Chris is goth. Chris regards his gothness like an allergy he resents it but endures it out of good nature, and he knows he can never leave it behind. He never talked much, but then again, we were never close. He often hinted at his past, this was all that he did, hint, I know that he was married once and that didnt work, and of various flings with pills, prescription, illegal, once a fling with female hormone pills, and that fling also did not work out. We were never close.
I was able to make it over to his apartment early Saturday to help him move out. He is not obsessive-compulsive and had random bits of detritus lining the floor of his apartment, and these were oddly instructive. Unpaid bills. To-do lists consisting solely of different drugs, and business cards of Tulane Health Science Center psychiatrists. A flyer for a Black Tape for a Blue Girl show. Pictures of himself, the photographer unknown, hes in ghostly whiteface and draped over graveyard headstones. A few receipts for pornography and one receipt from a strip club in Jersey. Chris doesnt say much but like many goths his clothes and possessions do enough talking for him at times. I felt like I was able to get a feel for him, just a little.
He loaded up his overbuilt casemodded computers into his car, I helped his country-living, country-loving father load up mattresses into his truck bed, we poured out his Japanese soft drinks into the sink drain. And then he shut and locked the door and we said out goodbyes. He seemed wistful but not sad which is the best way to be when leaving a life behind.
Later Saturday was WTUL. There was an apprentice in the studio and we had a grand old time eating clearance-sale chocolate and screwing up. A Trembling Blue Stars song was played twice. Springsteens Reason to Believe spent the first 30 seconds in 45 RPM. Air breaks were missed and records were incorrectly shelved. A good time was had by all.
(No playlist follows. Apologies.)
Afterwards I returned to find that Mara had baked gooey gooey brownies and these upset my stomach. In college my tolerance for sugar was legendary and I was often introduced with a reference to my eating skills. It made me feel like Cool Hand Luke. The upset stomach was then a major disappointment but still fully expected since Ive removed much of the sugar from my life and my body is simply not used to such a shipment of sweets.
Sunday is sore day. Logged 45 miles on the saddle with an average speed of 18.9 miles an hour according to trusty cheap GPS. (Said GPS was bought with the help of an Internet sale scam and it came with heavy rebates, lowering the price to a reasonable $35. I use it strictly as a speedometer.) There are muscles inbetween the ass and the thigh that I only seem to use for biking and they are laden with lactic acid. I can sit and I can stand but transferring between the two modes is a bit of a bitch.
The rest of the day has been spent pretending that there are no brownies in the kitchen and lusting after a spinach and tofu salad, which I will now indulge in. Excuse me.
I was able to make it over to his apartment early Saturday to help him move out. He is not obsessive-compulsive and had random bits of detritus lining the floor of his apartment, and these were oddly instructive. Unpaid bills. To-do lists consisting solely of different drugs, and business cards of Tulane Health Science Center psychiatrists. A flyer for a Black Tape for a Blue Girl show. Pictures of himself, the photographer unknown, hes in ghostly whiteface and draped over graveyard headstones. A few receipts for pornography and one receipt from a strip club in Jersey. Chris doesnt say much but like many goths his clothes and possessions do enough talking for him at times. I felt like I was able to get a feel for him, just a little.
He loaded up his overbuilt casemodded computers into his car, I helped his country-living, country-loving father load up mattresses into his truck bed, we poured out his Japanese soft drinks into the sink drain. And then he shut and locked the door and we said out goodbyes. He seemed wistful but not sad which is the best way to be when leaving a life behind.
Later Saturday was WTUL. There was an apprentice in the studio and we had a grand old time eating clearance-sale chocolate and screwing up. A Trembling Blue Stars song was played twice. Springsteens Reason to Believe spent the first 30 seconds in 45 RPM. Air breaks were missed and records were incorrectly shelved. A good time was had by all.
(No playlist follows. Apologies.)
Afterwards I returned to find that Mara had baked gooey gooey brownies and these upset my stomach. In college my tolerance for sugar was legendary and I was often introduced with a reference to my eating skills. It made me feel like Cool Hand Luke. The upset stomach was then a major disappointment but still fully expected since Ive removed much of the sugar from my life and my body is simply not used to such a shipment of sweets.
Sunday is sore day. Logged 45 miles on the saddle with an average speed of 18.9 miles an hour according to trusty cheap GPS. (Said GPS was bought with the help of an Internet sale scam and it came with heavy rebates, lowering the price to a reasonable $35. I use it strictly as a speedometer.) There are muscles inbetween the ass and the thigh that I only seem to use for biking and they are laden with lactic acid. I can sit and I can stand but transferring between the two modes is a bit of a bitch.
The rest of the day has been spent pretending that there are no brownies in the kitchen and lusting after a spinach and tofu salad, which I will now indulge in. Excuse me.
dude you gave great suggestions for sxsw -- thanks this will be my third trip down there i cannot wait! i have an uncle there too so i'll be able to borrow his car and be all mobile for the trip to salt lick... mmm, brownies and spinach...