Today I wandered around a cemetary for about two hours. I don't know why, really. There is nobody famous buried there (except Dalida, the French version of Cher... except Dalida was hot), but I enjoyed it. Perhaps I have a weird facination with death. Eerie, I know. But I think it's natural. Walking around the tombs of unknown thousands, formulating life stories based on the busts and other decorations of the grave: what better way to pass the time in Paris!
While daydreamingily meandering through rows upon rows of ornate coffins, I remembered a conversation I once had with my father. We discussed the entire idea of that empty spot on a tombstone. That blank space is reserved for when the deceased has a family member who also dies; then their name, DOB, and date of death are inscribed in that space.
What a horrifying concept! Imagine looking at a grave stone. There is your loved one's name and the day that they died. Right below that... nothing... yet. That smooth granite is eventually going to have your name carved in it, along with the day that you died! Talk about a feeling of impending doom.
I need to stop thinking about this. I need a drink (luckily I have to attend a company party in a half hour. Offical business stuff: scmoozing with the new business partner).
Cheers,
Matt
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Living on the Dole
It's tough living on the fringes of Parisian society. Money has been tighter than Mama Cass's waistline after the breakfast buffett with lots of milk. Honestly, I envy her. I've been living off of baguettes, camembert, (which is much better than brie, in my experience) and multi-fruit juice for the past six days. It might sound nice at first. Warm, freshly baked bread spread with the most delicate and creamy cheeses enjoyed in the breezy Parisian air...
Try eating that shit for a week. I have a headache and an artery harder than Bob Dole at the Moulin Rouge.
What hurts most is realizing the complete change in lifestyle. In Munich I was riding high, spending dollar bills like it was my business (well, actually euro notes... but that's not as catchy). One night it was schweinsbraten mit drei knoedel, the next it was tagliollini with mushrooms in a white wine sauce. I was living life to the fullest.
Now, I am eating four day old milk products off of an old dirty spoon. Things could be better.
But hell, I'll keep going. I'm in Paris for god's sake.
Cheers,
Matt
Try eating that shit for a week. I have a headache and an artery harder than Bob Dole at the Moulin Rouge.
What hurts most is realizing the complete change in lifestyle. In Munich I was riding high, spending dollar bills like it was my business (well, actually euro notes... but that's not as catchy). One night it was schweinsbraten mit drei knoedel, the next it was tagliollini with mushrooms in a white wine sauce. I was living life to the fullest.
Now, I am eating four day old milk products off of an old dirty spoon. Things could be better.
But hell, I'll keep going. I'm in Paris for god's sake.
Cheers,
Matt
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Good Morning, Good MORNING!
If I could pick one person to meet at right this moment (this answer would change depending on time, month, year, hormones, etc.) it would be Fred Astaire. Dude could dance, and I kind of wish I was living his life right now. Spend time on screen being a Grade A Badd-Ass, schmoozing with beautiful leading ladies, wearing spiffy tuxedos at all hours of the day ("Hmm, shall I go with the top hat and cane or the mandarin collar today?"), having the world marvel at your talents, having the ability to instill a desire for otherwise heterosexual men to put tap shoes on and dance through the streets singing a gay and jolly tune... What's not to love?
My appreciation for The Man comes from my newest addiction: I have been watching videos of old television shows and movies on YouTube. Things like "Whats My Line?" and "Martin and Lewis" and clips from "Singing in the Rain". Besides the humor of Jerry Lewis (whom I adore) being actually accessible to a modern audience (perhaps the humor is not received as intended, but just the nostolgia makes me burst into applause.... alone. Right. Maybe it's time to get a life/mental help), the feel-good feeling that these clips leave with me is unlike almost any other form of entertainment, save the theatre.
-----
This morning I woke up with a delicious hangover. Not your typical vein-popping, head-throbbing, temple-squeezing, room-spinning, puke-coughing hangover; but a rather mild, dare I say "pleasant", one. My mouth is dry (that's from the red wine), and there is only the slightest pressure on top of my head (that's kind of friggin odd. No explaining that one.) A nice reminder of last night, which was spent eating baguettes and camembert and drinking cheap French wine in the lovely company of Mr. HMS, Mr. Houlihan, and the lovely Ms. Kaye.
