Good-bye 2005... hello...?

It’s 2006. Technically January 2^nd. 1:04am, to be precise. Wanna go for a ride?

Let’s.

I’ll start off with saying I did not, as I expected I would, party like a rock star on New Year’s. Nope. I started partying slowly (that’s how all rock stars start… at first you think they’re gonna be all mild, then they go on a tear), but before any insanity started happening I got a phone call and had to drive a friend to the hospital, and later on, drive her back home from said hospital. Now, let it here be stated and sworn to be the truth, that I did not mind doing this at all. The friend who called me happens to be a friend that I love very much, and I had much, much rather spend my New Year's Eve helping someone that I love rather than taking shots in LoDo. This is the truth, so help me God. All of this is a round about way of saying that it’s roughly twenty-four hours past the new year, and I am only now getting trashed. I don’t have to be in rehearsal until 3:30 tomorrow, so it’s on. So how’s about we go on a little thought-sharing expedition, huh? Stream of consciousness style? I say, fuck it, why not?

I just did it. Yeah. That’s right… IT. I was here, in my apartment and I was like, “Fuck it… I haven’t done it in a while, I wanna get a little drunk and DO IT!” So I did. I imbibed a good chunk of whiskey and I ... washed every dish in my apartment, and baby, it’s just as good as I’d dreamed it would be. I’ve now got a dripping drying-rack full of dishes that I could (and will) eat my dinner off of. This is just the first step, of course. Tonight I get trashed and clean my whole apartment…. I won’t vacuum ‘till tomorrow though… I’m not a complete a-hole.

Foremost on my mind right now, though, is J. As far as I can recall right now, J. is the first of my friends to have killed himself. Killed himself. God, it sounds so harsh, but I suppose an act like that deserves to sound harsh, no? Thinking back, right now (admittedly toasted, here) I can only think of one person I knew that killed themselves. Themself? Their self? Fuck it, you know what I mean. That was this girl I knew named Mimi. Mimi was a ballerina; truly, truly beautiful; the kind of girl you look at as say, “Man, she’s got it made” (which, I guess, just goes to show you). She was the older sister of my baby-sitter when I was just a little kid. I think I was about 5 when this all went down. Maybe four. I don’t know. Anyway, Mimi climbed up the side of a building (balcony to balcony, I believe). Somebody called the cops, but they couldn’t stop her. She jumped from very, very high. I remember that the police said she “slipped”, but none of us believed that. We figured they just told that to her parents to make them feel a little better. The autopsy, I remember, also said that her heart stopped before she even hit the ground. Again, I think that’s just what they say to parents of people that kill themselves. Try to make it sound as painless as possible. I remember all of this so vividly, and I was only four or five. Strange. And now, just last week, a friend of mine, not a baby-sitter’s sister, but someone who was actually once a friend of mine, killed himself. He killed himself. I still can’t wrap my head around it. I want to believe that he faked his own death, but I know that’s silly. I want to go home for the funeral/memorial, but I can’t; hell, I missed my own grandmother’s funeral because I was in a play, how could I justify going home for this (my grandmother would beat the shit out of me when I get to the afterlife… she may do that anyway)? I guess what I mean to say, is that he’s still on my mind, and I’m still raising my drinks to him. This one’s really chewing me up inside.

1:30 now… time to pour myself another whiskey, put on some Bob Dylan, and do a little more cleaning.

I lied. I put on The Kings of Convenience’s “I Don’t Know What I Can Save You From”. My friend Eileen introduced me to it on Christmas. If you can, right now, download it, but make sure you get the version that’s on “Quiet Is The New Loud”… the version that’s on “Versus” isn’t as good.

1:39am: I realize that I don’t have enough hangers. Fuck.

I really do love the works of Shakespeare. I can’t help it. I almost wish I didn’t, for some reason, but I do. God he’s good. Even in the occasional crap-burger that he wrote, like Two Gentlemen of Verona, there are moments of brilliance (like the over-done, but still beautiful, “What light is light” speech…. sigh, and some of Proteus' stuff).

