Tuesday, December 31, 2002

I’m watching ”My So Called Life.” Claire Danes is kinda hot. It’s a combination of teen angst and midlife crisis. Something parents are supposed to be able to watch with their kids, I think. A friend I accused of having indiscriminate taste in media laughed at me for liking this show. I don’t know if I like it or not, in fact. I just have some vague memory of watching it when it came out. I think it was a century ago. I was still living with my mother, hanging out at some cafes. The Green Carnation and Copasetic are the two I remember the most, but there were a few others whose names escape me. I’m not sure how I found time to watch television then. I spent so much time primping and then waiting to get picked up by one of my friends to head to a café or Club Metro. I don’t think I’ve ever been so popular, or at least had so many friends that were willing to drive me places.

Monday, December 30, 2002

Went to the Crown and Anchor last night with two friends. We discussed the merits of various dictators and world leaders loudly between gulps of Warsteiner and Bottington’s. I think Papa Doc came out in the lead. We wanted to toast Joe Strummer with some whisky but for some reason the liquor license there only allows hard liquor to be served with food. Weird. So we got grub and our shots. The bartender must have thought us completely off our gourds. We went back to my place, one friend passed out before we got any more booze out and the other friend looked at some of my art. He liked it. I’m always flattered when people want to look at my creations, even if they don’t like what they see.

Sunday, December 29, 2002

It’s amazing what a few good nights’ worth of sleep will do for you. Little wonder I slept 12 hours a day in high school. I slept about 10 hours a night the past two nights and I feel somewhat better. I think if I’d gotten up a little earlier and had some toast and some tea I’d be perfect. The horrors of the holidays and mind-numbing self-loathing that attends such events are gradually sliding away.

Saturday, December 28, 2002

I just noticed that I smell like Mr. Bubble but I took a bubble bath last night. Weird.
As I was leaving my apartment complex, I saw one of the managers in the golf cart they drive around in. Following her were 3 large tow trucks, the long, flatbed ones. It looked like they had a few trucks to move. Turning the corner onto the street, two cop cars had someone pulled over. I heard sirens several more times as I walked to Flamingo. This bustle was imperceptible to the drones in their cages (cars.) The activity level seemed high for a Saturday. I wonder why the complex would wait until a Saturday afternoon to tow away vehicles, Monday morning seems more appropriate a time for office workers to get anything major accomplished. Two cruisers on one car? It’s two o’clock on Saturday afternoon! I doubt very many people would be drunk or dangerous. Then again, this town can be a 24 hour drunken brawl. I’ve been in bars and casinos at every hour of the day so drunk that I can barely see and it takes a few minutes before I can remember my address so the cab can take me home. I guess two cops might have been necessary, after all.

I read a few pages of one of my old journals last night. God, I’m a whiner. I’m still whining about the same shit, too. I think I’ve got some more self-confidence now, though. I quoted a lot of things in the few pages I read. I don’t remember where all of them came from and I think I was being a little snot when I was writing it so I didn’t credit anything and left it to the reader to look it up. I’m a bitch sometimes.
Hi, I’m back. Sorry, had a little crisis over the holiday. Not as bad as Thanksgiving, mind you, just some general self-loathing and minor destruction. I think my kidneys are gonna explode.

I’ve been watching television again. Speaking with a friend a few weeks ago, I wondered how she could spend so much time alone. She said she watches a lot of television. Of course she has cable. Downloading your shows is different; it doesn’t have that live feel. I miss CNN and the History Channel. As a child, I watched television constantly. Even in the times we did not have cable. Now, I catch Lettermen as I arrive home, then Conan, and the others until the overnight news feeds come on. I’m surprised that network television has anything to offer me.

I might be a snob, but the idiot box still has a few delights. A few nights ago, Conan had Roberto Benigni on. The man has such an ecstatic furor, like a Molotov cocktail. “Buongiorno, Principessa!” I remember watching la Vita è bella, crying my eyes out, but those words of hope stuck and have become almost a cliché in my romantic entanglements.

A sweetheart is IMing me, back later.

Friday, December 27, 2002

Nothing to see. Move along. I'm sick and hungover from Christmas. I don't even believe in that stupid shit. At least I got to see some friends and I got a few DVDs. Cha-ching!

Wednesday, December 25, 2002

God my neighbors are loud. It's a good thing I have an extensive collection of obnoxious Industrial to blast.
I'm watching Streetcar Named Desire. I'm too drunk to include the link, just go to IMDB find it yourself.

I once had a conversation with a vivacious woman. She thought that James Dean was the most attractive thing ever. I countered with Brando in this film. She braved my challenge and watched it with me, she still sided with Dean; She gave her weakness for men with 'issues' as an excuse.

