2003-05-05 - 12:49 a.m.

I�ve actually been pretty busy lately, but it doesn�t really feel that way.

Last Sunday, the Roommate and I went to Lowell. Which ruled. Played some pool, did the canal walk, saw some beautiful buildings. Drank some cheep beers. Museums, too, and a slide show about that historical microcosm, the economy and the agents and the owners and the stockholders and the immigrants and mill girls. Took the commuter rail home and ate dinna and watched the Simpsons at the Friday�s by North Station. Tacky, I know, (Friday�s that is), but I pass by it all the time on my way to work. Now, when I pass by it, I can remember eating a French dip sandwich and drinking a bigass glass of Bud there, watching the Simpsons with my lady.

On Wednesday, I learned something that I won�t repeat here, but was a massive relief to me, believe you me. I took a tour of the Custom House with C. (from work) on our lunch break. Her idea, and a really, really good one. Every day at 10:00 and 4:00, by the way, and you get to see the big clock from the inside. And, drum roll please, you get to go to the top. Outside. With a fantastic view of Boston, north, south, east, and west.

I also went with her and the Roommate and the Roommate�s friend that night to the Hong Kong for a benefit for a bartender there. Class act guy, and he hurt his leg and can�t work, and he doesn�t have healthcare. It was a nice thing for the HK to do--$10 to get in, two different raffles, and all tips went to him too.

I bought a few raffle tickets--you had to put �em in the jar representing the prize you wanted to win. I put a few in the resturaunt jar, a few in the Sox tickets jar, a few in the Pats tickets jar, and so on.

And I won a $50 gift certificate to a restaurant in, of all places, Lowell, and it was what I wanted, and what I knew I was going to win, for some reason. I really knew, too, and it felt really good to win. Oh, and the Sox won, too.

Excellent day.

On Friday after work, headed out with the Roommate to the Other Side for a Buffalo Tom and a pitcher of PBR. I haven�t not ordered a Buffalo Tom there since my very first visit there, in 1996.

From there, really wanted to play pool, so we went to the most ridiculous of places, Lansdowne Street, to play at Jillian�s. There was a 45 minute wait for billiards, so we amused ourselves at the arcade instead. Which is always fun, if you got money. Flashy lights, all kindsa sounds, always some cheezy dude dominitaing the dancing video game where you gotta step on the right squares, trying to draw a crowd. But I had a little money, and the Roommate had a little money, and we played a really fun video bowling game, and air hockey, and skee-ball, and a gun game, and the bowling game again, and did not forget to stop every now and then and drink a beer, and smoke butts for the last ever time in a Boston bar.

On Saturday, we hit the Somerville Open Studios, and got a ton of walking in. The Roommate got a really cool art thingie for just $20 at an artist�s studio in a historic residence by Powderhouse. And that was where the deals ended. We went to a studio by Davis where everything was beautiful and everything was over $100. That kinda set the tone for the day.

I�m not grumbling about how expensive stuff was, though. Most things we saw that day were not overpriced.

It just made me really, really sad that so much of that stuff was just so beautiful, the type of beautiful I never usually see in a day, and the only thing keeping that kind of beauty out of my reach, this time, was stupid money.

Oh, and I saw these monotypes of various scenes in Boston. They were gorgeous--one was a print of the Salt and Pepper bridge floating in haze with a webbed sky and bird silhouettes. It made me want to cry, but there were others too, different scenes with traces of previous ones etched forever in them, and it was too much to take in and I shut myself off, and I was just sad that they�d be separated, and I was sad that I�d never see them again, and I was sad that I�d never see them again for the first time.

We went to a glass studio in Magoun, and I bought a cement and glass coaster. It�s pretty, and buying something eased up my conscience a little--I felt bad that I got to see and touch so much art for free. I also felt like I was faking out the artists--like they had so much hope every time someone walked into one of their studios, but most people really didn�t show up to buy anything.

