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KrissAnalog
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Name: Kriss
Birthday: 9/3/1984
Gender: Male
Interests: writing - observing - watching - art - films - melodies - cooking - ideas - progression - the muse
Expertise: putting together words for free and putting together dishes for a nominal fee...
Occupation: Chef (I think...)
Industry: Pretty plated designs and stra
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  kriss analog
Member Since:
10/11/2006
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| Tea.
Action Figures.
Record Collection.
Comic Books.
Pens and Pencils.
Blankets.
Cats.
Person.
Yep, I'm good for the winter.
Earwax Cafe tonight maybe?
Onward 2,010. | | |
| Temp roommate in for the month to hold down a room - it's good to have more folks in the house! Fall is almost over and Winter has rolled in already - I've made it my business to hide in my shell of an alcove where I have a steady supply of records, books and eBay to keep me busy. I've also been working on my art again - I used to do it for hours and hours and hours on end at one point but just fell out of the habit - now my goal is to do it an hour a day and then add more time incrementally until I'm back to where I was.
I have this nagging feeling that I haven't been doing much with myself over the last few months other then collecting comic books and action figures and records and doing chef stuff here and there. We started a blog about pop culture over at wearethepoptarts.blogspot.com and have contributors already posting stuff - that has me stoked. In the next six months, we'll promote it from a blog to a .com and go from there.
I really should write more - for awhile there I had a hard time writing because writing in ITSELF made me think of horrible and evil stuff that I've pretty much completely flushed from myself now. I'm doing well and that's enough you know? This year is almost over and it brought closure to ALOT of stuff. I'm so happy that I'm going into the new year free of that...baggage. Really that's all it was, disgusting baggage that I'm glad to be rid of.
Now if only I could figure out a way to keep the winter's heating bills down... | | |
| ...one of my favorite days of the year. Easily.
Off to a parade on Halsted and then vegan deep dish in Lincoln Square and then wherever else the day and night take us.
Halloween.
Yes. | | |
| Jade isn't what you would call your normal service industry girl. With her mixing skills and cold, clinical professionalism, she's a mainstay and a favorite around the neighborhood. She isn't known to dish out copious amounts of conversation to the bar flies and around this area, there aren't all that many of them any way. It's all hipsters and disaffected artists types who come into the establishment for absinthe or vodka. For the most part, Jade is met with respect from patrons and she in turn hands it back. There are of course, those who are from other parts of the city – jockey types, the kind you would see yelling slurs about sexual orientation as insults to the patrons of the opposing team at sporting events – who from time to time drift off of the subway and into this particular area to sample the fare.
One could ascertain that their small minds haven't allowed them to fully wrap themselves around the ideas espoused by alternative culture – going into an establishment where the patrons aren't yelling at television monitors and trying to take each other home for example. Seeing individuals who actually care about matching their outfits, well that's something of a novelty. They're dudes maaaan. They get up, throw a couple back and go put in their eight hours. After that, it's all an endless pursuit for snatch. It's really kind of pathetic.
These types are the ones who don't fare well with Jade. While their patronage is few and far between, her employer has put a certain set of rules in place in order to avoid ponying up on liability insurance and lawsuits for the more then few times over the last several years the unruly individuals in question weren't able to step down from their advances despite warning. Example:
(Flashback to two weeks previous).
Two males enter Oa (the establishment of Jade's employment).
Male Number One walks up to the counter and takes a seat. Noting the metallic sheen of Jade's skin, he lets out a long whistle, “So listen doll, how about a (enter popular vodka beverage of the moment – depending on when you're reading this, feel free to substitute a cider or ale),” he stops for a moment to make a ticking sound with his mouth, “And uh, serve it up with a bit of sass yeah?”
During the duration of his request, Jade has had here back turned to him. Turning towards him, her long red wisps of straight red hair envelope her face and for a moment, the patron is positive he's come face to face with a siren from another sector of the universe. Her lips, painted a deep blue curl into a smile as she produces a glass from beneath the counter. “Ice sir?”
Male Number One leans forward with a raised eyebrow and nods as his associate takes a seat beside him.
“Say dear,” Male Number Two covers his mouth as he coughs and for a moment, looks down before a smile cracks his lips. Looking up, he looks toward Jade, “I don't suppose you could offer other options of serving that ice could you?”
