Valentines

I may have posted about this previously. But here goes another if so.

       Valentines day is dumb. No, not because I'm single and lonely. That's another story. 

 But because simply, aside from the silly commercial aspect of it, you should not be doting on your significant other on ONE selected day out of the year because that's when you're told to.

      It's all around. We're conditioned to it. There are sales and specials and clearances and special things you can buy. Hearts, candy, chocolate, teddy bears and stuffed animals and nights out on the town and to restaurants. ALL on Feb. 14th. Why that day?

        Because there's a lull that's why. The Holiday season is over. So they say. So they created a layover. A made up holiday to boost buying. It's all shit too. Shit candy, sugar, useless cheaply made toys and stuffing, shitty nights out to chain restaurants. Silly cards you're forced to give out at school, and more sugar. Flowers. The biggest sham since ever. They engineer these things to look pretty for a week, then wither. Plus, it's in the middle of winter, and you're expected to keep roses alive, in a piece of glass you also need to spend, and if you're fancy, you spend money on presentation of said wildlife. Fuck you.

         You're even told to kiss and make love. Yuck. 

                    All this is fine and good, but doing it when we're told and never again until next year except birthdays and Christmas, kissing on New Years and on an anniversary. No. That's horrible. It's also when the market knows, so everything is more expensive. The end of January rolls around lightly and before you notice there's magically more selection of red heart-shaped boxes and bears and flowers. And they're all certain prices. Because they want you're fucking money. It's all planned. 

       Buy your flowers mid-april, buy more in July and August. Buy her mums in october or late September. Shit, if you want, make it a regular thing. Up your game. Make it such a thing that it's not even considered a surprise gift but the norm. There will always be flowers in the window. "There will always be flowers in the living room window." Say it like that. Say it however you want. Perhaps it's a bamboo plant. Mine died recently. Hook line and sank. I need more. They're way easier to maintain. How about that for significance? 

       Which one, you tell me: "Hey honey, here's a dozen roses to signify our love and long-lasting relationship. It's what I got last year and the year prior and so on, and it's what everybody else is getting mostly. Also, they'll be dead by next week. I love you babe."

OR

"I got us this lucky bamboo plant. (or the like) It's hard to murder, it doesn't need direct sunlight, it's low maintenance. It can grow in water. Yes, straight water. When it grows, like our relationship, we can pot it. I'll need help picking out what kind. Or we literally don't even have to care about it as long as it's watered and rinsed every few weeks. We can actually cut the branches off to let it grow taller, and even plant those to make new stocks. It's resilient, pretty, and can go into all kinds of shapes. Did I mention it's nearly impossible to kill? It's all a metaphor. For us. I love you, let's make love... After I put this down."

       I like the later. But perhaps I'm biased.

Pants

I own many women's pants now. At least 4 pairs. I suppose it's not much, but considering all i need is a few for my week, wearing one pair a few days. It's a lot. Also that I don't have as many men's pants, it is.

A conversation I will be delighted to have:

      "Do you know those are women's pants you're wearing?" 

What makes them women's?

"Well they're fit to a woman's body." 

Define a woman's body.

Touche. 

Streak

They text me saying I can bonus if I get on a good streak. $5 a ride or something

       And I think, 

      If I do that the legal fees and implications will far outweigh the upfront.

Tags

Don't ever be afraid to rip the tags off of anything you own. We're conditioned to dealing with them. 

       Rip those suckers off. Read them if you must, but rip them right off and give a big 'ol "FUCK YOU SYSTEM." to the world. Even double-fist your fingers in the air in the moment if you must. 

       Tags are there to let you know they own you. Why the fuck do they tell me not to rip them off? It's literally illegal to rip them off a mattress. It's MY mattress, it's MY slipper, it's MY shoe. I paid for the shirt, I paid for the fucking tag. It's coming off. 

        People will be appalled and question why you did it. 

    Kill these people. 

