Haps

There will be more poetry and more early mornings in my life this summer.  That's a goal.

Practice

Forgive any melodrama.  I'm trying to get back into steady writing. Hope everyone is well.

George

That's the name of the street I'm headed for up there.

It's where my barbershop is and it's about a forty minute bus ride. I could have waited; my roommate Sam is headed there later, and he has a car. But hey, I like  the commute.

When I'm on the bus, or the EL or walking in a crowd down Michigan avenue, I'm in the city. There's St. Matthias' over there, wishing me a happy spring with a razor-toothed fence and a touch of green bordering its parking lot. That girl, the one who stopped me to tell me she liked my shirt, we had a ten second love affair that played out the way most of my relationships do;  she walked away first. The trees are budding and I walked to the bus through alternating pot smoked dubstep and curried classical.

I live in this city now but I'm not quite here yet. The dual language signs are inclusive but I'm not included. I'm still just passing.

But I'm still in the city right?

No one else updates; I will

Most of my writing in this blog lately has been on my smartphone. I joined the future back in October, my move to the big city a convenient excuse to snag a piece of technology that I'd been avoiding.

Because of this blogging on the move I hadn't seen the list of friends' blogs recently. And when I logged in tonight to write this, I saw that the most recent update from any of them was five months ago.

I'd say unacceptable but I feel that might be a little bit hypocritical. I'm not exactly timely myself. But this is, once again, an "I promise to get better" post.

Things have been a little hectic. The internship, two jobs, and a lack of funds create a space that isn't really the most motivational for me. I miss my dog and I stress about other people's lives. About things that are so unlikely to come to pass that they might as well be the stuff of Victorian melodrama.

But there are positives too.

Today for example. I held the door for an old man. A girl with a smile in her eyes let it spread to her lips. I did yoga for the first time in a month and felt my heart nearly slip into that old comfortable place.

You just have to sit down and look around. The winter isn't really so bad. And that's a star up there.

The healing benefit of a lonesome drink

My dog passed last week.

It wasn't a sudden or unexpected thing. She had been sick for a while and had recently suffered a second stroke, part of a series which, the vet said, would continue. Further debilitation each time. My parents made the difficult decision. A trip to the vet. A bed on the floor. An embrace as she was given the shot. She went to sleep. She stopped breathing.

I was a day too late to say goodbye.

So now, less than a week later, I'm sitting alone in one of my favorite bars, nursing the first of two beers I've decided I can afford. I'm drinking alone, which I honestly prefer. I'm hoisting them to the memory of Star.

To the memory of a little puppy asleep in her food dish.

To a dog tearing across a snowpacked field, a winter glove in her mouth.

To a girl who wasn't afraid of ponies or fireworks or thunder.

To someone to whom food was always a gourmet experience, no matter that it was the same dish, day-in-and-out.

To a dog that would avoid barking, who flapped her ears to let you know what she wanted,  and wore any clothes with no complaint.

To a nose that would face into the wind for hours.

To Star. I love you.  Sleep well.

Fairytale

There is something about listening to the Pogues and making the first Christmas day steps in the big city snow.

Up

Look up sometimes. Your world and mind are only as earthbound as you let them be.

Nature walk

City wildlife can be pretty. I saw a pigeon with purple and green markings this morning. Pretty.

Then I saw another pigeon being eaten by a rat roughly the size of a Volkswagen.

The City, my friends.

Notes on the murder of a Celebrity: An obituary for 832F

She was in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time. A single bullet, fired from a high velocity weapon, closed her eyes forever.

Her friends are drifting apart. Her children are without their mother. Her fans are distraught; she had been an inspiration.

Her name was 832F and she was killed because she was a wolf.

Train walk

Since moving to the city, I've lost about ten pounds. Fat and alcohol, a bit of it  melancholy cut out like the biblical lump of flesh. Most of it is from my increasingly active lifestyle; I'm running more and when I go most places, I walk there. My stride is lengthening, shatterstomps from hobnails on the sidewalk.

That part of it is also my trips on the train.

That's where I'm writing this from now, an EL car that was tagged by a particularly ineffectual artist. The red line is in its midday lull, seeming to crawl along, with no regard for schedule, hope or raging: we'll get there when we get there.

The train seems sedentary. A place for my ass to flatten out, nothing else.

