Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Dude, Where's My Lunch?

You know, there are a number of annoyances that are to be expected for those of us who haven't completely lost our shit and decided to move to a yurt in Outer Mongolia, feasting solely on yak butter tea and barley gruel. And one of them is having to see life size--or larger--Ashton Kutchners everywhere, advertising "Ashton's Rom Com Chick Flick of the Week." A lot like love? A lot like that feeling you get in the back of your throat right before you vomit...that taste of bile my friend Ben dubbed the "bile rush."

Let me tell you a little story... Once upon a time, my friends Lisa Ho Ho, the aforementioned Ben, and I, drove from New York to Phillie. Before we left, I ate about 5 Gray's Papaya hot dogs--this was back when they had chili as a topping. Two were with chili, the other's had kraut. Does this sound like a good idea to you? Let's just say Three Mile Island had nothing on the toxicity of my ass. I have to say,my outbursts were so disgusting, so malodorous par excellence, that they made me burst out laughing. Thankfully, the violent exhalation of air caused by laughing helped me breathe without choking. They were so foul, I actually felt like I'd won something. "I am the Sir Stinkybutt King of the Shit People!" My friends were threatening to leave me in the Phillie ghetto (which is, say, 95% of Phillie) to fend for myself. Wouldn't be a problem--these things were like serioius kryptonite, bullet-stopping, farts of steel. "I'm an atom-bomb laying motherfucker, Motherfucker."

So we picked up Iron Ann Jaso and were parking on South Street when I let another go. I started laughing so hard I gagged, and then I started to barf. I was in this brand new rental car, which probably had barf insurance, but I didn't want to ride home in that, so I immediately whipped off my beloved SF Giants hat and puked in it. Not a lot of puke, but enough. Then we got out of the car and had cheesesteaks.

That was great moment for me, believe it or not, because it was cathartic as well as funny. You know, like in "Jesus' Son" when the narrator is working at Beverly Home with all of the fucked up, debilitated and crazy people, and he looks at an especially far gone resident and says, "no more pretending for him." The fecund stench of cabbage ass with chili bean shit particles and bile puke in my hat: It was all on the table, you know? I was revelling in the absurdity of the human condition, most specifically my own, even if I was driving my friends to homicide. But goddamn it, Ashton Kutchner has taken the joy out of that memory for me. His pretty boy mug immediately calls to mind--and gag reflex--that stench, without any of the hilarity. Dude! Not sweet! Decidedly not sweet!

I don't want to be one of those bitter guys who gets off at randomly punching celebrities... Wait a minute...after my friend Tony told me about punching Matt Dillon, a decidedly cooler actor than A.K. (a la "I love retards") in the face at a Portland kegger, maybe I do want to be the Hollywood celebrity-puncher. I mean, there was the big-titted broad who ran onto pitcher's mounds and kissed pitchers for publicity. Maybe I'll go to Hollywood premieres and knock out actors. And Ashton-baby obvioiusly hasn't been punched enough.

People will love me. There'll be an electric buzz of anticipation in the air when the first person spots me: "Hey, it's Hard Right, the punch guy." [I'll have to have some kind of media-given nickname.] Then, as I knock a few of Ashton's professionally-whitened teeth into his digestive tract, there'll be a feeling of collective religious ecstasy. Women will faint. Men of iron will raise their arms and shriek, bringing to mind the unrelenting pharyngeal ululations of bereft Muslim mothers. Babies will fly.

The only thing I'd have to worry about would be Demi. GI Jane would obviously beat my ass... I'm convinced the only reason she hasn't eviscerated her dandelion of a boyfriend is because she straps one on and goes San Quentin on his hairless white ass every night. Punk'd!

