Last Night's Cry for Help

there's no real reason to post this, except that i felt it was of utmost importance last night when I wrote it. If you find this sort of thing interesting, read on. It's melodramatic, long, and incredibly whiny, but it encapsulates a lot of what I've been feeling this month.

10/29/05 4:00AM

This is the type of thing that begs for baseless compliments and hollow flattery. I want none of that. Whatever you tell me, I will seriously consider. I’ll get to the brunt of it first, so you don’t have to read the rest of my depressed ramblings, which will follow.

What am I doing here? This question is cliche's grandathere. I’m not so much interested in the HERE as the DOING. Moreover, what am I doing wrong? Why haven’t I ever been happy? Why won’t I?

Now, the preamble. Post.

Dear Chicago,
my name is Eric lab Rat,
my name is Eric lab Rat because I will try anything short of leaving the city

[that’s bullshit. Let me start over]

Dear Chicago,
My name is Eric lab Rat
because I was prescribed a lot of pills as a child, and I thought it made a good punk rock name
like Ben Stupid
whom I hero-worshipped at fifteen
like Claire Logic, Wheatboy Dave, and Gen Schock
older kids who did nothing specialer than make zines and play in bands

like Ben Weasel and Sid Vicious
and a million other musicians I wanted to be because I didn't set very lofty goals

[this is less bullshit, but again, I should start over]

Dear Myspace.com,
my name is Eric Strom
that’s what’s on my birth certificate
in the eyes of the Lord, I am Mikhael ben Mayer
by the traditions I’ve cooked up in my head, I am Mikhael Wassershtraum
the first name means ‘God will smite’; the second means ‘waterstream’
if I have a child, he will be a Wassershhtraum

my middle name is Maxwell
after the street my family’s store was on for the first half of the last century

nobody keeps the name Eric. There are dozens of famous Erics out there living under assumed names
the last two I learned of were Jello Biafra and George Orwell

‘Eric’ is the name of a guy my Mom used to date. It’s an archetype of a guy for her: “I’ve never met an Eric who wasn’t nice she says.”
I hate myself for being nice, at least I hate myself for acting nice a lot.

So

Dear Myspace friends
there are about 300 of you
subtract all of the double aliases, pets, ex-girlfriends of current and former friends, dead writers and organizations
there’s still a solid 250
and a girl named Skye that I may or may not know who’s a friend of Jamie Nichols, who has two profiles. She doesn’t have a picture up.

The rest? You don't know it but I’ve had a crush on over half of you. (And I say 'crush on' where I should say 'lusted after'. I don't want to sound cuter than I am) I’ve been jealous of most of you. I’m inspired by all of you, even though I can assure you I’ve made fun of every last one of you behind your back. I’ve taught a couple of you, drank with almost all of you, and a few dozen of you have met my parents.

Most of you know I spend the bulk of my free time at house parties and basement shows. Most of you do not know that I make a lot of lists.

Some of you know that I’ve been battling depression since I was five. Some of you know it but do not realize the extent. Some of you have no idea, and some of you think I'm happy, even enviably so. I may be, but I don't think so. You’re all polite enough not to mention the scars on my right arm. At least the ones who’ve noticed them. Some of you were around when I wouldn’t let them heal. Some of you never knew I cut. Only two of you ever knew I was bulimic, and I’m not sure how many of you know that my drinking problems two years ago were the result of mixing alcohol with the diet pills I was taking (and overtaking) trying to battle my weight problem. I suffered alcohol poisoning about four times during that period.

While I’m being so self indulently chatty, I will take this time to apologize to Nikole Bennett, Catherine McGowan, and Secret Agent Bill for my behavior at the time. Less to the band, though, because I'd known you guys longer and you didn’t have my back, you didn’t straighten me out yourselves, and all of you except Ben were too big a group of douchebags to be cool with me, even after all the people you screwed over when you were coke fiends. I cost you a venue and got my face stomped little. Big deal. Catherine and Nikole, Myspace friends and friends in real life that I don't get to see nearly enough, you were cool the whole time, so don't think that that last part was directed at you. But I digress. Usually, I cheer up in large groups of people, and most of the time, I can cure my depression with a party.

Today I worked at one party and attended three. I saw two good bands, two great bands, and one shitty dj. I did not feel better.

A lot of you think that I know a lot of people because wherever I go, I run into someone. This is not true.

