53 days
Watching sports alone seems to me to be about as depressing and pathetic as drinking alone. And so far, I've done both this weekend, although not at the same time.
I feel so trapped up here. My work keeps me alone, tucked away in my apartment. But even during times when I'm not working, I live in the wrong part of town. The wrong part, this is, for anyone with even the least bit of culture and/or desire to do something other than watch television, drink, and fuck (and unfortunately, I can't do the last one without paying, which would be a problem even if money weren't because I don't think I could ever bring myself to corrupt what is supposed to be the most intimate of human connections by turning it into a cold, emotionless business transaction). No bookstores, no coffee shops, no music venues, no music shops, no theaters, no non-big-budget-techno-masturbatory-fantasy-movie cinemas...only the most mindless of the interchanging orifices of capitalism: a Walmart, a million Italian take-out/delivery places, a Dunkin Donuts, a Macy's, various fast food establishments, a Blockbuster, and blue collar watering holes where only male alcoholics are welcome and real conversation is left at the door. In short, I live in a wasteland of urban sprawl inhabited primarily by Catholics who have been taught that the mind is a terribly sinful thing which should only be used when absolutely necessary.
When I got here, I'd thought Louisville was bad. Kentucky seemed to offer little more than comfort food and easy routine. But after a month or two of living in this area, I found myself longing for nights at the MagBar, afternoons spent at Sunergos or Heine Bros, morning bike rides around Old Louisville...Things which once seemed like brief escapes the monotony of daily existence (get up, shower, go to class, eat, go to work, eat, kiss/rub against/do something unmentionable with a pretty girl followed or preceded by--and even still when I couldn't enjoy such contact--various sorts of intoxication to make the evening interesting) now seem like great pleasures that I once took for granted.
My apartment is at the edge of the city. I am at the furthest point from the cultural center of the city, which oddly enough is in the geographic center of the city. Everyone I know from the department lives there; most raise an eyebrow in surprise when I admit to living in this neighborhood.
The last time I went into a bar up here I didn't just get stared at, I got stared down. The bartender refused to take my ID, and a man next to me chuckled when she told me that she only accepted in-state licenses. The time before that, at a different bar, I was greeted with an amazed laugh, followed by a half dozen or so questions about my hair; the ones I can remember: How long did it take to grow it out? What do girls think? Were girls jealous? Had I ever put it in corn-rows? Why he didn't outright call me a fag or a hippy, I can't say. I haven't been back to either establishment. Not that it matters: very few unattached, liberal-minded and contraceptive-using girls were ever present, and I got tired of speaking quietly about things that I'm passionate about.
Anymore, I read to make the time pass. I study because I have nothing better to do. I make myself be interested in 16th century poetry even though I secretly know that I hate it and am only taking the class because its required. I suppose that as far as my schoolwork is considered, this particular situation can only be beneficial. But emotionally, its wearing me down and I think that sometimes that weariness shows up in crucial, grade-determining performances. I drop the ball in the last 5 minutes of the game as so many teams have so far in a basketball tournament that I've lost interest in.
Six inches of sleet fell yesterday. I can't look out the one window in my room because a pile of ice is almost completely covering it. It melted some today, but tonight it'll just refreeze and turn what were once piles into solid blocks of ice. Just another friendly gesture from Philadelphia. Take that, you fuckin' fag!
I feel so trapped up here. My work keeps me alone, tucked away in my apartment. But even during times when I'm not working, I live in the wrong part of town. The wrong part, this is, for anyone with even the least bit of culture and/or desire to do something other than watch television, drink, and fuck (and unfortunately, I can't do the last one without paying, which would be a problem even if money weren't because I don't think I could ever bring myself to corrupt what is supposed to be the most intimate of human connections by turning it into a cold, emotionless business transaction). No bookstores, no coffee shops, no music venues, no music shops, no theaters, no non-big-budget-techno-masturbatory-fantasy-movie cinemas...only the most mindless of the interchanging orifices of capitalism: a Walmart, a million Italian take-out/delivery places, a Dunkin Donuts, a Macy's, various fast food establishments, a Blockbuster, and blue collar watering holes where only male alcoholics are welcome and real conversation is left at the door. In short, I live in a wasteland of urban sprawl inhabited primarily by Catholics who have been taught that the mind is a terribly sinful thing which should only be used when absolutely necessary.
When I got here, I'd thought Louisville was bad. Kentucky seemed to offer little more than comfort food and easy routine. But after a month or two of living in this area, I found myself longing for nights at the MagBar, afternoons spent at Sunergos or Heine Bros, morning bike rides around Old Louisville...Things which once seemed like brief escapes the monotony of daily existence (get up, shower, go to class, eat, go to work, eat, kiss/rub against/do something unmentionable with a pretty girl followed or preceded by--and even still when I couldn't enjoy such contact--various sorts of intoxication to make the evening interesting) now seem like great pleasures that I once took for granted.
My apartment is at the edge of the city. I am at the furthest point from the cultural center of the city, which oddly enough is in the geographic center of the city. Everyone I know from the department lives there; most raise an eyebrow in surprise when I admit to living in this neighborhood.
The last time I went into a bar up here I didn't just get stared at, I got stared down. The bartender refused to take my ID, and a man next to me chuckled when she told me that she only accepted in-state licenses. The time before that, at a different bar, I was greeted with an amazed laugh, followed by a half dozen or so questions about my hair; the ones I can remember: How long did it take to grow it out? What do girls think? Were girls jealous? Had I ever put it in corn-rows? Why he didn't outright call me a fag or a hippy, I can't say. I haven't been back to either establishment. Not that it matters: very few unattached, liberal-minded and contraceptive-using girls were ever present, and I got tired of speaking quietly about things that I'm passionate about.
Anymore, I read to make the time pass. I study because I have nothing better to do. I make myself be interested in 16th century poetry even though I secretly know that I hate it and am only taking the class because its required. I suppose that as far as my schoolwork is considered, this particular situation can only be beneficial. But emotionally, its wearing me down and I think that sometimes that weariness shows up in crucial, grade-determining performances. I drop the ball in the last 5 minutes of the game as so many teams have so far in a basketball tournament that I've lost interest in.
Six inches of sleet fell yesterday. I can't look out the one window in my room because a pile of ice is almost completely covering it. It melted some today, but tonight it'll just refreeze and turn what were once piles into solid blocks of ice. Just another friendly gesture from Philadelphia. Take that, you fuckin' fag!