small problems go away

They can be an inefficiently effective subrational organization, much like a school of pirahnas.

J


enfariello, another one of those powerful women in my life, told me yesterday via email that she had no idea what I was talking about regarding an alleged dalliance with Monster Boy referred to in my August 16th entry. This isn't surprising, since I probably made the whole thing up myself. Jen also mentioned that it was high time I remove the the sorry hollowed-out shell of my Frat Boy Machine from behind the Downtown Artspace. She said her landlord had been complaining.

So I rode my bike down to the Downtown Mall. I took the back way (Shamrock Rd. and Cherry Avenue), as I consider it prudent to avoid major routes. I'm still concerned about the prospect of being jumped by a large number of skinheads, even at 8:30 on a Sunday morning. Individually, they're proven weaklings and 'fraidy cats, but en masse, they can be an inefficiently effective subrational organization, much like a school of pirahnas.

I picked up massive pieces of it and carried them several blocks in different directions and abandoned them against walls in various places.

Instead of disposing of the Frat Boy Machine in the societally approved fashion, I chose instead to use the easier sociopathic method of disposal. I picked up massive pieces of it and carried them several blocks in different directions and abandoned them against walls in various places. By taking my one large problem and breaking it up into lots of small problems for others, I effectively converted it into no problem whatsoever. This is a perfect strategy for many bothersome situations.

Then I enjoyed a cup of coffee at Mudhouse while checking out all my favourite web sites over a hiccupping ISDN connection. I was wearing my scuffed-up black combat boots, a black tee shirt and a pair of maroon corduroy shorts Deya once left in my room. The few other customers were older and well dressed. One little white boy of about three babbled incessantly in his high-pitch warbling barely-parseable sing-song little-kid voice. Perhaps he'd had just a bit too much mocha.

beauty and the breakfast

When one goes out for breakfast, one can't expect beautiful waitresses, since there's no money in being a breakfast waitress.

B


ack home, at Kappa Mutha Fucka, Matthew Hart had just gotten up and was wondering what to do. It was Sunday, after all, his day of "doing things." He asked if maybe I'd like to go out for breakfast. It sounded like a plan to me.

From the JPA end of Observatory, we could see that Rory had his 1972 Ford LTD back from police impoundment. We drove over to have a look. It was all crumpled along the driver's side and for 18 inches along the front grill. The hood sat slightly ajar. Evidently it still runs fine.

The breakfast place we chose was the Italian Villa, the diner/breakfast restaurant near the corner of Emmet Street and US 250. I suggested that we should find a place that has better looking waitresses, but Matthew responded that when one goes out for breakfast, one can't expect beautiful waitresses, since there's no money in being a breakfast waitress.

Not only are the waitresses ugly, rude, inefficient and clumsy, but the food is way too expensive.

The main reason we went to the Italian Villa was so Matthew could get the shredded hash browns they have there. This was a serious mistake. Not only are the waitresses ugly, rude, inefficient and clumsy, but the food is way too expensive. No doubt their proximity to the Corner puts them on high dollar real estate, but that's still no excuse for $1.15 toast and weak $1.15 coffee. I was full when we left, but I'd spent six dollars for my coffee and buttermilk pancakes. This would be our last visit, we assured ourselves. I think we said that last time.

It sounded less like a little kitten than some sort of pissed-off nesting bird.

B


ack again at Kappa Mutha Fucka, Deya sat on the front porch with the cutest little creature you could ever expect to see. It was a fist-sized grey long-haired kitten with amber eyes and a splash of white on its chin and toes, as if it has been wading through a shallow pan of white latex paint and, thinking it milk, stooped for a sip. Periodically it made a sharp little call from somewhere deep in its throat, "Eww!" It sounded less like a little kitten than some sort of pissed-off nesting bird. Deya had found it on the other side of the fence to the west of our house. It had been calling loudly for several days, and she considered it abandoned. She was already giving it milk and dry food.