Wednesday, April 13, 2005


My father died on February 17. The following is what I read at his funeral:

My father, Duncan Pirnie Davidson, was probably the smartest person I’ve met. This is the man that turned me on to Faulkner by giving me his copy of The Sound and the Fury. More than just smart, he was insightful, and self-sufficient. He worked his whole life, put himself through Stanford Law School by taking some crazy jobs: working at an ice factory, driving a Good Humor truck, riveting bombers one summer at MacDonnell Douglass. At one time or another he’d also built soundwalls on the side of freeways and worked on a crew paving streets. He served a stint in the Merchant Marine when he was 18, which landed him in the hospital in Panama with malaria. He learned how to fly planes in the Air Force, a fact I discovered, to my sheer terror, when I was seven. Dad’s buddy had a Cessna, which he volunteered to take me up in for my first flight. We flew to Catalina Island, which is basically an overgrown rock in the Pacific Ocean. After lunch, dad’s friend said, “So, Duncan, wanna take ‘er off?” He hadn’t flown a plane since the 40’s, but he didn’t hesitate to fly that one off the edge of a cliff over all that blue water. The plane had twin controls, but my dad was the only one with my hands on them. Ultimately, he retired from the Air Force Reserve as a Lieutenant Colonel after 25 years of service. And, lest we forget, he could rig and sail a boat, another fact I discovered to my terror as a kid. This is more of a testament to the wimpiness of my youth than any inherent recklessness of my father’s as a pilot or sailor.

However, my father is most remembered for being a Worker’s Compensation judge. As a kid, I knew this, of course. But the thing that most impressed me was that he could build anything. Whereas most people who’d devoted their lives to an intellectual profession might be somewhat deficient in working with their hands, my dad was a carpenter, a bricklayer, and a handyman. He could plant trees, install insulation and sprinkler systems. When the pool needed an acid bath, he drained it and gave it an acid bath. But beyond this, he was an artisan. He had an artistic vision, and he used this to remake the backyard of our childhood house. When we moved in, it was a swimming pool surrounded by loose rocks. My dad installed a retaining wall reinforced with rebar, a prefect redwood deck, laid cement, and put down a brick inlay right in the middle of it all. He cut the bricks himself with a masonry saw, and didn’t use mortar, but laid them so tight that all he had to do was push sand between the cracks to keep them in place. Not one of those bricks came loose.

I helped my dad with that backyard, but I was seven, and couldn’t do more than lift a cinder block or hold a two by four in place while he cut it. A little later, when I was the ripe old age of 11, we ripped out the driveway and my dad let me have a go at the jackhammer.

But we did more together than working. Which was more like play for me anyway—how many 11-year-olds get to use a jackhammer? He’d come home from trying cases all week, and come watch my Pee Wee football practice, and take me to the games in far flung suburbs of Southern California on Saturdays. And when my interest in tackle football waned, around the time my skill set proved lacking and I moved from first to second string, he never stopped believing in me. Nor did he become angry or disappointed when I decided to give up football to race BMX bikes. He’d come home from work in San Bernardino at 5:30 or 6:00 on a Friday, throw down some food, and take my friends and I right back out there for the Friday night races.

I used to want to go into law like my father. In junior high I hung out at his office, watching him try cases and interviewing him and his colleagues. I wrote a 12-page paper on why I wanted to be a lawyer. I got an A on the paper, but changed my career path to being a writer. Once again, my dad didn’t show any disappointment, even if he felt it. When I was in high school, I’d go to his office in San Jose with him on Saturdays and use the State’s copy machine to make my underground skateboarding magazine while he caught up on cases. Your tax dollars at work.