Looking at him, Jade's smile disappears in an instant and is instantly replaced by a wry look of dissatisfaction, “Sir, while I'm sure you're accustomed to conferring with bar maids in other establishments in such a manner as to designate them as nothing more then walking support systems for vaginas who serve you your liquor and then suck you off in the broom closet, I'll have you know that this establishment is far more refined and we serve a clientele who take measures to utilize far more tact then that which you have just exhibited.”
Male Number One scoffs at this exchange and leans further forward, “Missy, as absolutely cold as you look, I'm pretty sure neither of us would want your,” his eyes began to hover around her torso, “lips.” He began to lick his lips as he guided his eyes back up meet Jades, “We'd love to take a tour of what's below the counter though...”
At this point, Jade sets the glass down and reduces her eyes to slits. “Sir, my day has been far from satisfactory – now I'm not particularly in the mood, nor do I find it professional to regale you with the tales of raised monthly rent rates, the cost of oil and the general irritation I find when I find I have to serve types of your ilk – but please take it at your leisure to kindly refrain from your advances.”
Males Number One and Two both chortle to themselves obnoxiously. Jade picks up the glass again and turns her back to the two of them to fill it with the substance ordered. Male Number Two at this point reaches his hand over the counter and runs his hand over her posterior.
“It's very smooth and cold,” he observes. “It almost feels like metal.”
At that moment, Male Number One's eyes widen in horror as Jade swirls around on the balls of her feet to face the two of them. Her right hand is now free of the glass and seems to be transforming itself – her fingers have now turned into small and very thin blades. Male Number Two, who had been facing his friend in his gloating now turns to find that Jade has ahold of his other hand. “Sir, this is in direct conflict with the request I just inferred.”
The next five seconds go by in what seem like minutes as the patron watches in horror as the blades on Jade's right hand make contact with his index and fore finger and remove them with the ease of a hot knife cutting through a stick of margarine on a plate.
The screaming didn't stop for some time and when the ambulance finally arrived to cart the now eight fingered patron away, Jade simply pointed towards the sign hanging beside the front entrance:
“Gynoid on premises adheres to Third Law on modified terms with respect to First Law whenever possible, however Oa and its proprietors hold no liability over unruly patrons.”
(End Flash Back)
Walking into Oa today, I could feel my head stopping its in sync throb with the bass drum from the live band playing at the music festival down the street. As I made my way to the counter to take a seat, I looked around the establishment. There were a few patrons seated at random scattered tables. One was busy working through a glass of shimmering blue absinthe while another nursed a bottle of fluorescent vodka. What do I drink? Coke. On ice. Yes, I'm edgy.
As I took my seat, Peyton jumped onto the counter and seated himself. “Do you realize how many health and sanitation codes you're probably breaking right now?”
Peyton hissed and narrowed his eyes, “Listen, that's specie-ism! I'm a paying customer!”
“Paying yes.” I rolled my eyes as I looked out the window and watched the passerby, “Paying with my money.”
“Listen!” Peyton replied, his voice reaching an almost inaudible screech as he attempted to legitimize himself, “First off, I'm one of the cleanest people here,” motioning over towards a diseffected individual taking up space in a stall by the window who was at the current moment wasting away on Parliaments and Effen and looking very much like he hadn't showered in several days, “That guy should be seen more as a health concern then me!”
“Gentlemen!”
Peyton and I both turned from our staring to face the bar. Jade had made her way from the other end where she had been serving a regular and was now polishing some glasses before placing them beneath the counter. “Jade,” I replied. “How's business going today?”
“Slowly.” Jade sulked as she gazed lazily out the window, “All of those potential paying customers and they're all concerned with hopping themselves up on terrible Blog House music down the street.”
“'Blog House'?” Peyton looked confused, “What is that?”
Jade shrugged, “You know, glitchy robotic dance music stuffs – typically made by pretentious French guys who themselves are hopped up on coke and old Georgio Morodor records.”
“Ah.” Peyton began to rub his chin with his paw, “Hipster bunk.” Looking over at me, “That bile that you're always playing. Stuff that was popular years ago exhorting me to do the dee a an cee ee.”
I looked at him stunned, “Now in my defense...”
“You're a robot!” Peyton cut me off as he turned his attention back towards Jade, “What do you think of all of that mess?”
