it takes the utmost skill and cunning to sneak three entire pizzas to your neighborhood AMC movie theater. frankly, its a daring move that should not be attempted by the faint of heart. but for my fashion conscious friend stacy, its no problem. you see, the bag matched her outfit.

star wars was really good in all the parts without speaking or dialog.

note to self: 114lb girls should not lift beer kegs. sweet, sweet flexerill: i’m coming home to you.

i think my taxi driver the other day was the taxi driver from that movie “Taxi Driver.” he had a manifesto and everything. he was eerily intelligent.

i waited on some guys named Marvin and berry that, if they weren’t made men, they were at least wiseguys.

i also waited on some guy who plays for the warriors. (like i know half a fuck about sports guys…..)
on a related note, the Raider-ettes are notoriously bad tippers. so is that guy from the news when he picks up his to-go orders.

i am, to voice the understatement of the century, something of a hermit. (read: i don’t go places and do things.) and as such, in my depths solitude, my silence and my text-book manic-depressive slump, i don’t often, for instance, get flashed by screaming gay men in bright red “HOT COOKIE” underpants roaring down San Pablo Avenue at a cool 35 mph (i have a bit of a transmission problem.) cartoon “drunk bubbles” popping over my head and thanking my lucky stars that the po-po have forsaken law enforcement in my lonely, crack-head infested section of the world. but nights like this remind me, i DO need to get out more. if for nothing else than just to remember what color the sky is.

hey, we’re pals, right?: you and me, computer? so i can tell you stuff, right?
OK, so i have become one of those people who drink bottled water. yeah, that’s right: i buy and drink bottled water. i could get it out of the faucet (that’s the glory of indoor plumbing), but instead i pay some schmuck way too much money for the same shit prepackaged. this is what California has done to me.

and, since we’re in a confessional mood:

i also watch Roseanne.

everyday.

i hope this hasn’t changed anything between us, Dell Dimension 4100. i mean after all, who are you to judge anything: you were free.

xoxoxox,
- a.

Commercials for Men’s Razors are full of shiny, high tech-looking metal things. they often have a bad- ass green digital read-out on the screen like the way The Terminator sees (oops! i mean “governor Terminator”) and a lot of high-tech computer noises. it makes it seem, somehow, that the razor goes REALLY fast. commercials for Men’s razors are easy to confuse with recruitment Advertisements for the Military.

commercials for women’s razors are full of frolicking after a natural summer rain and being free and loving it. these women like to kick their legs a lot. more than i think is normal.

a few short hours ago, i was foaming at the mouth and cursing every son of adam and each hell-spawned demon hag that bore his seed.
and now i’m drinking a hundred dollar bottle of wine and eating brownie ice cream out of the container with a plastic spoon.
when we swing, we swing wide.

i suppose that if i made my livelihood by beating my head against a wall, i would write journal posts that went like “OMG! this whole “wall thing” sure does suck!” and you — the poor, unsuspecting reader would have to diligently suffer through them, the troopers you are. (jeez, man, don’t you know this garbage will rot your brain. you should conceder getting a hobby, maybe start scrapbooking or something. seriously.)
but
instead, i scratch my living tending to a corporate bar in murky heart of Jack London — which, sadly enough, is astonishingly similar to beating your head against a wall, only i get paid less. and so dear, sweet, gentle reader, this is the drivel you’re forced read. (i mean “the drivel you’re forced to scroll past on your way to the Calvin and Hobbes rss feed.”) this unadulterated whiny slop in which i, like a trained seal masochists, repeat my mantra over and over “i fucking hate my job.”

did i seriously just say “trained seal masochist?”

so i was feeling bad due to all this icky, sticky serotonin hissing its way through a slow leak in my left earlobe (i think. well, it’s going somewhere, anyway.) but then i checked my e-mail, and i had gotten one of those letters where they ask you to get a bank account for some Nigerian exile. FINALLY!!!! at long last, i feel like i belong. to think: some spam robot thought enough about me…….
the night doesn’t look so bleak after all.

but,
it sure took the electronic bastard long enough.