Brando’s strong arms… I’m never sure if I want to be held by those arms or hold with them.

“They told me to take a streetcar named Desire, then transfer to one called Cemeteries, and ride six blocks and get off at Elysian Fields.”

I think I’m more like Stella.
Christmas Eve. Well, day, it’s 02:34 now. I have Easy Rider playing. It’s in Ogg Vorbis format, very clean. I’m drinking Budweiser. It seems weak. During my last internment in Bakersfield, I drank a lot of this swill. It seemed fine at the time. Perhaps since most of it was free. The immediate desperation of Thanksgiving has not hit me. The images are still burning my optic nerves: frantic pacing, nervous swipes of a razor against my arms and legs. I felt forgotten by everyone. I know now that I was missed by my friends. I wonder if I will go anywhere today. I should. I feel like I should be around the people that care about me. I find it difficult to leave my apartment. The two are difficult to reconcile. I’m glad that I was visited here last week rather than trekking to California, I don’t like moving. If I’m ever going to shake this malaise and move back there, I should start small and at least venture out on a holiday to visit people I haven’t seen in a while.

Tuesday, December 24, 2002

Train wrecks
Dead babies
I'm reading the news, listening to Nena. It never changes. There is a quote from Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, something about the international news is the same, desperate and messed up. SNAFU, they would have said, once upon a time.

Sunday, December 22, 2002

I keep my head covered with the blankets as long as I can. I left the heat off last night so it’s cold in my room. Leaving the blankets would be painful. The temperature and the light. I manage, briefly, so I can take a shower. I don’t really need one, but it’s darker in the bathroom and the water will warm me up. After the hot water runs out, I crawl back in to bed. It takes me a few more minutes until I’m ready to get dressed and leave. The weather is nice. The gray clouds have receded back to the west. I don’t need to put my gloves on. The bus is at the light as I approach the intersection. I barely make it. I am still late for work. I walk in, passing my coworkers, and look for my cup. I need some tea. No one notices or mentions my tardiness. There are holiday decorations surrounding us. The garland and lights look institutional, like a bad school play. I wonder why, in this age of cultural sensitivity, a work place would spend money on holiday decorations of any kind. The shallow imagery of tawdry events falls flat. Like my bad prose, I suppose.

Saturday, December 21, 2002

Media Monitors
The RIAA Lies
Cool pic
The Emperor's Clothes
Democracy Means You
Guerrilla News
The Glitch
Robbie Conal
Fred Phelps is not a very nice person. Last night on #slack one of the locals sent me a pic of Mr. Phelps to photoshop up. Here are the results.

Home again. The futon mat sits still in the living room; I move it to the bedroom. I'm not sure why, it's not like anyone will see my living room anytime soon. The coffee table still sits over near the dining table. I wonder why I have a dining table; it hasn’t been used for anything but games in some time. I remember buying it. There was so much hope and promise. We tried to make a home, a life together. It makes this apartment seem more like a home. The furniture lessens the desperation at this attempt at life. There are still so many posters to put up. Perhaps I will think about that later. I’m trying to convert an Avi file to Mpeg so it can be burned to VCD and played on a DVD player. It’s a present for a friend. I have so many films that I feel I should share what I can. I feel lonely –cold- now that my apartment is empty, but it feels nice to have the time to write and interact with my computer. Having someone near you is wonderful but you still need time to take care of yourself and your own desires. She didn’t complain about how much I drink and smoke, she would have complained if I’d spent too much time in front of this screen.

Friday, December 20, 2002

Noise under the pile of pillows and blankets I'm sleeping on.
It sounds like music.
I think it is my alarm.
I shuffle though the pile, hitting my head on something, and find the noise box.
There are some red line-and-dot hieroglyphs on the front of the box but I have difficulty deciphering their meaning.
I think it means that I need to get ready for work.
I perform my normal pre-work rituals with some disaffection and distraction.

There was someone just here, near me, I think.

She arrived on an airplane.

Picked her up at the airport.

Got lost getting there, it took forever to find her. We embraced. I wanted to stop by Albertson’s for beer. I think this was a bad idea, it took an hour. Some woman gave me a sob story about not being able to take anymore money out of her ATM. She wanted me to let her charge my groceries and then give her the money. I told her no. She kept asking until I walked away. I’m surprised my ride wasn’t upset with the delays. We just wanted to get back to my apartment.

After we put away the beer haul, we started watching some film and television shows on my computer.
We haven’t seen each other in six months. A few years ago we spent 6 months together, inseparable. Now all we can think of is each other.

