one tick mark beyond a quarter century

It's possible that my mother still has the scrap of paper on which I vowed, with signature, to abolish in the year I turned twenty-five my habit of twenty-some cigarettes per day. Today, no, yesterday (glancing at the clock in the lower right) I turned twenty-six years of age. The post twenty-fives had been reserved for my older siblings, it seemed, for exactly three and one half years. My sister celebrates a half birthday by reminding me it's her half birthday whenever she needs a privilege to abuse me on this day. I tell her I'll be half as nice to her as I usually am.

An advantage of being born three days after Christmas is that gift-giving relatives are usually still lingering about the house. I'd be hard pressed to recall the genre of gift last given to a sibling for his or her birthday. However, I am given a second showering of gifts, as I politely protest the generosity. It's my mother's tradition to give me free reign over her credit card with a few guidelines. I am to choose one item sold somewhere on the Internet that doesn't exceed a reasonable amount of money. Indecision always sets in.

My first thought was to buy a membership to a popular file-sharing service, but found their service to have mysteriously switched to free status. Perhaps I was looking at a different service when the idea was implanted, but no matter. My desires turned to computer gaming. I'm not much of a gamer at the moment, having sold most of my library on EBay for horrifically small sums. I own Sim City 3000, a car racing game and two Atari classics (Frogger and Centipede) adapted for 3D graphics chipsets. Driving games help me to blow off the most steam of any game, shoot-em's included. Maybe I need a new one; the one I own only has three tracks, and the cars kind of drift around funny.

It was this kind of criteria that kept me searching for the perfect futuristic car racing game on which to spend my mother's money. I'm quite particular about the car racing games I play, which doesn't mean I'm particularly good at playing them. Crusin' USA, World, or Erotica, as seen in many arcades across America, usually leave me dead last; and these are of the easier arcade console driving games in existence. Of course, there's the fact that I'm a purist and select a manual transmission each time. I can't even drive a stick in real life.

A peeve of mine in regards to any racing game is the addition of guns, missiles, mines, the need for armor, or any other battle-related feature. There are few things more poorly conceived than a fireball rising up off the ass of your then slowed car when there was little you could have done to prevent it. In the one demo of a rather beautiful space-themed game, a new annoyance was founded. Power-ups for speed are very Nintendo, so I don't mind seeing them when I'm playing F-Zero for nostalgia. It just doesn't seem like I'm in the grit of trying to push my car ahead when there are floating, rotating hearts above the track every few hundred yards.

Like for any inanimate object, I felt a little sad for the car racing games that I immediately rejected either by name or by nuance. I grew attached to the ones I looked at long enough to criticize the beauty in the backgrounds of the screenshots. A non-futuristic demonstration version I have just tried proved too meaty for this computer's graphics card, and I kept having to put the car in reverse after I gained enough speed--and the frame-rate decayed--and crashed into a ditch, barrier or tree for lack of visibility.

What to do with no more than five thousand pennies? Maybe I'll pick up a new portable CD player. I need that.

My birthday bore no phonecalls, which is meloncholy, which is amplified by the vodka I'm sipping. It's possible to say I ran into an old friend as my sister and I were getting a birthday-half-birthday drink at the local bar. The friend, a thirty-or-so woman, recognized me from a long conversation we had at the same bar this summer. I was fresh out of the hospital and soon to be returned to it. I don't recall the entire conversation that occured that summer, but I remember the tone. It delved into the complexities and implications of being young and having an entire life ahead. This woman is a bit pseudo-inspirational, probably egged on by copious amounts of booze. But she's great, really. I would marry her for her soft, soothing, comforting voice and uplifting inflection.

Stay tuned for more holiday blogging from Bayfield, Wisconsin.

holiday sneer

Admittedly, I'm one of those fools who is capable of feeling sitcom special style holiday ambiance. It strikes as a kind of cerebral jingling. It's the overdone lighting spectacles and the half-inch snowflake showers and the recordings of children's choirs and the warmth that comes from entering a decorated establishment after walking seven blocks in the freezing wind. There is a moment when the tears on my nearly frostbitten eyeballs well up, the scene becomes a Christmastime blur and I nearly have a yuletide seizure. This sounds like it may be disorienting, and it is, but it's not at all unpleasant.

