That's what I get for trying to put training wheels on my Cannondale.

W


ith an open mind, I just tried out BBEdit 4.5's table editor for the first time in my life. What a piece of crap. I couldn't even figure out how to select more than one cell at a time so I could do such things as combine them. I have some crazy tables I could use a little help with, but this program is definitely not the answer. That's what I get for trying to put training wheels on my Cannondale.

---

I hate the few occasions when my do-it-myself spirit proves inferior to professionalism.

I


  just saw a Natalie Merchant video on VH1, the one where she sways her child-bearing hips in front of a great diversity of female humanity, snakes and mantids. I was disturbed to realize, however, that Natalie looks a lot like Steven Tyler of Aerosmith. She's a Scorpio, he's an Aries. No surprises there.

The gas guy came by today and did what needed doing with the furnace. I hate the few occasions when my do-it-myself spirit proves inferior to professionalism.



M


y mother, Elizabeth DeMar Mueller (aka Hoagie), came to visit me today. We've had three moms come by in the past week or so. Angela's mom stood on our porch and called us white trash (allegedly apologizing the next day). Deya's mother rolled up her sleaves and did some cleaning. But my mother sat happily on a couch sipping coffee from her "To the World's Best Mom" mug, basking in the squalour. As bad as Kappa Mutha Fucka has become, it doesn't compare to the chaos of my childhood home, where magazines, catalogs and dust, oh the dust, has accumulated feet deep on every surface, where boxes of belongings packed in the 1950s and AWOL legos from my childhood can still occasionally be found under the rubble or among the Clarence DeMar marathon trophies. It's all good honest intellectual rubbish, quite unlike the beer and pizza-based clutter of Kappa Mutha Fucka.

Then Deya showed up, then Matthew Hart, then Nigel, the Pekinese from across the street. As usual, Nigel brought his green rubber frog, a toy we gave him months ago and which is still his absolute favourite. My mother was really impressed with little Nigel. Like me, she usually hates Pekinese and other little dogs, but Nigel has personality. He comes to play, he knocks on the door, he brings his toy, he has a little fun, and he doesn't stay for dinner. Today he forgot to take his frog when he left. That was a first.

These aren't people whom I know personally, but they're out there, and the dull roar of their chiding occasionally reaches my ears.

Without Angela around, Matthew becomes terribly lonely. It doesn't matter if he's in a room full of people, there is something very evidently missing from his life. The sound of every car on Observatory draws him compulsively to the door. Is Angela here yet? It's sad but understandable. Today as Hoagie and I were leaving for the Downtown Mall art opening madness, Matthew stayed behind to wait for Angela. But then she suddenly arrived and everything changed. He instantly went from looking unfulfilled and sad to happy and ready for action. They joined us.

T


he destination was the Downtown Artspace show opening, for a photodocumentary exhibit of domestic abuse, the Donna Ferrato show I advertised in here a few days ago. It's customary at Charlottesville art openings for alcohol to be served and live music to be played, and so I assumed there would be drinks available at the Artspace, unless, of course, the photographer showcased tonight was dogmatically opposed to alcohol. I speculated that this was a distinct possibility; many idealists regard alcohol as an important factor in America's culture of abuse. These aren't people whom I know personally, but they're out there, and the dull roar of their chiding occasionally reaches my ears.
It bears noting that most of the violence and "abuse" I've seen in my adult years occurred while the involved parties were intoxicated.

For example, to me untitled paintings have the appearance of bastard projects for which there couldn't have ever been much dedication and for which there cannot be much love.

Sure enough, there was no alcohol at the exhibit. There was no punk rock either. Indeed, there was no music at all. It was a very quiet, somber, sober opening. The walls were hung with black and white photos of beaten, stabbed and killed women and children, complete with little descriptive paragraphs. It was a good use of multi-media text & image presentation, just the sort of thing to which most artists and galleries are opposed. As an artist and a writer, I find the pretentious hatred of the complementary presentation of text and image extremely puzzling. For example, to me untitled paintings have the appearance of bastard projects for which there couldn't have ever been much dedication and for which there cannot be much love. When I make something, when I've been obessed and toiled away for hours and dirtied my hands, you can bet that at the very minimum I'll find a name for it. Usually I'm also inspired to write poetry or a story. You can see this interplay on my art page. It seems my brain is perfectly wired for presenting myself on the web.

As you can imagine, Angela and Matthew didn't linger. As Matthew put it, "I already know that beating up women is a bad thing, what more needs to be said?" Had there been alcohol, I'm sure he'd have found the show considerably more interesting. Since they'd come with my mother and I, they had to walk home.

It reached me on a more emotional level, which is, I think, what art is really all about.

I've gradually come to resent dependence on alcohol. I see it in myself, I see it in Matthew. I hate the fact that socializing is nearly impossible without it and that no one is willing to take any steps to change the situation, me included. Meanwhile, in the fantasy utopian world within my head, I have a complex network of associations with interesting people that happen just fine without a need for chemical lubrication. I think the trick is knowing when to stop an interaction and go into seclusion, glorious, wonderful necessary seclusion. When sober, I often feel trapped by people, especially anyone remotely filling the role of "lover." I don't know how to separate myself from them gracefully, so I stay, and to make the experience bearable, I drink. When I'm alone, when engaged in my projects, there's absolutely no need to drink anything except occasional weak sources of caffeine. Sometimes it's fun to drink alone, but there isn't the mandate that socializing carries.