Deya was obviously in love, but Matthew wasn't happy in the least. Every time he was out of Deya's earshot he'd suggest putting the little thing out of its misery. Matthew has allergies to things like cats and dogs (a constant problem back at Big Fun, when a certain Dragon liked to sleep in his bed) and all he can think of is the kitten's long grey hairs forming a thin deposit over all the surfaces of our house. What he sees when he looks at the kitten is one big sneezing fit.

meta-musings

My solution, ingenious or idiotic as it may be, has been to write even more honestly about the events and my feelings about them.

I


  was at UVA's Cocke Hall for most of the afternoon trying to deal with the tension between public and private that these musings generate. On the one hand, there's my musings, their international audience, and me, all of whom want the musings to be an honest and open dissection of the human condition, or at least that part of the human condition with which I am familiar. On the other hand, there are the very real people whose lives provide the conflict, drama, wit and whimsy that make the musings worth reading. Some of these people need more privacy and deserve more sympathy than others. For the most part, they are amazingly open and undisturbed about life on stage. But there are times when the issues become too disturbing and life becomes too cheerless for the show to go on. At such times I must show restraint about what I do. My solution, ingenious or idiotic as it may be, has been to write even more honestly about the events and my feelings about them, while only allowing those people who are committed and disinterested to read. The rest of you get only the brutally fractured story.

At Cocke Hall, I wrote Friday's entry almost exactly the way I thought about it. Then, as an experiment, I opened a copy in Claris Homepage (now available on UVA's machines) and ripped out the stuff I was uncomfortable with, leaving a messy gutted victim. Let me just say that Claris Homepage did as much damage to my fine tight HTML as my censoring did to the prose. Boycott WYSIWYG HTML editors! Ban automatic use of the </P> tag! Ban font declarations at every paragraph! Ban upper-case characters within tags! What insecurity makes them want to scream so loudly?

In all fairness to WYSIWYG, I actually started my web presence using the WYSIWYG HTML editor in Navigator Gold 2.02 back in June, 1996. But I quickly outgrew it and found myself studying the tags. I'll never forget the joy I felt when I discovered the <br clear=all> tag.

the hit and run contingent

I don't know if I want to like Rory still, to study him, to spy on him, or to mock him.

C


oming home on JPA, I saw Tyler, Rory and Ocean hanging out by the bus stop in front of the Haunted House. They were drinking beers. After getting a glass of Carlo Rossi Paisano vino at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I joined them. I felt a responsibility to do so for whatever reason, though there was something mildly sickening about it. I don't know if I want to like Rory still, to study him, to spy on him, or to mock him. And then, quite apart from Rory, there's Ocean and Tyler, both of whom I'd like to know better. Friends are good things.

Matthew invited Rory to a game of basketball and took the opportunity to "vent" as Matthew later put it.

With them was Rory's friend from Scotland (that place in northern Britain where the Loch Ness Monster lives), I believe his name was Allen.

We drank beers together, and discussed matters in the local, very local, news.

Matthew had actually visited the Haunted House today, in the late morning, while Ocean, Leah and Rory lay sunning themselves in the back yard. It was a strange encounter. Matthew invited Rory to a game a basketball and took the opportunity to "vent" as Matthew later put it. Rory says Matthew patted his ass and asked (in utter disgust, I imagine) if he'd fucked Leah yet.

The multi-entendre nature of that phrase has a wicked elegance about it.

From what I heard this afternoon, I gathered that the hit and run incident has drawn Ocean, Leah and Rory together. It's more than just a little disturbing romance; a new clique has been born. Let me call them the "hit and run contingent." The multi-entendre nature of that phrase has a wicked elegance about it. I asked Ocean if the hit and run had drawn their little threesome together, and he agreed it had, but he said the connection had begun before the accident, that the time at Blue Hole (the montane swimming place) had been "intense."

Ocean is upset to be stuck here in Virginia (he'd only been visiting from Oregon), and he knows Rory's to blame, but he's fatalistic about it. Other than the fates, he blames the cops and the panic that had overwhelmed the others.

It successfully taps something deep and sad in my soul.

