don't make me feel weird in my heart
for the record, i didn't lose my iPod.
my iPod wasn't stolen.
it' s in the house, i just don't know where.
i did know where, when i hid it there/wherever during the party last week, in that mindless ether that conjoins Saturday night and Sunday morning, but that information was washed away the second i rejoined the drink-a-thon.
i've torn this place apart, day by day, room by room, and still nothing.
this is not the first time i've done this.
i am, and have been since i was very small, one of the world's most ingenious and diabolical hiders of things.
which is all well and good.
but it can lead to serious problems when i hide stuff when i'm drunk.
the drinking doesn't affect my sublime, almost Satanic ability to conceal things in plain sight, but it does affect my ability to remember where the concealing took place.
one night several years ago, when i thought Daryl might have been involved in petty crime, i hid his sneakers, fearing they could be used as evidence should the hammer fall. naturally, i was highly intoxicated at the time and couldn't locate the sneakers the next morning. or any morning for the next several weeks. (my timeline may be a little garbled, but i believe the only reason i found the crime shoes again was because we were moving out of the house.)
so, exhausted with spending all my spare time searching, i've decided to take the stance of "it'll show up sooner or later".
but man, it's fucking killing me.
i'm 930 songs in the hole.
and all my old fashioned CD's are back in the Maritimes in my mother's garage.
but the real punch in the bag is that Autumn, for me, is the best time of the year for hours long headphone walks.
during my two hour excursion today all i could think about was the lack of music.
fuck.
and that dank, crisp fall air was practically on it's knees, begging for me to fill her with some big, throbbing rock and roll.
anything.
Master Of Reality.
Fear Of A Black Planet.
Hot Rats.
Murray Street.
Double Live Gonzo.
anything.
then, a wet yellow leaf nosedived off a tree and slapped me in the face, making me suddenly and frighteningly aware of how dependant i've become on such a sleek and attractive little piece of technology.
(her skin was like porcelain, and when i touched her sensitive belly, her face would light up and she'd sing to me. i had her in the palm of my hand.)
i'm sure it'll show up.
(don't make me feel weird in my heart.)
now.... to learn how to whistle.
my iPod wasn't stolen.
it' s in the house, i just don't know where.
i did know where, when i hid it there/wherever during the party last week, in that mindless ether that conjoins Saturday night and Sunday morning, but that information was washed away the second i rejoined the drink-a-thon.
i've torn this place apart, day by day, room by room, and still nothing.
this is not the first time i've done this.
i am, and have been since i was very small, one of the world's most ingenious and diabolical hiders of things.
which is all well and good.
but it can lead to serious problems when i hide stuff when i'm drunk.
the drinking doesn't affect my sublime, almost Satanic ability to conceal things in plain sight, but it does affect my ability to remember where the concealing took place.
one night several years ago, when i thought Daryl might have been involved in petty crime, i hid his sneakers, fearing they could be used as evidence should the hammer fall. naturally, i was highly intoxicated at the time and couldn't locate the sneakers the next morning. or any morning for the next several weeks. (my timeline may be a little garbled, but i believe the only reason i found the crime shoes again was because we were moving out of the house.)
so, exhausted with spending all my spare time searching, i've decided to take the stance of "it'll show up sooner or later".
but man, it's fucking killing me.
i'm 930 songs in the hole.
and all my old fashioned CD's are back in the Maritimes in my mother's garage.
but the real punch in the bag is that Autumn, for me, is the best time of the year for hours long headphone walks.
during my two hour excursion today all i could think about was the lack of music.
fuck.
and that dank, crisp fall air was practically on it's knees, begging for me to fill her with some big, throbbing rock and roll.
anything.
Master Of Reality.
Fear Of A Black Planet.
Hot Rats.
Murray Street.
Double Live Gonzo.
anything.
then, a wet yellow leaf nosedived off a tree and slapped me in the face, making me suddenly and frighteningly aware of how dependant i've become on such a sleek and attractive little piece of technology.
(her skin was like porcelain, and when i touched her sensitive belly, her face would light up and she'd sing to me. i had her in the palm of my hand.)
i'm sure it'll show up.
(don't make me feel weird in my heart.)
now.... to learn how to whistle.
posted by mike | 12:12 PM
9 Comments:
Where are you?
Montrealish at the moment.
where are you?
and how's autumn treatin' ya?
have you checked between the porn on the top shelf?
yeah.
like four times.
Did you hide my shoes becuase you were afraid of CSI, or because of your twisted sense of justice?
it would have to be my twisted sense of justice, because honestly, the thought of those two CSI cougars crawling around Beech St., rummaging through my mountainous piles of refuse is infinitely arousing.
I have a Nano
Someone at apple put legs on it, its like a sentient jukebox, it goes for walks.
I feel ya
Check in the light fixtures and behind that weird picture thing with the black guy, the old woman, and the little kid. You know, the one mom used to hide your zippos behind so she could say she took them away but you'd always get them back.
i don't have that.
it's at Cherie's right now.
but if it was up here, that's definently where i would've stashed the 'pod.
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