floorpie

The one good thing to come of out the current economic crisis…other than the obvious of low low prices on brand name items… is that I paid a little over $30 for a tank of gas yesterday. Which is $20-$30 less than I paid over the summer. Think of all the drugs I can buy with that money! Finally I can trade-up to sweet sweet cocaine instead of that dirty crack!

I think a lot.
Too much.

I need a lot of input to keep me occupied, which is odd as I also have astounding bouts of laziness.
Or at least what I consider laziness.

I listen to multiple conversations in a restaurant at the same time. Not because I eavesdrop, but because I just do. It’s as if my brain has some extra space sitting by and it takes up the task on it’s own. The people I’m with at the time, especially if they’re, say, a woman I’m on a date with, probably find it rude when I answer a question they didn’t ask but that the person at the next table did. Even so, they can’t complain that I’m distracted, because I never am, I’m listening to them, too.

Sometimes, when I watch TV, I also am listening to my iPod in one ear… and reading a book. To be honest, I’m not sure how terribly effective this is as I’m probably retaining none of it…there was a time during my freshman year in college when I was sitting in my dorm room on the back of my desk chair studying, while I also had my stereo blasting in the background. Given the year, it was probably some kind of guitar virtuoso like Joe Satriani or Steve Vai (two coolest last names, linked with two boring first names, by the way). My door was open, as was the style of the time, and one of my floor-mates was walking by on the way to who the hell cares where. He was a particularly dorky kid (not that I was giving James Dean anything to worry about) who liked to be called Tiger.

Which is really annoying. If there are any rules to nicknames, and there are, the first and most important one is: you do not give yourself a nickname. Which is why I made a point of calling “Tiger”, Brian and “Morg”, Chris…loudly and clearly, which is no small feat for a chronic mumbler.

At any rate, Brian was walking by my room when he glanced in, saw me perched on my chair staring at a Physics book with the strains of Surfing With The Alien rattling the windows. “You’re studying!” he exclaimed. I gave him a bemused look. This kid really annoyed the hell out of me. “AND you’re playing music!” he squeaked. My bemused look turned to confusion, and I mouthed a drawn-out and questioning, “Okaaaaaay?” to him. His eyes dropped and he muttered while turning away, “That is so cool!”, mentally adding that to his list of things to emulate later to up the cool-factor of his Tiger persona.

I’m fairly sure he wasn’t making fun of me and was actually sincere… he just wasn’t the asshole-type (like me). I remember thinking how odd his observation was, because this kind of brain-filling (or multi-tasking) is something I’ve always done.

But back to the effectiveness of it, judging by my freshman year grades, I probably should have spent more time quietly in the library, and less time bobbing my head to Eric Johnson while trying to understand differential equations. But perhaps there were…other…distractions when it comes to that.

I’m a multi-tasker at work, too…though Science will tell you that multi-tasking is actually strictly impossible. Instead it’s some kind of crazy rapid switching back and forth. At any rate, I’ll work on something for 10 minutes here, then switch to something else, then back, then to another thing and on and on, all day long. It works for me, somehow. In some ways, I feel like my brain is working on how to do something while I’m not actively thinking about, and then I get back to it when I’m ready.

What is my point?

My point is that despite this being the way that I do things, I feel like I need a break. I just want to sit in silence for a bit and not get antsy, or have my mind start racing, or feel like I’m wasting my time.

I need to learn how to meditate.

SoCal is burning down…again. Which I suppose is the dark side of perpetual sunny days. Other than family illness, I can think of no worse hardship for a family to go through (I’m sure you just thought of a dozen). Not only must it hit you financially and physically, but also emotionally as you realize how fragile your belongings are. I hope that people are dealing with their losses OK.

I had a fire in my apartment a few years ago, and, though it was bad, it wasn’t that bad. I was able to save my computer, and things like pictures. Everything else suddenly didn’t have all that much importance in the face of what might have happened (loss of life, bodily injury, etc). How attached can one really get to their microwave, really?