Let's

Borrow the car. We'll take it as far as we can go and walk the rest. If we're lucky the radio will work and we'll drive through the night and into the day listening to all our favorite songs and discover new ones on local college stations as we blow through nowhere towns. 

          When the sun comes up we'll end up on the water. We didn't know it now, but now we do. It's gorgeous. Like you, not quite. Nothing beats you. But it's close. It's clean, cool, and a perfect reflection of the trees around it. No one is around. Lies, no people. Birds, squirrels, maybe even the rustling of a larger woodland creature I might not care to interact with. We walk in. I can pull the car right up to the edge of the short beach and we can walk right in.

         We didn't bring suits, but we have clothes. We strip most of them. It's not too deep and we swim around. It's beautiful. Later we find a college city cafe and eat like Kings and Queens. We're now writing down all our favorite new artists we hear on the tiny stations for later. It passes the time. Trees all around. Beautiful mountains and thick forests. Long, straight and also windy small-city back roads. 

       Every chance I get I'm kissing you. I can't keep my hands off. Neither can you. We sleep in the car, we sleep in shacks, we sleep in tents, we sleep in hotels, motels, great and shady. Both are equally as enticing. Free breakfast, no breakfast, bad breakfast. They're all good. We find what we can when we want. We are free. 

        You drive sometimes. I'm a martyr with it. But finally let off and I relax. I read. I blow through things as I didn't think i'd be able to. I want to stare out the window too much. I want to stare at you. i do. I mess with you while you drive. You hate it. After the trees, it opens up. We've reached a few states west now. South as well. Where it's warmer. We make sure we only stop at local places. 

           We drink the most amazing coffee and only the finest waffles and wine. Not at once. We scope all the 24/h places. We know no schedule. When we reach the desert we get a flat. Sunglasses are sexy. Especially on us. There's no service anymore as I liked, and we have to flag someone down like the old days. It's fitting. They send a tow and we have to wait a night. We spend it in the backseat in the garage. Despite what they say, it's still the wild west. There is no law. 

          It's romantic and we make love. I have to turn on the battery to roll the windows down. It gets foggy quickly. Which is fine. It's private. The owner lives a few hundred feet off in his big farm house. No farm, only the house. The car's not conducive to lying but I get the front seats up as far as they'll let me and we make it work. The roof's too low and the seats are a bit stiff. Meant for ass and no back. I take the hit. We quickly forget as we're staring into each other's souls. I lose my eyes somewhere along the way but I can still see you. You're that close. 

        You once told me you'd never do this but here we are. You're content with it. It's magic. After a few rounds we get the guitars out of the trunk. That's about all that's in there aside from clothes. We jam on chairs outside in the cool summer night. It's perfect out. Especially at night. A bug light grabs those suckers. 

           We climb back in and roll around once more before passing out. What a beautiful mess. 

 In the morning our tire comes. You'd think it'd be a shifty operation with this ramshackle garage, but no such luck. It's professional and clean and quick. We shake hands as he's paid and for helping us out and even gave us a place to visit if we make it. The China Rose. A wonderful Chinese Restaurant on the coast. Looking right out at the water where you're treated like Queens and Kings and served the best by the best for the best. We wrote it down in case. The same notebook with the songs.

        There is a lot of desert. More than you'd expect. A lot hasn't changed. Unused roads, burned out cars, dead animals. It's all been here since roads were roads. It felt sacred. Out there, there's little radio. We made mixes and played them for the first time in days. We begin getting philosophical. We're capable thank god. It's the only way. I don't deal in weather or games. I deal with interests and ideals swiftly. Once those are out of the way it's all your left with. 

             We speak of love, life, and the meaning of it all. The gamut. Previous, present, future. but we settle on now and quiet a bit. As we take it all in. We begin again. Same things, different aspects. We even talk human nature about monogamy and lack thereof. We both agree it's against science. It just is that way. 

