"the Alpha and the Omega of Whom alone the end becomes beginning, and ends again at the original beginning without any break"

I don't want to get tattooed anymore. 

I just want to BE tattooed now. Finished. The whole kit-and-kaboodle done.  I've been getting tattooed for 19 years. I spent the first few years just getting little things here and there; foolishly taking up valuable real estate with dumb little trinkets that have since been removed and covered up instead of planning out larger pieces. No regrets of course- but man I wish I would have just knuckled down when I was younger and took care of the big spots- ribs, inner thighs- that now need to be filled in.

Despite the culture of LA/Miami Inked- where every tattoo has a story and they never hurt... this stuff kills. Seriously. Not just the tattooing, but the healing.

Note to self- put it in your will that if you get in a coma you want Bruehl to come in and finish everything up.

Where the barkers call the moon down....

I've got a sadness in me today that I'm doing my best to shake. It's likely the weather; cold and gray and rainy as it is outside of my window. Could be seasonal or it could just be a sad sort of day. I find myself trying to wait for some sort of personal revelation ("All revelations are personal- that's why they're suspect") to come while watching movies and packing for my road trip, and instead I find nothing but a familiar melancholy.

That's not a complaint, really. More like a resignation of the reality of my actual day to day life. Little pockets of whimsy surrounded by way too much thinking and planning and reasoning.  I came to the conclusion the other day that my life is a good life.  An interesting life, one that were it not my life would be a life worth coveting. To some degree it seems that the melancholy is an offering to appease the whimsy without which I'd probably totally withdraw. So as with all sacrifices of any worth, I have to go willingly with it. 

Hail Satan!

"Besides heroin and sex, chess and the cinema appeared to be the greatest pleasures left to him"- George Pendle on Aleister Crowley from Pendle's  'Strange Angel: The otherworldly life of Rocket Scientist John Whiteside Parsons'.

There was a time when being an Occultist was a romanticized pursuit; when it was the past-time of the affluent bright young things who traveled the globe looking for new adventures and new experiences.  Secret Societies, "Orders" of this and that mixed with the new occult- science- to create hybrids that would be unthinkable today. People who shared a passion for exploring everything; the same people working to split the atom having clandestine sexual rituals in the dark attics of mansions in well to do neighborhoods, pushing Crowley's Thelema, Blavatsky's Theosophy and more seances than you could shake a ouija board at.

These days we have daytime talk shows and reality tv instead of anything of substance, any mystery.

Meh.

Cause I speak of the pompitus of love.

Today I went to see a matinee of  'Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist'. It was a cute movie; perhaps written for a slightly younger crowd than me but it still managed to set in motion thought processes that it would seem I need to exorcise in blog-form tonight.

I've been thinking a lot about my love for the RITUALS of love. The processes and the patterns. The consolidation of all of those abstracts into a whole entity that I call "love" suits my emotional disadvantages. My emotions at best are muted. It takes strong love or strong hate to make me really feel on a consistent basis, so I rely on the little things that make up a 'relationship' to fulfill me.

That doesn't demean those gestures- those flowers and doodles and notes. Not a bit. If anything they're proof that I do care about the process, lest I just let it dissolve and watch it turn into just another forgettable amount of time spent, no matter how small, with another person.

That pretty much holds true with most of the relationships I've had. And as I watched the movie I started thinking about past loves lost. One I hold in contempt. One in indifference. One amuses me. One I have nothing but fond feelings for (though I wish she'd sign the divorce papers) and one... well.. one is Diana.

Capital D at all times.  The one that got away. The one that I can't forget. If this were a romantic comedy she'd be the one all of my friends didn't mention for fear of me off and jumping on a plane heart in hand to Chicago. If she's even still in Chicago. If she even still thinks of me.

It's an odd feeling, feeling.  Not just intangible blips from time to time. But a persistent reminder- flowers, knitting, a smile- that you were actually happy once and that happiness, while amazing and subtle, came with a price too great.  

Emotion isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Consider the Source.

Today is day one of my new project:

I'm giving up swearing.

Not forever and in every context, I'm sure. But as I walk through South Philly and hear the negativity espoused by pretty much every person I pass- I find myself growing progressively more annoyed with it.