I always loved the parts in historical letters where the writer describes people they meet. This is an art form that has been lost mainly because digital photography, the internet, and speedy transportation. That's okay, as it is an antiquated practice... but it is fun to imagine them based on the writer's description. So, in the interest of historical mimicry, I hereby cast my pen with the lot. Without further adieu, I present to you a short description of my party guests in aristocratic, haughty, Queen's English!
Dearest Elenor,
It hath been nearly a fortnight since I heard from you last, and I dare say, my wollocks are in a tumble! Hath you grown fatigued of our tender romance? Doeth the governor approveth our union? Please, I beg you, make haste in your reply. I cannot wait a moment longer. I shan't not consume nor slumber until I am basking in the softening glow of your soothing words; the glow which shall embrace my lonely and weeping soul and nurse it to health anew!
I digress. Yesterday evening, I had the wonderful opportunity to host a small collection of acquaintances in my humble chambers. Mr. Chattingsworth was unable to attend due to a most unfortunate riding accident, and Ms. Kensington hath chartered a steam ship bound for America! To think! That land of beastly savages, skinning their victims alive and drinking the blood from their own children! Swoons! Let them have their independance, for they are certainly not welcome here in civilized England.
My apologies for the stain on this letter my love: I just had to swat a small Indian boy who brought me a cup of tea without milk! Cheeky fellow!
Those in attendance were the gregarious Mr. Houlihan, the dashing Mr. HMEasy, and the charming Ms. Kaye. It is a most dreadful shame that you hath not befriended these joyous people as of to-day. Mr. Houlihan is a fine young gentleman of medium build, with hair as black as the raven's feathers. His nature is pleasing to all those with the opportunity to be in his company, and is also an accomplished organist. Heavens! The young man commands the complete attention of those in attendance once seated upon his bench, like Xerxes upon his golden throne. And the music! Oh, Elenor! The Music! I wept openly! Apollo beware!
Mr. HMEasy is a fine, upstanding example of British eloquence. He is of solid build with a broad smile, naturally gregarious, and always impeccably dressed. It is my understanding that he would make a fine member of Parliament someday, as his demeanor is most fitting for that pursuit. He seems most passionate when discussing that noble trade. My vote is cast for the Tory Party candidate: Mr. HMS! Theseus himself must have blessed this gentleman.
And how may I describe the charming Ms. Kaye! Twould be a lesson in futility! Sisyphus alone may, perchance, understand. Perhaps the most appropriate description should be "enchanting". Casting a spell over those whom the young lady meets, they are immediately favorably disposed to her company. A modern Psyche!
Methinks that Ms. Kaye might actually be a witch. I shall request an auto-de-fe immediately.
Lovingly Your Humble and Obedient Servant,
Matthew
My appreciation for The Man comes from my newest addiction: I have been watching videos of old television shows and movies on YouTube. Things like "Whats My Line?" and "Martin and Lewis" and clips from "Singing in the Rain". Besides the humor of Jerry Lewis (whom I adore) being actually accessible to a modern audience (perhaps the humor is not received as intended, but just the nostolgia makes me burst into applause.... alone. Right. Maybe it's time to get a life/mental help), the feel-good feeling that these clips leave with me is unlike almost any other form of entertainment, save the theatre.
-----
This morning I woke up with a delicious hangover. Not your typical vein-popping, head-throbbing, temple-squeezing, room-spinning, puke-coughing hangover; but a rather mild, dare I say "pleasant", one. My mouth is dry (that's from the red wine), and there is only the slightest pressure on top of my head (that's kind of friggin odd. No explaining that one.) A nice reminder of last night, which was spent eating baguettes and camembert and drinking cheap French wine in the lovely company of Mr. HMS, Mr. Houlihan, and the lovely Ms. Kaye.
