Joel Kliebe is going to die in two days. Probably (and hopefully) not in any literal sense, but for all intents and purposes, Joelboy will soon be dead to the Chico world. I am fairly certain that most of him died last night...somewhere in between the one hundred and ten dollar bar tab we conquered at Tres Hombres and the godonlyknowshowmuch tab that conquered us at LaSalles. But for what its worth, the momo went out on top. King of the world.
Certain memories have been replaying themselves in my head all day. On hands and knees, building fish traps out of gravel and mud along the banks of the Sacramento River. Hiking through Five Mile, researching places to film our ten dollar remake of Lord of the Rings. Mourning the death of Face to Face in Normal St (even though you screwed up the songs toward the end). Running through the frat-filled streets of Chico at 3 am, chasing helicopter search lights. And on and on and on...
But sadly, the most vivid memories are also some of the most painful ones. We crashed and burned with the best of them. But hopefully in the end, that isn't how I'll remember it.
I hope you know that I'll miss you, Joel. You mean the world to me and I need you here more than you know. Come home soon.
"And yet I feel the most real home I'll ever have is the space where our roads merged and traveled along together...for a time." --Craig Thompson, 'Goodbye, Chunky Rice'
monday...humiliation, tuesday...suffocation, wednesday...condescension, thursday is pathetic
"i know your friends are after you to stop seeing me...seeing me at all. 'he says such spiteful things to you.' well maybe, but guess what? you girls say much worse everyday." --as good as gospel--
I know, I know. I promised some of you that I was only going to write about smiles and rainbows from here on out, but you are going to have to allow me this one last indulgence of frustration...after which, I will immediately return to my former glory and will exude nothing but wit and charm upon all of you (swear).
--three hours later--
I was going to write of scandal...of friendships turned otherwise, of excuses ready and waiting, of living for other people's desires...but I no longer want to. Instead...
Walking around with you tonight seemed fraudulent. Pretending to be something we were already...something lesser. Over the past few days, we somehow became acquaintances stepping out for the first time, two people who feel less than comfortable around each other (which is a demon all its own) pretending as though they aren't. Conversation after conversation about the most trivial of things, because fear of "that" conversation keeps everything under lock and key. In any case, its not right...or at least not honest. And if this is your solution to awkwardness...fine. But it seems all the more so to me.
I get hung up on the most simplistic of things. A pretty face, an interesting conversation, that one line in that one song...I am easily intoxicated. Quite often, the initial hook is strong enough to blind me from any hidden (or even glaring) faults. And consequently, I often wind up falling head first into whatever newly found excitement is before me. But blindness ain't forever. Eventually, friendships will turn sour and attraction will fall to frustration...even the bands that stole my heart only months earlier will sound stale and forgettable. But that is life. The ebb and flow, the ups and downs.
I don't know why I occupy myself with people and things that constantly bring me down. Maybe I am just a sucker for disappointment. Lately it seems as though getting bummed about stuff that isn't worth my time is my latest fashion trend...this week's 3 dollar t-shirt and 200 dollar pair of jeans. Perhaps I try to invest too much of myself in others...or maybe not enough (I am too dumb to know the difference). Maybe I should become more self-serving like the people I so easily fall for.
Gotta fake it to make it, I guess.
ps...it turns out that the frustration of attraction isn't so bad after all.
might as well face it, you're addicted to love (and drugs)
Apparently, my former neighbor (and soon to be resident of Butte County Jail) has completely lost his mind. Although the most obvious cause for his transition from James Brown lover to gun-toting psychopath is his fondness for drugs and late night booty calls, I personally attribute his new found lunacy to Number One Jordan's constant drum practice...brilliance like that is enough to drive anyone insane.
I can remember the good old days, when Kenny was perfectly content with late night alleyway brawls and early morning drug induced stabbings. But I think that the poor guy might have gone a bit too far this time. Breaking into your estranged wife's house and scaring the hell out of your children and neighbors is one thing. But shooting at the police is something else entirely. Because guess what? Those dudes shoot back. And judging by the bullets lodged in Ken's body, they shoot fairly well too. But even being shot three times was not enough to convince Kenny to give up. Like a champ (or a tard) Ken hung in there until the tear gas thrown by more dudes with guns finally ended the standoff. Looks like the Italian and I got out of that place just in time.
In other news, if you are going to the Circa Survive show this Friday and want me to go with you, buy me a ticket so that I can go for free. But be warned. There will be no fooling around after the show because I have to hurry over to LaSalles to watch the best Chico band ever play. Well, the best Chico band ever except for these kids.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am the master of doing the same things week after week after week. Between the hourly myspace checkups, Wednesday night at Normal, Saturday night eighties, and hiding crushes from late night board game girls (same game same night same story), my routine has gotten...routine. But yesterday my friend Taylor (heartbreaker extraordinaire) and I left the banality of Chico behind and made our way to Chester, home of Chuck Norris and Pine Shack Frosty. Although Chester is pretty much Paradise with a big(ger) lake, it was still worth the two and a half hours of driving in exchange for fifteen minutes of hamburger eating and pee-water swimming. I even made it back in time to meet up with Daniel and JPEG for some late night debauchery. After all, I can't go around changing my routine all at once, my fans won't know where to find me...
you've got the moves, the shoes, the do-- you've got me
"I often wonder if the girl I marry will be like the girls I fell in love with in my youth; b movies, late night tv, the photos I kept hidden under my bed (my princess and the pea). It will be interesting to resolve whether lust or love becomes the stronger vice." --such a pretty little thing--
I fall for girls like a third grader. Most of the obvious comparisons are in the seduction...the awkward glance, the insult, the sensual nature of rock throwing and hair pulling. I am such a charmer.
