Why I Committed Suicide (26 page)

The television studio production course I’m enrolled in now is fun because I can rely on my raw creativity to cover up my laziness, just like in high school. Our last project was the production of our own 15-minute TV show and mine was titled “How To Carve A Pumpkin” because I had limited resources (no money) and it was right after Halloween so I could steal some pumpkins for props. It was very bogus but I pulled it off with aces.

Keeping with the pumpkin motif, Jenifer and I went to see The Smashing Pumpkins the day after Halloween at this place down in Dallas called the Bomb Factory. Her ex, Kristoff, was there back from hobnobbing around Europe but it was cool because we became fragile friends after he realized that I treat Jenifer with more love and respect than he ever did. The new Pumpkins album,
Siamese Dream,
is totally bad ass. After working all night at the Tomato on Thursdays and Saturdays, we crank up the jukebox and play their whole disc. I think it’s so good that this might be the last time we’ll ever get to see them in such a small venue. Of course being the pre-stadium gods that they are, they completely rocked my dick off. To kick off the show they played that one song by Arrested Development over and over until the whole audience was pissed off and ready to rock. Jenifer did her own thing and watched from her own little world, letting the waves of sound give her orgasms, producing that humming buzz only live music can generate. I stared and danced like a white boy on ecstasy, just having a good time. It had been a while since a worthwhile concert came through Dallas and we really enjoyed ourselves. Jenifer’s 21
st
birthday was on October 23
rd
and it was about as uneventful as mine, even though I racked my brain trying to come up with something special for her. I made a point of asking her what it felt like to be 21 on the morning of her awakening into true adulthood, but her only response was a beautiful smile for my asking and remembering or reminding her of the awaited day. It was a dumb question but I wanted to see if anyone else thought growing older was as anticlimactic and indifferent as I did. Maybe we should relish this time together because youth is fleeting and 21 is a great marker for our midway point, if we can even last until we’re 42. We’re an official part of the big bad world now, the odds are against us, we don’t know what we want, our suicide pact is firmly in place, and we’re deeply entrenched in the typical generation X notion that hard work equaling happiness is a bunch of bullshit.

I heard an advertisement the other day that summed it up for me. “Tell me what it is, what it does and don’t play the fucking national anthem while you do it.” Well it was something like that anyway. I suppose I could go off on the whole philosophy of my generation but I won’t. The truth is everybody thinks differently but there are a lot of us who are depressed by it all. We’re tired of being classified by the clothes, drugs, religion, race and wealth that don’t seem to bring anyone happiness. Hey, I don’t mind being marketed to or exploited by you, just please remember I will never
be
you.

I’m an American adult with the mind of a teenager that’s jaded like an old war veteran. I’m the descended bastard child of multiple European countries. I have no fucking ethnic pride so I don’t feel the burden of cause placed on me by my ancestors. Pride is a crutch of the insecure. I’m an amalgam; you made me and now I make you. The end is the beginning is the end. Ad nauseum.

My diversity is often shown through the use of my offensive vernacular. My favorite word right now is “FUCK” and its many uses. I really don’t even consider it a swear word anymore unless I substitute “FREAK” or “FRIG” which sounds worse to me because then I know I’m drawing attention to the fact that I meant to say “FUCK”.

By the way it’s sounded out “FUCK” can describe pain, pleasure, love and hate. “FUCK” falls into most grammatical categories. It’s used as a verb, both transitive and intransitive. It can be an active or passive verb, or an adverb, a noun or an adjective. Hey buddy, “Fuck You” (insult). “Fucking-A!” (positive exclamation). “I’m hungrier than a mother Fucker” (denoting extreme hunger). “Fucking beautiful” (very). “Un-be-Fucking-lievable” (when ordinary adjectives just won’t suffice). “Who the fuck are you? (possible aggression). “My fucking feet are killing me” (curse those darn feet!). “I want to fuck the shit out of Cindy Crawford” (Just me, Cindy and passionate sex). And there are thousands of other uses that people have contributed or suggested to me whenever I’ve brought this up in conversation. It seems like everyone has something to add and there are inventive wordsmiths coming up with new uses for “FUCK” everyday. I’m not a historian. It would take too much time to write them all down and most people already know what they mean already.