In short, my dad always had my back. I’ve worked in nightclubs for years, doing security, and it’s a very real thing for me to say that someone has my back. It’s unconditional; if it’s time to stop, hold your ground, and throw down, someone who’s got your back is right there beside you. It’s a lot rarer than you’d think, and though my father and I never got in any Patrick Swayze in “Roadhouse” situations, he had my back all the way through. I realize now that I’m older and have more perspective on things, that this may not have been so easy at times. Not every parent finds it easy to “go with the flow” when the cops call at 3:00 AM to say they’ve picked up your kid drinking beer and skateboarding some loading docks behind a warehouse. To be sure, I had more social maladjustments during my school days than most kids, being forced into the role of black sheep so much that I finally embraced it. Not many parents can hack their kids being self-identified punk rock outcasts; matter of fact, that’s why most kids are punk rock outcasts to begin with: because their parents can’t bring themselves to believe in them. This was never the case with my dad; he loved me no matter what. And I think he understood who I was because we were so much alike. I remember my dad taking me to the Wherehouse in the mall to buy a copy of AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” on cassette because he thought the song “Big Balls” was as hilarious as I did. Of course, he was in his fifties and I wasn’t yet ten, but the point is, we were not dissimilar character types. He chose to walk his own path.

Much of this path was his work. A Worker’s Compensation judge for 25 years, he retired at age 72, though he didn’t really want to. That’s when the health problems began. He wasn’t as sharp as he used to be, and this became more pronounced until he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. He had a harder and harder time getting around, and was too proud to use a cane until the cane wasn’t enough and he had to use a walker. Gone was the invincible father of my childhood who had arms like Popeye and could lift sacks of cement like they were filled with cotton candy. Still, his Alzheimer’s never progressed to the point where he failed to recognize his family. When they discovered the extent of the blockage in his carotid arteries and put him on blood thinners, in order to get more oxygen to his brain, he immediately became more lucid. The week before he died he told me he wanted to get a laptop computer.

I think my father went out the way he would’ve wanted to. Or at least in a way he could’ve accepted. He hated hospitals. The day before he died, he was telling the doctors he felt fine and just wanted to go home. All told, he was in the hospital for less than a week. He had a major stroke and could’ve been bedridden for years, or could’ve succumbed to the long-term effects of Alzheimer’s. I think at some level, he knew he didn’t want to go out like that. His body knew it was time.

When she found out her grandpa had died, the first thing my daughter Dolly said was: “So Grandpa gets to start over again as a baby.” Not sure where she got that. Don’t remember talking to her about reincarnation, but maybe I did. I’m also not sure Grandpa would want to start over again as a baby, but I’ll leave that up to him. Dolly also said, “I wan to fly to Heaven in an airplane and visit Grandpa.” Either way, whatever’s become of my father in the hereafter, he’s sure to be on the same path, doing things his own way.

As a side note, my father's funeral was fairly kick ass, if a funeral can be such a thing. There was a bagpiper in a kilt who played "Danny Boy" at the beginning and "Amazing Grace" at the end. There was an Air Force Honor Guard who presented my mother with a flag and played "Taps" on the bugle. There was a very mellow Episcopalian minister named Robert Honeychurch, of all things, who was cool enough not to try to say a bunch of stuff about a man he didn't know, but instead read a few choice prayers and Psalms. And, finally, there was Frank. We played two Sinatra songs, "It Was A Very Good Year," and the following:

My Way

And now, the end is near;
And so I face the final curtain.
My friend, I’ll say it clear,
I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain.

I’ve lived a life that’s full.
I’ve traveled each and ev’ry highway;
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Regrets, I’ve had a few;
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course;
Each careful step along the byway,
But more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew.
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall;
And did it my way.

I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried.
I’ve had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that;
And may I say--not in a shy way,
No, oh no not me,
I did it my way.

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels;
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows--
And did it my way!

Monday, January 17, 2005

When Does the Fun Start?

So I've been trying to eat less meat. I can just hear my old roommate, Ben, calling me a pussy right now. To that, I'll hold up my hands and say, "Sure, I cave. You got me." I'm not saying I'm doing the vegetarian get down, because I am a weak, weak man. But I'm having some meat-free days.

