I cold step to you with a fresh pack of gum
I have survived the week. “Trying harder,” sadly, has segued into lying in bed all day, as I’ve been hella-sick and just totally unable to deal with vertical positions. That’s OK, though, because I seem to have recuperated just in time for Friday night, which may find me in any number of local venues perpetuating “bad vibes” like the sporus fungi facilitated by a tepid rain. This is actually what I do. Sitting in a bar last week, dealing with the unambiguous pointing of strangers asking, “Is that him?” I’m used to this type of scrutiny, actually. I seem to resemble any number of anti-heroes, drawing comparisons to all types of miscreants worldwide, but more likely do I suspect that these are myspace voyeurs. And I’m always on edge, dealing with this micro-cosmic celebrity in the way that has me thinking of purchasing a baseball cap—which is the first time I’ve ever had to contemplate such a thing.

But that’s pretty rare, and it could have just been the paranoia which occurs when you mix certain cold medicines and other elixirs together. A more typical night out might involve hanging around in Lark Tavern and at some point wondering out loud what happened to that reptilian guy you used to see hanging around Albany, who later ended up on the Discovery Channel. Did he become Born Again? Take out all of his facial implants and is living a life of stoical subservience in suburbia somewhere, where he is calculating the precise coordinates of where things fell off the track for him—was it the insane primordial forehead implants that were the decisive factor or the full on body tattoo? Or more logically, did he finally make his way out to the wilderness to live among the snakes and lizards and things? Or is he reading this right now on some slow night five weeks in the future, and is looking up the requisite pictures which will be having him waiting outside of said venue, scaring the piss out of me on some other slow night five weeks from now? (further necessitating the need of a baseball cap). Other points of reference for tonight may include high-scoring on Mrs. Pac-Man and trying to impress random strangers with that same fact, who will blithely look back at me, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Although, with any luck, those same statistics might impress someone. Something. Yeah, that sounds about right. Maybe I'll see you there.

I asked you a question/ I didn't need you to reply
I accidentally read the obituary for Timothy Moshier today. I didn’t mean to, and it’s easy to avoid. US news media outlets pretty much obscure the death factor, occasionally giving you an official tally if you’re really looking closely, but even then it’s just some number. It’s just some totally random figure you contemplate briefly before going back about your business for the day. And it’s easier that way. But it’s harder today, as I sit there in the waiting room of a doctor’s office reading the paper. It’s hard not to freak out at the notion that there really is no line of reasoning, and that nothing makes much sense of things.

Timothy Moshier was a captain in the US Army, who died flying a helicopter in Iraq. He was 25 years-old and was married with a child. His obituary describes him as a patriotic young man, who died doing what was asked of him and what he wanted to do.

It’s easy to find all kinds of holes in this argument. And depending on who you are and how you look at, you may have already located those things. Very few people I know would at this stage declare any kind of righteousness in terms of US foreign policy. What was laughably being called by some stations “Operation Iraqi Freedom” at the beginning of the invasion could at this point be considered full on hyperbole. And it’s easy to be so smart. But it seems to require something of you, too. Something more than just hanging around in a waiting room. But first I shed a tear for Timothy Moshier, and promise to try harder now.

If the clothes make the man/ then the moths make the holes
Michael, the cleaning kid at the gym, makes a b-line for me as I lift 145 lbs. (no kidding). It’s less endearing now that I know he will talk to anybody who will listen, and seeing as I’m not really in position to get away, I listen in. I don’t mind. I will listen to anyone, actually. You may have to take a number, though, because there seems to be no end to the que of people who are attracted to the magnet hum of my head which unknowingly transmits the message to the populace that I will hear them out on any subject matter, even as meanwhile I offer the most base advice even possible, and am then thanked gratuitously. Although, not in the currency I would actually prefer, which might not include a fruit basket.

Putting the weight down, he asks me, “What’s going on, buddy?” like he always does. I haven’t seen him in months, but he rejoins seamlessly. We talk things over: the bowling average, the girlfriend. “That sounds like an OK time,” I tell him, drinking a few beers at the Bowlers Club and cursing out loud as you throw a gutter ball. I mean, not that I do this kind of thing, the last time I went to a bowling alley being when they were having hardcore karaoke, which I watched from the sidelines as some perfectly deranged stranger monopolized the microphone all night, screaming Pantera songs, with full vocal shred. It was pretty great. But I don’t actually hang around in there. “I don’t really drink so much anymore, anyway,” he ends up telling me, which is comforting knowing that he’s sporting some type of incapacity. “Last year was crazy, though,” he says, “I was drinking the hard liquor, not showing up for work in the morning, and not remembering anything.” He rattles off the liquors he used to drink, and I take it all in. “Blackhouse?” I ask him, which sounds really sinister somehow, even though I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of after dinner drink. “Well, I’ll drink a Blackhouse for you, since you don’t drink it anymore.” He likes this response and then ends up inviting me to a party at the ‘rents house, when they go out of town. He doesn’t know where they’re going but is sure that it’s far enough away to have a killer house party before they return. “You know where I live,” he reminds me, as I have actually picked him up while hitchhiking in a downpour and transported him safely to his parents’ house (I will always pick up a hitchhiker, too, just to have them around long enough to confirm once again that it’s a bad idea). I imagine showing up at said party, and what kind of scene it would be. It’s a pretty safe bet that I won’t RSVP.

It’s hard, though, talking to Mike and then watching him shamble away, shirted not tucked and a three-days beard, not to realize the striking parallels which present. There’s just no denying that our tonsorial/ sartorial predilections remain somewhat consistent. My hair is in a constant state of concern, which is really no fault of my own, I tell you. Also, I have to admit, it is often the kind of thing I think of doing, when my parents make their way out of town, sizing up exactly how long they’ll be gone for before returning, to find the household drek. And as he parts, he enthusiastically lets me know that he’s going home to take a nap, a plan which sounds like a pretty good idea if you’re asking me. He gives me the standard hi-five as he’s leaving and then says see you later, buddy, which I reciprocate fondly before he disappears over threshold. I can’t help but shake my head a little bit as I watch him disappear. It's quite a startling realization that I seem to have stumbled on.

When I was in the seventh grade, I had to take the requisite Spanish class in order to make it to the next grade. As part of that class, you had to pick an ethnic-sounding name, and somehow I got stuck with Ricardo. The teacher, I guess, thought it was at least somewhat derivative-sounding of my actual name, and therefore that’s what I ended up with—which was fine, for all about ten minutes, until the late night Mike took over and I ended up watching David Letterman instead of doing any of the reading. I couldn’t remember a thing from class, and when it was my turn to deliver dialogue to the class the next day, I was a complete failure. I just stood there, uttering what I could, while the teacher unrelentingly grilled me. This may have gone on for any number of minutes, as I shifted from foot to foot. At which point in time, through the silence, someone yelled, “Retard-o,” which was my name for the remainder of the class. And, I guess, for the remainder of that year. Although, in the end, it’s hard to admit, that it just never went away.