“First off little man,” Jade raised her eyebrow as her currently moss green painted lips curled into a smile, “I'm a Gynoid, not a robot.” Leaning her left arm against the counter, she lifted her right leg onto the counter. Motioning her right hand up and down from the base of her thigh to her foot, she made sure to command the eye contact of the both of us, “Do you see this? Smooth alloy that's soft to the touch like human skin – no visible nuts, bolts or other early 20th century Asimovian stereotypes present.” Looking over at me coyly, “Though I know some folks who in their literary career didn't actually talk to a REAL humanoid before creating a character-”
“-who was active in a storyline set in the 60's-”
“-who-” Jade cut me off with a wagging finger, “-was more on par with Rosie The Maid then an actual sentient being.”
“Listen-,” I lifted my hand to make a point and found myself lost for words.
“You really can't win this one Kyle,” Peyton scoffed as he kept his eyes on Jade's leg, “That book had zero research.”
“It really was awful,” Jade nodded in agreement as she lowered her leg back onto the floor. Looking over at me, “Now what can I get you? Soda pop as usual? I don't suppose I could convince you to put a little bit of excitement into that glass along with could I?”
I shook my head in disagreement as I folded my hands and looked down at the counter, “The girl was into that and to some extent, I dabbled in it too. But not now. No more alcohol for me.”
Jade shook her head with mock disappointment, “My Kyle, always the boy scout.” Looking over at Peyton, “Cold water in a dish per usual?”
Peyton nodded and let off a slight purr, “It's cheap and it means less percentage on tip.”
“You know,” I motioned towards the refrigerator beside the beer taps, “You should pour him a dish with the most expensive bottled water you have. Then maybe he'll wise up and leave a good tip the next time you give him a free round!”
“Listen Kyle,” Peyton raised his eyebrow as he stared at himself in the bar's mirror while grooming himself, “Unlike the character you co-opted my likeness from, I don't pick pocket individuals on the street. I don't have a form of cash flow,” looking over at me with his eyebrow still raised to deliver what he perceived to be the final punchline, “Other then the one sitting beside me.”
I snapped my fingers at Jade as I brushed off his comment without an attempt to counter it, “Let's get those drinks going – we've got practice in a few. You're supposed to be off in five minutes”
“Who with tonight?” she asked with a wry hint of mock enthusiasm in her voice, “Another heavy metal drummer? Some banal and overly confident folk singer with a mustache and a hipster hair cut with an IV drip of Sunny Day Real Estate and Bob Dylan records?”
“No No.” I picked up my glass of soda, “These guys like a lot of the same stuff we do, so maybe we'll be able to click.”
“I surely hope so.” Jade pulled a rag from under the counter to wipe down another round of glasses, “Because I'll never be a big generic dance pop singer with the musicians we've been auditioning.”
“We'll find them.” I assured her, “I have a good feeling.”
“As good a feeling as you had about that book?” Peyton countered, “Yeah, this should be really engaging!”
My social circle ladies and gentlemen: a cat who thinks he's Dennis Miller and a robot – excuse me, Gynoid – with an electro pop fascination and dreams of pop stardom who has no problem confiscating fingers from unruly patrons.
Really, what happened and how did I get here? | | |
| American Apparel clothing and upturned noses. God I've been in this town for too long. Walking down the street of my neighborhood today, I couldn't help but feel a sense of disorientation about the entire state of things – see I'm from a small town. Where I come from, you have to drive in order to get to the corner store. Walking to a retail outlet of any form? Forget about it.
Here though, it's a completely different story. There are four record stores, three comic book shops and probably dozens of thrift stores just a ten minute walk out the front door of my apartment. In this town, you don't need a car. On the corner of my street, you can take a bus clear across town and there are two train stops within equal walking distance. Getting where ever I want? No problem.
See here's the thing, I live in Any Town Hipsterville USA – it could be Williamsburg, it could be Wicker Park, it could be Little Five Points. It could be anywhere really – why I moved here, I'm not sure. I think at some point I moved here because I had some lofty delusion of grandeur in my head about being a part of the local art scene – my mind was awash with visions of rubbing shoulders with the taste makers – maybe I could be a new Basquiat!. Unfortunately, my mind has been as dry as my pen for the last several months. It stops and starts you see, my ability to create – for a few months I'll go non stop. Once I clocked fifteen hours working on a piece without stopping from ten in the morning until after midnight. These periods of non stop ideas and creativity are usually followed very closely with creative draught and lately, these dry spots have been lasting longer and longer without foreseeable relief.
