green, gibbard, gay, gone 03.17.2003

3.17.2003

word of the day
verdant VUR-dnt, adjective:
1. green.
2. lacking judgment or experience; unsophisticated.

Okay I'm hell bent on not doing any work today. This entry has no flagrant point or definite path. But there's a few things on my mind and I've got an hour to kill so let's explore.

The almost-spring makes me want to fall in love.

On my lunch break I ran to Newbury Comics to geek out with the record store boys. They informed me that Nina Nastasia is playing with Calexico at Paradise on Friday. I don't really remember the six degrees of separation but let me retrace my steps.

I have not heard much of Calexico, though they come heavily recommended by several people with impeccable taste. I believe the chain of discussion went from my purchase today of the single for The Postal Service's song "Such Great Heights" off their album, Give Up. I originally got Give Up because Ben Gibbard of Death Cab for Cutie is half of the band. Since I have to bear his children soon, I'm gathering up all of his projects for posterity.

So I went to get the single, right, cause I wanted to see what B-sides were on it, and then -- WHAM!!! -- Iron and fucking Wine covering a Postal Service song on the single. I can't get over it. It's basically Sam Beam converting techno to banjo. So the dude at the check out register held up the single with a questioning glance and I said, "Death Cab for Cutie begets Postal Service begets Iron and Wine cover of "Such Great Heights"." And he was all, "No way." And I was all, "Way." And then that's when the other cashier got involved. He backed me up enthusiastically, saying Iron and Wine The Creek Drank the Cradle was one of his top five albums of the year and he said that Nina Nastasia had a similiar feel to her with bowed harps and viola etc. Furthermore, we should go to Paradise Friday and see her play with Calexico.

Oh, and I've decided I'm going to work on removing the word "fuck" from my vocabularly. I swear, I try, and then it's just... there's few words as gratifying to say.

I got blown off this weekend. It's okay. It was by Whole Lotta Nuthin' Boy who I was infatuated with a while back. I spent a year chasing him while he barely gave me the time of day. When he finally did, he looked in my eyes and said, "I'm sorry, I only date beautiful girls." Don't worry, he's on the list. I kind of rationalized that whole thing too, because I don't necessarily think he's shallow in general, but god forgive me for not being 5'2", emaciated and blonde.

And to continue the frequently accessed topic of My Love Life is an Unparalleled Joke, I had a run-in this morning with my gay ex-boyfriend who I have not seen in years. He's such a flamer at this point it's not even funny. The consistently painful irony of my love life began ten years ago when I surrendered my virginity to a guy and then immediately surrendered him to homosexuality. I ran into his brother last year at Store 24. He came out of the convenience store wielding a stick of pepperoni threateningly and screamed across the parking lot: "You turned my brother gay, you bitch!"

I wish I had that much power over people. I'd make a few stops on my way home tonight.

Work has gotten really fucking (that slipped out) weird. I have nine whole days left at my place of employment. It's surreal. Upon giving my notice, they tied me down like a cow and branded my forehead with a giant Q so that everyone knows to ignore me, strategically "lose" my mail, and not even say "bless you" when I sneeze. I am diseased. I am in quarantine. I am leaving this fudging (fudge? can you actually say fudge without sounding like a 50's housewife?) company.

It's funny how people stop putting up fronts when they don't have to anymore. It becomes clear who never liked you to begin with. Their voices come down three octaves and the wrinkles in their faces betray the lack of forced and constipated smile. I would love to just open my mouth for about five minutes and verbalize what's on my mind. I'm having Fight Club fantasies of cornering my manager in her office and punching myself until I bleed so she'll give me the digital scanner and the Coke machine as corporate sponsorship. Then we can have Diaryland every night of the week.

I can't remember many situations as uncomfortable as sticking around after you quit your job. I imagine it would be simililiar -- though not as bad -- as breaking up with someone but having to finish out the lease. I've never shacked up with anyone exactly for that reason. That and the control freak issues of keeping the Brita filled and needing to eat everything out of bowls.

I never wrote a review of the Frames show I went to at Paradise last week, which was transcendent.

I think the majority of this nonsense is for my own entertainment.

Besides, you'll all probably turn gay on me anyway.

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