I always loved the parts in historical letters where the writer describes people they meet. This is an art form that has been lost mainly because digital photography, the internet, and speedy transportation. That's okay, as it is an antiquated practice... but it is fun to imagine them based on the writer's description. So, in the interest of historical mimicry, I hereby cast my pen with the lot. Without further adieu, I present to you a short description of my party guests in aristocratic, haughty, Queen's English!
Dearest Elenor,
It hath been nearly a fortnight since I heard from you last, and I dare say, my wollocks are in a tumble! Hath you grown fatigued of our tender romance? Doeth the governor approveth our union? Please, I beg you, make haste in your reply. I cannot wait a moment longer. I shan't not consume nor slumber until I am basking in the softening glow of your soothing words; the glow which shall embrace my lonely and weeping soul and nurse it to health anew!
I digress. Yesterday evening, I had the wonderful opportunity to host a small collection of acquaintances in my humble chambers. Mr. Chattingsworth was unable to attend due to a most unfortunate riding accident, and Ms. Kensington hath chartered a steam ship bound for America! To think! That land of beastly savages, skinning their victims alive and drinking the blood from their own children! Swoons! Let them have their independance, for they are certainly not welcome here in civilized England.
My apologies for the stain on this letter my love: I just had to swat a small Indian boy who brought me a cup of tea without milk! Cheeky fellow!
Those in attendance were the gregarious Mr. Houlihan, the dashing Mr. HMEasy, and the charming Ms. Kaye. It is a most dreadful shame that you hath not befriended these joyous people as of to-day. Mr. Houlihan is a fine young gentleman of medium build, with hair as black as the raven's feathers. His nature is pleasing to all those with the opportunity to be in his company, and is also an accomplished organist. Heavens! The young man commands the complete attention of those in attendance once seated upon his bench, like Xerxes upon his golden throne. And the music! Oh, Elenor! The Music! I wept openly! Apollo beware!
Mr. HMEasy is a fine, upstanding example of British eloquence. He is of solid build with a broad smile, naturally gregarious, and always impeccably dressed. It is my understanding that he would make a fine member of Parliament someday, as his demeanor is most fitting for that pursuit. He seems most passionate when discussing that noble trade. My vote is cast for the Tory Party candidate: Mr. HMS! Theseus himself must have blessed this gentleman.
And how may I describe the charming Ms. Kaye! Twould be a lesson in futility! Sisyphus alone may, perchance, understand. Perhaps the most appropriate description should be "enchanting". Casting a spell over those whom the young lady meets, they are immediately favorably disposed to her company. A modern Psyche!
Methinks that Ms. Kaye might actually be a witch. I shall request an auto-de-fe immediately.
Lovingly Your Humble and Obedient Servant,
Matthew
Monday, January 14, 2008
Sexy M.F.
I am reasonably sure that Prince is not human.
I mean, come on. The man has defined sex for thirty years. Well, maybe not your straight forward, conservative, missionary position meant-for-procreation sex- but he has remained a symbol of sexuality... however you define it. If there are any doubts in your mind, watch this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBaMavpuLj0
You don't see Phil Collins dancing with Beyonce! I don't think anybody wants to see that. "Up next, you may remember him as the balding pasty white dude who brought you such hits as 'I Can't Dance' and 'In The Air Tonight'..."
No, Prince was the guy making songs titled "Head", "Kiss", "I Love U In Me", "Feel You Up", "Horny Toad", and of course, "Pope".
So get out there, throw Purple Rain on your turntable, and get groovy with that special one... even if you met him/her the night before.
I mean, come on. The man has defined sex for thirty years. Well, maybe not your straight forward, conservative, missionary position meant-for-procreation sex- but he has remained a symbol of sexuality... however you define it. If there are any doubts in your mind, watch this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBaMavpuLj0
You don't see Phil Collins dancing with Beyonce! I don't think anybody wants to see that. "Up next, you may remember him as the balding pasty white dude who brought you such hits as 'I Can't Dance' and 'In The Air Tonight'..."
