Guns and Dolls

List of Marty Stark's Excuses for Not Blogging (Now almost 50% True!)
1. Everytime Marty is hit with an urge to write, partners at Gateway Gig utter statements such as "By the way Marty, we're going to trial in November and you're second chair," or "Yes, I know you were in the office until 1:30 a.m. and you're not even a full time lawyer, but I need you to draft a motion in limine that has to be filed tomorrow and that I knew about for two weeks before you leave today--why yes, I know it's 1:00 p.m" and "You are never going to escape . . . ever."
2. Angry Yellow is seriously considering Telemundo's offer of taking the lead role in a new dramatic mini-series entitled LOS NOCHES DEL PADRE CALIENTE--He may be a man of God, but God is he a seh-xy man.
3. Ice weasels! Oh dear lord ICE WEASELS!
4. Marty has been seriously thinking about the directions the blog should take: keep it an eccentric goulash of confessional, prose, musings about the legal profession that put together smells vaguely of burnt wiring and onions, focus on one particular area, or write under yet another assumed name so he can candidly write without getting sharp things nailed into his eyes while he's asleep.
5. Marty has been seriously thinking about the directions his life should take. At least that navel-gazing has some resolution: Marty wants a life that he doesn't want to run away from. That last little ditty was brought to you by the fine folks at "Statements that aren't cliches but sure sound as smug and unoriginal." Those same fine folks are also looking for a new corporate name.
6. DIDN'T YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID!!! ICE WEASELS!!!
7. Holding back the male weepies at the end of every uplifting-yet-not-in-a-preachy-sort-of-way endings on one of Marty's favorite new shows of the TV season, Jack and Bobby (but alas, this must be a false entry for EL PADRE CALIENTEweeps only for the poor underprivileged children of his small village and those who are not as CALIENTE as EL PADRE CALIENTE).
8. Remember when that punk ass wannabe actor who looked like Jan Michael Vincent's younger and more addicted to smack brother who did a really piss poor performance as your waiter at the Westwood Olive Garden a couple of weeks ago? Well, the good news is that you did not increase your inadvertant intake of urine that night. However, brother, that wasn't oregeno on your all you can eat pasta and salad.

Well I've Got The Time . . .

No shit sherlock observation--Why yes, my blog is going under some renovation. Hopefully I'll be able to add my old links back up soon.

party at the mansion, y'all

why you take from a giver?
why you gotta get high?
why you watch a carwreck,
muthafucker?
-"Fat City (Slight Return)" - Twilight Singers

He's been watching the glow of Marlboro Red tips crawl with each breath, a fast slow fast slow stutter of orange and ash, for the past hour. His fingertips are getting yellow again, but he can't seem to care. Instead, like he has done for the past hour, he watches that orange ring get as close to his fingers before it burns him, flicks the butt out the window and watches it fall four stories past brick and fire escapes. Then he takes the bottle of Jack Daniels, swallows heavily and coughs. He's finished a pack of Marlboros, but he's got five more to last him through the night. His sinuses are finally burnt. He can't smell the mildew, dried piss and disinfectant of the flophouse.

The air at 3 a.m. is cool, but not cool enough the chase the humidity of the day. Still, it's the only time that he doesn't sweat just by breathing. So he has his window open, and he's turned off the light. Just him, his shadow and his cigarettes, black and orange on a deep blue frame.

He could go home. He could walk out of this gutter flophouse, stumble the five blocks to the better side of town where he parked his car and drive to his loft. He could return the calls of his friends and fall into their well-wishing so warm like down blankets. But instead, well, instead . . .

At 3 a.m., the pushers have already left. A couple of skinny ass streetwalkers get returned by their johns and now looked bored, and a little bit pissed the pushers have fucked off. The streetlamps don't work to well here, and flicker erraticly. The hookers look like jones'd up moths.

He focuses on the burning tip of his cigarette, the sour taste of alcohol in his mouth, the coolness of the air. They distract him. Buddha by degradation.

