As update to my neighbor’s drama. I’ve not seen much of K, and his (ex-?)girlfriend R, I haven’t seen at all since she left on what was seemingly an emergency camping trip with one of her girlfriends.
The other night, though, 5 or so hip kids came over with suitcases. Upon entering the front door, they said, “Well, K, are you ready for this?”… from which I surmise that the suitcases were empty and were about to contain R’s belongings.
Sad, right? Such is life, sometimes.
Taking a romantic candle-lit shower is rendered somewhat less romantic when:
a) you are taking said candle-lit shower alone, and,
b) you are taking said candle-lit shower in the first place because the power is out
.: Well someone who knows (or knows of) me is trying to find me. My reasoning? My referral from this search. Sometimes, I'm really easy to find. I'm assuming I'll be getting an e-mail?
3:44 A.M.
Shut up!
…
Shut up!
…
shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!
Just shut the fuck up! Pack the fuck up! And get the fuck out!
murmuring
Shut the fuck up! You are such a fucking cunt! A fucking CUNT!
murmuring, crying
You are just no fucking good for me, just no fucking good!
door slams
I think it’s pretty safe to say my next door neighbors are breaking up… or at least in a bad way right now. I’ve never heard them fighting before, especially not like this, so it was a bit of a shock when I woke up to this kind of drama. I briefly entertained the idea that it wasn’t even coming from next door, maybe the alley behind my apartment, or maybe a remnant of a dream I was having still echoing in my head. But K’s accent was unmistakable. He always seemed so mellow and mild-mannered; and, I think, he usually is. She must have done something very… interesting.
I have never, to my recollection, called any woman a cunt before, nor do I think I would ever be justified in doing so. I admit to calling someone a bitch before, and it is something I still regret and feel bad for. There is never the justification to call someone you love any kind of harsh derogatory name, no matter how angry you are, or how provoked by even worse verbal treatment as prelude. It’s just not right. And it’s weak. I know this.
Hearing K and J fight reminded me of the days leading up to ADG and I breaking up. We never had anything like that, exactly, and I was never that offensive (I hope), but we did have one terrible, awful, obviously no recovery from fight late into the night. And, of course, I can’t even remember what it was about… which is always the way.
I think that says something about the nature of arguments in relationships, actually. You can never remember what the fight was about, but you can always remember the fight. There are several, now, that come to mind now that I’m thinking about it. I can see the location, I can see our faces in anger, I can feel the lead in my chest of hurt and despair… but I can’t remember the point. The sting remains long after the issue fades away. Turning my mind to good moments, dates, anniversaries, happy days, the memories are harder to come by. They are hazier. They are shorter. They are less numerous.
The thing is, I know that’s not true. I know that the good far far outweighed the bad, even when things were falling apart; but, for whatever reason, those images are harder to grasp.
Why is that?
Is it a primal defense mechanism gone over zealous? Is it my minds way of trying to continually remind me to avoid situations where I will experience that kind of pain, that kind of anguish? I would much rather my memories focused on the positive, motivating me to seek those times out, instead of teaching me to avoid the negative.
End today’s introspection.
I wonder how the Republicans who voted for Bush, or even just the undecided’s who reveled in their apathy and stayed home, feel about the way things are going these days?
No Osama bin Laden capture (four years later).
No connection between Iraq and al Queda
No WMD’s (no nukes, no gas, no nothing)
Civilian Iraqi death toll of at least 24,000
Coalition death toll at 2,093
Dismal Hurricane Katrina response
Gasoline prices at an all-time high
It’s depressing… and a bit pathetic. Whatever your rationales, whatever your reasoning, whatever your excuses of how the world was different back then, just think of how good things were going for the U.S. when Slick Willy was President. Ah, the glory days. And now, really, do any of you give a flying fuck about Monica Lewinsky? I’m guessing not. Personally, I’d take Bill and 50 Monica Lewinsky’s if I could just get one of those 2,093 coalition deaths back. And I bet you would, too. Or, at least 61% of you would.
Good for you 61%. Many of you, statistically, must have voted for Bush and are not too prideful to admit that you made a bad decision. You though, 39%, it’s time I’d say, to take a good hard look at yourselves, and wonder why it is that you are so flawed? Perhaps you can all work it out together, down in Crawford, Texas, on vacation.
A word of advice: say you’re going to Walgreeens… no, seriously, say it out-loud. Thanks.
