Sven Without

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

In the backyard, the fresh lawn mown sits east under the shadow of a two-story house, the early sun still fighting through the cold. Just inside, someone smashes away on a plastic drum set to gain familiarity with the "Hard" difficulty setting on Rock Band 2. That smasher is me. Tucked in my ever present black hooded sweatshirt and green shorts motif, between scatter miss beats I crash, crash, crash away with specific intent, that is, simply "To do."

Defined. Pick me out and pick a word. Sloth. My idleness becomes me, or rather, I to it. Many things attribute to it, as personal issues always tend to do. By my name alone, I need not further explain. ("Ground control to Major Lacking.") Despite this, I would rather have the life less dormant. Between the man standing and the man running, I do root for the one with his sneakers kicking in the air. He who stands stays back because he'd rather kick himself. For now though, I smack plastic, uncoordinated as it may seem.

Sometime soon after the misshapen beats go quiet, I decide upon going out. Saved a bit of cash, as it were, and it would be nice to put it where it needs to go - the bank. With a driver's permit and TJ in the passenger seat, I make way to the bank just up street, keenly aware of the inevitable behind-the-wheel test (which I most surely will blunder) and making every move "passable."

Left turn. Right turn. Left turn.

"Is the turn signal on?" I ask myself.

"Uh huh."

Inside the bank, I scope out "who's who" and am reminded to hang left. Why? To get the bank teller that I would rather deal with. There are three of them there. The girls to the right are younger, are of asian persuasion and some might find considerably attractive. To the far left, however, is an uncurious but kind white woman more physically befitting of a job that doesn't require good looks. That's where I want to be. So I wait. Each teller is busy. This unfair game of chance plays out before me like a game of Craps with no dice in the hand. I look around aimleslly, wishing for chrissakes that things will go in my favor and the dude to left would just get his money and piss off already! At the other end, the teller is kept busy, thus prompting no danger whatsoever. In the middle? Peril. Things look to be nearly finished. I panic! No heavy breathing, no crazy looks, oh no, but my mind is a mess.

I look away.

Then I look again.

The man to the left walks away.

Thin seconds go by and the customer in the middle also walks away.

How could it be so close? Why, why must it be so close? I staunchly take steps to the plain bank teller with that very sparse moment I could take advantage of. But no, it doesn't work. Not even two strides in do I see the lady of the left walk away from her post. The reality is crushing. My feet no longer firm, I slump over to the pretty one in the middle. "Ah shit."

The encounter from here on out is a series of glances. Before stopping at the counter, I quickly look to see if she is as attractive as she seems. Check. My eyes settle back to where they're most comfortable, specifically, the floor and everything else below 45 degrees to the horizon.

There are the forms I filled out earlier. My wallet. Her hands. I tell her slender fingers that I'd like to make a deposit for both my checking and savings account. A voice gives the confirmation. This same voice then tells me to slide my bank card through a machine. I oblige. Her fingernails are painted a dark color. Black. Maybe a very deep blue. They fill out the rest of the information on the forms and my eyes follow as they swing and dance to my missing account numbers. I ask her if I could get a copy of the numbers because I never seem to know. She takes a spare piece of paper and puts on a encore performance. As her painted, delicate fingers jive to the Checking Deposit Ballet, a very peculiar thing happens.

"Are you a student?" she asks.

"No." I reply.

"Are you working?"

"No."

"How did you get all this money?"

Meekly, I respond, " I save."

Take this affair and blow it up. Throw it across multiple billboards on the freeway, woefully advertising my deficiencies. What just transpired is the very archetype of my being. A play between fingers and words, looks not taken and a pen chained to the desk, this darling bank teller in but few questions hath exposed mine own ill-suited self. Hurrah, hurrah.

I am burned-out from this 7-second exposé. Her fingers cooly slide over the paper with my account information; the final flourish of a well-played passage. Though I find her prototypical girlish handwriting achingly cute, it does little to comfort me. She shifts, switches focus to a computer, each type a strike rebounding off the deadbeat standing before her. As she hits her stride, her bank routine, I wonder, "Do I now dare peek at the horizon?" I wonder, I wonder. She types, she types.

I look.

A name. I need a name.

Is the name tag on her left? No.

I always find it funny to look for a name tag on a girl. Fundamentally, you're looking at her breasts.

It's on her right.

Treng.

"Have a nice day."

"You too." I reply.


Back in the car, I summarize to TJ the story of a strained bank misadventure. It comes to no surprise to him, as my talent with the ladies is known to all who know my name. He throws out a joke. As do I. Then I realize, "I should've joked with her." When asked about how I got my money, I should've replied, "I'm a gigolo." She may have smiled and to see a girl smile is quite a treat. She may have even laughed. I would've left the bank feeling primo, not the despondent slouch that walked out the door. I could've done something but maybe what I did was enough. It is all but too close to a "Hard" difficulty setting. Enter attraction and my social ineptitude borders on slapstick rather anything that could be considered "proper." Still, I crash, crash, crash away.

040509

I can take every bit of seemingly casual morsel of negativity and make the tastiest three-tiered tower of Fuck You Cake. Hi, hello, how are you? This is Leonard Lacking speaking.