He doesn't want to think about his friends. That's not what he's here for. He wants to know if he can handle this by himself. If he's the type of guy who can come through this on his own, then he knows he can be a tough muthafucker, he's got his shit all tight. But if he goes crawling to his friends, well, he knows he's that type of person. So he has another Marloro, and he downs another shot. He'll see who he is in the morning.

save yourself, you little sinner
path it up right
take the road less traveled
make sure you keep that shit all tight
--"Fat City(Slight Return)" -- Twilight Singers

Somebody Told Me

Hey Sea Monkeys. I'm still alive. I've still got the GatewayGig. I'm still bored. But I have been writing. Unfortunately, it hasn't been on the novel. For the past two weeks, it seems like I've taken up the mantle in my fantasy football league of rebutting GOP talking points (I for one can admit when Democrats have f!d up, c'mon, what the hell was Al Sharpton doing speakin', but at least two of my GOP buddies drank the KoolAid without asking "Hey, you smell bitter almonds?") and verbal diarrhea that could only come from right wing talk radio. But rather than turn this into a purely political blog, I'll just let y'all know entries might be sparse for a while.

Back Where You Started, Here We Go Round Again

"The days go by and you wish you were a different guy
Different friends and a new set of clothes.
You make alterations and affect a new pose,
A new house, a new car, a new job, a new nose.
But it's superficial and it's only skin deep,
Because the voices in your head keep shouting in your sleep.
Get back, get back.
Back where you started, here we go round again,
Back where you started, come on do it again."
                                            --The Kinks, "Do It Again"
 
I'm back at Gateway Contract Gig for now.  Short term projects and such.  Still haven't figured out the meaning of life, and it looks like I never will at this rate.  Wake up, put some BedHead Rubber Rage in my hair, grab an eggwich with sausage, go to the office, work, go home, heat up some Trader Joe's dinner, sleep.  Wash, rinse, repeat.
 
Honestly, how does everyone do this over and over again without starting to go bugfuck?

Walk Idiot Walk

The latest blog hiatus has been brought to you by Contract Gig -- Contract Gig: It Pays The Bills But Deadens The Soul.

One of the perils of being a Contract Lawyer is that you can be too good at what you do. Turn around projects quick enough, and the next thing you know they've all run out of projects for you to do (or are hoarding what projects they have to justify their own permanent status existence). So rather than come into the office each morning, twiddling my thumbs and sending an e-mail requesting for work that goes unanswered, I decided to have them call me if they need work done. In the meantime, I'm catching up on some leisure reading and trying to get some writing done. I'd say I have a better than 50% chance of them giving me a call at some point (payroll said they never checked my invoices, meaning they liked my work; the lawyers praised all my projects; and the last two contract lawyers they had were a pothead and a man who had the research and writing skills of an autistic chimp).

Although there's a part of me that's a little bit pissed I'm not getting some mulah, there's also a part of me that's a lot relieved. A warning--the following is a "D'uh" statement: Every office has its politics and its assholes. Hey, I told you a "D'uh" statement was coming. My office (which was actually a closet, but a windowed closet) faced the cubicles of a group of chatty secretaries that would put the pettiness of high school fluffchick cliques to shame. Every friggin' day I would here two of the secretaries jabbering about one file clerk (who happened to sit in the cubible between them) they hated--usually while the file clerk was there. The real estate attorney (who luckily I didn't have to work with, but who made snide statements about my schedule) was known to throw stuff at underlings he didn't like. The named partner was OK socially, but he was also a procrastinator who got shit done at the last minute. The few times I had to deal with him directly on a project, we'd butt heads. Oh, and you could tell the way he dealt with other partners that almost all the friggin' partners at this firm had issues.

So the few times these last couple of weeks I had sone downtime, rapidly induced by beer, I started to get into this existential funk. Obviously, an existential funk is not the "get down get down" wah wah guitars and sparkly bellbottoms type of funk. It's more of a "wondering what the point" is sorta funk. Beware--if you'd rather not question your existence, you should probably go read something else right now, like something with fluffy bunnies or cute widdle kittens. Awww, see da cute widdle kittens?