I don’t think I ultimately have a plain-old “problem with authority”. I just have a problem with authority when it doesn’t make any sense to me. Authority folks will either have to start making more sense, or learn to deal with me having a problem with them. That’s how it goes.

I’d like to get better at singing harmony. I love harmonies.

I still haven’t learned to meditate. Not really. Damn.

Swimming, for me, is like therapy. It took me a long time to learn that. I hope I don’t forget it. Us water-babies must return to water.

1:57 now. One more shot of Jack Daniels may well put me over the edge. Should I do it?

Cheers.

My grandma’s old. I mean, really, really old. I think she’s 97 now. Ninety-fucking-seven! I spent a lot of time with her this Summer. Not as much time as I honestly think I should have, but more than… more than I have in years past, because suddenly she was living in Berkeley. She doesn’t even know she’s living in Berkeley, and if she did, she’d be pissed about it. 97, though. Jesus. Maybe those Mormons know what they’re talking about? I don’t know… maybe not. The last few times I went to see her, she didn’t know who I was. That was rough. Man, that was rough. She thought I was my dad (her son), at one point. At another, she though I was my grandfather (her HUSBAND), who died in 1988 (my first relative I remember dying…. fuck cancer, by the way). One time I went to visit her and there were a solid seven other people in the room with us… except only she could see/hear these seven other people. I had to play along, or I chose to, anyway (which, truth be told, though very emotionally taxing, was ultimately kind of fun). I saw my grandpa’s (on the other side) mind go, too. Bodies going is one thing, it’s hard; minds going, though, is an entirely different animal. It makes you wonder what we’re all really made of. You know?

I haven’t been in love since the year 2001. I wonder when it’s going to happen again.

I really poured a big drink this time. More cleaning.

I have a friend named ____ who women just want to fuck. He can get away with anything. Truth be told, he’s kind of an asshole, but he’s pretty, and so woman want to fuck him. Now, that’s not what I’m after, really, but frankly, it makes me jealous. Not because I want to fuck everyone, but fuck, I mean, everyone wants to be wanted, no?

Had I a pirate radio station tonight, I would be broadcasting all this live and direct. I don’t, though. I just have this little blog. Not many people read this blog, but I think rather highly of those that do. Much love.

Truth be told, I’m thinking of a girl right now. Yes, that’s right, a girl. A girl who I’m hoping will read this. Do I hope she’ll read this? I don’t know about that. Maybe not. This girl, if she is reading it, probably doesn’t think that she’s the girl I’m referring to. I am, though. Surprise! And no, I’m not going to give any hints. Sorry.

Have I ever told you how much I love hip-hop? Man. I really love hip-hop.

Okay, as time goes on tonight, I’m getting more and more effed up (I love saying “effed up”… but only when you spell it out like that), and I’m going to publish this before I go to bed. So does that make me less accountable for what I say? Well, that’s the principle that I’m going to operate on, so let’s go farther…

Growl!

Oh… my Kings of Convenience album ended. Now what?

Fuck it. I’m going to listen to some songs that I wrote. Ha! I bet most of you reading this didn’t even know that I’d written songs. Well, I have. So there.

Jeez. I sound angry, don’t I? I don’t mean to sound angry. I don’t. Especially if I kinda hope this girl is reading this. I feel like I sound like an angry alcoholic. I’m not. I’m not either. I’m not generally very angry, and I don’t generally drink all that much. I guess this is just one of those “let’r rip!” type-a nights, and so I’m let’n ‘er rip, as it were.

2:33 now. I’m going to finish my last whiskey. I poured a big one, and there’s still a lot left, but such is the life we’re consigned to (….huh?).

Oooooh… that one hurt.

Wadda you think? Should I sell my car? Survey says…..? No, I mean, sell my car like now-ish. I was gonna wait, because, frankly, I like having a car in this town. I don’t get out of it much, but it nice when I do. I kinda like having it… but my insurance cash is due, and the car needs work… should I just sell it to a dealer who will ultimately rip-me off but then hey at least I don’t have to deal with it anymore? Ah, questions...

