Thursday, September 30, 2004
What its like to go outside for a smoke and to be reading player piano and think what a genius vonnegut is and then to see your initials written in a line and then to go inside and pee and grab the calender section of the la times and look at the movie reviews on the ad of garden state and to see the first review written by a guy who shares your first two names and then to go inside and want to write on the computer and you say to yourself that this was pretty cool and that it meant something then to turn up the volume on all of the songs that have been playing on your old computer with the volume down and it was one of your favorite songs by marilyn mansom but it took a long time and now you’ll have to tackle all of those divine intervention and moments of clarity moments later because youre getting tired drunk and thirty.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Pack It Up, Pack It In, Let Me Begin...
Yeah. Backed up my friend's truck into a lightpole on Saturday.
Nice as it gets...my life.
Sweeter and sweeter.
I think that I'm due for an accidental skydiving accident in which I kill a bunch of RED CROSS, NUNS, NATO, MADD, NNACP, GREENPEACE, KKK, ATF, CIA, VC, WKORP, NAFTA, X-MEN, FF, AVENGERS and helpless retarded children.
This is how my luck goes.
Hooked on Impulse Phonics.
This Is How My Luck Goes.
Sweeter and sweeter.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Oh, and speaking of Anna Kournikova -
my girlfriend and I were watching TV
and a commercial came on having to do
with some charity tennis thingy with Anna K.,
that one guy, and that other guy,
so I turned to my girlfriend and said,
"Hey! We should go see Anna Kournikova!"
She looked shocked and gave me a look.
"Are you serious?" She said.
I said, "No" and gave her a big smile and then slowly turned back towards the TV.
Monday, September 20, 2004
Saturday, September 18, 2004
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Monday, September 13, 2004
September 1st - September 17th...
I'm such a dummy that I didn't pay attention and thought that my girlfriend was coming back from her Europe trip this Wednesday, but she's not - she's coming back this Friday night. I'm a bad boyfriend with poor eyesight and Attention Deficit Disorder.
I find it very interesting that I'm always lamenting about my life full of distractions and my inability to write, about how hard it is to write while engaged in my most beautiful relationship. I write about my situation like a new owner does about his cute, peeing puppy. It's all about coping with getting used to this pretty little thing that I have. Frustrating at times and time-consuming.
But like all pet owners, I don't know what to do now that she's gone. Yes, I've compared my girlfriend to a dog - but it was the only thing that came to my mind right now. AND my girlfriend does not poo or pee anywhere but in the bathroom. Well...at least as far as I know.
Anyway, I'm always lamenting about how my life is full of distractions and about my inabilities to write and about how hard it is to write while engaged in my most beautiful relationship, and guess what? Now that she's been gone close to fifteen days, I have written practically nothing and haunted our house like an old ghost. Not even a cool ghost. More like a Disneyland Haunted Mansion ghost. Not any of the funny ones, more like the ones that look lonely in the graveyard. Probably like the old grave digger or maybe like an old hollow-faced butler holding a candlestick. A beer, more likely.
The point was...that...not that I thought that this whole experience was going to be cool or anything, but I didn't know that I would be this lonely, lost and heart-stricken. I obviously have changed and can't function normally without my better half.
I definitely am messier when she's not here. I don't remember being this careless. I tend to watch TV now - which I hate, because that's one of the worst things that one can do by themselves, I think. To sit in front of a glowing box full of stupid images and noisy, dull words. This never helps a person. This never gets one excited to be alive. This only depresses the already deflated.
I drink less. This I don't understand. Or maybe I'm just drinking less anyway, but I kind of pictured like, I would play music really loud and scribble away madly in my notebooks - but none of this has happened. I tend to stare at things a lot more than usual and after I finished my Harry Potter book I've found it hard to get into anything else. I have two Vonnegut books floating around me always, but all I do is pick at them like I do my dinner.
I have found myself cooking for no one and wrapping it all up in the fridge and eventually throwing most of it away.
Not as many friends called me as I thought they would. Maybe they think that since I always liked being alone before - I will want to now.
I haven't had a party or bedded any loose-legged supermodels. I have bedded with one of our cats continuously and all he's managed to do is piss me off, gnaw on my toes and knock over things in the dead of night.
I stay up even later than before. This is deadly, folks. I think that I may only live to forty if all of this stuff kepps up. Yes, I just said KEPPS.
