I just got a call from my friend Lisa from the parking lot of the IMU. She’s from up here (Stamford, actually) but visited to see the Lilly Library and needed directions to find it. It’s pretty weird to consider someone I think of as a “New York” person to be in the place where I lived ten years ago. It’s even more weird to give directions by phone, and mentally imagine what it would be like to be there. I was actually reading a few pages from Summer Rain last night, so I’m really in the mood to be back there. Maybe I can put some of this nostalgia into the stories I’m trying to finish.

I’ll still sick, although the cold has moved from the throat to the nose. I’m not fond of blowing my nose constantly, but it sure beats that back-of-throat post-nasal drip, or the throat-suddenly-dry, must-cough-violently thing I’ve had going for the last few days.

I finished rereading The Fuck Up by Arthur Nersessian, and it wasn’t bad. It reminds me of a modern-day Down and Out in Paris and London by Orwell, and I was able to mentally figure out more of the geography now that I work in the Village. It’s a slightly depressing book, and sometimes the writing is a bit jumpy or inaccurate, but it’s not bad. It makes me wish I could write a book similar to it, but I’m not as verbose in my prose as he is.

Okay, I need to go to Duane Reade and stock up on cold supplies (Dayquil, Nyquil, Kleenex, etc.)

Vague things I find disturbing:

First, I watched this entire TV show about Al Roker getting his stomach stapled shut. Since I am like 30 pounds overweight, I often think about this, but you need to be like 100 pounds overweight to get it done. Also, my problem is not eating large volumes of stuff; I actually don’t eat a lot in any given sitting, it’s just what I eat that got me here. It’s also amazing that he got this invasive surgery done to get down to my current weight. That doesn’t make me feel as bad.

Second, during this Dateline NBC or whatever it was, they had an ad for another Dateline show in which some parents were deemed unfit parents and had their kids taken away, then went out at gunpoint and stole them back from foster homes. The commercial depicted it as “the system has screwed us, and since we’re such strong people, we would do anything…” This is total bullshit. If a court takes away your kids, you’re given a list of stuff you have to do to get them back. The list is not unreasonable for a normal person: get a job, get off drugs, take a course on parenting, etc. The real story is probably that these folks couldn’t do any of this, but they could get a guy and go take their kids back. This is stupid, and this kind of thing will make tons of dumb parents who had their kids taken away that they could do the same thing. It’s amazing how American culture has propogated this belief that everyone is always right, and that anyone can do anything on their own terms. It’s probably Reader’s Digest’s fault for publishing all of those little amazing profiles of courage or whatever the hell they are called. People are wrong. People fuck up. Deal with it.

Third, I will probably watch the above show.

Fourth, if you download an entire first-run movie because you don’t see yourself giving the MPAA ten bucks, you are an idiot. I actually saw a LiveJournal where someone said they were going to see 8 Mile but didn’t because they didn’t want to give the MPAA the money. This is stupid. I mean, wanting to see 8 Mile is also stupid, but that’s not the point. I don’t feel that I need to justify this any further, but rather I will issue a decree making it true.

It seems like I had a fifth thing, but I can’t remember. I’m still sick and pretty much reduced to watching TV, and not much is on. I did finally sign another lease, which is always good.

Now, I must eat my soup.

When I was in Vegas, I went to a Walgreen’s across the street from the Stardust on a pretty constant basis, since bottled water cost about $87 in the hotel. I always like big drugstores because they remind me of the ones in the Midwest, like the huge Osco in the Concord Mall that has recently vanished (along with everything else in the mall.) New York drug stores suck; they have almost no selection in the medical-oriented things, and no variety in the non-medical stuff. I bet you could buy a snowblower at a CVS or Hook’s back in Indiana, whereas you might have to go to seven different places to find a 4x4-inch bandage and some gauze in Manhattan. (And when you do, it will cost more than an emergency room visit.) It’s the same gripe about lack of real estate, cost of real estate, and the fact that we don’t have a Target in Manhattan and that would make my life much better, even though all of you in the Midwest are saying, “why would he want a Target? They suck ass.”

Anyway, I was in this Walgreen’s, and saw something I’d never seen before: an earwax removal tool. It looked like a little plastic plunger, except it had a ring on the end of it. The idea was that you shoved it in your ear and scraped out a thing of wax, and it wouldn’t push the wax further back because of the shape, or something. Since I have constant ear problems, I bought this thing, ran back to the hotel (okay, I didn’t RUN) and jammed it into my ear, carefully following the instructions to make sure that it didn’t puncture my eardrum. After all of this anticipation, it removed a piece of wax about as big as the amount of wax a crayon leaves on a piece of paper when writing a period or comma. I felt ripped off, expecting it to remove something about as big as a BB, or maybe a small kidney bean. No dice.