Say you’re going to Walgreens for sundry items from toothpaste to Blistex to Q-tips. At this particular Walgreens, after walking around and around for 10 minutes, you cannot, for the life of you, find Q-tips anywhere. You’re not going to ask anyone, of course, because that’s just not you for one thing; and, besides, the place is so small you can do a full lap in under a minute.
Eventually, you catch sight of cotton-balls out of the corner of your eye, and you insticintively know that the Q-tips are probably herding near by. Safety in numbers and all that. You look and look but fail again and again. Maybe behind that package of Wet-Naps? No. Out of stock? No. Between competing adult diapers? No.
Finally, close to the point of exhaustion, you see the tell-tale puffs of cotton upon stick. But wait… these aren’t Q-Tip brand Q-tips, they’re some fake knock-off, they’re simple cotton swabs. “What’s the difference?” you think. “None that I can see… and they’re only a dollar… for a thousand!”
And you buy them.
And you take them home, excited for their immediate use; after all, it’s been like 2 weeks since the Q-Tip box ran dry.
And you try them.
And you cry.
>
Lesson learned: always buy Q-Tip® brand Q-Tips.
I had this dream last night where I was riding my bike through a neighborhood, and I came across this enclave of what would normally be called tract homes… but these were different. These were really nice, designer homes, in the middle of the usual mis-matched homes of what was probably Venice. They were clearly related, all the same slightly bluish-white color, all with the same footprint (presumably), but with a few detail differences.
I rode up to the model home, and there were these boards set up on the porch showing potential buyers the options for different tiling and flooring options, indoor paint colors, and the like. One tile pattern, had “KleEmAn” embedded in it, which I thought was really cool and a huge coincidence.
Even before getting to the house, I knew I was somewhere unique, though, because the name of the street was also the wed address where I assumed you could go and find out more information: wwwilson.com. I thought that was a cool detail.
This morning, the dream still heavy in my head, I went to check out wwwilson.com, which, translated into reality becomes www.ilson.com and is indeed a running website… but something very, very different than what I was hoping for.
.: The world's first photograph
.: awesome video set to Radiohead's Creep
.: Barbara Bush explains it the Bush way, "...so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this, this is working very well for them."
It was an eventful and fun, but probably not universally interesting, holiday weekend. There was mountain biking, and body boarding, and volleyball, and BBQ’ing, and basketball, and woodworking. But any of the good times and happy memories created have been immediately supplanted by the sadness that Gilligan has died.
Which makes me wonder, by the way, about what he might feel about all of this right now, looking up from his spot in hell and reading the countless eulogies to him in only the kewlest blogs and newspapers. I’m betting, without any statistical backing, that an estimated 92.37% of those blogs and newspapers have titles along the lines of:
Gilligan Passes From Life But Not Syndication
So Long, Little Buddy
Gilligan On Eternal 3-Hour Tour
You get the idea.
Does it bother him (“him” being Bob Denver), I wonder, being eternally associated with a television character? Especially one that he only played for 3 or 4 seasons and was then to be forever typecast in the role. Do his children, secretly, mourn the loss of Gilligan just as much as Bob? The mind wonders.
And speaking of sadness, is there anything else one can do to help those in New Orleans? It’s a helpless feeling, watching all of that suffering without any solutions, and having already sent your donation to the Red Cross.
By now, everyone is well aware of the situation in New Orleans and elsewhere. The death toll is rising, the conditions are worsening, and people just need help. Consier, then, giving generously to the Red Cross Disaster Relief Fund.
I think it’s weird that when you search for Dave Kleeman… which I often do, searching for myself in the wilderness of existence… I’m not directly referenced until the 7th page, and then with a semi-broken link (gotta fix that). True, Ariel references me and skyrockets to the third link on the first page, but there’s something strange about someone other than me being more closely related to me than I am.
If you put in “Dave Kleeman” with the quotes, I’m number one via Ariel, and number one on the second page via a reference from Erica 4 years ago. I come in, with a direct reference a sad 12th place.
David Kleeman is no better. Indirect reference on page 5, glancing reference from Erica on 8, and I gave up on finding a direct floorpie.net reference at page 10. For all I know, I never show up.
Lastly, “David Kleeman” finds a direct link to me on page 6, the first (and only) time I beat an outside referrer. Ironically, it points to a post where I state that, if I’m ever single (check), at age 30 (check), I will change my name… to Dirk Steele.
wah-waaaaaaah…
