the 21 and Samoan drunks.

On my way to work I took the slow-lurch like 21 Hayes bus at around 7:18. I was the first one on. I love it when that happens. I love it so much that almost instinctively I shoot dastardly mean spirited glares that say get off my bus as it stops on virtually every silly little block. Today the driver seems short on patience because we are racing down Hayes like he's got a gun to his head. So its just the usual shit show, no one paying attention, listening to Ipods or doing sudoku or reading Yoga magazine, you know San Francisco people on the bus crap. After we pass city hall this big hulking Samoan guy comes stumbling onto the bus with a luggage cart filled with milk crates and a small boom box on top. He's had a few pitchers of whiskey it seems. He meanders through a thinning crowd and makes his way to the back of the bus where I'm perched on the second to last row. He's easily 6'6, a portly 300 lbs. and smells like a bar rag. The guy sits right next to me, the seat to my left was just recently vacated by some snooty-old battle axe who shakes her head as he hits the undercarriage with his smelly forrest green sweatpants.  

"Scuse me."

"Not a problem," I say with a grin.

This big guy grabs his cart from his right and begins to fiddle with his boom box. He turns the power button on finally and 'Man in the Mirror' by Michael Jackson begins blasting, I mean, loud all throughout the bus. I'm laughing uncontrollably as some suit pesters him to turn it off. He stands up lunging toward the cart and as he does the bus hits the breaks.  His inertia clearly misaligned, the bus sends him sailing, this huge hulking frame directly onto the lap of some helpless chinese woman as he yelps a drunken cry while falling. He hits her lap and I look over my shoulder and its like i'm looking at some post apocalyptic cage fighting beast with the body of a Samoan man and the wisdom of an old chinese concubine, except for the writhing pain on her face and his thrashing around like he's drowning. Along with a mutually entertained patron we grab the behemoth by his hands and set him down in my seat. 

Crisis averted? No fucking way. The radio's off, the drunk is seated and aside from a few shriveled old bones now turned to dust it seems the old lady's only going to suffer mental scarring. I'm sure the guy was a little disoriented but it didn't stop him from opening a fresh bottle of Jim Beam and taking a few gulps. I look at him while he's sipping, as if inciting him to answer a question. 

"I make my money the old fashioned way," he says surly and contemptuous, cross-eyeing me.

"Oh what way was that," I say back, realizing I've instigated an epic tirade.

"I rob banks for 'em," as his volume goes from tolerable to shrill between predicates. 

"Oh fuck, now I've done it," I say.

"1974, Bank of the West. I got my money the old fashioned way."

"Oh my."

"1978, Seattle, Washington.  First National Bank. I excaped{sic} to Vancouver, cause I earn my money the old fashioned way."

He goes on recalling all these banks he robbed, always narrowly avoiding the law somehow.  We go another block and the bus comes to a stop. The driver walks through the thick crowd and asks the guy to shut the fuck up.

"But I earned my money the old fashioned way...I robbed banks for it!"

Again the driver says to quiet down, but he just keeps on screaming. The driver exits out the back door and tells a cop across the street. Almost everyone, aside from myself and few old people get off the bus. The entertainment value here is off the charts in my book and i'm still making great time to work. 

A short square faced police officer steps onto the bus with an air of confidence and authority despite his smallish frame. 

"Whats going on here," the officer says examining the scene as another taller, sturdier officer come on board.

"Huh?"

"We need you off the bus fella, you're disturbing the driver and the other patrons."

"I made my money the old fashioned way, I robbed banks for it" he says standing up.

"What was that," the officer says his tone shifting dramatically. It was at this time, just after the Samoan stood, that I noticed just how small this cop was.  He must've been about 5'9 and 160 pounds soaking wet. 

"I made my money the old fashioned way, I said! I robbed-"

"Alright fuckstick," and this dwarf of a cop grabs this guy, his herculean frame now floundering as his wrist replaces where his face was just the second before. A visceral grunt comes spewing from the cart pusher and he's flaying to and fro on the ground between seats. The larger cop helps pin him down and cuff him. The two officers then raise him to his feet as odd, incoherent drunk speak drivels out his mouth.  They begin to push him out the front door till I speak up.

"Wait! What about his cart?"

"What about it," the taller officer says.

"Its probably all he has,"  as I say this they continue pushing him out on to market street and then I remember that they're SFPD and probably have zero tolerance for dealing with drunk vagrants at 7:45 in the morning. 

I'm trying to be a good samaritan to a Samoan today so I grab his smelly cart. I approach the officers to take it with them but they're not interested and I can tell if I don't let it go they're going to put me in the paddy wagon with my new friend.  So I ask them if he's going to county lockup or the tank and they drive away.  I'm holding the Samoan's smelly cart and look at the clock and realize I have to get to work.  So I let go of the cart and leave it at the bus stop.  On my way home, I passed by the bus stop and the cart was gone so I went home and had a drink in honor of my two headed Samoan-Chinese vegetable shopping drunk bank robbing beast. 

Fuck, what a city.

blackout. justice verbatim

today, on the N train, heading home I got up from my seat at powell street to let an old man take a load off. i had my headphones on but for some strange reason this obnoxious girl starts talking to me even though i can't hear a word.  i pull off my ipod ear shredders and say with a loud tinge of impatience, "huh?" she starts over. 

"that's really nice of you to give your seat up."

"oh thanks," and I started to place my earphone back in, but she kept yapping.