OK, for the rest of you, you depressed little stress puppies you. For about a month, I'd come into the office every morning, get my cup of coffee, sit at my desk with my yellow highlighter, laptop, yellow legal pad and blue pen. I'd do my research, some writing. I'd be fixing up the fuckups of other attorneys. I'd hear the gossip, the secretaries answering phones, doing secretarial stuff. Come six or so (and every couple of days, come midnight or so), I'd go home. Fix myself some dinner, have a beer or two. Watch some TV. Go to sleep. Do it all over again.

Bored? Me too. What I wonder is how people do this over and over again until they're 65. Yeah, I know, it pays for food and a roof over your head. Oh, and some porn once in a while. But is that a good enough answer? You may want to go see da cute widdle kittens right now if you don't want to get more angsty.

Yeah, you have full stomach, which is certainly better than an empty one. Yeah, you're sleeping in a bed, which is certainly better than sleeping on the pavement. So what have we established? You're physically comfortable. But if that was enough, why do we need vacations, TV, and other distractions? So what we've established is that you lead this life of tedium to be comfortable but not content. Not much of a life, is it? Hell, all animals work for food and shelter, and we're supposed to be different than animals, right?

OK, I can already tell what you're going to say: One day Marty, you'll meet that special someone, have kids, and everything will change. And I'm sure I'll have a different perspective then. But I see folks I worked with who have a spouse and happy kids, and I gotta tell you, they don't look to content either. Sure, they love their family--when they see them--but for most of the day they look bored at best, miserable at worst. Yeah, they get themselves through the day by thinking of their loved ones, and to quote Dido, "and it's not so bad, it's not so ba-aaaaad." But isn't that adding one distraction on top of another? Instead of "I need to work to get money to get food and shelter," it's "I need to work to get money to get food and shelter for the family"? Again, not much different from animals.

Look, this isn't to say that once I meet that special someone and have kids, suddenly I won't care about any of these existential questions. I'm just saying, these are the types of questions that pop up when I'm in the office.

Now don't you wish you went and read about cute widdle kittens?

When I Was A Child I Had A Fever . . .

The Effects of Making "They're Paying Me $**.00 Per The Hour" Your Mantra:
1. Time goes by. Fast. No. Really fucking fast.
2. You're not as angry that you're in the office on a Sunday, or at 11:30 p.m. Don't get me wrong . . . you're still angry, just not as angry.
3. You begin to view calls from friends and loved ones as annoyances rather than welcome breaks.
4. If you're checking account was a woman, it would have that rosey post-coital glow.
5. You begin to imagine your checking account as a woman because you have no fucking time to actually meet women.
6. You're so bone weary that you dream of taking a nap, and no, I don't mean "dream" as in daydreaming or hoping, but while you're sleeping, you dream of taking a nap.
7. You become really whiney in your blog. OK, more so.
8. You neglect your blog.
9. You're not really thinking about her. No, really. You just don't have the time.
10. You begin to get better at quashing down that existential angst that creeps into your psyche at midnight about what the hell you're doing with your life and aren't you supposed to be writing a novel?

I Want An Easy Life

I Am I Am I Am Steel
Nothing Can Stop Me When I'm On The Wheel--Curve, "On The Wheel"

I'm supposed to be writing a novel, but instead I started a new gig this week (sent resume Monday, hired Tuesday). Of course, I'm supposed to be doing a lot of different things. I'm supposed to be with someone who still wants me. So, you know how it goes. I started a new gig which pays me even more than my prior one, which if you knew how much the other gig paid me, you'd be choking and saying "You lucky shit." Marty always landing on his feet. Marty bending like a reed in the wind. And you all know I'd trade it in to be with someone else.

I've been trying to be logical about everything. With me, there's chemistry. With him, there's no passion. With me, there's laughter. With him, sadness. But of course, how logical is pining after someone who hurts you.

So here I go with another one of my nine lives. Leave a gig, find a better paying one in less than a week. Count your blessings. Keep on that wheel.

Helpless

Another Time Time After Time
You Make Me Feel So Helpless
-- Sugar, "Helpless"

During the day, I'm beginning not to feel so bad. I have a semblence of life coming back together. And I admit that I still think about her, a little sadness, a little heartache, but I don't shake and I don't sob.