       But humans have a way of defying it all. Even nature. And I love you. Right now. In this moment. Even if only for this moment. And I believe in this moment I'll spend it all with you. Right down to one of our bitter ends and perhaps even beyond if we are so lucky. 

      It might not be, but in this moment I believe it. 

                  And that's all that matters. 

the game

"Who?" I asked. "Oh you remember? Three kids. He's short and grey and she's a big beast." 

"Oh yes, those ones." I said. My grandmother always has a way of explaining. 

    The game is today. Later. 6:30ish. It amazes me they start on the dot, every time. But when it's supposed to finish is anybody's guess. Nobody cares. 

        They're inviting everyone over. They're vacuuming, cleaning, wiping, sweeping, brushing, yelling, huffing, puffing, walking up and down and up and down. Even the parts nobody's going. I'm a bit nervous as I just got out of the shower, where I shaved a lot of my body about 10 minutes ago, and forgot to check it.

      Now she's scrubbing it. Scrubbing, I forgot that one. 

         The game is sacred. It's the big one. We've been in 7 the past 17 years. Now 8. It's exciting as always, we're in it. But what some don't realize is that'll probably be our last. A few coaches are leaving and our luck is up. I don't think we'll win either. There. I said it. But it is still important. It's the end of a lovely, exciting era. 

         Food will be made, people will yell, get drunk and mad even. I was trying not to be here, but it's late and i don't want to drive home with the rest of the fools. I'll tough it out. 

      My grandmother stated kickoff was at 8 so she wouldn't be up. It's 6:30 as I said. That's 8p.m.  for gram. It really is. She's in bed by 6 most days. 

         It's only men playing catch. I once heard a comedian state men are dogs. We are. Most of us enjoy playing catch. We are goofy and silly and idiots. When we can't play catch, we are watching other men, play catch. We talk about catch, we dream about catch, we invest in catch, we wear catch, we bet money on catch. We live by catch.

        Not me of course. I enjoy the hype, the aura around the big game, especially as this may be the last time the stars align. As I said, the end of an era. 

        And when catch is done, we'll talk about the game for weeks, and then another form of catch will start as the snow thaws. And so on until we die. We'll waste our lives on catch and perhaps at the end, we'll realize it wasn't worth it. 

       Not me of course, I'll waste it on other things.

A drink 2

8:00pm. Day 2. Slow burn. Nothing to do on a Saturday night. Surprisingly enough. 

Making my sad attempt at reaching out to talk to someone. Anyone. A stranger preferably. I do this on days I feel sad and alone. I'd like to get to know someone who doesn't know me. Anybody. 

10:52pm Drinking 151 until I die. I hope it's what kills me. Then I'll know. Not much. I've chatted with a few people, but i'm just not that savvy on the internet apparently. Not good looking enough or crafty. I was in conversation with someone who then found out I made music and it was a huge part of my life. Haven't heard since. Talked to someone for nearly a week I thought was promising. She even agreed she'd love to go out to dinner. Said she'd love to! Haven't heard since yesterday. She also said she's either looking for the person she'll be with for the next 60 or simple entertainment. 

      And I, Pat Lynch, am only entertainment. 

A drink

It's been mighty a month since I sat, drank, and written about it in the way I might do as I drink. No time to sit and spit it out some as I get cool. Let's.

        - 6:12 - I get up from reading, it's been a while since I read in bed if it's not right before bed. I get the itch. I get up, open my bag of goods. It's got 3 important things. 1. A laptop for writing. 2. A bottle. 3. Mix. An arnie. A dirty arnie. It's been months since I mixed it with arnie. Is that what i called it? it's been months since that post, perhaps a year.

I put the bottle under the cubby in the bedside table. There's still about 1/8 of the same bottle left. I put the other away and crack open the old one first. Pour, mixer too. I need ice. Lots, but none can be had. The drunker I have the less I'll care. 

