He revels in Academia

I was reading this 1927 book the other day- - Twilight Sleep by Edith Wharton- - and one of the characters had like, this To-do list of things and it would usually point out to an Eurythmics event.
“You know,” I mused to no one but myself, “Who would´ve thought of Edith Wharton as an Annie Lennox buff?”

Of course it took me like, ages, to do the proper math and figure out the 50-year-plus paradox, then go browse the dictionary for “eurythmics”, which what do you know, is a word after all...


Before I turn 30...

Dawn breaks through a cold Sunday morning as I watch myself pinching the bridge of my nose against the car window. I´m mildly drunk & riding in the backseat with this gorgeous, I kid you not, Chilean brunette I´ve just met lying down across the seat, her head resting on my left thigh. I´m caressing her hair just above her temple.

I can´t, I´ve just decided, for the life of me, recall either her name or the name of the guy who´s driving us to this 24-hour sushi bar. God only knows what makes people crave for Japanese food after wasting themselves off in a nightclub, but it happens.
I myself suggested this fancy bakery not really far from where we were, but what the hell.

A while back, it must had been there around four a.m., everyone was exhausted but I just kept on dancing and this guy comes up to me and asks what have I taken ´cause he wants just the same. Nothing, really, I tell him. What I don´t tell him is that these freaking euphoria attacks are probably going to be the death of me.

Later on, after the sushi, everyone´s trading up age information: The how-old-are-ya´s and such. I tell everyone I´m sixteen and when they doubt it I just tell them to ask my mother or any of my ex-girlfriends.
Everybody laughs; it works every time.

The point in this one is.... what I really want you to know today, so that it gets perfectly clear when going over everything that´s happened afterwards... is that I can´t possibly conceive breaking thirty, getting old, that kind of stuff.... because I just don´t want this to stop, you know, living like this, not a care in the world, absolutely alone though lonely only when I really want to, pushing through the limits of sleep-deprivation to hear that favorite track in the CD one last time, going for ice-cream in the middle of the night, hitting bars and nightclubs, and even going dead-drunk to museums to laugh at Impressionism paintings and well, whatever comes to pass.

A little before we left the dance floor-- last guys out, actually—they were playing this dance remix of Outfield´s Your Love and there´s this line it says, I like my girls a little bit older. I held this really cute blonde I know by her shoulders and sang in her ear, I like my girls a little bit blonder.
She looked at me from the corner of her somewhat slanted eyes from all those Cosmopolitans she´d been taking down, and blew me a kiss with her hand. I gave her the old routine in response, that cocky half-smile curling the left corner of my mouth, then slipped this piece of paper inside her purse.

And what it said was........................



from the WordNet 2.0 dictionary, 2003:
1. the boundary marking the edge of the sun's influence; the boundary (roughly 100 AU from the sun) between the interplanetary medium and the interstellar medium; where the solar wind and the wind from other stars meet.
(hypernym) boundary, bound, bounds."

It's Sunday afternoon and we're all at this party, at this luncheon at blondie-who-works- for-Porsche's and the two of us have just returned from the grocery with Coke, bread and charcoal for the barbecue.
She's wearing blue jeans and a flower-pattern tank top with strips ending up in a small knot around the back of her head. I have my sunglasses on even though it's cloudy, mainly because I can't take my eyes off her cleavage.

She opens the trunk of her car which is not a Porsche, sadly, and we wrap the charcoal in paper bags, in shiny plastic bags with the Sttutgart Porsche logo on them.
I throw a couple of half-smart one-liners at her, mostly referencing to that being the ultimate proletarian wet-dream under Socialism, stuff like that.
It takes her nearly half a minute to beam a modest smile back at me. I flinch then hope the bottle of Absolut I've left on the sink by the grill has been left untouched by the other attendees.

Back at her place all the girls' husbands or boyfriends are manning the cooking while the girls themselves give me hell, half-jokingly, for being such a sloth and not doing actual work per se, just sitting around chatting, drinking:
They tell me I'm an overindulged, pampered snob but I just smirk under the sunglasses and say I'm not a snob but a bon-vivant, and way too cool for menial work on a Sunday, of all days, for chrissakes.

