Patrick. Sad European clown Patrick.
Wow. It's really been a self-love festival around here lately. First those face transformation pictures and now this! I promise you I will get back to crudely writing about music soon. But there is something more important I feel that needs to be addressed.
I've had many complaints of people telling me I'm too "elusive", too "guarded", too "private".
"Tell us something about you
they all yell, the crowds. The crowds who wait outside my door in the middle of the freezing Minnesota winter to talk to me every day when I leave 'Patrick Manor'. Or rather, they TRY to talk to me, as I'm usually very busy.
They flock to me like lepers to Saint Damien, and demand to know more about me. It's always the same.
"Where do you come from?" one says."From wherever you want me to be
", I coyly reply, putting a toothpick in my mouth, leaning against the wall.
"Is there any...GIRL....in your life??", another one friskily hastens to ask to a smattering of nervous laughter and excitement. All eyes are on me.
"That's for me to know...and you to find out."
I reply, even more coyly than before, smoothing my wild mane of black hair which the wind has been gently toying with. I take the toothpick out, and wink at the crowd. Silence.
"How do we find out?" one man asks, near the back.
I am caught offguard. He has played the game well, and throws me off.
"...Uh....hm....yeah. I guess you could ask me? Or...that wouldn't be very mysterious though...THAT'S A RUDE QUESTION. It's inappropriate...It's like asking a woman her weight"
I nervously add, pointing to a woman on my left for an example, who unfortunately happens to be quite overweight.
The same man speaks up:
"Well...DO YOU? HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?"
I look down sadly. I'm caught in a run down between first and second.
"No. I mean....There are girls that I know that...............No."
One particularly observational boy points out to me that I have toilet paper on the back of my shoe. I run away.
To combat this hysteria-since you all demand to know what life is like for this blogmaster Flex, I shall let you know...THROUGH PICTURES! TAKEN WITH A CAMERA! THAT I STOLE FROM MY FRIEND AFTER BEGGING HIM FOR HOURS IF I COULD BORROW IT!
Here's a glimpse into one night in my wonderful world:
Tonight it has been decided that I will hang out with my superfriend and master MC, Chaz. In this picture, he smiles in the knowledge that soon I will be entering his house and eating all his EL Fudge Double Stuff cookies.
Although I have no picture of my arrival or time at Chaz's, I submit this one of John of Gaunt, as I believe it captures my solemn grandiloquence, used so effectively for my entrances into parties, get-togethers and fandangos.
While Chaz's serf ties up my horse, we sit on his gigantic couch to take part in an ancient ritual for all 20 year old men:
...play 'Mortal Kombat 2' on Chaz's big flat screen entertainment system. While neither of us are anything like fans of videogames, and my motor skills when gaming are still below most species of primate (some of whom can even Sign), 'Mortal Kombat 2' is a hilarious and enjoyable game. Each punch and scream (of which there are many) powerful resound around the Northeast Minneapolis metropolitan area causing many to call the police. When the police do arrive, they only instruct us to turn it down, and are noticeably saddened that two 20 year old men are playing a 14 year old video game while eating cookies and drinking lemonade.
After our lust for awkwardly animated blood and death has been quenched, and inspired by the homicidal mayhem we have unleashed, we draw up plans to shoot up our respective schools in a state of demonic ecstasy. We then watch "South Park", which like the violent videogames we have just played, instructs us to do and say horrible things which we then do doubly, as the media has become our only true mentor in the wake of Godless liberal assault on traditional family values.
But alack, it has gotten late, and an episode of "Celebrity Fit Club" depresses us into a Bruce Vilanch-sized coma. I must depart and go to my humble abode.
My beloved inbred cat (his father was also his brother) Freddy awaits me.
He has had an equally active night, spent walking around aimlessly and sleeping.
What this picture doesn't show, is that Freddy is actually well over 130 pounds. What happens is that when my parents wake up to go to work they feed him. He then goes upstairs to sleep with me. When I wake up, I go downstairs and notice no food in his bowl thinking my parents have forgot. I feed him. This process happens 34 times again the entire day as people come and go from my house. By nightfall, Freddy has consumed over three times his weight in Whiskas brand cat food. You also have to factor in that my brother gives him a bowl of milk when he gets home, his rationale being that in the Looney Toons cartoon, Sylvester always loved drinking it. What he forgets, is that milk is actually bad for cats and although they enjoy the taste, is destructive to their already delicate digestive systems.
But we love him and we hope he enjoys his gluttonous, sinful life almost as much as we enjoy having him around.
But there is work to be done. I head upstairs to my room.
Here you see my desk for writing and studying music, doing homework, listening to music, working on the computer, and generally avoiding human contact. Bob Dylan, Art Blakey, Alban Berg and Igor Stravinsky look on in shame as I profoundly misunderstand their work. David Brent on the other hand (over the lamp), gives me props all day.
My work tonight consists of splashing around in the aquatic soundscape of the orchestration for Franz Schreker's Der Ferne Klang
, seen here in a beautiful facsimile copy of his autograph score I obtained. The pencil is for effect. One looks at this and imagines me deep in concentration, pencil in hand circling the wonderful harp and celesta figures and the harmonic idiosyncrasies that give Schreker's work it's strange glow. Nope. I just placed it there so you'd think that bullshit. Dummies.
A signed envelope of Alban Berg I purchased, addressed to the President of an opera house in Munich. It dates from the early 30s when he was hard at work on the greatest opera of the century, Lulu.
On the back is a personalized stamp the 40 something composer added himself, complete with his telephone number:
Alban Berg, Wien XIII/1
(Austria) Tel. R 34-8-31
It gives me chills sometimes. Although my room is pretty chilly.
Here I am, in slight disbelief that I consumed the entire piece of food.
This is frightening. But I keep it on my desk anyway next to the stuffed duck a dear friend got me. He's a 'sexy teacher' doll, with torn jeans and an eraser in hand that we found in my sister's closet years after she moved out.
It has mysterious...powers......
Anywho. I plan to use this camera in the next few days and I hope to post some more pictures here. This is an incentive to keep living. An incentive not to die.