The last thing I remember was Renee asking what kind of Ramen I wanted: sweet and sour something or chicken something surprise. I woke five hours later at 11:30 wondering if I should call in to work, or just try to mosey in without being noticed.

I did neither, instead opting for sitting on the floor naked and staring at a scuff and Nicci’s art on the wall. Clothing, caffeine, and the car were too much to think about.

The night before, we’d spent some time with a much-changed Danielle who implored us to never waste a moment, so we wasted none. After Danielle went home, Roy, Renee, and I headed for Lotus Lounge. The club does suck, but there was no cover, $1 drinks, and good music. Sandra and Gearmo were still there. I’d originally made plans to hang out with them that night. I also saw Brandon, Kat, Dana, Nicole, and Josh there. Photocopy your gametes for Josh!

Intent on not wasting any moments, Gearmo drove aimlessly around down town trying to find where I’d parked. I’m pretty sure we passed my car twice before swinging around the block once more. We caravanned back to 1960 (Houston’s party mecca since 1997!), and stopped at the convenience store for more smokes. I think we killed three packs that night.

After driving the twenty minute drive toward sobriety down I45, Roy decided I wasn’t able to drive the two blocks back to their apartment. I thanked him for his boneheaded sense of safety and gave him the keys. For future notice, if you think I should’nt drive, suggest so before I drive at high rates of speed down a busy interstate.

Back at their apartment we drank more, gossipped, and talked about all kinds of things until dawn came. I haven’t seen dawn in a long time. I think Renee and I toasted my seeing dawn. Woot.

Gearmo and Sandra headed home around four where they left a bizarre message on my voice mail. Sandra’s babbling about their gnomish hostage sounded like an inebriated alien dialing in from Alpha Centauri.

The gnome in question, a bad ass specimen of gnomish temperature-itude has a long, tall slender hat equipped with a thermometer used for inserting into your ass to take accurate body temperatures. The second gnome freed during the daring daylight attack on the R complex was a small, red-hatted fellow who seems very genial. His first request after being freed was for some enchiladas. He said he hadn’t had any mexican food for the entirety of his imprisonment.

The double gnome dispursement will go down in history. Someday, I hope to be like the little tailor, or Gearmo’s mom, and I’ll be able to say “seven with one blow!” Fear me foul gnome slavers.

Last night, I think I was a zombie. I had no energy. I talked to Nitekry for a bit, as well as Tony and Liz. I did meet several new faces, but I was lacking the people power points to socialize. Likewise, I am mentally lacking now. I do not think I could be more apathetic.

We did not waste any moments Wednesday night, but we wasted a lot on Thursday. I do not think any of us went to work. Renee makes good amaretto sours.

Tuesday night was about moments, too. While working at Diedrich’s, I ran across Jade and her friend Holly (and a few other friends of theirs). I hung out with Jade for a bit, walked down to Randall’s and back, grabbed some grub from Taco Cabana, and then hung out at Catbird’s. I had rum and coke and bought a dozen bad ass pork tamales.

When he hawked the tamales, I asked what kind he had. He said he had beef, chicken, and pork. Jade, the vegetarian, said something sarcastic along the lines of “what choices…” I bought the pork because the best tamales are always pork tamales.

I generally do not purchase chicken or pork cooked by other people. Popeye’s Chicken is one of the few exceptions. And I do not eat that much red meat either. Shrimp is awesome. Fish is only good if cooked well, but most people and places do not cook it well.

Last year some time, a friend of Roy’s, some ephemeral ballet dancer and dedicated renny named Jen was trying to get Roy and I a DJing gig at this new bar/club where she was cocktailing. The short-lived establishment located on Richmond called itself the Purple Rooster. It isn’t hard to make the cognitive leap from Purple Rooster to Purple Cock. I spent a couple of evenings wondering how we would promote an 80s night at the Purple Cock. Is that something you tell your friends? ‘Come see me DJ. Look for the giant purple cock on Richmond.’

