Is Anybody Out There and Are You Paying Attention To Me?

I've been reading a book of collected letters from D.H. Lawrence to publisher and friend Thomas Seltzer. When I purchased the book, I was under the impression (probably from not reading carefully) that it contained the responses to said letters. No. Subjects include the weather, books he is working on in general with no specific insights into the mysterious content, and most prominently, Dammit Seltzer You Never Send My Manuscripts Out When I Ask You To or Respond To My Letters. I must, then, assume the that responses received were the postmarked equivalent to the conversational "Oh, really? That's nice," assuming, again, that there were responses at all. I feel like my blog is like this. An audience is intended, from whom I get no response; yet the content is not really compelling enough to elicit a response and so expecting one is an act of supreme egotism on my part. Basically, I can retitle this project Does This Ever Happen To You, because I'm looking for some kind of validation, either that I am not a total weirdo and that you, the reader, can relate to my mildly amusing misadventures and interests, or that yes I am a total weirdo and my misadventures and interests imbue me with a uniqueness that charms you, the reader, endlessly. Unlike D.H., I have no fame or provocative appeal to bolster readership-- you have to be fascinated by the tawdry triumphs and failures that decorate small lives-- my small life--and even I'm losing interest.

I'm always tempted to write about my dental office job in the style of Charles Bukowski's Post Office, with no luck. The job is too cushy to cast myself as the world-weary man with menial employment, confronting an endless barrage of characters who were ridden hard and put away wet, just looking for my next piece of ass and a place to get out of the rain. Pieces of ass? I'm struggling to find a way to make a boring, regular job and a boring regular life seem grandiose and fascinating, because I'm a product of our times and can't conceive of a life lived without famousness. I try to villainize my coworkers so as to have something to talk about. Their names make them sound like they should be members of Prince and the New Power Generation, though I'm sure it would never occur to them to daydream about such a membership. I got a weird haircut recently which threatens to become more interesting than I am. There is nothing of aesthetic substance (is that an oxymoron?) at my office and so I turn to my own head. I wanted to look like a Patrick Nagel painting. I guess if I want to be surrounded by Nagels in the workplace I need look no further than a job at a hair salon. What else? The house is so hot that upon waking one recent morning I was so thoroughly wet from sweat I convinced myself that I had peed. HAS THIS EVER HAPPENED TO YOU? Here is a video I've been watching recently on youtube:

The response is: That's nice, Rach. You don't say.


Mom to the Rescue

The other day I was perched precariously on an exercise ball, wondering "What would happen if I just let myself fall?" It was an impulse best left unfollowed, as I careened headfirst into my bike, causing great rivers of blood to soak the nethermost quadrant of my perm. Carla had Jon take care of the situation, which involved spraying Bactine not so much on me but at me. Fearing a concussion/lacking evening plans, I called Mom to suggest we wile away the horas at The Emergency Room. Who do we run into immediately but The Woman Who Insulted Me at Trader Joes Last Month. I had been plotting all the cutting remarks I would make during our next interface, but was unfortunately all agog with pain. My mom artfully dodged having a conversation with The Enemy, anticipating what would have surely included my guileless admission to falling off a giant ball on which I had been absent-mindedly bouncing, by repeating the phrase "head trauma." "Head trauma" had the effect of a long-forgotten and powerful incantation handed down to my mother by ancient practitioners of magic. The woman seemed to be propelled backward by a fetid mist coming off of a freshly opened crypt, and someone else would have to hear about her chinless husband's monthly blood pressure ordeal. Meanwhile, my stupid reason for visiting the E.R. remained shrouded in mystery, thank God. Bullet dodged and head throbbing, I sat down an a grimy chair and thought about that swine flu craze that's sweeping the nation for the first time in earnest. Maybe half an hour went by as my mom and I shifted uneasily in our seats, exchanging glances in acknowledgment of a noxious odor reminiscent of foot fungus. An especially pungent whiff caused us to bolt from our seats, quickly gathering our now contaminated belongings and fleeing to the car.

"I'm probably fine," I said.
"It's like those people never washed their butts. Everybody in there stank," was her reply.


The Best Compliment?

"I want to rip you off."