shit is funny yo

no, not actually. I was going to write a post or something, but I'm kinda fucking tired and out of steam, and I really just wanted the blog to republish itself so I could see if it added a picture.

was in new haven visiting with mike, adrienne, ben and morrie. good times. went out for a job and didn't get it. I imagine that in the next couple months I'll go out for some more and not get them, meanwhile my current employment is sucking the marrow from my bones, and any ounce of good humours from my pancreas. it's a beautiful world out there tonight, but I'm not in it.

erratacism

"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me." --moby dick, by melville.

I often want to knock the hats off passersby, in a metaphorical sense.

'Is this superbowl weeekend?' 'yeah.' 'Good, the traffic will be down.'

I tend to have involved daydreams. I often daydream about sucess amidst the banality of regular life; becoming incredibly efficient and inspired and learned and making incredible sums of money, living in fabulous places, having incredible romances. Like anyone's daydreams, they probably all function as sort of problem-solving salves to facets of my life that my subconcious feels is lacking. When I say they are 'involved', I mean it in the sense that I don't daydream being rich, or powerful or in a fantastic relationship, I daydream my way to that point, because as far as entertainment goes, it's the part where you get to the happy ending, not the happy ending, that is interesting.

For instance, two days ago, I was given a truly unfortunate task at work. That task was to climb up the six storey scaffold, enter the east attic with a large rubbermaid brute trashcan, and effect the removal of all the detritus that has been created thus far by roof-raising projects, wall demolition, and various other debris making activities. It doesn't seem that bad at first, when you look at it that way, but the process is incredibly complicated by the fact that there is a team of framers (wooden structure roofer guys from pennsyltuckey) who are enthusiasticly 'encapsulating' all of the debris under a new roof about two feet off of the floor, and the fact that each load of debris, be it granite chunks, bricks or spent marlboro boxes, must be loaded into another bucket on the scaffold landing, lowered down to ground level on a well wheel, and then loaded into yet antother bucket to be hauled to the dumpster. Since I am the only one in my particular company on this particular jobsite who is classified as a labourer, the entire process is up to me to complete. So I have to crawl under the new roof on my stomach, in the dust and in the dark, avoid perferating my skull on the huge nails that are sticking through the new tongue-and-groove boards above, grab as many pieces of brick as I can carry with one arm, slither my way out, put it in the bucket, lower it by hand, tramp down the scaffold stairs, load the new bucket into another new bucket, sling it over my shoulder, and slog through the muddy snow to the dumpster at the front of the site. Then I repeat the whole process about fifty times. In order to keep sane, I spend a good part of the beginning having intense fantasies about murdering my superiors, or gaining super powers that will allow me to pulverize all of the debris into dust, and then throw it to the wind.

These fantasies aren't very detailed though, and both are higly improbable, so I end up going back to my standard kind of daydreams. The one that took shape in my head that day was strange, and made me think about the nature of popular romance a bit, so I'll jot it down briefly. There is another job, one that I have applied for, that among other things, involves acting as a liason between the company and a construction company that is building their new building (a construction company, that ironically, is the same company I work for now, but that is of no moment for my daydream). The new building's wooden structure is being built by a Amish Barn-raiser named Aeiff (this part is completely true, and based in fact.). My daydream starts with me being hired for that job. This is my brain answering my brain's constant complaining about my current activity; I escape to greener pastures and am incredibly good in a new job. right. Part of my job is dealing with the construction of this new building, and in that process, I get to know Aeiff. Now Aeiff doesn't drive, being amish, and so at the end of every workweek, he needs someone to drive him back to his quaint farm in Lancaster, PA. I, being interested in the Amish, and ever the good-samaritian (remember, I'm making all this shit up in my head, so of course, I'd be a perfect citizen) offer to give Aieff a ride back to Lancaster every week. In the process I get to know him, and after many conversations with him over his corncob pipe, once He is sufficiently satisfied that I am a good person, albeit a gentile (this may be incorrect, I know that mormons refer to all non-believers christian, jewish and islamic alike as gentiles, but I don't know if the amish do, but you know what I mean) he invites me for dinner. He lives in a perfect movie version of amish life, and the dinner is amazing. His daughter is also amazing. I think you see where I am going with this. I borrows images from that Harrison Ford movie The Witness for this part of my daydream, mostly for what his daughter looks like and how the family is. What ensues is some kind of romance, fraught with cultural difficulties and tough descions. The dream gets hazy at this point, because I'm almost at the completion of it, entertainment wise, and so I stop manufacturing it at a through pace. I don't really know how it ends up, since I didn't end it; I tend to leave all of my daydreams open at the end, with a suggestion about what wil l happen but not a concrete resolution.

