Goddam, I trashed the fucking leg

Goddam the pusher man. I went on a cleaning frenzy and threw out the fucking leg. This is a meaningless act of semi-responsibility in most people's books, but I'm really torn up over it. Today was a rough day.

Moving out means cleaning out. I had to do it. Maybe. There's a story to be told, though.

New Years Eve had been a favorite holiday for a couple years before it became significantly memorable. Chrispy was in town--just the two of us for a change, and we went to a loft party after seeing !!! before anyone knew that it was pronounced "chick chick chick". The night was great and alive. I met my first real girlfriend that night. She took us to a loft party that we ended up at several times down the road (it happened post NYE and Halloween most every year). On the way out, Chrispy and I spotted several mannequin body parts in a smaller loft area. Chrispy (back in his ballsy days) climbed the ladder and handed me the leg.

"They call us irresponsible/Write us off the stage."

I've had a really mopey sad day, so I'm listening to the happiest song in my music collection right now. "We Built This City on Rock and Roll". I tried to listen to "The Pusher" by Steppenwolf ("Good lord, I smoked alotta grass!"), but it didn't work. This one isn't working either. Two hours of Stereolab really fucked with me.

"Coming through your schools!"

"Don't you remember?"

I guess it is working a little. How can you not smile listening to this gem?

Anyway, Chrispy passed the leg down to me. Now, this thing has a huge fucking bulge in it--I was slightly jealous. I named it something, and I carried him around for blocks looking for a cab and for something else to do. It made it back to my apartment and became a conversation piece for years. I left it out, decorated it on holidays, and considered it a key source of protection in case of homosexual Wrigleyville assaults on my apartment. It was just so damn sexy.

Oh man, "Sarah" just came on from the same album.

"No time is a good time for good-bye"--leg!

I remember taking my leg to Creative Writing class. The students had to create a story on how I acquired it. I remember handing it to a petite student and making her carry it while everyone wrote.

"Storms like the wind in your eyes, leg"

"No time is a good time for good-bye"

Jamie used to stay at my apartment for days on end. This usually resulted in several near battle royales, but before things got too out of hand, the leg would come out. It was a microphone for some of the baddest ass versions of "Mr. Brownstone" the world never heard. There were about twelve holes in my ceiling and walls in the old Cornelia haunt that the leg caused. It was possessed. Though my hands may have held it, it was in complete control at all times.

Once we had a fight between a chair and the leg. Jamie manned the chair, and I manned the leg. The chair won. I woke up the next day and saw massive gashes in the leg--it was holding on by a string.

Man, this Starship album is fucking playing out the leg's anthem right now. I wish everyone could hear this.

"We'll still have each other. Nothing's gonna stop us now!"

"Take it through the good times. See it through the bad times!"

"Let the world around us just fall apart! We can build this dream together. Standing strong forever. Nothing's gonna stop us now!"

I was forced to duct tape up the leg. It went from a pristine tan to a glorious chrome.

"Hold you forever! Ever and ever!"

The leg remained that way for years. Betsy, upon moving to Chicago, tried to, uh, "normal up" my apartment so I didn't seem like such a freak show. She decorated the leg and tried to hang it from the ceiling, but it wasn't having it. I draped my Pamplona red sash from its thigh, but it refused to wear it. It was like trying to put a hat on a cat.

The leg went in storage. "What the fuck is that thing?" the movers asked. "Oh, that's just, well, you know." Like I needed to fucking explain the leg. It's the fucking leg. Put it in the storage and don't scratch up its calf motherfuckers.

I sort of dreamed of having the leg forever. I wanted to force the bitch of a wife I'm sure I'll marry to have to put it on display in my study. I wanted to break it out after having not seen my friends for four years. I wanted to continue to sing "Mr. Brownstone" into it until the day I fucking rot in the grave.

But some pussy ass part of me made me put it in the trash today. Responsibility. Freaking out. Motion. The need to have space. Jesus. All that sounds horribly pussified. What's happening to me?

Starfield couldn't make it four in a row. Back to building some shit on Rock and fucking roll.

Bow Bow... Bow Bow.

"Say you don't know me/Recognize my face!"

"Knee deep in the hoopla!"

I'm drunk, depressed, and without my leg. I'm about to dumpster dive. I'm really fucking close.

Today was just terrible. It's awful to clean house. There are so many memories in boxes and bags. I had to see polaroids of last summer, back when I was happy. I threw out a bag of memorabilia from my first Europe trip. I never made the collage that spanned nine countries. I threw out my KC Royals hat that I wore every day for about nine years of my life. It was covered in gunk.

"Don't tell us you need us!"

"Don't you remember?"

"Member Member!?!"

Maybe this is how adulthood is supposed to feel. I do feel strange and like I might grow hair in some place that I didn't have it before (if that's even possible). All of this just sucks so badly. Why can't we keep mannequin legs for the rest of our lives? Why couldn't I have not been such a lazy sod and made that collage. It would have been totally bad ass. Why did I send the embarrassing e-mail that I sent about an hour ago? Oh god.

"Move on, it's no good to go back in time!"

God, I really never knew I related so well to Starship lyrics. This shit is bad ass.

I hate moving on and leaving behind. Especially this time where it feels like I'm leaving nothing behind. It's all just empty space filled with memories and legs and baseball hats and scraps of paper that never made it to a collage. Why must I only realize all this with a wine-soaked mind?

"No time is a good time for good-bye!"