After the show, you invited us backstage because you thought you probably had a shot at fucking my best friend's cousin (and you probably did, now that I think about it). I didn't really want to go, because I don't deal well with rock star types--I don't have anything good to say, other than, "oh, you guys were amazing"--things I would be sick of by now if I were you.
But I went anyway, grudgingly. Down a set of stairs, there was Emily, a girl with a voice I wanted to capture with a box and keep as mine forever. She looked at me like who the fuck are you and why are you in my party. That was only for three tenths of a second, though, and then she forgot that I ever existed and told her friend she was going back to the hotel (probably for the same reasons I would have gone to the hotel, too, if I were her--because everyone here was an idiot and had nothing good to say).
Then you left to try to fuck my best friend's cousin, and me and my best friend were left to listen to your friend talk about how David Cross isn't really that funny when you meet him in person, and we were just smiling and nodding, like we knew what the fuck you were talking about.
Then someone said you guys were gonna be the next Strokes. Way bigger than them, the girl with blonde hair and large tits said.
I just rolled my eyes and stared at the ceiling and stole your beer and thought that, yeah, I could live like this. Yeah, I probably could.
Your mother was right. You do look ugly in this dress.
Ask yourself again if your ass is really that fat. The answer is not going to change.
God was playing with fire.
"Fuck you, God. You know what I told you about playing with fire," you said.
"No...no, fuck that. Don't but mom me. You know better."
It was the afternoon. Very bright, still. There was a barbeque. It was memorial day, and Jeff was cooking burgers and chicken breasts for everyone (there was one soy burger for Jason, who told you in passing three weeks ago that he didn't eat meat). Jeff had left the lighter out on the table. God had found it and was lighting napkins on fire.
Jeff was your husband, by the way.
"Do you want a burger, or do you want chicken," you asked God.
"Whatever, mom. I don't care."
Lose the attitude, you told him.
He was just upset that Justin had stolen his favorite toy--a plastic soldier with gun--and was playing with it in the distance, in the sandbox. God saw him out of the corner of his eye. And with every moment of enjoyment Justin felt, God could feel his face burn hotter and hotter, and his heart pounded drums.
He swore he would get even. Someday.
Tonight at the club there was an Indian sitting next to you (you called him an Eskimo), and when his right arm moved it touched your back. You asked me to get him away from you, and I did. I put my hand down the back of your pants and stared at him as I kissed your neck slow. He didn't seem to mind.
Later, he kept staring, and you grew more upset. I didn't know why. He was a harmless man, seemed to want nothing more than to look for a while at your young, pretty white flesh, fantasize a bit. Nothing too disturbing.
Later, he asked me the time, and I checked my phone. It was 12:10, and he jumped from his bar stool and left; his tapped beer was left half full. My hand was still in the back of your pants, and my mouth was nibbling at your ear, and I wondered where such a man had to be at 12:10 in the morning. What made him leave?
"Bring the kids to the strip mall, Jason. It will be fun," you say.
God you hate strip malls. Of all the malls in the world, be it national malls in your nation's capitol, or that Mall of America that you find yourself within driving distance from, you hate the strip mall the worst. It is the lowest form of mall, containing the lowest form of people. The whitest of trashes. The socceriest of moms. The NASCARiest of dads.
And you will find yourself navigating through all of these people. You will find yourself trapped in their smells and sounds and voices. You will hear what they talk about, and you will feel most trapped by this. The sounds are suffocating.
You will tell yourself not to let it bother you, but you are a great person, and you know you are a great person, and these people are so below you, how could you not let it bother you? It is this bothersomeness that validates your own self-worth.
You will find yourself with a small child in a store called The Nike Store, a factory-direct--or so they say--store owned by a small shoe company called Nike. There will be many teenagers, looking at shoes and jersies with various numbers and names on them; there will be young, handsome 20-something men helping them all find the one perfect jersey that can better define them as a human being. Your small child will point out which shoes are the best. You will not be shocked when you see the price is $119.95 for a pair of size 6 Air Jordans. You will not recoil in horror, or wax nostalgic about how everything was better in your day, in your time. You will not remember the words of your father, telling you how shitty everything is these days, in these worthless, pointless times.
You will not be shocked because when you were young all you wanted was a pair of Air Jordans, too. You wanted them when you were young, too, because when you were your small child's small age you were this close to being popular, and you certainly would have been thrust into social acceptance if not for your lack of Air Jordans, among a few other small things that could have easily been changed. You remember this, and you remember hating your mother so badly when she stubbornly refused to fork over your shoes. You pleaded and bargained, then whined obsessively, then threatened. Fuck her, you remember thinking.