Keyboard Social

There is certainly something to be said about one man's limited contact with the rest of the world and the very frontier of that communication taking place in a social networking website. Namely, it's pitiful. My own anxieties and mastery of self-loathing keep me from real world interactions and thus, I am relegated to the admittedly lame safety of the clickety-clack-clacks of a keyboard and the glow of an old-school beige box computer screen. This is how I mingle.

Let us disregard the MySpace and Blogger accounts. These affairs are a one-man show where I take stage and spotlight looking at an auditorium with the lights so low that the audience can't be seen. Interaction? Nil. Enter Gaia Online.

I came across Gaia many a month ago and took interest in the character creation aspect, alone - not taking into consideration any of the other features associated with the website. Having created a virtual self in past games, I thought it was another effort worth looking into. I didn't take the jump and sign up with an account immediately but it was something that was kept in mind. Up until a week ago.

In an attempt to kill the curiousity, I signed up with an account, got set with default items and somehow finagled my way to the general chatroom area known in Gaia as "Towns." It's not all text, mind you, but instead has an interface with a visual aspect consisting of your avatar (created character) and other avatars running around and conversing with whatever it is that people talk about. The thing about Gaia, however, is that it's well known to be marketed towards and populated by teenagers, teenagers, and did I mention teenagers? I quickly found out, "Post-High School Central" this is not.

That jump and up until now I am uncomfortable with the realization that I've committed myself to socializing in an area that is not developed for the twenties-minded. To be fair, at least I'm not a creepy, early 40's goon eagerly hoping to have cyber sex with a pre-pubescent teen who doesn't know any better. "They" say it happens and frankly, I'm not surprised. And with the horrors of "creepdom," you will also see other flavors of the less-desirable faculties of humanity reveal itself.

It's quite interesting to see a Gaian diehard throw automatic hate on a noob (new user) even at times when you're on the receiving end. See as how online behavior is inevitably representative of real world decorum, it is a sad site to see that abortive discrimination is still so easily thrown around. "I hate you because I'm supposed to hate you. For I am superior and you, the low person." As harmless as "noob hate" is, its origins in the mind is far from innocent. What can exist in one, will exist in another. Hate does not live alone.

Gaia is not completely ill. More often then not, you'll come across someone who is capable of looking beyond your default clothing. (It might as well be your skin color, sexual orientation, religion, whatever target generalized prejudice needs.)

I've enjoyed my time thus far with the slight instances of connection with another human being. The kind word, the shared interest - these are to be enjoyed and relished in its simplicity, especially for me, given my livelihood in the "doors shut, curtains closed" way. Socially, I've accomplished more in this past week then I have in months. It's a truth I don't like and if confidence was my name, Gaia would still be a curiosity and this blog entry would not have been written. Instead, you're stuck with Lacking.

I don't know if Gaia will be a long term engagement. I'd like to think "no" and that there will be a better anything to put my time and effort in but as it stands, my own insecurities keep me trapped, replacing a reality with a computer generated one. Since Gaia is populated by real people - 97.3% teenager, I assume - hate and kindness exist in both. The kindness is swell but it is that hate and other malicious tendencies in a human being that keep me in front of this beige box glow. The safeties are on and whatever verbal fists and kicks are thrown, they only end up as text. Unfortunately, so does the kindness.

Those Pesky Pescetarians

Last night I did a wikipedia search on vegetarianism to see where I am exactly on my non-meat eating stance. There are varying categories of being a vegetarian and I knew for sure I wasn't reaching "top-of-the-line" status with my thirst for dairy products. Yes, I would like a glass of milk, thank you.

What did I find in this recent wikipedia raid? As it goes, I am not a vegetarian. Shocker!! Since I eat fish, I am out of the vegetarian club; apparently some of them get testy when salmon lovers everywhere claim to be vegetarians. I wouldn't want to get the stink-eye from someone who doesn't eat meat. The Force is strong with them, I reckon. Full-on vegans are probably Jedi Masters. At a buffet, Sith Lords can be found by the counter where they slice roast beef. Cool.

To sum it all up, I officially recognize my re-classification as a pescetarian. It is pronounced with a distinct "SKuh" sound. I had to look that up. I sure as heck couldn't say it just by looking at it. Just look at Joe Pesci's name. All together, folks, PESK-e-tair-IAN.

[NOTE: my MySpace page has been fixed accordingly to reflect my non-vegetarian status]

Minor Sunday Observations To Get Things Going

I look out the car window and see a woman tending to her child in a blue baby cart. Bent over, her cleavage shows. She has very big breasts. I'm not a "breast man" myself but they're there, so there. Out of nowhere, another woman appears. "Hmmm," I think to myself. They were both brunettes.

An old man on a motorized cart was rolling along with music being blasted from an unseen speaker unit. What was playing? I could've sworn it was the soundtrack from Karate Kid 2. You know, the one with Zamfir on the pan flute.

The moon in the morning sky, sitting across from the bright sun chaser, looked awkward. I look up and see something wrong. I glance at my feet to re-orient myself and look up again, again only to see something wrong. The moon was lopsided! Maybe it had too much to drink, made an inappropriate comment about Pluto no longer considered a planet and got its face kicked in. Anybody else see this?