But night is a different story. Last night, I thought I fell asleep. At 2:30 a.m., I realized that something was strange, wrong. Then I realized--I still had my eyes open. I had my eyes open for a while.

When I finally did fall asleep, there was no consolation. There was a voice saying "You can never talk to her again." And then it was late at night in my dream. I got a call from Setup Chick. She was on a train. Her car was at the station in a really bad part of town. If she got off the train by herself, she would be attacked, hurt, killed. So I drove to the station to protect her. She says that she can't see me. And I'm at the station lit by the sickly orange light from an old sodium lamp which barely keeps out the black night. I get sad and scared and angry when she tells me this. "Why did you call me then?" I ask. "What do you want me to do? You call me up, telling me where you're going. You know I love you and you know I can't let you come here alone and be hurt, and you tell me I can't be here. What do you want me to do? You know that you'll be hurt. How can I just sit back knowing that you'll die if you arrive at the station alone?" I can't do a damn thing.

Time After Time What's On Your Mind
You Make Me Feel So Helpless
You Never Tried What's On Your Mind
You Make Me Feel So Helpless

Change or Die

Over four years ago, I was a junior associate in a regional BigLaw up in Silicon Valley. At 8:30 a.m., I'd pull up into the office off Page Mill Road, one of those two-story mirrored-glass and white plastic-looking front constructions that were de riguer in the late nineties. At 9 p.m., I'd pull out, and over half the cars would still be there. In between, I had days full of scheming or screaming partners, dozens of brushfires to put out, and dozens of other long-term projects that would turn into brushfires because I couldn't spend time on them. I don't remember taking lunches, though I'm sure I had them. I do remember ordering dinner, rushing down to the first floor as the order came in and wolfing it down--lukewarm pasta, lukewarm burgers, or soggy tempura--in my office before turning to yet another brief. Near the end, I couldn't stand the light, and only used a weak desklamp to work. I'd go home and drink a six-pack or several screwdrivers to unwind in the quickest way possible. I never had a single day of vacation in the two and a half years I was there. And then the Salary Wars began, with Gunderson (now a mere footnote of legal history) hiking up first year salaries by 50%. That should've been great news for associates, but any forward thinking person could see what was coming. My first BigLaw got on the tech market too late. The head office in San Francisco had trouble keeping their associates busy. Increase salaries with no increase in work, well, something had to give. So, I changed . . .

And I went to an even larger BigLaw, following one of the few incredibly talented lawyers who was also a decent human being. I spent another year without a vacation. The hours were even longer. I considered myself lucky if I got out by 10 p.m. I considered myself lucky if I had a Sunday off. I remember watching the midnight traffic on the 101 from my office. This BigLaw was less psychotic. Any egos were well-deserved and still kept business flowing to the firm. The place felt like a startup. For the first several months there, I was, well, not happy, but not unhappy. Then one bad apple had to ruin everything. I hear from my friends that he's a joke--but he's a partner now because he could bring in business. I do have to thank him, though. Without him, I wouldn't have realized that the acceptance of misery is not a life. With him, I learned that happiness is having the option to leave. So I did . . .

And for a year, I wrote. That is the happiest period of my life. I lost weight. I mellowed out. I was content. But I was lonely--Silicon Valley is still the worst place to live if you're a single, straight male. Plus the money was running out. So, I sold my place up north, gained a hefty nest egg and moved back down to Lalaland . . .

And was welcomed by my friends down here. I met and dated women, which abated my loneliness for a while, which caused more heartache in the short run that eventually healed. But I was going out. I started at SmallFirm, later to be known as Phuqued Firm, to see if it was truly law I hated or just BigFirm lifestyle. For eleven months, I dealt with both psychotic and psychopathic behavior--a screamer and a backstabber. The jury is still out on whether I hate the law (OK, maybe not), but I knew if I stayed there for too much longer, I would have a mental breakdown. So I changed, and I left, or is it the other way around . . .

