| (no subject) |
[Sep. 20th, 2004|12:04 pm] |
Please welcome ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) von_doom to our little community.
Because of some radical changes in my life, and because I've hated the name since I hit "save", the "Hardqore" journal is go bye-bye. I'm not going to update it any more. von_doom will be friends only. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Sep. 16th, 2004|06:56 pm] |
|
Whatever happened to the tracksuit party? Did you supercilious bastards cut me out of that? |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Sep. 14th, 2004|11:24 am] |
I haven't read the whole thing yet, but it terrifies me:
( PISCES )
I'm not ready for any of this! |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Sep. 11th, 2004|06:50 pm] |
|
Shit's very weird right now. It's too much to go into. I'll talk to you about it later, but I'm okay. Sorry I've been such a weird ass. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Sep. 3rd, 2004|02:40 pm] |
I'm feeling hinky.
Suspect.
Untrustworthy.
I feel like I could blow at any moment.
Also, I think I'm coming down with something. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Sep. 1st, 2004|04:52 pm] |
Anita emailed me. She wants me to call her. She hasn't said why. Is she getting married? Is she leaving town? Does she need something? Is something wrong?
God, I feel sick. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 31st, 2004|06:35 pm] |
|
On Sunday, Sept 19 at 2 pm, local author Ronald Gross will impersonate Socrates at the Brooklyn Public Library 2nd floor meeting room. Is this kitsch? Philopher impersonators? I think with enough ecstasy a Greek night at some nightclub could really hop. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 31st, 2004|05:30 pm] |
Bigtime mood swings. Yesterday I get home and... well, let me cast this in the form of a play.
ENTER Colin, stage left, carrying bicycle.
ENTER mean-ass LITTLE GIRL, stage right, sucking her teeth.
COLIN: Hi.
LITTLE GIRL: Watch out for the step, there's doo doo.
COLIN: What? Doo doo? Okay.
Meet cute, right? So, yesterday afternoon I am sort of scootching through all this fucked up traffic--the RNC traffic actually is not too bad, but all the drivers are very confused, sort of cowpunched--I'm scooching left to right, and bump tires with this girl who's scootching right to left. She's adorable. She's got these long brown legs, thick dark hair in braids and she's smiling and maybe maaaaybe 24:
COLIN: Hi!
(familiar, as if meeting an old pal at a prearranged place.)
GIRL: (laughs) Hello.
COLIN: Please, go ahead.
GIRL: No, you go. I'll follow you.
So she follows me out of the little taxi maze. I'm ahead of her for a while, then at one point I end up behind her. At one point I'm alongside her. Then our paths split and it occurs to me, Colin, you fucking dope! But I was, I dunno, working and I'm working on burning my bridges here. I want to. So really, whatever. But I wake up this morning in such a funk. It's the being angry. I can't sustain it at all. There's something wrong with my anger pump, like maybe a blown gasket. I get some good anger pressure and then woosh, it's gone and I'm totally demoralized. So I'm dragging my ass all day. The sun comes out and I feel a little better but still, I can't fucking stand myself. I find myself like to a bad oyster.
Yesterday morning I am riding up Washington street and I see this little old blockheaded man getting on a super-expensive titanium bicycle, like something the Terminator would extrude from his belly metal, and he looks up at me with that caught-celebrity look and it's Lou Reed. I don't has hi! I don't say, hey, we have the same birthday! what I do comes spontaneously from the depths of my punk-ass New York Reedness: I sneer. I sneered at Lou Reed. A fucking titanium bike! Gonna ride that uptown to score some smack, you old freak? |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 28th, 2004|11:07 am] |
Twelve hours of sleep has improved my outlook a bit. I recognize that I am cultivating a sour, shitkicker attitude in order to tough out this next phase of the collapse of my personality. Like, I'm getting pissed off at my friends so that they won't be a reason to stay here. (Not you, Todd & Matthew.) I'm not working hard to keep track of a certain girl so that she won't be a reason for me to stay here. Etc. And it occurs to me that there are a lot of little metallurgy shops in Long Island and, if I am living rent free, I could actually apprentice at one of same for a while. I could do art, like I gave up on doing 10 years ago under pressure of ... well, of whatever. I could get a flashy little motorcycle, like Prince used to have. I wouldn't wear all that fringe, though, I'm too butch. I am a bit worried about stuff like the cedar chest. What will happen to the cedar chest? It won't fit in my mother's car. It probably won't fit in her house. I'm afraid she'll want to throw it out. It's too fine to throw out.