...daylight moves on then slips into twilight: the act is kept on, everything taken in stride.

I'm standing outside as evening falls, leaning against a concrete pillar, making small talk to this green-eyed brunette who's sort of a stand-in for Angelina Jolie but more of a local variation sans the glam, and she just happens to be a vegetarian. Conversation soon drifts away from what the hell I’m thinking of the MBA course towards debating the pros & cons of not eating any meat.

Bizarro-Angelina has been going on and on for what seems like hours with the argument that eating meat is bad because of Commie-stuff like the suffering the cattle go through.
I tell her she's missing the point entirely, mostly because the animals' sacrifice is exactly what makes it so damn cool in the first place, then compare it to Jesus Christ dying at the cross for her sins, and thus that by refraining from eating meat it’s like she’s forsaking her faith in Christianity.

She looks at me half-appalled and half-fascinated by the analogy.
I look at her with mild interest once I jump to the (inaccurate) conclusion I've never gone down on a veggie cunt before and I'd sure like to try, at least for completion's sake if not for anything else, but then I realize I totally forgot about this other girl I used to go out with, like, a few months ago, who was indeed a veggie and just begged me to take her to that fancy place with the overpriced quinoa seed vegetarian burgers all the time. Which I did and even paid the bill, but only after we were done with all the respective going-downs.

I think of you and how, when we first met, you so sucked at this kind of socializing but as time went by I saw you go on to become the Magellan of circumnavigating the mundane. Yet this is me 'N' years later and still utterly unable to connect without using a façade of some kind.

Mildly exasperated at Bizarro-Angelina, I roll my eyes.

...evening creeps into utter darkness, fun & games decay to sheer boredom, to sheer contempt: Nighttime comes alone and my interests skim a little closer to the edge of the kingdom of destruction, to the principality of pain.

from "Atmosphere", by Joy Division, 1980:

"People like you
find it easy,
Naked to see,
Walking on air…"


( i N - b E t W e E n p O s T s )

Sometimes I wonder about this story, see, about to where the protagonist is being taken and just how this is gonna end.


A portrait of the author on a Monday in mid-2008

Alarm clock goes off at 5:44 AM.
Wake up with a heartburn from last evening's champagne.

Get down to push-ups.

Cold shower.
Corn flakes low-fat cheese then prunes.

On the radio: Outfield's Your love-- "I like my girls a little bit older" (so do I!). Book: Thomas Pynchon's V. Borderline unintelligible.

The office:
Briefings. De-briefings. Post-briefing briefings. Slidewares and spreadsheets, then methods and procedures. BCPs, FPLs, PMOs and a whole orchard of acronyms irrigated by rivers of sugarless coffee. Modern-day myths out of last-minute Gantt chart re-workings bring together a migraine then more heartburn.
A cereal bar during the morning, lunch over somebody else's desk at noon, with a pear shutting down the afternoon.
Not working late today.

Overcrowded as usual followed by the old Superman routine changing clothes in the bathroom stall at the mall: a smile.

Take it to the streets: Relax.
Grind down the cartilage in the knees by jogging uphill with a full backpack.
Out of breath.

Pit-stop at the bookstore: Ex Machina, Legion of Super-Heroes and reprints of old Marvel handbooks.
Browse over something by Joseph Heller but stick to the comic books instead.
Brains rot.

Home at last:
Weightlifting and abs-crunchers for about 40 minutes.
Another cold shower.
Dinner and the news.
Call mom through Skype then fool around on the Internet for a couple of hours or so listening to the same Joy Division album from the day (week?) before.
Read comics.
Watch TV.
Brains rot a lot more!

Two-thirty in the morning:
Hot shower then the sack.
Lights out, then dream weird shit.

- - - - - - - - - -
Ready for tomorrow: Boy you move fast enough and the bad stuff will never catch up with you.