Max's Journal
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Tuesday, August 31, 2004
12:37AM
Let me clarify: I don't know if I'm making a difference, either in my life, or anyone else's. Even my diatribes are apolitical, uninteresting, and self-loathing. Not to mention undiatribal.
Monday, August 30, 2004
9:43PM
Even now, at 9:35PM, my arms and eyes and brain are heavy, almost too heavy to type. I keep making typos and my word choice is, well, less than. My writing lacks confidence during my fatigue. It starts somewhere, then immediately jumps topic. One second I'm thinking how I sometimes have really bad thoughts, like how I'm sometimes left out of a group at work, like how life is really difficult, how little I think during the day, how unfunny I am, etc etc.
Just now, Chris walked into the room (his, I don't have a moniter yet). When he asked me what I was doing he said, "Oh is this your live journal? I've never been to that site." I copied and pasted what I wrote up above and erased it. I mean, it's kind of embarrassing, huh? I guess I'm feeling kind of sad about my writing as of late. Like I didn't want him (Chris) to see my shitty MTV books style whining, because Chris would not appreciate it nor would anyone I know really, nor should they. Though, I rather think it's quite influenced by fatigue, don't you think? It's lugubrious and aimless. But do I wan't to write muggy stories, stories so thick that no one can understand them, or on the likely case they do (I'm not a very complex person. I drink coffee, am a vegetarian, smoke cigarettes, like music, get fucked up sometimes, am really shy, think about dumb shit), they think, man, that guy thinks too much about dumb shit?
Matt just came in Chris' room and handed me a bowl of steaming Spanish rice. He left but burst in again, with a slice of fresh Key Foods red pepper soaking into a paper towel tray.
"Sorry, I forgot this, dude," he says, "Presentation is everything." I put the pepper on the rice. It looks like a flower, red Pepper resting on a pillow of reddish Yellow rice.
NO! I don't want to write boring aimless crap that no one wants to read. I want to write the story of the boy who's parents taught him to communicate with music only and his eventual wordless entry into society. I want to write the story of the humorless record store clerk (already done, unfortunately). I want to write a fantastic science fiction book about a relevent sociological issue like the changing modes of entertainment and pleasure (what will beer be like in the future? According to my friend Larry, really amazing), or the future of America (drunk on the intoxicating free trade agreement, the US eats up Mexico and then Canada, and then on to the world).
Nah, I know nothing about music or society or humor or the future or even politics. I know waking up, going to work, having small victories and losses each day, going home exhausted out of my mind, smoking a little pot with Chris and Matt, drinking a couple beers at work sometimes, usually enough to make me very hung over the next day at work, which makes my already langourous work feel like death or something very close to it).
I escape into myself, away from others, whenever I'm forced into a new situation. My parents and my sister are all well-like by the people in their lives. I feel a bit lonely. I am living in America and I am complaining. I am eating a bowl of rice, and I am complaining. No matter what I say, it still feels like a complaint. But, even that seems like a complaint.
I think about a lot of things during the day, hear a lot of things from cool coworkers, hear funny jokes, see people do crazy things, have air conditioning at work, have great roommates who make good food, am able to communicate online due to the internet. I don't think a lot of interesting thoughts, though, and that worries me. To write I must have interesting views, points, or at least an avid imagination. I sometimes wonder if I'm up to it, if I'm ever going to succeed. My expectations are still prolific novelist high, but I'm thinking about lowering them to sad 30-something fat man in the countryside, watching the northern lights while smoking a joint rocking on a porchswing. Do people still drop out? How far does one drop out to? I still have to have friends, right? And I still have to care about stuff, right? My arms are a little less tired now and my belly is full. My roommates have bought pot and are watching the GOP National Convention. I hear cheering, and my roommates girlfriend says, "That's so fucked up!"
"Four more years," the TV crowd chants back.
There I've done it, written for 47 minutes and said nothing interesting.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
my new job is the best job ever.
today i just played office, but office at my new work is fun!
wrote down prince paul's, lil jon's phone number into a computer and watched a reggae dvd, then researched beer while drinking one that cowporker bought. also, listened to black sabbath. it's a great day!
