I have no idea what went wrong with my site yesterday. And I could have complained, I could have stepped right up, armed with angry fingers. I could have written a nasty letter or two to my service provider. But I’m done with unwarranted anger especially towards strangers who aren’t actually god nor do they know god.

On Monday evening at the movie I witnessed an act which very nearly ruined the entire movie-going experience for me. It sat with me all night. I even took it to bed with me. Today, I have to admit, I feel better about it. I guess it’s like with any recent nightmare or disturbing dream, after a while that strange uneasy feeling begins to fade.
Toby and I entered the theater and assumed our usual position. The theater, to some, seemed hot. Usually I am freezing, my 10 digits take on the form of winter roots, seizing up into a shattering ice-like state. This time I was perfectly comfortable. Actually, I rather enjoyed the warmth. Contrary to popular movie-house temperatures, the warmth of our particular theater house it made me feel as if I were within the comforts of my own home. But this did not sit well with some of the restless natives. No way, not for their spoiled asses. One large woman began to audibly bitch and moan to no one in-particular. But she was fairly ignorable. Another woman began to fan herself, also easily ignored. But there was one person, one uppity homosexual man, leader of all the petty movie-going mortals, leader of all those who lacked couth or care or respect or love, he was not easily ignored. In fact, he is that burning sensation someone with gonorrhea might feel while they pee. He is that nose-whistling asshole on the night train heading somewhere dreadful. He is that fly, gnat, or bee buzzing around your head while your trying to kiss your girlfriend (or, in his case, boyfriend) for the very fist time. And I hated him. I hated him for actually thinking we wanted him to represent us.
This guy decided to go talk to the manager. Fine. Only “talk to the manager” for him apparently means bringing in this rather sweet looking older man in from the movie theater’s office and verbally berating him while everyone else watches. Some of us watched in speechless horror. Some folks actually agreed with this hot-headed (pun intended) wacknut. He kept on screaming, Ignatius J. Reily style.

“Everyone THIS is the mANaGER who SOLD us these TICKETS!” He yelled as he looked around the joint, waiting for us to speak.

The manager looked around and his arms went up, he began to use the arm-flap, a universal gesture in sign language which stands for “Ladies and Gentleman, please relax. Everything will be alright.”

Another guy spoke up to the uppity gay man, “What’s the problem?”

“WHAT’S The PROBlem?! It’s HOT IN HERE!”

The guy shrugged, “Oh.”

The horrified manager began to flap again “Ladies and Gentleman, I realize it’s hot in here, we have people working on the problem right now. It should be fixed shortly. I am so sorry. If you would like to have a full refund, or trade your tickets in for another show-time, I will do so without a problem. Please, feel free to come to the office up front, I will take care of it for you there.”

Now you might think that for a normal person this would have been enough. You might think that Ignatius J. Hothead would have walked over to his party of idiots, collected them from their seats and led them out of the theater heading for their 10 buck refund surely spinning their angry lives into something blissful and heavenly. But no, that did not happen.

“TELL ME! did you SELL us these TICKETS knowing! it was THIS HOT IN HERE?! DID you willingly DO THIS to all of these PEOPLE?!”

I began to wonder if “HOT!” stood for toxic gas or air-born anthrax. Is he a snowman? Are these people human? Where am I?

The manager stood there speechless. Then he managed to say, “Sir, I assure you, we are working on the problem. I sold the tickets, thinking by the time we seated you the problem would be fixed. I assure you, it will be fixed soon. However, I am more than happy to give you your money back.”

He’s a better human than I will ever be.

Apparently God aka the movie theater manager in Georgetown, could not fix the situation for uppity gay man. And eventually uppity gay man sat down again among the morons and huffed down into his seat. And the worst part is he seemed proud. He did not advance to a nicer place. He did not collect his 10 dollars for passing go. He just made my tummy upset. The manager eventually left. He answered a few more questions, “Are you still going to show the movie? We just want to see the movie.” Now this woman is a better spokesperson for the likes of me.

I was flabbergasted. And sad. The entire episode made me feel horrible for the manager guy. He is only human. He’s human with a job where he must deal with the pleasure or displeasure of humans, yes his job comes with free movies, but it’s probably a horribly difficult job. “I’ll be right back.” I said to Toby. “I have to go talk to the manager. It will make me feel better.”

I ran down two halls towards the entrance where I found the manager sitting on a stool staring at the monitor. “Excuse me, sir? You were just in my theater.” He looked up at me, worried. I saw “Not again” written within his forehead wrinkles.

“Yes.” he stood up.

Out of breath from running through the halls of the ten-screen movie theater in Georgetown, I began. “I just had to say this to you. That guy was a jerk. Many of us didn’t agree with him and we’re sorry for his behavior. I don’t wish to be lumped into what he said. We’re just here to see the movie. We know it’s not your fault. Thank you for coming in and offering us all a refund, but that guy was just a mean jerk. And I’m sorry and I didn’t want it to ruin your night. No one really cares about a hotter movie theater.” The man grabbed my hand.