After I post this, when you're reading it and thinking 'Jesus, is he ever going to grow past trying to be a beat cum gonzo prick?,' I'll look around at my fellow passengers. They're inspiring.

In Michigan, we sit in our separate cars, eye contact a faux pas or a threat. We don't want to make any sort of human contact in our commute. Chicago? We can't help it.

I revel in that.

I walk to the train every day and crave that raw human interaction. I might tell myself I'm speedwalking because I'm late for work. But the commute is just there, a city bottlenecked in a train car. We don't smile. We avoid the beggars and shame grows in our heads. But we are all still there and living in a communal shared space. We're a big sweating, newspaper reading, passed out, vomiting, sightseeing snake and I love it.

Cetaceans

This is just a quick post, not really writing, but about dream fulfillment that occurred on Saturday.

Yes, my friends, on Saturday I got to pet a dolphin.

Awesome.

Why it doesn't pay to sit around spontaneously hoping to become the next Hunter S. Thompson. Or, being poor sucks.

I'm not writing this while drinking liquor. There is a glass of water close by my right hand.

I don't have a gun shoved in the band of my underwear, a cigarette holder perched on my lower lip, or various prescription drug containers scattered around my study.

I do however, have a betta named Shiranui who I'm pretty sure is high right now.

Since moving to Chicago nearly two months ago, I've had a lot of experiences. I've dated some women. I've drank a fair amount. I've found a retail job. I've worked steadily at my internship with a music magazine.

All fun stuff.

I've also had expectations. I'd find a relationship. I'd work enough to support myself. I'd swiftly become rich and famous through my pithy words.

These, or rather, the dashing of these, have been less fun.

I'm not saying that my job isn't great, or the women I've met aren't wonderful people. It is, and they are. But hedonism isn't a job anymore. Never really could be in the twentieth century. As much as I'd like to, I can't make a career out of turning cartwheels and writing about what a pathetic fuck Mitt Romney was (I say was because I'm pretty sure we'll never hear about him again, except when Obama invites him to a pity-lunch and then serves white turkey soup. No joke.)

So how am I fixing this?

I'm still going to swear a lot. That's not changing. And I'm still going to use onomatopoeia in my writing. 'Splortch' and 'pew' are just too much fun to write in that context.

But what I'm also going to do is, well, write.

I've fallen off the map in recent months. And every now and then I come out with a post like this saying, "I am totally getting back on the writing wagon." Then along comes some distraction, whether it be alcohol or a new and fascinating young lady.

No more. Boobs and beer is great, but unless you're the CEO of Hooters, they don't pay the bills. (NOTE: I am so, so sorry for the misogyny in that previous sentence. I considered not typing it, but it was sort of a perfect storm of awful.)

I'm writing now. I'm writing more. You'll be hearing from me a lot in the future.

So no "Buy the ticket, take the ride," as Mr. Thompson would say. More "Please will you take a free ticket and maybe consider looking at the ride for five seconds?"

I'm here. Let's go.

Can't stay here

Walking into a bookstore today was surprisingly crushing. All familiar new releases gone. Shiny titles I don't recognize at the front of the store. Like walking into your favourite bar 30 years later to find all your friends have died.

Where are my friends?

Twaddle, post-porn style

We are in an age of pornographic excess.

Now, that is not a bad thing, not really. Granted, sexuality as depicted in that light often isn't healthy, but there is also a sex positive space being created. We aren't as ashamed of our bodies as we used to be. The tree of knowledge, to put it crudely, can suck it.

Our lifestyle is keeping pace with this too. Slut-shaming is getting the exposure and derision that such a stupid practice deserves. We, men and women both, are in celebration of our sexuality and that, along with such things as advancement in civil rights, science and a general opening of the world are indicative, I feel, of the coming of a better future.

If you read that last run-on sentence and are thinking "The point, Lincoln?", well, I don't really have one. I've been hanging out with amazing people lately, who just happen to work in sex-based industry, and their candor is refreshing. I wanted to write, that was on my mind, and there we go.

Now go watch a dirty video.

Cloud Atlas: An epic page to screen adaptation?

Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell, is probably one of the best books that I've read in the last few years. Truly deserving of the word epic, it's made up of intertwining storylines that span millenia, with fascinating and flawed characters. It is proof that people who use the word "genre" as a disparaging term have no idea what the fuck they're on about.