Fortunately, I never had to have those conversations. The deal fell apart when the one manager accused the other manager of cheating on him with one of the door men and chased the offending manager around the bar and out the door with a steak knife. The nightspot closed soon after.

I am moving soon. Imminently.

One of my earliest memories has me staring up from the bottom of a pile of crisp leaves beneath an evening sky and the palm tree in the front yard of my parent’s house in Corpus.

I’d been raking leaves with my dad. I don’t remember why I was in the pile of leaves, other than I was three, or very nearly, and kids just jump in leaves sometimes.

I haven’t jumped in any leaves in a long time. At some point, approaching adolescence, rolling around in dry, scratchy leaves and getting poked by twigs lost its glamour for me; a lot of childlike things lost their glamour with me.

That’s too bad. I imagine a maniacal kid grin slapped across the face peering out from that pile of leaves. It must be insane kinds of fun, or so many kids wouldn’t do it.

I was almost a maniacal kid a few nights ago. On the brink, I tell you! Going for an illicit swim in the middle of the night when an early morning and a long week were just peeking above the horizon. It was fun. I smiled. I laughed.

Nothing is more fun than thrashing around on the floor wrestling like idiots. Or rolling down a hill. Or bouncing around the house singing your heart out to the imaginary, sold-out, cheering crowd. Or throwing food at someone.

I eat sweets. Sleep in. Relish clean sheets on the bed. And breathe a little deeper when I smell a pretty perfume. These things are important. You have to enjoy the world you live in.

But you have to act like a kid sometimes, too.

I’ve forgotten how much fun it can be to be covered in mud.

It was a humid, damp cold, the kind that clings to you. I read a remarkable story by Chekhov this evening: “Big Voldya and Little Volydya”. I keep several collections of short stories and essays near my bed, and tonight I was reading Chekhov. Recently I had been reading Borges, a collection of stories, each one more amazing than the last, but not so with Chekhov.

Alex says short stories are more useful for adults whose lives are taken up with more pressing matters, but this is not always true. Short novels also have their use. Just last night I finished Slaughterhouse Five, a juggernaut of 200 small pocket-paperback sized pages.

I sat half in, half out the door reading Chekhov, smoking a clove, sipping a “fortuitous bottle” of Herbsaint, a refugee of last Tuesday Night, a Tuesday Night I did not attend.

The cold, and the clove remind me of Austin. Everything reminds me of Austin. Everything reminds me of other places.

I imagined for a moment reading and smoking in a damp, humid cold in Alaska. How awesome that must be, at the top of the universe, isolated from the vast balance of the world. The few existants I am aware of in that mysterious northern fantasy-land seem so intriguing.

And I was listening to the Pain Teens: Stimulation Festival.

I first heard about the Pain Teens as a reference to an “internationally regarded noise band” from Houston, Texas. It was in a music review in the sadly missed Industrial Nation. I can’t remember the subject of the original review, but when I came across Stimulation Festival in the Sound Exchange on the drag in Austin, I purchased it feverishly; most likely with my last few dollars.

I purchased everything in Austin with my last few dollars. Perhaps, in some attempt to preserve the heydays of my youth, I am always purchasing things with my last few dollars.

This evening I purchased a wrap of honey mustard chicken. It was delicious.

Thanksgiving is always a lonely time for me, even when surrounded by a heaped high plates of food, and heaped high piles of friends or family. I spent a cold, gray weekend in Austin alone one Thanksgiving. It was by my own choice. I think it must have been a lonely time for me, even then. Why else would I ditch family gatherings and friendly pot-lucks to wander campus alone?

UT, during the holidays, becomes deserted, a ghost ship, drifting through cold, gray winter holiday weekends.

One winter was so cold. Somehow. Somehow. I don’t remember the circumstances, but Brian and I came to be stranded at the frat house of our friend Steve Cunliffe. He was a jovial guy. Surreallity dragged behind him like a tattered cloak precariously attached with an old safety pin. How he ever fit in with a frat is beyond me. Probably beyond any of us, but Steve was never concerned with what may have been within anyone’s grasp, much less his. There is a freedom there.