And then I found a ContractGig at a firm in which the associates and the staff were genuinely happy. To bad the punchline was that it was folding up. So then I went to the last ContractGig. Out of respect for that last gig, I will be discrete as to why I left. The partner will be a success no matter what he does. However, my Spidey-senses were tingling in the last two months. I also found out that yes, there is such a thing as destiny, but that destiny can be derailed. Two paths were presented, and she took the wrong one . . .

But what I have learned in looking back at my life since law school is that I have always changed. There are situations which you cannot change, so you look to what you can change. More often than not, the only thing you can change is you. Staying on that derailing train will only get you hurt or worse. You'd be surprised how many decide to stay. Jumping off into those dark woods is better.

So here I go, launching myself, changing myself yet again.

So I Disconnect

Only time will tell if I'm sucking all the venom out of the wound, or just picking at it. I think it will be a while before my first thoughts of the day aren't of her.

Today, I was at a belated housewarming party / early summer welcome party of my friends up in the Valley. I was having fun in the pool, turning red with the alcohol and sun, bullshitting with my buddies, and playing with my pal's 13 month old kid. Sitting around eating chips and drinking beer, the sun, the water, all of it hit home again the friends that I have who'll pull me out and keep me smiling.

I was dangling my legs in the pool and taking a sip of my lukewarm Heiniken, and I felt a little bit sad all of a sudden. Some other me is sitting with some other her, dangling our legs in the pool. Some other her is bursting with happiness at meeting the good people that are my friends, expanding her world that didn't have that many friends. Some other her is making that small sweet smile while watching me play with the kid. Some other me and her are home now, slightly tired falling asleep in each others arms.

And I felt a little sad. Not just for me, but for her. Because none of this will ever happen for her. She'll go on with her small world that only includes one friend she never talks to and Jon, who doesn't have that many friends either. She'll have missed the opportunity to enter into my world, friends that would open their arms for her because I did.

You might say she made her choice, and she deserves the misery she gets. I know I said that before too. But I just remember the sweet girl I knew (and girl is really what she truly is, a sweet girl who is also a weak girl), who was so excited at the prospect of a new life. And I just get sad for her.

I need you, you want me/ but I don't know how to connect/ so I disconnect.

Long Gone Before Daylight

Maybe it's the fact that I'm beginning to heal, but then the memory of her smile in the morning and her foot stroking my calf trips me up. Or maybe it's the fact that I don't know which is sadder, that I won't see her grinning as we walk down 3rd Street Promenade dragging me from store to store, or that it won't matter to me eventually. But the Cardigans' album "Long Gone Before Daylight" has been on repeat for the last two days and nights.

I bought this album as well as Bob Dylan's "Blood On The Tracks" on the same day. Much has been said about "Blood On The Tracks", Dylan's confessional written after his first divorce, by men far more articulate than I. (Thanks to Dubois for recommending it to me.) It's too close in time for me to hear "If You See Her, Say Hello" and not get quiet and sad. And that's the album I should be listening to over and over again. But then I put in "Long Gone Before Daylight" . . .

Yeah, we all heard "Lovefool" full of pop cheer and Nina Persson's perky voice. Oh look, isn't it cute that slightly twisted lyrics are meshed with bubblegum melodies. So I put in "Long Gone Before Daylight" to distract me. But you don't heal by avoiding the pain, but by dealing with it.

The first track, "Communication," begins with single notes off an acoustic guitar. And then Nina's voice whispers in. She sounds like Shawn Colvin off her first album, "Steady On," with all the vulnerability that got lost after "A Few Small Things."

for 27 years I've been trying
to believe and confide in
different people I found

some of them got closer than others
and some wouldn't even bother
and then you came around

But this isn't a song about finding love. The song is all the heartache, the loneliness and the frustration of two people who want each other but have too much hurt and baggage to even get started. There's a subtle string arrangement as the lyrics and the chorus progresses, but that's as stirring as it gets. There's a little bit of hope as the song leads to its climax, I'll never really learn how to love you / but I know that I love you through the hole in the sky / where I see you, the most confident she sounds in the song. In the end though, it's a sad acceptance that things are not going to work out.

and I hold
a record for being patient
with your kind of hesitation

I need you, you want me
but I don't know
how to connect
so I disconnect
I disconnect

Every song is about love, some of it wrong, some of it failed, some full of hope but needing a lot of faith.

