‘umble pie
Tuesday February 15th 2005, 3:18 pm
Filed under: TPT the First Tags:

Yes, it’s time to eat ‘umble pie. The hour approacheth, rapidly. In approximately 1.5 hours I’m going to leave this shite job of mine, crank my headphones, and try to psych myself into a space rather alien from the truth. Think calm, confident, professional, successful, regret-less. “Job interview?”, one of the three of you reading this, asks. Au contraire. My single least favourite person of the ford of Oxen, the man who inspired more spleen-filled vents of anymosity with his ridiculous Americanism, his hamfisted handling of the position and programme he was nominally in charge of, is my coffee date this evening. What started as a general networking, keep my finger in the academic swimming pool sort of thing is now “Will Teach for Food + Benefits”. Begging for anything, without actually begging, knowing nothing is in the offing. Ghee farking whiz this is gonna be fun. Cuz he can sit there, knowing I did it my way and not his way, and, well, here I am….



Crack Smoking Executives
Monday February 14th 2005, 8:19 am
Filed under: TPT the First Links Tags:

http://www.shutdownthis.com/



desired
Saturday February 12th 2005, 11:26 pm
Filed under: TPT the First Tags:

A little drunken scredo. Not a credo, though. I’m a sucker for being desired. From the psychiatrist (long story, gonna remain cryptic, don’t ask), to the guy in the posh-y women’s clothing store late this afternoon (I was chumped and schlumped out, he was hyper-fashionable, how could i not be flattered?), to, well, all and sundry. The impossible ego boost of being admired by another, being desired by another. And I guess I’m, in the midst of my cocky arrogance, insecure enough to be magnetically drawn to those who find value in me. Not a very redeeming quality, I’m afraid. But much as “we can often forgive those who bore us, but never those whom we bore”, i’m attracted to those who are attracted to me, but all too rarely, i suppose, to those to whom i’m attracted. That almost made sense. Something along the lines of being a sucker for validation and weak at taking emotional risks. Not like i ever take them – I spend enough time building up drama on my own time in my own ways with wholly unsuspecting co-conspirators that emotionally risk usually involves waking up. A bottle in and a pack down, what wisdom is there? And what ever happened to my hyper-un-analytical plan? I’ve emphatically failed at that, I’m afraid. Reading Proust and allowing others to begin falling for me thoroughly disqualifies me from the living virtuously category. Ain’t nothing wrong ain’t nothing right. But working on doing something rather than nothing. see?. Not even properly pseudonymous. Shit. I wasn’t gonna hand that ’round. but what farking difference does it make? Google still loves me for “I stoled you’re chalks”, “Mangina” (“longing for death/ badge on my sleeve/ know what i mean/ don’t know what i mean”) and iDoorstop. What else could I ask for in life? Oh, wait. That fuzzy feeling of certainty. That uncertain feeling of fuziness. Something that goes beyond physical desire and approaches emotional chaos and calm rolled into one. Call me a romantic – you won’t be the first.



steady
Friday February 11th 2005, 8:25 am
Filed under: TPT the First Tags:

Well, things are somewhat better than before. I have an escape plan over the next month or so, largely dependent upon a drastic reduction in the consumption of alcohol. Just kidding. I have an escape plan only slightly dependent upon a slight reduction in the consumption of alcohol. Beyond that, this whole ‘paid work’ thing is eating more of my time than I’d like – hundreds of leisure hours lost to work, as the Onion put it. Website stuff being the financial jump-start I need, but sheeit, work. Such a tiresome thing, work. So to go to my favourite high-school newspaper headline: “Lack of Sleep Causes Fatigue”. But it does mean my daily lament here has been rather curtailed. No hoo-hah…..



make lotsa money
Wednesday February 09th 2005, 8:51 am
Filed under: TPT the First Derivative Tags:

From the ‘you can’t make this shit up’ department. Knock on door. At 8:30am? Gas guy, here to check the meter (for a bill, btw, that I’m not exactly planning on paying in its entirety). We’ll see what mad-Estonian thinks when he gets back. Enter gas guy. Me: “‘mornin”. Him: “make lotsa money.”. Me:”Huh? Not for yourself – more like for the gas company!” Him:”No, no. It’s Chinese New Year today, and the first thing you’re supposed to say to anyone is ‘Make lotsa money’.” Like I’m gonna pass up the possibility that one works! “Make lotsa money”, folks….



