kanji

21 September, 2005
well, i cut my hair and fingernails, so i can't be Howard Hughes...

there was something about last week... the full moon, probably... that was a rude reminder of the fine line between "solitude" and "reclusiveness".

i even took a day off to lengthen the break, which may or may not have been a good idea. good, since the weather had been breathtakingly un-autumnlike... bad, because my antisocial skills were a bit too well-polished. granted, there aren't many friends left, in the area... it's lots easier to ignore the rest of the human race if you're off the radar.
it's not so easy to accomplish when you're doing radio, though, when the point is sociability, in the first place... cheerleading the music you love, the scene that supports it, and the few that make contact on the phone.

somehow, it was just too much mental overload: too many shows to attend, too much school-year traffic, too many people to deal with--i just wanted to turn my back on all of it. and did, effectively enough.

of course, when i swing back the other way, nobody'll be there. that's just how self-inflicted bullshit works.

regardless, it was like nature closed the door behind me, anyway. no sooner had i gotten in the car, bought the few exotic groceries that college towns provide (like, anything other than steak, potatoes, frozen dinners, diet drinks and fifty brands of van-choc-straw ice cream), the fucking heavens unzipped from black, boiling clouds. horizontal rain. zero visibility. hydroplaning sickeningly towards guardrails until grip was restored, just before impact.

no sooner had i crunched up the damp gravel drive (beating the thunderous wave before it broke at home), i dashed into the house to a hungrily bitching cat and dove for a beer.
and the rest, as they say is history. boring history, with the exception of MysteryTrain-DarkWater-Pi:FaithInChaos from Net_Flix, a couple of EPL footie matches, fixing the truck-Miata-Volvo, and making some kickass green curry shrimp. human contact: nada.

hopefully i can get past this reclusive phase, and get on with it... or else i'll turn out like the rest of the family: a wild-eyed, substance-abusing, out-of-touch misanthrope. well, at least i know the ropes on that career-path. i just don't want to wring my neck with it.

damn, this upheaval is a lot bumpier than even i imagined... but what 's worse: living with someone, resentfully, or with the big empty? i think i know the answer to that one... but it's gonna take some agonizing readjustments.

a brief side note:
this town that i've called my home for decades, is also home to a long-established
motorcycle dealer... you know the one. the one everybody, his brother, and their wives have clamored after like the Hell'sAngels never happened. since all you have to do is ante up $20k for the bike, and another couple of grand for the wardrobe, you can be a certified conformist badass... though i thought, in the past, that those terms were mutually exclusive.

anyway... this particular dealer has huge events every few weeks. bikes, by the hundreds. everyone dressed exactly the same: black with orange trim, and leather... and tiny little helmets, so they look like black turtles with itsy-bitsy l'il heads. even when it's hovering close to one hundred in temperature and humidity, with the black clothes. i'm surprised it doesn't smell like a steakhouse, a mile away.

some of these same folks are local... they even have stickers on their SUVs to remind you that they're bikers, dammit.

what is disconcerting is this: badass renegades that they are, when they do decide to drive around in these SUVs with the windows open, ac off, their arms always dangle out of the windows, wrists limp... like a CharlesNelsonRiley/RichardSimmons/RipTaylor convoy. all of them. like it's an advertisement in poofitude. i guess you gotta drop all that posing, after a while.

you can't get away with anything on a Vespa in a HarleyTown, is all i can say.

.


hit me with your rhythm stick




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