2005-08-18 - 10:12 a.m.
I will write this in snitches, in between scanning real estate appraisals into this computer system. Thusly I snitch and snatch and grab bits of this:
I've scanned probably four hundred real estate appraisals in the last three and a half days and my knowledge of real estate, especially values in different parts of the east coast, has quadrupled. "Fauntleroy" is, by far, the best last name of a borrower I've seen so far. Notes to homebuyers: stay away from DC. Jesus. Two hundred grand for a tiny slice of what looks, from the pictures in the appraisal, to be public housing.
Offices, man. I got a job offer yesterday. I told him I'd think about it but I'm probably going to take it, probably today. It starts in three weeks. It's a 20 minute commute. I'd be doing technical writing. And there it is. But, you know, I wouldn't be poor any more and that sounds good. I want to eat sushi and drink beer. I'm giving myself a year and in that time the plan is to hunt for fellowships and grants and to eventually live the life I was probably supposed to live when I first started reading choose-your-own-adventure books in the third grade. "Zork" is the one I remember. There was lots of falling down chasms and getting eaten by giant plants.
And Jesus again. John Davis, my boy from Superdrag, has turned super Christian. He recorded a song for some Christian fund-raising compilation called "Jesus Is Alive (Really)" or something and even though he's obviously much happier, why am I so much sadder?
Why do we still need religion? Haven't we moved past this? I'm making up my own one day and it'll have to do with cooking food for other people and with random notes left on passenger seats. Also: no mirrors in my religion. I'm not yet sure why.
My car's almost done. Temperature shot way up on the way home yesterday. My friend, who is a five-foot-eight, stout-limbed angel of a pot-brownie-eating computer guy, loaned me his 1995 Toyota pickup for a few days until I figure out what to do with mine. I love driving pickups. I'm thinking about buying one. Nothing huge. Just a little Japanese deal. I like the uniformity of the bench-style seat. When I move, you move.
I saw the Secret Machines last week, with the Russian girl. She bought me a ticket, sent me the one ticket in the mail and didn't even mention she'd held on to the other one. It was incredible. The opening band, the Heliocentric something, they were great. Two guys, and the drummer was out of control. Sweaty halfway through the first song. Secret Machines had an intense light show for such a small stage. They did just one encore song, my favorite one, a real prog-rock and headphone song, reminds me of anything on "OK Computer," called "First Wave Intact."
Two nights ago, we saw "The Beat That My Heart Skipped," and though the title promised total awesomeness, instead we got, you know, a sensitive French movie. I liked a lot of it, actually, especially the main actor, but I thought it was one of those movies where the plot kind of overshadowed what I liked best--the moody shots where the main character lurks around the apartment, smoking, laughing, figuring it all out, figuring out the secret at that exact moment. The silent, tiny crisis actions, I suppose. Anyway, the soundtrack is all classical piano and the girl liked it a lot, naming all the songs. I know very little about classical music though I wish I did.
I'd like to write an essay that incorporates these things: grass, my instant and moderate-to-severe allergies to grass and all things green, baseball, dirt, my brothers and their baseball careers, baseball fields, and then more grass. I like the idea of the way different kinds of grass feel under your feet: lush, watered grass; dry grass that expels wisps of dusty soil when you kick it; soaked, muddy grass that suctions to your feet; and the way grass turns your shoes green the way shovels callus your hands.0 comments so far