"what do you do?"

i hate this question. the main reason is that I'm not exactly proud of my station in life and i'm not spending my days doing what I love to do.  the second reason is what the fuck is it to her, what i do? what knowledge, what level of knowing, to what degree and simply for what reason does her knowing what i do improve or degrade or balance the three stops on muni conversation that is unfolding in front of her. is she going to go home to her roommates and say, "i met this really nice guy on the train today.  he got up from his seat for an old man.  he's a[n];

dental assistant

aesthetician 

social worker

game show host

lifeguard

cop

rabbi

third base coach

railroad worker

hobo

rodeo clown

film maker

bartender

architect

drug dealer...

what have you.  does this small meaningless conversation about what a stranger does to make ends meet have some refined vision of quality, levity and gravity? its like talking about the weather when its clearly shitty outside. not like, "its raining cats and dogs!" which is declarative, descriptive and obvious, but trying to maintain a long insightful exchange with a complete stranger about the temporal differences between two o'clock yesterday and today.  if she'd had a cup of something in her hand I would've liked to snatch it from her and pour it over her head then kick her squarely in the ass two stops too early.  the entire train would've erupted into a raucous, riotous applause and laughter. the old man would've been so thrilled by this spectacle he'd feel compelled to give me back my seat and two other girls who know better than to start a conversation would begin to rub my shoulders and feed me grapes off the vine. 

so how did I reply?

"I'm a producer."

"cool," she panted like a dull automaton. "what do you produce?"

"oh, sandwiches."

i could've lied. I should've lied. I wanted to tell her I was a mortician.  I told a girl this once at a party and she was totally taken in by it. she wanted my number and I had to fabricate the existence of a girlfriend to get her off my tail. i feel like the girlfriend bit was a bigger lie. 

i could've told her that I was health inspector, an investment banker, a nude model, a cobbler, a goal tender, an accountant, a chimney sweep, a linguist, a plumber, a chef, a mustache trimmer, a back alley jazz trumpeter, a catman [married to the cat lady], an arms dealer, a dread lock collector, a concierge, an illusionist, a cigar roller, a writer, a band leader, a lawyer, a greaser, a crook, a grifter, a musician.  i hate this question. its as if all we are is what we do. how bout this; i'm just trying to live and go fuck yourself for asking.

I didn't though. I told her the awful truth of my shady, futile existence.  

she started talking about herself and the non-profit she works ad nauseum. I smiled, nodded and drifted at once, fantasizing about a life with no trips on the smelly, humid cauldron that is the N line, stinking to high heaven of sweltering radishes and turnips, softening herbs and ginger type roots, all pink bags in hand on our way to chinatown west. all these images are floating, the olfactory-ultra sensory detailing meandering around me until finally she says bye. 

thanks for the pointless infinity of verbatim and all the love now lost. nice work. 

meet the lithe

hi.

this is for the lithe, like me. we're kind of lanky in between people with good hearts and sharp eyes. we get flattened by people just like you everyday. we don't come around so often. you'll never find two of us in one family.  you can see our hearts beat. 

when i was eight, i was on the swim team for my neighborhood. i was great at backstroke. twice a week we'd have swim meets against other neighborhoods. i always placed first in the backstroke. i was nasty. this is a specialty of us, the lithe.  between heats, the girls in my neighborhood would approach me and ask me to take my shirt off. this wasn't so they could admire my physique in its pre-pubescent glory, on the contrary! i was mad thin back then just as i am now. my chest cavity was so un-muscular that my big heart would beat through my sternum.  it was kind of like biology class for eight year old girls.  i think for some reason this had a great deal of significance for me.  there was this cruel fascination about the sickliness of my body, my gaunt, malnourished features that gave these children the sensations we adults might experience rubbernecking some horrific traffic accident. 

it was around this time that my mother began to worry about me. from her point of view, it made no sense; she had two other boys flanking me at either end and both were solidly built, well fed, voracious trashcan appetites.  all of us were thin to be certain, but not to the degree i was. it was in her great sense of hysteria that my insecurities about my body image manifested themselves. my mother had a knack for working herself up into a frenzy and with this her predictable reaction was to call the doctor.

"there's something odd with his chest."

"let's take a look," said my doctor. his name was dr. killinger.  after pressing on my chest for a few seconds, dr. killinger looked up at my mom. "pigeons..."

"pigeons?"

"that's right, pigeons."

"what does that mean, pigeon's," my mother replied with a tremble of annoyance.

"pigeon chest."

my mother grabbed my arm and pulled down with force till she reached my wrist. 

"put your shirt back on, right now," she said.

i put my shirt on and my mother shoved me out the door. in the hallway, i could hear her raise her voice at the doctor, but i can't remember what she said. i'm sure it was something spiked tongued and defensive on my part. i mean its gotta be tough to hear a doctor tell you that you're son has some rare condition that will steer his life down some road of self-conscious doubt.  every mother believes her children are perfect just the way they're built and i think in some small way this was my mother's very unique brand of showing me how perfect she thought i was.  after a minute in the hallway, my mother came out, very composed and told me to come back inside. dr. killinger said that i had nothing to worry about, that in most cases it grows out or "levels" as he put it.  

"what about his weight, his frame," my mother asked.