But for those in this week’s LA fires, they’re losing everything…with only their memories to sustain them. And as I sit on my front porch writing this, the sun blood red and ash sifting down all around me, I wonder what memories are gathering around me. Good luck LA.

On the whole, despite my busy work schedule and fabulously impressive and engaging social life, I actually spend a great deal of time alone. For someone who thinks and analyzes as much as I do, this is not (as my many bitter exes will attest to) necessarilya good thing. Deep thoughts not withstanding though, I’m also just physically in solitude a lot.

Which makes me think (surprise!): what happens when I trip and slam my head into the coffee table? And I’ve come to realize that the simple truth is that I die…except in this case on account of the fact that don’t actually have a coffee table. Or drink coffee. But I digress.

A few years ago when my apartment burned down, I ended up alone in an empty loaner apartment with no heat and the worst cold or flu I’ve ever had. I literally had to crawl from room to room because I was just that feverish and close to passing out at any given moment. I rembrr thinking then that it really sucked being alone.

Then I had a girlfriend for awhile and didn’t need to think about it.

Now it’s been a while since I screwed that up and I’m suffering through one my many regular sleepless nights…and the fact that I’m all alone in my two bedroom apartment near the beach in Marina del Rey (*ahem* ladies?), with nary a sound save for my own tortured breathing (I’m fighting a cold), and I realize again: it kinda sucks being alone; and sometimes, rarely, when I realize how isolated I am, it just really creeps me the fuck out.

As a direct result to my earlier observations, I went to the market tonight. No better way to spend a lonely Saturday night when you’re fighting a cold than wandering through a nearly deserted market in a half-daze.

There are two things I loathe about daily Life in this modern age:
1. putting pillowcases on pillows, and
2. going to the market

And there was a point in the loading of my $150 worth of food and sundry items when I paused, actually stopped cold and stared into space thinking to myself, “Am I really going to eat all of this alone?” At which point I flashed on how all of what I saw before me would actually be stacked and rotated to fit within my stomach at the same time.

I’m not sure what “ironic” means, but I have a feeling it has something to do with watching back to back episodes of Kitchen Nightmares while only having a half-filled jar of jelly and a box of old saltines in my kitchen.

After writing that last sentence, I went to the kitchen, inspired and motivated to eat some crackers…which, as it turns out, I’m actually also out of. Wah-waaaah.

The thing is, I’m actually a somewhat decent cook. I can do a little better than toast and I’ve made my fair share of Thanksgiving dinners; but, what is the point of soup for one…especially when you get home at 8:30 or later? So every few weeks I buy a bunch of food, lament that I’m too tired to cook any of it, and then usually end up eating things in stages (like eating the cheese that was supposed to be in the manicotti). There’s just little motivation when I’m the only one to cook for.

And that is the reason I need a girlfriend.

OK, maybe a couple of other reasons, too.

You know who I want to be? Hank Moody. You know, the emotionally damaged writer on Showtime’s hit original series, Californication?

And this, of course, is the part where I say I feel like that show is written about me. Which is just the kind of bullshit douchebaggery that you would expect from a narcissist like me…and Hank. I already drink more than not, say 80-90% of the inappropriate thoughts I have out loud, have a never-ending string of meaningless relationships, and one lost and unrequited love. All I need is a best friend who’s a porn producer with a coked-out wife.

And writing talent.

And rock-star friends.

And interesting original content.

For the record, I’m sticking my gut out. Also for the record, I’m not sticking it out nearly as much as I wish I was…time to lay off the Del Taco. And lastly for the record, a child’s-sized costume is tighter than you might think.

OK, it’s exactly as tight as you’d think.

Have you guys heard about this internet thing? It’s primarily a worldwide pornography database, but apparently you can also use it to find information on various subjects. Things like dinosaurs, politics, and the Britney Spears.

You can also find people, it would seem, just as my first “real” girlfriend Missa did. From High School. Nearly twenty years ago.

Is no one else shocked by this?

She seems to be doing great. Married, of course. Kids that look just like her…which is odd because she looks just like her. What do you do with that kind of information? I have no idea.