February 8th, 2009

han

the weekend so far

So far, the weekend has been pretty good. Friday night marked a debut for me: the first time I read my poetry in public. There was an open mic night at the local lesbian bookstore -- there are three open mics in town, basically, and only one my schedule allows me to make with any regularity -- and so I read three poems: "not quite a ballade for joseph merrick," "black rushmore," and "way over yonder." The reception was good. Turns out there was a contest element; I didn't win, but one of the judges came up afterwards and told me he'd stumped for me during discussions. Nice to hear!

Other performers were mostly musical, some of them very good, some of them not as much -- one guy was a very good guitar player, way better than I ever was, but he made the mistake of using exactly the same playing style for all of his songs, which made you wonder, "Wait, haven't I heard this already?" Another guy wrote songs that worked really well in part; some lyrics and melody worked great, some parts were meh. Two girls with guitars who had a duet act were really good, but tended to sing a little quietly.

Yesterday I found out that ROBOCOP was on Hulu, so that made me happy. Darren Aronofsky is making a remake of ROBOCOP, apparently, which is a colossal mistake. The original is a perfect motion picture. It knows exactly what notes it's trying to hit, hits them beautifully, and manages to be hysterically funny and very touching while being a thrilling action pic. You can't improve on it. Yeah, they made a bunch of versions of THE MALTESE FALCON, guys, but after they got it right, *they stopped.*

Y'know what Aronofsky should do? He shouldn't remake ROBOCOP. He should remake ROBOCOP 2. They can't fail to improve on the original, and wouldn't it be great to have a sequel that was actually, you know, *worth watching?* Plus, my God, the promotional angle. Aronofsky is going to have to answer skeptical questions to the effect of, "Why are you remaking ROBOCOP?" And he's going to have to come up with some bullshit answer because he can't just say, "Money." Wouldn't it be great to be able to say, "We're going to make the sequel that ROBOCOP should have had?" Now that, I'd look forward to.
spidey and mj

APED: "passive-aggressive"

She doesn't dare to call them. Her voice would show her tears.
So she writes her lonely verses late at night,
For people left unseen she hasn't contacted for years.
But missed so sorely -- water blurs her sight.

Do people think about the friends they've lost along the way?
She thinks perhaps she does it more than most.
They're with her in the verses now, the things she daren't say.
Grandmother told her: never speak to ghosts.

But ghosts still whisper in her ear, as night turns into dawn.
She gets up every day. It's still a fight.
The voices that she hasn't heard in years still echo on,
the smiles she hasn't seen still shine so bright.

So she writes her lyrics, sends them out into the world.
They're set to music, then they're passed along.
Like the father that she never knew, back when she was a girl --
she wonders if he spoke to her in song.

The money they bring in is good. Pays for the home, the pills.
Her life's not bad, just lonely, all in all.
She knows this in her heart of hearts. And yet she's hoping still --
Maybe one will look their song up, see her name and call.

I'm sorry, and I love you, and I miss you.
Your friendship is the reason I'm not dead.
It was my fault. I still think about you.
I wish that I could wake up in your bed.
I wish that I had paid you back that money.
I wish like hell I'd told you that I cared.
I wish Mom had loved me best. It isn't funny --
I'm trying not to show how much I'm scared.
Call me. Anytime. Please don't forget me.
I wish I hadn't run so from your pain.
You'd have been much better off if you'd not met me.
I know that's true, but I can't say the same --
You'll never know, for I can't say, how much you meant to me.
I'd call you, but I know it's been too long.
So listen to this stranger sing my song.

Another sleepless night. Another song comes to a head.
That's good. Another mortgage payment nears.
Clock radio goes off at dawn -- she drags herself from bed,
and a stranger sings a little phrase she hasn't heard in years.

She knew he was in music, long ago. Is he out here?
She looks the song up quickly. And she's right.
It's strange to feel that surge of joy -- and then a sudden fear.
Because he'd said those very words, to her one long-past night.

She takes the phone in hand -- and then she isn't sure.
She's knows it's what she hoped her ghosts would do.
But was the ghost's song written for a stranger, meant for her?
And, if not her, who was he writing to?

I'm sorry, and I love you, and I miss you.
Your friendship is the reason I'm not dead.
It was my fault. I still think about you.
I wish that I could wake up in your bed.
I wish that I had paid you back that money.
I wish like hell I'd told you that I cared.
I wish Mom had loved me best. It isn't funny --
I'm trying not to show how much I'm scared.
Call me. Anytime. Please don't forget me.
I wish I hadn't run so from your pain.
You'd have been much better off if you'd not met me.
I know that's true, but I can't say the same --
You'll never know, for I can't say, how much you meant to me.
I'd call you, but I know it's been too long.
So listen to this stranger sing my song.
303 british

arrrrrggggggg

So I had stuff in storage for a while. I vacated the unit on January 31, the day my paid period ran out. I notified two people of this. One in the lot, one in the office. Then I went home.

This week, I got a call at work. A woman from the storage facility.

WOMAN. "Hi, David Hines?"
ME. "Yep."
WOMAN. "I'm calling about your storage bill --"
ME. "I vacated the unit on the 31st. I notified two of your personnel."
WOMAN. "All right, thank you."

The next day I got an email about the storage bill. I replied, repeating what I'd said on the phone the day before, *noted* that I'd said it on the phone the day before, and asked that receipt of the email be acknowledged. No reply. Then, today, I got ANOTHER call. From the same woman who had called before.

WOMAN. "Hello, I'm trying to reach David Hines."
ME. "You got him."
WOMAN. "I'm calling about your storage bill. It's overdue."
ME. "Okay. I *vacated* the unit. I did so on January 31st. I notified two of your personnel at that time that I was vacating the unit. I told *you* this when you called me earlier this week. I told you again in email the next day, when I was emailed another non-payment notification. Apparently I have been insufficiently clear: I VACATED ON JANUARY 31st. I NO LONGER HAVE THE UNIT."
WOMAN. "...I'm sorry. I'll make sure that's corrected."
ME. "Thank you." *hangs up, drafts letter to corporate offices*