However, I have recently discovered why I act the way I do (at least in this regard). It seems that for me, the chase is everything. Its not as though I don't know what to do once the attraction is mutual (although some might beg to differ), but the truth is that I really don't care. I prefer (and sometimes even long for) the unattainable. People fall for each other all the time...simultaneous attraction is boring at best. Attraction should be tripped and stumbled over, completely ungraceful. A conversation here, an argument there, the accidental brushing of skin, the occasional spilled drink...the imperfection of a schoolboy crush.
I have developed way more than my fair share of crushes over the years. Like badges of honor, I remember most of them fondly (even more so when the girls wanted nothing to do with me), taking them out from time to time in order to polish them up or whatever. I cling to some of them incessantly...barnacles on the bottom of an old sailing barge. Some nights (whether from alcohol, boredom, or both) I will pick up the phone and call girls that I haven't talked to in years, just to see if any of the awkwardness still exists. But it never really does. I guess that even third grade lust becomes stagnant after awhile.
honey, I want you to make some friends this summer, lots of them
I often wish that summer vacation still held the same sort of magic that it did when I was younger. Of course, I no longer have anything to vacation from (except for life...but I am putting that off for a while), but that's not the point. Most of the time, I would rather be ten years old than twenty...fifteen rather than twenty-five...and seventeen most of all. But I am cursed. A boy trapped in an older boy's body.
When most guys run into their mid-life crises and start banging girls other than their wives, they often spend a great deal of time reflecting on their childhood summers (and buying expensive sports cars). Most of those suckers probably wish that they could still take vacations as eternal as a ten year old kid's summer vacation. But that is where old people are misguided. Summer vacation is still pretty much the same length as it has always been (except for snow days or whatever). The difference is that people no longer know how to have fun by just doing nothing. Summer for a child is not long or endless by any means...but it is certainly epic. Hell, kids can play with sticks and dirt, and have more fun than some dude carrying around a mortgage and a dental plan ever will.
A few years back, I tried to reinstate the childhood summer, but nobody bought into it. Everyone was too concerned with work and money and blah blah blah. So I spent most of the summer hanging out with myself...and while it was fun for the most part, it really didn't help with my lifetime loner status. I started to think that maybe the fifty-somethings were right. Maybe summer was never meant to be anything more than another lifelong bummer. A dry, hot death that leads to autumn...which is just the windy death preceding winter...and on and on and on. But then again, maybe the fifty-somethings are just a bunch of pricks that don't know any better. Maybe summers can still be epic. I honestly hope that if summer ever decides to come around this year (it is still raining as I write this) that I can do more than just sit on the internet after work, or spend money buying a bajillion more cds that I don't want to listen to. Maybe I can find some cool sticks, and write my name in the dirt outside my apartment...Josh was here '05...
there's something very important I forgot to tell you...don't cross the streams
For those of you who have not done so already, please go here to the netherworld in order to view the forty-one pieces of epic brilliance that I wrote before making my new home here...but be warned, they're epic in a smalltownwhitetrash sort of way.
your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions
Last night as I slept, I dreamt that I was lying in bed at my grandfather's house. I couldn't have been any older than nine or ten at the time...or so it seemed, judging from the weight of my awkward limbs and weakened frame. As I lay awake in bed, I felt a sense of uneasiness come over me. I rose from my twisted sheets and made my way to the front door. Turning and sliding open the various locks, I gently pushed the door forward and peered out into the darkness. Through the fog that hung heavy in the night air, I could make out the shape of two figures...arms outstretched...as if they were being crucified right in front of me. I yelled out, shouting to the beasts that I could see them...as if that would make all the difference. Confident yet cowardly, I went back into bed, but the uneasiness continued to lay with me. Once again, I cautiously opened the door, but slammed it shut almost instantly. My mind was filled with images of gnarled teeth and tattered clothes...a nightmare within a nightmare. I ran from the door, collapsing into bed, heaping blanket upon blanket over my body. Although I couldn't see a thing, I knew the figures would see the movement in the shadows, the drawing of breath within the bed, the sweat seeping through the sheets...and fear began to worm its way through.
I have slept night after night with the same visions plodding through my head. The faces and places change...but the fear remains the same. Every night I am chased and hunted...an animal awaiting its execution. Some mornings when I awake, I search my body for bruises and gashes...seeking out evidence that the nightmares I am cursed with exist not only in my mind. Because fear of this nature has to leave its mark somewhere...
