Post from the past

I wrote and saved this in November of last year and just read it today. Then I think about what a difference six months makes:

This will come across as incredibly cynical, perhaps rightfully so, but there isn't a modecum of self-pity involved. I have no dreams. I don't aspire to be a rockstar or an author or to have fame or glory or anything (anymore).

For the longest time I've struggled vehemently with what it is I want to do with my life. But I recently arrived at the realization that you don't always have to have dreams or lofty ambitions. What's so bad about being content with existence, with discovering value in menutia (deemed such by our culture).

I still love music. I love imbibing it and hopefully one day crafting it. But I'm not going to flagellate myself anymore for a misspent youth devoid of honing skills that I wish I now had.

My relocation bug is recharged. The substantive things keeping me here are kindred friends that barely constitute a handful (if you have to ask...) and of course the comfort of familiarity (which is supposed to breed contempt? What the fuck?). Point being, I'm stagnating. Once I thought I was destined for great things. Not that long ago, actually. But now I'm just aging, seemingly the only talent I've mastered during my tenure with the mortal coil. And it's noone's fault but my own, yet exacting change seems to be some herculean task for me.

But I sit here in this freezing aparment with my wine and my cat and wonder about the existence of this internal conflict. What am I clinging to? I want to give my possessions away (scavenger bells resound in the heads of my readers). I want bare walls. I want to be surrounded by art and books and music and all that is not this, and to be attached to nothing. And listen to my sad-sac soundtrack of 2006.

I don't want to feign joviality around people (especailly family), a relatively timid pain compared to "airing" grievances to which they proffer their simple solutions.

Religious Dyslexicon

How rad* would it be if dyslexia were actually called drawkcab? Or Backwords?

I've always felt uncomfortable capitalizing "God" or even using the word "God" so I always just use "dog" in lieu. Somehow citing the concept dyslexically** seems ambivalent with regard to religious denomination.

Organized religion confounds everything. EVERY thing. I don't remember who came up with the metaphor of Christians trampling each other to death for a better look at Jesus dying on the cross to illustrate modern organized religion, but I think it's poignant.

My golden dog is my little laughing Buddha that Anna gave me (it is literally golden). I prefer the symbolic representation of my life's philosophy*** be a laughing chubby guy sitting down in a comfortable robe than an emaciated, bloody, tortured soul (albeit an heroic one who I esteem immensely as a person) nailed to a telephone pole. It's such an acerbic icon.

Why not portray a smiling Jesus, hugging a poor child or embracing a sick person? It's as if the intent of the crucifix is to intimidate people into believing instead of inspiring them to. The fire-and-brimston Jonathan Edwards crap is just textbook terrorism.

*I'm dusting off the word "rad." I'm bringing it back baby.

**Another word I've invented. Add it to "ignorami" (plural of "ignoramus"). It's a very useful word when discussing the South and/or politics.

***Buddhism is not a religion to me. I don't have a religion. Gleaning the positive aspects of Buddhism, and many religions, compromise my "life philosophy." It just works for me.

The Arcade Fire

Neon Bible (2007)


I can't over-emphasize how much I love this album. It may be my favorite of the year so far, even over the new Of Montreal.

Relocation Chronicle: 5 days left

Yesterday I sold my gargantuan television and actually managed to get it down the stairs thanks in large part to Tiffany's boyfriend Mike. Many, many thanks senor. Also, and this may be a moot point in today's age of flat-panel everythings, but I will NEVER acquire another CRT television or monitor in my life. I have my small 13" bedside set, but that's the limit.

I'm having Goodwill pickup my mattresses on Thursday. I ordered a brand new Sealy queen-size bed which will be delivered to my new apartment during the early evening on the day I fly into NY. I got a pretty good deal on it (look at me, Jewing up already!).

So now all I've really got to do is ship out my two large boxes of crap (not really crap -- my computers, sound system, clothes) and I"ll be good to go.

My roommate's name is Chen and she sounds like a super lady.

Back to work tomorrow. These last four days are going to be the longest I've had at this job.

That Which is Known as Coulter

Contrary to popular opinion about her I do not believe Ann Coulter is a man. Definitely mannish, but not a man. She called John Edwards a faggot, perhaps because she's more of a man than he, and most males on the planet, in which case there are just tons of faggots in Ann Coulter's world.

Is "faggot" the "nigger" of the gay world? It always struck me as a pejorative in popular culture, which I have no doubt Coulter intended it to be.

But anyway, my theories on Ann Coulter:

1. Ever see the South Park episode about metrosexuals and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy? She's one of the crab people. Walks like crab, talks like people... Craaaaab people, craaaaab people....

2. Sigourney Weaver somehow conceived a child from a prop in Alien which resulted in the birth of Coulter. Check Sigourney's stomach for the scars resulting from a goo-laden demon baby popping out of her gut.

3. She's really Andy Kauffman.

4. She actually died ten years ago but the same evil forces that got Bush into office twice force her limbs and jaw to move and sounds to spring from her mouth. Those forces don't have enough juice to keep her from decomposing and resembling the crypt-keeper because they're too busy doing that for Dick Cheney.

5. She isn't really the bitch-harpie she portrays while in the spotlight but is merely putting on an at least partial facade for publicity and money. Sure, it's soulless and has a devastatingly draining effect on discourse in this country, but if you look at it strictly from a Gordon Gekko standpoint and dehumanize it (Republicanize it), it's not a dumb idea.

I fault the people who insist on giving her the stage. CNN, FoxNoise, etc. Mitt Romney is the perfect microcosm: you can't continually give someone the microphone one minute then denounce what they say the next. It's like the phrase "with all due respect." You can prefice a statement with it but it's not a get-out-of-jail-free card for whatever you say next.

Die!