In "And You Kissed Me", Nina sounds like Sheryl Crow before she started shilling for credit cards and dated fashion moguls. It's Sheryl Crow had she stuck with that honesty of the ballads on "Tuesday Night Music Club." The first words are:

man, I've had a few
but they wouldn't quite blow me like you
you gave me your name and signed
with a halo around my eye

This is The Afghan Whig's "Gentlemen" taken from the point of view of the abused.

lord, I've had my deal
but I never quite knew how it feels
when love makes you wake up sore
with fists that are ready for more

"Please Sister" and "Lead Me Into The Night" could've been written by Nick Cave, the first written in his melancholy mood, and latter in his quiet, tender mode of "Into My Arms." In "Please Sister," it's soul gone bad. The realization that she's done wrong, love gone sour. so if it's true that love will never die / then why do the lovers work so hard to stay alive? Meanwhile, "Lead Me Into The Night" is a slow, country ballad about falling for that person everyone says is bad for you, and willingly following that person. to lead me into the night / oh please drive away the light / although my mother will never understand / I walk with him away from the light and into the night

"For What It's Worth" is perhaps the most pop of the songs, with hooks that Carol King could've written. This should've been my theme for the last week. A person who, despite all the shit gone through and done to, still wants to the other person to stay.

hey, please baby come back
there'll be no more lovin' attacks
and I'll be keeping it cool tonight
the 4-letter word is out of my head
come on around, get back in my bed
keep making me feel alright

And still, she realizes all the ambivalence and all the wrongness of the situation. for what it's worth - I love you! / and what is worse - I really do...

The original version of the album ended with "03.45: No Sleep," a bittersweet lullabye. She's gone through all the giddiness and the disappointments, the love and the emptiness. The arrangement is sparse, just Nina, an acoustic guitar and a soft drum. She's alone, she's tired, and yet something in her voice still has hope.

it's way too late to think of
someone I would call now
the neon signs got tired
red eye flights help the stars out
I'm safe in a corner
just hours before me


I'm waking with the roaches
the world has surrendered
I'm dating ancient ghosts
[the ones I made friends with]
the comfort of fireflies
long gone before daylight


and if I had one wish fulfilled tonight
I'd ask for the sun to never rise
if God lent his voice to me to speak
I'd say: "go to bed, world!"

So I should go to bed soon. And I'd be willing to go through this over and over. There'll be regret. There'll be pain. But I'll be waking up again.

You've Just Been Hanging Out In The Men's Room

OK, so people say Aaron Sorkin is too talky, too pendantic. And yet you can't deny that the man knew how to write dialogue. Look at West Wing right now--it sucks ass through a straw.

One of my favorite shows (which is general a kiss of death for network televigion) is Sports Night, Aaron Sorkin's short-lived dramedy on ABC prior to West Wing. Like the best song lyrics, there's dialogue which hits the nail on the head for almost every life situation. Even more impressive, the show only lasted 2 seasons. Yeah, so after this whole sitch went down, I went through my Sports Night DVD compilation to find a snippet of dialogue that, in addition to Dido, The Afghan Whigs and Bob Dylan, kept going through my head. Let's hope the reason why is that there's a small portion of me that knows a version of this dialogue is going to be happening in the long run.

To setup, the two main sportscasters are Dan Rydell and Casey McCall. Casey, recently divorced, was in love with Dana, but Dana had this stupid plan to have Casey date other women for six months. Now Casey has moved on:

Dan: (putting the darts down) It was an idiotic dating plan, Dana. What did you think was going to happen?

Dana: Hey, Dan--

Dan: Forget that he's meeting all kinds of women, that was gonna happen. But the one that he wanted was you, anyway.

Dana: Wanted?

Dan: (sighs) All this is doing is making him feel a lot less like the man he is, which is why he left Lisa in the first place. (sits down across from her) I know what he wants, and I gotta say, he's done a pretty good job of going after it, which isn't, like, the most natural thing in the world for Casey to do. And I know what you want. And all I've seen you do is hide behind this psychotic behavior all dressed up as cute. He wanted you, and he told you every possible way he could. You've just been hanging out in the men's room. (gets up and leaves her looking miserable)


(Dana enters the bar hesitantly, looking around, then going up to the bartender)

Dana: Jack.

