you're the captain - i am no one

That line's been running through my head all day. Some song by some chick pop musician. Lately I've been listening to 106.7, the office easy listening station, and that song has come up many times. I know I should always listen to NPR and fill my brain with meat, but...there are times when the brain has had enough meat for awhile.

Today I had a goodbye lunch with Bryan, who's being removed by the evil Methodist church to the wilds of Connecticut. He made fun of me the whole time, drank my pop and checked out the asses of 4th Street. (I know you're reading this, Bryan. You know it's all true.) I then wandered the Village and Tower Records and Strawberry (bought a skirt) and KMart (bought socks and krazy glue for a handle of a mug and for the snout of an elephant/bookend). I felt so consumer like.

Tomorrow I'm having a physical for the Surgery. Have to have a blood count, an EEG and everything. Ugh. I think what I hate the most about this kind of shit is the fact that I become more of a specimin than a person. I have a written health history that I give to all my doctors before they even meet me. Even so, I'm explaining again in minute detail everything that has happened since the age of three.

I wrote a snarfy review in our bookring club of a short story that I just realized was written by a Nobel Prize winner in literature. Ack but no ack. Just because you wrote a good novel doesn't make you a good short story writer.

Tom already wrote about the hubcap kite guy, so I won't repeat it. Though I think "The Hubcap Kite" sounds like a good title.

you don't know what it's like...

Rain rain rain. That's all it seems to do around here. I constantly have to remember my umbrella and wear shoes, not flip flops. And it's the hot, muggy kind. No spritz of refreshment.

I spent the entire day today quite productively, I must say. I did laundry (it wasn't so bad this time), organized all those receipts and papers for financial aid in a nice folder box (this took about 2 hours), and I hung out with a guy from ICD to talk about his screen script for a contest he's entering. So I must say I'm quite proud of myself.

I also read over some comments on one of my stories I wrote this past year. Some of the comments were a little weird and whack; others were good.

Last night Tom and I went to Webster Hall to see Billy Corgan. We basically stood for 6 hours straight for this: in line outside the venue, inside the venue so we could be close to the stage, the two opening acts and finally The Show Everyone Came For. The opening bands were okay--the first one's lead singer had this idea that pumping your head up and down and keeping your eyes shut the entire time means you're "into" the music and that screaming (literal screaming--no words, just screams) makes a song. The second band was geeky and cute and from Kansas City. Doris Henson, I believe their name was. The lead singer had a better stage presence, and the trombone player (yes) was a little weird but it was a good thing to see something different.

Billy's show was great. Had a very intimate sense about it, even though he wore a sort of futuristic, East Germany suit on and lots of techno sound and sight. I didn't know any of the songs from this album, unlike when I saw him during the Pumpkins' MACHINA show, but I liked this show better. The title of this blog has a line from one of his new songs. On the album it has the guy from The Cure singing with him. We got to see him in his street clothes before the show. He wore a pink shirt (!) and a floppy hat. I read an article about him and apparently he's a sort of Christian--the good kind, of course. Heh heh. God save us all...

crazinessssssssssssssssss

I have no clue what is going on with my blog view. Before, it was normal, then, it did this whole huge space beteen blogs, now, the whole title is far from the body!!! I don't know what is the deal. David looked at it before I left Kansas, and he couldn't find anything wrong with my template. Grrrrrrr.

But, I'm back in New York. It's been hot and wet and steamy all day and will be tomorrow I believe. I'm sitting in the LESHRC office, and in my view are several mini buddhas, a turtle with wobby legs, a huge photo of Marilyn Monroe and an elegant vase of roses. People are speaking Spanish and Henry, a friendly and gentle old timer here, has just left for the day. Ben called me from the beach when he and Anna returned to California, bragging, I guess about where he was. But I'm happy where I'm at. The fact that Tom and I have our own little ledge in Harlem, that I have a month's metro pass and tickets to see Billy Corgan tomorrow are enough for me.

bug bites

Last night after sitting in the combine with my bottom half off the seat, I lay on the stubble with Ben, David and Anna while we waited for Dad to finish the field. Mistake. Although the stars were bright and the moon (again red) rose lushiously, I came away with many mosquito and chigger bites. What are "chigger bites?" I'm not mistaking in my spelling of this word--I hope no one takes it as the other word. I don't even know if that's the technical term for it, but they are these little bugs that bite and you don't really notice the red splotches till later. When I took a shower this morning I did finally. They seem to have liked my armpits and knees and the inside of my thighs. They don't itch as much as mosquito bites; at least right now. Many a moon has passed since I had this malady.