"he's in great shape."

great shape? ugh. i was eight! 

so life moves on and i'm the prototypical skinny dude, long and frail looking.  big hands, large wide feet, the torso of a ladder, waldo in the face, monkey armed and two stumps to lunge with that don't match the rest of my body.  there are worse things.  

fall guy

there is something symphonic, like heavy strings in my head that is cracking me open like an eggshell.  all of me pours out like loose soup into a hot pot and i can feel myself rise to a boil.  my flesh, bone and blood make a stinky compote of gelatin texture when risen to the right temperature. there are other ways to find torture. 

beautiful voices are resounding in my minds eye.  they are echoing sentiments.  everyone, the people i think i know, in a short breath i call them friends, more exhaustively i see them as taxes on my feeble psyche. i see them as everything in the world. i'm laid out on train tracks for them to sleep soundly this night.

i learned just recently in a drunken moment of clarity that this is a stupid fault ridden emotion, delusional at best and with a great deal of certainty is the manifestation of my naivety.  oh how sad a bridge that was to cross, and lonely to boot.  you got look out for yourself, close your heart and just keep your eyes on the road.  you take one look back and someone else has taken the reigns, sealing your fate for a lifetime as a fall guy.  you can't ask too much of anyone, ever.  so the eclipse of my heart and my mind has begun the slow struggle to close its doors. what a sad, bitter, metallic tang of reality that was, is, becomes...  

i'm taking big chomps of this tepid pill but its too big to swallow in one bite. i'm hacking away at it with due diligence. its the size of a cheese steak served dry, no mayo. it sees i got problems. 

*have you ever seen the movie Chinatown? its one of my favorite films.  there is a scene where Faye Dunaway's character, Evelyn Mulray, calls Jack Nicholson's character, Jake Gittes.  he answers the phone and she says with distress in her voice, "are you alone?" he says back to her, "aren't we all?"*

i'm leaping up this cauldron of consternation.  i'm alliterating for no reason at all. the pressure at my temples goes tick, tick, tick, tick... though, i'm sure to make your eyes close, to make you shield your face from my airing of grievances, from my shoulder of lonesome crowded eastern faded firelight, from septic tongued desperation, from mirrored callow promises of my so called "oh my brothers", from listening time literate exasperation, from henry dancing with me on stage till the bouncer kicks US off, from the hope that this can touch you without touching, from protection hermetically sealed in my soul that now launches outward to merge with infinity forever and ever, from the tiled inner self dwelling and building a place of stone catapulting me pass people who could give a fuck and from that shallow nepotism displayed on the daily toward your kind faces that contract and expand, sullen by good times and awaken from this solemn incantation of heavy powered exhaustion, breathlessly searching for a place on a rock. 

excuse the drama, but i'm feeling blue.

forte: an afterthought

today i begin once again to pick up the pieces of my half labored life.  today isn't an attempt or a proverbial stab at genius. rather it is my sincere hope to put down enough words to make myself exhausted.  Again, I'm not looking for uproarious laughter or a symphony of clapping as the last words are read.  i just want to send you to bed with a feverish smile that burns inside, not on the cool bright whiteness of your teeth.  

i must get my life organized if i am to achieve even nothing.  my room in particular is some kind of prehistoric cavern of deathnails, eyelashes of a shrew and hairs of a loser, roil, boil, toil and bubble! with a black trash bag and a machete i trek into the black vortex that is my room. what came of all these half drank glasses of what's now distilled-filthy grey water? how many collections of fliers and business cards does one need? why are these books and magazines strewn Appalachian shanty house style piled up like some destroyed house of cards? why dirty socks and undies on the floor and not in the hamper, my son? why without the semblance of earthquakes or tiny tremors do records fly off the wall? bus schedules from last November really need be around? discarded beer can, a sip left, dust mounted top region, blue fuzz inside no doubt, throw out, sound good? newspaper articles on deposed chieftains, heads of state now in disgrace can enter that black bag, no? go get colds, from three week sheets need a wash and a fold, summertime lightness, give it a chance. some girl named andrea's number on a napkin, really worth keeping, since you don't remember her in the slightest? a million and seven dust-bunnies hop away with agitation from the loud vacuuming freeness about to ensue. 

my eyes glance over everything i place in this bag.  little tiny memories or casualties of my faulty lifestyle of wine, women and song [except without the women or the song, and whiskey and beer instead of wine]. Alas sobriety struck me as an option to alleviate the cold shiver of my bones each morning and night, to stop the gagging-acid-reflux recurrence, slow the peril in my blood, ascetic scribe gets a good night's rest for once, a Balzac-Prozac adventurer finding his will in the stellar flux*, kebabs of great luck on the grill and a portion of water that flows into my mouth just as the beer used to surged like wine; it quenches my thirst, finally. 

they call all this illusion or delusion.  i just want call it my beginning. 

*Thanks to the bald guy on the right--------> 

the hole in my beard

it kind of appeared out of nowhere. i was shaving with inconsistent regularity, almost every three days.  my job insisted on clean shaven appearances which is a difficult requirement for someone like myself who takes hold of any chance to cloak my true self from the world.  so i'm shaving much to my chagrin at 6 a.m. on monday mornings before work, the four day stubble long enough to feel the follicles ripping out from their roots which is great for alleviating the two days of binge drinking-i need to wake the fuck up right now sensation that it provides.  six months deep into my regimen i notice cascading down the left part of my chin is a complete death of facial hair growth.  it was small to begin with, a quarter of an inch wide and tall.  i had no interest in making a big deal about it because i figured i had just shaved too close in my shaky, monday morning haze.  days became weeks and weeks became a month and this small irritant was still stifled from any growth.  the worry team members of my mind formed their solemn tribunal to discuss this blemish upon what had been up until then a formidable pallet of fisherman quality scruff.  every time i approached the mirror, my gaze would affix upon this hole. i would tilt my head slightly to the right and draw myself closer.  everyday i would examine this patch and as time wore on i conceived that it was, indeed, expanding, swallowing all the tiny hairs in its path.  

