Monday, January 30, 2012 _Hate Thy Mouth

I am still confused as to how someone can hate their mouth so much that at 7am they have to drive in coffee and a cigarette simultaneously. I mean, I drink coffee every morning and immediately brush my teeth upon finishing to avoid the stale taste lingering in the 98.7 degree swamp called my mouth cavity. Meanwhile people are casually willing to enjoy their day with the scent of winston menthol and folgers original pasted on their tongue.


I am sure I have probably put worse things into my mouth at one time or another, but I fear this act is most likely a common occurrence for these people, one they have come to truly enjoy. True hatred for their mouth. One day those front teeth are just going to pack up its mollers and get the fuck out. Wouldn't you? Its like living in an apartment building that like to turn the heat on high in the morning when the drag all the outdoor trash and recycling beer bottles indoors, then closing the doors behind.

January 09

My lucid dreams cripple me back to realitiy

I sink, stutter, and attempt to swim

Im looking for the air that pours though the cracks

Of the loose soil, covering my face and arms

Light tickles my peripherals

My heart races as my muscles are locked and constrained

I am trying to get back to “utopiaville”

The cool liquor attempts to break the seal

But I can’t indulge enough without the world going cold

My tolerance is up and I am down

The chair rocked back and forth as I pressed my back gently against its old frame. The ebb and flow was stopped by the wall, sitting too close. Lacking the energy to slide the 30 pound fixture one foot forward for fear that it would move me to far from the coffee table, I repetitively knocked the ends of the rocking portiong against the white wall. Paint slowly chiseled away as I did this every night after dinner. A high ball of Macalan sits comfortably staring at my with a half a cube of ice forming a slight mist at the top after its cold contents dissolve into the room temperature elixir.

Part of the reason I never slid the chair away from the wall was because it would offset my reach for the scotch glass which conformed to my hand. I could be stricken blind and ridden with parkinson’s and be able to obtain the glass while holding Hemingway’s Old man and the Sea in my left hand. Its elegant physique resting amongst the glass side table, delicately poured into a tumbler, just heavy enough to feel like a full beer, but light enough to lift my weary, overworked arms.

The portentous bookshelf to my left gorged my peripherals as I lift the dewar’s marked tumbler to my parched lips. I evaded the second of distress as I thought what book I should begin next by lifting the tumbler almost regimentally to a height to let gravity overtake. The 12-year old cherry oak cast Macalan drips its reddish brown nectar on to the tip of my tongue. Its cool but peaty as it dances upon my taste buds like a marionette. The burn of alcohol replaces its first chilling touch and I slowly lift my head enough to continue the gravity forcing routine. I leave the drink in just enough to work its way through my gums giving an instant release of serotonin in my frontal lobes.

In the same motion of allowing the rest of the sip to flow down my throaht and sink quickly to its final resting place, I relaxed my arm. Bent it at a gentlemen’s 120 degress from its cramped 37 that helped me to the drink. Slowly, and without a single glance in that direction, I place the glass neatly in the ring marked by its initial resting point. Now, both the sip I have endured, exasperating once again, no energy, and the glass are where they need to be.

This process will take place each day after work, immediately following dinner. Whether it is that I order out, pick up on the travels home, or even cook, the delicacy would be invited inside me. Suddenly I am slightly rejuvenated by the amalgamation of scotch and the cooler air setline with the half past 7 hour whistling through the screens. I breath in like a taking a self yoga class.

The chair rocks slowly and less that fluently as it abrupbly darts against the wall that I will be all too lazy to repair myself . The house keeps come tomorrow where they will look at the small dents in the wall, arrive at the fact they cannot fix it, then sweep up the debris.

Washington DC

My name is Sebastian Boress lives in the NW quadrant of Washington, DC. My townhouse is in a slightly pretentious, and located in a passively racist section of town. They city board of overseers still ,to this day, does not allow the metro to have a stop near the neighborhood. The closest railway is 2 and a half miles that can only be reached by foot, bus, or taxi. The idea behind this is that if cheap transportation is not readily accessible and more than one method is needed people wont come. Infer otherwise if you’d like, but a holding contention is to keep the black, lower class, riff-raff out.

