top of it before going to bed.

Years later I’ve read more horror novels than I can remember. There’s little that seems new or noteworthy to me in the genre, and I’ve moved on, to some extent. Which is not to say I don’t read them anymore. I’ll still go out looking for new stuff (which I’m usually disappointed by), and I still like and re-read my favorites.

One of whom is of course that undisputed master of horror: Stephen King. I remember buying my first King book. It was in a bookstore at the Lincoln Plaza the next town over. I had ridden my bike over and spent probably a good 45 minutes looking over all the King titles trying to figure out which one to buy. (I ended up deciding on “The Shining” which, in retrospect, was probably not the ideal choice for my first King novel, only because it was one of those that I enjoyed much more after I had some other King under my belt.) But, I always felt that moment as being my first real start into horror, probably because everything I had read up until that point had been a matter of convenience, this I actively sought out. Everything else had been a prelude, this was legit.

But I bring it up because I’m currently re-reading a novel which has long been my favorite book, and upon this current reading is shaping up to stay in that position: “It”.
Even just on the surface I believe it’s King’s horror masterpiece. Plenty of scares, plenty of gruesome. I’m sure I loved it just for that when I first read it as a kid. But upon subsequent readings (this is either my 4th or 5th, I believe) there is so much more to it than that. To keep in the theme of full circle, there are things to be enjoyed with this book that you might only pick out as an adult (or at least as someone with more reading experience under their belt) that you might not get as a kid.

There’s the characterization. I’m only about 100 pages in right now, and at an epic 1,000+ pages, the first 160 are pretty much still the prologue. But already we’ve met all seven of the main characters as adults and as I’m reading this, and remembering from past readings, what these characters were like as children, their adult selves seem perfectly logical, following paths set out for them by their childhood environments.

Then there’s the theme of the magic of childhood. This theme is the foundation upon which the house of the story is built upon. And although my own childhood did not contain any real monsters, weaponized silver dollars, or acid spewing asthma inhalers, as a story “It” captures that essence of childhood that I never really thought could be put down in words. There is a lot of magic in the mundane when you’re 11 or 12 years old. Point in fact: new sneakers. At that age, with every pair of new sneakers your parents bought you, you could definitely, undeniably, without a doubt run faster. I would put those new sneakers on and immediately head out to the front of my house and run sprints from one side of the street to the other, and damn if I hadn’t shaved a few seconds off my best time. Looking back at it, I have a nice nostalgic chuckle, but back then it was absolutely true. King captures that perfectly in this book.

This was also one of the books where I found his writing to be effortless. Or, I should say, “seem effortless”. I’m sure there was a great deal of effort on his part. But it was so smooth to read, word to word, sentence to sentence, paragraph to paragraph, almost like the entire story was fully formed in his mind, beginning to end, before he even sat down to write it. Like a grocery list. You know what you need, and no actual thought is required in writing it down.

Finally, and I just caught this one on this current time around, although I’m sure subconsciously from a previous reading it’s colored my opinions on reading through the years. Bill Denbrough stands up in a college writing class and asks: “Why does a story have to be socio-anything? Politics…history…culture…aren’t these natural ingredients in any story if it’s told well? I mean…can’t you guys just let a story be a story?” That has always been my take on reading. I read for a good story. Everything else—themes, edification, super nice la-di-da writing—is all frosting on the cake if I like the story, and aren’t enough for me to reread anything if I don’t. And this lends itself back to the beginning of the circle, when I was probably 13 years old. Young kids (and later adults) battling a timeless shape-shifting monster that lives in the sewers? Fuck yeah!

How was my weekend?

Well golly gosh gee, I'm glad you asked.

First off, my little sister should come to town more oftern, because when she does: free meals! The family went out for dinner at Francescas in the North End on Friday night, (where the food was Italian and our cute waitress was Russian, which as you know wins), and then to brunch at Johnny D's on Saturday.

Immediately after brunch, I headed down to South Shore Music to pick up my amp. Got it home, plugged in, played for about 10 seconds, stopped to pick my jaw upp the floor, then played for a good deal longer. Imagine a small little one speaker amp, turned up to maybe about 3, that sounds like a cranked, full-stack Marshall, that has Angus Young's sound dialed in. The only problem is that I can't stand too close to the amp when I play because I will immediately have an orgasm. The Les Paul sounds like pure rock and roll though it. However, the Tele....oh, the Tele. On the bridge pickup it's raunchy and rocking, but on the neck pickup or the combined, it's smooth and incredibly articulate. I find myself asking why did it take me 18 years to get around to buying this amp. That's 18 wasted years.