I mentioned that this overwhelming sensation resembles a sitcom's Christmas special's intended mood enhancement. I seldom watch television at this age, but as a child I camped next to a fire, which crackled in a Franklin stove, and in front of a television through most of my vacation from school. A point was made to view as many Christmas specials, particularly animations, in order to saturate myself with this feeling.

Cynicism is a trait of mine, and I justify it well. And however being an atheist, the jadedness hasn't seeped into the celebration of Christmas. The meteorological, the auditory and visual changes in the holiday season are probably more important to my emotional epilepsy toward it than are the honoring of a human god or the tradition of gift exchange. Some folks could make me sick with the amount of preparation and effort they devote to the season, while others sadden me in the way they regard some of the traditions.

I speak of reunion with family and gift giving as traditions that can be debased with one's attitude. To touch lightly on the reuniting: my family is without interpersonal grievances as far as I know. The people I hear talk here and there speak of grudges held against and distaste for seeing certain members. It puzzles me that for some no gathering is without discomfort. At any party one is likely to want to avoid or only feel obligated to talk with another party goer. To me, being home with the bloodline is a solace from my social life, which is sometimes filled with awkwardness and avoidance. My family, however lame it may sound, is a major key to my psychological support.

While I was dining at the Brady Street Pharmacy today, I observed a young woman sit down next to a man shoveling down pancakes at the bar section. She began rambling to him in a mildy upset manner, while he barely acknowledged and never slowed his devouring of the nighttime breakfast. The girl was shaken because she was buying movies for her relatives and didn't know that one she had bought was released last year. She was sure her father had the movie, and didn't like the idea that he would have to exchange it, but he wouldn't be able to get a refund. She brought up a movie she had gotten for the pancake-eating man. He had apparently hated it, but he made no indication either way.

We happened to leave the counter at about the same time, so I followed the conversation all the way to the cash register. She still carried on, in disbelief that she would give movies as gifts that the people she knew either didn't like or already had. "Just get him a fruitcake!" I wanted to offer. The idea of returning gifts is appauling to me. I'd sooner spread the wealth by donating the duplicate movie to the local thrift store and allow someone to score a bargain. If by some large oversight the gift I receieved from someone was absolutely and totally useless to me, there's a good chance I'd say my thank you, make up a terrific story about how I'll use it, and stash it somewhere forever.

A sigh of relief is granted to myself when all the presents I have bought for my kin are exposed to them. Sometimes I think we all should just take a trip to Florida like I've heard others' families do for the holidays. But then, I'm more afraid to fly than disappoint Uncle Larry. (I don't have an Uncle Larry. I just wanted not to offend a particular family member.)

Christmas doesn't turn me on and make me frisky, and I've spoken of Christmas quite enough now. I am beginning to get a distaste for the subject. My true ultimate intolerance for the season is showing through, I guess. If this were a Christmas card, I'd wish you a white Christmas or something. I don't know. How about this for a sendoff in a Christmas greeting card? May all your gifts please you, or at least be returnable.

twenty minutes in an electric chair

So sue me. I have an itch to write about the events of my night.

Perhaps I should start with a synopsis of the night prior. Six kids, friends of a roommate, show up in the foyer. They gift me with cheap whiskey in exchange for a place to get a bit rowdy. They should be back again soon, and they are welcome. In the chaotic drunken exit scene they managed to leave most of the things with which they arrived. Some highly sulfurous-smelling medication, a punk-like journal, an envelope of photographs and, surprisingly enough, a french horn are neatly arranged and awaiting their claiming.