Our relationship never ended.

I was cheating on another woman by being with her.

When I left, it should have been over, but we still cared about each other. A part of me wishes I'd stayed there, but that would have been impossible. I left her for another woman, but I was cheating on another woman by being there.

We aren’t very much alike. We come from totally different socio-economic strata. My life revolves around music and film, she absorbs media haphazardly. I skated over school work, doing what I needed to get through and absorbing as much as I thought important. She works hard, studies, reads, and makes sure to have as much done as possible.

If we are together then we are holding each other (oh, her thighs, her breasts,) whispering loves to each other (and absorbing our Egos into One) between snide comments about whatever we are watching. The Neverending Story provides a wonderful example. She comments that the dramatic crescendos of the score are coding film language for children, like some kids’ show repeating the alphabet over and over. I just think about the Rockbiter's strong hands. We move on to watch some episodes of Daria and various other cartoons and shows. Daria's teen angst stirs something in us.

Night blends into day, time loses track of itself. Chronos must have fallen asleep. another victim of the Fates.

I pull my futon mattress on top of the ancient bed since I know she is uncomfortable sleeping just on the futon. I don’t know why I find sleeping as close to the floor as possible to be more comfortable than being on a bed. We sleep; she wakes up early. The strangeness of my bedroom makes sleep difficult for her. I think it’s still morning when we rise. I haven’t risen from my dark room so early in months. The blinds are still down in the rest of my apartment. It’s dark but not as dark as I’d like.

The worthless shit that lives downstairs turns its stereo up all the way. I’d like to put on a porno and blast it. We watch some more cinema. She asks me to turn up the volume repeatedly. In addition to having bad eyesight, she has bad hearing. This might account for her poor taste in music. Then again, I listen to Japanese bands that play chainsaws and scrap metal, so who am I to talk? I can hear the dialogue clearly, in some spots she asks me to repeat what was said. I wonder how my hearing can be good after 15 years of concerts and shows and about a year of playing with a band more than once a week. I am lucky, I guess. I know, my Zodiac is nothing but luck. I don't believe in those things, but I was born in the year of the rabbit in the Chinese system, and a Pisces in the western system, lucky as all hell. Einstein was also both. Even though I was born into poverty I still remain fairly healthy (U2 quote: "The rich stay healthy while the sick stay poor.") These past few years of hard living will wreak havoc eventually, I’m sure.

We eat. She eats. If I remember to eat once on a day off, I’m lucky. We eat several times over the 78 hours of her trip. I eat only ramen, spaghetti, or cheese sandwiches usually. We went to the Taqueria Santa Cruz. The owner asks where we are from. He owns the taqueria at Merrill College, U.C.S.C. Small world, I think. I ask for a beer. He doesn’t have an alcohol license yet. This is disappointing, but not the end of the world. The burrito I order is very good, but I think the chips might have been fried in lard. They have Pepsi in glass bottles. I get one, it tastes so much better than the plastic we have become used to in the past 15 or more years. The bottle is different from the ones I remember as a child. They aren’t as curvy, the neck is thicker. The soda tastes much better than its contemporary cousins.

We go out later that night to Sanctuary, one of the goth/industrial clubs in town. We spend an hour or so there, then cross the street to the Double Down. I start to think about the bad habits that are inherent to such places. We don’t stay long. A friend asks why we are leaving, another friend reminds him that I am with an attractive woman, that I have things, other than the bad habits inherent to such places, to attend to. Taxis always arrive quickly to the Double Down, they pay for special service. The ride home is very quick. I can’t remember the last time I left the Double Down that sober. Home, now. More beer, more film – or some music, it was late. It doesn’t much matter. We move the coffee table and place the futon mat on the floor to make more room for us to lay next to each other. I think she has gained weight; she may have mentioned it. Her hips and belly fit nicely in my grasp.

I find her breasts, hips, and belly everything in the world I want to hold.

She is a few inches shorter than I am, when I wrap my arms around her we are a perfect match. My body covers hers.

She has gotten rug burn on her hips from the couch and the floor so we are trying to be more careful. Her skin does not take well to Las Vegas’ arid climate. She asks me to lotion her back for her. Seeing her nude back stirs some desire. Her elbows are chapped, her lip becomes bloody. She uses my Carmex on her lips, I tell her to use petroleum jelly instead. The ingredients in Carmex can be bad on open skin.

We play some chess. We have been playing postcard chess for over a year now. She has gotten good enough to beat me in that format at least half the time. Over the board is another story. I give her 10 to 30 time odds and still win.