But the daydream got me thinking, once again, about the nature of popular romance, or popular romantics. When I run romances in my head, they are often like formulaic romance movies, or stories, because again, I'm doing it for my own entertainment. You couldn't sell a romance movie where each partner treats each other really well, and the entire movie they communicate properly and buy each other ties and flowers and nice dinners. No one would watch it, it'd be boring. Those little old Jewish Ladies who come to the pikesville library every week with a cardboar box of romance novels to return and refill would run screaming back to park heights if in those books the Scottish Lord courted the fiesty and independent, yet trapped by the strictures of her times heroine, took her home to his castle on the moors, and impregnated her happily, creating a lot of noble scottish children, and taking part in a few hunting parties. There has to be kidnappings, conflicts. The characters have to hate each other at one point, in order for their love to be trully realized and shining amid the contrast. At the same time, the characters cannot trully be terrible people for it to be the most satisfying romance. They have to both be people who deserve romance, and so it is necesarry for every conflict to be created by misunderstanding, sometimes un-aided, but also sometimes created by a nefarious lesser character who for reasons of their own does not wish love to prevail.

It makes me think then, if people nowadays (in the general sense) who will not read or watch something about love that works normally, can possibly enjoy relationships in their own lives without noncommunication, or misunderstanding. If all they find interesting is conflict that better illuminates how real a couple's love is for each other, how can they be interested in a relationship that isn't filled with the cinematic ups and downs that are so common as to be cliche in a movie or a book? If their girlfriend wakes them up everymorning with breakfast in bed or a blow-job, or their husband comes home everynight with different flowers, or chocolates, what does any of it mean, if there is no bad to compare it to? Where is the incredibly frantic last minute chase scene in the airport, or the quasi-embarrising protestation of their love in front of a crowd of callow and snide New Yorkers? How often does a person feel strongly enough about a relationship they're in to actually sacrifice something, or on a lesser scale, to do something socially embarrasing for their love? Lotta questions and no answers, but I'm just thinking here.

Back to cinema examples, take The Bridget Jones books and movies. I've not read the books, so I'm just going to talk on the movies, and in fact, I haven't seen the second movie, and only watched the first one beause of some girl, much the same reason that I've seen most seasons of Sex in the City, but I think the movies will still illustrate my point. In the first movie, Bridget, who is supposed to be a regular girl, and so the actress who plays her, renee zellweger, had to gain 20 or 50 pounds so that women would identify with her more, needs a man. As the movie plays out, she has a choice of two: Her asshole boss, hugh grant, is one choice, and he's zany, fun, rich but also unreliable and will probably hurt her, and a uptight lawyer, colin firth, who is a nice, upstanding citizen but has about as much charisma as al gore. She ends up making the responsible choice, and what seems like the right choice at the end of the movie and goes for the subdued but really nice lawyer with the reindeer sweater. Fine. The second one comes out, and I haven't seen it mind you, but I read the tagline and synopsis. Her relationship with the lawyer isn't going so well. He's a conservative voter, and he probably likes to read the newspaper all day saturday, instead of taking her for romantic boat rides in thames. The old boss shows up a bit on teh scene, and the choice is back on! Boring and reliable, or fantasticly handsome and debonair with a air of uncertainty. I don't know how she chooses, I imagine that stays with the lawyer, because people can't really stomach a main character who is a bad person, but here we have an example of all the stupid conflict shit that is necesarry to cement a regular relationship for the bridget jones character.

