the world has turned and left me here

variable output in the form of the tequila velociraptor incident

I am listening to an old Norwegian prog record by a band called Aunt Mary: Janus. I cannot recommend this record however. It's just too variable. There are moments of drony splendor, but they just can't make up their mind and keep tossing out more random stuff. Jazz riffs, falsetto choruses, bluesy guitar bits that disintegrate into laughter. It's just not something you want to listen to, though I'm sure it was fun for them to make.

Then I think, how is this different from me? If someone put the record of my life on right now, they would see me at the piano trying to play this Debussy piece, playing the right hand runs over and over, getting tired of that, hacking, going to my corporate job, coming home tired, writing this blog sometimes, drinking too much once in a while so that I lose all my sensibilties and start doing my stupid human tricks. Disintegrating into laughter. Variable output. Some of it might amuse or interest someone, but on the whole, this is not a record you just sit down and listen to.

Some people might call it "range," but I don't see it that way. I awoke this morning to the conviction that I'm a bad person. Here's what happened. I went to a bar where there was an unofficial holiday party for work. Company holiday parties are no longer a tradition for most of New York: everyone was going home with everyone else's wife / husband, and chaos ensued, so I am told. Not to mention the inevitable legal issues with the inevitable unwelcome advances.

So anyway, at the unofficial holiday party we drank a lot of Patron. Now in general I'm not a big fan of Tequila, and up until now I haven't owned any Tequila superstitions, like the "it makes me violent" one. But last night made me a believer.

I went up to a couple girls on the dance floor and asked one of them her name. Her friend butts in. "She's married." Whether or not this is the case doesn't matter; this is the worst possible place for a married girl to go, period, and is additionally the farthest thing from a place where you might go "just to dance and not be bothered," and say things like "I'm married" whenever a guy makes an advance.

"What the f@#% are you doing here?!!" I scream at them. "Get the f*@# out of here!" as I chase them off the dance floor. They are so pissed, but I have driven the moneylenders out of the temple, so I feel good about this.

Then there was the incident of the overcoat. As I leave, I can't find my coat in the pile--it has a new set of contact lenses in it, and my iPod, and I'm furious that I can't find it, and that possibly someone stole it. So I take someone else's coat. Eye for eye, coat for coat. "Come on guys, we gotta go, hurry up, I'm stealing someone else's coat," I'm telling my friends as I drag them out. The coat is huge on me. Clearly not my own.

Then as we're looking for a cab I wander out into the street and get hit by a cab. Lightly, I leaned back into it and he sideswiped me. The body of the car felt so fragile, like an eggshell layer around the machinery and people inside. The cab stopped to see if everything was ok, so I ran up and embraced the trunk, screaming "I love you." At this point Endorphinman one-ups me. He leaps onto the trunk and starts jumping up and down. I can see the passengers in the back window looking out with wild eyes. They are freaked out, they think they're being attacked. It's like some scene from Jurassic Park. Only in this version the Park is not filled with velociraptors, but instead with people who've drank too much Tequila.

So the cabbie hits the gas, just like in the movies, and Endorphinman flies off and hurts his wrist. The night more or less ends there, and I wake up depressed at what I've done & the way I behaved. I wake up with a need to confess these things to someone, so I call a few of my friends. But when I tell them they all think it's hilarious. Gradually they persuade me that my behavior was ok, but I still have this nagging doubt, it just doesn't match up with the rest of my life very well, like a humorous song on an otherwise serious record.

Out in the light of day, I'm still hashing it over when I pass an old man with a cap getting into his car. He puts his hand on the doorhandle, then stops. He's waiting for something.

Suddenly he breaks tremendous wind. It was probably audible across the street, let alone in my proximity, and it lasts for a long time. When it finishes he finally opens the door to get in. "Holy smokes," I exclaim.

What gusto! This man does not fear the embarassing episodes, the incongruous impressions he makes over the course his life. No. He celebrates them. He farts as loud as he can, then gets into the car.