Used And Dirtied

There is a used book store next to the place I work at. I have gone in there only two times prior to this past Saturday night. It's kind of a shitty little place, to be frank. It's not like one of those little places that are lined wall to wall ceiling to floor with old paperbacks and tomes, this one is more like a empty store lot that happens to have tables with books on them. I'm only ever at the mall I work at to work, I don't browse around. I don't have the money to browse. And I have slowly become to hate the process known as shopping. Especially because now a days it's considered a sport or a spectacle, thanks to reality television. Another reason to ban that friggin crap from the airwaves. The first time I went in there it was just to see what it was, just to know what was next door. The second time I was killing a long lunch break, and ended up buying three books. One was a cookbook, another was a novel, and the last was a fantastic photo book that is best described as "yummy". I ended up in there again trying to get through a lunch break, and happened to notice the guy working. He was good looking. Clean cut, maybe a little too much for my liking, but still he wore it well. Good teeth, smart skin. And the kind of eye color that is a dangerous weakness to me. It's like kryptonite to me. From the first guy I kissed, to the most recent, I've always paid attention to eye color. And this book store boy had that color. He was a catch from beginning to end, all his chapters looked good. He read well. Alright, no more metaphors. So on my lunch break I didn't do anything but stare and research. Then I went back to work. And made up my mind that on my last fifteen I would go and talk to him. Which is a huge thing because I never approach first. I'm not being conceited, and I'm not the boy that everyone rushes to talk to, I'm just really terrible at knowing when someone is interested. OR even gay. So me telling myself that my fifteen minute was going to consist of speaking with the clean cut book boy, was an out of the ordinary big thing. So I walked back in, spotted him in the art history section, and made my way to cooking section parallel to where he was standing. It took him about ten seconds to walk over and say hello. I then made a comment about working there getting boring due to the lack of customers. He replied with saying he had a stack of books to read at the cash counter. I asked what he was reading. The whole time he was making direct eye contact and smiling and running his hands up and down his arms. I thought I was having a bright and shiny moment. But then he goes and tells me about the book he's reading, something having to do with learning about being a better boyfriend and something else. After I realized I was making a complete dick of myself I sort of blacked out and had the strong urge to slit my wrists with the paperback cook book I was holding in my hands. I think I cut him off and said I had to get back before my break was over. Cut to me in the bathroom swearing and cursing into the sink. Completely wishing I could be washed down the drain along with the other dirt and dust mites. That was the turd on top of the mud pie for me. This week has kicked my dirt covered ass. I've been interviewing at other jobs to try and get a second income going, and I'm remembering how gross an experience that is. Having to whore yourself and explain to utter strangers why you are awesome and wonderful and talented. Making everything sound so much better then it really is, trying to appear shiny and new when, in truth, you're used and dirtied up. I even had an interview at my current job for a promotion, and that too felt like I was prostituting myself out. Saying what I needed to just to make that dollar. Making sure all my mud spots were covered up. It just made me feel dirty, and not in a music video kind of way. I'm talking about feeling covered in grease and dirt and grime and guck. I don't think guck is a real word. But you get the picture I'm painting. And I'm not even going to get into the concept of me being a scruffy, beat up looking set of ribs who has fatal tendencies of falling for and/or always wanting the clean cut ones. That mix just never works out the right way. Because it goes one of two ways. Either they want to cut it short before they get too dirtied up, or I feel bad about getting them muddy and call it off. Guys don't like messy relationships. They don't care if they leave their shit scattered around the house, or their room or their car or the kitchen, but they try to keep themselves stain free. And my Dove (for Men!) body wash can only take care of so many problems. Both ways end up with me lucking out. I keep feeling like I belong on the shelf or the table top with the other used goods ,covered in dust, and not with the clean cut boy who works in the store. Is there a used boyfriends store? I wouldn't mind laying on a table and taking a little nap. That seems a lot more realistic then having someone great and wonderful come into my life again and clean me up, and not mind that I'm used and dirty, and hold me close without being worried about stains. I don't see that happening.

“A person might be an expert in any field of knowledge or a master of many material skills and accomplishments. But without inner cleanliness his brain is a desert waste.” -Sri Sathya Baba