She becomes bored and we move on to ‘country matters’.

On Thursday, we watch some History Channel shows, then the Simpsons. We leave my apartment for just the third time on her visit to venture out to the Strip to gamble with some money one of her relatives had given her for that purpose. She gets $40 in chips at the Roulette table. On her last $5 chip she hits. She gets close to $200 back. The next few drinks are on her. I lose some money on the slots, then we head home.

The bus is at the light when we arrive at the bus stop on Las Vegas Blvd. and Flamingo. We lucked out going both directions.

Arriving home, we only have less than 12 hours before we need to get her to the airport. We turn off the lights and put something on to fill the silence. I cry. All the anger and frustration I’ve had about leaving my partner and having to move into my own place and being so far away from my closest friends is boiling over. ‘Je t’aime’ is all we can say. “Every time I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray. I'm waiting for that final moment you say the words that I can't say.”

For years I’ve been saying that I’m making the soundtrack for an indie film of my life. We talked about Ghost World while watching Mallrats. Somewhere between Woody Allen, Kevin Smith, and Daria I realize that our perceived differences are too small to worry about.

I don’t know if we’ll ever live together again, if I'll ever see her again, but we share this one moment of love and devotion.

We leave to catch the bus. We have to walk about a mile to Maryland Parkway. I forgot my bus schedule so we are somewhat worried about the time. The bus gets us to the airport on time. On her last visit, I was only able to hug her for a moment before the bus left. This time I walked her to the security gate. The result is about the same. I am choked up, I begin to cry. I can see her eyes turn red and slightly swell. We kiss our good-byes and whisper our loves. A few tears hit my cheek as I turn away. It’s difficult to control, but I manage to choke them back. I get on the bus. This time it’s route 108 not 109. I fail to notice this as I board the bus. It drops me off about a mile farther away from my apartment. I get home at about 7am. I don’t want to go to sleep, I want to drink some more beer and hang out. I take a shot of Jägermeister, take a sip of soda to clear away the phlegm, and close my eyes.
The Sync has Real Media copies of Nosferatu and the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Check it out!

Thursday, December 19, 2002

Sunday, December 15, 2002

I don’t remember my alarm going off at 1. I must have set it for 2 last night. I remember going to bed last night, everything seems rather clear still. When I woke up at 2, I hit the snooze button 3 times. I tried to just keep my eyes closed and breathe calmly, to get ready to go to work. I thought about coming in late, but I managed to climb off the futon mattress and throw on some clothing. The bus is sparsely populated, just a few losers on there way to nowhere. I must look homeless to them with my bloodshot eyes, unshaved pallor, and overlarge wool coat. At Pecos, I enter a store. The woman in front of me has her hair pulled back in a bandanna. She is wearing ill-fitting Dickies and a 70s style jersey shirt, the kind that has different color sleeves that go all the way to the collar. She has a septum ring and a tattoo at the small of her back. She is dressed exactly like Spuds. Her face is much rougher than Spuds’, however. Not nearly as attractive.
I remember asking my mother once why, when I was crying, why my throat hurt so much. She said it was from holding back my tears. She told me just to cry some more, and I'd feel better.
I guess I watch MASH because I feel like I'm in a war zone.
Finally some tears, I can cry again. I can sleep soon.
For some reason, I’m watching the final episode of MASH now. I felt like I needed to use the toilet, I feel down and my pants are wet. I’m worried for a moment, and then I remember that I washed some clothes earlier and the wetness is from washing them in the sink. I’ve only pissed myself once in public; I was lucky enough that only my girlfriend saw me before I went to change. It was embarrassing, yes. She looked at me (no one else saw me,) gave me a worried look, didn’t follow me to the bedroom, and then smiled when I came back out calm and clean. My moments of weakness seem to have always been coupled with moments of strength and love.
Through early morning fog I see,
Visions of the things to be,
The pains that are withheld for me,
I realize and I can see...
That suicide is painless.
It brings on many changes.
And I can take or leave it if I please.
I try to find a way to make,
All our little joys relate,
Without that ever-present hate,
But now I know that it's too late, and...
The game of life is hard to play,
I'm gonna lose it anyway.
The losing card I'll someday lay,
So this is all I have to say.
The only way to win is cheat,
And lay it down before I'm beat,
And to another give my seat,
For that's the only painless feat.
The sword of time will pierce our skins.
It doesn't hurt when it begins.
But as it works its way on in,
The pain grows stronger...watch it grin, but...
A brave man once requested me,
to answer questions that are key.
Is it to be or not to be?
And I replied 'Oh why ask me?'
'Cause suicide is painless.
It brings on many changes.
And I can take or leave it if I please.
...And you can do the same thing if you choose.
I just finished watching an episode of MASH that I don't remember. Surprising, I thought I'd remember them all. I don't know why I like that show.
Rereading my posts, I am reminded of a friend I had long ago. I let her read my journal. Back then, I wrote every day. By hand, if you can imagine it! Pages every day! My fingers hurt just thinking about that work. A few times, I begged the last of my mother's change to take the bus to my friend’s house. We would talk for some time, then she would put on a movie and, after our conversation had died down, she would read what I’d written. I met her at an award ceremony for one of the academic competitions I was involved with in high school (she was from a different school.) She came up to me and grabbed my hand. I had very long, natural nails. They were painted a wonderful burgundy. The next day, someone I knew at my school that knew her asked for my phone number. I didn’t have a phone then. Old habits die hard, I guess. At least I have electricity now, and better food, even if I have trouble eating it. She got in contact with me anyway. There are many stories I could tell, but I’ll save those for later. I was just asking myself why people want to read diaries and journals and such.