Me, I’m indifferent to the situation . While my exposure to diversity may have been restricted, I rarely had a desire to live elsewhere. Not bothered by the lower class, but sometimes easier to not see it. Those who are in the upper class, or even upper-middle class are often blind to the harsh realities due to this exact situation. How can an member of Congress in the upper eschelon of society truly undertand the depth of poverty when he grew up in Greenwich, CT, attended Georgeotwn University, and bought his first house on the Potomac River off MacArthur Blvd?

The truth of the matter is there is a separation, there is a divide, a drastic dichotomy between the haves and the have nots. The federal reserve will prove this data for you, I need not. Glance around Glover Park and notice the ratio of white to black, or white to any other race, it is surely steep. The Federal Reserve data from 2009 shows that the median wealth of a white, Non-Hispanic citizen, is $149,000. The median wealth of a Hispanic or non-white citizen was $23,330. Is everyone equal? Ask the Federal Reserve -  it shocks me that this is allowed to be public knowledge.

While lecturing on economic equality is interesting and the sides could argue for days filibustering the hell out of the daylight, but its exhausting. Not only exhausting, but it is pointless. There will always be a class separation, unless of course our constant heedless strides towards socialism finally get the best of us. Find me one person who says we are all equal and I will show you a liar.

There is an art school for elementary through 12^th grade located 4 blocks south and 2 blocks east of my house. Each day a bus arrives from the SE corner of DC, the quadrant with the lowest median income level. The bus delivers the talented students to the school to play violin, read classics, write poetry, paint Dali replicas

The city is alive with new people. Anonther study from 2009 said showed that Washington, DC was the second most popular place to move to for college graduates, second to Seattle. Walking requiring the carrying of an umbrella while innately being subjected to coffee stains for warmth and social acceptance does not seem all that thrilling to be. So why people choose Seattle is beyond confounding. Regardless of my bias towards DC, it has a feel of new life at every corner. Each person trying to one-up the other. Constant battles by quarter-life crises stricken individuals for jobs on Capitol hill that pay the same as Joe Denny makes working at 701 restaurant on Pennsylvania.

I admire their astute qualities and blind ambition. Not to mention a sheer lack of party loyalty. It is so goddamn difficult to get a job on the hill that regardless political affiliation, an individual will overwhelmingly take the job, rather than not due to ethics.

Alive with the glory of persistence! I don’t blame them; visceral feelings for government and party lines cannot be held today. There is no room for it. Enough gridlock exists in the house and senate, let alone the American people. Sometimes I dream that we all were searching for a job on the hill and it was our only means to survive. We would be a lot more subservient to others views and open to vast interpretations. Unfortunately that is not the case, and a bleeding liberal will give his left arm to save the job of a first generation immigrant, and a tea party rioter would slap a black man for reciting the preamble.

I digress. The city is beautiful and filled with educated people. The air is relatively clean and there is a predisposition to recycling and keeping the group clear of dog waste. Everyone runs, bikes, or at minimum exercises conservative eating habits. People are not as thin as New York City, but public self-induced vomiting is more heavily frowned upon here and the work days are too long to stay malnourished an frail. In addition, cocaine seems to run a little less superfluously through the veins of the eager youth, fleeting husbands, and yoga cheating wives.

This is a splendid city. It lacks the hustle and bustle of your typical metoropolitan area, but still feels busier than getting lost in suburbia. The building an old and luxuiours dating back to our forefathers, and remind us of a younger, less informed, most likely better time. Architectural law states that a building cannot be built to a height that is of higher elevation than the US Capitol. A building can be structurally latter, but its peak must rest lower than the tip of the Statue of Freedom located at the top of the Capital rotunda.