No, Prince was the guy making songs titled "Head", "Kiss", "I Love U In Me", "Feel You Up", "Horny Toad", and of course, "Pope".
So get out there, throw Purple Rain on your turntable, and get groovy with that special one... even if you met him/her the night before.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Oui Oui, Paris
Well grandma, we ain't in Munich anymore.
Now I'll be the first one to admit that until the day I die, I will always have a soft spot for Munich, Germans, and Beer (that's right: "Beer" deserves a capital letter. I'll write a memo to Noah Webster). But I have to be honest and say that Paris is just mind blowing. I think I wrote about how I had been here for three days once before and absolutely hated it. Yeah, that's because I was cranky from a long plane ride. I love this place!
After an agonizing nine hour train ride (complete with the manicuring woman, the friendly Mr. Rogersesque conductor, and the later entry of two Mexican guys who were nice enough, but I really would have loved to have had the compartment to myself. When I wrote that post about Hall and Oates I was literally singing out loud with my headphones on and bobbing my head side-to-side a la Stevie Wonder. I even took a nice little nap, sprawled out across the bench... until the dudes walked in {for those of you who are not "in the know" about my sleeping habits: I swear I was in Vietnam in a past life because the slightest atmospheric disturbance sends me leaping out of bed with a [David?] Bowie knife in my kung-fu grip, panting with bloodshot eyes looking for the next Colonel Kurtz. Well, perhaps not that dramatic, but I am very sensitive to disturbaces}), I arrived in Gare de l'Est. Two hours of sleep behind me, I set off for adventure.
I met my liason in Montmatre and he escorted me to the safehouse. After a series of keypad entries, deadbolts, and crowds of school children, we arrived at our destination. A small ivy-covered bungalow with a rusting iron gate, located right next to a school on the Rue Lepic. The first thing that struck me upon entering the apartment was the smell: like banana, peanuts, and a healthy dose of ass.
Oh wait. That's me.
And I have to meet Fernanda in two hours (remember her? The Brazilian chick I met in Munich on my concentration camp tour (where I obviously pick up all the ladies)? Yeah, she comes into the story later. Note: I have to remove the link to this blog off of my Facebook page because people I write about can find that link. Not that anything I write here is untrue, it's just that my thoughts are not meant to be shared with everybody! This is for my friends, family, and the occassional random person who stumbles upon it {which is such an odd but enjoyable feeling}. So, Fernanda, if you are reading this... don't hate me, because I fancied you. When I write "hot Brazilian chick" what I really mean is intelligent, beautiful, and insightful girl from Brazil. You rock.) Dammit. Change shirt, lose a layer (it's rather mild here), more deodorant, splash the face... ready to roll.
I head for my next rendezvous: Notre Dame at 9:30. I'm there at 9:27. Brush your shoulders off kid. You're good. 9:45. She's still not here. Not to worry! You're gangsta. Keep it cool. 10:15. I need a vacation. 10:30. I walk towards St. Michel fountain with my head hanging low. Give me a yellow shirt and shave my head and people would think I was Charlie Brown. Good grief.
But at 10:45 I get a call. Eureka! It's her. "The Hills are alive with the Sound of Music!!" Take off that yellow shirt and trade in that frown for a milk maid's dress, Matt! You're the king of the world!
To make a very long story short: We spend the day together exploring the Latin Quarter. It was fantastic. The next day we spend five hours in the Louvre. Breathtaking. My thoughts, in rapid succession: The Mona Lisa is overrated, the Flemish and Dutch Renaissance painters love their portraits of old white men... and the art was wonderful! So many glorius paintings that I don't remember the name of! In all seriousness, it was great. I loved it. I also loved the experience of just plain being there. The creaking wooden floors, the smells, the sophisticated silence, except when I had to necessarily break out into song and dance: a common occurance. Actually, being in the museum made me think of John Cage, of all people. I remember Pity telling me about that famous performance 4'33", where Cage played nothing so that people had to listen to what was happening around them; they had to appreciate the atmosphere of concerts: coughing, shuffling, ear-ringing, etc. That's what I liked the most about the Louvre.