Fuck her, you muttered all the way home, in your PayLess Air Jordan knock-offs.
The journey home with your small child will be different, though. You will adjust your rear-view mirror to see him, the setting Midwest sun will catch the corner of his small eye. He is looking at his new shoes in a sort of awe only modern-day American capitalism can inspire, he wants to try them on, but you told him not to dirty them before school next Monday. You want him looking his best.
You can see the smile on his face, and you know today will not be the day your small child mutters fuck him, fuck him, all the way home from a store. Some day he will say these mutters. But it will not be today.
You are a father. And you are a bider of time...
I can't cum when you look at me like that. It's like you're waiting for something amazing to happen / and I'm waiting, too. Waiting for the signal. Waiting to know something amazing has happened.
Your alarm clock says it's 1:23 a/m. I ask you where does time go when it dies, do you think, and you look at me like you're still waiting for something amazing. And it never comes.
(1) Korg GT-3 guitar tuner (black)
(1) Take-out menu (Pizza Luce)
(233) Cents, in various currency
(1) Electric razor (Conair, silver and black)
(1) Campaign button (Paul Wellstone, green)
(1) Cellular telephone (Samsung, silver)
(7) Guitar picks of various weights, shapes and colors
(1) Rope for use in case of emergency (fire, terrorist attack, etc.)
(7) Dirty socks
(346) Other things not worth mentioning at the moment
If I could be any reproductive organ, I would probably be an ovary. Perhaps two, if possible.
Some things can't be explained. They just are.
I didn't think about enlarging my penis today.
Then again, I didn't think about a lot of things.
Remember when you asked me last night if I thought you were weird? I said no, of course not, why would you think that? And you looked relieved and said good.
Well that was a lie. I wouldn't like you if you weren't a little strange. And I wouldn't love you if you weren't a tad bit insane.
Never fuck on an empty stomach.
If I were a font, I would be Garamond; dignified, yet humble. If I were a bit I would be a one, and long to be a zero. And if I were a dream I would be inside you while you sleep.
You take the skyway, high above the busy little one-way. In my stupid hat and gloves, at night I lie awake Wondering if I'll sleep, Wondering if we'll meet out in the street. But you take the skyway. It doesn't move at all like a subway. It's got bums when it's cold like any other place. It's warm up inside. Sitting down and waiting for a ride beneath the skyway. Oh, then one day, I saw you walkinh down that little one-way, the place I'd catch my ride most everyday. There wasn't a damn thing I could do or say up in the skyway.
I'll try to find you left of the dial.
i repeat myself. i repeat myself.
Say what you will about heroin, but there is no greater gratification than finding $5 at the bottom of your shoe.
How did it get there? And for what purpose?
My god is sexier than your god.
Many women have told me on many occassions that navy blue and black do not match. But I strongly disagree. Everything matches everything.
Back To The Future, Part III was on last night, before work. And this got me thinking.
I want to set the world aflame.
You had the dream again last night. The one where all your teeth fall out. You rolled them around in your mouth like marbles.
She was there too; the girl who you know shouldn't be there. She was laughing with you, not at you, and she wanted your teeth.
What do these teeth mean, you wonder. Why is this girl who you know shouldn't be there here, you wonder. And why did she want your teeth; and why didn't you give them to her?
Our president is sorry for telling our troops to torture your people. (That is what you prefer to be called, right? People?) I am sorry, he is sorry, and we all are sorry, everyone who could possibly be sorry is sorry, so let's just move on to more important things like liberty and peace and strategic oil reserves. My car gets 24 miles per gallon. How many miles per gallon does your car get? My car is black, too, if you're wondering.
Do you guys have any good hockey players in Fallujah? I'm from a place called Minnesota, and we have many good hockey players here. How many tv channels do you guys get? I have cable, and I have like sixty or so. Do you get MTV? I do. My teachers say that your people are mad at America. But please don't be mad. Just sit back and relax while we gently liberate you. Feel the warm hands of democracy fondle you to freedom.
Do you read Adbusters? I do.
Okay, this is a new category dedicated to the documentation of the various fucked up and strange glitches I find every day in the matrix in which we all live. Maybe I will find a pattern.
Todays glitch: watching a ten second clip of Cheers at 3am, Norm was falling off of his bar stool for comic value. He did this twice. I quickly changed the channel to an All In The Family rerun, only to find another similarly fat man--not Archie-- falling off of his chair right at this exact moment. A man looking strinkingly similar.
No pattern so far.