“Thank you. Thank you very much. Some people are just high-maintenance.” he laughed and he shook my hand and I felt so much better.

So what’s my point? I’m not sure. But it pains me that folks can be so mean to one another. It pains me even more when the folks being treated poorly are older. I have no idea as to why. Respect should be a given, and while a manager at a movie theater might not be someone you think necessarily deserves it, there is a certain bit of empathy I wish people would practice. Reverse the rolls, change shoes, whatever. But don’t be mean. If I had the courage, I might write an “I saw you” to my uppity gay friend

It might read: “I saw you Monday night at the 7:10 viewing of Mystic River in Georgetown. I saw you nominate yourself as spokesperson for nearly 100 people in a theater many, in which, wished to have nothing to do with your bitteness. I saw you make many people cringe beneath your angry words. I saw you act entirely too rude to an older man who was manager there. I saw you put on one of the rudest public displays of human err. Shame on you, uppity gay man. Shame on you.”

Yesterday, during the Krishna talk, the yoga dude also asked us if we experienced any odd coincidences. I can’t remember why, but surely it had to do with Krishna’s birthday. Anyway, it seems, that yesterday, I was blasted with hits from some forum linking to this picture. Strange? Yes indeed. Given yesterdays talk about search strings and elephant asses I’d say everything came back around, full circle. (Full circle). This Krishna dude works in mysterious ways it seems. But really, who doesn’t have a fondness for Lucy? And especially her ass.

I was 17 or 18. It was a beginning to something good. I had an apartment within walking distance to everything. My roommate, N., had an extensive record collection, filled with eclectic stuff I hadn’t ever heard before. N. decorated our apartment. Her grand
her made amazing collages, using old medical books and line drawings, he would work them in together, creating something entirely new. I used to stare at them and discover something new every time. I used to wonder why he wasn’t famous.

N. had friends too. And they were as exciting as her vinyl. L. painted pictures, crazy intricate, troublesome pictures and I often wondered what darkness she might be hiding from everyone. R. took photographs, wonderful, black and white photographs and I looked inside each and every one of them every time I visited.

I don’t remember how I met V. V. was emotional and unbelievably fascinating. She was also a painter. Her boyfriend, K., once showed up at our place crying. He had blood on his clothing and told us that during her attempt to stab him, she cut herself in the leg. She was in the hospital. And he was afraid to go back to the house. Later, after V. became my roommate, she managed to surprise me over and over again.

M. was a guy in a band called “Heart of Darkness.” He played the drums and wrote poetry. His limbs would flail around as if detached from his body, trying to take on everything all at once but still keep some kind of rhythm. And I found out the hard way that his libido acted in very much the same way. T. was M.’s brother. T. was a big goofy, towering mess of a man. He had long hair and huge feet. He had a girlfriend named L. and I used to hold my ears while they were fucking in the bedroom next door. Later, the band packed everything up and headed west in search of an unattainable, rock ‘n roll fame. I read about their travels on the back of unoriginal, mass-produced postcards. (Oh, the horror).

And there were others. J. was confused and gave too much worth to random numbers. L2. was tall and skinny and reminded me of an antelope. J2., a pale, big breasted woman, had dark hair and pixie-like features. All the boys loved her. She was adopted. She often told us that she believed one of her blood parents was, in fact, asian. (Though I was never too sure). S., a beautiful girl with lovely lips, had an affinity for stories about dying. S. died one night after falling down a flight of stairs. (That was a dark, and very sad day). C. was obsessed with poetry and M. She later settled on marrying T. (Which I still find disturbing, even to this day). K. had sex with everyone from A. to Z. (In every small town you’ll find an old faithful). B. let H. take pictures of her naked. Later, H. printed one out onto t-shirts and people would buy them and wear them around. B. was an ex of M’s.

Life in a college town can prove itself to be more interesting than that of the city due to high boredom levels alone. And, like long division, you can pretty much divide everything and everyone into one another. It’s incestual that way. In spite of all that, I think I knew back then that I’d look back and remember it all fondly, even if, at the time I wished I were someplace else, someplace bigger, someplace indivisible.

Ah well, with all these abbreviations and half-placed memories I have gone and annoyed myself as I’m sure I’ve done to you as well. And I haven’t ever been one for doing math. So here is the snapshot I heard today which reminded me of it all. Shudder to Think. Red House. (4 mgs) (Probably one of the greatest songs ever written).

One of my top search referrals is Ashton Kucher. Which is funny, because I think (though I haven’t checked) my site ranks in at around 4,132 on Google when searching for Mr. Kucher. Which means one thing, said link-seekers are pretty desperate for information on this mother fucker. After said person clicks on the link Google spits at them, they end up on a comments page from way back when Toby wrote something about him. And some leave comments. And a few have the tone of a highschool girl in heat. The latest comment emailed to me today was:

comment from ashtonfan101:

ASHTON IS SSSOOO HOT ALL THE GIRLS IN MY CLASS ARE OBSESSED AND IM ONE!!!!!!! HE IS HOTTER THAN CRAZY!!!!!!!