This said, the other night I went to one of my favorite taquerias, Taco Loco, and ordered a vegetarian burrito. I actually kind of felt like it, you know? I was hungry, and I was looking forward to it. But it got all up in my head. The first few bites were like the first few bites of any burrito, when you're getting close to the meat...anticipatory. But then, it was that "something is seriously wrong here" feeling. Like, all right, here's the filler...where the fuck is the flavor? And you know I got refried beans, because they're the tastiest...especially if lard finds its way into the mix. About half way through, I hit lettuce. That's like mining for gold and finding plastic. Not quite satisfying. I don't really go for the lechuga in my burritos, anyhow

By the time I got toward the end, it was just work for my jaws. Like a straight dude sucking dick for money...the motion was there, but not the emotion. "Sustenance, oh boy." Like space food...how jacked do you think the astronauts really were on Tang? "Oh, more Tang, kick ass." All the machos around me are eating carnitas and al pastor and I'm eating fucking lettuce like a goddamned overgrown Brier Rabbit. I could smell the fun they were having.

And the grease pocket. The best part of a burrito is when you get down to the nub, where all the pork juice has filtered it's way down into the last bit of rice and beans and tortilla. Pure chewing satisfaction. Flavor country. Let's just say, when the water from the lettuce gets down there, it's not quite the same feeling, okay?

I really feel for people who have a bitch of a time getting sober. I quit drinking when I was 17, and I've never relapsed. (Golf applause.) I'm not going to fall for that AA meeting "out-drunking each other" get down. I think of the Ice Cube line, "a bunch a niggas on the floor trying to out-dance each other." You know, for shame, right? At every meeting, for every dude who shit his pants in church trying to pray his way out of a week long vodka drunk, there's another guy who'll step up to the mic and brag about selling his dead mother's wedding ring for a pint of Royal Gate. "My rock bottom is lower than your rock bottom, na na na na nah nah." Yeah, you go, girl. I was 17--I got punched in the face a few times, peed my pants in my friend's closet on top of a few dozen Meister Brau empties. It probably wasn't that rough, but I knew when I was through, you know?

Point is, I'm glad I quit when I was drinking shitty beer as fast as I could. Because as soon as I forgot what being drunk felt like, really, I didn't miss the taste or the ritual or the sensual pleasures of booze itself. But it's way too late for me with the meat. I really don't want to get the comment on this from the well-meaning vegetarian that's going to tell me about the awesome grilled veggies at Pancho Villa. Because it's like, fuck you buddy, what the fuck can you tell me about deep fried pork? You gonna match up your pathetic zucchini next to some car-fucking-nitas in a Pepsi challenge? Didn't think so. You done lost the memory of the flavor, so you don't know how bad the craving for meat relapse is for a guy like me. Ask Sassy, she tried it...she knows. It's rough.

So yeah, I had my cruelty-free burrito. It was about as fun as eating fiberglass insulation if you're not a Conehead. And the setting made it worse...I've had some of the best greasy Mexican meat products possible at Taco Loco. It was like getting back with the best fuck of your life and she's only down for a hand job. Don't do me any favors, you know?

Whores and Publicans

Okay. Just got back from needle exchange. No, wiseass, I was not picking up fresh rigs. I do HIV testing there. And I try to be humble, and to use it to cultivate understanding and compassion, and to lessen my tendency toward judgment, and all of that good shit. When I was working at the marketing agency, it was a good way to maintain awareness of a world outside of climate-controlled buildings and fatuous yuppie bullshit. Which is actually somewhat off, as well, since the office was in the basement and the climate-control didn't work, so it was either hard-tittie cold or two rats fucking in a wool sock hot.

Anyhow, I'm trying. Like Jules, I'm trying to be the shepherd. I'm reading Daniel Goleman's "Emotional Intelligence," and I realize my critical nature has probably over-taxed prior relationships. But when a twentysomething hipster in tight emo pants with two spike belts and all the right cool band buttons wants the nurse to lance the abcess in the crook of his elbow which is swollen and pustulant and she can't because needle exchange is in a fucking parking garage, yo, and there's no running water for minor surgery... Well, is it my fault I want to slap him like a bitch? Is this what you dreamed of during silent reading in high school, bro, when you thought you were all that with your Jim Carroll books? An abcess of your own? Or the 20 year old hippie kid who's been sharing needles and wants advice on how to slam grain alcohol? Yeah, I know that's big in farm worker communities, but I'm not real sure on how to go about spiking JD, my brother.

