Thursday, February 06, 2003

Shaved head, goatee, broken nose, arms as hairy as a monkey. Sleeves always rolled up, Swatch always attached to the left sleeve. These are the things that make me feel unique, what I think other people see.

Fascinating when I change something slightly. It's the winter, I have no hair, I'm freezing to death in my own home, I wear a stocking cap. Badabing! Suddenly I apparently look like Jason Lee, the amusingly sarcastic character in all those Kevin Smith films(I). I've been stopped in restaurants, on the street, in police lineups. I can't really decide if this is a good thing. He's famous, yes. His voice is terribly sexy, and he could talk my clothes off with one of those sarcastic tirades. We are the same age, people like him, I guess this is a good thing.

This is better than the annoying comparisons to other bald guys, just because I shave my head. My junior high lovelies constantly ask me if I'm Steve Austin, the wrestler. Yeah, that's me, the steroid freak with biceps the size of a dancing baby. I'm a bit happier with the new reference to Colin Farrell (I), as he is the dead sexy guy who plays Bullseye in the dreadful looking Daredevil film. I don't even remotely look like him when he has hair, but he has a shaved head and goatee. Of course, he also has this HUGE ZIT or something on his forehead in the film, so it is slightly frustrating to be linked to that role, as it reminds me of those incredibly annoying days when acne strikes.

I just want to get to the day where some other sap with a shaved head and goatee is told that they look just like Glenn, that wildly successful carpenter/professor/scientist/writer/singer, kind of like Buckaroo Banzai.

Tuesday, February 04, 2003

Last week I was coughing up lungs, so I went to the doctor. While there, I had a cholesterol test, my first since the report in the fall of wild chunks of lard lumping through my veins. Results are still not in.

I'm terrible after a test. As Daphne and I drove to our first university class of the semester yesterday, we drove past a White Castle. I never eat there any more, but I knew that I had a date with cholesterol destiny after Education 763.23X. I know that their food is hot buttered death, but those little bacon cheeseburgers are little fat bombs of tastiness. I can't help it, I've been really good!

My rhapsodizing about their burgers was so enticing that two other teachers joined me there. We're talking about lessons, and this woman joins in our conversation. We did not invite it, and I immediately got the impression that she was absolutely barking doolally mad. Everyone in the Castle knew that King George was on the loose again, but I thought that I was managing to avoid this situation. I didn't make eye contact, I didn't encourage her, but I still don't have that fine balance that other New Yorkers have. By the time my three bacon covered heart stoppers arrived, soaking through their cardboard containers, she was screaming obscenities. Sad thing is, she had NOTHING on junior high kids, either for insanity or crudity.
Lubbock is SO popular in the news right now! Not only is this news, I know this teacher. He was a regular coffee customer of mine in Lubbock when I was a barista at J&B Coffee, and I knew he was batting on my team. He's quite famous in the university for being quite an ass, but a fairly good teacher. The general consensus among students is that he favors boys in his classes, although I personally have never been in any of his classes. The only thing I can say is that he is a very good tipper, which is one of the best ways in the world to judge a person.

Monday, February 03, 2003

As I ponder killing children (the list of ways keeps getting longer and longer, throttling or poisoning no longer suffice), I have developed this wonderful escapist fantasy. The fantasies aren't terribly complex, as they don't need alibis, escapes, or clever ruses. I'm not afraid of punishment.

Prison life wouldn’t be so bad. Obviously, the gay sex is not a problem. I’ll avoid becoming the junior high man-bitch, using my patented teacher stare. I don’t particularly have a prison sex fantasy, but groups of men in shower scenes sound rather fun.

I’d be able to work out daily, getting all buffed up, eventually have those killer abs I’ve always wanted. I could catch up on my reading, watch tv, pursue my masters without the distraction of commutes and deadlines, and probably continue writing my blog. I get free healthcare, free cable, no rent, and get repetitive labor, which I love. I do my best thinking when my hands are occupied.

Best of all, no junior high kids (although I bet some of my kids will eventually show up). Someone please tell me the downside.

Sunday, February 02, 2003

I have to admit that I’m a closet mary. Not a mary that is in the closet, but a mary who has issues with closets. And not those proverbial closets, but actual closets. I’ve had to deal with this really small wardrobe in my room as my only closet space since I’ve moved here, and I’ve hated it. I have lots of clothes, not necessarily good tasteful clothes, but still my clothes. I had clothes in bags, on my footlocker, in my footlocker, under my bed, on my bed. I really hated it.

Losing Dan as a roommate was a tragedy, but it was a real windfall, just like a death in the family. Sure, you lose the person, but you gain their stuff! Boohoohoo woohoo! He gave me a bunch of kicky hipster clothes that weren’t hip enough to transport to his new smaller space, and he also gave me his AMAZING SIX FOOT SERIOUSLY FRIGGING HEAVY STEEL clothes rack. I’ve pulled out all of my clothes and discovered that I have enough clothes to fill the length of the rack, although not necessarily with really kicky clothes. Those are on the last two feet or so. Maybe less. Okay, a foot. Okay, room for the shirts to swing freely and separately.

Regardless, this also pointed out another of my random obsessions. Some clothes fiends have things for shoes, or shirts, or socks. I have so many Pop Swatches that I have a bowl filled with them at the end of my bed. If I don’t cover them with a towel, the ticking at night drives the dog out of the room. The cost for replacement batteries is about $50 every year. I can’t help it, I just love them and their shiny happy faces. I hate Daylight Savings Time, as it is a real chore when you have twenty watches to adjust. I have so many Pop Swatches that I can’t keep track of them. I’ve gradually noticed that there has been a drop in number, but I couldn’t identify individual Pop Swatches that were missing, forcing me to deal with PMPSAD, or Post Misplacement Pop Swatch Anxiety Disorder. The symptoms include, but are not limited to, frantically checking my left arm for ticking, chronic lateness, and a vague shuffling around the room in the morning looking for a matching watch.

As I hung up all these shirts, I found seven Swatches attached to shirts from the foot locker, the floor, under the bed. Some of them still had the time from before the time change. My constant misplacement of objects is well known to all of my friends, so keeping track of all of them is hopeless. Well, I think I’m back to a full number. I think.