Back to the Donna Ferrato domestic abuse show. I read most of the little paragraphs, and I found it a moving experience, so much so that I had little desire to eat any of the finger food available. This is not to say that I was enlightened or that I learned anything. It reached me on a more emotional level, which is, I think, what art is really all about.

Hoagie offered to treat Jen and me to dinner at Millers, but Jen had to stay for the rest of the show. So it was just Hoagie and me at our table in the outdoor patio section of Millers. We ordered grilled chicken sandwiches; my preaching about Mad Cow Disease has completely scared my parents off of red meat. It's a dramatic step to almost quit beef at the ages of 60 and 73.

He seems like a quiet, contemplative kid, the kind who will one day say things only when he has something intelligent or important to add to a conversation.

One of Hoagie's long lost friends randomly materialized, a friend with a mutual interest in horses. I'm about as bored by horses and horse talk as I am by news of the successes of my mother's myriad investments (the other major topic of conversation), so at the earliest opportunity, I excused myself. I'd had two Bass Ales and was feeling good, but not drunk.

I soon found myself writing "THE GUS" with an etch-a-sketch in the less somber, more comfortable "office area" of the Artspace. Ana came by with Nemo, who is now a robust toddler with his own idea of how to do things and the places to do them. He and I rolled a baby tomatoe back and forth across the floor as he went through his mother's wallet examining the plastic cards. He seems like a quiet, contemplative kid, the kind who will one day say things only when he has something intelligent or important to add to a conversation.

She has a way of calming everyone with her jovial and somewhat embarrassing extrovertism.

Elizabeth (formerly of the Dynashack) and Franz came by, as did Zachary, Raphæl and Peggy, all being rather and perhaps inappropriately jovial for such a somber exhibit. Hoagie's horsey friend was still around, and I was joking that in my room tonight I'd be sleeping with my mother, her friend, and possibly a horse as well. My mother is a real social burden when she's around, but I suppose I owe it to her. She birthed me, after all. And unlike some people, I value my life and am grateful to be here. But it's a favour I doubt I'll ever deliberately pass on to the vast cache of unenfleshed souls.

H


oagie and I didn't go to any other openings. We returned to Kappa Mutha Fucka to find Angela and Matthew hanging out with a strange guy named Doug as well as the manic psychotic, Troy Roebuck. The appearance of a parental unit such as my mother always serves to set the conversation on edge, but she has a way of calming everyone with her jovial and somewhat embarrassing extrovertism (like me, she's a Meyers-Briggs ENTP, but she's much further towards the E side of the E-I continuum).

...and watched a videotaped recording of Jen's latest 15 minutes of fame.

Troy and Doug left and were replaced by Peggy, Zach, the unnamed Baboose, and Peggy's drug-obsessed little brother Pete. He'd expressed an interest in Dextromethorphan powder, so I measured him out a typical dose and he washed it down with a Beast Ice.

S


am called from the Brick Mansion and invited us over to a "party." It was after midnight when (Angela, Matthew, Monster Boy and I) finally went over (in Angela's Cadillac), so we were stuck with whatever booze we hadn't yet drunk.

I wouldn't say it was the most rockin' party I've ever attended, but it was still enjoyable. I sat with Jenfariello and her friend Alison and watched a videotaped recording of Jen's latest 15 minutes of fame. She was interviewed by a local teevee station for tonight's 11 o'clock news. But the excerpt of her interview which they actually broadcast was completely meaningless. You have to wonder about the competence of local-talent newscasters.

If I'm interested in what's happening somewhere, I'll suggest, "let's go see what's happening in that part of the free world."

Then, in Sam's room, I socialized with other people, folks like Jacques deBeaufort. We talked about stilted writing styles, and he credited me with knowing when and when not to use such an awkward word as "myriad." But he did say I use the word "emboldened" too much, and that there is no such word!

For some reason, for the last couple days, I've had a compulsive problem with uttering the phrase "in the freeworld," as in the Neil Young classic, "Keep on Rockin' in the Free World." If something is good, I say, "that rocks the free world." If something is mediocre, I'll say, "that doesn't exactly rock the free world." If I'm interested in what's happening somewhere, I'll suggest, "let's go see what's happening in that part of the free world." You get the idea. I'm very bad with these rhetorical obsession (witness my one-day problem with the phrase "ham sandwich"), and after awhile I find them embarrassing. But I can't help myself, it's like Tourette's Syndrome.

As he was going off to bed with Angela, Matthew complained that he wished Leah would just stay out of his life, never come over, and leave him in peace.

A


ngela, Matthew and I returned to Kappa Mutha Fucka without Monster Boy. I went in the house first and found Leah and Rory's Scottish friend Alan chatting with my mother. Leah was uneasy at our arrival, and left immediately. It was all very weird.

As he was going off to bed with Angela, Matthew complained that he wished Leah would just stay out of his life, never come over, and leave him in peace. He was rattled and disturbed. Hoagie, who knows almost nothing about the issues involved, suggested to me privately that Matthew and Leah would probably get back together. I said that I sure hoped not.

Hoagie slept in my bed and I slept downstairs on the couch. Hungover and dehydrated, I was awaken by Deya around three in the morning when she came in from a very late catering mission connected with her restaurant job.

---

Get a sense of what I was like exactly eight years ago and one year ago today.

For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?971003