Anyway, happy birthday Jenifer, I love fucking you. I mean I fucking love you.

My little sister, who’s not so little anymore, came to stay with me during the raucous Thanksgiving holidays while my parents took off to go sailing in the Virgin Islands. I’m not mad at them because I would also rather go where it’s sunny and warm; I just hope I won’t have to watch their god-awful vacation videos like the last time.

So my sister got pawned off on me for a while, which is cool because she and Jenifer still interact well together and Alecia’s been having trouble with school and at home so I hope she can relax around us and observe that life does get better and less constricting later on if you let it. I had to remove my bong from the living room so she wouldn’t accidentally stumble across it and I also told her she could invite some of her friends up to hang out. I even bought them some wine coolers and beer like a good big brother should. Basically everything my parents said to
not
let Alecia do I’ve been letting her do.

Alecia and I go through phases with my parents where one of us is the better sibling of the moment and then my parents try to play us off each other. It’s just part of their fucked up psychology and they don’t even know they’re doing it. Because it’s my turn to play the good child role. I wanted to prove to my sister that I’m just a regular human like her and that I won’t participate in their game anymore. I believe that being cool to the children in your family should come first so that if and when you ever need to be strict with them, they will respect you enough to listen. I think Dr. Spock said something about that in one of his books, not the pointy eared Spock though. The
units
must have felt guilty about leaving Alecia with me because I got to pimp Dad’s Grey Impala (which made Dan jealous) to chauffer her around for the week, but I accidentally hit a yellow pole in the McDonald’s drive-thru the other night that I’m going to have to own up to.
Doh!

The Lansings graciously invited us both over to partake of their Thanksgiving dinner, which was also supposed to be my big introduction to the more conservative and debutant branches of Jenifer’s family tree. However, a freak ice storm the night before Thursday prompted a massive cancellation by everyone except Jenifer’s Grandma who had arrived a day early and didn’t give a fuck about any icy weather. I’ve met her Grandma before. She’s hip and we bond quite nicely. I sense a strong undercurrent of femininity running through her blood that hasn’t diluted across subsequent generations and I can see a little of Jenifer’s hellion streak in her also. The conservative look of old age doesn’t fool me. The meal was great and Alecia behaved with the same
beaten dog politeness
that I use in unfamiliar formal surroundings.

I wasn’t too keen on Jenifer’s dad later that night because he wouldn’t allow her to drive home from their house to her apartment since the streets were iced over and then he
forbade
me to come and get her when she called to tell me. He didn’t have any problem letting me and my sister drive home, so fuck that “I forbid you” shit! I understand he was worried about Jenifer’s safety but anyone who reduces her to tears with mental abuse is scum in my book. I sense static between her father and me that will only grow with time. I eventually met Jen on her parents’ street corner in the Impala and tried to convince her to get in the car with me and come home because she was shaking and sobbing with angry frustration. I guess I was only able to comfort her enough so that she was able to face going back to her parents’ house though. I was not happy at all with the situation but I deferred to her judgment when deciding how to best deal with her parents.

Our lives seemingly move so slowly sometimes, but I guess time is truly relative. I wonder if trees process the passage of time in a fashion similar to humans or if trees sense the passage of time in relative proportion to their own life spans? What about those moths that only live for a few days? Cities of Trees—let that bounce around in the cavern of my stoned mind. It’s almost as phonetically poetic as saying a Sea of Candles. The true power of Haiku has become clear to me at this very moment and I want to share it with the world. At least by write something down so I remember that once I truly understood. Does that make sense?

I can’t believe it’s after Thanksgiving already! Tempus fugit!

Follow Up: Despite my insistence to the contrary my parents decided Alecia hit the pole at McDonald’s with the Impala that left the yellow streak of paint down the side of the car. There is a life lesson here somewhere but I can’t put a finger on what it could possibly be. My sister appreciated my attempt at tell them the truth even if she still has to be the scapegoat for a crime she didn’t commit.
It’s hard to be the bete noire * when you are stuck at home with no place else to go.