Does 'fucking' REALLY have to be every second word when someone talks? Are there seriously no other words that can convey your thought?
I've defended profanity for years arguing that no word itself is "dirty" or profane. That on a contextual basis the word pedophile should be much more taboo than the word fuck, since the word represents an adult having sex or sexual thoughts about a child. Words are symbols, sure. Sigils charged with meaning. It's not the meaning itself that I'm having a problem with, but the negativity that surrounds the use of it. The girl sitting on the steps- barely 15 who uses (and yes, I counted. Forgive me my OCDs) 10 culturally "dirty" words in the time it takes me to walk past her has a cloud of anger surrounding her that you can almost see. Seriously. How can a 14-15 year old be THAT angry, barking profanity/threats into her cellphone. A roof over her head. Judging from her appearance there's PLENTY of food on her table. And here she is spitting toxic-thought into the air with impunity.

I don't know if I can break my own conditioning. I'm going to use a punishment/reward system at first. Yes. A "swear jar" will be in place for every time I backslide. No, I won't feel 'morally' better for cleaning up my sailor's mouth. But my hope is that I feel happier without a cloud of negativity around me.

We'll see.

And yes. I know that I'm getting "kookier" in my old age. You don't need to tell me.

the Astronaut's Prayer

I'm very pensive today. Fussing over little loose ends so I have something to fixate on. Cleaning up the desk so my hands are busy. Today is a very succinct example of my recently reoccurring desire for some revelation, some emotional rosetta stone,  that will miraculously herd together all of my thoughts so that they'll make some sort of tangible sense. 

Instead I have anchovy stuffed olives and diet coke with a side of baked ritz crackers. 

As far as epiphanies today, the most I can offer is: Hot Sauce doesn't go with olives.

Change this.

"Moreover the term 'evil' is merely a rather cliched insult directed by the weak against the strong."

Friday night while waiting for my date outside of Chick's on 7th street, I was accosted by some well meaning but intellectually inferior followers of the risen Christ. I'm always game to debate with folks who follow ideologically different paths than I do as long as they can keep up and argue based on fact versus passion.

They did. 

Despite me calling them dopes for blindly following an improbably construct of belief systems cobbled together to form a dogmatic cult we got along famously. Once Amanda showed up I bid the lads farewell but was glad for the sport.

Fast forward to today at Tattooed Moms. 

This time it was politics and not religion that provided the grounds for a good debate. My opponent was Robin's date for the evening. While her arguments were naive and a bit silly she did seem to at least understand that not everyone agrees with her train of thought.

Robin's opponent on the other hand was obnoxiously repeating leftist drivel, progressively talking over her and getting more and more frustrated.  It reminded me that people who think with their hearts often don't think with their heads.

Here's a revelation: I'm voting for McCain. Deal with it. Of the two candidates he most exemplifies my politics. If Obama's CHANGE campaign is your cup of tea, I encourage you to go out there and rally the troops and get your man in office.

I would never think less of you for not thinking like I think... so why is it that the leftists (or as I call them.. the bumper sticker people- people who's politics are easily read from the torrent of stickers littering the back of their hybrid or VW) who think themselves the protectors of free thought FREAK THE FUCK OUT when you think differently than them?

I hear them say things like "I could NEVER be friends with someone who (fill in the blank)!". 

Really? I can be friends with people of all walks of life. Isn't intolerance something that they're against? Can you really not get along with someone who's not muttering "me too me too" when you espouse your beliefs? I think I'm a better person FOR listening to the arguments of people who think differently than me. Not people who're trying to change me or save me, but people who understand where I'm coming from and who want to drop their knowledge on me.

As Arnold and Willis Drummond taught me, it takes Diff'rnt Strokes to move the world. (yes it does) My disappointment with people continues to grow.

Acorns and Overalls

I've become, the simple souvenir of someone's guilt
Like the sea, I'm constantly changing from calm to ill
Madness fills my heart and soul
As if the great divide could swallow me whole
-City and Colour

Tonight is my first date with A.M.

I'd usually be a nervous wreck at this point; anxiety taking over and getting the best of me. Thankfully she's as clever as a clever and together we decided to have two "predate nondates" to allow for casual gettingtoknowyou time at a relaxed pace. So tonight is all about wearing a shirt that actually has a collar, making sure my hair is properly parted so I resemble a boy scout and trying to charm the pants off of my lovely date.

Not literally of course. 

This is a first date and with that comes a certain expectation of propriety that I'll follow to the letter.

Sure, I did get her drunk and coerce her to confide in me that her favourite flower is the gerber daisy the other night, but since it wasn't a date- totally acceptable.

Her only request of me so far has been "don't be a douche to me".

