Little Bill

Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits. There, I said it.

Hope you’re pissing everyone off in the afterlife, George. You’ll be missed down here.

I’m going to post my favorite George Carlin joke, from one of his books. Most people who have seen/heard this joke did not find it as amusing as I did, but I say “fuck you” to them, because this is my blog, Goddammit and if I wanna share a George joke then I will.

EIEIO is actually a gross misspelling of the word "farm" — George Carlin

Exposition: My friends Kitty and Greg are having a double-birthday party this weekend. I, being that one New Yorker with a car, offered to drive her to pick up the keg for the party.

Kitty: so I said I’d pick up the stuff between noon and 1. Sound kosher?
Little Bill: yes
Little Bill: sure just wake me up early on my day off. :-P
Kitty: :(
Little Bill: ’s ok
Kitty: :’(
Kitty: tears
Little Bill: yeah yeah
Little Bill: sure sure
Kitty: see the tears?
Little Bill: cry me a river
Kitty: (I can’t type a river….)
Kitty: ~~~~~~~~?
Little Bill: hahaha
Kitty: ocean?
Kitty: ~~~~~~^~~~~~ sharks
Little Bill: haha.
Little Bill: now cry me a boathouse
Kitty: dammit!

- - -

Also, sorry for the lack of entries lately… I just haven’t had much to say as of late. That’ll change I’m sure!

It’s two days after my best friend Michael’s wedding, and I’m still a little bit in recovery. Here in Brooklyn it’s a beautiful day and everyone in the neighborhood is walking the streets, enjoying the sun, getting ice cream, sitting in the park and so on. It’s a day off, right?

Around here it doesn’t look like anyone’s realizing that it’s Memorial Day. I mean, of course they’re aware what the holiday is, but I wonder how many people are actually thinking about those who have fought in wars for us. That’s when it occurred to me that my own grandfather, Jack T. Bright — doesn’t that have a great ring to it? I’ve thought for many years of naming my own son that one day — flew a bomber over Germany in World War II.

My grandfather was the pilot of the B-17 Bomber named Sure Thing and flew twenty-five missions over Germany. Twenty-five bomber missions was considered a tour of duty, as the life expectancy for any war pilot is high, let alone for the members of a slow, hulking bomber crew such as the B-17. If they weren’t flying through thundering explosions of flack from the ground praying not to get hit they were warily keeping an eye out for the Nazi Luftwaffe fighter pilots gunning to take them down.

One relieving and tragic story my grandfather told me when I was in grade school — I was doing a Social Studies report on him — was his twenty-fourth mission where, after having done so well, the Sure Thing took a good amount of damage from Flack. After the bombardment, my grandfather looked in his lap and saw a good amount of red. The story, as he told it, was that he panicked and checked his body only to be relieved that something had punctured the cockpit and blew up a can of tomato soup. You’d think it was a scene from a Hollywood movie.

However one of his crewmembers, their bombardier, wasn’t as lucky. He was injured and forced to sit out the Sure Thing’s final mission, in which the plane and all of its crew came back in one piece. Later, my grandfather learned that his bombardier died trying to fulfill his 25 mission requirement as replacement bombardier on another bomber.

So, I am remembering my own grandfather, who loved to tell me stories about the war, taught me how to throw a ball and came back to marry my grandmother and have children. If he hadn’t come back, I wouldn’t be here.

I’m thinking of future generations who will look back on fallen soldiers in this current Iraq war and remember them and hope this war ends soon so they can come home and start families of their own.

A few months before turning thirty, I asked my father when it is we start feeling like adults. Dad’s response was, “Well, I can speak only for myself. That moment was when I first realized I was responsible for someone else’s life other than my own.” I think that’s a reasonable response.

Still, I don’t feel quite grown up yet. Maybe there’s still a good chunk of me that relates more with adolescence than with adulthood. At least, maybe I like to think so.

It’s like I’ve got this image of “Adult Bill” lingering off into the future, who has responsibilities (I have them) and pays his bills on time (I do that) and never, ever procrastinates (heh.) Adult Bill has a career and has set aside his dreams and maybe has a wife or a family.

Or a mortgage.

I’ve got friends my age (and younger) getting married, some of them on their second marriages. They’re having children. Not just a kid, but children. Am I looking forward to that? Am I terrified of that?

I just don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if life in a metropolitan area prolongs our “young adult” lives. I hear stories that people in New York and Los Angeles marry at later ages, have children at later ages than their peers in rural areas or even small towns, and I don’t even want to begin comparing myself with my parents! What are the reasons? Is it cultural? Is it that our elders are staying active in the business world longer as our life expectancies grow? Am I supposed to still feel like one of “the kids” at work even though I’m thirty?