Friday, August 20, 2004
12:13PM
gospel in the air, clap calpcalpclapclapclap oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! he is soo good! clap clap! think yourself he is goo! he is great! he he he he! clap clap clap! he is sooooooooooooo good! he is so goooooo-oooood! he is so good! clap clap clap! oooooooo-wooooooo whooa! i want you to kjnow! he is so good! stickin with my baby! jesus! soo sosooo good!
Thursday, August 19, 2004
11:25AM
i woke at 11 today. maybe i'll gt bagel. no work is good feeling. my new roommate has a cat. morris. i say, morrissey. they say, no! morris! morrissy sometimes eats things from bags. i used to think, "cats are gay, officailly." but now i think "awww."
1:36AM
my gernal:
there is a girl that works in the same company as me. bad kitty. sorry for the interruption, my roommate's cat's head is in a bag eating something and crinkling stuff. so, as i was saying, there's a girl who works at the other store (there're two stores, the cool punk one "generation" and the shitty bruce boots one [where i work] "bleeker st.") so this girl is fucking gorgeous. and to make matters worse, we get along. i think. i don't know how to read this fucking bullshit. she prolly thinks i'm just another fucking dipshit after her gash. and if i take a step back from myself for a moment, i am. i mean, to me i'm not, but i guess all dudes are just other dudes to some other dude.
i hung with her today, and we talked about the bronx and how shitty it is, and how the black high school kids in her neighborhood harass her for being white and not having...well, an ass. i laughed and reassured her that she has an ass. she's super nice, and fuck it if i ain't smitten.
only one forseeable problem: she's punk and i ain't. let me give you an example. we were quizzing eachother in the store today about where cds get filed ie what sideprojects go under what principle one. for instance, the voidoids go under television, dntel goes under death cab for cutie (i know i know, it's indirect, but who gives a fuck really about either of those bands anyway), nico goes under the velvet underground, etc...that's the easy shit. we were really grilling eachother today. like "where does high on fire go?" "SLEEP!" (it's actually vice versa at our store, the preferential way, in my opinion). or "where does mastadon go?" "TODAY IS THE DAY!" "you're turn." "where does jack bruce go?" "ERIC CLAPTON!" etc etc etc. you get the drift.
but the thing is, this girl, she knows her shit. someone else, "where does zombie apocolypse go?" me, "who?" her, "SHAI HALUD!" me "what the fuck?"
she did another rediculous one too.
on the flip side i knew where fucking lame-ass indie rock bands go ("RMSN?" Me, "Shipping News!")
i suck compared to her. i want tattoos NOW! body piercings! a troubled youth!
another foot of height! 150 pounds of muscle!
now that i think about it, i'm screwed. how come the girls i get crushes on turn out to be completely insane, completely lez, or completely riddled with jesus.
i'm fucked.
fucked fucked fucked fucked fucked fucked fucked.
shai halud.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
He kills maybe one out of five cockroaches that he could. And that one he lets run around for a minute, letting it frolic on the kitchen floor one last time. Palmetto bugs cling to the windows, some taking flight and trying to enter the house but those that do bounce off the screen windows with a sound like the bedsprings of a bed being jumped on, those screen windows put up in the spring, replaced with storm windows in the fall. He likes putting up the seasonal windows, getting up on the ladder and hammering happily away at the casing. A wave of danger can come across him if he shifts on the ladder wrong, and this feeling reminds him of the days when he wasn't so boring, the days when hammering windows wasn't the most dangerous activity of the day, no matter what day it was. Now, schlepping around town was an effort, let alone partying all night with friends.
He flips on the light in the bathroom and sees a roach run for cover under the wastebasket. He wishes that he let the roaches go out of compassion, but in reality, he lets them go because of apathy. He puts up storm windows because he has to, or rather, it's such in his carpenter-by-trade nature to do so, that it doesn't feel like effort. He's done it for 40 years. But the roaches, he feels no need anymore to eradicate them. He doesn't care about them, doesn't think about them having little roach faces, or being roach grandmothers. He doesn't care about the roaches, or the deer that bound across his lawn, or the mother who just moved in next door in the house across the valley. He mows the lawn, fixes his welding arc, takes a nap in front of the football game, but he doesn't care.
