solipsism, with occasional drinking

“You drew me in like mustard on a sandwich.”

Why would you keep setting up obstacles for yourself in the direct path of a goal – one that you ostensibly want to achieve, one that promises to offer a significant upgrade in any number of different, important areas – that is low-hanging fruit, just right there for the picking?

And so I’m going to break up this sub-LiveJournal pouting with an account of what I did Saturday. It was the sort of night that is going to stick out, if only for the number of unique things that happened, yet a record of it also seems necessary. Anyway: my Saturdays (and the idea of weekends) have been shot since I took the title of Sports Editor. Those are the breaks when you’re a staff of one, and a perfectionist (of sorts). But last weekend was slow with regards to local sports, which is all I’m interested for the purposes of my job anyhow. My responsibility was trimmed from four pages to two, itself a very attractive proposition. And so while things still took time to coalesce, I was done – and had helped edit the rest of the front section fairly early. And I sort of invited myself along with a co-worker and her husband, both of whom are exceptionally rad & down-to-earth people, to a party in a shitty little down just down the highway, in Bluff Dale. After the scare of a few week’s back (happy birthday, York, we’re stupid assholes) I was just a passenger, and went home to begin drinking/get ready.

What it makes me wonder is obvious: is this something I actually want? And beyond that, am I even capable of articulating wants beyond the base and basic – beyond ‘I want a beer/pizza/day off/girlfriend’? I’m not even sure I can fathom what I really want. I can define things I don’t want, and perhaps states I’d prefer – I’d like to not worry, be anxious, feel pain – you know, really gut-level primitive stuff. Career? Sorry, that’s something that would be figured out in some non-reptilian part of my brain, and that just isn’t a place I’m really capable of reaching at this juncture.

So we arrive at the old Bluff Dale saloon, and it’s cold as balls. I’m wearing a sweater, and sneakers, both of which mark me as an outsider like instantly. This is cowboy country, after all – it’s all scuffed boots and heavy beige jackets, except for the one dude wearing what appeared to be a silk (and I think light blue, but this was by the light of a campfire – but I’m getting ahead of myself) ascot of some sort. Yeah, it reminds me of the “Of Mice and Men” character who keeps a glove (both?) filled with Vaseline, too (looking back at least. I can’t make those sort of connections when full of beer). But so here’s the scene – a beat-down old saloon, and out back, folks huddled around a trash can filled with flames. There was a trailer/barbecue pit, too, but I didn’t eat. The band was all strings, and played old country standards. More importantly, they also played a Creedence cover (after launching into an obligatory anti-Cross Canadian Ragweed rant that I agreed with 100 percent – i.e. There’s already a CCR, a better one, and now we’re going to murder one of their classics). The song was “Lodi,” incidentally, which I first encountered as covered by my fave band of all time, Pavement. I clapped along and mouthed the words when I knew them.

The sum total of all of this mental hand-wringing (a ridiculous image to be sure) is a sort of queasy ambivalence. Because although it has been proven ad infinitum that my current situation is basically unsustainable – unless it turns out that all I really want is something to whine about, in which case, hey presto, I’m right where I want to be – I’m still dragging my feet when it comes to actually doing anything about it. I’m writing this when I should be revising my resume, and that chore itself should’ve been knocked out days ago.

As I became more intoxicated, I became more adventurous (natch). There was a cute young girl I had tried making eyes at from across the fire – although the preceding is a grievous bit of romanticization (word?). Hitting on cute girls is hardly my forte, and this attempt was surely as ham-handed as one might imagine, although I’d argue that’s all part of my charm. Short story short: it didn’t work out. She (Shelby?) was a Tech grad, and lived in Bluff Dale, and said something to the effect of ‘I’m sure I’ll see you around.’ Not at all likely, dear. Before that, or perhaps after, I got the band inside to play “Lodi” a second time, and it was – somehow – better than the first time around. We left eventually and I played pool spectacularly badly at a local bar, and was delivered home at closing time, at which point I passed out.

I hear they’re doing it again in about a month, but God knows if I’ll still be here/up for it.