I find that this town is similar to a massive state school. There are clique’s and groups mostly revolving around what job you have. Capitol hill in particular is similar to a giant fraternity. Therefore it is sometimes difficult to meet people in other areas of the city and professionally. There is of course the over extroverted souls who could walk into a church, take over the sermon, and have everyone calling them father by the end of the evening while exchanging sexual advances. Where I fall on the spectrum of relativity is around approachable yet skeptical.

This part of town feels safe. There are a relatively low number of homeless individuals shaking cans for coins, and while the diversity is low, it seems to fit the ambiance. Whole foods is the closest grocery store, and pretty much the only within walking distance if carrying a substantial amount of groceries.

The tennis courts are clean, or at least they were the few times that I went to play. Only two courts available to the neighborhood. Occasionally, you can sneak onto American University or Georgetown campus to use their courts if the teams are not practicing. I have always played tennis. My grandmother started me with a racquet at age 7, by the time I was nine, I was turned into a family spectacle forced to enter tournaments. The amount of money pumped into private lessons and court time had to have been fueled by delusions of grandeur that I would be the next Andrew Agassi.

The early entrance to the competitive nature of the sport made me more aptly characterized by similarities of John Mcenroe, toke bad boy of tennis with a fuming temper. I continued to play since I genuinely enjoyed the sport, however as my age increased so did my discontent with my play and unforced errors.
When I was a boy my well-advised in investments, particularly oil had sent me around the country to various tennis camps. Well versed in travel by the age of ate to Hilton Head Island or Orlando, FL, I had become acostomed to strange middle aged men holding my hips and arms like a marionette trying to find the perfect swing. I became confident in my skill and training and walked with a slight adolescnet strut when entering local courts to play amateur foes. My confidence took may have turned into tennis hubris when I entered  a statewide tournament and was savagely beaten at the age of 11 by someone 2 years younger. My drive to play instantly dropped off as the same demoralizing competitive nature I carry today was ever present then.
My father had always told me, "Son follow your heart." Not sure if I was following my heart or not but that loss surely stuck with me and I gave up tennis two years later to play baseball, and I was always average at best. I skipped back and forth like a rock on a the lack from the two sports in high school, trying to find where I can get the most playing time and appeal to whichever female friend I was holding at the time. The latter was secretly the driving factor. One could say i headed my fathers advice and followed my heart, however it was truly the tip of my dick that took precedent. 

January 04

11am on Saturday, June 11^th and it’s a full summer day. The heat waves lifing off the gravel look heave enough to ride on and avoid the public transportation only adding hot fumes to the midsummer air. Perspiration drips off my brows and as I raise my arm I can feel an unwarranted drip from my armpit let go and slide down my left rib.

My stomach was craving something heavy, my body something cool, and my mind something alcoholic – I thought no more and headed for a milkshake. There is a books store located at 19^th Street and Connecticut. Its one of the only true book stores that stock anything from Wells to Hemingway, to Chuck Klosterman and John Safran Foer. I would be remiss if I left out the fact that on top of their indiscriminate selection they also have a full bar. Located conveniently within the store between mysteries and Music/popular culture is a full liquor and beer bar.

It only seems fitting after you get past Lee Childs and catch a glimpse of Aerosmith and Curt Cobain in your peripherals that you find a bar immediately in front of you. Aside from all the glorious amenities you can get away with not buying a single book. Last year I was able to read two Foer books by just going there twice a week and reading at the bar. Granted I went through a handful of cash buying drinks, but I was going to be doing that whether I was reading or not, so in my mind I was getting the best of both worlds.

I took the D2 bus from my neighborhood to Dupont Circle. Dupont circle is a culmination of three different neighbohoods pouring in, both literally and metaphorically. You have the affluent Georgetown, the poor Adams Morgan, the up and comers with college loans and 30K a year salaries, and the gays of Dupont. Two nights ago was Pride night where a surplus of queens dances among the promenade into a tabernacle on the lawn of dupont.

“What are you reading,” a women on the bus asked interrupting my flow of “The Offshore Pirate.”