We met up later that night (after I visited Houli in his church tower. Literally, this mo-fo lives on top of Paris. But if anybody deserves it... M. Houlihan does), had some drinks which I could not afford (I am broke right now, but that's another story), chatted, and had a great time. I won't go into details, but just know that I walked her to her door and we said our goodbyes as she had a plane to catch in a few hours. In the end, it was wonderful to explore Paris for two days with such nice company.
But now it's down to business. I have to start writing a script for a new tour I am designing. I'll keep you posted (that could be perceived as a bad "blog joke", but I didn't mean it that way. Sorry)
Cheers,
Matt
Now I'll be the first one to admit that until the day I die, I will always have a soft spot for Munich, Germans, and Beer (that's right: "Beer" deserves a capital letter. I'll write a memo to Noah Webster). But I have to be honest and say that Paris is just mind blowing. I think I wrote about how I had been here for three days once before and absolutely hated it. Yeah, that's because I was cranky from a long plane ride. I love this place!
After an agonizing nine hour train ride (complete with the manicuring woman, the friendly Mr. Rogersesque conductor, and the later entry of two Mexican guys who were nice enough, but I really would have loved to have had the compartment to myself. When I wrote that post about Hall and Oates I was literally singing out loud with my headphones on and bobbing my head side-to-side a la Stevie Wonder. I even took a nice little nap, sprawled out across the bench... until the dudes walked in {for those of you who are not "in the know" about my sleeping habits: I swear I was in Vietnam in a past life because the slightest atmospheric disturbance sends me leaping out of bed with a [David?] Bowie knife in my kung-fu grip, panting with bloodshot eyes looking for the next Colonel Kurtz. Well, perhaps not that dramatic, but I am very sensitive to disturbaces}), I arrived in Gare de l'Est. Two hours of sleep behind me, I set off for adventure.
I met my liason in Montmatre and he escorted me to the safehouse. After a series of keypad entries, deadbolts, and crowds of school children, we arrived at our destination. A small ivy-covered bungalow with a rusting iron gate, located right next to a school on the Rue Lepic. The first thing that struck me upon entering the apartment was the smell: like banana, peanuts, and a healthy dose of ass.
Oh wait. That's me.
And I have to meet Fernanda in two hours (remember her? The Brazilian chick I met in Munich on my concentration camp tour (where I obviously pick up all the ladies)? Yeah, she comes into the story later. Note: I have to remove the link to this blog off of my Facebook page because people I write about can find that link. Not that anything I write here is untrue, it's just that my thoughts are not meant to be shared with everybody! This is for my friends, family, and the occassional random person who stumbles upon it {which is such an odd but enjoyable feeling}. So, Fernanda, if you are reading this... don't hate me, because I fancied you. When I write "hot Brazilian chick" what I really mean is intelligent, beautiful, and insightful girl from Brazil. You rock.) Dammit. Change shirt, lose a layer (it's rather mild here), more deodorant, splash the face... ready to roll.
I head for my next rendezvous: Notre Dame at 9:30. I'm there at 9:27. Brush your shoulders off kid. You're good. 9:45. She's still not here. Not to worry! You're gangsta. Keep it cool. 10:15. I need a vacation. 10:30. I walk towards St. Michel fountain with my head hanging low. Give me a yellow shirt and shave my head and people would think I was Charlie Brown. Good grief.
But at 10:45 I get a call. Eureka! It's her. "The Hills are alive with the Sound of Music!!" Take off that yellow shirt and trade in that frown for a milk maid's dress, Matt! You're the king of the world!