I think that'll be easy enough to comply with.

So that's that. First date in about three hours. 

Not nervous. Listening to Gordon Downie and trying on my new overalls. Deciding what shirt to wear and if I should trim my beard (no) and shape my eyebrows (yes).

Damn she's cute.

An Eldritch Enlightenment

Today at work I was greeted warmly by someone I can't stand. My feelings for him aren't ambiguous- I've pointed them out rather bluntly several times. As such, you can imagine my constant confusion when this putz tries to start conversations.

I've put a lot of thought into it;

If he's doing it just because he knows it throws a monkey in my wrench- bully for him. I'd be proud to know that he's working overtime just to get my goat.

If he's doing it because he's just that fucking oblivious... it's no wonder he was turned down by four separate MBA programs.

Seriously. Fuck off.

<3

Anything Bought/Sold

Last week a friend made me feel like a commodity. While I'll eventually get over it (and no doubt they'll get over me telling them so) it's sort of reinforced my need to find my place in reality.  I'm constantly disappointed in my friends anymore. A few close friends are always there for me and look out for me, but the reality of the situation is that I fear a lot of the people I know tend to be 'friends' with me because they want something from me. Regardless of how tangible it is it still makes me feel less than stellar.

The Zen Bullet

I'm sitting in the house I grew up in. In the state I grew up in. Everything is different. I'm different. The pace down here is so slow compared to what I'm used to. What I've learned to be used to. I owe the adult I've become to this place, but somehow I feel like an outsider here. There are obvious stares and comments based on my appearance, much more so than in Philadelphia; but that's not what I mean.

I feel very lost here. Lately I've been feeling very lost everywhere.

I'm thirty four years old. Married to a wife I haven't seen in three years but who won't divorce me. In love with a girl who chose to not be in love with me anymore; who chose heartbreak over happily ever after. Constantly making a scar on my face to help cover the scar on my heart. Constantly trying to convince the people who love me that sure, yeah, I'm alright.

I'm tired. I've logged a million miles and a million lives since I left this place. The life I have now is so much more than I ever thought it would be, sleeping in this house all those years back. I've lived adventures that I could have never dreamed of back then.

But here I am now, just like always, an island unto myself.

The Rebellion against all there is

I ducked out of work today to catch a showing of Larry Bishop's HELL RIDE- a tongue in cheek throwback to the biker exploitation flicks of the 60s and 70s..... Holy Shit it was worth the trouble!

Larry Bishop was one of the most memorable supporting characters in Tarantino's KILL BILL 2, playing the sleazy owner of the titty bar that Bud (Michael Madsen) worked at. For this film he took on triple duty as writer/director/star- playing Pistolero alongside Madsen's The Gent.

Dennis Hopper, David Carradine and Vinnie Jones round out the cast along with knock-out beauty Laura Cayouette.

I'm fairly sure it was his first film as director; but he held his own. It's written in a fractured nonlinear style that unfolds as the film progresses. Tons of nudity, drug use and violence round it out. 

If it's playing near you try to catch a showing.

Jayson Kilroy. Rest in Peace

Several weeks ago, I sat in quiet contemplation thinking about the life and death of my friend Keith Alexander. Three years ago Keith was killed in a bicycle accident.  Every year on 11th July I try to deal with the ramifications of never being able to talk to my friend again. I deal with the legacy he left us, and the lessons he taught me. Death has been kind to me in my time; with few exceptions the people I care about have been safe and sound.

On Thursday morning, I woke up to a message from  Scotty in Colorado, notifying me that my friend Jayson Kilroy had been in a cycling accident and was pronounced dead on scene along with his friend Edgar Juarez.

Jayson and I weren't super-close, but he always had a kind word to say when I needed it; a snarky word when I wanted it and a sleazy word when it was warranted. He was far from perfect, but he was a friend. Of Edgar I knew nothing, but I'm told he was a very sweet guy who will, like Jayson, be greatly missed.

Whenever I hear the words "Get it" I'll remember a great kid who despite his flaws always put a smile on the faces of those he loved.

"Colorado Springs police tell 11 News one woman has been arrested for fatally hitting two cyclists with her truck Wednesday night on the west side of Colorado Springs.

It happened around 7:30 p.m. at the intersection of 26th Street and Westend Avenue.

Police say a group of about five cyclists were riding north on 26th Street when a truck heading southbound made a left hand turn and hit the two lead riders.