Sometimes I'll try to put ink to board and I can usually go for an hour or so, but then I get fed up and put it down. Sometimes I have to pull back my desire to snap the illustration board over my knee and throw my pens into the trash can.
Really, I'm just frustrated.
I mean – I'm twenty five years old and I don't know where the hell I'm going. I have a job thanks to an education I decided to pursue and thanks to that, I can get up whenever I want and go to bed whenever I want and most of the time, the three days out of the month that I do work are enough to cover a month or two's worth of pay. I get by alright monetarily atleast – but that's not enough to make me happy.
My best friend is a cat – A CAT! See there's something wrong with that isn't there? His name you ask? Oh, his name's Peyton and he's as pushy as they come.
(Flashing back now to earlier this morning)
Peyton's pacing around the kitchen, looking up at me expectantly before linking his eyes back to his water dish, “You are planning to fill that right?”
I find myself rolling my eyes as I pick up the dish, “You are planning to use proper execution of requesting in more polite form right?”
His back arches in what I've come to assume is his form of a shrug as he begins cleaning his paw, “Please, you've type cast me – why should I break from that mold?”
“It always goes back to that doesn't it?” I looked down at him, “That horrible excuse for a story...”
As he approached the water dish I had just placed back onto the floor, he looked up at me with a quick glance to further sharpen his point, “You could have come up with a better name then Max. I mean, go and Google that – it's one of the most common cat names out there.”
“Be glad I didn't name the character Shadow.”
“-tt-” Peyton scoffed as he began to drink from the dish, “Max, Spooky, whatever. That's why you're a hack writer – you could have spent atleast a few more minutes figuring out a more creative name.” Looking up from his dish, “But no! You couldn't do that could you? Your word processor was practically burning up beneath your sweaty fingers.”
He's right. A bit of back story – a few months ago, I attempted to write a novel about an eccentric artist in the 1960's – he was a loose composite of Andy Warhol (in the parameters of success) and myself (in the parameters of what I'd like to think I'm like as a person. Granted, I'm not nearly as calm, reserved or generous as the main character of this particular story). I managed to get a good bit of writing down, but two hundred pages in, I bowed out. I don't know – it just didn't feel right. I felt like I was writing nonsensically for the sake of being nonsensical. The writing felt pretentious and ham fisted. It felt like literary masturbation – like I was trying to cram as many multi-syllabic words into the dialogue as possible to provide the image that I knew how to write – that I knew how to string words together in a fashion that could be remotely fascinating and readable. It felt forced.
Maybe one day I'll finish it. I tell myself every day that I'm going to and each day, where my resolve to do so should be theoretically getting stronger, it weakens. Really, I just don't believe in it enough to see it through. Too many things have been going on over the last few months anyway and I'm sure the finer points of the novel are probably too buried for me to salvage any of them. I'm not all that motivated to re-read everything there is so far to try and dig them out.
Here's the thing – I like writing. It's in my blood, I've been doing it for as far back as I can remember. When I was in Miss Jones's class, I would always be the star pupil, putting together short stories on whatever topic we were given to write about – for Halloween, I even cut my construction paper into the shape of a skull (now granted, my mind is probably envisioning a far better looking skull shape then the six year old version of me actually probably conceived) and wrote my story on it. When I was in the third grade, I impressed my teacher Mrs. Collier because I knew how to spell the word 'through'.
It goes on from there – words and I have always gotten along when I've been able to confine them to paper (or these days, word processor). How words and I have gotten along in the context of interaction with others – that's a completely different story. See here's the thing, I'm always second guessing how others perceive me (I also over use the phrase 'here's the thing' – if you get past the first one hundred pages of this story without losing a bit of your mind from noting the repetition of the phrase, well then, I'll be sure to thank you when the book finally hits its second pressing twenty years from now!) - as a result, I often second guess people and their intentions. I'm pretty sure I haven't been able to keep too many long term friends simply based on this one glaring character flaw.
Flashing back to four months ago:
(The scene: I'm doing a service for a pair of friends on their wedding day).
The male: “See here's the thing Kyle, we think you're great, but we feel as if you come across terribly and assume things of us which makes us wonder what it is you really think of us.”