If the reader has ever graced this apartment with his presence, the reader might be startled by the phrase "neatly arranged" when referring to items within the space. Mr. Rapscallion, whose name appears on the lease, is probably the worst detriment to any sort of organization to the apartment. R. Douglas is a painter and generally has a few canvases rolled up here and there, but his main offense is where he leaves his socks. He squats our couch and could be a lot worse. Clutter has come in the form of photographs from Rapscallion's projects at school, a lot of clothing, tapes and CDs, and these notecards that are also probably used for school purposes but sometimes have these really ambiguous phrases on them. I wish I had an example, but I've thrown them all away.

Ah ha. Now it's clear. I have thrown away or retired the notecards to Rapscallion's room. The apartment is sparkling now, and it's only 3 AM. Fueled by a two liter bottle of Coca-Cola left over from last night's wild whiskey binge, I have cleaned the uncleanable. Uncleanable. Brings to mind horrible visions of filth and sin, eh? But now, I'd bring the mayor here for dinner. He'd get mac-n-cheese or a frozen pizza, but he'd be sure to comment on the previously obscured hardwood floors.

So I celebrated. After I was through filling a prescription at the local Walgreens, I would stop by my favorite sub shop for a vegetable special. The wait at Walgreens was twenty minutes, projected. There is a small waiting area beside the pharmacy counter. It appeared as though a new chair had been installed. A sign instructed, "Try a massage. Just press 'Demo.'" I had twenty minutes, and had not been to a masseuse since... Wait a minute, I've never been to a masseuse, I realized. I remembered my sister telling me she was going to one when she finished her last final exam. She, being California folk, would probably scoff at an automated muscle relaxing chair. But I was curious.

The thing didn't even demand a quarter. I hit the "Demo" button as instructed and felt the thing start jabbing my back on either side of the spine. It started at my lower back and slowly cycled upward. About halfway up, it encountered a knot of tension on my left side. It stung, but in a very lovely way. I experimented with the other buttons. There was a "Lower" and an "Upper" button. For any massaging to be accomplished with the "Upper" feature, I had to lean my neck back a bit. Eventally my drugs were bottled and stickered, and I exited Walgreens with a spine tingling with delight.

Before walking into the Walgreens/Massage Parlor, I passed the sandwich shop I was now going to enter. I had seen the resident advisor who had checked me out of my room this last Summer, after I was released from the psychiatric ward the first time. I had, that Summer, asked him in what I now suspect was earshot of the only female resident advisor, "Any hot RAs work here?... No? That's not what I saw." This female resident advisor was to become the center of my manic attention. I called her about 50 times and left messages. I seem to have to retell this story a lot. Anyway, he was at the sandwich shop, munching some cold cuts. I didn't want to see him. I may have skipped the massage and headed for the shop immediately after dropping off my prescription, but I needed to pass time so that he would finish eating and leave.

I have come to the decision that I'd rather know they know what happened, and know they don't care... than not know if they know what happened and not know if they will ridicule me when I see them. I've been seeing these Milwaukee School of Engineering folk around, and I wonder if they recognize me as that crazy guy who called the RA a godzillion times. It makes me vibrate with the same kind of nervousness as if she, the RA, was right there instead.

I passed a defunct Italian sandwich shop on the way home. The sign still said, "TRY OUR FRESH ITALIAN SAUSAGE." It's a sad little spectacle, the long since abandoned storefront. But, I walked into a clean apartment and the depressive thought soon escaped my concentration. I have an undeniable feeling that when Mr. Rapscallion returns he will be joyous at the tidiness of the apartment but will then begin exasperatedly sputtering, "Where'd you put my..." and "You touched my photos!"

wait a minute mistress mail carrier

As breathtaking as is the thought of the United States' infrastructure of roads, highways and expressways; also is the idea that nearly any parcel of merchandise or communication may be transferred anywhere via these passageways. Like a blood vesicle on one's fingertip has a path leading back to one's aorta, a letter in the Ozarks of Florida has a 99% chance of reaching Seattle, Washington if so addressed. Nonetheless, both the transportation routes and the system of communication are taken for granted. Advertisements, collection notices, judicial summons, etc. flock to the P.O. Box without any appendum to the effect of "Isn't this so cool?"

