Because procrastination is an art form, and I am its Van Gogh

I love Van Gogh. I have no idea why, really. I just do. Something about his work just...I dunno...appeals to me. I can't say it "speaks" to me, because I have absolutely no idea what that means. If someone cares to explain it to me, you have too much free time, and I suggest getting a hobby. All I can say is his "Night Cafe" is my favorite, and has made me enjoy red a whole lot more than I used to.

Tonight, I sat down after UK lost to Michigan State (still no idea if that makes me happy, but at least my bracket got some help), and tried to get some work done.

I read 15 pages.

Then, of course, came distraction in the form of Yahoo-flavored Scrabble (TM). Thanks Susie.

Then, of course, came an IM from Gabrielle, a friend in California. Another hour gone.

And now, I'm blogging. Instead of getting my work done. Whee.

If procrastination were a drug, I'd have over-dosed in 1987.
If procrastination were food, I'd weigh 900 lbs, and Jenny Craig would run screaming from my corpulence.
If procrastination were a woman, I'd be in jail for stalking her.
If procrastination were a list of metaphors......

The problem is I have no idea how I want to spend my time, but I know I'm not getting a happy-hat from reading about products liability or corporate crime. This final semester of law school is about as much fun as placing my dick in an open drawer, and slamming it shut. Repeatedly.

(Actually, I think that might be more fun. Realistically, after the second or third slam, the feeling's all gone anyway, and it just becomes aerobic excercise anyway.)

My life is not what I'd like it to be, and that upsets me. Of course, as a Procrastination Artist, I cannot possibly get off my ass and change anything. Can I? Noooooo, I'm too busy playing PS2 and tooling about on the internet.

Is there a job out there that pays six figures for that? If so, please someone send me an address to forward my resume.

I've decided to remain in Kentucky for the foreseeable future, ostensibly to stand a better chance of getting a job. But stay here, for the rest of my life? I don't want that, and it scares me to death that I'll fall into a situation which requires me to stick around this place. I want New York City. I want Katz's Deli. I want Broadway. I want honking horns, and someone shouting, "You're blocking the box, asshole!"

Thing is, NYC doesn't have what Louisville has. It doesn't have enough green. Louisville doesn't have a smoking ban, and I can't seem to quit. NYC lacks the genuine friendliness of complete strangers I've been taking for granted these nine years I've been away from home.

And I begin to wonder, where IS home anymore? I really don't know. My parents' place in NJ isn't home, and hasn't been for years. Shoot, my old room has become an office with a superfluous bed. Kentucky really isn't home...yet. I guess it will be, once I stop moving every fifteen minutes. I tell you, just ONCE I'd like to stay in an apartment for more than a year. Just once, I'd like to make my domicile into something more meaningful than a place to keep my stuff dry. Just once, I'd like to live somewhere that doesn't require me to paint over the walls before I leave, because grey walls are so pretty-looking.

Just once, I'd like to own furniture that does not come with instructions and a hex key. I swear, two acid-junkies and an allen wrench could completely dismantle this shell of a life I have. And that doesn't put a grin on my face, either.

And, since I've fallen into "complaint pattern alpha," I might as well bemoan the fact that I'm single. I don't even want to think about how long it's been since I got laid. And, to compound the problem, I've broken my old rule about not whoring myself on-line (see post on that topic...) Thing is, I'm not even looking for that on-line, but it finds me. And I'd be lying if I didn't say there are some people out there it'd be mighty nice to actually meet. Of course, none of these people live ANYWHERE NEARBY.

Perhaps I'm also the Van Gogh of Irony?

Let's face it, whatever it is that I have to offer is getting wasted right now. I rarely leave my apartment, because I can't afford to go out. And when I DO go out, I spend my time surrounded by friends who are either married, engaged, or co-habitating. I swear, going out stag with 5 couples make me feel like I'm hosting a game show, or round-table discussion. There I sit, on the end of a table, trying to keep up with the conversation. You have any idea how difficult it is to have an odd-person conversation? Add in the fact that the other people are in relationships, and it turns into me drinking too much because I've got to do something to pass the time while being ignored.