Two riders, 30-year-old Edgar Juarez, 30 and Jayson Kilroy, 28, both of Colorado Springs were pronounced dead on scene.

The driver of the truck, 63-year-old Barbara Thomas, has been arrested, accused of vehicular homicide, driving under the influence of drugs, and driving with a restricted license."

Love means you're afraid to be alone.

Saturday was my birthday. Thirty-four years old. I celebrated it by grabbing my best friend and dragging her along with me to NYC to get my face recut. It's an odd sort of bonding thing, I guess; but it was very much needed in my life right now and I'm glad she was able to share it with me. 

I'm far from "healed" right now as my last few entries seem to show.  Having my face recut was a step in that direction. 

when you have nothing to say, let a band say it for you.

Do I have nothing good left to say?
Do I need whiskey to start fueling my complaints?
People love to drink their troubles away.
Sometimes I feel that I'd be better off that way.

'Cause maybe then I could sleep at night.
I wouldn't lie awake until the morning light.
This is something that I'll never control.
My nerves will be the death of me, I know.
I know, I know.

So here's to living life miserable.
And here's to all the lonely stories that I've told.
Maybe drinking wine will validate my sorrow.
Every man needs a muse and mine could be the bottle.

Maybe then I could sleep at night.
I wouldn't lie awake until the morning light.
This is something that I'll never control.
My nerves will be the death of me, I know.

Finally, I could hope for a better day.
No longer holding on to all the things that cloud my mind.
Maybe then the weight of the world wouldn't seem so heavy.
But then again I'll probably always feel this way.

At least I know I'll never sleep at night. (Sleep at night)
I'll always lie awake until the morning light. (Til the morning light)
This is something that I'll never control.
My nerves will be the death of me.
My nerves will be the death of me.

My nerves will be the death of me, I know.

-City and Colour. Death of me.

I knew there was a reason, and my looks couldn't be it.

"According to New Scientist, two studies have confirmed that "bad boys get the most girls." "Evil" men possessing a so-called "dark triad" of personality traits, i.e. who are narcissistic, Machiavellian, and psychopathic, attract abnormally high numbers of women. Interestingly, the results hold true across cultures in 57 different countries, suggesting an evolutionary imperative for evil men to exist and reproduce."

I don't know if I'd go as far as using the word "evil"  about myself but... to be honest... that "dark triad" concept does make a lot of sense.

Save your Scissors

I think I'm coming to terms with being so melancholy lately. I think it's a healthy expression of human emotion which is convenient as we all know it's my dream to one day be a real boy. I appreciate the irony that it works out well for me that my life isn't necessarily working out well for me.  I think that's one of those revelations you only get when you listen to sappy music on repeat.

Every time my heart gets broken (which is less than you'd think) I have to shed another layer of my preconceived notions on 'forever' and what it really means to be happy with someone versus being content with not being alone. Sure, the Diana thing is taking me a lot longer than usual to process but regrettably I have to do just that. I'm working through second guessing the breakup and questioning if things would have been different if I would have been more confident. If I would have flown out there and talked to her and demanded answers instead of quietly accepting heartbreak on the phone. A thousand what ifs are constantly going through my head which, while necessary to process are never the less hurting me more than I readily admit. The politics of loneliness and what one will do to not feel alone is a matter thats close to heart right now.

So much so that I've become "that guy" despite my best intentions. This blog was never meant to be 'Shawns whiney emoblog" but thats what its become. I'm working on changing that, but this seems to be the only place I feel comfortable being this honest, at least in print. There's a certain freedom to be had in getting all of this out; sadly it comes off as me being a desperate loser who can't get over love lost.  Shawn Porter, this is your life. Nice and Smooth.

I promise I'll have something more pleasant and less whiney to post soon.

Forgive me my trespasses. 

Garlic Heart meets the immovable force.

As the weeks since my breakup speed past, I find myself in uncharted waters emotionally. Usually by this point I'm so far past "over" that my ex-of-the-moment is little more than a funny anecdote told with cruel flair over drinks with my fellows or a promised-deleted picture or two  that's  shared to the delight of my bawdier friends.

Instead, in my weaker moments I find myself admitting that I'm still in love with Diana.

This hardly seems uncommon, judging from the torches carried by friends of mine who've recently ended relationships. But for me, it's a psychoemotional bomb that goes off every time I let it get the best of me. 

After a while, you start understanding the melancholy and the longing in a Daniel Johnston song. How one person can so succinctly personify everything you want in another human and then just disappear makes you feel a gamut of emotion that, particularly when you're someone like me who feels emotions distantly to start with, can cripple you.

