Random Thoughts of the Day
Why do I feel all this pressure to move? Within two blocks of my current apartment, I have a grocery store, a 24-hour diner, a Starbucks, and an L stop, not to mention the fact that my rent is affordable and I don't need any additional living space. I wish they would back off.
They, they, they. I wonder if I'm ever "they" to other people? I'm sure of it.
What I really, really want to be more than anything else: a minor league baseball team owner. It would be heaven. I'd be happier than a pig in shit every single day of my life.
Inspecting the mound before games.
Checking for soft spots in the outfield.
Picking up the new guy they just sent up from Tuscaloosa at the Greyhound terminal.
Giving speeches at retirement homes, grade schools, VFW halls, and anywhere else willing to buy ten season tickets.
Designing the uniforms and new ad campaigns.
Making promo appearances for local radio.
Inviting random fans to sit in the owner's box, whilst I chill halfway up the grandstand between home and first -- which would technically make that area the owner's box, but just to give 'em a thrill.
Having the guys on the field be, literally, my guys, and taking it upon myself to help them better ballplayers and, possibly, better people.
Man, that would be something else. I'll see what I can do.
In almost every way, I am almost exactly the same person I was when I was fifteen. There's no doubt that nowadays the lines on my face run a little deeper, I've had a few horrific and many more wonderful experiences, and I know a staggering amount of shit that no one else seems to care much about. Aside from that, though, Paddy is pretty much Paddy, at least from where I'm standing.
In spite of my own self-perception, this morning someone said to me, "You've really matured in the last year or so." My initial reaction was to do one of those Hollywood "is there someone standing behind me?" moves, but then two things dawned on me. First, I was speaking to this person over the telephone, and second, I was all alone in an empty room. Timing being everything, I lauded myself with a minor chuckle as a consolation prize, as I conversed on with the other party.
The last time someone spotted any sort of genuine maturation on my part, I had just turned twenty and was feeling...well...ver y much like I do now, as a matter of fact. Again, I distinctly recall desperately wanting to try the Hollywood "someone behind me?" move, only I happened to be riding shotgun in a Pontiac Grand Am, and I was completely drunk out of my gourd on grain alcohol at the time. I might have mumbled something to my buddy about my desire to try this move, but seeing as my comments were most likely wedged between a discourse on Enlightenment Europe and a rant about the failures of public housing, he probably had no idea what I was talking about. Shit, I probably didn't know what I was talking about either. I know myself all too well.
At any rate, according to my best recollections, those were the only two second-party, positive commentaries on the state of my personal maturation -- the first at twenty, the second at twenty-nine. If a trend might be gleaned by the above-mentioned ages, I expect that my next unforeseen evolutionary spasm will occur slightly before I turn forty, at which point I hope I am neither alone on the phone nor intoxicated in an automobile, so that I might actually unleash the elusive Hollywood move once and for all in all its comic grandeur. Unless, of course, the phone happens to be made of 24-karat gold, or the car happens to be my navy Maserati -- in either of which case, that stupid Hollywood move can totally go fuck off, because I've done good enough to buy a solid gold and a sick ride.
I started writing a short story the other day, as a thank you to those who check in occasionally during this hiatus. The working title for the time being is, "The Sandstone Edifice and a Temptress of Valhalla." It's based on this hauntingly intense dream I had earlier in the week. There is an unfocused weirdness about the pace of the language and the imagery that I hope you'll enjoy. Actually, I hope it freaks you out a little bit.
As with so many other projects, I wish it were finished already, but I get so easily distracted by...ya know...a bunch of stuff I must do, and a bunch of other stuff I should never, under any possible circumstances, ever in a million years attempt doing.
The eternal fifteen year old rides again.
They, they, they. I wonder if I'm ever "they" to other people? I'm sure of it.
What I really, really want to be more than anything else: a minor league baseball team owner. It would be heaven. I'd be happier than a pig in shit every single day of my life.
Inspecting the mound before games.
Checking for soft spots in the outfield.
Picking up the new guy they just sent up from Tuscaloosa at the Greyhound terminal.
Giving speeches at retirement homes, grade schools, VFW halls, and anywhere else willing to buy ten season tickets.
Designing the uniforms and new ad campaigns.
Making promo appearances for local radio.
Inviting random fans to sit in the owner's box, whilst I chill halfway up the grandstand between home and first -- which would technically make that area the owner's box, but just to give 'em a thrill.
Having the guys on the field be, literally, my guys, and taking it upon myself to help them better ballplayers and, possibly, better people.
Man, that would be something else. I'll see what I can do.
In almost every way, I am almost exactly the same person I was when I was fifteen. There's no doubt that nowadays the lines on my face run a little deeper, I've had a few horrific and many more wonderful experiences, and I know a staggering amount of shit that no one else seems to care much about. Aside from that, though, Paddy is pretty much Paddy, at least from where I'm standing.
In spite of my own self-perception, this morning someone said to me, "You've really matured in the last year or so." My initial reaction was to do one of those Hollywood "is there someone standing behind me?" moves, but then two things dawned on me. First, I was speaking to this person over the telephone, and second, I was all alone in an empty room. Timing being everything, I lauded myself with a minor chuckle as a consolation prize, as I conversed on with the other party.
The last time someone spotted any sort of genuine maturation on my part, I had just turned twenty and was feeling...well...ver y much like I do now, as a matter of fact. Again, I distinctly recall desperately wanting to try the Hollywood "someone behind me?" move, only I happened to be riding shotgun in a Pontiac Grand Am, and I was completely drunk out of my gourd on grain alcohol at the time. I might have mumbled something to my buddy about my desire to try this move, but seeing as my comments were most likely wedged between a discourse on Enlightenment Europe and a rant about the failures of public housing, he probably had no idea what I was talking about. Shit, I probably didn't know what I was talking about either. I know myself all too well.
At any rate, according to my best recollections, those were the only two second-party, positive commentaries on the state of my personal maturation -- the first at twenty, the second at twenty-nine. If a trend might be gleaned by the above-mentioned ages, I expect that my next unforeseen evolutionary spasm will occur slightly before I turn forty, at which point I hope I am neither alone on the phone nor intoxicated in an automobile, so that I might actually unleash the elusive Hollywood move once and for all in all its comic grandeur. Unless, of course, the phone happens to be made of 24-karat gold, or the car happens to be my navy Maserati -- in either of which case, that stupid Hollywood move can totally go fuck off, because I've done good enough to buy a solid gold and a sick ride.
I started writing a short story the other day, as a thank you to those who check in occasionally during this hiatus. The working title for the time being is, "The Sandstone Edifice and a Temptress of Valhalla." It's based on this hauntingly intense dream I had earlier in the week. There is an unfocused weirdness about the pace of the language and the imagery that I hope you'll enjoy. Actually, I hope it freaks you out a little bit.
As with so many other projects, I wish it were finished already, but I get so easily distracted by...ya know...a bunch of stuff I must do, and a bunch of other stuff I should never, under any possible circumstances, ever in a million years attempt doing.
The eternal fifteen year old rides again.
posted by Pat at 12:14 AM
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