Saturday, December 14, 2002

Almost time to go home. I hate this part of the day. You know you only have a little while until you can leave and you just sit and stare blankly at the clock.
For a while now, I've had the word of the day module on my Yahoo page just below the lead news picture. This has led to some amusing juxtapositions. This is today's.

I'm beginning to think that most tech support agents are just as dumb as the (l)users who call in.
A coworker just passed by, mentioning that she has to go Christmas shopping today. I’m laughing inside. I don’t think I’m going to buy much of anything for anyone. A few baubles for some friends, but I’ll probably forget to get cards for my family. I don’t like the holidays. They make me remember that I’m alone in the vast nothingness of an expanding, indifferent universe. I remember one Christmas; the only present I got was a coat from my girlfriend. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a wonderful coat, but I didn’t even speak to my family or any friends. I was supposed to go to a friend’s house this Thanksgiving, but instead I went into some kind of fugue, I became very confused and angry. I didn’t know what was going on around me or how to deal with it. So I didn’t go out. A friend came over to comfort me, I am forever in her debt. I hope Christmas won’t be that bad.
Woke up at 7 AM on the couch. I don’t remember going to sleep. The computer is still on - I was watching something. Star Wars was on. I remember starting it; I don’t remember watching any of it. The freight train of the night before is running though me; I think I’m still drunk at this point. My vision is blurry and my kidneys hurt. I crawl into my bedroom and get a few more hours’ sleep. “Just images of heaven, that take me to hell. Images of heaven, of something to sell.” Vivid, brief visions flood my dreamland. Friends, lovers, and a girl long since dead peek briefly out of the ether. My eyes open again at about 2 PM. I would let the alarm radio just play, but Prince is on so I hit the snooze button and close my eyes for another eight minutes. Then Journey startles me out of my slumber. I hit the clock a few times until it shuts up. Back into the living room, a friend IM’s me; he wants to chat. I realize that I don’t have time for my usual hot shower in the dark so I throw on a sweater, shoes, and beret. I remember to grab my necklace that I’ve been forgetting to wear. I manage to barley catch the 2:30 bus, running across the street against the light. We make it to Pecos a minute too late to catch my transfer, but there is still someone at the bus stop, I’m in luck the bus is late. Some old man is babbling about socialism (only he doesn’t realize it, he only knows Social Security and his pension.) He rails against the rich, getting fat in their expensive homes while we slave away for pennies. "Why are there million dollar homes when we can’t afford cars?" he asks. I’d go even farther and ‘reeducate’ all car owners with a bullwhip and a blowtorch. A punk with a charged Mohawk sits dispassionately near the back of the bus, ignoring the old man’s rants. I wonder why the only people that dress with any purpose are the blacks in their urban guerilla fatigues and white punks (yes, probably on dope.) I exit the bus across the street from work and walk. My day is just beginning, but it feels like it should be over.