Today I went to a party where there were dozens of people I’ve known for years. I’d be hard pressed to find more than three of them who remembered my name, and I reminded those three at a party last week. A girl I went to high school with snuck off to have sex with a guy I went to grade school with. Six and Eleven years ago, I lusted after her and made fun of him. He was the weird kid and she was a feminist warrior. He’s become a drunken genius and she’s become a punchline and I defend them behind their backs. They don’t need it, though, because they don’t care like I do. And because they’re fucking each other in the bathroom of a punk house.


I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am fat and the fact that I am ugly. Do not try to argue this because I know that this is true, and in my mind, where every day feels like three and all things read in hyperbole, I am the fattest and ugliest man there has ever been. I have come to terms with the fact that I am fat and the fact that I am ugly but it still makes me sad to know that however hard I work out and however nice or as mean or as earnest as I try to be, I will never be as attractive as I would find acceptable and I will never have the sex life I want. Even in love, which I’ve given up on, and perhaps especially in love, which scares the shit out of me.

I am an alright dancer. For my size I am a great dancer. When I have a partner, I am incredible. If I’m reasonably drunk, meaning not drunk beyond reasoning, I can follow just about anyone, but I do not have any dance partners, and that makes me sad. Yesterday I danced for 2 and a half hours; and for all but fifteen minutes I’ve danced alone. I’m sick of being pathetic, but I don’t know how to change.

I’m writing this on a stolen laptop. I do not make many extravagant purchases but two weeks ago, I bought a laptop for $100 and a tricycle for $150. The laptop is buggy and the tricycle was missing a few nuts and bolts. Neither problem reared its head until about a week after purchase. Still, I was happy. A year ago I made a list of things I wanted. There were three entries: (1) a grown man’s tricycle, (2)a laptop, and (3) a theremin. I was overjoyed when I got my tricycle. I’ve been looking for months. Because of a sensory motor disorder I suffered as a child, I never learned how to ride a two-wheeler, so when I rode down the street with the autumn trees dropping leaves above I got a rush of feelings I’d been denied for over sixteen years. The laptop belonged to R_____ Jolly. The software is registered under his name and his resume was still on the harddrive when I bought it. I’ve watched and erased the home movies he made of his family. He’s Jewish. His kids call his mother Bubbe. I made no attempt to give it back to him. Because of my callousness, my trike was stolen today. Right in front of the repair shop, where I’d locked it. The thief had swapped another bike (two wheels) for mine, left unattended against the railing, but I didn’t want to be a part of anyone else’s misery and loss so I left it there. Karma is a superstition legitimized only because of the distance from the West of its origin. My theremin’s antenna is broke and I haven’t played it in momths, and all I’m left with is this laptop, less expensive, less fun, and less than what I originally wanted. I made 300 dollars today; it will all surely go to the new bike. Easy come. Easy go.

There was a horoscope in the Onion a few years ago that I use as a bookmark:

Libra
While you would like to be remembered for the ineffable human qualities of your poetry, you will really only be remembered as a guy who threw really bitchin parties.

I feel like a nobody, a nobody who knows everybody. I’ve been performing under this stupid name for eight years now, and if feels like no one has ever seen me perform.

If I were brave and not petty, or maybe a bit of both, this would be my suicide note. It's beautiful in that there is nothing beautiful in it. No prose to pore over. Nothing. I would not stick around to read the responses I asked for. They would be a secret testament to my life. But I am not brave and I am very petty. I will read whatever it is you have to tell me about myself, and I will make an excuse for not ending it.

I want to listen to music when I die. Classical music, or maybe funk; something instrumental and moving. Right now, I do not have a cd player that I can move to the bathroom. Or a cassette player, or a player of mp3s. This is a valid excuse for a dj, but an excuse nonetheless. Do not worry, this isn’t a cry for help, I just needed to get this off my chest and this is just a call for attention, and answers.


What am I? Who am I to you? What’s the point.


Don’t leave your responses as a comment. Email me or send them to me direct. I love you. Good night

part one

Chris’ family was as poor as mine, so we had to make our own games. They were almost always violent. Dueling was when we’d go down to his grandfather’s basement and grab weapons, hockey sticks and planks of wood. We had to be evenly matched so as not to break our weapons. A baseball bat would crack a broom but not a 2x4. If we’d broken anything, Chris’ parents would’ve beaten the shit out of us. It’s funny that would scare us when we were slapping each other with hockey sticks and they were only gonna use their bare hands. They wouldn’t even leave a mark.