Jack: Hey, Dana.

Dana: Was Casey in here tonight?

Jack: You just missed him.

Dana: He left?

Jack: Yeah. You need anything?

Dana: Was he in here alone?

Jack: (a bit awkwardly) He met someone.

Dana: A girl?

Jack: Yeah, with a strange name.

Dana: Pixley.

Jack: Yeah.

Dana: They leave together?

Jack: Yeah.

Dana: (nodding painfully) Okay.

Jack: You need anything?

Dana: Uh... no. (gives a false smile that quickly fades into pain again)

(Fade out)

Everything Is Wrong

You know how sometimes, when you buy a CD, after you fumble your way tearing off the plastic wrapping with that crinkly sound really annoying you, you rip off that sticky adhesive off the top, and you plop that CD in the player? And the LCD tells you that the CD is over 50 minutes long, and you're glad that you didn't get gipped of your fifteen dollars and some change? So you listen through the album and suddenly the last track comes up faster than expected? Or you're half paying attention while doing your work, and you're not paying attention to the time and you think the CD is over? Then after seven minutes of silence, you hear another track? And you realize that the album has a hidden track, and it's complete and utter crap. Think the hidden track on Nirvana's "Nevermind" and not the hidden track on "Lost in Translation." That album you thought was over 50 minutes is actually under 40.

Take what you will from that lengthy rhetorical question.

I had trouble sleeping last night. I had an overwhelming sensation that everything was wrong. I knew it in my heart and I knew it in my head. Somehow, life had derailed off the tracks, and I'm still in shock.

As I said before, I left the Contract Gig for reasons that had nothing to do with Setup Chick. I had been waking up with the Dread for the last few months. I'd been dreaming of travel with nowhere to go, or being back in school. Once you start feeling the Dread, you have to leave if you have the option. It's just unfortunate that me leaving also coincided with Setup Chick going back.

I know writing is a solitary profession, and I know I'm good at it (well, at both--writing and being solitary). For the first time today, the anxiety I'd been feeling is slowly starting to disappear just by writing.

In the long run, I need to write. In the long run, I know that staying any longer at the Contract Gig would've been bad for my health. But right now, it's all bittersweet. I was supposed to be decompressing this week, and instead I'm thinking about her. I was supposed to be writing this novel during the day and have her come home to me each night, but instead I'm back by my lonesome. I was supposed to say my final goodbye on Tuesday, but the office still calls and she tells me how hard it is not to see me, that she knows if she sees me again what will happen.

Yeah, I know the train has derailed. I know eventually, either I have to get it back on the tracks or find a new train. Sitting dazed isn't going to help me at all. But right now, everything is wrong.

I'm Comin' 'Round To Open Up The Blinds

So I guess this is part two of the thanks. And yeah, I'm quoting Dido. Very mainstream of me. But other than being cute and an Arsenal fan, she tends to write lyrics that are direct and very appropriate. So once again, thanks to everyone.

I'm comin' 'round to open the blinds
You can't hide here any longer
My God you need to rinse those puffy eyes
You can't last here any longer

And yes they'll ask you where you've been
And you'll have to tell them again and again

And you probably don't want to hear tomorrow's another day
Well I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness
And I promise you you'll see the sun again

Come on take my hand
We're going for a walk, I know you can
You can wear anything as long as it's not black
Please don't mourn forever
She's not coming back

And yes they'll ask you where you've been
And you'll have to tell them again and again

And you probably don't want to hear tomorrow's another day
Well I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness
And I promise you you'll see the sun again
And I promise you you'll see the sun again

Do you remember telling me you found the sweetest thing of all
You said one day of this was worth dying for
So be thankful you knew her at all
But it's no more

And you probably don't want to hear tomorrow's another day
Well I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness
And I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you probably don't want to hear tomorrow's another day
Well I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness
And I promise you you'll see the sun again
See the sun again
---"See The Sun," Dido