The female: “Really, we want positive vibes for our wedding and we feel that you would be a glaring contrast.”
The male: “As such, we're going to be looking elsewhere for someone else's services as we feel you only care about the money.”
Me: “C'mon! Let's figure this out!”
Cutting back to now:
Here's the truth of the matter, while I had enjoyed hanging out with these people, they held a particular fondness of proselytizing on certain subjects to the point of near preachiness. I often found myself wondering if they were judging me as a result of their staunch convictions. For my side of the matter, the rate I was charging them for the service I was to render them was actually a fraction of what I typically charge for a wedding of their size and when the numbers were all worked out, I would have just barely broken even. I wouldn't have made very much off of it and if anything, it probably would have been more of a wedding gift for them then anything else. Asking repeatedly for a deposit for the service to be rendered combined with my apology for perceiving some of their words wrong were the two factors that left things hung out to dry.
I've often wondered if I should attend a class on the construction of language and tact. Many times, I'm positive that my intentions are in the proper place, but the execution of my words often leave so much to be desired, that the final product is in glaring contrast to the original intention. I've sworn so many times now to be more quiet, to be more reflective and observant and every single time, I find myself recanting those desires when I find myself in the midst of spewing verbal diarrhea for the one thousandth time.
(Cut the scene back to my exchange in the kitchen with Peyton.)
“It wasn't that I didn't want to sit back and actually come up with a better name for the character,” I replied as I held my glass under the tap and turned on the water. Looking down at Peyton, “I suppose I just don't really consider the weight of importance in a name in contrast with carrying the plot forward.”
“-tt-” Peyton scoffed again, “Plot points are carried for a number of pages before moving onto the next plot point. A name on the other hand lasts for the duration of the story.” Leaning up from his water dish and staring at me now with his back arched, “Therefore, one could ascertain that picking a proper name is not only a good idea, but somewhat crucial to the overall feel of the story.”
I nodded as I took a few gulps of water from my glass. After setting it down on the counter, I looked down towards Peyton and crossed my arms, “Well I suppose I atleast captured your sassiness.”
“Damn right you did.” Peyton rose from his seated position and began to make his way into the living room, “If it weren't for me, you wouldn't get near the amount of attention you do.”
While still technically a four legged animal, Peyton tended to fancy himself a bit more important then a creature of his ilk. He often made sure to highlight this during our routine walks around the neighborhood when he, free of leash or constraint, would walk arrogantly by and taunt the passing dogs, mired in their leashes and restrained by their owners with his freedom. While often a complete prick in his dialogue with me, he was loved by all in the neighborhood and was infact one of the few animals allowed into many of the establishments.
As I followed him into the living room, he looked back towards me, “Try not to pout too much today alright?” As he jumped up onto the window sill by the front door and waited for me to put my shoes on and collect my blazer, he began to bath his paw once more, “We can't have you being the embarrassment of the neighborhood walking around trying to live out a constant interpretation of a Smiths song.”
I scoffed as I pulled my shoes on, “Heaven knows I'm miserable now...”
Peyton rolled his eyes as he lowered one of the blinds with his paw, looking out, his head began to bob back and forth, “Children in the street. I really do hope one of them meets demise by an oncoming car one day as penance for not playing in their own yards.”
“You would be mortified if you actually saw such an occurrence!”
“I won't ever see one.” Peyton corrected as he removed his attention from the window and back toward me. “Are we ready to go yet? I'm getting antsy.”
As I opened the front door, I grabbed my blazer and put it on as I fumbled for my keys. Here I am, in one of the best neighborhoods in the city – with some of the most exciting things going on – and all I want to do is sit inside and attempt to make stabs at what could maybe pass for readable prose. See, the character in that aborted attempt of a book – he knew where he was going. He had already come a long way to get to where he was. He was established and he had an idea. Me? I'm still not sure. My life is a quarter of a century old and it still feels like it's in its embryonic stage. During the few times I talk to my mother, I lie and embellish the truth to make myself out as more successful then I really am. In reality, I spend far more time then I should looking at social networking sites, fuming over the lives of other people – fuming over their success, fuming over their friends, fuming over the excitement that they must be experiencing twenty four seven.
When did my life become a caricature of a Morrissey song?
When did I decide that self pity was more beneficial then self preservaton?
Heaven knows I'm miserable now... | | |
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