I also got four pressed flowers in glass with gold thingie borders. For my ma--Christmas, maybe? I�d give them to her for Mother�s day, but I don�t want to set a dangerous precedent. I�m such an asshole sometimes. It�s funny how I can be an asshole to my ma at the exact same time that I get a really, really nice present for her.

The hilight of Somerville Open Studios was the Vernon Street studios. Inside a gigantic foam rubber factory (which, I think, is still partially operational), old brick, high ceilings, lots of metal studs and hardwood. Stunning building, and so many artists. It was really too much.

Most of the artists there were friendly and some even wanted to chat a little. There were only two rooms we didn�t visit--the very first one we saw (for some reason, and we passed by it twice), and another studio that contained nothing more than floor-to-high-ceiling sized narrowly vertical sketches of erect penises.

But let me tell you this, any time that building, or any other such, opens up like that again, you know I�m there. So, so, so much fun to just wander around, go where the building wants you to go, never knowing what to expect, and constantly seeing things that defy dream expectations. Somehow, the dead ends, the last stops of paths yielded the most stunning objects. One final destination was a room full of hanging glass tree branches, arranged perfectly, as if the ceiling from which they were hung was made from jumbo invisible graph paper. And, these sway sway bushes, with electric light bulb tentacles.

That was cool.

Another led to a room with a gigantic carved wood walrus. It took the guy two years to make.

And still another dead-end led us to an atypical studio--bouncy and giggly and fluffy. It was definitely in contrast to the blue-collar feel of the rest of the building, and I recognized some of the square portraits of people from the coffee shop in Union Square that still doesn�t have ice.

There were two girls, the artists, I presumed (since no dude would ever keep such a studio), talking to two dudes, ignoring everyone else. I wasn�t really paying attention to them, either, until I heard someone introduced as Ad.

I turned around, and sure enough, it was Ad Frank. And here�s the best part--the other gentleman asked what did you say your name was?.

Long pause. Long pause. Long pause. Ad.

When we got home, we were exhausted. All that walking, all that art. I got an e-mail earlier in the day from Randy Research--I guess he was in town for one night only. I just couldn�t do it. I�m sorry, Randy. I really am.

Instead, the Roommate and I just kinda ploabed about for awhile, and enjoyed each other�s company. And cleaned the living room closet--that felt good. I put two loads of laundry in, and we decided to go to Davis again, to rent a movie.

As usual, we didn�t talk about what we wanted to watch until we got into the store. And I thought, hey, maybe Bowling for Columbine is out on DVD. But it wasn�t there, and then I had a great Davis Square moment.

Oh, we�ll let�s just see it at the Somerville Theater!. And lo, it was playing for just six bucks a ticket, and in 45 minutes. We got tickets, some Mike�s (a slice and a Bud each), I realized that I had left my laundry in the washer, and then 45 minutes later, we watched the film.

And we got the bus back afterwards, and walked up that hill, and I finished up my laundry, and then I drank some beers and played on homestar runner, trying (again) to find another secret cartoon or something, and then I went to bed.

I�m broke now, by the way. But this time it�s my fault for paying off too much credit card debt. Go me.

But I worked six hours of overtime today. I didn�t really want to, but I did, and thank God everything went pretty much OK there. And in two days, I won�t be broke again. Go me.

I keep telling myself, every second, every millisecond, every blur from out the corner of my eye, that I�m wasting my time, that I�m a failure, that I�m surprised that I�m not more worse off than I am. I�ve known about this problem for years. And I try to ignore it, but it�s like trying to ignore being in a wheelchair--you get used to it after awhile, but it still affects your relationships with other people. They notice. They feel bad. They�re curious.

But when I think about it, I do a lot. I�m not wasting what�s left of my youth. And, fear as I might, I�m usually happy.

And it�s true. I think both sides are right at the same time.

I�m going now to conclude my weekend with a private viewing of The Pillow Book. I hope it�s good.

I�ll get up tomorrow and will have forgotten everything I ever knew about everything. And then I�ll remember what I need to as I go.