I also found out that my old advisor from Ich Bin Oberlinar College got in his reference letter. His e-mail was very friendly and he thought my idea was interesting and "very ambitious!" It's something that needs to get done, I figure, and I'm glad others see the use in it.

So tonight I finally decided to go out to McD's and have the M*Rib. Like I said during the Detroit report: I only every eat there when that compressed, preserved-like-fossils slab of pork is being offered. It's been orgasmic in past years.

The meal itself felt like I was eating a paper bag. First and last time I'll be having the M*Rib this season.

I mention this otherwise completely forgettable meal because there was a homeless vet in the 'restaurant'. I'd heard him talking with some other dude about how Other Dude needed to move past some shit. Just as I had finished my food, I heard the dude wishing a good night to some brother. Thinking this was one of those weird older guys that talks to everyone, I turned my head around. Yup, I was the target.

He came over and asked if I was in school here. I said yeah. When he asked what I studied and I replied psych., he got that look older people get. You know the one: they have a generalized, inaccurate perception because of societal indoctrination. He thought I was studying to be a practicing clinical psychologist. A shrink. I told him in my quietly public voice that wasn't the type of psych. I studied. It grinded through for a second or two, then proceeded into a story. All the meanwhile were those eyes, like giant cornflower meadows, bright and clear and full of some opaquely clear insight...maybe madness. I was guessing the latter.

As the story goes, there'd been a music and psych double major he knew, apparently. The first point was that with the music, the guy had something practical to work with or some point like that. I stayed quiet and maintained eye contact. He talked about walking onto a steam grate with the guy and singing a song there. Mentioned that the music dude needed some uplift.

I forget the transition, but the homeless dude then started singing "Cynthia" to me. And there I was: the ass-end of a godless hollowed corpse of a dying corporation, unsettled, listening to a complete stranger with frenetic cornflower eyes sing something. I thought it best not to just stare at his face, so I looked to the side and at the floor.

This set the guy off; in a quiet way, though. He kept mentioning that I'd averted my gaze as a sign of being ashamed, that I was embarassed. He went on further about my having not heard a word he said, which was partly true--mostly since I had no idea what his point in singing to me was. I tried to explain that I'm not used to talking with people who just come up, but he shook his head and got more angry. He took it as a sign that I thought I was better than he was. I honestly didn't feel that way--more like I wanted to just stop talking and be left alone. I tried saying something to that effect, but he went on about what a shame it was, what a goddamn shame it was, how I had alot to learn, shit like that. Apparently some chick "over there" had done the same thing.

I'll admit, it's an ingrained societal instinct: you don't randomly strike conversations with people in spaces not designed for that sort of thing, not unless an event requires breaking that instinct (e.g. asking for the time).

I was numb to the whole thing, past him chuckling to himself without humor, telling me how old he was, how he was a vietnam vet, and generally going on in a way to suggest it'd be ludicrous for me to think I was better than he was. I guess wanting to be left alone ain't a good excuse; usually isn't for that type of guy. He added his daughter "went to this school". May have been. He asked me my name and I lied, using my usual alias. May have caught that, may not, but at that point I just wanted the guy to fuck off.

So after a prompt and fading "fuck you, man" or two from him as he shuffled to where he'd been sitting, I packed up the rest of my trash and trashed it. He stood back up and tried saying something more, but I made it very clear with my face and side-way body language that I wanted nothing of it. If I were still eating I'd have told the manager to throw the guy out. I do not like invasions of my space like that. I go to utterly ludicrous measures to make sure I only get contacted or talk with people when I want to. That's just the person I am. Outside of that social space, I want to be in my own space and only my space. It's why I live alone, why I stay or seem "aloof" sometimes when I get socially caught off guard. When I wanna hang out in only my head--which is a good place at a fast food restaurant--I want to stay there.

I still feel flustered from the whole encounter. I tell myself I should just let it slide off. Partly I'm doing that by writing about the event, getting everything down so I don't have to remember it.

Last time something like that happened was years ago with the gay migrant farm-worker who tried to hit on me. He was drunk off his ass, though, so that was funny. This old dude was stone cold sober and frightening. I suppose war brings certain people together, and that sense of seeing past societal boundaries and to just connect with people however you want can be liberating. But while some may like that, I prefer just to observe those things, not participate--not unless I'm in the right space or my participation seems to be needed.

I also read something from T. Yeah, that T, not Detroit T/Caribbean J's man. She'd updated a journal I knew she had, and what she wrote seemed to be about me. Regardless of whether it is or not, I wrote her an e-mail at what may still be her address. Just to discuss things. I know what your likely reaction is to that, but I prefer closure to sutures when possible. And if she did mean me in her writing, she could use closure too. I'm expecting silence, same as usual.

Besides that I talked with an extremely plastered friend last night. I won't go into detail since I haven't gotten a release--you know me--but we did have a fun talk. Noone else calls me when they're drunk or stoned, so it's unique.

I also got an e-mail from Sylph about her job and how her new place was getting good. Amen, I figure: she deserves it for X, Y and Z.

The cafe is about to close and they have that god awful "you promised me" italian techno song on, so time for me to fuck off.

More photos soon.

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