Casted Hero

When I was younger I did a lot of crazy shit. Most of which was fueled by comic books and hormones. My eagerness to see the world, coupled with the fact that I had a loose grasp on reality, lead me to do some brazen and impulsive things. It is safe to say I spent my free time in very unique ways. I often found myself left at the house alone. And since I was never socially overbooked, or that eager to do what the majority of the people my age were doing, I made my own fun. Which was usually inspired my comic books or super hero mentality. For example, stringing stuffed brown paper bags across the garage ceiling and then acting out fight scenes with cutting knifes from the kitchen drawers, a la that scene from Daredevil where Elektra pretty much does the same thing. I got really good at handling blades, and hiding the mistakes incurred during practice. It’s been awhile, but I still have those skills. Somewhere inside me. Another example is rooftops. I was kinda doing parkour before it became a big thing. If I was the only one home, and it was dark outside, I would find ways to scale the house and enter through windows. Walking along the roof ledge, jumping from one landing to another, jumping to the front yard or backyard. My favorite time for doing this was when there was a full moon, because then the rooftop was lit up and there were shadows everywhere, and it was like being in a Batman comic book. I would slink across the rooftop a la Gotham’s finest. Inspired my both the Bat and the Cat. Still don’t really know how I never broke an ankle or a knee. Or an entire leg. Like I said, I was young. Once I snuck to my dad’s jobsite. And played on all the half built buildings. It was like a super hero training ground. Another time, I went Cat and toilet papered a classmates house. He was having a party, and I wasn’t invited. So, I had the house to myself, and was hopped up on comic books, so I had a little fun. I dressed in black, constructed a mask for myself, slipped on some black gloves and pulled on my boots. I threaded a black belt through the toilet paper rolls so they were around my waist a la utility belt. That way I could run and not have to worry about carrying them. So I ran over to his house, did my mission, and then sprinted home. When I got back, I walked past a full length mirror and paused. I looked fantastic. Head to toe dressed in black, from cat eared cowl to ass kicking boots. The only color was the silver shine from the belt buckle. I would have made Bob Kane proud. So yeh, like I said, I had unique past times. Going running wasn’t just an exercise to me, it was an exercise in crime fighting. Out running the police and/or running to catch up to the criminal. Using the punching bag wasn’t just a work out, it was working out the information I needed from the captured villain. Comic books were like training manuals to me, not just literature or leisure reading. I studied them harder then I studied my math books. I’m still a little jaded about not having been recruited by some agency, team, covenant or vigilante by now. Never got a call from Professor Xavier. Never received an email from Nick Fury. Was never approached by Bruce Wayne. And, worst of all, reality has set in. Now my comic books just sit in a drawer collecting dust. No more adventures, no more missions, no more DC or Marvel inspired fun. Just bills. The closest thing these days is all the comic book movies that are being churned out like candy from a Pez dispenser. One right after the other. Since I was a fan and a loyal follower long before it was the cool thing to do, I always have fun thinking about who should play what part. What character. What persona. What entity. Because comic book characters aren’t just fiction to some of us, for some people they are like distant relatives. The ones you only see at reunions and weddings, but don’t know well enough to just start a conversation with. I have a cousin on my ma’s side like this. Jason. He sort of just exuded cool and comic book heroicness. Anyways. So I have some casting suggestions, some are recasts. But if I ruled the movie world, this is how I’d want it to be:




Mary Louise Parker for Catwoman




Demi Moore for Wonder Woman




Julianne Moore for Poison Ivy




Matthew Bomer for Nightwing




Ellen Pompeo for Batgirl





Jim Caviezel for Batman

Yeh, they're older actors. Yeh, they aren't young, hip, twenty somethings. But Gotham City is not represented by young, immature, babies. Crime fighters, heroes, villains are all older. Mary Louise Parker would be great as Selina Kyle and due justice to the role. Demi Moore looks like a modern day Wonder Woman and is the only real choice in my opinion. Ellen Pompeo would be a good for the supporting role of Batgirl. Julianne Moore looks like she was made for Poison Ivy. Matthew Bomer has the sly look to be Nightwing, but is still serious and dark. And I never liked Christian Bale as Batman. He doesn't make a good Bruce Wayne, he doesn't look the part and his growling voice for Batman is just ridiculous. Jim would make a better fit. Bruce Wayne is old, and beaten up by the city. But still dead sexy and dishy. Jim looks like that; weathered but still handsome. So yeh. That's what I think. And I will go to my grave with the truth about how long it took me to put this post together.

