ericboy's Diaryland Diary

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\"I was never faithful / and I was never one to trust\" - Placebo

I can hardly explain myself to myself these days. I've been flirting with the idea of adopting a more regulated life. A daily routine would be too arduous, but perhaps a weekly one could be within my means. I'm getting older, and taking on more responsibilities each day. Maybe I should think about organization.
I had these thoughts while doing laundry tonight. I was folding the shirt that I wore last Thursday and wondering what likelihood there was that I would wear it again this coming Thursday, thinking that wouldn't be such a bad thing. Really, now. How am I supposed to explain that to myself? That just doesn't make any fucking sense.
I'm pumped and excited and mostly unprepared for practice on Monday with my new band. I've jotted many, many notes for the five songs on the CD, but they're mostly just that: notes. In what little downtime I have tomorrow, I'll try to consolidate them into something more deserving of the term "lyrics". The pleasant part of the journey was taking lines of relative poignance and then following them with completely non-sequitir and absurd lines. I'm not sure what the end-result will be, but it sure is fun. And isn't that one of the fundamentals when playing music?
I was called on misquoting a Tool lyric in my last entry and I won't try to deny it; I did misquote it. I had a feeling that I was, but after hearing what I wanted to for so many years, I just decided to own what I believe. If that makes me wrong (and it does) I'll deal with it in my own way. We all hear what we want to, and I'm no exception.
Work has been relatively harmless this holiday season. I've only screamed once, and that was earlier today. It was short and moderately controlled. I've wanted to rip the throats out of many, many people, but have resisted thus far. Having band practice three times a week will help release some of the steam, I'm sure. I will miss the break that I'm taking from acting, but I still have two more nights of the current show to run before my official hiatus starts.
I was standing outside of the theater Friday, reading Ted's mission statement in the window for the 137th time, when I hear someone say the word "Hollywood" a few paces south of me. As they get closer, I hear them say it again. When they pass behind me, I hear "Hey, bro," and I slowly turn around.
One of my small pet peeves is being called "bro". I hate it more than I hate being called "boss" by someone who doesn't work in a department that I oversee. I can't stand it when strangers call me "boss" as some sort of term of endearment. It leads me to believe that either:
a) They've been to prison and are having trouble adjusting to the outside world, or
b) They're assuming that I'm a pretentious asshole who needs his ego and his superiority complex stroked to be approached.
"Bro" I hate for different reasons.
So anyway, I turn around and there's a guy standing there with a hiking rig strapped to his back and a very severe chin. I decide that his name is "Yukon Jack". Yukon Jack appears to be a transient man, but well-kept. I'm wondering if I should shush him right away, as a show was being performed on the other side of the glass behind me, or allow him to say his peace and then ask him to be quieter. The chances that his diatribe will be short are slim to none, in my experience, so I figure shushing will come up soon.
"Everyone wants to go to Hollywood, don't they?"
That they do, I say in a quiet voice. At this point I expect him to pitch a tent, lay out a picnic blanket with some moldy cheese and a peace-pipe and tell me his life story.
He surprises me by murmuring "yep" and walking away, south down fifth avenue. I was shocked.
Tonight, I've just lit up a cigarette and a man says "Excuse me, sir; I hate to be a bum, but do you think that you could spare one more of those?"
I fish my pack out of my pocket and say Sure. Last one. I take it out and give it to him. Then I'm holding the empty pack and noticing that he's walking in the direction of the trash can further down the block. I ask Would you like to do me a favor, since you're already headed in that direction, and toss this empty pack in the trash can?
He agrees, then goes on to tell me about some of the bathrooms that he's been in where the previous occupants have clearly not shown any concerns about litter, going into graphic detail of what some people will leave littered on the floor or written on the walls in various mediums and whatnot. At this point, everyone around me disappears, murmuring things about having to get changed or needing to make a phone call, and it's just me and a guy holding my last cigarette in one hand and my empty pack in the other. His name, I will learn, is R.J. R.J. has many opinions, and voices them, and quotes God frequently. I talked with him cordially for a while, then made up a sense of urgency to get changed into my costume.
So, part of me was complaining that this man had stolen my time, while another part of me realized that he had given me things for what he had taken away. I gave him a cigarette, he gave me an earful. Nothing particularly striking or revelatory, but, in a time that never sleeps, he took a moment to talk.
So, take it for what it is. I need to sleep and decide if breakfast will be a part of my weekly regiment, doled out on Sundays.

1:11 a.m. - 2004-12-12

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