           I grab my laptop and being pecking away. Here I am. In all my glory. Nothing to do but drink and write. nothing to do, nothing to have to do. Even my guitars are away at daycare. No, the vet. Guitar vet. They're being loved and cared for right now. 

        Work is okay. People are beginning to know me, and like me. Thank. fucking. god. 

I smell dinner. Shake and Bake. No, that's what's for dinner. There's a 13yr old here. Her parent's are off somewhere. I haven't met her yet as far as I know. I also haven't told you where I am yet. nor will I. In a nowhere land as usual. Everywhere is though, isn't it? 

           6:18 - perhap's i'll reflect some more on the year past as the night moves. If it moves. It will. Slowly or quickly, but it will. 

I've put on some weight. 10lbs. I can feel it. See it too. It's been 2 years now since I felt that way. Actually nearly to the day. I got a notification from a memory. Long story short i recall the day and saw myself in a video (that was being taken that day) and said dayum son. Fuck. I'm working on it. It's also been about 4 months since the cemetery. I sit most days. Stuffing my face with trash. Not too much. but just...lots of food. Not too much, but enough. I'm not as active, so that combo will do you in. 

           6:27 - Did i mention I fucking downloaded snapchat? WTF is wrong with me. I told myself never. EVER AGAIN. But here I am. All for a lady friend. She seems pretty cool. And although I have a steadfast hatred for Snap, (yea, snap) I told her why and she rebuttled with the fact that she doesn't know how to social media and her friends got her too. So I feel better. 

Last night was kind of big. I asked her out. We had a huge conversation late night Sunday, not much since because we've been busy. So hopefully if I don't fuck anything up before we set plans. 

      6:35 - God damnit. Here I go. Sad feeling just got real. I started thinking thinky things. I'm not even drunk yet. I've had a few sips. No food yet. But god damnit. I'm going to try to stop this sad train rolling. The sad reminiscent train. Fuck. The, "Why are you such a fucking asshole?" train. 

    Perhaps if I get the chance, I won't fuck this up. She's pretty cool. She trains horses. She's legit, the real deal. Blunt as fuck. Thank god.  

Excel

Fact: the more excel windows you have open, the more important you are and look. 

Bonus points: if behind the excel sheets, you have word docs of instructions on how to use said excel sheets. And if you have Google sheets, then you're so productive you're not even reading this. Out.

write

I'm at work and I'm writing. I haven't slept in what feels like 3 days. I have, but very little. A day is manageable, but 2 nights in a row of little sleep, it catches up. I am exhausted, run down, and I can't see straight or focus. Unfortunately, when I am run down, I usually get sick. I feel my body making an attempt, but if I don't get sleep, I will get sick. I'm loopy, so here I write instead of work.

Here I write at work. I write when more important things are at hand and I write incoherently and inconsistently and I write and write and write and write and write. Because I have to.

Because I am a jelly donut. As JFK may or may not have said in Berlin. Because all those kids, they'll be done for, finished, they'll have nothing to live for as Townshend said. 

And because typing anything, at work, makes you look like you're doing something.

Window Ice

Do you ever slide out to your car in the morning, make a feeble attempt at scraping (or none at all) and take off anyway? That was today.

          I made a tiiinnnnnyy little hole and figured, "well it'll be gone by the time i'm on the main road. The problem is, it wasn't simply a little frost. It was a total sheet of ice. Big difference. The kind of thick layer your defrost on full blast can't simply melt. My windows, rear window, and windshield were completely covered in that kind of frosted-glass type ice you cannot see a damn thing out of. You can't even pretend, nor will it dissipate after a few minutes. No. This is a 20 minute job at least. But I left anyway. 

             What does this say about me? Am i looking too far into it? Yes. Shut your mouth.

Drinking

It's been a time. I'm drinking out of one of those lens cups. Like a lens, but it's not a lens, it's a cup. A shitty cup, but a cup nonetheless! More to come.