Perhaps we should all blame John Mayer for coining the term — and concept — Quarterlife Crisis Are we all afraid to grow up, to become men and women instead of boys and girls?

I don’t think I have any of the answers but I’m curious to know when that stage of my life begins. I think I’m ready.

When do I start feeling like an adult? When I start behaving like one? When I start dressing like one? When I decorate my house like one?

The weekend has come to a close. It’s an open-window kind of night, where I can rest assured that the sounds of Bedford Avenue will be subdued, for a change. The cats are a few steps ahead of me tonight, curled up behind me, occupying opposite corners of the bed. It’s been a good and productive weekend. The house is unpacked; the floors are swept and mopped — it seemed to remove the final remnant of floor-lacquer smell to which I’d become accustomed to coming home — and Robert Plant & Alison Krauss are singing to me through my speakers.

I spent the entire weekend alone — working, cleaning, strolling around the hood, taking photographs, chattering online or on the phone, brushing the cats’ winter coats away. It was nice. Peaceful. Busy. Exhausting, but in that good way I mention below.

I’m ready for bed and, for the first time in a long time, I feel energized for the week to begin.

My new home loves me.

That exhaustion I mentioned? It’s fully set in. Still, it’s a good kind. Sometimes my life would fall into the kind of rut where it’s a sort of wasted lethargy. Or maybe wasted away. You know, when it’s your get up, go to work, come home, cook dinner, putter around, go to bed routine. Nothing new happens and you’re tired of the life you’ve got. No alarms and no surprises.

Instead I’ve got that sigh-of-contentment, everything’s-done kind of exhaustion. The kind that makes you want to collapse into bed and sleep as the vampires do. I think right now, on the beginning of this new month, I’m particularly excited that I’ve uprooted and found new soil in which to plant myself for the next month. One without a lifeforce-sucking roommate-child, at that! Plus, I just like my new digs. Even my cats are getting along nicely — and that’s no small feat!

I think I’m ready for a new chapter. This is gonna be a good year.

First, I’m gonna get me some shut-eye.

Exhaustion. Completely set in. I’ve just now finished my monthlong move from one apartment to another. See, I gave myself a month buffer to move to my new apartment. It’s a terrible idea, and I’ll tell you why:

First off, there’s no sense of urgency. Moving with a tight deadline is a tough thing and you might think that having the freedom to take your time would be only a benefit, right? Nope. Instead, what you could do today you can put off for another day. Granted, I did the majority of my stuff on the first day I was able. But the stragglers (a box here, some cleaning supplies there, forgot those shoes, crap. Etc.) kept rearing their ugly faces only to remind me how much work I had left to complete before I was Moved Out.

And let’s not talk about the twenty-foot crimson wall I had to paint back to white. Two coats of primer and three coats of white.

Anyway tonight I finished, sorta. All that’s left is my bicycle, a broom, a mop, a bukkit and… I think that’s it. A dustpan. I’m not sure I can ride my bike effectively while grabbing all that stuff. Soooo… two more trips. Yikes.

I guess I’m not done yet. My glass of scotch as a reward may be a bit premature. Alas.

littlebill: Having a better day today?
rachael: meh. How was your brother-visit?
littlebill: it was okay.
littlebill: i have a pain in my neck… like nymph nodes.
rachael: hee. lymph?
littlebill: haha
littlebill: yes, lymph
rachael: yeah, same. I think I have a sinus infection.
littlebill: I think I’d prefer having nymph nodes
rachael: that could be fun.

Lately I’ve been occupied with the idea that your environment affects your mood. This, up until last week, manifested itself in the form of P, my 23 year old roommate. P is a British kid living in the states for school. Over the last five months it’s become my opinion that this is the first time in his life that he has lived without his mother or his aunt taking care of him. The evidence of this being his inability to do his dishes or take out the trash; both of which got to be so bad — I wasn’t about to do the work for him — that living creatures would appear in his wake. Gross insect creatures.

Any of my online friends who instant message me with any frequency will testify to the fact that my co-habitation with P has taken a big toll on my emotional well-being. When I’d come home I wouldn’t leave my room, I would speak to him only when it was absolutely necessary and it took every ounce of my being to not become passive-aggressively resort to Post-Its as a means of communication.

That’s finally changed. I have moved out and found my own apartment. I can’t begin to explain how much happier I am already. Even sleep seems deeper, more restful, and just… better!