To make a very long story short: We spend the day together exploring the Latin Quarter. It was fantastic. The next day we spend five hours in the Louvre. Breathtaking. My thoughts, in rapid succession: The Mona Lisa is overrated, the Flemish and Dutch Renaissance painters love their portraits of old white men... and the art was wonderful! So many glorius paintings that I don't remember the name of! In all seriousness, it was great. I loved it. I also loved the experience of just plain being there. The creaking wooden floors, the smells, the sophisticated silence, except when I had to necessarily break out into song and dance: a common occurance. Actually, being in the museum made me think of John Cage, of all people. I remember Pity telling me about that famous performance 4'33", where Cage played nothing so that people had to listen to what was happening around them; they had to appreciate the atmosphere of concerts: coughing, shuffling, ear-ringing, etc. That's what I liked the most about the Louvre.
We met up later that night (after I visited Houli in his church tower. Literally, this mo-fo lives on top of Paris. But if anybody deserves it... M. Houlihan does), had some drinks which I could not afford (I am broke right now, but that's another story), chatted, and had a great time. I won't go into details, but just know that I walked her to her door and we said our goodbyes as she had a plane to catch in a few hours. In the end, it was wonderful to explore Paris for two days with such nice company.
But now it's down to business. I have to start writing a script for a new tour I am designing. I'll keep you posted (that could be perceived as a bad "blog joke", but I didn't mean it that way. Sorry)
Cheers,
Matt
Friday, January 11, 2008
The Dents
Let's get drunk and write a blog post. Sure! So I made it to Paris and I am here in one piece. However, Houli and HMS insisted that we have a few bottles of wine and since I lack a spine I assented. So, they just went to grab another bottle and I am going to sneak a post in here. All I can say is that the good ol' days were great. Accidentals and college. Dude, that was the stuff. I was on top of the world. What could compare? I was surrounded by passionate, dedicated people who shared a common interest: harmony. Harmony of voices, but also harmony of experience. We shared it all together and made music. Awesome.
Deep Thoughts
I had been feeling a little depressed recently. Nothing but your standard “away from home” and work related stress stuff (today was killer. I messed up while trying to mail something to London and got ripped a new one for it. I guess I deserved it. But dude, this job is supposed to be easy! I am a freakin tour guide! Well, not anymore. With greater power comes greater responsibility… and the greater possibility of failure! I thought about if accepting this promotion was a good idea, but after reflection, I think it was. With any job, the lowest rung of the ladder is generally the easiest. So why would I want to remain stagnant? Advance! Succeed! Onward! And the worst that could happen is that I discover I am not cut out for management, in which case I become a tour guide again. No tears shalt be spilt.)
Anyway, it gave me a chance to reflect upon an unforeseen consequence of living alone in a foreign country. Though I have many friends here and I meet new interesting people every day, for the most part it is just me walking the streets with only my thoughts. The voice in my head is really the only thing I can listen to because I can’t understand anybody around me because they are not speaking English! It’s an odd thing. It’s as if my thoughts are in solitary confinement. The only real outlet for them is this blog! I guess everybody could feel this way, but I feel that it is more pronounced when a language barrier exists as the ability to listen and comprehend what others around you are saying is a distraction. Eavesdropping is natural and a way to occupy your brain without really thinking. You can commiserate, compare, contrast, and consider. Unfortunately I cannot do this. I might as well be surrounded by a horde of drunken Mongolian folk poets. Nothing is coming through the static. Hence, it’s just me and my thoughts keeping each other company (and I maintain that the two are completely separate entities. Dude, I can think of some pretty sick shit. I won’t get into it, but I certainly don’t have complete control over the things that I think about).
I feel like I can now understand how a person put in solitary confinement in prison could go insane. Thankfully I see the sunlight and I have friends to spend time with. If I lacked those simple things… I would lose it. Guaranteed.
That gets me to thinking: (Why) does our brain have a mental self-destruct? Left completely alone, will a thinking mind consume itself and lapse into dementia? Huh. Does it need stimuli in order to function properly, and if those stimuli don’t exist, will the solitary mind cease to function? I think so. I am sure there has been a study on this.