****I want you all to know this; i'm in touch with my insecurities, some might say even hyper-aware of them.  a defect of this nature destroys the cloak that i've been building for years.  in facial hair in particular it's an auspicious dynamo to have that which i want to keep most in the dark, exposed for all to see. where are my worries? they're perched on the corner of my chin spreading like wildfire****

I sought the counsel of fellow bearded men with similar experiences in moratoriums of facial sprouts . jordan, my roommate, relayed a similar story saying he went to his dermatologist who promptly injected him on two separate occasions with cortizone, a steroid and hormone that can stimulate hair growth.  this was great news.  he told me that after two shots and a couple weeks, the follicles reappeared and the wholeness of the beard sprang anew. ahh! delicious hope again!

i went to the mirror, once i knew it was only a matter of time before the drugs would be injected to the black hole in my beard, and poked fun saying loudly to him, "No more fucking with me" and "your counter-revolution is over!"

I made an appointment with a specialist, a dermatologist through the reference section of my general practitioner's website.  I got an appointment the next day.  I arrived, giddy about the reformation of my sturdy cloak. I had done some light research and found that the medical term for my condition was alopecia arreata, which roughly translated stands for; bald in areas. i sat in his office and noticed that the doctor was a skydiving fanatic.  he had pictures of him base-jumping in the andes, jumping out of planes near the grand canyon and free falling off some bridge back east.  for some reason it put my mind at ease and i thought, 'this is going to be easy. he'll check out the spot, shoot me up with the shit and schedule a follow up appointment.'  i tingled in my chair with excitement.  

editorially, let me say just this; fuck Kaiser and their doctors...

"oh, i can see exactly what it is"

"yeah, alopecia-arreata?"

"precisely."

"so can i get some cortizone shot up in there?"

"I don't recommend it."

He doesn't recommend it. Bullshit. He's a lazy fucking Kaiser doctor who doesn't want to exert the effort because I'm only paying 25 bucks for this visit.

"huh, so, is there a treatment you would recommend," i ask blankly.

"its mostly stress related, so I would say try to lower the stress levels if you can and go from there."

this stupid, high flying piece of shit wants me in and out of his office and in a hurry, so he can go onto the next patient and not give him what he needs. this lazy bald fuck wants me to look like an asshole just like him. 

"in most cases, the area that is, affected, if you will, is usually subject to new growth after the stress levels have been significantly reduced."

"is there a reason why you can't just give me the cortizone treatment?"

"well there is a chance that it could permanently scar the tissue, leaving it bumpy and swollen for the rest of your life."

I thought in that moment about Dick Tracy characters.  Flattop, Lips Manliss, Pinhead and me Bumpy Face, the tommy gun molasses runner, that sweats under hot lights.

"so no treatment, just reduce the stress?"

"exercise. exercise never hurt anybody."

"exercise?"

"shave close"

indignantly, i stomped out of his office, mumbling to myself. fuck kaiser and their endless string of quick fix health care doctors. "THRIVE," they say.  its difficult for me to thrive when you don't do shit for me.

 i moved casual down the hall from the doctor's office and into the elevator. 

 

my moment of defeat goes something like this;

the fucking carpet gets yanked from beneath me, i hit the ground with a loud thud, as i land on my ribs.  collapsed and crippled as punctured lung therapy, i'm aghast of breath.  'pull air in,' my brain says, but the lungs say 'no,' and i can't find any oxygen to let out the swell of anguish that burns inside me. i make soft touches at pneumatic machinery that dangles on my fingertips. the mirror of me and the stupid hole in my beard is swirling counter-clockwise in my head, laughing at me, with reverberated cackles, high pitched squeals and a crooked smile that can only be mine. i went limp at the prospect of a vixen at a various watering hole with dumb potential, looking at half my beard on the right side of my face and then tracing along to my left, she finds, to her horror and disgust, the blank-off white maelstrom that lay on the left side of my face, sucking in all the garbage off the bar. she's gotta run to the filthy bathroom to upchuck all her drinks from the sight of my incomplete beard. DING! 

"own it," that's what everyone says. 

"i didn't even notice it till you pointed it out," that's what everyone says.

"its not so bad," that's what everyone says.

"what's up with the hole in your beard," that's what everyone says.

i've resorted to make-up.  women wear it everyday.  i take eye-liner pencil and fill in the void.  i dab my thumb with my tongue and spread the marking around.  from far away it passes like a full beard. up close it looks like the hairs are shortened.  i told you that i'm in touch with my insecurities. 

this ordeal is eating away at me.  i'm constantly focusing on it.  i feel like i walk into a room and everyone has one eyeball on the super nova hole on my face, as it vacuums up all the crud and crumbs off the floor. this shit is psycho-somatic.  its a CATCH-22.  i have a hole in my beard because of stress, but i'm stressed because i have a hole in my beard.  

where the miniscule roam..

i see strain in a world. the muscles all vascular and tense at the sight of millions of dead bodies strewn across the ground, a stench of wasted life resembling purple ionized flesh.  that image just explodes into my mind.  i see this body; all tension, huge, purple varicose, ripped and weighted down to the earth by some intricate root structure, pulling us down like gravity, until finally we stop struggling. we sink into earth and root, rock and dust or even as ash. the lucky folk alive do not dispute the difference between dust and ash from day to day as they lift it with paper towel or sweep it into a pan.  they see dust and ash alike, no?  that dust is remnants of us.  it is our tough fibered skin, hair, broken tissue into small fragment cells.  you breathe this every day.  its why we change our sheets. it is visibly invisible.  these parts are dying all the time.  they die wanting to bond with ground. 