I was feeling sad about the changes to my world. The leaves had begun to fall off the trees and blow around in the cool late September breezes. I went inside and sat at the piano. First, though, I shoved a toothbrush into the hole where the broken-off sustain pedal used to protrude. I hate the way a piano sounds without the sustain pedal down. Then I played the same little endless mantra-like Phillip Glassesque number I've been playing since 1986. It's the only thing I can do with a piano, but I love to do it. It successfully taps something deep and sad in my soul. It sounds nothing like my guitar playing.

After a run to Old Virginia Fried Chicken for my favourite quicky food (two thighs for $2.26), I returned to the Haunted House. The Simpsons and then King of the Hill paraded down the cable. Eventually I went home to bed.

---

darts, insults, and confrontation

Angela claims she hasn't been drinking lately, and that she has developed a low tolerance.

O


wing to the early fall's chill, I slept without the noise of my fan. I could hear Deya's new little kitten chirping away at some point, and then, at 12:30 am, I heard Matthew Hart come home. He sounded refreshingly cheerful and there were other female voices, so I went downstairs to investigate.

I found Matthew in the living room with Monster Boy and Angela, Theresa Venesian's 18 year old sister, the girl who spent much time in my world back in the Springtime, but who has been absent throughout the summer. Matthew and Angela were both drunk. Angela claims she hasn't been drinking lately, and that she has developed a low tolerance. That's a big change; she was once famous for her high tolerance and continual drinking. Perhaps for this reason, she appears to have lost a little weight, not that she was ever plump.

Matthew observed, "it's always good to make a little extra for Gus so that when the time comes for him to sit down at the computer, he'll take that into consideration."

Matthew made some pasta, enough for any who wanted some. There was a lot of musings-awareness in the air (as you know, Angela's been burned a bit in here before). Of his pasta making, Matthew observed, "it's always good to make a little extra for Gus so that when the time comes for him to sit down at the computer, he'll take that into consideration."

Angela went back and forth between remembering not to tell me anything because I'd "probably put it on the Internet" and giving me juicy details from her recent life. The most interesting of these was that Theresa has moved in with her following a terrible auto accident, the sort for which her insurance will not pay.

Matthew has seen too much of his love life stolen by good friends for me to even appear to be doing so on even the most symbolic of levels.

There wasn't much alcohol on hand, just a little Corona and the dregs of a gallon bottle of Carlo Rossi Paisano. So I fired up some of my dwindling marijuana, and we all had a smoke. This lended an interesting super-awareness to the evening that both frightened and intrigued me. The combination of marijuana-induced-sensitivity and alcohol-sobriety made me all too aware of the sort of hyper-sexual friendliness Angela exudes when super-intoxicated. I would have loved it had I been drunk, but in my state, it made me uncomfortable. I had an icky feeling when she leaned her head against my shoulder. She's a very pretty girl, but I didn't want to upset the tenuous balance. In a way, you see, I viewed her as "Matthew Hart's date." Not that she actually was, mind you (she has a boyfriend to whom she is strongly committed). But she'd shown up tonight with Matthew, and of late Matthew has seen too much of his love life stolen by good friends for me to even appear to be doing so on even the most symbolic of levels. These are calculations we all make in our heads all the time, no doubt claculations made in the brains of all social vertebrates. In this case I'm taking the risk of trying to articulate them precisely as they were.

This complete inability to form mid-term memories had me suspecting that she was in blackout.

Another thing about Angela in her drunken state was her tendency to insult people. She called this behaviour "being blunt." But it went far beyond that. Not only did she call my paintings ugly and say that my marijuana was bad, but she went on and on about horrible Matthew's pasta was. She said his seasoning tasted exactly like ramen flavour-packet and that it made her want to puke.

One last thing about Angela, the most irritating by far, was the fact that she kept losing (or claiming to lose) everything of any importance to her: her bag (with $60 inside, lest we forget), her jacket and a necklace given to her by her boyfriend. And even when we'd found these things, she'd forget that we'd found them and start complaining again. This complete inability to form mid-term memories had me suspecting that she was in blackout.

I found this to be a fascinating window into nascent sado-masochistic tendencies in both Angela and the boys.

