beer's a buck twenty-five here
Immediately thereafter I ordered Eagles of Death Metal and The Killers and not because I can afford it, but because I'm a fool for the Rock.
My first love of Rock'N'Roll was the Allman Brothers. There's still something about hearing Whippin Post or Blue Sky or Ain't My Cross to Bear that pulls me into the same trance I felt at fifteen.
The entire day yesterday was spent at home alone reading.
After making myself a simple (yet excrutiatingly delicious) Mexican dinner involving lime-marinated pork, I propped myself up to watch The Butterfly Effect. The director's cut.
Apparently this ending is not the ending used in the regular film.
Regardless, it's a total reverse of It's a Wonderful Life and I lost my appetite while watching it.
All that good Mexican food got thrown in the fridge.
The film sketched me out a little and on top of that I got a phone call from Hillary Duff.
She was telling me my personalized "Cinderella Story"... about how a guy named Mike fell in love with a girl named Michaela because of her "prison tattoos".
Aparently this is some sort of gay-wad promo that a friend of mine fell prey to and offered my effing phone number for after filling in blanks about my personal life. Who could this be?
IT COULD BE ANYONE!! EVEN MY OWN MOTHER!!!
The other message I received while watching this graphic film of abuse and trauma and anxiety was from my Beloved.
A textpage telling me he was in the emergency room, but okay, and he'd be calling me later than usual when he got out.
QUE?!?!
When the film was finished planting a crop of paranoia in my imagination's top-soil I stepped out for a smoke and caught a chill as lightening struck over the center of campus in the distance to the East.
A thousand things could have sent my boyfriend into the emergency room. A million things.
At that moment three cops pulled up into the parking lot of the porn shop next to my apartment building. They parked like a descending swarm - instead of in designated spots - and took down the license-plate of a truck that had been there for hours and hours.
It felt like an onslaught of bizarre, which is often the case after watching a psychological thriller.
Then Mikey called, and the cops left with no one in cuffs, but I never found out who programmed Hillary Duff to call me.
My boyfriend's emergency?
He got drunk and used a kitchen knife to open a DVD. Boondock Saints. Three stitches in his index finger on his left hand.
He's an Institute man, you know. He came through the Long Gray Line. He wears the Ring (actually I do). He was reduced to whatever in his first year of school and built into a man in the next three by the System and he rose up through the ranks and earned his commission.
I'm reading Lords of Discipline, the Conroy novel about the Citadel and it's filling my head with understanding about why the combination of Mike's education and his biological Dudeness would make him use a kitchen knife to break into a harmless DVD.
Though he is tender and wears excellent jeans and shoes, he is not and could never be a delicate man. He wears fine clothing in the way a gentelman should. His tailored coats manicured facial hair accentuate his strength and manhood, but they are of such little concern to him in the grand scheme of his daily life. We just fit together perfectly.
When I graduated we received a commission, too. We had a "Commissioning Ceremony" the night before graduation, indeed. Only we meant "commissioning" in the Biblical definition of The Great Commission.
I don't know why we don't call missionaries "commissionaries" instead.
Anyway, last night I didn't want to go anywhere, but I was sketched out by the film and Amelia invited me out for a drink.
We settled down in our bar, el Vid, and hoped to just nestle amongst the familiar, but aparently the regulars knew of some goings on for which we failed to receive a proverbial memo, and instead we nesteld uncomfortable amongst an unusual number of assholes.
We threw darts and watched a man in a white suit buy pink drinks for girls in frilly skirts who decided to recite in chorus a monotone version of some song I have the pleasure of not knowing.
You know the people who try to look like they're in The Strokes? This guy tried to look like he was in Interpol but only succeeded with a creepy Don Johnson appeal.
As I sized up for a spray of darts that only bounced off the board and stuck in the wooden floor, I caught the music above the din of psyched-up hooting and suggested to Amelia that we were listening to Glen Danzig.
A guy in a Dave Matthews t-shirt turned to me with eyes like saucers and showed his goats (m/) and yelled, "fuckin Glen Danzig!!"
I seriously almost punched him in the side of the head and knocked him down the flight of stairs he was standing atop.
Then Amelia pointed to the brick wall where written in chalk were the letters spelling the name of my boyfriend. I recalled that night of vandalism and sighed with my frustration at his absence.
Shortly thereafter I read myself into sleepfulness.
Happy Saturday, kids. Stay out of trouble.
I know I will.