For more on this subject see those two remy arcand movies, the decline of the american empire, and the barbarian invasions. They are by no means an indepth look into the relationships of men and women, but they do hit on some real interesting points. that and they're funny and sexy and french, or quebecois rather.

Mine's Not a High Horse

so to update from my last post on the Lee Chavez Incident:

The newest epithet posted on the latrine wall:

"On Weekends, Lee enjoys filling in as stunt double for Michael Jackson in Gay Porn."

The author has started to incorprate more complex sentence structure, and references to pop culture, his taste evolves.

Lee, obstensibly, has written the following below this new comment, which is situated directly above the plastic urinal bucket thing:

"Reggie, Instead of writing nasty comments on the wall, why don't you be a man and talk to my face about this."

I'm assuming it's Lee, since he is the object of all the nasty comments, but no one signed it, so it could have been put there by an imposter.

The only other people who receive a nasty time of it in the Latrines are the Mexicanos. There have not been, as of yet, any comments directly maligning our latino brethren, but there will be poems on the wall like the following:

"Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, Here is a Mexican Dish Served up for YOU!" with an arrow pointind down into the absolutely disgusting bowl (As a sidenote, I have to say that I think I can probably handle any awful bathroom situation as I have become accustomed to the terribleness that is our work outhouses, and I can't imagine much that would top them in terms of absolute filth). Other comments, such as "Mexican Soda Straw" are listed with arrows pointing to the exhaust stack that comes out of the toilet's tank, "Mexican Breath Mint" pointing to the Urinal Cakes, and so on and so forth.

I have been thinking lately, that if all else fails, I'll hit the road, maybe Route 66 for six months and write and photograph a coffee table book about the inscriptions that one can find on bathroom walls. You know, stop at truck stops, gas stations and public toilets and chronical a little slice of the gutter level of societys creative impulse. Sure there'd be a lot of "If you want a good time call..." and "Mary is a filthy whore" but hidden between this detritus, you might find little bits of hidden profundity, and perhaps, GASP, original thought. But then again this project would involve frequenting gas station restrooms for six months, and I'm not sure I'm up to that. I'll leave the road to kerowhaCK! I know, it's not spelled correctly, I'm not gonna look it up.

Cryptonomicon, by Neal Stephenson, is an absolutely fantastic book. I've read it before, but it's just as good this time, and I honestly can't remember enough details about the plot to ruin the story for me a second time.

Also, a messege for Charles: I think that due to the overwhelming Dr. Patrick content of your blog, you should rightly change the name from Caught in the Traps, to The Julian Files. Your prose is solid gold, and you have to understand that writing must be a part of your working future, else you will not be happy, but if you don't start spenting brainpower on a subject other than Julian Patrick soon, you too, will one day admit to being the mother of a child.

That's all.

oh, how I Love you, in the evening, when you are sleeping.

rush rush rush rush. no, I like to take things slow, sometimes. slow hands, if you will.

I've begun to learn how to play Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect on my classical guitar, which is satisfying a little. I keep rereading books I've already read, which while a safe bet, is also kind of moving backwards. I try and reread books that reward further readings, and hope that at least in that, I can say that, you know, I'm getting more stuff out of them or something. I mean isn't that what aeriodite people do, reread books hundreds of times?

I broke my wooden hammer last week, and replaced it at Sears, as they have a hammer for a hammer policy. So I handed over my worn wooden hammer, with Thor branded on the side, and picked up a metal hammer with a rubber grip. I liked my old hammer better, but this new one is heavier, so it's basically more useful to me, because honestly, a big guy like me can't be seen plinking away at shit with a dinky little 16 ouncer.