true friends
Thursday February 03rd 2005, 11:55 pm
Filed under: TPT the First Derivative Tags:

With friends like this, well, umm, just play madlibs with the end of that sentence:

don’t worry about the “slow boat to mediocrity” feeling………the boat’s along with, and slowly moving away from, mediocrity. and there isn’t even a boat there in the first place. fuck the boat. i’m staying in bed. nekkid. did i mention that i’m very very drunk?

You heard it here first: fuck the boat.



mixed nuts
Thursday February 03rd 2005, 7:53 am
Filed under: TPT the First Tags:

A peculiar mix of despair, exhaustion, and pride this morning. Items 1 and 2 in part brought about to my visit to a very nice flat in Brooklyn yesterday, where there is currently a room available living with two philosophy graduate students. And the room is quite nice – hardwood floors, high ceilings, quite large. But the philosophers…oi vey. One as disdainful as only a Danish philosopher can be (it must be something like, I dunno, being an alcoholic Russian: sort of a cultural one-trick-ponyism); the other mullet sporting reedy weedy spotted philosopher, well, he was keen! Keen to be my friend! Forever! Or something. I got the fucking heebie jeebies from these guys within about 2 minutes, and had to fight of the panic attack of claustrophobia (not to mention the overwwhelming sense of ‘you’ve got to be fucking kidding me’) even whilst keeping a chipper and cheerful conversation alive, single-handedly, for the best part of 45 minutes. So I’m afraid, Houston, we have a problem…

And, coming in as the heavy favourite behind items 1 and 3 this morning: the examiner’s report. I had been read parts of it over the phone, but the reader heavily elided things, looking to summarise. It’s not a genre that can be summarised, in fact, and the report is stunning. It’s not without its criticisms, but it’s also amazingly positive on my work, respectful of my accomplishment. Perhaps as a bone thrown to a starving dog, it of course has me teetering on the edge between feeling as if I’ve actually managed something significant, and wondering, if these two senior scholars (neither of whom I particularly had personal relationship with – this ain’t the US system where you stroke your committee for years on end before D-Day) are willing to write this publicly on my behalf, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH EVERYBODY ELSE? Phrased otherwise, what the fuck else is wrong with me? That I am where I am and am going where I’m going – the fast track to nowhere? The slow boat to mediocrity? Sigh.

And, to cap off the visit last night, I made the classic non-winter-climate-dweller error: walking back from the Flat of the Philosophers(tm), speaking on the phone to a friend, I crossed a street and noticed a large stretch of what looked like ice. Walk carefully, I thought. It was, of course, shin-deep slush that extended for four feet or so. Splish splosh splash…



paginated companion
Tuesday February 01st 2005, 9:07 am
Filed under: TPT the First Tags:

I’ve been sleeping with books, lately. Not something I’ve done in years, actually, but for some reason, as I fold the page and set the book down and reach to turn off the light, rather than putting the book on a shelf, I’m just setting it a few feet over in the bed. Not tucking it in, or anything, I’m not that nuts. Just sharing a bed with Proust, the New Yorker, odds and ends of other titles (as that’s all I have around). I don’t know if it makes the bed feel any less empty, or even if it does feel empty. So appallingly used to going to bed alone and waking alone. Decision, consequence. Antecedent consequent. Floccinauciinihilipilifuckingcator. The despair slightly less morbid this morning, yet it’s one of those days I’d give anything to call in sick, call in dead, and mope around the house. Fuck it all. Burn the shit? Not enough ‘tude to support that. Perhaps a more resigned”It’s my life, and I’ll cry if I want to”? Still too much energy. Hmmm. I feel like a salariman drone non-human. ‘Going through the motions’ a common feeling, but I’m not wearing boots (thus neither stylish nor affordable), and suffer from the ‘average, all too average’. Writing in pencil. On wet paper, so no need, even, for the world to bother with erasing…