Also, I’m no longer embarrassed to bring someone home in the fear that my living room will be littered with greasy McDonald’s bags, Chinese-food menus and empty Snapple bottles.

What’s interesting is how many of my own bad habits were taken care of by living with him. I couldn’t be messy without risking hypocrisy. If I wanted a clean environment, I had to set an example. These good habits are already showing themselves in my own home, where I’d have no one else to blame but myself. Let’s hope I can keep it that way.

Even my cats seem happier.

I think I’m gonna like it here!

"Desire is the grassfire drinking gasoline" — Soul Coughing, Mr. Bitterness

A friend recently commented (in person) about how my recent blog entries have seemed rather bitter. I guess she was right and it’s made me think about why that might be. What is it about me that’s taken so much offense lately? What is it about me that’s thinking that I’m being taken advantage of?

Is it simply that my friends — or acquaintences, in some cases — see me as a valuable resource? Everyone asked me for web design help. Each one offered payment. I immediately went on the defensive and assumed that they’re looking for a free handout, or at least an extreme discount. Could this be the case?

Granted, I told them all (truthfully) that I’m quite busy and unable to make the commitment to do the job. But still, it was all a reaction to that assumption that people only want to stay in touch when they need something of me.

Is that true? Was I overreacting? I haven’t heard from these people since. Well, one tried to touch base, but only after — and again, I presume — having read the bitter entry and trying to make amends? Is too little too late? I was a bit short to her, after all.

Two wrongs don’t make a right. But three lefts do.

It’s always late at night when I feel the most introspective. The lights are low, the world has gone quiet, and I’m left to my own thoughts. It’d be nice if this pair of Excedrin I’ve taken would kick in, though.

I used to be a big LiveJournal fiend. One feature from their site I should add to my blog is the “what I’m listening to” feature. Sometimes the music you’re listening to very much adds a level of insight to your own feelings. Tonight it’s Georgia on My Mind as performed by Ray Charles.

Almost one-half of the way through my thirtieth year finds me back where I started: reminding myself of the personal changes I’m undergoing. I keep coming back to whatever they say it is: It takes XXX amount of days to form a habit. 28 days. 30 days. Whatever.

It doesn’t matter. Instead I’m much more curious: how do you keep going? How do you make a change? How do you get out of your own way and do something new? Something better? Or stop doing something bad?

How do you grow?

I don’t know why, but somehow between 1:59am and 3:00am today I had the incredible urge to take every camera I own and smash them against a brick wall. I’ve never had an urge like this before and already it’s gone.

Still, sometimes I wonder if, despite my incredible love for photography, they are taking something away from us. Perhaps they’re stealing a moment in time best left stamped upon our memories instead. I think this is because whenever I look at a photograph — whether mine or someone else’s — I feel a sense of loss. That I should be there instead of here.

Maybe the Indians had it right. Strange that I still feel sheepish whenever I try and take a candid of a person on the street. Every time I feel like I’m invading their privacy, in public.

Maybe I’m just feeling grouchy because I haven’t actively been taking photographs in a few weeks. There’s just so many other things going on in my mind.

Maybe I oughta just shut up and take more photos.

doormat [dawr-mat, dohr-]
n.
1. a mat placed before or inside a door for wiping dirt from the shoes
2. one that submits without protest to abuse or indignities

What is it about people that they think I’m going to fall under this definition? That I’m only here to be a friend when it’s convenient, when I’m needed, only to be discarded and thrown back into the toy box until some sort of boredom arrives again?

How is it I’ve got poor-weather friends? Not to be mistaken with fair-weather friends, who only seem to take any interest in you when I’m doing well. No, the poor-weather friend only seems to come out of the woodwork when they need a shoulder to cry on, or to have some sort of validation. You know the type: "my boyfriend broke up with me / I’m feeling lonely / Maybe I can resume talking to Little Bill as if nothing’s happened, and never mind I haven’t initiated one conversation in three months and haven’t wondered why Little Bill hasn’t…"

This also applies to those who see to contact me only when they need a website built for peanuts or a free photographer, incidentally.

What makes them think I’m going to be there when they come around again? Am I not being a good friend for not being there? Am I not being a good friend for drawing a line and saying that it’s unacceptable?

Oh, and don’t get me started about girls who reject me after dating me but still want to be my friend. I don’t need an army of girls in my circle of friends all of whom can wear the “I’ve dated Little Bill” badge. One or two good ones will suffice.

Am I being unreasonable?