sunset, moonrise red

I was a hanger-on at the Great Penner Harvest yesterday evening, and I rode with Ben and Anna (Anna and I were squished into one seat) to the grain elevator. On the way we witnessed this huge pulsing red sun hovering above the horizon. Lyman Adams, the general manager, didn't give us three pops like we were hoping (Emprise Bank usually provides people with pop when they come through), so we came back sad. Well, not really. It's unusual this power of getting something for free. Later that evening I was sitting in the truck talking to Tom on Ben's phone, when this glorious moon, dark dark red, popped up and drove upwards. Both Tom and David tell me it's all an optical illusion--the size and color. That it's in our heads. If someone took a picture of the red large moon it would be the normal size, the normal cover.

ah....Kansas

I need to go bake a pie, so this'll be short. Rode the combine all yesterday afternoon, shooting the breeze with my brothers, where we agreed that we had a weird childhood with this farming stuff--at least to our metro friends. Once in my craft class a classmate said that a country person in a certain story wouldn't be sophisticated enough to commit suicide in some way now forgotten. The next week had a story about turkey farm, and people were all bemoaning the fact of how horribly they died--the turkeys--and how could anyone eat turkey after that. I mentioned I grew up on a hog farm, and how it didn't affect my appetite, and one man literally gasped. Crazy New York-centered people.

oz not ozzy

I am in Kansas. A week ago I was not planning on being here, but with the advent of the Saga of the Hand I've stopped looking for work and Ben found a fairly decent ticket, so here I am for harvest. I haven't been home for this in about 6 years. Everything is lush and green from all of the rain--the mosquitos are horrible. Yesterday I was talking to Tom on the phone and they attacked me on all sides. Right now I'm in the Tabor library doing non-harvest things, looking at a giant mural--it's so ugly. It's one of those carpet murals, showing students studying and playing sports, with a Bible in the middle saying "Hear Ye Him." There are eight men and only two women pictured. Hmmmm...

Today I'm going to pit cherries and bake a cake. I'm doing the what I've said to Ben and Anna (they're here as well) "non-glamorous" harvest work: feeding the workers of the field. So Bible-ish. I'll maybe go out whenever David goes. He's working IT here at Tabor.

On the flight here yesterday I sat among a group of roadies for some band. They were your typical aging hippies: black t-shirts with skeletons, long shaggy hair or beards or both. They kept talking about a venue in Lawrence--which is in Kansas. I should look up the internet and see who they worked with.

washer woman washer woman

I have decided that I'm beginng to really hate washing clothes. I don't know. At the stone house I had to climb into a scary basement. In Menno House I had to lug it down three flights of stairs. In Harlem all I have to do is carry it to the elevator and walk a few yards. I used to love doing laundry. Especially when it was all done and hung up and pristine. Never mind the t-shirts, socks and underwear would begin piling up that very night. I think maybe getting a granny cart will help. That way I don't have to lug big bags around...

After that was finished I sat down and watched part 2 of the Anne of Green Gables the Continuing Story. I don't know why but it made me feel better. It has nothing to do with any of the books. In this story Anne is combing WWI France, looking for everlasting Gil. She gets involved (of course) with a dashing reporter who is working to end the war, and makes several declarations of love, with the hopes that if Gil is dead they will get together. Of course she finds Gil, and there is a sad little scene where Jack says, "So, you're taking the safe road, Anne." (i.e. sticking with Gilbert) Which is ridiculous in some respects because she has just saved his infant son (the mother conveniently died), has dashed through war torn France and Germany and escaped a French firing squad! But in others he is right. Anne once again returns to faithful Gilbert, though man upon man thrashes about in love. And we don't know Gil at all, really. We know the men she denies more than the man she accepts--even in the books it's true. It is as if Gilbert is more the idea rather than reality. At any rate, Jack dies, rather conveniently, because of his work to uncover German spies. Although one would expect they all would have died (he is shot to death shortly after the "safe road" bit) but he happens to be in the adjoing section of the train they're on, and no one goes after the happy couple who is bound to "walk the road together forever" and know what he knows). But Anne and Gil survive, adopt Jack's baby and give Green Gables to Diana and Fred. As nasty as I sound about this movie, I still like it.

homegirl

The other day I baked my first ever rhubarb/strawberry pie. I felt quite proud, though I would've been more proud of making my own crust, but crust is hard and I need to take one thing at a time. It requires a lot of slicing and cutting, which I rather dislike, but once that is done you're basically finished. It was a rather strange, domestic thing to do, but I've had more time on my hands, and I think baking is more in my blood than cooking. I'll leave cooking to Thomas. God or Jebus or Buddha must be telling me that this is good because a woman from church was getting rid of cooking stuff and she gave me a gorgeous, heavy marble rolling pin with a little stand to keep it on and some pie pans, which I didn't have. Or it may just be coincidence.