At first, I thought that this was just another ripoff from the health and beauty industry, like magnet-point shoe inserts, anything with the word “Igea” in it, or the ab-exercise belt. But later, I thought that maybe this was some kind of pea-under-seven-mattresses sort of perception problem. Maybe the “huge” amount of wax in my ear that bothered me was just microscopic. Maybe this was like some larger metaphor for my life, and all of the things bothering me - money, acceptance, dating, writing - were all microscopic bits of wax that weren’t that big of a deal.

Okay, this is getting stupid. I shouldn’t come up with journal ideas on the subway anymore.

Dee Snider wasn’t bad on Friday. The only problem was we had to sit through a lot of BAD bands before that, one of which looked like a U2 cover band that didn’t play U2 songs, another that consisted of a woman that looked like she took Chrissy Hynde far too seriously. (After the show, she went around with a book to get people to put down their email addresses for their list, so I put down Ray’s address.) The show was at L’Amour, which is a pretty big name in some circles for heavy metal. It was closed for years and now reopened, but has the same smell of piss and death. It’s also rumored that this was the same club where they shot Saturday Night Fever back in the disco days.

Finally, I thought we were ready to roll, since it was like 11

and we had sat through a half-dozen bands, including one that had a big fat guy singing and a skinny little guy playing bass and alternately singing, playing stuff with way too much bass like you’d expect some 17-year-olds to play in a jacked-out Honda Civic with a 74” subwoofer. So after them, instead of Dee, we got Dee’s son, who looked like a Calvin Klein underwear ad (which probably isn’t that bad, given A) his dad’s looks and B) the looks of the woman he had on his arm after the set.) He jerked around spastically (this was his first time on stage, ever, so maybe that was why) and one song made me laugh hysterically, because it contained a really stupid lyric like “if you hear me now, you won’t hear me later/if you don’t hear me now, you’ll hear me later” or something. When people booed him, I thought he was going to start crying. Hey, imagine what your dad went through when he used to go onstage in biker bars wearing Tammy Faye makeup and spandex.

After we sat through an unending setup period, which pissed me off to no end (it’s not like these guys are staging the chariot race out of Ben Hur, it’s just four amps and a fucking drum set) they finally came out and opened with “Stay Hungry.” In fact, they did almost every song from this album, which made me happy because Stay Hungry was one of the first tapes I ever bought back in junior high school, and I played it so many times I still have every note memorized. They did a couple of other songs that I didn’t know, and then they did a bunch of covers, some of them pretty odd. They did “Anarchy in the UK” by the Sex Pistols; “Hell Bent For Leather” by Judas Priest; “Search and Destroy” by Iggy Pop; a weird medley that ended up finishing with “Rock and Roll” by Led Zeppelin; and AC/DC’s “Whole Lotta Rosie”. Dee talked a lot between songs, and still had long hair although not as poofy as back in the day. A.J. Pero from back in the Twisted Sister days was on drums and played a solo; there were two guitar players, and the current bass player for Overkill was in the band. Overall it was a fun time, and they played until two.

Next show: Peter Gabriel at MSG, next Thursday. I was reluctant to buy the tickets because I love his music, but I wasn’t sure how it would work outside of the studio. Also, everyone I know who likes Peter Gabriel only likes “Sledgehammer” or whatever, and his “greatest hits” are the least favorite songs for me. But since he averages about ten years between albums, I felt that it was important that I check it out. So I got a $65 ticket way the hell up in section 305. It should be interesting, though.

I think I gave myself food poisoning yesterday with some taco salad I made. When I woke up this morning, it felt like someone threw a medicine ball right into my gut. I think I’ll finish on that note.

I’m at the point in writing where all traditional forms of fiction look broken, and all of the pieces of my life around me look strange and disjointed, and I doubt everything and wonder how things happened. I can’t easily explain this, but it’s the sort of thing where I sit and look at a Coke can for 20 minutes and think about HOW a Coke can got the way it did, and why wasn’t it a triangle or a tube that was a centimeter wide and three feet long, or how they formed the metal or whatever. And then I think about how Coke cans have remained unchanged in a sense for years and years, but sometimes I find a picture of a Coke can from like 1990 or even 1997 and every aspect of it looks so different, but I can’t entirely tell HOW. And I look at everything like this, but more than that I look at writing like this, and think way too much about stuff, and flip through some random book and think, “WHY does this work?” and you start to see all of these strange patterns, like that more words or more descripton doesn’t always build a bigger picture. Sometimes less or even no words burns an indelible image in your head. It’s like looking at a stick figure, or a dot-matrix image, and your brain fills in the blanks as to what isn’t there. I have images stuck in my head from books I read 20 years ago, and when I go back and re-read the same books, I think “how the hell did that move me so much?” It’s all a very confusing way to look at things, but I feel a need to get through it before I do anything else, because I feel my current writing is pretty lame.

I’m going to see Dee Snider tonight, which should be interesting. I think one of the first tapes I ever got was Twisted Sister - Stay Hungry. I don’t know what stuff he will play tonight, but it should be cool. Other than that, I just ate a bunch of Chinese food and now I feel like I am going to pass out from MSG poisoning. I think I need another Coke.