Friday, December 13, 2002

Random Psychopath of the day, Manuela Ruda

I just noticed something icky on the leg of my Jeans. Must - Do - Laundry.
I took my TV into my bedroom last night. I watched the late night talk shows until 3 or so, when the last of the reruns finished, then rolled over and went to sleep. Perhaps I should have gotten a junior one bedroom or a studio. Sometimes my apartment seems too large for me. Maybe that's why I sleep in the bathroom sometimes, it's such a smaller room, I can touch the walls. I opened my eyes at 11Am, but I didn't move. I fell back asleep soon after. My eyes opened again at 12:30. I set my alarm for 2 and covered my head with the blankets. They smell like smoke, I need to wash them, I need to wash everything. Maybe if I’d gotten up at 11 I could have done some laundry. But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? I mean why break my morning routine. I wake up, lie there as long as I can, stumble into the tub and sit there in the dark with the water hitting me in the face for as long as the hot water holds out. I struggle to find something to wear and then run out the door to the bus stop. I actually left early enough to catch an earlier bus, but of course I forgot something and had to run back to my apartment, then I stopped to get my mail. The bus passed me as I approached the light. I walked down to Eastern (about 10 minutes) and just managed to catch an Express bus that doesn’t stop at Spencer. We were a few minutes too late to catch the Pecos bus, so I had a 20 minute wait there. I managed to get to work just on time. I get into work and my boss gives me my annual review. To top things off, I can’t remember my work email password and I’ve got a sore throat.
A friend I haven’t seen in a year emailed me, pleading for me to call him. He doesn’t have a computer at home, he uses the machines at school (a Junior College that I attended years ago.) Of course I have no phone. It makes things difficult for us to communicate. Almost all of my friends are wired, they each have multiple email accounts and IM accounts. The one or two people in my life that don’t are almost ghosts to me. I guess it’s nice to be able to talk to people, to hear their voice, but is it worth the money to me? Since I moved into my own apartment, my budget shrank so much that I had to choose what’s most important to me. Do I give up smoking? Well, guess not. Still spend $120 a month on that. Ouch, that would pay for a phone and cable TV.
I just got a whopping 2% raise after 14 months. That is so lame. I took a promotion and a pay cut. They wonder why I'm so lazy.

Thursday, December 12, 2002

A friend came over last night. She had to leave at 3AM though. So I went to the Double Down, a local dive bar. Of course I stayed up way too late. Oh well, such is life.
I'm waiting for a delivery. Albertson's delivers now, and you can order online. $10 fee for the delivery, but it's so worth it if you don't drive. I mean why spend hundreds of dollars on a car when you don't need to? I can have everything but beer delivered.

Tuesday, December 10, 2002

I am so hungry. All I have to eat is canned corn and noodles. I couldn't eat that right now if I tried. A friend recommends Pizza Hut, they take orders online. Hell yes. I really don't want to go anywhere. I notice that the order says "cash" and not "credit" as I'd intended. Oh fuck. I've only got $4 on me. I put on my shoes and run to the nearest store, I need beer anyway. I get a 12 pack and $20 cash back and run home. I see a delivery car pulling in as I enter the complex. I'm in front of my door, but he's nowhere. It must not have been for me. There is a knock on the door, oh yes, pizza goodness. Large Veggie Delight and bread sticks. Damn. I tip the guy $5. I eat until I can't eat anymore. That fucker forgot the crushed peppers, but fuck it, I'm full. And I can eat for a few days.
Unscheduled days off are nice. I almost wish I had cable television. I remember sick days as a child, my mother would make me soup and I’d watch cartoons and some movies, never leave bed. I guess I could clean my apartment or something, but I’m just geeking. I’m listening to music and remembering. It’s only 5 PM, but it feels like 1 AM, I’m not used to doing this so early. I’m very happy right now, it seems like everything is in place. It’s a wonderful respite from the self-loathing of the past few weeks. Things are picking up; I’m starting to remember that people care about me and that I am a part of a wonderful community of friends. I only wish a few of them were here right now. I feel like putting up some of my posters. My apartment has been so bare, I’ve neglected it. It’s not like many people will see my decorations but it feels so wonderful to come home to a bright explosion of blue Christmas lights and vivid posters. When I lived with my mother, more than 10 years ago now, my room was wallpapered with film posters. Clips from some disturbing moments in cinema filled the eye. I had a large American flag covering the ceiling, covering the light. When you walked in, you could only smell the moth ball and leather scent of a military warehouse. You could barely see. My apartment in Bakersfield had more light, but the clutter made up for it. There were posters, music and computer equipment everywhere. I’ll make this in to a home yet.
Got some loot in the mail today, a great friend got me a copy of the Seventh Seal and a doll of Dr. Caligari!!!
4ish AM, I'm uploading my first binary post to Usenet. I'm uploading a rare CD, a comp called 'Absolute', something I've had a few goth bois lusting over my body and offering me money for. It feels good to be part of a community, to give back and not just leech.