* black sheep/beast

Crazy sex-life reality is full of seatbelts poking you in the back when you’re going at it in the car, getting leaves up your ass crack while doing it in the woods, hopping naked out of the neighbor’s window into rosebushes when the husband comes home, that sort of thing. It’s always fun to get to
do it,
but it’s the occasional rare moments where everything is spontaneous and absolutely perfect for both people that really make the head spin. It’s those moments they try to package and sell you in Victoria’s Secret, Playboy and bridal magazines. They all seem to say to me “this product or picture will make
that
thing you’ve been missing happen, maybe even by tonight if you order now.”

I had a dream last night that I met the great philosopher Jesus in his time and in his world. I was afraid to present myself to him for fear of being just another seeker of answers for my own petty problems. But from His place among a vast throng of people surrounded by thousands of followers, His eyes locked onto mine alone and He moved forward, gently parting the crowd as He went, and when He was near enough He reached out to grasp my hands, wrists crossed, his right hand on my right hand and his left hand on my left hand. I felt as He absorbed flashes of images from my mind, seeing through my eyes the image of his tortured body hanging on crosses in a hundred different churches, seeing the corruption of decades and cruelties I’ve only read about in history that were inspired by His name with His death. However, underneath it all, like the flicker of hope at the bottom of Pandora’s Box, He knew that I truly knew His death still had to come to pass and despite the atrocities that would be committed in His name, His sacrifice was ultimately good. All the questions I had and the answers I sought were lost because he looked sad and just asked me “Why?” I felt terrible because I didn’t know the answer, I didn’t even know if I grasped the magnitude of the question.
Did I?

I look into the mirror but I am not Him, even if we both have skinny wrists. I search the depths of my dark green eyes over and over, yet I feel fortunate that I don’t see power or godliness in them. Every so often I’ll feel a deep glimmer buried someplace down in my chest though. Something
else
is a part of me, a part of all of us I imagine, but it takes a while to separate my consciousness from reality long enough to locate it. When I take the time to really listen, I can feel the plants and earth and wide-open spaces extending for thousands of miles and across time. Expressing these thoughts in words only comes across as a bunch of Zen/Buddhist/Christian bullshit but this whole macrocosm is linked somehow. I can’t explain it nor do I care to.

I get frustrated with artists who deviate unsuccessfully from the works that originally made them popular with me. Similarly, I find myself feeling diluted a lot, jumping from one task to another. The only difference being that I have no defining great work that might disappoint my fans if I stray. I don’t have much at all. Everything I create is just medicine for
me.
I suppose the pleasure I get out of creating is what’s important. If one commercially viable idea would infatuate and consume me, then I might potentially exploit my work to so that I can be financially worry-free to indulge in everything else I want to do and be with a clear conscience. Money isn’t evil, love of money is evil, but money represents freedom to me right now.

I’m thinking of dying my hair cotton candy pink. Not that I like the color pink in the slightest, blue or green would be much cooler looking, but something about saying
cotton candy pink
makes the words roll pleasurably off my tongue with the static electricity of a charged doorknob on a cold day. Life is a lot like the “Tangerine” song by The Flaming Lips. They played on 90210 the other night. Some of my friends thought it was a sellout, and I’m sure the band is sick of the damn song by now, but I thought it was very kitsch and cool for them to use their hit song to get on 90210 while it’s still on the air.

I have assumed the indifference of a warm blooded creature. My TV is just furniture. I hope.

Man, I’m all over the place today with these scattered images, the small winter harvest during the colder months delays the importation of my main coping medicine. Jen and I quit fucking with the anti-depressants almost as soon as we started them and now when the haziness wears off, my brain’s unfocused energy runs away with itself sometimes. A crutch is nice but I know I need to learn to cope with all the talking and shite going on in my head, on
my
own terms, if I’m ever going to get it together. The Germ-anent keeps telling me not to do drugs, except for the ones that make me fall in line. I found out the other day that the U.S. invented methamphetamines during WWII to help the factory workers stay alert and work longer hours. I’ve seen the films encouraging farmers to grow hemp, insisting it was the cash crop of the future back in the forties and fifties. Well they were right about it being a cash crop; it’s now worth a shitload of more money since they banned it.