And it's being turned into a film.

When first announced, the response was general outcry. No one believed that the unique and original material could be treated well on the silver screen. How can something that relies so much on sequencing, nuance and slow-building context be translated into a film of two and a half hours? Who would play the characters? How do you handle the world building on something like this?

Judging by the first trailer, pretty damn well.

Written and directed by the Wachowskis along with Run, Lola, Run director Tom Tykwer, Cloud Atlas is hitting in October. Hold onto your butts.

Sexual abusers should be known by their names

Savannah Dietrich, who was facing jail time for naming her two rapists on Twitter, has had the charges against her dropped.

Her rapists, Austin Zehnder and Will Frey, are still scumbags.

Some thoughts on the Aurora, Colorado shooting

My deepest condolences and best thoughts go out to all of the victims and their families after last night's Aurora, Colorado shooting. This morning, reading the news on the matter, I noticed a disturbing trend.

Last night, at a midnight screening of The Dark Knight Rises, a gunman dressed in body armor, a riot helmet and a gas mask opened fire on a crowded theater. Twelve people died and many more were injured. It's a horrible tragedy at an event that was meant to be a source of fun and entertainment.

Today, politics has been injected. ABC incorrectly assumed the shooter was a Tea Party member based on his name. Representative Louie Gohmert (R-TX) blamed the shooting on 'attacks on Judeo-Christian beliefs.' An innocent tweet sent by the NRA when they were unaware of the crisis led to outcry and Breitbart.com automatically assumed the shooter was a registered Democrat.

Why are we at this point?

As The Onion pointed out today, this country, one of the greatest on Earth, has gotten used to these crises. Sickly, there is at least one mass shooting a year. On some level, we're innoculated against the shock and outrage that comes with them.

But why the FUCK does that make it ok to do this?

Twelve people died last night. Twelve. Many more are in the hospital in critical condition. The shooter's apartment is booby-trapped and rigged to blow, with the very real possibility of more death and destruction.

And we sit back and snipe at each other over the shit we disagree on?

How dare you.

How dare you turn this crisis, the deaths of innocent people, into something that you can exploit. How dare you say what they would have wanted. How dare you shit on their lives and their memories in this manner. This is nothing but disingenuous, disgusting self-serving fuckery.

I don't care who you are. The NRA. The Democrats. The Republicans. The Tea Party. Occupy Wall Street. The News. The Blogs.

Do you people really want to be the ones who tried to build their own legacy on a foundation of corpses?

If so, fuck you, and may I be the first to worry that the United States is well and truly fucked.

Earworms

What constitutes a good earworm? Is it just a catchy song? Is it shit, but you don't want to admit it's shit? Is it an actual disease (see China Mieville's short story 'Entry taken from a Medical Encyclopedia')?

When a normal song plays, there are a few typical reactions.
1. You hear the song, you listen to a few bars, you turn it off because you hate it.
2. You hear the song, dig it, and find out what it's called so you can listen to it again later.
3. You hear the song, but it's just noise.

With an earworm, that song, even if it's initially just noise, stays with you.

You might be sitting down, typing, when I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby it just comes back to you and you don't even notice it. Then later, don't say maybe it comes forward, and you realize that particular song has been playing over and over inside your head.

From here, she doesn't know what she's you have a couple different options. You can try to "trump" the earworm, coming up with a song that's catchier, more affecting, yet simultaneously easier to shake than the previous one. With particular earworms, this might be hard to do, as they listen to Iron Maiden with me are top trumps themselves. It can be difficult to find something easy to shake.

A more common method is to just share the earworm. Infinitely more satisfying, though not to be tried by the faint of she doesn't know who I am, causei'mjustateenagedirtbagbabyheart.

Comic Con, why don't you love me?

I don't ask for much, Comic Con. I really don't.

Once a year, you visit the beautiful city of San Diego. You set up in the convention center, lay out sexy, sexy tables, hang spectacular art and fill with amazing people and things. You fill halls with chairs, catering specifically to the needs of nerd and sundry.

All I ask is that, once a year, I'm allowed to be inside you.

This summer, the summer of 2012, my 27th summer on planet Earth (or Gaia or Earth-1, or more accurately, Post-Crisis Earth), you once again cockblocked me.

I'm hurt.