S


omebody bought a dart board recently, and it has already been set up on the living room wall. We divided into two teams to take turns hurling darts at it, until we realized we'd forgotten the rules we'd just made. It degenerated into a free for all, with darts being hurled by anyone who had one, usually with the intent being to drive the dart as deep as possible into the wall, with no interest in the board at all. For a brief period, Angela sat on the couch beneath the board as Matthew and Monster Boy threw darts into the wall above her head. They seemed to enjoy the risk of hitting her. In my hyper-sensitive state, I found this to be a fascinating window into nascent sado-masochistic tendencies in both Angela and the boys. For my part, I couldn't participate in something so prone to dangerous error. I felt uncomfortable even watching.

Not more than ten minutes passed before all the darts had been lost behind the couches.

Meanwhile, Deya had come half way down the stairs, and sat there, stroking and matter-of-factly kissing her new little kitten, which seemed to behold everything in astonishment. This moved me, but it also disturbed me. Cats are wonderful creatures, but none of the people I know are mature enough to be responsible for one.

To this Matthew responded, "I'm afraid that if he comes in, I'm going to have to ask him to leave."

As the last beer was being passed around, Sam from the Brick Mansion in the 'Hood appeared, bringing with him a twelve pack of Budweiser in cans.

B


ut then Ocean and Allen (Rory's friend from Scotland) came in. Friends of Rory. The air seemed to tighten just a little around Matthew. He fell nearly silent. Stress pervaded the room. Still, Matthew wasn't going to complain about Rory's friends. His problems are with Leah and Rory. When the subject of Rory inevitably surfaced, Matthew scowled and briefly turned into stone. Said Ocean "he's right outside and he'll come in; all you have to do is say the word." To this Matthew responded, "I'm afraid that if he comes in, I'm going to have to ask him to leave."

He had a direct calmness about him. It impressed me. It sounded unusually mature.

Moments later, the door cautiously opened, and a hesitant Rory walked in, followed sheepishly (but also brazenly) by Leah. Matthew silently rose to his feet, lightly pressed his palm to Rory's chest, and mowed him out the door, softly telling him that he was no longer welcome.

Rory, Leah and Matthew remained outside for some minutes.

The stereo was playing Johnny Cash. That's all Matthew wants to listen to these days. I cringe every time I hear Johnny singing:

I said not a word though it meant my life
Though I'd been in the arms of my best friend's wife

Angela went outside to investigate, and came back inside with Leah, who is her friend. They went upstairs and talked for awhile. But then Matthew came in and told her to leave, that he idn't want her coming around unless it was to get her stuff. He had a direct calmness about him. It impressed me. It sounded unusually mature.

Matthew's kicking out Leah provoked Angela. She became angry at him and started defending Leah's right to come in the house. Matthew started sobbing, "You don't know what they've done to me." The music was over and downstairs we could hear it all. It was terribly hard to take. I could feel tears in my own eyes. I got up and paced around in the kitchen wondering what to do. Every time Matthew said something about Leah being uncaring or unfeeling towards him, Sam could be heard quietly saying "that's not true." He was wanting to believe that Matthew was exaggerating her ruthlessness in his own head.

He himself said that he'd come to terms with the new reality, but that he didn't want his nose rubbed in it.

So as not to hear any more of the unbearable tearful conversation upstairs, I put on Guns 'n' Roses' Appetite for Destruction, which I have on vinyl. It's righteous misogynist rock 'n' roll, perfect for occasions when your girl has fucked you over royally. That very LP was mostly all I listened to after my heart was first broken in the Spring of 1989.

After awhile, the tension died away upstairs. Who knows what it was replaced with.

Matthew looked considerably happier when he finally came down the stairs. He asked if it was okay to ban Leah and Rory from the house. Monster Boy and I agreed that it was fine with us. The most horrible aspect of Matthew's past week has been his inability to exert any influence over events surrounding him. For his own sanity, he needed the power to control his own living space. He himself said that he'd come to terms with the new reality, but that he didn't want his nose rubbed in it. Understandable.

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