07.Nov.2003
i have a cool person in my house
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happiness!
It occurred to me I've been misspelling Deion's name (previously Dion, of ravieslave fame) when I blatantly thought to ask him about it yesterday morning. Normally, I only run on assumptions when it comes to proper spelling of deceptively simple names, but again, I usually only know people named Nicole Thompson, Colin Fowler, Matt William, et al.
We've been critiquing and subsequently MST3K-ing all of television since Tuesday night, our minds fresh from data-entry misery. He's an artist with a Giger fetish and shared his portfolio with me last night, replete with meticulous shading. I asked him to paint me a portrait one of these days; he obliged. He's fond of channel-skipping, but never when it comes to Discovery Wings. We've been analyzing WWII fighter jets and Japanese kamikaze planes, all while I successfully avoided the Jack Daniels.
He filled in a few minor, questionable areas of the Halloween party I didn't have the brain capacity to log. He told me I stumbled into his room while he was noodling on an acoustic guitar, and I stayed for a few antsy, drunken moments, then slipped out, promises of re-emergence slurring from my tongue.
I ask everyone this question when I've been inebriated in their presence, regardless of association with them: "Did I say anything stupid?"
"Nah," he answered, "though you did have an extremely long conversation with Adam."
"I have banal secrets, anyway," I said.
"I wouldn't worry about it," he remarked. "No one approached me and complained."
Deion is simply awesome. Finally there is someone in Oklahoma to which I can rabbit on profusely. We carried on a seventy-two hour conversation with requisite breaks, the longest stretch being post-coding insomnia, with sixteen hours of rampant conversation interfused with comfortable silence, the all-time record.
We are the proverbial Mulder and Scully over a generation too self-absorbed to acknowledge and appreciate our affable sardonicism accordingly, we the polite and accommodating cynics, donned in leather jackets and reverend coats. That kind of outerwear elicits hollers of "Freaks!" from truck-driving imbeciles when crossing 36th street in Oklahoma City, I've noticed. His coat is taller than I am.
There is nothing more entertaining than sipping malternatives and whiskey from pretentious wine glasses at three in the morning whilst catching the Chuck Palahniuk/Quentin Tarantino appearances on late night re-runs of Conan O'Brien with the quasi, male-version of yourself. I say (or rather, type) "quasi" because he's mulatto, tall, shy, and calm, all of which I am decidedly not.
Chuck's ten-seconds-of-meaningful-dialogue appearance is a rant I'll save for another day; Quentin is a deliciously fucked individual.
I haven't heard from Tony in about a week, but I've been so distracted enjoying the finer points in life and kicking my carnivore torture methods (aka vegetarianism) with someone who has intense best-friend potential to hardly notice his absence.
Ever since I've successfully kidnapped Deion, we've run the gamut of "OhmyGod what do you think of this song?"
"Or this movie?"
"Or this third-world country?"
"I can tune your piano for you."
"Holy shit can you really tune my piano for me?"
"Ooh! This is the picture of the painting I bought though it hasn't arrived yet!"
"Jesus Christ, 'Chelle, step away from the window. The mail-man will ring your doorbell when the painting is in his possession."
And, we have delved into the complete Massive Attack discography over surround sound and Sampoerna Classic cloves, as well as Fluke, Orbital, A Perfect Circle, Joy Division, Echo and the Bunnymen, Recoil, and .wav files of comedic Saturday Night Live skits, when Saturday Night Live still had crazy-shtick blood coursing through its collective veins.
We have also giggled over badly-greased Greek food while absorbed in Donnie Darko, Tombstone, A Bronx Tale, and Snatch, all personal favorites of mine.
Now, all I need is My Precious(tm) to move down here.
Needless to say, the past few days have been refreshing, despite the fact I am once again, goddamnit! coming down with the same bronchial infection/fever/cold/swollen lymph nodes/anti-smoking ailment I now suffer whenever temperatures shift and Oklahoma inexplicably turns into the United Kingdom.
You do know what this means, though, right babies?
Bring on the NyQuil.
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time & machine