“F. Scott,” I replied sharply with an annoyed undertone.

“Excellent, I am reading The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo.

I was not surprised, every goddamn person with the ability to view words on a page and translate them mentally was reading the forsaken series. I am not fairly assessing this situation, and my disgust for her literary choice stems from the fact that I just need a drink and some peace. One month ago I ran through the first two of the three books in Stieg Larsson’s millennium series. They were quite intriguing and his imagery was profound. I understand why he is a success, though a dead one at that. I actually only chose to read his books because I learned that his death was also a mystery, the same genre he chose to write about in every novel.

“Solid read, hope you don’t get lost in Hedestad,” I commented hoping that I would not engage more conversation. Hedestad was the island that was the main setting for the first novel. By the grace of Zues there was no retort and the rest of the bus 14 minute ride was quiet and uneventful.

I exited the bus and walked not even a half a block to my favorite little spot in our nations capitol. I was fortunate enough to pass a couple of middle aged men, one overweight and the other in swim trunks and a turquoise tank top. They were holding hands with their left and right while the opposite hands simultaneously fed each other sorbet. Other than taken a few milliseconds to observe the quintessentially homosexual experience, I continued on my direct path to book utopia and milk shake eden.

“Good afternoon,” the hipster “esq” clerk said to me as I entered the tight doorway.

“It, is, “ I replied and made an unaltered stroll past non-fiction, business etiquette, and invetively popular culture into the bar area. I was clutching onto my Ipad with Flappers and Philosophers already loaded up. Clearly I had no intention on buying a book from them, but I believe they are fine with my consistent bar business that I bring with weary eyes every Sunday.

“wWhat’ll it be?”

“Ugh, give me a minute.”

I clearly did not need a minute but I always feel the need to look at the menu. Not just here but everywhere that I go. Even Mcdonalds, ill stare blankly at the screen above perusing the options that are the same each and every fucking day. What am I searching for? A steak? Am I expected different variations and sauces? This ritual along with many other is completely annoying to me, but necessary.

3 mintues of this monotonous skimming of a menu that I A) know by heart and B) already know what I want from, leads to me calling for the attention of the bartender. I order my coffee milkshake with baily’s and kahlua, and my own additiona of a shot of Johnnie Walker Black. The bartender gives me a smile that says “must have been a rough night, and hard morning.” He was right. I barely was able to climb out of my bed that sits 13 inches of the floor. It took courage and a splitting headach to drive me to the kitchen to chase three advils with a Flying Dog Pale Ale.

Taking an oversized and overwhelming gulp of my milkshake forgetting to give it a gentlemen’s stir in order to circulate the liquor, I sighed. Times like this make life worth living. Cliché’? Perhaps. The bar is crowded as it usually is on Sundays. I love it. A 40 year-old man is eating a full lobster two my left. Behind me at one of the high-tops two lesbians are commiserating about Chelsea Lately, claiming that men are from mars. Two seats down is a women who has already taken three shots as the empty shooter still lye in front of her. She is beating me, and all I have to show for myself is a milkshake. I should have asked for a shot of whiskey so that I could pour it in myself and have an empty glass paring me with her as a Sunday degenerate.

I sit wedged with the wafting of lobster butter drifting into my nostrels. Who the fuck orders lobster here? Not going to judge him too harshly, he seems happy as a clam. I thought about striking up a conversation with the man about how the lobster was, but I don’t eat seafood and realized that it would be a dead end conversation consisting of head nodding and lobster breath. Seafood is horrible.

As I make my way to the 50% mark on the glass of my delicious beverage offset but lingering scents around me, I hear a crackling outdoors and a shrief. The book store keeps the doorway open to let the stuffy place breath a bit. It had been humid since 6am so a thunderstorm was in order. It started hailing. The last three times its rained here, its hailed, there is no happy medium. There was a shriek from passerby’s who rushed into any store that was closest. Instantly there was an additional 15 people in the book store who had no interest in buying books or reading for that matter.

