I am Robin writing this uh... We're going to go over to Roxy's greenroom in a little bit I think. Y'all might want come on out if ya aint doing nothing. Why not?

Oh lord. What an insane week it has been. I have stories abound about my time as a carnie, dance parties with straightedge Hamburg girls, the gigundo naked party, and gestopo parking enforcers, but I shall sit on these until the long awaited party tomrrow evening. I do expect all to be there - espically you, Metalpeter - and all to be in prime rocking form. I turned down a $200 day of work to attend this shindig, therefor anything short of rocking so hard that dimands disapear into dust will not be tolerated. Leave your jewels at home.

Ever since I pulled off that 25 hour shift Wednesday through Thursday at the Fair, I’ve lacked the energy to do much of anything productive, using what little energy and motivation I have to trying to get the apartment in order now that the final housemate has arrived. This is not to say nothing outlandishly ridiculous has occurred, for that is entirely not the case, but I just haven’t had the patience to try and sit down and reflect upon it. Perhaps I’ll catch up on some of the more absurd highlights of the last week, and I’ll defiantly try to write in length about yesterday’s event at Central Terminal, but for now I must get my ass back to the Fair to load out the Vince Gill and Patty Loveless concert.

Well I’ll just try to add this. Ideals aside, it was a fantastic experience. It’s difficult enough to get 1,500 people together in this city for anyting other than professional wrestling, sports, or over priced concerts, and as I am slowly becoming an open nudist, and a supporter of the Central Terminal Restoration (non-profit, Paul) Corporation, I found the experience truly amazing. I’ll write more on this as well as my strange encounter with the artist sketchily staring and waving at me while I was lounging on my porch after the shoot when I get a break from working within the next few days.

From 11:00PM until 9:00AM I’m working the main stage load-in at the Erie County Fair. At 10:00AM tomorrow, I’m working stage hand at the Lynard Skynard concert. This goes until 1:00AM Friday, and at 9:00AM I need to be showered and at my other job working Bob Newhart. Is this humanly possible? Of course not. We must thank the pharmaceutical industry for inventing and finding a treatment for ADD.

I apologize if anyone else has posted this information, as I feel it ought to be old news, but this Sunday Spencer Tunick ((GOOGLE - ) ) is shooting yet another mass of nude bodies in train station photo at Central Terminal for an upcoming exhibition at the Albright Knox. If this is indeed old news and anyone else has signed up for it, let me know so I may perhaps meet up with you. If not, check out the link below to learn more and sign up if you’re interested.

I make forty six dollars an hour!!! I don't have time for this shit. I work for a law firm. They sent me to pick up pencils.




What don't you understand? Here, look. Does it look like I have ID on me?




Tell me, yes or no. Am I under arrest? If not, get out of my face. Ambulences freak me out. I have to get back to work.

Went to the square last evening. As usual when I’m seeing a band for the sake of seeing live music and not because I’m there to see a band in particular, I had a little too much to drink. The group of people I came with left with my van as I was supposed to meet up with someone else, but he never materialized and I wound up finishing a 40 with a homeless man I briefly befriended. At some point I suppose I decided I’d had enough and got myself onto the metro and awoke underground. Fearing a $50 from the metro Gestapo I got off at the station I awoke, and to my surprise realized it was the Allen Street station – the first station after the train goes underground. I must not have slept long. I trucked down Allen Street not exactly sure where I was going, and in less than a minute ran into one of my old nomadic acquaintances, Chris. I’m not exactly sure what Chris’s deal is. He’s about 45 years old and used to always come over to our apartment on Franklin Street dominating conversation and bumming smokes off of me. I could go on for a long time about Chris, but I don’t really feel the need. Chris is Chris, and while I enjoy talking to him sometimes, he gets a little overbearing when you’re trying to entertain guests and he comes over talking about women and his medicine. We introduced him to our neighbor who we thought would get a long very well as they both acted very similar, yet they butted heads, and Chris came back very distraught claiming she was a “bipolar, manic depressive, chronic schizophrenic.� We looked up some of the pills he talked about on the Internet and found they were marketed as treatment for subduing schizophrenics, but I’m not going to draw ay conclusions….