It's not just all of the amazing events that took place in you. I mean, Neil Gaiman announces a new Sandman prequel, the first Man of Steel footage is debuted, 12 minutes(!) of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey is shown, Hall H continues its saga of amazing...I mean, this alone would be enough to get upset about.

I suppose what I'm really mad about is that I contributed to this myself. I haven't been loyal to you.

Sure, I talk a big game, but when it comes down to it, what am I doing? Spending money on the Steam sale. Humming along to my latest earworm (more on that in a bit). Coasting.

So here, Comic Con, I'll make you a promise.

By this time next year, we'll finally have climaxed our relationship. Hopefully to mutual satisfaction. I'll be in a place in my life where I can come and spend four days with you, just you and me (and thousands of other guests). I will be independent. I will be strong. And I'll still be a nerd.

Because you know I'll always love you baby.

Moon on the Boat

Since the boat sank, the two of us had been stuck here. We didn't have anything but the one paddle, and a map that wasn't any good. Neither of us could read the stars, the GPS had gone down with the boat, and when we sank, there wasn't land in any direction. I told Amy that I'm sure things would be ok. As the days went on, I got less and less sure of that.
I had at least had time to grab my backpack. Full contents? Two bottles of water, three granola bars, a flashlight and my jacket. Useful in a small way, but the rationing was getting to both of us and honestly, I wasn't sure how much longer we could last.

The moon was full.

It landed at the tip of the lifeboat, above where Amy was curled in sleep. I felt more than saw it that first night. Above Amy's head, there was just a darkness in the night sky, a void you didn't notice until you realized no stars were showing through it.

It faded in the morning light.

That was the day we caught our first fish. It was luck really, a fish jumping and landing in the raft, me having the presence of mind to reach out and grab it. We ate well, leaving just the tail and head. I had planned to throw them overboard, but Amy said they might attract sharks. We tucked them under my backpack at the front of the boat. I woke up from a nap at midnight and they were gone. It was back.

It was more distinct this time, a shining glow noticeable where eyes would be located, its indistinct blackness supported by two sharp talons. They gripped the edge and shifted now and then, as though the waves threw off its balance. It was a moment before I realized that it was staring back at me. I watched as fish bones dropped from where its mouth would be, accompanied by a sound like glass ground underfoot.

When I woke up, I had no recollection of falling asleep. Amy was relaxing against the bow, which was clear of talons and staring eyes, shifting darkness gone in the light of morning. She smiled and pointed out the overcast sky.

Within an hour, it was raining. We let the water collect in the bottom of the boat, tied my jacket into a bowl, reopened the water bottles, gathering as much of the liquid as we could. We drank well that day, aware that it would quickly evaporate, leaving us to once again suffer when the clouds disappeared.

I sat up that night, after Amy fell asleep. I knew it would return, and yes, with the rise of the moon, it landed. I could tell it was an owl now, the horned feathers shifting in the breeze, the yellow globes of its eyes staring with an intensity only achievable by birds of prey. I tossed it the fish heads, tails again, and watched as it snapped each out of the air. I'm aware now that fish aren't the typical food for an owl, but at that moment, in that situation, I accepted it. It was a chunk of living darkness, faint hints of silver outlining individual feathers.

Amy stirred in her sleep and it spread its wings, disappearing quickly into the night. I didn't sleep very well.

The next days were bad. The sky clouded over and we were lashed with rain. While we took the opportunity to collect potable water, we found that the high winds had tainted it, splashing salt into our bottles. We were sick and huddled together, just trying to ride this out. No fish landed in our boat.

I woke up and the night was clear, devoid of anything resembling light. A few stars appeared here and there, but there was no sign of the moon, a void hanging above us. I realized how long we had been out here now. New moon.

There was a hoot.

The owl was on the bow of the boat again, head tipped to the side as it examined our huddled forms. Amy was in my arms, crying herself through a fever, and it stared at her. Hooted again. Took off, circled, landed. Hooted. Flapped directly upwards from our boat, hooting as it disappeared.

An answering hoot off our right side.

Not a hoot. A honk.

The searchers said they'd been looking for us for days. They'd planned to give up after that night, figured we'd been gone so long that there was no way we were still alive. But as they had turned around, they'd spotted us in the moonlight.

But it was a new moon, I said

They looked at me and pointed up. The moon was low in the sky, full and shining, like a spotlight directly above our little boat.