i see all the hair on my head fallen to the barber's or the bathroom's vinyl flooring, flicked away from my teeth fingernails, toilets and window sills teeming with toenails, sun-burnt flesh rubbed away at a park, or the beach, scratched off with sand.  living cells that are demolished and plucked away, floating gradually with the ether.  holy fuck! i mean part of me just dies and floats away? these are small bits, not so contrary, even keeled amongst us and we take solace knowing; it happens to everybody.

but they don't float so far sometimes.  that dust on my bookcase is due in large part to me.  i mean i'm shedding the shit each day and not being especially tidy in a month or so i place my finger drawing against the grain and flip my finger 180 degrees. ewww. gray like some tint of foul mopwater.  this is what these tiny morsels of self have to look forward to. how lame.  

something Spicoli [once he opened an Italian restaurant] would term; Spaghetti Alla Lameonara.

i'm not telling anybody to save their nails or boogers or whatever but its kinda fucked to think this; you shed some skin one night as you sleep with your window open. little particles of you seep out the window and into the window downstairs where your neighbor or you stranger takes a deep breath and sucks that little part of you away and now its with them.  

every minute a piece of us is dying and most times we just sweep it beneath the carpet.

spend an empty day.

At around 9-9:30, I rise from my dark brooding bed, always clutching to the colder side of the bed for the beautiful woman that isn't there.  I stumble, like a sullen monk, swaying back and forth down the hall till i reach the toilet.  I piss for a solid minute and a half in circular sweeping motions, making a mess of the bowl and the surrounding ground.  i take a handful of toilet paper clean up the runoff of urine outside the bowl and bathroom floor, and then heave to yank the chain with a downward thrust.  i shimmy my way, walking almost sideways toward the shower. i let the hot water run too hot against the floor of the tub so that when i transfer it to the shower placing my feet in, the air is instantaneously polluted with a colorful display of expletives.  i shower for a long time, sometimes for a half hour, letting the grime of my life wash off me over and over again till the top layer of dermis begins its ascent toward a peel.  i get out of the shower opening the window to let the half hour of steam merge with the surmounting or dissipating fog. i don't use a towel. i air dry with all the extra time. it is restorative to my hard-water damaged skin.  i stare at myself in the mirror, not in a vain way.  in a meditative, don't worry its the psyche that's telling you you're ugly and you must defeat this mentality, way. i  brush and floss [sometimes]. i don't comb my hair. i dress quickly, a light coat of moisture still dripping from my legs.

i get in front of my computer and go through craigslist looking for jobs, but i never find anything.  i check my email, then i cruise craigslist again for a missed connection, but i never find anything.  I build a massive sandwich. i do my best to remember what day it is.  i drink a beer. i watch Maury Povich.  Chamida has the six men she slept with the nine months before Tavon was born.  Maury says the same thing to all six men. 

"In the issue regarding baby Tavon, you are NOT the father!"

All six men have the same reaction.  They stand on top of the horrid looking furniture and exclaim to all mighty that they knew they were right. meanwhile Chamida scurries backstage, her hands in her face, wailing like a depressed manatee.  Maury comforts her telling her backstage, that he and his producers will help her continue the search for the true father of baby Tavon.  Then they cut to a commercial.

Commercials during the day are geared towards losers. They know its a bunch of couch potatoes and unemployed slackers watching Maury each day so the commercials try to inspire these people.  One commercial is for J.G. Wentworth a claims attorney specializing in helping those hurt at work [the only suitable excuse for watching TV during the day].  Another is for Wyotech, where you can get your technical degree in 18 months as a technician or a mechanic or as a dental assistant.  the gecko is selling insurance.  Another is for baby wipes. 

 They are selling advertising space to stay at home moms and losers without jobs.  I turn the television off.  I walk to the coffee shop. I order a large coffee and write a lot of nonsensical blather. I try to write one thousand words. Today after this sentence I'm at 590 words and as usual, its fucking nonsense. A friend told me once that when i write with too much structure like a daily account [like this piece of shit], or something linear, it's usually shit.  He said, the only time your shit is great and compelling is when you get weird. just get weird.  so i crack another beer, a china beer and I'm going to write something weird.

HOTCAKES

I, mumbles out a the devastator, the ground all porous in sinkholes.

where-what comes rapid-style quicksand that eats you up;

your idea, your thought, all the motivators sucked into a vacuum.

awake in a room that is one solid bed. the doors open inward,

so you can't get out. you're stuck like a shut-in, in a room, so just sleep soundly, curled

up fetal position, like you are back their safe in mumsy's womb.

sleep so that the backache moves up each disc, all wiry spindles of tension.

you wake one with the word. lithe. lithe for the lifetime.

let inspiration seep away with your finished china beer. 

tan sedan of modest horsepower is a feeble modifier of your future.

truculence and the capriciousness sure to conjure itself from thin air.

big words symbolize a lack of depth in your pants, but i recognize,

take hold, find a new pallet to blend the flavor of your disgust with yourself.

make it up, hold it steady to your temple, feel cold steel, a metal taste,

a minor tremor from the feet, up your legs that shakes the discs into 

massaged comfort.  breaths of cold fog, swelter heat beneath blankets,

a drapery of leather constricting, the chase around the playground.

strip myself down; take off nice swede shoes, argyle socks, my dumb khaki's,

button downed collar bullshit, a solid tie.  down to my god-damned undies.

all he's got to do is stop hating himself long enough for everyone to believe he

doesn't hate himself. its compensatory illusion and it sells like hotcakes.

have a nice weekend friends. I'll be on my way.

smell of the wind

in the last month or so I've been knee deep in my own metaphorical shit.  my mother and father tirelessly proselytizing me within an inch of a buzzcut, a fresh shave and a teeth whitening.  i told them where to shove it, not literally but softly, with the kindest, most unstrung words one can utter. how about a bold step?