A droning sound surrounds him, a mixture of palmetto bugs and the dense quiet of the countryside. Just having watched the roach crawl under the wastebasket, he sits down on the toilet to expunge his meal. He reads the local newspaper, but none of it makes any sense to him. A cow was killed with a sledgehammer on Tuesday night. A rival farmer was suspected. He thinks how much effort it would be to lift a sledgehammer to a cow's head. He wonders why anyone would go through the trouble. He finishes with the toilet and goes to his workshop to make a sundial.
Monday, August 16, 2004
12:06AM
the birth:
he stepped out of the car, bib and all, the car representing a womb, cold and in disrepair, cold from air conditioning, cold from a cold front coming in from the midwest, where he was born and raised on corn and midwestern aphorisms like the ones canonized by the coen brothers in their movie fargo, where twilight strikes twice and tungsten bubbles from the earth, where you can't get blood from a turnip, where swing state nonsense boils every four years, and sides are taken, and neighbors hate eachother because they cut their grass a little shorter than usual, and the great lakes reach into backyards, stretching just a little more, like the cold tongue of an inexperienced kissed (undoubtably male) working its way into the great carved ceiling of the mouth, where the split in facial symmetry creates a fissure where tongues are not supposed to go lest they can stomach the gag reflex it causes, for if their's one thing more sickening than being sick all over the first girl you've ever kissed it's getting sick all over her on her 13th birthday, when you've just given her a comic book, a tattered superhero number that you've been reading your whole life, this being before you realized that the things you love and cherish and hide away under your bed aren't always the things your peers, let alone your potential lovers will appreciate in the same way you do, like coen brothers' movies for instance, or staying in and spending time alone on a soft couch just the two of you together, or on the other side of the coin, the thrill of going out dancing, drinking a little too much, not so much you get sick, but so much the conversation is lubricated if not downright loud and broadcasted to the other passengers on the train heading home--no, they care what you have to say about the bartender. he emerges from the car, bib and all, the car representing the womb. the doctor turns him over and slaps him on the ass, and as if that were just the kick in the ass he needed, he starts to cry, and then, before you know it, he is in a business suit, with business cards, and the car is no longer a womb.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
2:37AM
my ex-wisdom-teeth-hole hurt cause rain!
old man on a porch like.
i wish to be old man and dead
suicide by aidS!
2:33AM
this is decdicated to mieko
i love you mieko
even though we have never met
i think about furballs
even though you are a cat
and we've never met
can we get together sometime?
you can prr on me for 1 hour
or 2 if you feel like it
but don't eat leaves!
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
11:27AM
Sometimes when I pee, I leave a few drops for my pants. It's not like on purpose or anything.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
11:48PM - 2
2 good foreign movies:
spring summer fall winter...spring (korea)
bon voyage (franch)
2 things that go good together in curry, though you wouldn't know it unless you made it yrself:
avocado and aubergines
2 things that come out of butt in prison:
soap
blood
2 legs:
right
left
2 board games:
monopoly and life
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Sloan - Pillow Fight
Aisler's Set - Clouds Will Clear
Okkervil River - Satisfy You
Godzuki - 12 inch dance mix (it's on a 7" i swear!)
-
Elliot Smith and Pete Krebs - Shytown
Silkworm - Couldn't You Wait? (Marco Collins Sessions)
ISAN - My Soaring Heart
The Sensualists - When the Animals are Calm
-
The Apricots - Everyday (Holly cover)
Beanpole - Things Turn Out Okay
Nerdy Girl - Horse
The Iditarod - Children Three/The Fat Lady of Limbourg (Eno cover)
-
Damon and Naomi and Batoh and Kurihara - It's All Over Now, Baby Blue
Swirlies - His Love Just Washed Away (4trk version)
Fourtet - Both When I Am Alone and We Both Are
Monotract - Racing/La La La
-
Neutral Milk Hotel - Engine
Blue Period - Brilliant Machines/Who the Hell are the Strokes?