I was thinking that I might adopt the nom de plume Von Doom. That would be funny, right? |
|
|
| It's okay if you don't know what I'm talking about |
[Aug. 26th, 2004|08:15 pm] |
Well, I've had it. I quit. I'm tired of snarling and moping. I'm tired of my friends feeling hurt because I won't thank them for gladhanding me and sticking me in the shit. Really, this is about teh fifth time this has happened, where I turn into some kind of asshole because I want specifics. Excuse me, but specifics are what you eat. So fuck you, I'm out.
Anyhoo. I'm trying to decide whether I should give up my apartment & throw out all my stuff & move to my mother's house for 6 months or more to write & save money, or if I should give up my apartment and throw out all my stuff and rent a room somewhere. I'm leaning toward Strong Island and no social life right now because I am consumed with rage and hatred. Probably that's what I'll do. I'll work at a hardware store or something, then move to some other city.
Matthew, I'm having trouble with the Beatnaut scripts, mostly because of all this chaos in my life. I'm not actually inclined to want to write this thing for money, unless your friend wants to line up money to pay actors with. I think it would be great if money came afterwards, but we don't know what we're doing here and if there is a money-guy we'll be sorry. I've been there before. Anyway, give me a call sometime this weekend if you want to discuss it. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 26th, 2004|07:37 pm] |
Possible title for my memoirs:
Guns and Butter
Feel free to make your own suggestions. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 24th, 2004|04:50 pm] |
You know what would be totally sweet? If one good thing would happen to me. Doesn't even have to be, like, a big thing--but it has to be bigger than anything you hosers can post to a livejournal, okay? Something related to love or money or fun. And you know what would be totally, utterly, brutally sweet? Is if when something good happens I don't completely fuck it up.
"I can't stop! I'm hysterical! I'm hysterical and wet!"
--Gene Wilder in The Producers
Anyway, things are relatively okay in that I don't live in Afghanistan or whatever. I'll probably have to give up my apartment, but who knows, that could be the beginning of the beginning, instead of the beginning of the end. I'm more concerned that George Bush is not going to be in NY for the RNC. He's going to fly in to accept his nomination then fly out again. I was counting on his presence to protect us from el terrorismo, you know. Now that it's just going to be a zillion utterly expendable Republicans I'm getting a little freaked. |
|
|
| THANK YOU, SAM RAIMI |
[Aug. 21st, 2004|12:55 pm] |
I have complained about the kids in the alley outside my window, how they scream and break things and act like little motherfuckers. But I forgive them everything because they have seen what the rest of the world has managed to miss. They have a new name for me. They have refered to me as the White Man; they have asked me straight out if I was gay; there are a couple of little boys who called me Matrix because of a pair of sunglasses I wear a lot. So, the other day I am leaving for work, carrying my bike on my shoulder which always seems to impress them, and I hear them call after me, "Spiderman! Hey, Spiderman!"
Well, naturally, I do not respond. I just pretend I didn't hear them. I feel that's how Spiderman should react. Wouldn't want to endanger them, right? If one of those little boys corners me and asks me if I am Spiderman, I'm going to pretend ignorance. "Spiderman? Who's Spiderman? No, I have no idea what you're talking about." |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 17th, 2004|01:14 pm] |
Ayo, how the fuck are you?