Monday, December 09, 2002

As I exit the bus at Flamingo and Pecos, I notice a woman in her early 20’s. She is wearing ripped denim shorts, which strikes me as odd since it’s below 60 degrees today. Over a black shirt that simply says “Revolution”, she has a dirty-orange color (a color I can only see in 70’s corduroy) coat. She has soft, plain features; high arched eyebrows and light brown freckles. I can tell she takes care of herself. Along her left leg is a flowery tattoo that extends from her ankle to the top of her thigh, its terminus an inch from where the tattered shorts begin. She wears no makeup. I wonder why she has made this spectacle. I remember a conversation I had with some friends from California about how all of Las Vegas is spectacle in a deconstructionist sense; I doubt this woman has read any Derrida, however. She sits near a black couple with a young child. The male of the couple is smoking, the object of my gaze lights a cigarette and I am back in California, wondering why these people have no respect for the air of others. I step away a few yards to light my own clove cigarette. The couple only notices her to ask what time the bus is due. As we board the bus, she slides her pass through the fare box and is greeted with a high pitched denial. The driver tells her to sit down and she can look for the change. Two older women are near where we sit, they begin to comment on her tattoo. I cringe with Victorian pride, it’s just rude to comment on someone’s physicality. The tattooed woman makes her egress at Tropicana and quickly disappears from my sight.
The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, unto the sepulcher. --John xx. 1
I watched my DVD of Ju Dou last nite. Piss poor transfer, painful to watch. All the color and glory that I remember from the theater was gone, I might as well been watching it on a 13" black and white TV.
Here are some other Chinese films I've seen and would recommend. Just be careful about the quality of the transfer.

Raise the Red Lantern
Red Sorghum
Farewell My Concubine
There was someone here tonight, I think.
"There was a messenger."
"We were sent for."
Of course I'm watching a film,
a film of a play.
She gave me earrings.
I've been complaining of late that I need a pair,
I complimented her on a pair she had worn...
She left them for me.
Existentialism gives me a headache.
"You've been here before."
"And I know which way the wind is blowing."
"We are Inclusively players."
Nearing the End of this film, I can only see Hamlet, Act III, Scene II:

Ham. Lady, shall I lie in your lap? [Lying down at OPHELIA’S feet.
Oph. No, my lord.
Ham. I mean, my head upon your lap? 72
Oph. Ay, my lord.
Ham. Do you think I meant country matters?
Oph. I think nothing, my lord.
Ham. That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs. 76
Oph. What is, my lord?
Ham. Nothing.
Oph. You are merry, my lord.
Ham. Who, I? 80
Oph. Ay, my lord.

Sunday, December 08, 2002

The definition of a LART
Musing on my last post, I think I need a nom de guerre. Something like James Baader or James the Snake or maybe just "Spike". Any suggestions?

My Hero
Icy Hot Stuntaz. As seen on Fark
Missed the bus, late for work. I don't know why it takes so much effort for me to get up, maybe it was since I woke up at 9am and didn't go back to sleep for an hour or so. I woke up on the bathroom floor, wrapped in all my blankets, sweating. I hit the snooze button on the alarm twice, then sat in the shower for a time. I scrambled for some clothes that didn't smell too bad then hit the door. I can't stand the sunlight, walking outside it hits me like a slap on my cheek. I finally make into work, my mood improves. "Make a joke, share a smoke" to quote someone.
Awoke from a strange dream. I'm working in a gas station, the kind that just has a small kiosk, just enough room for one person and some smokes behind glass. Redneck pulls up with a shitty car, trailer attached. I pull a gun on the redneck from behind the counter and demand his wallet. He swears, then complies. Some time later, the police arrive but are unable to find any trace of the wallet or the gun. Police and redneck depart. Redneck returns later with a gun. I manage to escape to a nearby garage. Redneck discovers me, then, after a struggle at a door with a padlock on the outside, I manage to lock him inside then keep running. Why am I awake at 9am?
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead is playing, I've just finished chatting with Thea Girl You Want. I think I'm done for the night.

Saturday, December 07, 2002

Music, When Soft Voices Die

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory --
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts when thou are gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

-PB Shelley
I was reading one of the local weeklies today and I came across a picture that closely resembled someone I had a one-night stand with. Some of the details in the article matched what little I knew about her. The names didn’t match.
There's a strange, gray area where relationships start to transition. From acquaintance to friend, sometimes to lover or family member; each step is a confusing mess of emotion, desire, and drunken accident. With all my friends and loves, I’ve tried not to make hard-cut lines between this and that, rather I prefer to let each relationship stand for what it is. You kiss some people, deeply and passionately; others get a peck on the cheek like a sibling. Sometimes your devotion is that of a spouse; other times you may make love but only see each other on occasion. One’s level of participation level may vary from time to time; nothing is a constant unless you make some commitment. I think this attitude has gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years.
I've got a lot of these Catholic pamphlets that need photoshopping. Here is the one I used for the banner up top.
The coffee is starting to kick in. I miss this feeling, stomach somewhat off, the constant need to take a piss, shaky hands. Like college, before I learned the glories of beer.
Like the new template? Let me know. I like the robot theme, but I think I'll go with some color for a few days. Who knows, I might screw with the template some more. I can remember a few years ago hand coding html using Emacs on a Sun Sparc workstation. That sucked. Templates and development environments rule.
Triple latte from Star*ucks. I miss living in California, no matter how small the town there is almost always an alternative to Star*ucks.