The How - Dreaming of Lily
International House of Karen - Tell Me Momma (Patty Duke cover)
Rose Melberg - I Love How You Love Me (Patty Duke cover)
-
The Pines - Fields in Spain
My Favorite - Working Class Jacket
8-track Gorilla - Wild and Peaceful
Naysay - Same Old Song
Tummybug - Science Fiction
Bunnygrunt - I Mock You with My Monkey Pants
-
Team Forest - Home
The Softies - Hey Hey Girl (Rocketship cover)
Mac Dare - Where Did All the Preppy Girls Go?
Park - Name on Container
-
end.
reasons why i shouldn't end it all:
*find out the ending to a day in the life of ivan denisovich by solzhenitsyin (or however you spell that fucker's name).
*hope to look at cute asian girl in p.r. department again.
*quintron show on 7/1.
*the chronicles of riddick bowe: a boxing oddysey.
*madTV. madTV. madTV.
*i would never have gotten to go to a bullfight with sedaris, or fuck hemingway in the ass.
*www.boytaur.net
*i don't want juan to get my mint copy of the los angeles negros classic album "y volvere"
*jack benny.
reasons why i SHOULD off myself:
*nagging canker sore.
*lack of interesting anecdotes about celebrities or television or wrestling or weiners.
*i'm in a band. by default that makes me prime suspect number one in the murder of me.
*lockjaw scares me silly. i don't wanna get it so i should play it safe and put a bullet up my nose.
*i'm jobless and soon to be homeless and even sooner than that to be wisdom toothless.
*i just ate a burrito.
please vote now.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
I just drove 6 hours to miami. listend to soundbombing 2, ghostface killah, raekwon, nagisa ni te, the double, old sloan, old flaming lips, lazer boys.
argued about who is better, storkes or plazmaz.
went to waffle house.
Lazer Boys are "better".
ate the big meal, and decided Destiny's Child and waffle house songs are better.
Also, had no trouble with the law. Miraculously?
Now i am safe and sound in Lazer Ridge, a beatuful gated cummunity outside miami.
If you are in miami, come to Pop Life on 6.12.04.
Tour!
Tuesday, June 8, 2004
7:26PM
i have nothing to do.
12:53PM
should be at work
12:51PM
should be doing something else
Friday, June 4, 2004
10:52PM
i have a hot pan waiting for me to put tortillas on it right now so i will be brief; life is gay.
Thursday, June 3, 2004
5:08PM
It has been roughly three days since I have done anything whatever. I read a book, dropped Bret Boone from my fantasy baseball team, had sex 7 times and returned some DVDs to the library. So, I guess I've done some stuff, but not anything worthwile, useful, pertinent. I'm moving to New York City in almost exactly one month and I am far from prepared. I need a job, an apartment, my wisdom teeth removed. I need to cancel my cable, sell 50% of my record collection at a painful discount to what they are actually worth, and collect my checks from a job that turned out to be painfully worth less than I actually worked.
I read by natural light today when our power went out. There was a severe thunder storm in Tallahassee that knocked out power at my bank. My milk spoiled, I think. Maybe I'll drink it anyway. I really only use milk in coffee, and then only sparingly. Maybe I won't have spoilt milk bubbles foaming heatedly in my stomach acids. The storm knocked out not only our power, but Thomasville Road and Meridian Road. Cops were everywhere. Juan told me it was a tornado.
I'm running out of money. I paid my rent yesterday. I have to pay rent for the rest of my life. I have to pay car insurance, health insurance, and utilities. The rest of my life. Until I die, I will grudgingly fork over my money that I worked for to pay for things I don't need, don't want, can't use correctly anyway. I need to buy contact lenses until I die or go blind, whichever comes first. I need to buy soap and toilet paper and deodorant and wallets and dog food and wrapping paper and tweezers. I'm running out of money.
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