I am on the train right now from Munich to Paris. Luckily I am alone in my compartment. Hahaha, I say that after writing the following paragraphs… but heck, I’d rather be alone that with some crazy random person. There was a woman here before but I don’t think she had a ticket (the conductor and her had a prolonged conversation) so she was kicked off. I was thankful, as when I entered into the compartment I intruded on her fingernail painting session. Are you kidding me? If I lit a match when I walked inside you would be reading about me in the paper. The fumes were unbearable. Well she’s gone now, thankfully. Now it’s just me, my laptop, and the smooth tunes of Hall & Oates on my headphones. No joke, these guys are geniuses. Luckily I was blessed with the opportunity to see these modern Michelangelos in concert with Dan and some friends. After getting appropriately plastered in the Jones Beach parking lot, we proceeded inside, only to remember that Todd Rundgren was opening for them. Nobody knew who the hell he was… except me. I shouted at the top of my lungs “IT WOULDN’T HAVE MADE ANY DIFFERENCE!!” and “HELLO IT’S ME!” He played both. Awesome. Then the Dynamic Duo came out. They were awesome. For an encore, our group of polite gents requested that they play “FUCKING RICH GIRL!” They did. I cried with delight.
My battery is running out. Paris in 7 hours. Here I come.
-Matt
Anyway, it gave me a chance to reflect upon an unforeseen consequence of living alone in a foreign country. Though I have many friends here and I meet new interesting people every day, for the most part it is just me walking the streets with only my thoughts. The voice in my head is really the only thing I can listen to because I can’t understand anybody around me because they are not speaking English! It’s an odd thing. It’s as if my thoughts are in solitary confinement. The only real outlet for them is this blog! I guess everybody could feel this way, but I feel that it is more pronounced when a language barrier exists as the ability to listen and comprehend what others around you are saying is a distraction. Eavesdropping is natural and a way to occupy your brain without really thinking. You can commiserate, compare, contrast, and consider. Unfortunately I cannot do this. I might as well be surrounded by a horde of drunken Mongolian folk poets. Nothing is coming through the static. Hence, it’s just me and my thoughts keeping each other company (and I maintain that the two are completely separate entities. Dude, I can think of some pretty sick shit. I won’t get into it, but I certainly don’t have complete control over the things that I think about).
I feel like I can now understand how a person put in solitary confinement in prison could go insane. Thankfully I see the sunlight and I have friends to spend time with. If I lacked those simple things… I would lose it. Guaranteed.
That gets me to thinking: (Why) does our brain have a mental self-destruct? Left completely alone, will a thinking mind consume itself and lapse into dementia? Huh. Does it need stimuli in order to function properly, and if those stimuli don’t exist, will the solitary mind cease to function? I think so. I am sure there has been a study on this.
I am on the train right now from Munich to Paris. Luckily I am alone in my compartment. Hahaha, I say that after writing the following paragraphs… but heck, I’d rather be alone that with some crazy random person. There was a woman here before but I don’t think she had a ticket (the conductor and her had a prolonged conversation) so she was kicked off. I was thankful, as when I entered into the compartment I intruded on her fingernail painting session. Are you kidding me? If I lit a match when I walked inside you would be reading about me in the paper. The fumes were unbearable. Well she’s gone now, thankfully. Now it’s just me, my laptop, and the smooth tunes of Hall & Oates on my headphones. No joke, these guys are geniuses. Luckily I was blessed with the opportunity to see these modern Michelangelos in concert with Dan and some friends. After getting appropriately plastered in the Jones Beach parking lot, we proceeded inside, only to remember that Todd Rundgren was opening for them. Nobody knew who the hell he was… except me. I shouted at the top of my lungs “IT WOULDN’T HAVE MADE ANY DIFFERENCE!!” and “HELLO IT’S ME!” He played both. Awesome. Then the Dynamic Duo came out. They were awesome. For an encore, our group of polite gents requested that they play “FUCKING RICH GIRL!” They did. I cried with delight.
My battery is running out. Paris in 7 hours. Here I come.
-Matt
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)