Archive for August, 2009
Fuck Chase Bank
For closing my biggest credit account without notification, right in the middle of my home-buying process. This is all based on a stock lie they are telling the old WaMu customers, and apparently there are a lot of them. Like, enough for a class action lawsuit.
The Deities
Had the first official ride with the boys yesterday, operating under the gang name “The Deities.” We rolled down 407 after a brief interruption for gas and headlight maintenance. I’d never been down that road; it was virtual reality Road Rash with zero pixelation, tons of curves and a single stoplight. We were gods propelling steel and chrome at incredible speeds. Gorgeous scenery, lots of trees and fresh air, and a touch of panic about grease streaks on the pavement made for an exciting ride. I can’t wait to hit it in the fall when the weather cools, and we can cruise comfortably under the hellish Texas daystar.
After the 407 run we stopped by a gas station and then hung out at Adam’s for a while. I bought a Snickers (apparently now the official candy bar of Peanutopolis). I haven’t eaten a candy bar in years, maybe. It was fucking delicious. Josie will be elated that I’ve decided to hoard chocolate for Armageddon (Achocolypse? No, nevermind). Luxury item + mondo sugar infusion + touch of caffeine = valuable surplus.
Once we’d finished eating our rations and ripping on Plaxico Burress, we headed back out, out to the shadowy borders of Denton, the veiled country roads where we could practice the dark arts: blowing stuff up. Fireworks that is, God Bless the Chinese. We only got through four mortars before paranoia set in and we abandoned our spot. When I was a defiant teen, I wouldn’t have given a righteous shit about the cops. Now some color bombs in the middle of the country make me nervous. Maybe I’ve got more to lose now. Maybe the Panopticon has its tentacles deeper in me. Maybe I’m not a dumbass like my buddy Plaxico, and I don’t want to ruin a good thing with gratuitous pyrotechnics.
I suppose that time will tell.
Drunken Style
The master conducts his life like a symphony. He hears the themes and motifs that arise, and explores them. Seemingly disconnected experiences reveal themselves as synchronous; discrete moments are rooted in the same context of meaning.
A pebble hit our windshield and cracked it as we were driving down the highway. A rock hit my grandparents’ windshield and cracked it as they were driving down the road. We had a structural engineer look at the crack in the side of our new home. We had a cardiologist look at the crack in my wife’s heart. We had a counselor look at the cracks in our marriage. We were cracking under the pressure, so we cracked a pill in half and cracked a joke. Nothing was really serious, after all.
It was just another week. Families of symbols emerge, multi-local and multifarious. The master sees the web that connects them all.
Parties pop up, and one night I get so drunk I can’t even read the words on the screen. A drunk driver plummets over an embankment, and gets pulled from her truck as the engine ignites. A drunk driver pummels into three cars outside our apartment on a Saturday morning. A drunk driver fails repeatedly at parking, right in front of the cops already at the scene. Four idiots with blurred vision and slurred speech. Luckily, no one gets hurt.
It’s just another week. The master’s hands contort like he’s holding a cup or a jug. He stumbles like a simpleton, only to shock you with his speed.