Ice and maybe snow had shut down the city. That must have been a dry cold. It felt electric. Bundled in South Texas winter coats, we clenched and shivered outside, worn sneakers skating on the ice covered sidewalks. We tried for campus, sliding down gradients we’d never noticed before. We settled for a careful climb back uphill to Ken’s. Fresh, warm donuts on a morning like that are a treasure. I can’t believe I hadn’t remembered them until now.

Nicci drug Stimulation Festival out sometime earlier today. I haven’t listend to that album in what must be years. I used to own everything by them. I still have Beast of Dreams and the double-release of Case Histories and Born in Blood. I also scored their debut self-titled noise thing on vinyl, and a demo tape of random loops and songs. The rest of their discography must’ve been sold when I moved down from Austin. I sold everything I had that wasn’t a collector’s item or rare.

That’s not entirely true. I landed in Houston with Stars of the Lid, Portishead, Pornography, and the Sisters. In my first room here, an oversized closet in my father’s apartment off Memorial, I slept every night to Stars of the Lid’s Lactate’s moment. It’s still the greatest ambient song I’ve ever heard. “Without the tedious intrusion of drums or vocals.”

I used to know Brian McBride from Stars of the Lid. He was on the UT debate team with me, as was Eric Emerson. What ever happened to Eric? I spent several years in Austin living three lives: my life with Eric, his brother, and girlfirend in an apartment on Red River; my life as tangential observer and alcoholic understudy with the Austin goths; and artistic malcontent at the University.

Now I live only two lives. Problematic web designer at UH and tangential observer and alcoholic refugee with the Houston goths.

I asked an old friend earlier this week if they remembered when they were young, telling themselves money wasn’t important, they’d just get some job, get by, and live a happy, fulfilling life.

Eric, his girlfriend, and his brother smoked so much goddamned pot. All the time they were smoking. They even lived in some sort of pot dealer collective, a four bedroom they split with Nick, the bull shitter, and crazy Michelle. Pot seeds and leavings littered the counter tops. I spent a lonely Christmas weekend with them. I wore an old rainbow checkered sport coat all the time ‘cause it was cold, and the coat was warmer than my t-shirts. I may wear the coat tomorrow. Just for kicks. I had this horrible acid trip that weekend, but I guess I’ll talk about that later.

I love old school goth rock. I’m not talking the 80s goth and death rock. Much of that is shit. I love it. I have a weakness for the stuff, but when you throw it next to Bauhaus or the Pixies or Bowie or Nirvana (I’m thankful a band in my time could measure up to the greatness of the ages before), it’s all shit.

But I’m not talking about the 80s stuff. I’m talking about the 90s stuff. The stuff we’ve all forgotten. I listened to Love Like Blood, on cassette, in the car today. Three times. I did a lot of driving today. Bought lots of gas with my last few dollars…

My supervisor called me during lunch today wondering where I was and why I hadn’t been at work. I think she thinks I’m not working. Maybe she’s right. I don’t work a lot of time. Maybe I’m young and have other things to work towards. She’s married, has raised two children and seen them married.

Me, I’m reading through short stories and essays in a humid, damp cold at 1:40 AM. I have no regrets that my lifestyle sometimes spills over into my workplace. They should be happy I have more to do in life than correct shitty HTML. Hah.

I’ve never looked like I work much. I’m a thinker. I doodle. And sketch. And figure out ways to make things better. Ways to work better, faster, more efficiently. More perfect. I stare a lot. Off into space. That doesn’t mean I actually work better, faster, more efficently, though I could, but there’s so much space to stare off into, so many places for the mind to be besides here, now.

Like Alaska. Or Austin. Or Prague, or Bucharest.

Bucharest because there are no facts to dispel my illusions. Even their websites are sorely lacking. It’s as if the reality elves haven’t gotten around to Bucharest yet. It’s possible it’s not even there. That the maps feature imagined mountains and towns that no one’s ever seen. Maybe I should go see them. I’ve got a few last dollars…

When people say idealist or dreamer, it’s derogatory. It’s like Christian Death. These divine, perfect concepts have these horridly negative connotations. But I suppose I am an idealist and a dreamer, but an imperfect one at that.