My parents were friends with two couples who were better off financially than they were and they tried to pair me off with their kids whenever possible. One of those kids was Dan Mitchum, who was older than me. He was more of a babysitter than a friend, but he was pretty unpopular so he had time to hang out with me.



One day he told me that we were going to play a game called slavedriver. We crawled through the bushes to get to the space under the porch. It was a bright summer day but only thin beams of light were streaming through. It really did look like the hull of a ship.



“I’m the master and you’re the slave.”



He told me to take my shirt off, and he took off his.



“Well Slave, you’ve been bad.”



“What did I do, Master?”



“You stole something from me.”



“I swear I didn’t!”



“You did and you must be punished.”



He ripped a long bramble off the bush and lashed me across the chest, three times in a row. Then he raised his arm up over his head, I winced and covered my face but the branch still came down across my eyes. I was worried that my eye was cut, and I was worried that my cut eye would bleed out with my tears. I held them as tight as I could. I was worried that if I opened them, the whole eye would bleed out and I’d have to watch it happen. I collapsed on the ground, whimpering and he started whipping my back, and my whimpers became huge, heaving sobs. This did something to him and he stopped beating me.



He walked away. I could hear his steps in the dirt, the crackling of dead leaves under his feet. I heard cars again and people walking by. Once he dragged an old chair under the porch to make it more of a fort. I could hear its rusty legs creaking under him as he sat down, and then something else. He was beating off.



I’d cried myself out but I pretended I hadn’t, so he wouldn’t stop. I wanted to keep him in the chair so he wouldn’t do anything else. After ten minutes I couldn’t keep my eyes closed any longer. The noise stopped and I peeked. His cock looked like him, long and skinny, red hand swollen where he gripped it, the same color as his face, wrenched and contorted as it was. His eyes were shut tight and his mouth hung open. He could tell I was watching and his eyes jerked open.



“Get out, Slave. Go!"



I came home crying. Dan had a basketball court in his backyard and I knew that if I told, Chris and I wouldn’t be able to go back there and play. The parks were too dangerous, and they’d taken down the basketball hoops years ago. We weren’t even allowed out after dark, but we could go to Dan’s so I kept my mouth shut.



The other family was the Hollindales. They had moved from our neighborhood to the suburbs when I was a baby but our parents still talked. Their house was like a toy store. They had robots and cablecar racetracks; they had cable TV and the first computer I’d ever seen and they had one thing that was more awesome than anything else I would see in my childhood, a Powerwheel. Powerwheels were little motorized cars that kids could ride around the block. It looked like a cross between a jeep and a monster truck and would run a whole year on a couple liters of diesel. I dreamt about driving that car almost every night and sometimes, I still do. I would leave things at their house just so I could go back there. Retainers, schoolbooks, even shoes, anything so I could drive that car one more time. Sometimes it worked. Our Moms would start talking and we’d be able to play a little longer. Seth was kind of a dork so he was happy to help me hide things.



At eight, we were too big for it, but we crammed our legs in anyway and drove through homemade obstacle courses. One day we decided we’d go down the stairs. I went first. I demanded that I go first. Instead of starting at the top step I built of speed down the hallway and turned into it. It was a sharp turn and the car rolled. I went face first into the top step and my legs, still in the car, flipped over. I sprained my wrist trying to break my fall and rolled limp down the stairs. At the bottom step the motor kicked back in and dragged me across the carpet into a wall. Mom and Dad tell me that’s how I got the scar, a white oval specked brown like a robin’s egg at the small of my back. When the seasons change and its colder out, it swells into a hard bubble. Sometimes, when I get excited, a shiver runs through it.



I got out of the shower and ran my hand through my hair. Dozens of hairs wrap around my fingers and come with them. I couldn’t remember if my hair always does this when it gets longer or if I’m just losing it. I’ve always had ridiculous haircuts. High-top fades, mullets, pompadours, dreadlocks and trihawks. When I was a little kid my Mom cut it into a bowl and blow-dried it every morning so it would seem thicker.



