Sunday, June 10, 2012

Of Little Substance, With Commentary.

Today was inspiring mostly via pictures, not words. Click the pictures, as always, to expand them. It's fun!

My Guy Friend finally had a chance to catch up with all of my e-cards, blogs and emails, except the one I never sent, but including the mutually-generated someecard my best male friend and I made to apologize to him for our shenanigans last week. He then (gasp! He never texts!) texted me the following: "I am fatigued thinking about all the energy your mind generates." That was a compliment, though I replied, "Just imagine being me!"

School starts tomorrow, so a shift in priorities is in order. I'm anxiety-ridden about finding my classroom. Thus, I will arrive 45 minutes before class. I used to do that at Knox too and I freaking lived there for almost 5 years and I knew my way around. There's scant limit to my psychotic anal-retentiveness. It could be worse. I could be at Balderdash & Verities:

"Yum" isn't a real word. It's an exclamation. A sound one utters. Like "blech!" Anyway, this is tonight's venue in which Roger Waters is going to perform "The Wall." (Photo courtesy of my friend who is one of the road managers.) My Guy Friend wasn't at the Waters show in Chicago, which is redeeming, and he did read a negative review of the show, which isn't surprising.

In talking about Roger Waters and Pink Floyd, I thought that was the perfect segue into my follow-up question to Guy Friend: "Have you figured out who Syd Barrett is yet?" which, sadly, he hasn't "had a chance." I still think putting "Dark Globe" on his CD was a good choice. It's universal humanism. It's explanatory, overt pleading inter-mixed into what's otherwise a very ambiguous lyrical piece. No, I haven't directed him to that blog entry... (Roger Waters, Yum! Only $250 per douchebag! Tonight only!)

Instead, he was at the Lichtenstein exhibit at the Art Institute, about and of which I was unaware. I was very excited that he was out looking at art, and experiencing something more likened to creativity, and told him it all sounded cool, honestly, despite Lichtenstein, just as I think Andy Warhol is REALLY overrated, but recognize their importance in art history. But there's some poetic justice in inundating the man's vibrating pocket with texts while he's admiring "pop art" or "art that pops."  There he stood, looking at modern art, while modern artists were bugging him on his phone, which, at a certain point, he had to deflate, or I would've gone on and on. Kate said that Lichtenstein was all about how lifeless the world has become, and that's certainly true. Coincidentally, I happened upon a wad of Lichtenstein posters going for $60 a pop on a web site that Kate and I frequent, Warhols too. Have at it!

Not a fan of, let's call it "comic book art," which is sophomoric at best, or art reminiscent of advertising,  which is too capitalistic, there's only one Lichtenstein painting I'd consider hanging anywhere, "Hey You." I like it because it's socially defiant. Accusatory. I could do without the suit coat and shirt with cuff links, which symbolize the mainstream establishment. My personal opinion of Lichtenstein's caricatures is that people in reality, their forms, their hearts, their brains cease to exist and he chose to objectify individuals into what was deemed societal perfection during his era. Women are inaccurately portrayed. I wonder if Guy Friend understood the implications of the art he was observing or if he took it all at face value. It's best to ignore whatever the gallery tries to tell you about a piece of art and look at it from your own perspective. What this tells me isn't necessarily what it's going to tell you, or Kate, or Guy Friend or anyone.

 We can all look at art and say "That's cool. I like it. It's edgy." But WHY? What is the artist trying to show you?  Visual art, like poetry, is open to interpretation. This I realize. Sometime, Guy Friend should walk about the Art Institute with me. It'd be an eye-opener. It seems like I expend emotional energy in an effort to make Guy Friend understand emotions when they're not direct and are either metaphorical or implied. Whereas I come from a discipline where feeling was favored over thinking, artistically, he's just the opposite. It's frustratingly beautiful. Maybe the next time I see him, I'll explain the Fluxus movement in the 60's. Seriously cool shit.