I’ve written a lot of drunken poetry in my lifetime. The best part about it? You read it months or years later, and you don’t remember writing it at all. You stare at it and wonder, “Who (or what) was this about?” I generally date my poems, and I try to go back to where I was, and what I was doing (I usually break it down by what play I was in then), and try to remember why I wrote said poem… I almost never remember. God, I love that.

I’ve written more than 300 poems in my lifetime. Those are just the ones I still have. In total… I’d guess more like 400. 140 of them were written in the span of something like nine months. Ah, those were the days, I like to say (lyingly) to myself. When I lived in New York, and I tore down subway posters so I’d have something to write on. Or I’d use a napkin, or a coaster. Blah, blah, blah. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Etc.

Going to fold some laundry now. In the meantime, I’ll try to think of a good way of ending this.

I’m a week too late; all my shirts are wrinkled. Oops.

Acting sounds so easy. "Behave truthfully under imaginary circumstances." So simple. So why is it so fucking hard?

How good at this am I, really? Hmmm….

Did I say my last whiskey? I meant my second to last. I’m in rare form tonight.

At least my socks weren’t wrinkled.

Let’s go back to this, how good am I, really? I wonder. Nobody’s going to tell me. Nobody could tell me. I’m not going to believe anyone, no matter what they say. Right? Right. So. Let me drop this little fact-ette on you about the business which I am in (incidentally, there’s no business like it. No business I know). Back in the mid-late 90’s, when the economy was really good, only 2% of all actors made it into the union, and (here’s where it get’s really scary) only 2% of the actors in the union were making a living just acting. That’s 2% of 2%, folks, and that’s when the economy was bangin’ (which it ain’t anymore, by the by). And yet… I’m psyched about this enterprise. Fuck it. Haven’t I always had kind of a fuck it mentality? Well fuck it.

Oooph. Why did I pour another whiskey? It’s only ½ finished, now, and here I am, at one might call “The Point Of No Return”… and I’ve got half a drink left…………….. what do I do?

……yeah… I am going to shoot it.

You’re right. It is that kind of night.

Done.

Seriously, though. This time I’m not pouring myself another.

Now, if I can make it though the rest of the night without slipping and braining myself on the edge of my desk, I’ll consider that a real accomplishment.

Now, I’ve got my Bob Dylan playing. Mmmmm….

I don’t think I’ve ever been this drunk alone before. Did that make sense? Oh boy. What I mean to say is, I don’t generally dig drinking alone. Maybe one drink. Maybe maybe two, but almost never. Yet, here I am, trashed. Alone. Although, frankly, I don’t feel alone, and that’s because of you. You being anybody who’s actually read this much. Are there any of you out there? Has anybody actually read this far? If you have, leave a comment. Not because I need valediction (that’s a word, right?), but just to see, you know? If you’ve gotten this far, say something… that’s all I ask.

It may be time to brush my teeth. 3:05am…. that’s a good teeth-brushin’ time.

3:19am. Points:

A.) Human beings should not be able to consume as much whiskey as I have consumed and still be able to walk, never mind touch-type.

B.) Do I really hope that girl sees this? Or would this just ruin everything? Well, I guess if she saw it and it ruined everything, then it just wasn’t meant to be, yes?

C.) Is for “cookie”. It’s good enough for me.

D.) Because, “Duh, I love you.”

E.) = extremely fucked up

F.) = fucked up (extremely)

G.) Good night. And, good luck.

I’ve got love for anyone who’s actually managed to read this whole, tumultuous thing. I may wake up tomorrow, more sober, and delete this blog, but I hope I don’t. I hope I’ve got the balls to just let this big, ugly thing flap in the breeze (as it were), and not give a shit one way or the other. We shall see. Time will tell. Let me pick some final words here:

I hope 2006 turns out to be better than 2005. If 2005 was good for you, I hope 2006 is even better. If 2005 sucked pretty hard, then I hope 2006 is much, much, much better. We can always hope.

California: I miss you. Denver: I’m soaking in you. New York: I’m getting ready for you… so get ready for me.

Lots and lots of love,

Brent Rose 1/2/06 3:28am