"Pig eats shit, but only when he's hungry."
I have no concept of time or space when I wake up. The red numbers on my clock told me it was 12:30 when I opened my eyes. Could mean anything. I stood up and things started to focus some. I was in my bedroom. I'm never quite sure where I'll wake up, the closet, the bathroom, couch, someone's car, so it takes me a few moments to remember where I am and how I got there. I stepped from there to the shower. I didn’t turn on the light. I miss my old apartment, I could have a blazing hot shower for an hour, and in this apartment I'm lucky if I get 20 minutes. I sit in the tub facing the shower, the water hitting me in the face. If I’d turned on the light I might have seen the room filling with steam, a simulacrum of some bathhouse somewhere. Not that I get any action like that. Close to one now, I crawl into bed. Some children are playing loudly outside; the wetbacks downstairs are blaring Tejano music. I close my eyes and see an assault rifle going off. A few moments of it’s report echo across the small field in front of my apartment, silencing the voices in my head. My alarm goes off at two. I get out of bed eight minutes later. I find some clothes, a sweater since I haven’t done laundry in two months. I hand washed some socks the night before. A friend IM’s me to make sure I’m still alive. He’s surprised to find I am not only alive but also likely to remain that way for at least a few more weeks. I turn my computer off for the first time in weeks and leave my apartment. Of course I remember to grab a copy of the Hunger for a coworker to attempt to convert it from Ogg Vorbis to MPEG-1 since I had no luck at it, but I forget a necklace that I wanted to wear. I light a clove, Djarum Special. I’ve been trying not to smoke until after work for the past few weeks, but today I don’t feel like dealing with it. I missed the 2:30 bus and had to wait for the 2:50 one. It got there at 2:54. There is a call center of some kind along the route; I think they sell timeshares or something. It attracts some lowlifes that seem on edge. They don’t work full time or even have a regular schedule. Working fast food would be a step up. Two women get on and start talking, loudly, about 12-step program meetings. We got to Pecos just in time for me to run down a block to buy some Sampoerna X-tras. Of course the Pecos bus was early so I had to run back. Sometimes our watches aren’t set the same or the driver just doesn’t feel like waiting around. I crossed Pecos at 2:41 by my watch; he leaves at 2:44. He waited for me. Onboard is a sad mélange of poor Hispanics, an older woman with a high, brittle voice that reminds me of Phyllis Diller. She is still blonde, but the gray shows through; it must be difficult to keep up blonde hair against the ravages of age. A blue kerchief tops the ensemble, a reminder of Rosie Riveter on her way to work. At 3:24, we stop across the street from work, in front of Tail Spin, a bar that my coworkers sometimes invade (usually on pay day) to ease away the tension and terror of the day. I light up another cigarette, this time a Sampoerna and walk, slowly, across the street.

Friday, December 06, 2002

Thursday, December 05, 2002

Just woke up. Ramen is on the stove; Depeche Mode is on the stereo. I might live through today.

Wednesday, December 04, 2002

In front of the monitor again. Managed to work up the strength to hook the PC up to the stereo. Sounds so much better now. I managed to bag up some trash, but haven't taken it out yet. I have made it outside, once, to check the mail. I'm thinking about going dancing. I haven't been out in a month or so. Maybe I'll just sit home and pout. I'm good at that.
Herve Strikes Back
Days off. It's strange, yesterday I couldn't get out of bed but today I couldn't sleep past 1. I'm trying to clean my apartment, there are a few days' worth of empties I need to take out, but I don't have the energy. I need to do laundry so bad. Grr, I wish there was someone here to help out or at least motivate me.

Tuesday, December 03, 2002

Not sure how much I've had to drink. Maybe 4 beers and 3 shots of Jim Beam. I'm still trying to learn how to rip DVD to VCD. I wanted to rip Joyless Street but I grabbed the wrong one from the disk (3 silent films on one DVD) so I got this instead. Oh well. "Dear Prudence" just came on the player, I'm chatting on #slack, and all is well.

Insert bad joke here.