So. I could go on. Why go on? Things'll get back to normal eventually when she comes back - IF she comes back. I wouldn't. HELL no. What do you think I am, CRAZY? Screw this place - I'd never come home. I love adventures and new places, I love to look at people that don't look like all of the pretty freaks over here, I like new freaks, especially freaks that can't speak English. I think I'm getting older and a little stir-crazy. Change is coming soon, doody-fresh, and I'm glad I can feel it crawling over the horizon. The air is erratic, it's full of static, and I'm glad because everybody needs a series of shocks to the system. One cannot sit in front of a computer all day. The INTERNET is a muddy reflection in a pool of stagnancy. It's fizzling fireworks and old socks. The INTERNET is like a very conversational cop who gives you a ticket for driving too slow. The INTERNET is like Spanish lessons for one who already knows how to speak it. The INTERNET is like taking speed whilst quadriplegic.
Evel Knievel must've gone out and taken a walk every once in a while.
Hitler should've found better things to paint.
And Charles Manson only needed a girlfriend.
Friday, September 10, 2004
As the critic and novelist Umberto Eco once observed, any text "always constitutes a bet on the way it will be received." It should not surprise us, therefore, that some of Bukowski’s most trenchant remarks on the art of writing refer us back to the track; indeed, he commends it to us. In his story "Goodbye Watson" (appropriately a tale about placing a wrong bet, this time on a boxer), the author avows that "if I ever taught a class in creative writing, one of my prerequisites would be that each student must attend a racetrack once a week and place at least a 2 dollar win wager on each race." Horseracing offers the writer an invaluable mental discipline, for "a man who can beat the horses can do almost anything he makes up his mind to do." Its bottom line, its existential limit, is the "death-wish"—"old stuff," but with "still some basis in it yet." We can recognize this in ourselves and in others and in the crowd around us, since "the reason most people are at the racetrack is that they are in agony, ey yeh, and they are so desperate that they will take a chance on further agony rather than face their present position." The danger lies in forgetting that gambling (and, we might add, writing) is a difficult craft to master and needs careful handling—"just another job, finally, and a hard one too"—and without respecting this we merely left with a recipe for "bad bets" and "sucker bets." But correctly understand, says Bukowski, "the racetrack tells me where I am weak and where I am strong." It is a source of great intuitive insight, freeing the writer from what is fake and routine, and Bukowski approvingly cites Hemingway’s attendance at bullfights, claiming that they helped "old ratbeard" to write. Nevertheless, there is an essential difference between the two writers that goes unnoticed here. Bukowski’s own writing lacks that sustained fatalism that pervades Hemingway’s work, that obsession with our failure to recognize when our luck has run out. In Bukowski’s narratives we repeatedly straddle the fine divide between winning and losing, between self-possession and the illusion of control, and it is this that underlies the bitter comedy of novels like Factotum and Post Office, for in that narrowest of gaps a whole world emerges. Like his days at the races, Bukowski’s fictions remind us "how much we keep changing, changing all the time, and how little we know of this."...
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
H.P. Lovecraft's Mother...
A friend spent the night on my couch last night. She asked if I would take her home in the morning, I said that it wouldn't be a problem. In the morning she was gone. This kind of puzzled me because she said that her car was parked at Matt's house which is a good distance away.
I guess she decided to walk or maybe she tried to wake me up and I didn't, I don't know. Anyway, when she got to Matt's house, she thought that her car got towed. But she forgot that it was parked across the street from my house and had to walk all the way back.
Monday, September 06, 2004
So, the girlfriend's in London. I obviously didn't go. Long story. My work is also closed til maybe Thursday. Going to Vegas on Friday. That doesn't really help out in the money aspect, does it? I have to go though, my room was comped by a guy that I know that does business with the owner of the hotel that I'm staying at. I guess he owns two more of the big ones too. Must be nice. But, I have to go, and trust me - I'm grateful - I mean, how cool is that. A comped room for the whole weekend at 170 bucks a night. This includes whores too. No. Just kidding. No whores.
I think I'm going to do some manual labor 2morrow for some more extra cash.
I am now forgetting things.
Trying to construct a funny sentence about cruising the gay park by my house.
I am too lazy to explain this.
Friday, September 03, 2004
Dr. Curt Connors' Missing Arm...
It's kind of unfair that all mirrors aren't made alike.
I think that mirrors should give back the same reflection as any other.
because, I mean, doesn't it suck to look okay in one mirror and then later go to a different mirror-only to look hideous? I hate those close-up mirrors that show everything too. I don't think some people should be looked at that close. There should be a law against that sort of thing. Like a restraining order that ugly people can file against others so that they don't get too close. I bet a lot of people would start shouting their conversations to each other on the street.
The only people without vanity problems are those that shatter every mirror that they look at.