Valentine's Day is starting to become my favorite time of year. I realized that I actually enjoy being embittered by the whole charade of showing someone you love them on just one day of the year by buying sugar and flowers that die within a week. Maybe I'd feel different if I ever get "in love" and get that trippy dopamine flowing. Not that I'm being a total negative Nancy , it's just not really in-line with my persona.

But is it strange to sometimes find comfort in bitterness or depression? It's probably not a great thing that familiarity with negative emotions breeds comfort, but isn't it better to embrace and accept certain truths, such as sadness and anger, than be constantly at odds with them? I say anger but really I mean bitterness. Anger is something I try not to hold onto.

Positive spin: I save money by being single on V-day. And just about every other day of the year except maybe April 15.

DVD Rage

Superbowl commercials are attractions in and of themselves, usually better and more creative and entertaining than run-of-the-mill commercials. Does that mean advertisers don't bring their A game the rest of the year? They just try harder for the Superbowl? It doesn't add up. It smells of bunk.

Regardless, I didn't watch. X-Men 2 was on Fox. I still cry when they off Famke Janssen, even though I know she comes back in III. I'm sorry, you just don't do that to Famke.

Scratched DVD's are the bane of my existence. Watching a good flick, engrossed, completely unaware of the outside world, and halfway through the fucker dies on you. I was watching The Devil's Rejects which, while not award-worthy, was entertaining the shit out of me. Gore and boobies. What's not to like.

So it skips and will not play, so I star-wipe from a slasher flick to a PBS special about the history of the supreme court. Also entertaining, but a rough transition.

Saw III came in the mail today and if it skips I'm putting it in the microwave. I'm not kidding.

Try to Ruminate Peeps

I am a comptuer dentist with regard to customers, suppliers and co-workers -- always, ALWAYS pulling teeth. Funny since most of our clients are actually dentist offices. The idea of randomly picking a (blue, northern/coastal) city and relocating there is so appealing. Manifest destiny.

Although I'm chronically manic to the point of having these delusions of mediocrity several times in a single day, so I tend to eschew great ideas sans fruition.

I'm tired of my tack-spittin' bosses and co-workers. I'm very acerbic when feigning the role of man's-man; it makes me feel phony every time, and the brain actually says to me "what the FUCK are you doing" to which I reply "let me alone, just go back to pondering tits."

I have some savings. Maybe I'll just quit and live off of them for a couple months.

Also I'm weary of the feeling that the few friends I have are either thus because of guilt or lack of better things to do, or that I'm generally Daddy Warbucks when tabbing it up in the wee hours of the morning. Neither instance seems to nourish the old self-esteem, ill-conceived as the whole idea may be.

I don't know how else to be charming and entertaining without the aid of some foreign agent. Incessantly I question what it is about myself that's real and what is drug-induced. And I'm not even talking narcotic- or alcohol-induced moments. Just the usual Paxil-Wellbutrin cocktail that's been a part of my life for years.

Constantly I ruminate about what I have to offer others in regard to "friendship" and it's a short list that's produced when I don't factore in a penchant for the Lafayette drinking/music/place-to-be trend. What is it that makes one person earnestly want the company of another? Currently that requisite is so complex in my psyche that I'm dizzy. But ios it really complex?

I'm probably just in a state of perpetual adolescence -- worrying about popularity and what inane trends are in style that I must partake in to attain acceptance. It reminds me of a dialogue from Little Miss Sunshine:

Dwayne: I wish I could just sleep until I was eighteen and skip all this crap- high school and everything- just skip it.

Frank: You know Marcel Proust?

Dwayne: He's the guy you teach.

Frank: Yeah. French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent 20 years writing a book almost no one reads. But he's also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he uh- he gets down to the end of his life... and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered- Those were the best years of his life, 'cause they made him who he was. All those years he was happy? You know, total waste. Didn't learn a thing. So, if you sleep until you're 18... Ah, think of the suffering you're gonna miss. I mean high school? High school- Those are your prime suffering years. You don't get better suffering than that.

So what if the most fruitful and developmental periods in you life have passed by without you realizing it? Are we just supposed to hyperanalyze those moments ad nauseum? And, I'd say I'm going through some pretty drastic periods of suffering currently. I just wonder how long it will be before I appreciate the wisdom I glean from the seemingly constant tumult.

My sincerest apologies to all of you for having subjected you to drunken Phillip. Just realize that it's a personal paradox: not drinking means you'll never see or know me. Drinking means you'll see me at what I could codify my worst. It's a personal cart and horse.

Anywhere and Anyone else but Here and Me

I'm going to try to include more pictures in every post I write, just to make it more an appealing reading endeavor.

If rollover minutes are any indication of lifelessness, then color me king. I now have over 3,000 rollover minutes stemming from months of not meeting my 450-minute allotment. I should be happy but that's just not my modus operandi. I'm more Eeyore.

Just through my own nature I'm trigger-happy to consider myself worthless, intolerable (intro- and extrovertly) and a social brigund-by-bribery. And I'm either hyper-absent-minded or just way more retarded than I give myself credit for.

I write this becaus I know those of you reading it know me well enough to realize that I am anything but "sorry for myself". If anything I'm enraged at myself for being in such a state, for not somehow being a stronger person that doesn't allow himself to get into such foolish mindsets.

I'm on the verge of becoming a 30 year-old bachelor with cats living in a one-bedroom shithole that frankly and sadly Im lucky to have. Maybe a nice coat of paint would cheer me up, or at least get me high. God bless lead-based (say it five times fast).

It's just been an unusually viceral period of shit for me lately Maybe if I started stealing stuff I'd feel a little less... sedated.

Currently Listening to:
Francine

28 Plastic Blue Versions of Endings Without You (2003)