She was always the one that was different- so against my "type". From the day I met her I always knew she'd be a significant force in my life. Sure, I always thought it would be a force that I grew old with, but sadly the cards weren't in my favour this time. 

I'm strong enough emotionally to be able to 'move on' and not let the specter of her ruin future relationships. But if honesty is permitted here- on a blog that no one reads- I'll admit that there hasn't been a day that's past since she broke up with me that I haven't thought about her. Even for a second; a song, a scent; something that makes me think of her and smile.

I swear, one day I'll find a girl that loves me back.

-'Well I once caused your cells to shimmer

And you once caused my cells to shimmer
Now we go all the night without love
Without love…' 

-Elvis Perkins

yours,

sp

I am all things phallic.

There are things you take for granted, having a penis. The inalienable right to always know where you're going regardless of the GPS telling you otherwise, the knowledge by sight alone which pepper is the hottest, and how to do manly things like changing windshield wiper blades.

I usually can't play the role of Alpha-Male. Hell, I'm usually hustling to even fulfill the role of "male"- so when things like the aforementioned windshield wiper situation come up, I tend to freeze. You can imagine then, when driving home today in a rainstorm, how awesome it was when my driver's side wiper blade shit the bed.

As I rolled back into Philly, I had two revelations:
1. Grocery Stores don't carry wiper blades.
2. When shopping for wiper blades at Target, check the Bluray section. Gotham Knight may be on sale.

Once home, with a windshield wiper blade (which as it turns out isn't one size fits all) a bottle of anti-depressants and a blu ray copy of Gotham Knight, I set towards figuring out how the fuck these things work. After about three attempts (which coincided with the three different illustrations on the back of the package) to fix the thing I just went for broke and managed the replacement. I think. I've yet to test it in foul weather.

But it LOOKS fixed. Which in the end is the biggest hurdle.

Draw yourself day

Last Sunday I took a friend on a tour of Philadelphia. She's been before, but it was nice to take her on a tour of MY Philadelphia, albeit abbreviated by schedules. Next time, we'll make sure to really get down and dirty- Italian Market, Mütter Museum, Olde City, et all.

We stopped off for drinks at Tattooed Mom's on South Street for a drink or three. I always forget that Sunday at Mom's means ARTS & CRAFTS supplies. Sarah and I got to work on the crayons. She coloured a Bratz page. I went a little more personal and made a crayon drawing of myself as a Simpson.

Sure, it looks nothing like me and nothing like a Simpson, but... the Jack and Diet Cokes were good.

Buff and Stuff

Several weekends ago- I can't remember how long now since my daysweeksmonths tend to run together, I was lucky enough to meet L.A. Artist BUFFMONSTER, and to have him draw a custom Buff tattoo design for me.

When I told him, an artist obsessed with tits,  that the tattooist who's to do the piece lactates and goes by the nickname THE MILKMAID.... well.. it was nice to have made his day.

Weeks later and I've still yet to meet up with Joy to tattoo it. That's sort of the theme of my present condition- serendipitous fortune matched with a schedule that's too tight to exploit it. 

Oh well. The design isn't going anywhere.

It's not the size of your pencil, it's how you write your name

I've had an eventful weekend. My days as a hermit seem to be ended, as the cast of amazing friends I have continually lure me out of my funk and into actually having a social life. As my good friend Brian often says- "good or bad, my friend are all I've ever had". Too true, B.

Rain, my constant sunshine, convinced me to go out on Friday night. We had Pho (which was not, as promised by my brother, the best in the City) and went to a party sponsored by a site she works for. I ran into the one and only Jimmie Knuckles- owner of a beard that's better than yours- and his lovely lady. We laughed, talked beard and drank some disturbing "premium vodka with caffeine" called PINK because it was on the house.

Sometimes free booze simply isn't worth it.

Chickpea and I headed to the Bike Stop so she could finally meet the often imitated never duplicated Bob- had a few more drinks and headed back to Xanadont for some shuteye.

Brian, Bucket and Joli showed up nice and early on Saturday morning and together we headed to Edison, NJ for the 6th Annual East Coast BBQ.  Fun times, and an even more fun afterparty. I can't/won't share the pics on this blog, but I'll say for the record that sometimes when it rains, it pours, and luckily my digital camera is waterproof.