I’ve got a revolution to run, but I’m caught up in unrevolutinary details: designing the website; printing costs for a zine (You hear me Alaska?!? I want your words and pictures.); working the revolution into my work-a-day schedule. Can we throw the imperialist scum to the wall after 6:00 PM? I’ve got a meeting this afternoon.

That makes me laugh.

I used to have this compilation called Stars, Hide Your Fires (It’s a Shakespeare reference), a compilation of 90s goth rock by bands like Forbidden Fire, the Tors of Dartmoor, and other such. The 90s stuff was so great. I probably sold that comp when I moved down from Austin. I used to listen to it all the time when I worked at the State Capitol. I spent a lot of time there not working. And eating lots of reception food, I ate reception food for six months. I became very dexterous. I can hold a drink, balance a precarious plate of eggrolls, cheese, and veggies, eat and gesticulate wildy with my free hand.

I’m great fun at parties. Maybe that’s where I should be now. Maybe the revolution needs a party.

“If it’s not in Houston, it may be in Beaumont. If it’s not in Beaumont, it may be in Lake Charles, Louisianna…”

So, that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna show up tomorrow, play a bunch of old school goth rock, some Pain Teens, a Danzig song, and then I’m just gonna’ leave. I’ve got places to be. And miles to go before I sleep.

Life’s been busy as hell, but I’m getting along. You’d think I’d be used to the way it spurts and have some way to handle it, but I don’t. I just get all stressed and angsty.

Tuesday Night Hang Out Night last night was a blast. It was just like the old days. Roy and Renee came by, and so did Danielle (seeing as she’s back in town). Jonathan and Tobin stopped by, as did Tobin’s roommate, Micah. Nicci got nice and toasty, and Kasey even stayed up till late. She’s on vacation this week, so it was nice to have her hang out with us. Josh and Ben even came by. And of course Justin and Tiffany were there.

It was nice. Good music and good times. Some port, mulled wine, and general pleasantries. I kicked everyone off the porch and out of my bedroom around midnight, so I could go to bed. They’d all left by two AM. It was good times.

Everyone should have their own version of Tuesday Night Hang Out Night where they hang with their friends.

Gearmo’s moving just down 1960 from us, and I can’t wait to drag him and Sandra over. It will rock.

I finally got around to updating the Object A radio station. I added some new electro, but a bunch of goth stuff. It’s kinda cool how my tastes slowly move over time. The new electro is awesome, though. State of the Union and Cut.Rate.Box.

The side room at Underworld has been going well. It’s a really eclectic mix of music from World Serpent, dark ambient, goth, old school industrial, and darkwave. It’s kinda like listening to the radio. Jen showed her interpretations of the tarot last week, and that went really well. I want a print of the one with the sun on it. I want one Bret’s prints, too, but the money will have to wait.

Roy and Justin will be up there this Thursday. I’m taking a break. Justin’s threatening to play the entirety of the War of the Worlds, and Roy will be focusing on World Serpent bands. In the coming weeks we want to devote nights to Fossil Dungeon, Middle Pillar, Projekt, and Cold Meat, as well as more artists.

I’ve been working on Object A, though work has been slow as work’s been taking all my energy. I’ve got three deadlines today/this week (and here I sit updating), and I want to launch two new sites by the end of this week. If God grants me amazing powers of celerity, perfection, and the ability to stop and start time at my will, I will launch a third website by Monday.

I want to go out of town on Saturday to work with Alex, but I think I will use one his flaking excuses to get out of it. Maybe he should get off his Austin ass and come to Houston to work down here. We’d get more done.

And speaking of productive, I had band practice Sunday. It was the most productive I’ve ever been with a group of musicians. In the five hours we worked, we layed out snippets for two complete songs. We just need to hammer out the structure, tighten things up. I’m amazed at how well we worked together, feeding off one another. It was sweet. And we all have the same goals. Line out four or five songs, do a demo and do a show. Five songs is a set, and enough to play.

