a lot has happened since we’ve last spoke, little journal junkies. and its been far too long since i’ve been bathed in the ice blue blanket of wholesome computer glare as the blank-eyed, zombie vessel of drivel you all know and love.
The peaceful and unassuming seaside commerce-fest of Jack London Square was descended on by Tom Jones fans in crazed hordes like a great panty throwing plague. your humble narrator fought bravely, you’ll be pleased to know, (its not unusual!) with the only weapon at her disposal: booze. baby, i can swill it and i can sling it.
i have joined the 21st century, ladies and gentlemen. you are looking at….uh, reading, uh…from another dumb schmuck under the electronic yoke of the cellular telephone that oh-so-modern novelty everyone’s got cemented to their clammy paws. resistance is futile. JOOOOOIN USSSSSSS! if you wanna waste my minutes and send me annoying text messages i can be reached at “Bigelow 6-200.” just ask the operator, Sara, for erratum. she knows me.
i brought bamboo from what i can only guess was a traveling, ambush bamboo salesman.
i got into a big fight with the cat. we weren’t on speaking terms for a few days.
a tiny combo called the Ghost Town Two (of which i make up 50%) made their world debut at the Stork Club last night for literally TENS of people, shaking and stuttering, and maybe managing to squeeze in a wee bit of rocking and — hell –even some rolling in the meantime. shit, man — my heart was pounding from ten o’clock that morning when i jolted up from anxious dreams (the kind where you forget your guitar and your teeth start falling out etc etc ) clear through the interminable, breathless fourteen hour pause ’till we finally took the stage. scotch after scotch, i stumbled into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, not knowing if i was going to faint or throw up or explode, convinced there was no fucking way i could go through with this. but god bless autopilot. and god bless crippling fear of embarrassment. god bless liquid courage and god bless the self same liquid that erases it all when its over.
i spent the today riding the bitters-n-soda train. (i’m sure a few of you are familiar with this express line.) i guess if you wanna fly with the eagles at night, you gotta whine like a pathetic, dehydrated, bloodshot baby the next day……..or is that just me.

unless i wanted something. and here it is:

hey, go vote on my shirt design at threadless.com! give it a five whether you like it or not. tell your friends. stop strangers on the street. this i command.

i spent the morning tangled in bedsheets under the weight of a shallow, sweltering fog. slipping in and out of the sort of unsettling, sweat-soaked dreams in which you’re not sure whether you are awake or asleep.
i saw myself dead and blue in a bath tub. there was a scrawled sign that read “next tuesday” taped to the wall behind me. i think i’ll be taking showers for the next week, just to be on the safe side.

if moths dig light so goddamn much, why don’t they fucking wake up during the day?

is it took much to ask that a girl be able to enjoy a simple 5am cartoon binge without being brutally accosted by maniacal, blood-thirsty arachnids? maybe not so much accosted….but i was walked very close to.

and with far too many legs.

and i can’t smoosh him, not only ’cause i don’t much kill stuff, (like any red-blooded american, i prefer others to do my dirty work.)
but because, honestly, there’s a small part of me that truly and persistently believes that if i smoosh a spider he will release some sort of pheromone that will alert all the other spiders in the world that i murdered one of their kind and they will all come and kill me.
i suppose you can call it karmic terror. whatever, its freaking me the fuck out.