Go to sleep little ugly, Go to sleep little fool

Last night, thanks to a thunderstorm, the heat and humidity finally broke. After taking my beloved melatonin, I opened my blinds just enough to watch the lightning, and drifted off to sleep. 

I woke up several times over the course of the night- asking for more than 5 hours sleep is too much these days, even with the melatonin, but it's a LOT better than the 2 hours I used to manage.  As I floated in and out of sleep I was disappointed by the lack of ferocity that the storm carried with it. The winds were barely howling, the thunder few and far between and the lightning, while impressive, didn't last as long as I would have liked.

Growing up in Florida, you get used to a certain kind of storm- the kind that seems to have hell comin' behind it, ripping up pieces of your barn, uprooting trees and causing chaos for 15 hours at a spell.... We don't really get those kinds of storms up here.

*Portrait of me sleeping by Rain Polsky; Brokenumbrella.com

Cabinet of Pus(head)

I finally got the KAWS/PUSHEAD Companion I posted about a while back- he's sittin' pretty in my display case with some other Pushead goodness. As I sit here typing this, I realize what a monument to total "dorkery" my life has become, and I can't say I'm not pleased.

Crazy from the Heat

I think it's expected of everyone right now to be complaining about the heat and the price of gas. So... this will be my combo post of both woes.

As someone who commutes 72 miles a day, four days a week, I'm obviously feeling sodomized by the gas companies these days. I was 'lucky' enough to get gas today for $3.97 9/10 today in Delaware.  The line for that 'discount' price was about 40 minutes long and almost inspired at least one fist fight that I saw. The price per gallon at the station nearest my house is $4.17/cash $4.29/credit. 

Well THAT'S practical. Luckily I drive a shitty older car. It's part of my 'owning a car in Philly' plan, which consists of the following logic:

If you have a car in Philly, people are going to vandalize it and/or try to break into or steal it. So buy a shitty cheap car. When that car falls apart, buy another one. Cash. No payments.  Rinse, repeat.

So, using that failsafe plan, I drive a 1996 Nissan Sentra with 200,000 miles on it and  a slow unfixable oil leak. And you know what? This little som'bitch gets me dang near 35mpg. That's one fill up per week if I time it right. $45/week. Not bad really, but I see it getting MUCH worse as the summer approaches. 

I don't use my car socially or for errands- it's strictly for work. On the weekends, foot or bike. But, not to sound like my Dad or anything, I remember when I first started at the megacorp I work for- gas was around $.89/gallon. Fast forward 7 years (and a terrible Presidency) and you have predictions of $4.50/g by the end of the week.

That's pretty much my gas rant. Now on to the weather.

I was sent home from work today because of the temperature. It hit 99*f (37*c) at around noon. External temp. Internally it was hotter. Safety first, we couldn't work- so I came home to sit in my bedroom, complete with conditioned air.  The AC is currently set on 60*f...

Last temperature reading said it's 89* in here. Fun.

You'd think being born and raised in Florida I'd be used to this. Think again, bucko. There's something special about pouring 7.5 gallons of water out of the dehumidifier in the basement every day. Jesus.

I'm going to go take a cold bath. Phooey to this.

Weekend Fever

The Heat is starting to arrive in Philadelphia, joining it's more obnoxious friend Humidity. Both can, in the immortal words of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi; "suck my hairy curry rubbed codsack".

I'm a man who's just not suited for warmer climes. I've currently got my winder open with the ceiling fan on high, but soon I'll be setting the AC to a nice comfortable 62*, stripping down to my skivvies and enjoying a nice iced beverage in the cozy cocoon that is the Bunny Sweet.

I've nothing planned this weekend save a little time around the house with Robin, a visit from Rain and possibly some bike riding around the city if I can get over my fear of death and the SUPER uncomfortable seat that will soon be swapped out for a nice gel padded ass-grabber. Should be fun. I'll try to pack my camera with me to document the foolishness that is my typical weekend.

Not much else to report- my folks are still visiting so I'm spending a decent amount of time over at Bob and Carm's with the family. I'm mentally planning my BMEFEST/Modprom weekend (god do I need a proper vacation) as well as the other upcoming trips that are on my roster and just trying to take life as it comes; which is all any of us can ask for, I think.

I want to ride my bicycle

I was recently gifted with a bicycle, on semi-permanent loan. 

The idea of two wheeled transportation in a city notorious for it's asshole drivers is a bit daunting- but as my age and my waist-line both continue to advance, I figure now is the time to take the bull by the horns, the bike by the handlebars and just throw caution to the wind.