Scary.

There’s a theme in the back of my mind. It’s there all the time but more so during moments of frustration or strife. I have this idea, somehow, that like solving a once deemed impossible equation, there is a similar, definitive way in which one can do the same using language. Whether it be through the individual words you choose, or the way you put them together, there could be a way to do so and not only make your meaning known, but solve a life’s problem as well. And though entirely abstract, by using this perfect construction, your meaning will suddenly be understood by another person, nearing us all closer to something holistically perfect.

Obviously, this is just not so. Why else would there be religious war, crime, catty disputes over petty things, arguments composed of he saids, she saids. It’s tiring-the constant back and forth-and totally unrewarding in the end. Lawyers can argue a sound case, and even if the person they fight for did indeed stab his wife and her lover, they could win over a jury of people by merely conducting a logically sound argument. I’m not talking about that kind of equation. I’m talking about truth. An absolute one.

I guess that’s why I do this—write this thing. I hope to always find something better in myself and those around me, work through the things not quite refined or understood, and refine the things I do understand. By admitting human err about myself, I might become a better person or, at the very least, make someone else feel not so alone.

I took Buddhism when I was a sophomore. It was taught to me, or delivered to me, by a booze-guzzling, Buddhist. I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense but it worked somehow. Anyway, he taught us about the Eight Fold Path. And the steps one takes to enter enlightenment. And while I never quite “caught on” and decided that I would run off and become a Buddhist, I was intrigued by the quest many practitioners have for honesty. Right Speech. Right Action. Right Thought. (I don’t remember them all). But for this raised, (recovering) Catholic, I was intrigued.

There was one concept which stuck with me the most. It was the idea that, through Right Speech, one could eventually attain Right Thought by way of honesty. Now granted, my education in Buddhism was not only taught by a self-acclaimed drunk, but I was half-there, mainly only in flesh, after crying myself through all-nighters and inhaling adhesives with warning labels longer than this post. That said, who knows if I “got it right” and I make no claims that what I say on here is fact. From my understanding, from what he said, practicing Right Speech does not mean saying what people want to hear, it’s not about saying only what is the nicest, kindest, sweetest thoughts a person thinks of only after removing the first, and possibly more negative thought. After all, it’s nearly impossible to not have some negative thought, Right Speech was something practiced to eventually rid the human mind of negative thought, bringing him or her closer to becoming an enlightened being. Right Speech might mean to say,

Hey, Michele, your feet stink usually always, you’re insecure sometimes, and you need to stop taking your grumpy moods out on Toby. I think you fear getting older. I think you fear losing the elasticity in your skin. I think you should do something about this.

Maybe the truth hurts. Maybe it’s meant to, regardless of how it’s delivered.

Who knows. What I do know is while I was a practicing Catholic, I would very nearly every day think of every “bad thought” I possibly could by trying to NOT think about it and by doing so, it’s all I could think about. (Which, as a 7 year old, was only “Tracy should only play with me. Never Dania. I hate Dania.” but still, quite negative). So this idea of pushing out the negative by actually admitting to it was, again, intriguing.

So what do we do with all the negative thought? I know we have them, I see them distributed by way of sneers, half-laughs, fake smiles, limp handshakes, side-looks and good, old-fashioned hatred. They fester, they grow, they mutate into cancerous insecurities.

And right now, I just want to wrap this up because a two hour project just landed in my lap. And It’s too long. And I’m not sure where I’m going with it. And I just rambled on for two pages. :] I hate it when I do that.

Here is a song for today. (4.2 mgs Rival Schools) And even though I woke up with my monthly visitor, I feel like shit, and I want to tell certain people to shove random objects up their ass, I chose a positive song, by one of my most favorite singers-songwriters ever to hit this place.

This weekend, while visiting the family, I went through some old boxes in order to throw some stuff out. Along with finding a truly terrifying photograph of me as a 7th grade cheerleader (it wasn’t your average cheerleading squad, I assure you, as we were rejects, mere overflow from an actual try-out) Toby and I found a book of poems I wrote and illustrated in 1985. Here are two from that series.

• I hate the taste of brochlie
• I hate the taste of peas
• And I hate it when I’m teased
• People are always saying
• How stupid they may feel
• I’m sure I feel the same sometimes
• And that I says for real.

Here is the illustration.

• Me, myself and I
• Are climbing up a tree
• There’s lots of things we spy
• Climbing up a tree.

• I spy the sea
• Hollared me
• And a bumble bee

• I see a fly
• Called out I
• And a guy
• Hollared I

• I spy and elf
• Called myself
• Sitting on a shelf

• There’s lots of things that we may seeI,
• myself and me

Here is the illustration.

What a dork.