With hair that was swept to the side only enough to retain a reasonable field of vision, Mr. EJ was hiding. He hid his insecurities in the guise of a hipster, behind too long hipster hair, hipster blazers, books of poetry, cans of PBR, and a wealth of knowledge greater than his unfinished education would warrant. Mr. EJ didn't have much to be insecure about in the time I've known him: the facade was probably developed in defense of some past woes which never seem to cease in their haunting. A hipster in Juneau is an outcast in the sense that a hipster in Juneau is far too hip. In high school he was likely an outcast of a different sort.
He can often be found sitting hunched at the bar with a book in one hand and a beer in the other or standing outside never donning anything more weighty than a wool winter coat while he smokes cigarettes, brooding, looking listless, or participating in some other hipster pastime. His taste in movies is pretentious, 60's, 70's, French. His taste in music, equally so, discordant, obscure, experimental. He wields a guitar and an off-key and slightly nasal voice, with which he can successfully serenade a woman in no fewer than three languages, most notably: Portuguese. He has wrinkles around his eyes which bely the experiences which may surpass those of his peers.
"I used to be a junkie," he once confided to me with such nonchalance I was almost baffled.
He is fickle and unreliable, perhaps due to his general unhappiness with his situation. He has been talking about leaving again for as long as I've known him. It's been months. Sometimes he appears to be gone, as he has disappeared from the downtown scene for months on occasion, but he resurfaces again to pick up where he left off. A different book. Same everything else.
He leads a rather humble life, living at home because it is free and tolerable, working a job which likely pays a wage many would scoff at, wearing thrift store clothes and spending most likely only on beer, coffee, and cigarettes.
He is interesting though. He is interesting and when he is interested he is engaged. So engaged that one would imagine being the only person worth a glance in the room, until his attention is stolen away. He can converse for hours on end on numerous subjects; biology, literature, music, art... he has seduced, he has romanced, he has broken hearts, all while maintaining what could only be described as a professional level of aloofness. If aloofness were a profession, he would be the CEO, or more likely still, a most desirable yet elusive free-lance consultant.
He strikes me as someone who could get anything, everything, anyone, and everyone he wants, yet still be unsatisfied and generally unhappy.
But as Ryan Adams said, "There's something really sexy about sad."
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Mr. A
I honestly haven't got anything terrible to say about Mr. A. There is a reason I adored him for so many months. There is seemingly no reason for the sudden repulsion.
I believe I was first introduced to Mr. A at the Alaskan bar but was too enamored with Mr. EJ to pay him much more than a sweeping glance and a stilted hello.
We met again, a more memorable occasion for me, at a wine and cheese tasting at a mutual friend's apartment. A friend of mine, or an acquaintance really, kept harassing me about this Mr. A - convinced that he could not only protect me from assholes, he could also find me the right guy. We did eventually fall into conversation, maintaining close proximity and enjoying one another's company all night. When we parted ways I gave him my number.
He called approximately 1.5 days later. I declined the invitation to hang out due to its late start-time, as late start-times usually lead to less wholesome activities.
Eventually we did see each other again. And again. And again. Off and on, hot and cold from sometime in late January or early February until the beginning of August.
Mr. A attracted my attention when he had, at minimum, a 5 O'clock shadow and scholarly glasses. He was witty and intelligent and said things outside my knowledge base. He said everything with confidence yet seemed empathetic.
He seemed to live frugally in a spacious apartment. Books of all genres on all subjects replaced a headboard. A mattress on the floor. A couch with cushions which never wanted to stay on the couch. The apartment, its contents, the owner's tastes: eclectic.
He worked to make money, worked so that in his free time he could do that for which he really had passion. It wasn't anything selfish, either. His passion took the form of an environmental cause. It took the form of a non-profit of which he was co-founder. It took the form of laborious research and grant writing. Of trying to sell an idea. Of making something happen. This was his passion, this is his passion. More than anything else, it seems, this takes precedence.
Rarely seen out at the bars, he even goes so far as to make his own beer and will attempt to bake his own bread if he has not already done so.
I have heard him utter tender words and I have heard him pass judgment ignorantly. I have seen him vulnerable and I have seen him with a defense that could repel even someone who could have loved him, had there been a chance.
I believe I was first introduced to Mr. A at the Alaskan bar but was too enamored with Mr. EJ to pay him much more than a sweeping glance and a stilted hello.
We met again, a more memorable occasion for me, at a wine and cheese tasting at a mutual friend's apartment. A friend of mine, or an acquaintance really, kept harassing me about this Mr. A - convinced that he could not only protect me from assholes, he could also find me the right guy. We did eventually fall into conversation, maintaining close proximity and enjoying one another's company all night. When we parted ways I gave him my number.
He called approximately 1.5 days later. I declined the invitation to hang out due to its late start-time, as late start-times usually lead to less wholesome activities.
Eventually we did see each other again. And again. And again. Off and on, hot and cold from sometime in late January or early February until the beginning of August.
Mr. A attracted my attention when he had, at minimum, a 5 O'clock shadow and scholarly glasses. He was witty and intelligent and said things outside my knowledge base. He said everything with confidence yet seemed empathetic.
He seemed to live frugally in a spacious apartment. Books of all genres on all subjects replaced a headboard. A mattress on the floor. A couch with cushions which never wanted to stay on the couch. The apartment, its contents, the owner's tastes: eclectic.