It's been slow going. I'm infamously out of shape and pushing myself on the bike has caused muscles I haven't used in an age to revolt against me- I see tonight being an epsom salts kind of night. Add to that the discomfort of trusting drivers to NOT kill me, people opening doors, kids running out in the middle of the street, and you have me in a situation I'm really not used to: loss of control.

So far, I'm liking it. Robin and I intend to start taking out our bikes every night, as weather permits. I think it'll be good for both of us.

Baggage

I finally took time last night to do the post dating maintenance that I've meant to do for the last two weeks; those little tasks you have to do eventually but are far too difficult to do immediately after the parting.

The first and most immediate point of order was to remove the gallery of pictures of the ex from my Iphone. It's far from any kind of malice- I still think about her fondly and miss her very much. But the reality of having to see pictures of her or more to the point pictures of 'us' is more than I should be expected to bear.

I've moved from stunned/hurt to that bruise like state of everything just being a little bit sore. Little comments catch me- my mother saying "Uncle Shawn's over there alone" to my nephew, making travel plans and putting "guests, one" in the field for hotels; what to do with the present I bought for her birthday... all things related are sort of rubbing my already exposed heart and making me a little more melancholy than I need to be right now.

In matters of the heart, I think I should take a little time off before I set myself up for failure yet again. That said, I think that I'm changing my Prom Contest rules to "KISSING INCLUDED".

You never know.

Why am I single?

"Well-liked. Well-established. You are The Loverboy. Loverboys thrive in committed, steady relationships—as opposed to, say, Playboys, who want sex without too much attachment.

You've had many relationships and nearly all of them have been successful. You're a nice guy, you know the ropes, and even if you can be a little hasty with decisions, most girls think of you as a total catch. Your hastiness comes off as spontaneity most of the time anyhow, making you especially popular in your circle of friends, too.

You know not to make the typical Loverboy mistake of choosing someone who appreciates your good humor and popularity, but who offers nothing in return. You belong with someone outgoing, independent, and creative. Otherwise, you'll get bored. And then instead of surprising her with flowers or a practical joke, you'll surprise her by leaving."

I just took an online dating site's dating persona test. 

That all sounds fairly accurate, save the "you constantly get dumped by women who claim to love you" part.  This isn't an "oh woe is me" trip, just random observation.

Being freshly heartbroken makes you introspective, I guess. I'm ok with being single right now, for the most part- but I'm still looking for that white picket fence romantic dream of old- with a little extra perversion thrown in.

Just need the right gal.

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls

My friend Rain came down to visit this weekend.  We did silly best friend-y things like watching bad movies, drinking odd flavoured martinis (the blueberry sucked, but her tang martini wasn't too awful) and keeping each other in stitches with our often confusing and sort of not funny brand of mutual humour. It was nice. 

It made me think how much more comfortable I am around women than I am around men. I have very few male friends- I can count on one hand the amount of men I'm close to, but if I look at the most significant friendships I've had in my life- they've always been with women.

I'm really not sure why that is. I'm sure my therapist would have had some idea, but unfortunately we never really got to work on that before he passed. So I can just write it off as some oedipal thing and go with it, I s'pose. 

Either way, I'm pretty damned lucky to have the friends I have- the people who take me at face value instead of some imagined construct of who they want me to be. I used to keep just about everyone at arm's length- not letting them get close enough to me for fear that one day I'd lose them anyway. Or maybe for fear that they'd eventually 'get to know' me; the real me; and just lose interest. Either or. 

But these days, between Rain, Lauren, Carm, Robin... and the Y chromos that watch my back like Brian, Bob and Bucket- I have it pretty good.

the Valley of the Dolls

It was bound to happen, with the frequency a new piece of vinyl catches my fancy- my toy display case had reached maximum capacity and a trip to Ikea became a must.

Luckily Ikea is only 5 blocks away. With the visiting parents in tow, I made the trek and picked up another all glass display case to match the one that's already in the reading room. With little to no difficulty, I put it together and it lived happily ever after.

Ok. That's totally a lie. In all reality, I've been half in the bag and done Chinese arithmetic with less difficulty than putting together this case which, in theory, should take about 10 minutes to complete. It's a wobbly, poorly plotted out all glass deathtrap. But hell. I'm usually up for the challenge, so we do what we can.