Yes, I was laid off from my last job and that's about as nice as I can put it.  it hurts to feel like you aren't needed or more to the point; necessary. they sat me down, produced a litany of excuses and rationale to justify my dismissal and then as if changing the subject my supervisor turns, winces and looks over at me out the side of his sagging eyeball.  he takes a deep breath as if searching for the words.  he wants so badly to soften the blow. he sits upright as the HR manager leans in as if preparing herself to be assailed by me. 

"We're gonna let you go."

there are a million moments in your life that pass right by you with so many words and options to choose from. this one is a spike in my vein. be careful of the wanton desires of the ego.

I, being the self fledging pansy-ass that I am, held my tongue, save for a silent out lash of frustration at the fact that I had to work the whole day.  Even in the moment there were symbols and innuendo, expletives and cursed images.  you have that moment in your life, and its testing you.  its testing your fear.  i walked out of that building ashamed, not cause i lost my job. jobs come and go.  I was ashamed I let it lay there in front of them.  i took like a bitch. I could've said something to let the sting fly from me to them. instead i packed up my shit, shook hands with my fellow colleagues, gave my boss the stink-eye and walked the fuck out. how lame! 

so that's why i haven't been posting. i was blogging a lot at work, they found out about it and used it as ammunition to get rid of me. now I hope to be more studious with this blog and please accept my apologies for not keeping up with it. 

there's a whole lot of shit in the wind. 

here i go again on my own...

whitesnake wisdom to pass down on the upcoming solo valentines day;

"Here I go again on my own
Goin' down the only road I've ever known
Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone
An' I've made up my mind
I ain't wasting no more time
I'm just another heart in need of rescue
Waiting on love's sweet charity
An' I'm gonna hold on
For the rest of my days
Cos' I know what it means
To walk along the lonely street of dreams
An' here I go again on my own
Going down the only road I've ever known"

Yes, Whitesnake and a stripperesque Tawny Kitaen sliding around a white Jaguar sucks pretty bad, but not nearly as much as Valentine's Day on the whole. What a shitty contrived excuse to sell flowers, chocolate, greeting cards, construction paper and jewelry. I've been alone for most of the vdays of my short tenure but I have to say the few where I was fortunate enough to have someone weren't spectacular or enriching or markedly more romantic than any other day. we as a society buy into this push for mass consumerism and god damnit I think it needs to stop.

A small history lesson on the origins of this celebration provided by my apostolic upbringing. St. Valentine was a martyred priest in Rome who was ordered to renounce his faith by Claudius II. When Valentine refused he was sent to the prefect of Rome who commended him to be beaten with clubs and then beheaded! According to liturgical texts this beating and beheading occured February 14, 270 A.D. [5 years of Catholic school does serve me on some level, who knew?]. Where does love fall into this? Well as a priest, St. Valentine was marrying young couples and centurians. Somehow this translates into millions of profits for all of said industries. this makes me want to vomit. people skipping around town joyously in love, spending money on useless material items and how do you think St.Valentines feels, forever entombed in his catacomb?

what a bullshit excuse to make couples spend money and those of us 'relationship challenged' people feel like shit for not having anyone. well guess what? not me! not this time! not on my watch, on my shift! i'm not staying in and i'm not hitting the town. i'm gonna stand in the street and yell at all the happy couples the sad truth of this bullshit consumer celebration. i mean who really benefits? people who are already having sex are going to have the same boring sex they always do except with some tacky neglige thrown into the mix, lonely people will feel a little more lonely and the fat cats at all those chocolate companies and those hack greeting card writers will be living big, fattening their wallets on a priest that was beaten and then decapitated.

as an exercise to relieve my sincere disgust at this putrid tradition i would like to shout a couple fuck-you's to the various heads of state that keep this miserable wheel turning. to hallmark, american greetings, the taylor corporation, carte blanche industries, 123 greetings, rennaisance greeting cards and sunrise greetings i just want to say fuck off and stop wasting trees for useless cards that will no doubt be taking up precious landfill space in a week or less. to hersheys chocolate for wrapping your kisses in that annoying foil that you can taste all outside the ediface of your kisses, i would like to say go fuck yourselves. to 1800-flowers, hoogasian flowers and all the florists across the country I'd like to say find a real job. to kay jewlers, tiffanys, the diamond exchange and all the hasidic jewlers of antwerp robbing john q public of three months salary and effectively enslaving the southern half of unindustrialized africa to get some stupid shiny rocks, let me just say, burn in hell you solace fucks. and finally to victoria's secret and your dreamcast of angelic models, destroying all hope, wreaking havoc on every american woman's body image, making me feel ugly with every browse of your catalog, every minute of your fashion show, enough peril in my blood to let it boil, enough envy and wrath at the unlikelihood to touch your soft supple breasts that the veins split and my arterial cavitys flood with bloody valentine red and seeps through my teeth let me just say, thanks for picking up adriana lima, she wouldn't have to do a damn thing.

good to get that all off my chest. so to conclude, valentine's day is a sham of the most flagrant order and it sickens me that some of you will engage in this but then again who am i to judge? just remember what you are celebrating and that's the fact that a roman catholic priest refused to renounce his faith and stop marrying soldiers, so he was beaten with clubs and then beheaded. HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!

