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Seven Days of Mustache.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
hungover at the end of the world
For me the sound of a woman's voice waking me up from a deep sleep will be forever inextricably linked with catastrophe. There is this cliche that you always remember where you were or what you were doing when some really important event happens. Ask my father about the JFK assassination and you will inveriably get a story about how he was teaching high school sociology and how the weeping and screaming of the hysterical high school girls is forever imprinted on his memory. Being a mere 24, history has only made itself abundantly present to me one time - September 11th. I had been working the nightshift at a downtown hotel and was asleep, huddled in my bed in the corner of my windowless room. Helen, my roommate's then girlfriend bounded into my bedroom shouting at me to wake up as New York was appearantly on fire. The blood drained out of me, I went pale. It was the end of the world. I was actually relieved to see that the images on the television, despite their gruesomeness, seemed to indicate that the world ending was not my own. It was clear that I still had a little time left to waste.
Flashback 7 years from then. I was an apple cheeked young lad, just learning the catastrophic joys of puberty when I developed a somewhat unhealthy fear of the apocalypse. I really don't remember what spurred it, maybe it was the subscription to the weekly world news or the habit of landing on the freaky Jack Van Impe Endtimes Prophecy Hour (co-hosted by Jack's frighteningly goat-faced wife). I created a wide assortment of paranoid doomsday fantasies, in many of which cataclysm and ultimate breakdown of society and all of its rules freed me of my responsibilities, inhibitions and allowed me to transform from the chubby nerd that I was into a heroic man of action. I drove my MadMaxesque car through the wastelands, shotgun in hand, liberated from the burdens of a culture that was at the time totally oppressing the hell out of me. Doomsday wasn't so much a thing to be feared (though fear it I did) as an oportunity to really be myself: the brash, defiant anti-hero that was trapped in my shy, flabby carapace (triple word score).
Flash forward to last night. Angela & I went to Emo's to see Architecture in Helsinki which was great. They had an unexpected three piece brass section which allowed them to pull off an amazing cover of the Bar-kay's Soul Finger (forever linked in my mind to the movie Spies Like Us) amidst their other synthy mianderings. Before the show we met up with her friend for a drink at Lovejoy's, her regular pre-emo's spot. I got there first and had a fin du monde while I waited and twitched nervously while watching the muted nightbeat newscast. After the show we returned to the bar for more drinks. I eventually got home at three-ish only to have all of the booze hit me at once. I passed out thoroughly.
I woke up this morning at 7:30 to my cell phone buzzing in my pants pocket. It was Sam. Completely sleep-dazed and still a little drunk, my honest to God first thought was that this was it, its the end times. Samantha awake at 7:30?! She asked me to walk outside. Why? Clearly to witness the mushroom cloud in the distance. I saw it behind my groggy eyes before I even opened the door. Instead what I found was a lovely picnic breakfast set out for me outside my apartment and Sam looking fresh and lovely holding flowers and a bottle of champagne. I was still unsure if this was the end or not. I was completely overwhelmed by her gesture, something no one has ever done for me before and I never would have expected.
At that moment, it very well could have been the end of the world and it would have been ok with me. I can't think of any better way spend my last few moments on earth: drinking champagne, eating berries,and letting everything else but that which is the most important fall away.
For me the sound of a woman's voice waking me up from a deep sleep will be forever inextricably linked with catastrophe. There is this cliche that you always remember where you were or what you were doing when some really important event happens. Ask my father about the JFK assassination and you will inveriably get a story about how he was teaching high school sociology and how the weeping and screaming of the hysterical high school girls is forever imprinted on his memory. Being a mere 24, history has only made itself abundantly present to me one time - September 11th. I had been working the nightshift at a downtown hotel and was asleep, huddled in my bed in the corner of my windowless room. Helen, my roommate's then girlfriend bounded into my bedroom shouting at me to wake up as New York was appearantly on fire. The blood drained out of me, I went pale. It was the end of the world. I was actually relieved to see that the images on the television, despite their gruesomeness, seemed to indicate that the world ending was not my own. It was clear that I still had a little time left to waste.Flashback 7 years from then. I was an apple cheeked young lad, just learning the catastrophic joys of puberty when I developed a somewhat unhealthy fear of the apocalypse. I really don't remember what spurred it, maybe it was the subscription to the weekly world news or the habit of landing on the freaky Jack Van Impe Endtimes Prophecy Hour (co-hosted by Jack's frighteningly goat-faced wife). I created a wide assortment of paranoid doomsday fantasies, in many of which cataclysm and ultimate breakdown of society and all of its rules freed me of my responsibilities, inhibitions and allowed me to transform from the chubby nerd that I was into a heroic man of action. I drove my MadMaxesque car through the wastelands, shotgun in hand, liberated from the burdens of a culture that was at the time totally oppressing the hell out of me. Doomsday wasn't so much a thing to be feared (though fear it I did) as an oportunity to really be myself: the brash, defiant anti-hero that was trapped in my shy, flabby carapace (triple word score).
Flash forward to last night. Angela & I went to Emo's to see Architecture in Helsinki which was great. They had an unexpected three piece brass section which allowed them to pull off an amazing cover of the Bar-kay's Soul Finger (forever linked in my mind to the movie Spies Like Us) amidst their other synthy mianderings. Before the show we met up with her friend for a drink at Lovejoy's, her regular pre-emo's spot. I got there first and had a fin du monde while I waited and twitched nervously while watching the muted nightbeat newscast. After the show we returned to the bar for more drinks. I eventually got home at three-ish only to have all of the booze hit me at once. I passed out thoroughly.
I woke up this morning at 7:30 to my cell phone buzzing in my pants pocket. It was Sam. Completely sleep-dazed and still a little drunk, my honest to God first thought was that this was it, its the end times. Samantha awake at 7:30?! She asked me to walk outside. Why? Clearly to witness the mushroom cloud in the distance. I saw it behind my groggy eyes before I even opened the door. Instead what I found was a lovely picnic breakfast set out for me outside my apartment and Sam looking fresh and lovely holding flowers and a bottle of champagne. I was still unsure if this was the end or not. I was completely overwhelmed by her gesture, something no one has ever done for me before and I never would have expected.
At that moment, it very well could have been the end of the world and it would have been ok with me. I can't think of any better way spend my last few moments on earth: drinking champagne, eating berries,and letting everything else but that which is the most important fall away.
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