As it turned out, I only needed one lemonaide and Jack to get through the process, which took the combined efforts of not only yours truly but Robin and the Gator to build. Once we put the finishing touches on it, it was no longer a wobbly deathtrap, but a well lit womb for my vinyl babies to show off a little for the guests.

Luck held, and the very next day my Pushead "Astrozombies" piece from Secret Base came in and had the honour of being the first toy to reside in the new case. Followed in quick succession by two amazing FRIENDS WITH YOU pieces.

Now it's just a matter of time before I start worrying about space in the second tower.

Being a toyspazz has its moments of joy.

As quietly as an earthquake

I've been doing fairly well post breakup, all things considered. 

My trip to Ohio with the fellas was a godsend. A three day road trip full of third grade humour, greasy food and lots of hugs was pretty amazing and set me in a good mental place to process the breakup.  Which I've been doing for the last few days now.

Tonight was the first major setback. I slid an unmarked CD into the car cd player and before I knew it, a mix cd that I made for Diana started playing. Emotional flood.  All the time I spent combing the ITUNES Library for the perfect songs, teasing her that I was making her a mix-tape; all that emotion just sort of broke the levy that I've had in place since "the call" that ended our relationship.

It's sort of easy to process the termination of a long distance relationship. The night before we split, I was sleeping alone. The night after, the same. When you're used to seeing someone three days a month- it sort of takes a while for the ramifications of the breakup to fully and totally sink in.

I realized today that it's likely that I'll never see my best friend again. My lover. My partner. Someone who up until that point was everything to me- in one second- becomes someone who I'll never see again.

That's sort of sunk my mood, to be honest.  I'm working through it; no use in lamenting over a reality that I can't change.  But I think today may actually be the official start of my grieving process.

Go me.

Breakups in the age of Technology

My girlfriend and I amicably split up last night. I wasn't really for the breakup, but sometimes it's a wise man who accepts what's happening in his life, processes it and learns from it.

Nothing really emotionally changed for me, of course; I still love her dearly and wish things could be different. But as we all know, if wishes were fishes I'd be having sushi for dinner tonight- so accepting it seems like the only option.

New Toy acquired

As a kid, I always had toys. My earliest memories are of laying belly-down on the living room floor on a Saturday morning, avoiding the Florida heat, watching cartoons and playing with toys. Micronaughts, G.I.Joe, Transformers, The Krusher- any monster, robot or horror toy I could get my hands on battled it out, to the death, every weekend, holiday or summer vacation.

Somewhere along the way I started skateboarding, and through the magazines of the time, particularly Thrasher, discovered the artwork of Brian Schroeder- better known to legions of skaters and thrash music devotees as the enigmatic PUSHEAD.

Like tons of other kids into the skate/art culture, I rushed my S.A.S.E. out to San Francisco to join the Pushead Fan Club- getting letters and stickers from the man himself, encouraging me to keep on drawin' monsters.

Fast forward 16 years and I was still collecting toys here and there. My knees and wrists weren't really happy with my occasional bouts of skating, but when I did, I skated on a deck with art by- you guessed it- Mr. Schroeder.

Around the same time, my then girlfriend developed an obsession with vinyl toys. She was a little more than a decade younger than me and I quickly picked up her enthusiasm for collecting Western and Eastern toys- based on seeing the green colourway KAWS Pushead companion behind locked doors in a NYC toystore's display. The price read $500- a bit too much for a single toy, so I let go on ever owning this monument to my childhood obsessions; toys, monster and Pushead.

Several years later, and my toy collection had a few Pushead pieces in it- but the one that started it all for me still eluded my capture. Over time, I started finding it for under the initial $500 pricetag that the store in Manhattan sold it for. After chasing and missing for months, I finally picked it up- $250 from a fellow collector who was willing to part with it to pay bills.

In a few days, it will be in my collection, with a new glass display case purchased just to house it.

Little things like this make me happy.

Ohio Roadtrip: 05/23/08

I'll be heading out to Columbus, OH on Friday with Brian and Bucket. It will be approximately 478.11 miles of open road, representing nearly 8 hours of travel time. Right now, it's precisely what I need.

My head is very clouded right now and I feel that I'm on the verge of a major backslide. I've worked hard to fix pattern behaviour and have felt that I've made great progress- but it's likely that I've had a false sense of security because nothing had come up to test it.

Now that I'm being tested, I find myself reverting to old thought processes and pitfalls and I don't like it at all.

So. Put me in a car with two of my oldest friends- heading toward an event where I'll be surrounded by even more friends, and maybe I'll be able to clear my head.