memory 84

it is minute something in my life and i press rewind to the moment i humped the ground in my first trip through 2nd grade. this story may be the very reason i was forced to endure a second go round.

this overzealous science prick that taught 7th-8th grade pre biology and chemistry assigned the seventh graders to take cotton swabs of the door knobs of each classroom. they do some shit with the swabs, scanning them or whatever for bacterias, i.e. snot, mucus, entrails and so on. they announced the god damn results over the loud speaker.

now keep in mind i'm seven years deep in the swimming pool, pretty weird and a bit spastic [i put that in bold because because there is a key to this whole incident in its root] . when they announce over the loudspeaker, that indeed mrs. welsh's doorknob had the largest quantity of bacteria, i lost it. i fipped back in my chair and began frying like an egg on the cheap smelly rug beneath me. i was gyrating, humping the floor in pure ecstasy until mrs. welsh came over and yanked me up from the floor. she shook me violently asking, "what's-a-matter with you?" i don't remember what i said back then, but i tell you what i would say now; 

"are you kidding me? we won you dumb bitch!"

spasm is defined as; an involuntary and abnormal muscle contraction. furthermore i would like to stress the idea of involuntary. INVOLUNTARY!

yes,  a bit of an over-reaction to begin to pantomime making love to the vomit stained carpet of my second grade classroom. that's a given. but lets be real here: is it grounds to make sure i have to repeat the whole fucking grade? when i was that age, anything vile or gross was of my interest. snot, phlegm, boogers, slime...these things are ingrained into young boys.  pre-pubescent girls reacting with the standard grossed out, "ewwwwww!" only stand make the problem worse. you do these savagely grotesque things to get a reaction, or more to the point attention. i was frail when i was that age, bullied around by bigger kids, so i couldn't play the 'go over there and hit the girl that you like card,' because most of them could kick my ass. being gross was the only way to draw attention to myself, albeit negative attention. so to answer your question, yes i was the kid that ate Elmer's glue, ink all over his mouth at the end of the day, his desk attached to the teachers at the front of the class, fond of spitting loogies up towards the sky then letting them fall brilliantly back in my mouth.

the back of this memory is my first day of second grade for the second time. same school, different teacher. i walk into the classroom, my dad holding my hand. immediately upon crossing the threshold to my new homeroom, Caroline Helton stands up and points her long bony finger at me and says, "Elliott! You got held back!" hearing her say it like that made me feel about as tall as a blade of grass. i grabbed onto my dad's silks pants and bawled uncontrollably as all these kids, a year younger than me watched curiously. they are all thinking to themselves, no wonder he got held back. HELD BACK!

papa patted me gently, picked me up and took me outside. he pulled out his handkerchief and dried my eyes. he told me to be strong 'cause i'm an Armstrong. so i marched back in, my eyes still red from tears and sat at my new desk. i put my head in my arms and felt the cool surface of my desk against my face. i dreamt of third grade.

Zach vs. Slater, Kapowski vs. Spano

one of the least successful pickup lines i've ever used is to ask a girl who she prefers; Zach Morris or A.C. Slater. I used infer a great deal about the girl by their answers. If a girl said Zach, she is obviously looking for a manipulative pansy ass with a nice car, feminine looks and enough hair gel to stop time. If a girl said Slater, she wants an alpha male type frat boy with a g-curl who roofies her punch the first time he gets her in the sack. the girls who piqued my interest were the ones who said, "what about screech?" Screech is obviously not worthy of most girls given his horrible fashion sense, squelching hi/lo voice, irritating Jewfro and overall nerdiness. the mere mention of screech is an affirmation that this girl was one that was worth talking to. poor Screech forever annotated as Lisa Turtle's daily restraining order. A girl that excludes themselves from the douchebag paradigm of zach vs. slater is one that is thinking thoughts i can align myself with.

the only other reasonable response to this query is a girl who deflects the question by asking, "kelly or jesse?" again, lisa turtle isn't even mentioned. but i have to be honest, growing up it was all Kelly Kapowski. after the show ended and Jesse Spano became a water nympho in Showgirls, you were officially preaching to the converted. looking back, jesse spano was the obvious choice. flawed and strong at the same time, no one can forget the episode where jesse, kelly and lisa get their big break doing a dance/singing routine to the Pointer Sisters, "I'm So Excited," on television. the stress becomes to much for Jesse and she turns to methamphetamines/diet pills to keep herself awake. zach confronts her about her abuse and she exclaims, "I'm So Excited, I'm So Excited, I'M SO SCARED!" Hilarious, no doubt, but it paints a picture of imperfection that i love in women. Jesse was also the portrait of the feminist cause, constantly calling her jock boyfriend a 'pig'. to have her first big role, post opt Saved by the Bell, be a tart showgirl, who strips and cries, then cries and strips was such a departure that kelly kapowski was left in the dust. the love scene between her and Kyle McLaughlin has to be the most overacted scene in movie history. Even the look on Kyle's face in the scene is like, "what the fuck is she doing?" Jesse, aka Elizabeth Berkley has taken on a number of great indie film roles, including a nice turn with Jennifer Beales and Campbell Scott in the indie sleeper hit Roger Dodger. she makes out with an underage kid in this movie....nice!