I’ve always needed ridiculous haircuts because I was born with horns. Keratin rishiism. That’s the name for it. It happens very rarely, like a couple times a generation. It’s a retardation of normal bone growth. An anomaly. It can happen anywhere, a bump or a lump on your arms, your back, but sometimes it’s the head. I have two, evenly-spaced nubs on the side of my head. If I’m losing my hair, it means that I am going to be bald, a bald guy with horns. I toweled off my head and more hair came out. Shit.

quote of the day wayback machine

so back when I was nineteen I was apprenticing at this writer's workshop for high school students and there were these two girls that I was embarassed to have a crush on because they couldn't have been over fifteen. Worse yet, they could write and their boyfriends were older than me. They were these dyed and studded, forty-swilling punk rock godesses, magazine glossy and oversexualized, and I could feel myself making justifications in my head. So much so that I felt I had to stay away and act like I probably would have if I was the same age

I just found a notebook from that summer with this quote in the back

Redhead: I don't feel like writing today. I don't have anything in me.
Chelseacut: Gawd I haven't had anything in me for two weeks.

Heyoo

a man and a goat

Fifteen minutes til fifteen minutes before I'm supposed to leave, when I can actually leave. I put my phone back in my pocket, minimized Excel, and brought up the window with Gmail open.

I was narrating all my actions. Towards the end of the day, I start doing that; narrating in my head. I'm not sure if it makes time go that much quicker or that much slower, but it's habit.

Funny. Ten years ago, this would all sound like gibberish.
Excel. Gmail. Cell phones
It was not a new thought, I think my Mom said it a few months back, but I was mulling it over again.

I straightened out my shirt, buttoned the cuffs and put my coat on. I loosened the tie and readied a clove. Hell if I was gonna stay a second more than fifteen minutes before punchout. I save 20 days a year this way. Paid. Vacation time.

I squeezed by the secretary's desk. She gets to leave thirty minutes before she's supposed to leave. I hopped down the back stepsand popped the cigarette into my mouth. It was brown and looked as though it could have been chocolate. It was better.

I walked down to the ethnic deli on 43rd Street with the roaches and blood on the floor. I had my money out. Two twenties. He went to the back room and brought out a small goat. A lamb. It was about the size of a toaster, if a toaster had legs, and yellow from dirt and urine. I told myself not to name it.

"Do you have anything to walk it with?"

"No walk. Lamb."

"I know. Do you have, like, a leash? A LEASH?

"Leash? No carry?

"Too long a walk, plus he'll bite me."

"No car?"

"No."

He grumbled and grabbed the spool of twine he used to tie off bags of hogs' feet and carnitas. He made a knot around the animal's neck and cut off two feet of slack, handing it to me over the counter with both hands. I was surprised at how heavy it was, and how soft. It nudged at my thumb with its head. Don't name it, Byron. Just don't.

It was Friday, so we took the scenic route; through the park by the beach. I bought some popcorn from a guy with a cart, and fed Brody by hand (I named it Brody). When I was done, I put the bag on the ground for Brody to finish. I bought a newspaper from a kid who found it. It was sandy and the crossword puzzle was half-filled, the number puzzle too. I did the jumble. The answer was "henpecked". Brody chased orange and black monarchs, the last of the season. He caught one by the wing and shook it til it came off. What was that Jim Morisson song where he talks about "the screams of the butterfly"? It's subtle, only an acidhead could catch it. The wing looked like a flower petal as he crunched it on his tongue. It was time to go.

Walking South along the shore, you could see the bridge for miles. The sun was setting in pastel all around it but your eye was drawn to the bridge. It was iron and ugly, a leftover modernist design from the beginning of the last century.

At the foot was a squat man in overalls. He had two chins in profile, like a cliff jutting out from a sack of jelly. He had a nose like a fist and he squinted his eyes into little assholes behind a pair of spectacles. He had visible dirt on his coffee-stained hands and no shoes. He chewed a piece of straw; maybe it was wood.

He raised an eyebrow.

"One, please."

I bit my cheek, picked up the lamb and handed it to him with both hands. I thought the words goodbyebut I didn't speak. Before I could turn away, he ripped Brody's leg out of its socket and then clean off. Not clean at all really. Brody let out a series of sharp bleats. I'm pretty sure they were just out of pain but it sounded like cries for help. I bit harder, til my cheek bled.

I wish I hadn't named him.

Sometimes the goats would bite him and get away and die down by the river. I hoped that didn't happen to Brody. I hoped that the tolltaker'd snap Brody's neck and let him go quickly. I know he didn't because I heard him bleat and bleat the whole way across the bridge and later on in my dreams. It was cold and I shook all night under my blankets. I hate Fridays. I need to buy a car.

lower brow than the last time

1. a notorious bad speller, when the student came in asking me to help him edit a love letter, he spelled the word 'generally' as 'genitally'.

2. It has been agreed upon, when a horse goes down on a girl, it's called "feed bagging"

3. I'm deeper than tall-girl pussy

word