Roy Lichtenstein, "Hey You," 1973. When I was a year old!

Wow, that's pretty damn mad!

Highest points for grossest thing I've seen in YEARS. Straight up, no chaser. Chicago Rib Fest action, which, after seeing, I threw up in my mouth, a lot. Smoked pig heads, for the love of Christ! As if the case for vegetarianism needed a boon:

The funniest thing I saw all day? The flow chart of Bonnie Tyler's 80's hit, "Total Eclipse of the Heart."  I've always had a soft spot for this song, inexplicably. Below: the chart and the music video, in case you need a refresher course. It's pretty self-explanatory. Turn around, bright eyes!

Luke split before dinner and went to Youth Group at church for some "mystery" dinner thingy. He left behind the arsenal, all set-up and manned by Walle, his faithful walrus. Included are: 2 pistols, an assault rifle, a TV remote, Kleenex, BB's, silencers, Bioshock 2, and the TV-Be-Gone, which turns televisions off everywhere with one click. He left ready for ANYTHING. Thank God!

David Byrne, of whom I'm a big fan, even though he dropped out of RISD (where Kate got her BFA), recently had an interactive art exhibit whereupon the visitors could step on dozens of guitar pedals and hear the various noises that they generated. Now THIS is modern art. Genius.

Guy Friend can't understand how it is that I know 3,000 song lyrics by heart and can make him thematic CD's, yet manage to forget half the songs I play with my own band. Maybe it's because I categorically dislike Contemporary Christian music, passionately. I don't know why my brain processes some things and not others. My conscious mind must block music that sucks. "You know my faults, now let my foibles pass." I'm not an idiot.  Lest you all forget:

Coolest, badass photo I saw all day, which is a musical truism? Maybe as a gift, I'll get Drozd a t-shirt that says the same thing about HIS lead singer:

The thing with Best Male Friend and Guy Friend? It's the same deal with both of them and I'm frustrated, a little. I don't know...each is (they deny) jealous of the other in his own (guilty, denying, unaware competitive) way, and they make that obviously known when each talks to me, when the two of them are honestly mutually exclusive and unrelated, though they both seem AWFULLY interested in knowing what the other is up to on any given day. True, I am the common denominator in the equation, but they're both SO different. 

 Each is vastly successful in his chosen profession and they both encourage me as I stumble towards bliss. One is emotionally open and forthcomingly affectionate, his feelings an open book, either because we've known one another for so long, or by virtue of the fact that he lives for the moment, having cheated death almost as many times as I have, and doesn't conform to society's standards; the other, Catholic, heavily guarded, affectionate but consumed with guilt (guilt being the world's most useless emotion) and though I'm relatively certain he doesn't have any spare "Annie-types" clamoring to spend time with him, the closest he ever came to complimenting my looks was to say my tattoo was beautiful, and he doesn't like tattoos per se, and told me once, when he picked me up, that I "looked great." I assume, by default, that neither of them find me remotely attractive, though Best Male Friend deemed me, borrowing from a Rolling Stones song, his "tits and ass with soul." Objectionable from a feminist point of view, but meant to be a compliment. (He said this, of course, before I *lost* my ass.) Guy friend? Who the fuck knows. 

Why do either of these male friends' opinions carry validity?  That's easy. I have PTSD as a result of the last man I trusted, which they both know, who's affection always came with a heavy price and saw me as a piece of property, glibly telling me, "I own you" as he emotionally and physically reduced me into submission and powerlessness, what self-esteem I had, shattered.  The man I ended up marrying flatly admitted he honestly didn't find me attractive way back in college, and my self-esteem was nonesuch, so off-kilter that I married him anyway when I knew I could do better, as presently validated by the guys from Knox who question why I ever even dated that schlub when I could've dated them

Psychologically, Craig had a conditioned response to a certain stimulus, let's say, that I couldn't penetrate, despite my best efforts. (I already covered some of this in I went so far as to consult his psycholgy professor at Knox, who tried to assure me it was Craig, not me, who had the inherent issue. That he knew no differently, from an impressionable age. Thus, I was likewise reduced to being just a shell of a physical body off which he could pretend I was something or someone else, which was the historical norm our whole relationship, which fucked me up.  Between that and him letting me slowly kill myself without helping me? I just wonder if he has the same "problem" with his current girlfriend. Good luck with ALL that.