Accepting the fact that I was not going to be able to focus on my ipad reading I decided to order another drink. This time, I searched the menu for their drink selection. This failed search led to me just ordering a vodka tonic. This is the order I always make in panic when I cant make a decision and nothing instantly jumps out at me. Vodka tonic it is.

People are still pouring in like the traffic into the westbound entrance of dupont circle (that’s a lot). No one has umbrellas since this storm was not forecasted. There is an instant smell of wet dog in the confined book store. Luckily the crowd has not really made it to the bar, but they are close enough to make an impact. The zombies were starting to touch the books due to the fact of having nothing else to do while they waiting out the storm. Pages of ink were getting wet without even the possibility of a purchase.

Now I am starring at the entryway to the bookstore to see who will come in. I have accepted the fact that I will not get any reading done, and my focus has shifted purely to people watching. She walks in. She had this look in her eye like she was doing cocaine in a dark bathroom stall for the first two hours of her morning. That sort of glazed over, havn’t seen the sun since September, buried in finals look. Her injected lips were outlined in a dark tone, as if they needed to be bolded just to express how fake they really were. She adjusted her skirt that had ridden up a bit, most likely due to the rain she just got done sprinting from. She stands confident, as she addresses her cell phone. I could never land a fucking girl like that. She would spit on me as I fell backwards, that is if she even saw me.

She was walking to the bar and at that second I told myself that I would say something. There was only one seat and it was next to me, she had to sit there if sitting was what she desired. She sat.

“getting a lot of reading done,” she aksed, catching me off guard as my confidence was set to start the conversation. The screen on my Ipad was black.

“I was, not anymore though.”

“Oh, I am sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No no, the storm did the interrupting, it’s a lost cause”

“I often find reading during chaos is the relaxing, the sharp dichotomy increased its effect.”

“I guess we differ in that category, I can hardly focus on what I am drinking,” as I nonchalantly sip my now watered down vodka tonic.

“What are you drinking,” she asked.

I wanted to lie and appear more “put together” but I could not come up with anything quick enough, as is, I stuttered.

“Kettle one and tonic.”

“Boring.”

“Agreed.”

Then I could not help myself. My lack of confidence which is usually higher with alcohol consumption prevailed and I engaged in the lowest form of conversation two human beings can have. I brought up the weather.

“That hail is something else huh?”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she replied but I could tell she lost interest already.

For the next two minutes I droned on about how the weather was this week and how it makes sense we are getting these storms. Then I dove into talking about how I work all week and its always nice when I work and shitty when I am off on the weekends. I was ashamed.

(Stunned by her intellect and vocabulary. I love the word dichotomy)

What do you talk about with someone that you have absolutely no connection with and truly do not have the intention of doing so in the furture? The weather. 90% of the time I make a deposit at the bank teller window, there is a brief welcome comment, followed by a request on how I am “doing,” and then after a moment of silence that feels a bit too long, one person makes a comment about the current or future weather. To my surprise she did not take the discussion on weather as poorly as I was imagining it.

“What was in the taller glass,” she pointed to my first drink with a milky residue on it.

“It was a milkshake.”

“Do you often order milkshakes at bars?”

“Only when they have alcohol as an option.”

“Well most bars have alcohol, just usually not the milkshake part as on option, no?”

“True, though im glad they are not sold everywhere, id end up putting some meat on these bones.”

The hail had stopped as abruptly as it came on. With almost any hesitation the girl snapped her notebook shut and tied the ribbon that connect the two covers tightly. She starting humming something classical, but I could have easily been mistaken. She handed me a torn corner from her neatly bound notebook with a note

“weather sucks, call me 745-312-1213”

Without a world she hummed like a bird out of the bar area and inevitably to the stree to continue here walk that she was on prior to the storms interruption.

I sipped my last sip of the cocktail that was not only water with the hint of backwashed vodka. I tossed the phone number into the same page of Flappers and Philosophers that I stopped reading on, and mentally accepted the fact I would never see her again.