Tomorrow I switch from the arsehole of all messenger services, the one which makes messengers stand in the hall between calls(I was shocked to learn that no one calls them "rips"!), where I have to listen to 17-year-olds from Staten Island with delusions of criminality brag about their drug habits, and so on, to the nice uptown messenger service that will employ me full-time, possibly on a contract basis with some kind of photo-developer-type place. So that's good news. This will bring my subsistence levels up only a tiny increment, but will be much less aggravating. I have still not been paid by these motherfuckers in Stamford, can you believe this? They owe me over 2 grand now.
Maybe I should demand a computer in payment. My laptop is becoming so rickety I'm afraid to touch it, like a seashell you might find impacted in the dirt of a parking lot. I moved all the computer stuff to the other side of the room and to keep from mangling all the umbilica I disconnected everything and reconnected it in its new home--but for some reason the PC and monitor are no longer speaking. And there's the borrowed Mac, which is good for word processing, though useless for its intended purpose (image processing--the poor old G3 can't handle PhotoShop 7), but has no functioning periferals. For this reason, I won't be updating Beatnaut here, though I've done a bit of work on it. At some point I'll lug the Mac over to Williamsburg and put everything on disc, even though all the hipsters mock my loyalty to discs.
I may have another freelance illustrating gig on the horizon; I have an opportunity to try out for one, anyway. It may be way more than I can handle, professionalism-wise and skill-wise. Anjali still has not contacted me. Matthew, did you tell her I said she has a big ass?
Everything else is okay. I'm loooooonely. I'm reading several goodish books, but nothing soul-shattering. I don't miss Barbelith at all. Flipping through the back of the Village Voice, it occured to me that not all of those pictures of shemales are actually shemales. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 13th, 2004|03:59 pm] |
I suddenly remembered a vow -- it was quite solemn -- I made several years ago and subsequently ignored. I had vowed to feel less contempt for people. I mean, it runs my life, more or less! My name is Colin and I am a contempt addict. I enjoy contempt for guys who ride their bikes faster than I do, because they are obviously showing off to mask their terrible insecurities; and guys who are slower than me because they must be lazy or weak; and guys going roughly the same speed as me because they are always in the fucking way. I have allowed my insatiable lust for contempt sour countless lovely evenings in nightclubs and watering holes. I am contemptuous of whole area codes. 617--ridiculous!
I vowed to ween myself of this unholy thirst, I remember, after ending a particularly poisonous relationship with Molly, one of the most hateful women I've ever met. But then I began to date Anita, who enjoys contempt as much as I do--or she did, anyway. I don't know what she enjoys these days, I guess. It was something we shared, though, the way we could communicate our contempt for the manners and folkways around us almost subliminally, with body language. I don't think she ever felt contempt for me, except maybe that time I let the plumber blow me in the store room...
Wait, no. That was David Fisher, not me. Dammit!
Anyway. I backslid forreals. I should probably think aobut renewing that vow, maybe with some kind of ceremony this time. Now listen, I have a very important question to ask you:
Is it possible to sympathize with yourself? |
|
|
| I WANT TO CRY |
[Aug. 10th, 2004|12:27 pm] |
Okay, so, I meet this woman at a birthday party who has something to do with galleries. She says she thinks she can sell my drawings. She asks me to email her some jpgs. Okay, sweet.
Well, yeah, but my image docs are all in .TIF format on a computer too feeble to handle them, plus I have no transportable media capable of carrying them from one semi-functional machine to another. So I finally manage to get to Chris' house--at 10 Monday night, on my bike--to borrow tome on his superior macs, and he agrees to bring my 2 megs of b&w imagery to Stamford on a zip disc and email them to me, so I can forward them to said nice art lady.
Swell!
And now I can't make yahoo forward the fucking images. It strips attachments.
I can't save the fucking things to some photo site because I can't save them to the library computers and can't load them out of the yahoo inbox.
Who have I become? What kind of fucking life is this? Where is my rifle and clocktower? Why can't I just go live under a bridge? When do I get my mouthful of raw liver? How does everyone else manage? |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