i was born without the gene to mingle. its really quite tragic and i think that people should feel sorry for me and perhaps buy me things. no, really, i fail miserably at small talk: dangling my participles and splitting my infinitives and such. i always feel too obvious. the ol’ “where-are-you-from-what-do-you-do?” and so i rely on them to take up the slack. then, there comes a time, after about the third or fourth time you raise your eyebrows inquisitively and say “oh, really?” like you give half a fuck, that they begin to realize that
you
do not, in fact, give half a fuck.
the kiss of death, though; the thing that separates the lounge lizards from the wallflowers is executing the smooth parting. the “Hey, thanks for being on the show!”
i just have no knack for the whole business and i turn down almost every party invitation i get.
but, surprisingly, it was much easier when it’s your own party ’cause you own the house and people will come up and ask you things like “is it ok to smoke in here” and “where can i throw this away?” and it gives the illusion of mingling.
i know this kid: you know the type, late twenties jedi-hipster and he has this effortless, text book perfect, preda-natural sense of social interaction. he goes to all the parties stays for exactly correct length of time. as calculated by N.A.S.S.A in sync with the tides and the fucking hum of the universe and shit. he has no awkward pauses and just glides through a room on a air of sophistication. it makes me just want to grab him by the hair and repeatedly beat his head on a table.

and then eat his heart so i can gain his powers.

when i was eleven years old, my parents took us — my brother, my sister and i — to pizza hut. already, you begin to question the uneasy abundance of luck staring you in the face as you — a child — are three inches deep into a personal pan pizza. But the full magnitude of the words “Your Father and i are thinking of putting you into Catholic School.” at first doesn’t hit you, in your Parmesan and Pepsi haze……until well after the fact.
anyone new to the catholic faith, mid-life through, can identify with the ……surprise, not to mention the physical hoops (sit-stand-kneel-repeat-sit-stand-kneel-repeat), and the religious blanket, warm, sudden, and all encompassing of a instant solution to all the ills of the world. this is exactly what a hyper-sensitive, overly-moral kid, such as myself, disillusioned and idealistically blinded, was looking for. finally, the “strictly black and white” moral code to live my life by. (they say that most prepubescent girls go through a stage where they are either deeply infatuated with Horses or the Virgin Mary)
my brother. we didn’t know then that he was schizophrenic, but he started acting strange. he started talking to himself, and hopping through the room…….and he starting listening to the Misfits.
They scared the hell out of me, the Misfits. i was a very little girl and i took this stuff to heart. i was just and true and righteous in deed and in thought. i considered being a nun. i mean i was gooooooooood and full of fear.
and here was this godless heathen that “ain’t no goddamn sonuvabitch” (you better think about it, baby!) talking all about “teenagers from mars” and “dead cats hanging from poles.” (i don’t know what Halloween was like for you, Glen, but that’s pretty goddamn fucked-up.) and i thought that this, this my friends, THIS was the devil. and punk rock was his tool.
he tried to turn me to the dark-side on a daily basis, my brother……”why don’t you like punk music?”
i said “ewww” and i said “nooo” and i flushed his nickel sack down the toilet. ( aww, he never knew how to inhale anyway. you should have seen the dysfunctional contraption he had carved out of a “diet rite” can.)
but then, i heard The Ramones. in particular, i heard “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend.” and i thought to myself “these heartless deamons……they have…..feelings? he……wants to be my boyfriend????!!!”
it blew my mind. and they still blow my mind.
everything about them: the idiot savant production of unpolished cool, produced, no less, by un-nurtured spazs in a mire of the sprawling, nationwide 70’s yawn, brown and lackluster. its downright awe inspiring. you throw rock and roll, essentially, down a garbage disposal, and you get……glory. you get an ephemeral perfection. you get what god unintended of rock and roll. and it seems so unintentional. it seems as if it were always meant to be and they just tripped over greatness. Dee Dee Ramone is such a freak, he speaks with the staccato slur indicative of someone who has engaged in a lifetime of drug abuse. johnny ramone is a right wing freak, joey ramone was no less than a freak and a self conscious one at that.
but, man, the sheer energy.
eh the recordings, the spectra stuff — its good but you think “so what?” but, when you seen tape of them, how fast they play, how tight they play, how like an unconscious rock and roll beast…..they make me feel like such a schmuck. like a half-assed guitarist and a soulless human being.
an i think of this bestowed on blank faced little eleven year old me. all knock knees and unmolded clay.
with this key, this punk rock Rosetta stone, i could now understand the sex pistols, i could understand the misfits, and the dead Kennedy’s and minor threat and every other instance of innovation through the intake of ones surroundings and in spite of one’s surroundings.
this is how i came about punk rock music and this is how my eyes were opened.

then i probably ate some pop tarts, i guess.

the end