My schedule is changing. I hate that, it's like moving a cat's food bowl.

We made dinner tonight. I don't think she was feeling so well. She called just after I got home, my roommate wasn't around. She said he'd just left her place; he said he'd left something on the stove here. There was an dirty pan, but the heat was off. There was also a casserole dish she'd brought over. She sounded sad. I didn't know what to say. She offered to come over if I was going to cook a recipe I'd found the previous night; a baked mushroom dish (the reason for the casserole dish. Her mother moved to California a while ago and left her with tons of kitchen stuff.) I had planned on it but I was tired and had almost forgotten. I agreed since it might put her in a better mood and I haven't eaten much this week. He made it back here just after, then walked back to retrieve her after I said she wanted to eat. Living a block away can be nice. The dish was supposed to have mushrooms, butter, parsley, bell pepper, onion, and spices. I substituted cilantro for the parsley, green onion for the white onion (a mistake I think), and vegan butter-type stuff for the real kind. In a feeble attempt to make a real dinner I made some rice and heated up canned corn. Very filling and tasty, even if canned corn isn't as good as a real side dish. Rice is always welcome. There was more than enough for the three of us. Imagine me with leftovers! There's enough for five there. I feel so domestic. I wish I'd had some wine to go with it. Newcastle had to make due. I've found that I like to cook; I like to eat. With my ersatz family these few times we cook at home bring us closer together. Here's to many more.

I have Iggy Pop's "Candy" stuck in my head.

Das Glück ist nicht immer lustig

Last night we watched Angst essen Seele auf AKA Ali: Fear Eats the Soul.  It's directed by this German named Reiner Fassbinder.  Complete nutbag, but a compelling director.  He doesn't want to fight the revolution for you, only present the compelling reasons to revolt.  In Fear Eats the Soul, he presents the difficulty of an interracial marriage between an older German woman and a young Moroccan.  [Of course the man who was playing the Moroccan was Fassbinder's lover.]  In most films, this would either end with one of them dying or else the people around them learning to accept them.  Fassbinder, not wanting to give you the catharsis of a fight won or lost only shows the struggle and won't pander to our desire to show how the fight is resolved.  If he shows the resolution then you won't want to fight yourself.  I guess.  What an artfag.

"Acts of creation are ordinarily reserved for gods and poets, but humbler folk may circumvent this restriction if they know how. To plant a pine, for example, one need be neither god nor poet; one need only own a good shovel. By virtue of this curious loophole in the rules, any clodhopper may say: Let there be a tree--and there will be one." - Aldo Leopold.

“House of Fun” by Madness. 

Walking to Cheers; left one block, right, two blocks forward.  Just on the left, behind the 7-11.  Two A.M.?  It’s difficult to tell in Las Vegas.  “If you serve, I’ll be on my way.”  The bars never close; the ambient heat presses down on you heavier than a Sumo wrestler.  I just got off the phone with a girlfriend in San Francisco.  We’re worse than Freda Kahlo and Diego Rivera; nothing but boozing and whoring.  She’s sprung on some rocker and can’t stop talking about him.  Born in Bakersfield, about my age, in a cow-punk band, and drives dead people around for a living.  Sounds hot to me.  She can’t stop talking about him, but I still listen anyway.  I’m jealous.  I should be living in San Francisco and dating hot punk boys.  I should be able to pick up random tattooed and pierced chicks on Craigslist.  Instead, I’m listening to dramas from a million miles away and contemplating stumbling over to the local dive for some brew. The Newcastle there is cheap as hell at night and the bartenders have a generous pour.  I usually know at least 6 people by name and more by face every time I walk in.  “Where everybody knows your name” I guess.

“Party Girl” by U2

A Latina I know from the Goth club is inside.  She’s been all over the world in the past year.  At least to Mexico and the Far East; far enough for me to say “all over the world.”  A slightly round face, palest olive skin, and jet-black hair frame the brightest smile.  She just put two deep green streaks in her hair; on each side of her face.  She comments that it’s the same color as her apron at work.  She’s a barista at the Evil Café ©.  I guess she only wants a part time gig and at $7 and hour plus tips she’s making enough to pay the rent.  I buy her a beer since I think the rent is about all she can pay.  We go outside to see her scooter.  It’s smaller than the ones I’ve owned.  She’s spray-painted it metallic silver.  The rear brake is on the handlebar instead of the floorboard like most scooters I’ve seen.

“Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac.

 People fade in and out as the night goes on.  Three becomes four becomes dawn.  I catch a ride from this chick with a Mohawk and lots of facial piercings.  I almost want to go home with her, but I need more sleep than I’ll be getting before I have to leave for work.  I fall asleep quickly, thankfully. 

Shit, I accidentally set my alarm clock an hour ahead.  So now I’m at work an hour early and I just want to curl up and die.

Sherman Austin was just released from prison into a halfway house.  He was arrested for thought crimes.  He spent a year in federal prison.  The charge?  A teen posted bomb making information on Austin's web site.  Sherman didn't write it, approve it, or anything like that.  It was just in a comments section of his web site.  Feh.

Never make the mistake of calling an angry latina an angry chicana.

Bobby Fischer is a pisces.