But I couldn't play all day and night. Eventually I went out. By the end of the night I ended up at the Pour House, which while enjoyable for the watching of all the young and cute girls is annoying because it gets "bump into everyone" packed there and all those young girls just make me feel old. But it's amazing how a few beers manage to strip away the years, at least as far as my maturity level goes.

Anyway, I get home from the Pour House only to discover that while at the Pour House, someone had broken into my car and stolen my iPod. I didn't notice during the drive, because I hadn't wanted to listen to my iPod, and because when they broke the window to get in (that's right) it was the small back door passenger side window. I did think on the way home that the car was a little loud, like a window was open or a door ajar, but since neither seemed to be the case, I didn't worry too much about it. It was only when I got home and reached into the compartment between the seats to bring my iPod into the house that I noticed something was amiss. Like the fact that it wasn't there. Looking around the car for it, the broken glass on my back seat was the next clue that all was not as it should be.

How a good night ends: Meet a girl, take her out for a nice steak dinner, and then never call her agin.

How a bad night ends: 2:30 in the morning, and you're taping a brown paper bag over the remains of a busted window, and you're out one $300 piece of technology.

Luckily, insuarnce will cover the window repair. Unfortunately, not the iPod. And the problem is, now that I've owned one a year or so, I'm such its bitch that I can't live without one. So, first thing Sunday morning, before the football games, I jump in my car and head out to purchase a replacement. I think to myself, "I'll just run over to Microcenter and pick up a new one." Problem is, Microcenter's not that far away, but it's a bit of pain to get to. So, as I'm driving out, I think, "You know, Staples has computer stuff. Maybe the one right around the corner has one." I stop in and check, but they don't carry them. OK, back in the car and off to Microcenter. But you know what, right near the highway is a Circuit City. I should check there. I stop in. They carry them, but only have a few Nanos in stock. Not good enough. OK, Microcenter it is. But wait! When I get off the highway to get on Memorial Drive, there's a Best Buy right there at the Cambridgeside Galleria. Best Buy totally rocks iPods. I go in, ask the cute little Asian girl if they have any 5th generation 60GBs or 6th generation 80GBs. She's going to check. Comes back maybe 10-15 minutes later from doing god knows what. Nope, the biggest they have is the 30GB. Eh, not bad, but I want bigger. So after maybe 45-60 minutes dallying at other stores, I just go to Microcenter. Walk in, and withing 5 minutes have myself a receipt for a brand new 80GB iPod.

(The differences. Apple just released their new line of iPods last week. Generation 6, I guess it'd be called. The gen 5 60Gb was then dropped in price by $100, which is why I was looking for that initially, but they're all sold out. I suppose I could get one on MacMall if I looked, but I was still hot and wanted my new iPod NOW! So for an extra $100 I went with the gen 6 80GB, which I bet I could fit every single one of my CDs on and still have room.)

But anyway, since I'm at Microcenter and since I'm going to beating my credit card like a rented mule, why not add insult to injury. I'd been wanting an external hard drive to put my mp3s on, because my computer was full almost to bursting. So why not pick one up while I'm there. 160GBs of space should be good. I take my hard drive to the merchandise pick up desk, get my iPod, whip out the credit card, yell "Charge it!" like Wilam Flinstone and Betty Rubble, and bam! There goes $500.)

Get home and spend the entire day watching football and getting my new system set up. Transferred all my mp3s to the external drive, freeing up about 15GB of space on my computer. Then start geting all the tunes onto the new iPod. First step, clean out iTunes. Get rid of some of the crap. Second step, import everything from my Itune Library folder, erasing the songs that for some reason showed up twice. Third step (still in progress) go through Eric's iPod folder from when I copied that on to my system and retrieve the stuff I want. That will take me another day or two. Without going into any more detail, because this is long enough as it is, I have to retrieve the songs one by one. It's a pain.

Finished up all that in time to sit down on the couch and start up my month of horror. Since it's October, I plan to watch mostly horror movies, starting last night with Uzumaki, and read only horror novels. Why? Well, why not.

Anyway, that was my weekend. I'll be taking tomorrow off from work so that the insurance company can come to my house and fix my window. Sure, they could actually do it at work, but any reason for a day off is aces with me.

P.S. I hope that the gods are figuratively pissing on whoever broke into my car, giving them a nice karmic golden shower.