Wait to die, wait to die
Just want to find a quite place to drink and write. I go to the quiet bar and there’s a fucking deejay there, two of them. Just getting started. I go to the second choice, the premiere Italian restaurant that turns into a haute bar after dinner, and they’re closing early. Finally, I go to the tiny, overpriced bar in hopes of a little peace and as soon as I order a drink and unload, the back porch goes from nearly empty to nearly full.
What a load.
And of course, they’re all fucking smokers out here, smokier-than-thou, and loud as a pack of hyenas. So instead of writing about something important, I’m writing about my dissatisfaction with my writing environment. Not my stated goal. Bunch of gay boys, or rocker boys, or both. When I was a rocker boy, I never hung out with this many guys, but then again, I was SO unpopular, that the only people that would hang out with me were the gays trying to hit on me anyway.
Some things really never do change.
No, that's not exactly true; the band members used to hang out with me, but that was only because they had to--I was the drummer and songwriter. And lyric writer. And producer. Hell, I've been kicked out of two of the two dozen bands that I founded, only for them to disintegrate without me.
Now I have to run the gauntlet again. This time without my best friend who I miss terribly. He’s either here on my shoulder, laughing at me, or up there somewhere, laughing with me. Or maybe he reincarnated into a small Pakistani boy, growing up under the Pervert Musharraf police state regime. Wouldn’t surprise me one damned bit. It’s exactly what he’d choose to do between lives, reincarnate into a life that would shun him to the point that they’d kill him before he could get old enough to kill himself. Maybe he’ll go back to being a spider for a while, I’m convinced he was for a short time after he died just to let me know he was back. I think it’s easier to reincarnate as an insect or an invertebrate, faster, somehow, and let your friends know much sooner after your death than to go for a higher life form.
Fuck it, whatever.
Bartenders of the world don’t care. They’re equally self-interested. Couldn’t care less about whether you’re comfortable, having a good time, did you find what you’re looking for, can I help you? All’s good unless you answer in the negative; it’s like when someone says, “And how are you?” They only process the day-in-day-out reactive knee-jerk response, never expecting a life story, a real answer to their inquiry. If I were to enter the checkout line with an obvious cold, flu or something serious, they wouldn’t ask. Never mind a serious injury. You never hear a cashier ask someone in a wheelchair, “How are you today, sir?”
The degree to which I can count my friends on one finger really has struck home. Don’t cry for me, America, never mind Argentina… I couldn’t sell tickets to my own execution. They’d only read about it in the paper the next day and wonder, “I wonder if that’s that one Gil I used to know…”.
Life is turning into a long, useless span of time for me. I’ve peaked long ago. Now I’m just waiting to die. Like the old Nosferatu song. Wait to die, wait to die. Sometimes I envy my mother. I wouldn’t want to go like that, but we all have to go somehow. Fire, drown, stroke, cardiac arrest, tooth pain, bad back, alcoholism, painting stilts in a forbidden area: they’ve all been suggested to me as an option one way or another, by God, by man, by life.
Sometimes I wonder how long the people that do know me peripherally would mourn, and to what degree. And then I realize they wouldn’t take a goddamn minute out of their lives to even remember me. They’d rather forget me and not deal with it. Or maybe they’d be relieved, “Oh, that’s Gil gone, thank God. Won’t have to deal with his shit anymore.”
People that recognize me hope I won’t see them, and I let them have the illusion that I don’t see them. It’s the least I can do. I spare them the burden of an unwanted conversation, and I spare myself the same unwanted, useless banter. It’s the best of all possible worlds. No one wants to hop on the Gil train. And I don’t blame them a bit. I don’t either. In fact, I’d kind of like to get off, myself--I just haven’t found a better train yet.
[post-post: The band members referred to in this drunken self-pitying mess are not Nosferatu--although that could easily be inferred due to the name of said post... they were... different, and came later. The Nosferatu gang were always great fun and very friendly, and still are. Great fondness for one and all (five)]
What a load.
And of course, they’re all fucking smokers out here, smokier-than-thou, and loud as a pack of hyenas. So instead of writing about something important, I’m writing about my dissatisfaction with my writing environment. Not my stated goal. Bunch of gay boys, or rocker boys, or both. When I was a rocker boy, I never hung out with this many guys, but then again, I was SO unpopular, that the only people that would hang out with me were the gays trying to hit on me anyway.
Some things really never do change.
No, that's not exactly true; the band members used to hang out with me, but that was only because they had to--I was the drummer and songwriter. And lyric writer. And producer. Hell, I've been kicked out of two of the two dozen bands that I founded, only for them to disintegrate without me.
Now I have to run the gauntlet again. This time without my best friend who I miss terribly. He’s either here on my shoulder, laughing at me, or up there somewhere, laughing with me. Or maybe he reincarnated into a small Pakistani boy, growing up under the Pervert Musharraf police state regime. Wouldn’t surprise me one damned bit. It’s exactly what he’d choose to do between lives, reincarnate into a life that would shun him to the point that they’d kill him before he could get old enough to kill himself. Maybe he’ll go back to being a spider for a while, I’m convinced he was for a short time after he died just to let me know he was back. I think it’s easier to reincarnate as an insect or an invertebrate, faster, somehow, and let your friends know much sooner after your death than to go for a higher life form.
Fuck it, whatever.
Bartenders of the world don’t care. They’re equally self-interested. Couldn’t care less about whether you’re comfortable, having a good time, did you find what you’re looking for, can I help you? All’s good unless you answer in the negative; it’s like when someone says, “And how are you?” They only process the day-in-day-out reactive knee-jerk response, never expecting a life story, a real answer to their inquiry. If I were to enter the checkout line with an obvious cold, flu or something serious, they wouldn’t ask. Never mind a serious injury. You never hear a cashier ask someone in a wheelchair, “How are you today, sir?”
The degree to which I can count my friends on one finger really has struck home. Don’t cry for me, America, never mind Argentina… I couldn’t sell tickets to my own execution. They’d only read about it in the paper the next day and wonder, “I wonder if that’s that one Gil I used to know…”.
Life is turning into a long, useless span of time for me. I’ve peaked long ago. Now I’m just waiting to die. Like the old Nosferatu song. Wait to die, wait to die. Sometimes I envy my mother. I wouldn’t want to go like that, but we all have to go somehow. Fire, drown, stroke, cardiac arrest, tooth pain, bad back, alcoholism, painting stilts in a forbidden area: they’ve all been suggested to me as an option one way or another, by God, by man, by life.
Sometimes I wonder how long the people that do know me peripherally would mourn, and to what degree. And then I realize they wouldn’t take a goddamn minute out of their lives to even remember me. They’d rather forget me and not deal with it. Or maybe they’d be relieved, “Oh, that’s Gil gone, thank God. Won’t have to deal with his shit anymore.”
People that recognize me hope I won’t see them, and I let them have the illusion that I don’t see them. It’s the least I can do. I spare them the burden of an unwanted conversation, and I spare myself the same unwanted, useless banter. It’s the best of all possible worlds. No one wants to hop on the Gil train. And I don’t blame them a bit. I don’t either. In fact, I’d kind of like to get off, myself--I just haven’t found a better train yet.
[post-post: The band members referred to in this drunken self-pitying mess are not Nosferatu--although that could easily be inferred due to the name of said post... they were... different, and came later. The Nosferatu gang were always great fun and very friendly, and still are. Great fondness for one and all (five)]