In summary: I have major self-image issues and have difficulty trusting men I care about. But I TOTALLY digress.

Tomorrow is best male friend's birthday. He'll be 43. (No, I haven't purchased a gift for him yet. He's even harder to shop for than Guy Friend. It's kind of like trying to shop for yourself, except you can't buy cute clothes.) Guy Friend wants me to wish him a Happy Birthday. (He'll LOVE THAT!) Meanwhile, at age 57, Guy Friend was lamenting about being "old and cranky." (Best Male Friend calls him "my old man.")  He's exhibiting this sudden generation gap complex when it comes to me that I haven't done a terribly good job, as a friend, of negating.  I told him, "You're just cranky!" then told him he's not *really* that old, and I meant that. His spirit is still young (most of the time) and he has a fit body. I consider both of them wise contemporaries. Guy Friend's mustache is graying and he has salt and pepper hair, which is attractive and whatever, I have a lot of gray hair myself and don't plan on coloring it. Best Male Friend's hair is salt and pepper too, more so every time I see him. Please, fellas. Truth is, I enjoy both of them, immensely, except when they snidely bitch about one another, even unaware that they're slighting one another, which is ALL THE TIME, although Guy Friend is encouraging me to spend more time with Best Male Friend, which is a strategic scheduling clusterfuck, and I want to spend more time with Guy Friend, only slightly less clusterfuckish in terms of nailing down a date. 

I dicked around online out in the sun again today, nearly as roasted as the pig heads:

This made me laugh aloud, thinking of Guy Friend, who's mustache I honestly do like on him:

In defense of smoking, Go Nabokov, go!

Gift idea for me? Fuck yeah!!!!

If you don't want to sleep on toast, you can actually sleep on waffles, even better!

On why I write:

Important lessons below, for friends to remember, like telling me that your kids got into a major car accident early in the conversation, instead of wasting time with Guy Friend vs Best Male Friend antics, Guy Friend!  Fill me in on the crucial stuff first, given your self-proclaimed statistic that these people are 95% of your existence. But you're indeed doing a much better job at staying in touch, which I do appreciate:

Ultimately, it means this, appropriate for ANY friend of any gender, and is certainly true of Kate and me, (worth the read, blow it up):

Anyway, I'm shitpickles and in the middle, watching all the drama unfold and bemused at at their mutual sarcastic infancy, though, despite their one glaring, invasive mutual trait, it's the Annie Confidant Collective's view that the two of them are shitpickles themselves. (Those of you who require a definition of "shitpickles?" See "gobsmacked.")  I feel that if God gave ME a say in things, which He hasn't, and neither have ya'll for that matter, I know what I'd do. Sheesh. Don't both leave me flapping my cheese in the wind. There's both absolutely nothing and everything wrong with the whole scenario. 

A few days ago, I was Boyd and you guys were ready to go all Clapton/Harrison, and while I ultimately would side with Harrison, I sympathize with Clapton's plight, which, at given moments in all of our history, I was ready to jump on each of your missus' asses about. 

Hey, I read the book you hid in my suitcase, Best Male Friend, and Guy Friend, I suggested you read it a long time ago. It's utter lunacy! Don't make me post the photo of the two of you together, which ranks as the World's Most Awkward Photo I've ever seen in the Guinness Book of World Records, for I have no desire to "out" either of you and soon you'll have your own record to break. 


And always remember, as George said:

Til tomorrow. Keep it real.


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