Animal Summer

I've heard the expression "the dog days of summer" before, but I am really beginning to understand them now. It's a couple of weeks into summer weather, and a few weeks into my broke living habits, and I am starting to understand just what it's like to be a dog hung up on a hot summer day. Kept up in doors, not able to go any farther then the backyard. Lying around the house, panting and wanting to play. Sweating it out, with my tongue hanging out. Tethered to the house, not wanting to get in trouble, but just wanting to get into some fun. Only able to bark out instead of getting to go out. The dogs days of summer are what it's like when my brain reverts to thinking like a puppy, just wanting to play and enjoy life. Then, at other times, I'm reminded that everybody wants to be a cat. Because the cat's the only cat, that knows where its at. And it's fairly accurate. Lounging around the house, not bothered with anything trivial, or really anything at all. People watching through the window. Then warming myself in a sun bath. Grooming. Watching. Taking it all in without getting worked up or envious of action. Just keeping to myself and working on being purfect, while being up to my whiskers in money free activities. Adopting a feline state of mind helps me out when I'm beginning to feel caged in. Acting like a kitten keeps me from raging like a tiger. But on certain days, I don't feel very domestic, and I feel like the streets and sidewalks are holding me hostage. This is when I wish I could flush myself down the drain and end up in the ocean. Completely free to swim and make bubbles. I'd be as happy as a dolphin and as carefree as a clown fish. Only having to worry about getting caught up by a bird. It would be just as freeing to fly away, as it would be to swim away. Often times I have to resort to the cleverness of a bird, especially the ones that are caged. They always find ways to keep themselves occupied, with their wit and songs. Singing to themselves while they are perched, content as the world passes them by. I'm surprised they don't molt more often, because sometimes perching and singing is all that keeps me from pulling my own feathers out. So for the time being I'm alright with stalking and prowling around the house, keeping myself entertained and distracted. Whether by ball of string or the next best thing. But sooner or later my creativity will run out, so let's hope by then I've got more money coming in. The rest of this summer is going to be an interesting one. A tiger can only count his stripes so many times, before he has to find someone else to count them for him.

“From the oyster to the eagle, from the swine to the tiger, all animals are to be found in men and each of them exists in some man, sometimes several at the time. Animals are nothing but the portrayal of our virtues and vices made manifest to our eyes, the visible reflections of our souls. God displays them to us to give us food for thought." -V. Hugo

Money (Men) $igns

I hesitated using the dollar sign because of what Ke$ha has done to it. She doesn't even sing songs about making money. Or working. Or being productive at life at all. So why does she get to steal the dollar sign? I should incorporate it into my name. I'm working and hustling all the friggin time. I'm barely holding it down, maybe the trick is to put the money into your name; if you build it, they will come. I don't have an "s" in either my first or last name. But I could do something like, €rant. That kinda looks like my name still. Sort of. Whatever, I'm not here to start spelling my name a different a way. The point is, I'm hung up on dollar signs these days. And the fact that the amount of money that I'm being asked to put out, keeps getting larger as the amount of money I'm putting in remains the same. I know to some this is a dilemma that they have been dealing with for years and decades, but it's a new found worry wort to me. Thank goodness all my acne is fictional and worry induced, because if worry wort's showed up like red dots I would be looking like a chicken pox epidemic. I have been getting almost forty hours a week at the job I have, but I am trying to secure some other kind of income too. That way I'll have more spare change. I've already sat myself down and had a long business meeting, with myself, to explain to myself that there will be no money this summer. Or rather, that all my money is not really at home with me. I'm more like a waiting room for it. It gets to sit and read year old magazines before being called to move on to bigger and nicer things. Bigger things like Ke$ha's cracked out, tangled mess of a hair do. I've tightened my budget so much I've even cut out men. Not that I had a packed social calendar, but I'm not even allowing the thought of fitting a man into my schedule, or my wallet, these days. I have literally begun to see men as dollar signs. Just a bunch of $$$'s walking around my mall or running in my neighborhood. And I keep telling myself, I can't cash that. I don't have the bank account, or the heart, to cash a check like that. Men aren't free and money doesn't grow on trees. Hard times in the economy mean hard times in my love life. Which means some hard things will have to be dealt with in new methods. Which is alright because it's free to work out in my basement. So if I'm stranded at home on FlatBroke Island, at least I'll get toned and jacked. Plus choosing my food carefully, and frugally, will also help with getting into even better shape. So I might be locking up my wallet, but I could be cashing in on a great new exercise program. And if preventing debt means cutting costs and men, then it'll teach me to appreciate what I have hit the lottery in. I'm wealthy in friendships and family, and rich in wit and creativity. I'm no number cruncher, but Wall Street isn't the only thing that dictates whether or not my stock rises. I'm going to try hard to make frugal look fantastic, and penniless into marvelous. Wi$h me luck!

“So you think that money is the root of all evil. Have you ever asked what is the root of all money?” -Ayn Rand