As always nothing really changes around here, things are mostly the same. I'm working on something that may change all that, but I'm not going to talk about that just yet, as I don't want to jinx myself too much, and I don't want it in the public memory yet. ha! what public. The area I live in is populated with only jewish people, and around here, that means I'm outside the circle. It's either hot jappy girls, or frumpy regular girls, and I'm totally outside their gene pool, so I don't register. I know that's not really true or anything, but I'm going to pretend it is, for now.

I cleaned my room really well this weekend, as I do most weekends, as my sunday cleansing ritual. coupled with a shower and lots of laundry, it adds up to a lot of cleansing.

Now for something construction related. there was an InTouch in the booth at lunch, leftover from the female security guards at night. I looked like a fag (please pardong me, any people of the gay persuasion, I simply use the term to explain what they'd call me for reading a celeb magazine.) for reading it, but I'll be damned if I'm going to read carroll county times again. and they had huge sections on debunking or confirming celebrity rumors. mostly stuff like is so and so fucking so and so, and how. but they had really weird shit too like "Does Mariah Carey think Maryiln Monroe is Haunting her Piano?" the verdict? NO. it's so terrible the stuff in that magazine, or the hundreds of others like it. It's like a really base form of human existence. How is Jennifer Coping, does she need 'alone' time, did Brad cheat? How is she going to fill her giagantic room/shower in their Mansion?

Also, the company we use for plumbing and ductwork has been having trouble finding plumbing work recently, so they have a bunch of plumber dudes who don't really have work. Well Lee, the 'Lead Plumber' had them all sent down to the basilica to help the ductmen, which in the eyes of the plumbers is only slightly better than being laid off.

So anyway, these plumbers are mighty pissed at having to work with the scum-sucking, fuckbrains that are the ductment. So one of them starts to write nasty epithets in the port-o-johns or whatever to the effect of "Lee is a no good mother fucker." "Fuck Lee and his mother" "Lee likes to blow men" etc. The guy comes and exchanges the spot-a-pots for new ones, well no sooner than he leaves there are new things up on the walls. The first reads:" It's a new pot, but Lee is still a no good gay ass motherfucker." Lee has a Mrs. Chavez somewhere, but we never hear about her, so his sexuality is still mostly in the air to me, but unlike another guy on the site, who lives with a "roomate" named Jim, and is nearing 50, who comes in the morning complaining about how much is ass hurts, Lee has never given any sign of being either homosexual, or as the rest of the comments say, a no good motherfucker. well maybe he's a bit of a no good motherfucker, but thats besides the point, almost everyone that works there is a no good motherfucker, except me of course, obviously.

Anyway, my real bone to pick here (uhh really I didn't intend any puns or anything) is with the second, new, comment. It reads something like this: "Lee likes to Lick manly Giant Cock and rub hairy balls on his gum." Now there is a slight problem with this statment, if you assume two things: a.) it was written out of malice, and not stating a happy fact, and b.) the author was a contruction worker. This is because, if it is meant as an insult, it very neatly insults every macho motherfucker on the job, which pretty much includes everyone, again, except for me. obviously.

Lee likes to suck 'manly' cock, but doesn't that imply that they guy getting his cock sucked is both manly and gay? I suppose not, because as in John Water's movie, Pecker, where a strip-club dancer is caught by his parents tea-bagging a gay man and defends himself by saying "Mom, I'm not Gay, I'm Trade; Queers blow me!" one may get a blowjob from a man and not technically want to fuck them or whatever, but it's one of those grey areas I've never really figured out, or wanted to figure out, for that matter. That aside, the author of the comment is associating the quality of being manly with being homosexual, not exlcusively, but he is at least admitting to the idea that men may be manly and homosexual, a concept that is really outside of the average construction worker's mental capacity. Manly men enjoy blowjobs from the lead plumber. Am I stretching this too far? I don't know.