I scheduled my surgery today: July 15. Apparently I'll be out-patient, so I'll still make the Scott-Miller union--which actually was a stipulation when Dr. Paulansky and I discussed dates. I said I could do anytime as long as it was before July 23 or before August 20 (the Versluis-Fairfield union). I wish it were sooner. I just want to get over with it. I asked him several questions and follow up questions, and he said as I got up to go: "Now you know everything so you can go ahead and do it and I'll go play golf that day."

a confession of sorts

Well, Tom and my parents know, so I may as well tell you I may be going under the knife again, this time to remove my be-tumored fingers on my left hand. For any of you old-time readers, the saga of the fingers has gone on for quite some time, with the evil doctor back in Boston. So I've been avoiding doctors of all kinds since then--I haven't even paid gentle Dr. Liebsch a visit since I left Boston. I take that back--I do see Dr. Vazquez on occasion and Dr. Gonzolez and Dr. Shimoni--all three are great at what they do. Anyway, I made an appointment with one and went to see him Monday. His clinic is a stone's throw from the Metropolitan Museum of Art and is incredibly posh--in spite of that he was very nice and awkwardly funny and took much much more time with me than the other fellow. His recomendation is the same: off with the fingers. They may one day become malignant, apparently. And they have become much more difficult to deal with in looks as well as function.

So.

I don't want to do it at all, but I knew someday this would happen. This time in my life is rather free right now: no job, school doesn't begin until September and my sugar daddy pulling in the dough...

I'll keep you posted.

a juror's tale

So, I did the whole jury thing. Sat in a room with about 200 other souls in a too-airconditioned room, was finally called to go into a courtroom (this was probably, as far as I can remember, the first time I've physically been in a courtroom) with about 80 people and even more airconditioning. Sat there listening to lawyers ask potentials questions until 5 pm. Came back the next day to sit and listen to the same questions. Was sent home early but commanded to return the next day at 9:45 am sharp. Came at 9:30. Was not led into the courtroom until 10:15. Sat until the judge appeared and told us they had selected their jurors (I had not yet been questioned, so thank god I didn't get chosen) and we could go home. This occurred less than an hour after my arrival to Centre St. (near City Hall) and that was after a 45 minute commute to the courthouse! The only positive side of this, they ("They" being the general term) gave us a paper saying we didn't have to serve a jury summons for 6 years, which is 2 years longer than usual. So, I guess I'll be happy with that.

Besides my shadowing of Al Pacino Man (I did sit by him at one point) something weird happened. The weirdness was the fact that I ran into a guy who works at the needle exchange, who was serving jury duty as well. Out of the hundreds of people in the five courthouses in a city of 8 million thereabouts, two people who are connected (one working, the other married) to a little nonprofit in Chinatown meet. That has happened so many times here. I once sat by Andy Baker, who used to go to MMF, on a subway ride to Columbus Circle and didn't notice him until ten minutes into the ride. Another time I ran into a girl who I used to work with at RMM at a Barnes and Noble where I was using the bathroom. That same day I saw another MMF church member on the same street as the Barnes and Noble--on 34th Street.

I will share my jury-summons experience at a later date--I need to get out of here. But I'll give you a tidbit: for the first time in my life I tried to shadow someone. Who? The Al Pacino-fellow. It didn't last very long, but I felt very Pacino-esque doing it.

Well, my first day of jury duty is over, and one if not several more stretch before me much much farther than I care to think of. I guess I can’t disclose much info, beyond I’m in the interview phase of jury selection, am hoping I’ll not be picked because I don’t know how I’d like to decide someone’s fate, guilty or no. Plus, the judge has predicted the trial itself may last well into next week…so, cross your fingers, folks.

It has been interesting doing the people watching thing with my fellow jurors. There’s one guy who looks like Al Pacino would if he had a beer gut and hippie hair. Another geeky boy reading Cryptomicran or whatever that book by Neal Stephenson is. It’s been great to see the society middle-aged beauty queen next to the hood in giant t-shirt and sneakers.