Mortal Kombat, Life Is

There's this sick new video on YouTube. It's about eight minutes long, and it's being called a short film version of what the new Mortal Kombat movie could be. It's the greatest thing I've seen in a long time. This is almost as good as Chris Evans being cast as Captain America. That's only better because Chris Evans is sex in human form. And the costume ideas are endless. Anyways. Back to Mortal Kombat. It's amazing to watch this short movie over and over again. It's so cool. And it looks like a great re-imagining of the movie franchise. Jeri Ryan as Sonja Blade is a great casting call. I'm sorta getting sick of seeing a bunch of big titted twenty something no ones get all the comic book roles. The characters is in the comic books are older, some of them would be considered "ancient" by Hollywood standards. It's smart that Jeri offered to shoot the short film. Her Twitter said it was as a favor to a friend, well I hope she sticks with it. I don't know the actor who is Jax, but he is also older. So I'm in favor of it. It just looks like a great more-realistic-less-fanciful update of the series. I loved the second movie, that came out about twelve years ago. It was a favorite of mine to watch when I was having, or at, a sleep over. It was so fun to watch it and then run around a backyard or a basement pretending to fight evil and kill bad guys. Naturally, I was inclined to emulate Sonja Blade rather then SubZero or Johnny Cage. But, not a super big surprise there. At least I wasn't wanting to be Kitana. Yikes. The guys always used brawn instead of brain, and Sonja knew how to throw a kick and do gymnastics. Plus she had some great one liners. I know how to throw a kick, do gymnastics, and give great one liners. But whatever, it was all child's play. But life is still sort of like that in a way. I'm not participating in a round tournament containing the most lethal and gruesome fighters the world has to offer, (not yet at least) but I am fighting for my life. Instead of make believe bad guys it's Student Loan Collectors. And I'm not kicking the butt of an invisible demon, I'm trying not to get my butt kicked by my bills. Which are very not invisible, but rather scattered around my room. So if Hollywood promises to do their best to not fuck up another comic book adaptation that I'm strongly looking forward too (i.e. Elektra, Fantastic Four and Catwoman), then I will promise to do my best to keep on top of my bills and loans. Because I'm sick of the bills saying "Get Over Here!", and I keep telling myself "Finish Him!".

ps- make Johnny Cage hot.


Jax: Trust me, Sonya!
Sonya Blade: I only trust one person, Jax, and you're talking to her.

On A Dirt Road

I've had this recurring notion, about myself and my behavior, that is unsettling and makes me furrow my brow. I'll be going about my business, whether at work or at the house or where ever, and then this tiny little question pops into my head: Do we become the people we date? It's not many words, but it contains many levels and a lot of weight. It's a heavy question. Probably about three clicks. The answer can go several ways. If you date someone who's nice and pleasant and charming, then those qualities rub off on to you. Even after you dump them, or they dump you, what they passed onto you is still there. Like behavioral herpes. Or personality chlamydia. After you get over hating them for breaking up with you, you still act like them in certain situations. Or say words that they use to say. Or even alter your clothes or shopping habits, maybe even the kinds of foods you eat; long after they are gone, the habits are still there. And it's not just little things, like cuffing up the sleeves on your t shirts, it could be big things. It could be things about politics or love or death or life or mindset or motive. Big things like DNR papers, the right to smoke up, the importance of tattoos, or the reasons for falling in love. People you date can change a lot more about you then how often you wear a hoodie, if you allow them they can change everything. And take everything. I was never a big candle person, I thought they were silly and useless, but then after dating a few candle lovers I find myself with seven half burnt candles. Now this is a minor example, candles are frivolous and usually not that expensive, but still, when did I become a candle person? When did I become a cat person? When did I become a smoker? When did I become so uptight? When did I become thirty years old? When did I become so hard and cold? When did I become an angry person? When did I become the kind of person who cheats? When did I become the kind of person who has an affair? When did this happen? When I was little, when I was younger, I never thought I would behave the way I do. The way I did. The way I have. The men I've dated. The men I've loved. The men who hurt me. They have all added and taken from me. The people you date, or love, they can mold and shape you. It's not clean cut, it's not black and white, it is not simple. You may leave their bed, but the tears their pillow hide come with you. You can have them stop the car, but their anger races after you. You can get up of their couch, but the cushion stays indented. You can avoid their favorite bar, but the building stays standing. You might not pet their cat anymore, but the fur stays on your clothes. You can put out the cigarette, but the flame burns on. You can kiss them goodbye, but their taste lingers. You can walk away, but you don't get to leave.

Sure, I've taken some jokes. Stolen some stories. Gained some comedic timing. Garnered some wisdom and patience. Permanently borrowed a pair of jeans. Found an affection for candles. Learned how to steal a dvd, how to french exhale, and how to drink wine. But there is so much that I never wanted to learn, never wanted to take with me. There is a lot I never wanted to know. I never wanted to do. And now that I fear I am becoming the men I use to date, all the ones who hurt and broke me, does that mean I'm just going to hurt and break my future romances? Does behaving like them mean I'll reach the same outcomes? How dangerous is following in their footsteps? We don't get to chose the dirt we step on, but we do get to decide how we walk. And right now, I'm standing on a dirt road wearing my hoodie and holding a candle, all alone. Damn the men I've loved and the ones I dated. How dare they make themselves appealing to me. How dare they teach me to walk, then walk away. Fuck this dirt road.



“I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school. They don't teach you how to love somebody. They don't teach you how to be famous. They don't teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer. They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind. They don't teach you what to say to someone who's dying. They don't teach you anything worth knowing.” -Neil Gaiman