And I’ve been writing. Snippets here and there, but it puts me closer to where I want to be. And books. Lots of books. I read so much recently, it’s wonderful. I’ve been amazed recently by Borges’ Labyrynths. Totally inspiring. I also got a collection of essays by Benjamin. I wanted it for one in particular: “Art in the age of mechanical reproduction”. It’s awesome. An amazing treatise on intellectual property rights, even though when it was written it was intended more as a Marxist look at art.

Coming up, there are shows by Das Ich, Sex Gang Children, Cut.Rate.Box, and a goth rock festival in San Antonio. And Voodou are coming back to Houston. That means they’re probably hitting Austin also. They rock.

Fucked up generation

It’s all my fault. I know what boobies are made of. I do. Learned it all last night. I am also cordially and specifically invited by the staff to fuck whomever in the men’s room stall. Sandra sat upside down in the backseat all the way home. Nicci dissappeared, but we found her later. And Danielle punctuates by swigging vino from a bottle. A short swig is a comma, or semi-colon. A long swig is a period. It was someone else’s birthday and someone else’s sister wasn’t wearing a bra. Naughty!

This was after Cecily and Armando cancelled dinner. Fuckers. So I swung out and hung with Nicci briefly before meeting Tiff’s new coworker EJ at the apartment.

Wandering star

Tuesday Ricky regaled us with stunning descriptions of Naval armaments and workplace subversiveness. We tried Jonathan’s spiced wine. Not sure on the verdict. I abstained. Practicing for lent. Tobin talked about work. Justin talked about metal. His band Splinters of Death is unlike everything I’ve ever heard.

Monday I split work early, being sick, and having vomited on myself earlier. Met up with Roy and Zach. Zach returned to Germany early Tuesday morning.

Brand new you’re retro

Sunday woke refreshed, but Katy woke icked out, like to the max, man. By the time she felt better, I was icked out. Neither of us wanted to get in the car for a three hour drive home. But we both had to be back.

Saturday katy called at 11:30 to remind me I was meeting her at noon. I got there at 1:00. Not too bad. Not too bad, at all. Hopped in the car and jammed to Austin, hitting the hummus stand, first thing, and waiting FOREVER for some fucking service. The hummus was worth it. Then we met Anna’s roomies who were very cool.

Procured was vodka and port. And then some more port. Brad and ‘Auli’i showed up, and then they did their weird Brad and ‘Auli’i thing. None of us understand it. Met a ton of typical Austin indie-rockers, uber-hipsters, and aging decadents. Roved to Wylie’s so I could sleep through Dog Soldiers (cause I was tired, dammit). Of course we took the port, but forgot it at Wylie’s. That’s ok. That’s what’s known as a fortuitous bottle of port. Saw Stina and Dane, as well as the man who keeps an extra brain in a styrofoam cooler and takes it with him wherever he goes.

Muscoviet mosquito

Friday, Denise took all of us to Numbers for her birthday. She got us drunk. I have been known to have a drink from time to time, but Denise pushed our limits. Jeff DJed “I walk the line”‚ “Lagartija Nick”, and “Heroin she said” all early in the night. Rock the fuck on.

Thursday I worked and hit Underworld later. I think.

Men don’t fear the reaper

Wednesday I wrecked my car after pulling an all nighter for work. I was on my way to Katy’s birthday shindigs with promised ice cream cake, queso, and margueritas. And they didn’t even save me a teensy fucking scrap.

But it was cool. Got towed. Nicci came to pick me up, and dragged me out to Maddy’s punk show at Numbers. I haven’t seen an old fashioned Austin punk band in years. Also playing were Sword who I thought sounded cool.

And Tuesdays have been cool. Angela brought her spiffy velvet coat. Jonathan’s been there. And Tobin has upgraded from bringing wine, to bringing wine and havarti. Lindsey and Brittany showed late one evening, and at some point we had Brandon’s mead…