Of course physical mail from friends and relatives has a treasurable value. I think postcards are a pretty neat gesture, especially when my father is the featured photographer or when there is an inside joke referenced by the graphic. This past summer, a friend was working in California. Being in Wisconsin, I made use of my time in psychiatric wards sending her scores of postcards. In a short interval I had proven myself fit for the outside world, I sent her a package containing a mixed compact disc, a bag of Fisher™ pistachios and a printout of an unusually organic-looking fractal. She in turn sent me a pressed maple leaf with all colors of a leaf's life cycle represented, a couple of photos of herself taken at a photobooth, and a letter written on the back of a puzzle (I had to assemble the puzzle in order to read the letter.) This is what the U.S. Postal Service was founded for, I'd like to think.

It's difficult to maintain communication through letter writing. E-mail is the courier of choice, but this is not a composition of comparison of either's usefulness over the other. I contend both are as good as the user. I would imagine that some in the older generation keep contact with pen and paper as frequently as I fire off an electronic epic to my close friend in Chicago. An elderly friend of my mother's was bragging to me that she was in the midst of hand writing seventy-something Christmas cards. Her computer was from the year 1991, as was the operating system.

E-mail is astounding to some. It's instantaneous and worldwide, but I, as a schooled technology guru of sorts, find it all to make a lot of sense. The infrastructure it runs on is microscopic and stringy, but simple software instructions guide the data to where it needs to go. The USPS mail, however, comes from roads that represent a great deal of sweat and blood in their construction. A difference in e-mail and "regular" mail is the absence of stress in the electronic kind. I look forward to checking my e-mail for notes from friends and advertisements of the kind that rarely are sent via the postal service. Also, that exciting letter telling you whether you are scheduled for an interview with a new employer now comes in e-mail. At least it has for me. Perhaps some stress is involved with receiving this type of mailing. But, as a friend quoted someone famous, "The truth may hurt, but the truth is savory."

The stress of USPS mail comes in the form of bills. There is a moment of nervousness as my roommate hands me a stack of envelopes and says, "These came for you." I have an alternative loan out for incomplete education, and the required payments are mysteriously rising with each monthly bill. I usually let my autonomic nervous system take control of my consciousness so that I only have to watch myself open the envelope instead of live through the fearful moment. Also, ever since I was notified of a bench warrent for my arrest in response to my failing to pay a disorderly conduct ticket related to the reasons I was incarcerated in the psychiatric wards mentioned previously, I've been pretty nervous about being handed any envelope.

Curiosities in the mailbox have come in two forms. I'm pretty sure you can get porn in your e-mail's inbox, or at least links to it. It usually comes unsolicited, and people get upset. However, when a big glossy stapled stack of smut arrives unexpectedly at one's doorstep, how can you complain? My roommate did. He's had pranks played on him before. This time a thin, cheap porno mag subscription in his name began showing up. "I paid postage to have it canceled!" he said after trying to stop the flow of skin shots.

The other curiosity is something that's been coming regularly as well, but it's from being on some obscure mailing list. They are small postcards asking urgently "Have You Seen Us?" above a picture of a child and a picture of the last adult seen with the child. I remember that as a child I would stare at the picture on the milk carton or posted on a bullitin board in the mall. I would wonder what it was like to be missing. I usually imagined that the stranger had offered the child candy, had gotten into the stranger's car and was taken to dilapidated shack somewhere in a hilly, forested area. From there I had no idea. Now, with a mind full of police stories from plots of shows I've seen on television for twenty-five years, my conclusions may be no more correct, but at least a bit less naïve. I might think, you know, she might be happy with her sister or cousin or whoever that is with whom she shares a last name. Or, I'll check the date-since-missing and conclude that the poor boy might not have made it with that bearded man with the cold stare of a killer. Mostly, I just wonder if they're even let on by their captors that they are supposed to be somewhere else. Now I conclude that, if they do have the recognition that something is wrong, they should really start sending out postcards.