He worked to make money, worked so that in his free time he could do that for which he really had passion. It wasn't anything selfish, either. His passion took the form of an environmental cause. It took the form of a non-profit of which he was co-founder. It took the form of laborious research and grant writing. Of trying to sell an idea. Of making something happen. This was his passion, this is his passion. More than anything else, it seems, this takes precedence.
Rarely seen out at the bars, he even goes so far as to make his own beer and will attempt to bake his own bread if he has not already done so.
I have heard him utter tender words and I have heard him pass judgment ignorantly. I have seen him vulnerable and I have seen him with a defense that could repel even someone who could have loved him, had there been a chance.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Gary Garble
The name Gary Garble is certainly not my own, I credit this nickname to a talented observer of the Juneau-verse, Stickpaste.
Gary Garble is a walking, talking* farce. He is absurdity on two over-taxed legs.
Gary Garble is sloth. Gary Garble is questionable hygiene. Gary Garble is waste. Gary Garble is addiction. Gary Garble is a disaster.
Gary Garble is friendly but makes all but those who share his despair uncomfortable. Gary Garble is random yet predictable. Gary Garble is confusion and impulse. Gary Garble is a strange, mumbling, groaning, stuttering mess.
Seen about Juneau in all weather donning cotton shorts and T-shirts which mock him, unaffected by the cold due to a heavy layer of insulation, always seemingly coated in sweat he wanders from bar to bar or to and from McDonald's or Heritage coffee.
Desperate for friendship, as many who frequent the bars during the less crowded hours seem to be, he will strike up friendship with the other lonelies, conversation over nothing, and he will generously or desperately treat these lonelies to drinks or share in a batch of pulltabs.
It is possible that there is a constant supply of alcohol to that blood stream, as Gary Garble never seems to alter his mood much. Gary Garble when he enters the bar is not much different from Gary Garble when he leaves the bar, it varies only depending on his fate in pulltabs.
Gary Garble is confined by his impulses. He will drink more and more, spend more and more, and to what end? You can sometimes see the dark urges and the scarce bit of rationality clashing. An internal monologue gone external, a private battle bared to the bar: Gary Garble will verbally try to persuade himself against spending more money on the pulltabs, sometimes logic wins, sometimes chaos wins. Sometimes Gary Garble will walk away from the losing game, only to be drawn back later by unseen forces.
Logic and rationality do exist. This rational side takes hold sporadically and randomly. Usually Gary Garble is following instincts, urges, or perhaps the pull of the tide or other unlikely forces.
Untidy whitened combover, constant greasy appearance, obesity, slovenly dress: these are the physical attributes. The more abstract descriptions might have been enough to pinpoint him in a crowded bar, though.
*Gary Garble doesn't so much talk as mumble and stutter and groan and slur.
Gary Garble is a walking, talking* farce. He is absurdity on two over-taxed legs.
Gary Garble is sloth. Gary Garble is questionable hygiene. Gary Garble is waste. Gary Garble is addiction. Gary Garble is a disaster.
Gary Garble is friendly but makes all but those who share his despair uncomfortable. Gary Garble is random yet predictable. Gary Garble is confusion and impulse. Gary Garble is a strange, mumbling, groaning, stuttering mess.
Seen about Juneau in all weather donning cotton shorts and T-shirts which mock him, unaffected by the cold due to a heavy layer of insulation, always seemingly coated in sweat he wanders from bar to bar or to and from McDonald's or Heritage coffee.
Desperate for friendship, as many who frequent the bars during the less crowded hours seem to be, he will strike up friendship with the other lonelies, conversation over nothing, and he will generously or desperately treat these lonelies to drinks or share in a batch of pulltabs.
It is possible that there is a constant supply of alcohol to that blood stream, as Gary Garble never seems to alter his mood much. Gary Garble when he enters the bar is not much different from Gary Garble when he leaves the bar, it varies only depending on his fate in pulltabs.
Gary Garble is confined by his impulses. He will drink more and more, spend more and more, and to what end? You can sometimes see the dark urges and the scarce bit of rationality clashing. An internal monologue gone external, a private battle bared to the bar: Gary Garble will verbally try to persuade himself against spending more money on the pulltabs, sometimes logic wins, sometimes chaos wins. Sometimes Gary Garble will walk away from the losing game, only to be drawn back later by unseen forces.
Logic and rationality do exist. This rational side takes hold sporadically and randomly. Usually Gary Garble is following instincts, urges, or perhaps the pull of the tide or other unlikely forces.
Untidy whitened combover, constant greasy appearance, obesity, slovenly dress: these are the physical attributes. The more abstract descriptions might have been enough to pinpoint him in a crowded bar, though.
*Gary Garble doesn't so much talk as mumble and stutter and groan and slur.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Introduction:
Perhaps it is my line of work. Perhaps it is that I pay way too much attention. Either way, I encounter some interesting characters and I feel that it is worthwhile to document said encounters, descriptions, and anything that seems relevant.
Employment profile:
33-40 hours per week spent with miners.
18 hours per week spent with people in combination with alcohol (while sober).
4 hours per week spent with tourists and the occasional Juneau fashionista.
Other:
2-8 hours per week spent with people in combination with alcohol while more likely not sober.
40ish hours per week sleeping.
Who knows what I do with the rest of my hours...
Employment profile:
33-40 hours per week spent with miners.
18 hours per week spent with people in combination with alcohol (while sober).
4 hours per week spent with tourists and the occasional Juneau fashionista.
Other:
2-8 hours per week spent with people in combination with alcohol while more likely not sober.
40ish hours per week sleeping.
Who knows what I do with the rest of my hours...
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