Back to the story. I saw Chris ahead of me as I’m walking down Allen Street, and I ran up to him and give him a hug. I hadn’t seen him in almost a month. I explain to him my evening up to that point – this is around 9:00PM I believe – and express my desire to find a parking lot to take a nap in until later so I may be refreshed enough to go to the Pink. Chris tells me I’m talking crazy, and that he’ll take me to “the serenity spot� and watch over me as I sleep. After he buys a 40 and a 22, he takes me through some secluded alleys that cut between North Pearl and Franklin to Virginia Place. I then follow him down a brick walkway, through an iron gate into a lavishly landscaped, brick walled backyard. He explains he’s house-sitting while some hotshot lawyer’s wife is out of town and dusts off two lawn chairs. He tries to light the Tiki torches, but they are out of fluid. I lay down on the grass and sleep while he drinks his 40 on the chair over looking me and the sound of expensive sports car and country club laughs float over the brick wall from mother’s across the street.

I awoke to find Chris was gone. My watch says I’d only slept for a half hour, but I felt extremely refreshed. I wanted to leave immediately, but felt I ought to stick around a little while longer and see if Chris came back. He did, and we shot the shit about love and cars for a few before taking it to the streets. He followed me to the Pink, yet no one was there so I took a piss and caught an evil eye from the evil bartender / owner and headed back out to the streets. I honestly do not know why that woman hates me so. Chris and I parted ways on Delaware, I roamed the streets and stopped by Liz’s apartment but nothing happened after I rang the bell. I think I may recall that she is out of town. I continued to roam the streets and found Mike Meinhold’s pickup truck parked on an odd road, so I played in the back of his truck for a little while trying to figure out what all the strange cases were for and killing time before heading to the Brick Bar. I was delighted to learn that the Brick Bar now served Sparks – orange, caffeinated, ginsing, malt liquor beverage – and enjoyed it over ice while watch
in
g a rockabilly / blues cover band. I had another. At some point Harrington was contacted and we met outside, petting a dog and flapping gums with Holly and assorted epeeps before heading back into the brick bar for yet another tasty Sparks on ice. We agreed that the members of the band were defiantly from the suburbs. This was confirmed after asking the merch girl. We can spot our type miles away.

The pink was beat. Paul, Terry, Holly, and company – I am shitty with names, who isn’t – left almost the instant Harrington and I arrived on the porch. We enjoyed another sparks on ice, talked about rocking hard and set out to find others who would join us in rocking hard that evening. Mike, Jill, and Beast made good targets, and for a while, I was under the impression that they would indeed be joining us for an evening of rocking hard. I think rocking hard at that point consisted of walking back to my apartment across from We Never Close and slamming a bottle of wine, but I could be mistaken. We left to go to Aqua and see if our fellow rock soldiers we released from their duties and learned that Mike, Jill, and Beast only talked about rocking hard, they in fact did not wish to put it to practice that evening. We found the two soldiers hanging out with their fellow laborers in the parking lot next to rust belt book trading war stories about the evening shift, bitching about customers, and planning ways to forget the evening to that point, and went back to Harrington and Mike apartment to slam a beer. Upon successful completion of this mission – it’s nice to set goals that are easily accomplished, makes me feel like I’m being productive – we returned to the Pink to once again recruit others to join us in rocking hard. I think rocking hard at this point consisted of finding someone to drive us back to my place, slamming a bottle of wine, and having a dance party.

Once again, we tried to rally Mike and Jill to rise to the occasion, I think Beast may have left by this point, and once again, our pleas were made in vein. “Next week,� was the best that I could get. I will hold you to this. We all enjoyed another Sparks on ice, oh how refreshing and summoned the rock reserves - Meinhold’s ex-girfriend and her friend - to transport us back to the executive office. Meinhold bailed on the mission as did Kurt, they will face reprimands for deserting, and once again I found myself with Harrington who quickly shed his clothes, dancing to Jamiriquai and Steely Dan at 4:00AM while slamming a bottle of Merlot given to me for routing through a dumpster at the Richard Marx concert. One by one they left, and I retired to my quarters, leaving out detail only for I’ve just realized how long and uneventful this whole story is.

