Wednesday, October 22, 2008

moscow: now!

Seeing how it has almost been a year (or some other length only used in the bible) since my last post, I thought I would drop in to say "high", and not let all you big city boys have all the fun. After all, what's more important then the voice of real america? For those of you who have forgotten the yonder wanna-be artist, I am Grant Boomer,and I live in the small college town of Moscow in the blood red state of Idaho.

While Moscow is more liberal then most places in the frying-pan state, it is still very difficult to ignore the voices of those hard working individuals that are the well-oiled gears of this great nation. Yes, from the dismembered moose on the back of a raised pick-up truck, to the deli worker that says "see you at the bar!" every time I buy a carefully measured selection of bologna, to my delightful neighbor that proclaims all californians are cock suckers in between causing uncomfortable noises from his trailer that evoke the tried and true reaction of "look the other way." The voices are carried on the sweet Palouse wind, and, oh yes my friends, they all have something to say. And for me, your typical 18-24 voter who has gotten all of his information from two b-list actors, the wind can whistle at an abnoxious pitch. Somedays I can't even hear the "new" T.V. on the Radio over the howl of feverant republicans and goth store-keeps who have never heard of T.V. on the Radio. Interesting note, these mascara-clad youth are typically "Social Impirialist's", and I have a funny feeling they know just as much about that as I know about ACORN.

In the end, however, it doesn't matter. As much as I try to distance myself from my fellow Moscavites, our arms eventually end in embrace. I too live in a trailer, and even though I decorate the walls with origonal comic art, concert posters for Radiohead, Bjork, and Air, and despite my own art proudly dominating the wall in front of my computer, and in glorious contradiction to the graphic novels, art history books, and contemporary literature the line my shelves, I am still a Moscavite myself. My posters - golden calves! Books- dusty tombs! Art! Ha! A relic of a past where I still gave a damn! My right hand lies arthritic with fear and doubt, hammered stone apathy on the anvil of acadamia, my mind atraphied by tedious sun rise after tedious sun rise. My heart, now more worn for ware, beats heavily with whisteful sorrow for a past filled with future. Soon I will drive my blood-soaked F-150 to work, where I will serve greasy food to greasy guests, hopeing with squeemish hands that my favorite customers will be with me after work, watching a mirror called "Me" drink themselves into sweet oblivion, numbing the cold I claim to feel only on the meandered path home. This is the tommarow I fear. This is what keeps my eyes closed in the morning.

Escape. This is the first solution that comes to mind, and it appears sound enough. Flee to Portland, where I can ride my bike and serve my coffee. Flee to LA, where I can drive my coup and serve my coffee while listening to Pavement. flee to Chicago, where I can ride the EL-Train and serve my sausage. Flee to New York, where I can die frozen in a cardboard box. If I am to become something I do not want to be, why not move somewhere that transform me into something that is at least hip? At least then my angst is popular and not urinated upon by pastors with a God complex. When I give in to sweet complacency, at least let it be somewhere they pretend to be everything but! Where I may hang my golden calves with pride, not read my dusty tombs with even more vigor, and ignore someone my age's spousal abuse across the hall! I can listen to music with people who will still think I am gay, but they will be fine with that! Dance to unknown bands that actually play in my new town, even if I am too scared to walk to them. All the while working with my hip new co-workers while pretending with them that I have nearly enough motivation to have a show at that gallery that mocks me from my bedroom window.

In the end, I will be happy. These notions will look as childish as Santa Clause when I'm not buying my first house because of the bank's and my credit. Someone will ease my heavy beating with soft hands, and some company will ease my hunger with a stiff pay check. And whether it is television repair or real estate, in the end I will be happy. The sun will rise quick and quicker, the pain like a band aid, barely noticeable after all these years. My youth will seem silly. I should have just gotten a business degree in the first place. My stomach will be full, and I will not see whoever filled my plate when I rest hard on the chair built to take it. And I will drink softly. And close my eyes.

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