Shit, the last woman I hooked up with decided it'd be more fun to lie there like a dead fish than get involved in the action. Which, of course, made me feel like some sort of criminal. Which, of course, led to me getting paranoid, and stopping the whole affair. Shame really, K's really a cool girl; I wonder why she thinks it appropriate to just lay there and "take it?" Personally, I find that fucked WAY up, but maybe I'm in the minority on the subject?

End of an Era - RIP Grandma Anne

Yesterday, my mother called me. It was around 7:00pm. She was tentative. I wanted to know what was up. She told me.

Yes, my grandmother died yesterday, sometime in the late afternoon or early evening. I don't know; the orderly or nurse or whatever went in to check on her, and found she had stopped breathing. Then they called my father. I wonder if they broke it to him in a good way, or just said, "Sir, your mother died, you'll need to collect what few belongings she had."

Ok, so anyone (and I can count you on one hand, most likely) who has read this blog is probably aware that my grandmother has been ill for quite some time.

You know what? I don't want to write this entry anymore. It seems like it's something I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to write a memorial to the most difficult, obstinate, intelligent, loving, cantankerous, irascible woman the world has likely ever known. A woman who laughed in the face of cancer, even when it took both breasts and her husband. A woman who laughed in the face of heart disease, even when they installed the pace-maker and diagnosed her with the leaky valve which would, 5 years later, kill her. A woman who, given the chance, would probably have laughed off anthrax and pooh-poohed small pox (she was vaccinated decades ago). A woman who laughed off polio, even when it struck her son (my father) in his youth. A woman who lived through two World Wars, several armed conflicts, the creation of Israel as a state, men walking on the moon, and nearly a century of other trivial and not-so-trivial events.

Grandma remembered the day Kennedy was shot, even at the end. But she could never get my sister's name right on the first try.

The woman I nearly believed was immortal has finally left the stage, and there will be no encore performance.

For nearly five years, I have been waiting for this. Dreading this. Hoping somehow she would get better. The woman was 94 years old - there is no "better" at that point. I watched her decline these past few years, becoming frail. Old. Unable to care for herself any longer; I saw the shame in her eyes; knowing she needed assistance, but her pride would never let her admit it.

I watched as she entered dementia, becoming paranoid at times. I watched her smile on good days. I watched her smile on the bad ones, too.

The last time I saw her, it was December, and I was home visiting. I spent an afternoon with her, nearly two hours on a Tuesday afternoon. She hadn't been so lucid in years. I took pictures of the two of us, and brought her a new remote control for her television. We made plans for lunch the next day - I would bring her some kosher deli instead of the institutional food she hated so much. That night, around 10:00pm, she went into the hospital. She should have died that night. Her pulse was 60 beats per minute, but only because the pace-maker worked so well. Her blood pressure was so low her hands and feet felt like ice. Her lungs were full of fluid. But she lived through it. I couldn't believe it, but she did.

I didn't bring her lunch the next day, but I came and ate my own at her bedside in the hospital; she never knew I'd been there. Never woke up to see me. Nor was she awake the other times I visited while she was in the hospital, before I left town. The nurses told me she was very tired, and not to worry. So I didn't.

Then yesterday, the call. And now I am angry. I'm angry that I never got to say good-bye to her. I'm angry that everyone I know has called me to express their sympathy. I don't want sympathy! I'm tired to mechanically thanking people, well-meaning people. I'm tired of telling everyone I'm fine.

I honestly thought I'd be an emotional wreck over her death; she meant a great deal to me. We had a special relationship, unlike the bond she had with my sister, or my cousins. I was her favorite, simply because I made the time to speak with her, visit with her. Simply because I had more time to give than the others, really.

And now, my grandmother is gone. My parents visited with her Sunday, before she died. She told my father, "I'm going home tomorrow." He laughed, and told her she was home.

She sure showed us, huh?

Good-bye Grandma Anne. I love you and miss you.