So what have we learned from all of this? Hmm… finishing the swill of a homeless man’s 40 is not the way to impress germ phobic friends at the square. Chris may tell some tall tales, but he surely wasn’t lying when he told me he’d take me to the serenity spot. The brick bar is bumping on Thursday night and would probably be even more fun if you were a single bi sexual or homosexual female. The pink is beat, I have been saying this for some time and whished others would come to the same conclusion. Next Thursday evening Mike, Jill, and Beast will be rocking hard, location TBA. Merlot is not the wisest beverage to consume after an evening of heavy Sparks intake. I just woke up about an hour ago

Karaoke at the Tudor lounge this evening.

Richard Marx's bus door
four people allowed inside
I need a damn smoke

Can't let him see me
like hiding from my parents
damn you Richard Marx

Satisfied the urge
a delicious cigarette
I want another

Where are you Richard?
Ah, there you are, "Hi Richard"
Who are you again?

I was in a grouchy mood, or maybe I wasn’t. Someone told me I was, but I was just annoyed at this person in particular, but after having this pointed out to me, I became pissed off at everyone. Well no, perhaps this is not true. I think I was more annoyed at this person for being who they are, only because someone else pointed out to me what I already knew about the aforementioned person, and I suppose I’ve come to terms long ago with who this person is and how she acts, yet having others aware of it and – as I perceived it – mocking me for it set the tone for an evening where I once again emerge in the morning light looking like an asshole.

I tried arguing with people who apparently haven’t engaged in a passionate debate about anything in some time. They seamed generally upset that I dare try such a thing, and I remember at one moment when trying to demonstrate the pointlessness of making a point, yet the necessity to do so it was unanimously agreed that I had just terribly insulted my housemate and I don’t believe they cared to hear anything else I had to say. I awoke looking into the eyes of the landscaper in the backyard as he surveyed the mess that was made the night before. He probably didn’t care to hear anything I had to say, and I was too tired to do so, so I said nothing, but I should have said something. The sky grumbled, and I listened. I couldn’t know what it intended to mean by that, but I was happy it said something, and I took from it what I could. I’m tired of everyone’s and my own complacency. Why aren’t more people pissed off? There is so much to be vein popping, fist shaking angry about, yet most people just don’t give a damn enough about anything to even attempt to talk about, or more so disagree about, anything other than what to eat, drink, or watch on the boob tube. I’ve shirked debate recently because I’m disillusioned by everything always breaking down into polar opposites and I feel everyone is just as right or just as wrong as everyone else, but communication is how people form and solidify their ideas and culture. I can’t know if I’m right or wrong, I don’t think those distinctions have any bearing on matter, what’s important is the act of disagreeing, breaking up the circle jerk, being passionate about something enough to turn red, start yelling, and breaking things if need be. Granted people probably won’t listen to a word you say if you’re running around breaking things, but they’ll probably take something out of the situation. Something is something, and god damn it, it’s better than nothing.

For five years I resisted, put my head in the sand and hoped when I pulled it out they’d be gone, like CB radios, but damn it all to hell, I could resists no longer, and I signed away my soul for two years for a lousy electronic ball and chain. I suppose I still had a choice, but it had become increasingly difficult to communicate with others who had become dependent upon the speed an impulsive nature of the cell phone. Not many seemed content to leave me a message on my home phone and wait for me to return their call, nor did they think a head long enough to leave time sensitive information on my machine that I would be able to receive in time to act upon it. My housemate with a cell phone would answer the phone about half the times it rang, and if he did, wouldn’t write messages down and attempted to make my other non-mobile device carrying roommate (who now is packing plastic as well) and myself feel like we were creating a massive imposition on his life by depending upon a phone attached to the wall. Cell phones have drastically changed how people communicate and interact. Just like the tire and automotive companies buying up the street car companies and dismantling the rail infrastructure at the beginning of the twentieth century to force high car sales, look around at take note of how few pay phones are left in this city. Perhaps it’s simply supply and demand, but I’ve been hard pressed to find a working pay phone on many occasions when I needed to make a call, and the price of a local call has doubled in the last five years. Maybe I’m a hopelessly anti-technology reactionist, I certainly am a laggard, and I am surely not pleased at all to have to pay $40 a month for something I did just fine without before all you damn people had to be available twenty four hours a day, seven days a week and force me to chase after the band wagon after it’d left town and the dust settled. Oh, and I got my Internet back today, so I suppose I’m now officially reconnected to my digital appendages and a member of the 21st century. I want to get some land and raise some hogs, a couple goats, and perhaps a little soy to appease the vegan crowd. Anyone interested in joining?