Everyday, 4pm, Saved by the Bell, would come on TBS. I don't think i've missed a single episode. That show is a part of my genetic makeup. Just to update. Jesse, by far the most successful of the gang, is acting still on TV and film, Screech is making porn, Zach earned critical acclaim on NYPD Blue, Lisa Turtle does small bit parts in black comedies mostly and plays the love interest in various R&B videos, Slater is a reality TV whore, Kelly is doing crap television and Mr. Belding played a pedophile on "Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia."

They made this cheeseball reunion show about Zach and Kelly finally getting married in Vegas. Fuck that! They should've gotten married at THE MAX!

So now i put it to you faithful reader. Who do you prefer? Kelly, Jesse or Lisa? Zach, Slater or Screech? post your answers with a brief explanation and the best answer gets no prize whatsoever!

7X4=nuff said?

what an evening; an enchanting evening it was.


there were residual knots lining the lower region of my stomach, a scarcely visible drear all in eyes because i didn't sleep much the night before. i gotta be honest, i get nervous when i stamp my name on a party and this was by far the most public and risky venture i had attached myself with. my temper was also tried because this was the first birthday party i'd ever had. because of the proximity of my birth to that of JESUS CHRIST'S people weren't usually around as a child to partake in rollerskating rink parties or a trip to the local Chuck E Cheese. as i got older, it became less about the lack of interest in activities of celebration and more about the fact that it was placed between two obnoxiously inebriated holidays effectively draining all my friends essence or desire to partake in boozehounding the night away. so with a tummy of heebie jeebies, the help of some friends and a prayer all my angst was wiped away in one fowl swoop. URRIE!


to make my sweet sixteen a reality i recruited my friend Andy whose birthday falls a day after mine and my friend Meghan, who would bring an even ratio of vagina to penis, for once. Andy ended up inviting his friend Briane to hop on the balanced genitalia team for the big win, whose 27th birthday was the day before mine. further helping the dream was Ezra, who I need to take the time here to thank for securing 111 minna, dealing with the staff, getting the doorgirls and basically doing all the work while the rest of us buzzed off emails and composed ridiculously long guestlists. at that it was born; "HELLA FOLKS BIRFDAY"....I have to credit Andy with the title but as an aside, i urged him to keep it.


as a gift my best friend, Nat aka DJ Morse Code, aka MoCo, agreed to play for next to nothing which left only the expense of promoting the event. Andy made the flyer and we didn't print any, so we only had to pay for the bitchy doorgirls. oh and they were such bitches, it was great.


the day of the event i went looking for an outfit that would make me standout and i found it. i wore a grey cardigan, white dress shirt, a clip on red bowtie, black jeans and red original vans. i looked like a cross between a drunk professor plum, bill nye the science guy and pee wee herman. one of the best ensembles i've ever assembled.


upon arrival at minna there was still some rumbling nerves down south but the static in the air was palpable and gave me a sense of thrill at what might unfold. people arrived early to avoid the cover at the door and by 10:30 the place was filling out nicely with people. remembering always that this was my birthday, i let the dopamine inhibitors flow. it was so great to see such a thorough melding of various worlds. that's what i've always found so great about San Francisco; its the tiny pockets of peoples and worlds you acquire over time. when everyone is in the same room, as an individual its fucking thrilling.



as the night wore on more and more alcohol was being forced in my direction. i would humor almost everyone by taking a deep pound of whatever drink they got me and then find a spot to drop it off, never to be drank again. the only problem with this was that most people want to give you shots on your birthday so by about 11:30 I was toast! Toast! whenever i got that upchuckety urge, that woozy headrolling fervor i simply turned to the good old dopamine inhibiting, wake up juice and some water. everything poured becomes erased! ERASED!



nat went on close to midnight and threw down the bangers till closing. i got up on the stage and did my funny little dance moves in effect trying to hype the crowd with my Tuts, waves and hits. sometimes i look back on the night and i feel embarrassed, like i made a fool of myself. but, then unflinching the alcohol and inhibitors numb my resolve and i'm up in front of everyone making an ass of myself, perhaps.



at two, everyone filed out of Minna, grinning ear to ear, at least that's how i remember it. there was an audible declaration that everyone attend the afterparty at a big house on Fell street. what an eruption of people that turned out to be. more alcohol, more inhibitors, more friends, conversation, laughter, drama, debauchery and me out of my mind. i was there till close to 4:30 when upon much urging by Nat we were supposed to go to some other house to smoke some trees. my friend Tyler, who opened up with a nice set at the beginning of the night approached me and asked where i was going. i don't remember this, but days later he told me i came stumbling down the stoop, my clip on bowtie now dangling off to one side, my hair once smoothly coiffed now spiked out every which way, sweat beating off my brow, my jaw swaying in the breeze, beer spilt on my shirt, eyes dimmed down and my new red vans covered in filth. what a fine picture that must've been! the conversation went something like this;

"uh, where are you going," tyler asked as fragile as a lost puppy.
"i don't know some shit, wherever it snott gunna be fun."
"okay."
"yeah, so you just stay here and catsh cab and I see you later."
"okay."

we ended up at some random house where i preceeded to pass the fuck out and then wake up when the joint came my way. someone offered up a bed and more wake up juice but i declined and placed my filthy, new red shoes on the coffee table and whispered in a birthday girl's ear.

to say it was the best birthday of my life is to downplay the effort, the success. those of us who were there to witness saw that we were better or worse people afterward, from then onward. as Jordan, my roommate commented, I never have a memorable time at Minna, but last night was memorable. it felt good to give a gift while getting the same gift i was giving. i wish my birthday was once a month so i could have an excuse to throw this party all the fucking time.

i gotta say the money ain't bad either.