One thing about standing in a needle exchange asking people if they want to get tested for HIV is, people volunteer information. "Just tested. Negative, thank God." That one is easy, you say "stay safe" and "take care" and it's very warm and fuzzy, in a lightweight kind of way. But you get "I already know. I'm positive." And even my boss, who's been in this way longer than I have, is befuddled as to what to say to that. "Yeah, well, try not to die, bro." Today a guy said, "I've been positive for 16 years. No medication." I mean, on the one hand, I'm happy for you--for real. You beat the odds. On the other hand, what do you want? A fucking brownie? Do you feel validated? Shit, smack can't be all that bad...you've been sharing needles under a bridge for the better part of your adult life, and you're still making it to needle exchange on the regular. Rock on, brother! Maybe that's what I should say: "Rock the fuck on, my nigga! Where can I get me some a that health food?"

My friend Kwadwo has been homeless before. He grew up in the ghetto in Detroit, people getting shot in his front yard--for real. All his friends dead or on the crack. And he's pulled himself up, Horatio Alger-wise, by the bootstraps. I've said to him things along the lines of, "Well, you never know how low you can get...I always think 'that could be me.'" You know, the armchair Buddhist's guide to putting your nose in the sick and cultivating compassion. The suburban middle class white dude's crash course in Mother Theresa. And do you know what he said? "Fuck that, man. I'll never be that fucked up. That's a fact."

This is someone, in the words of the timeless philosopher, David Lee Roth, whose "been to the edge. You know I stood and looked around. I lost a lot of friends there, baby--I got no time to mess around." His standpoint is, "compassion, fuck that. I got my own thing to take care of."

I don't know, you know? I don't know what these people have been through to take them where they are, and I know the magic incantation is "harm reduction," and I do know you can't shake sense into folks...but does that make it wrong to want to? If only sometimes? The Buddhist teaching is that everyone in this world has been your mother and father and brother and sister and son and daughter...we've been around that long. But if your daughter was banging dope in the TL, wouldn't you want to tell her the what's what? Of course, some guidance and parenting has probably fallen by the wayside by then. Jesus took the teaching to the whores and publicans (I, for one, would rather break bread with a streetwalker than a tax collector...), because he knew that was where the teaching was needed. It's like Vinny said the other day..."If I was doing the backstroke in the Bahamas, I might not have come to the Dharma."

"Suffer the children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God."--Jesus.

Suffer the children, 'cause God knows how they've suffered.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

A Really Fucking Buddhist Song or Two

"Someone Something"

Everything moves so fast I should know it won't last
Take some stock what you are what you see what you got

It tells me true I want a connection to
Someone something
Edge of a knife been missing it all my life
Someone something

They get you where you live
Don't go back you can't go back again

Yes it's true just a connection to
Someone something
Been up all night feel like sucking an Armalite
Someone something

Everything moves so fast I should know it won't last

I want a settled life I want to be calm and polite
Someone something
I'll get this right when I get there now
Someone something


Isn't this song fucking great? Whew. Read it again, and then go listen to it twice. It's Buddhist because he realizes that everything passes and nothing is permanent, and it's oh so fucking human because he still believes he's going to "get there," that there's going to be a connection to someone or something that is somehow true; immutable; unchanging; and permanent. A higher level, something "real." He's sick of grasping, yet, even in seeing the pain it causes, he's grasping for a time when he won't have to grasp. Which really makes it more poignant than if he said "Hey, I figured it all out and I'm totally unattached and Buddha-like and enlightened and superhuman." I love the Buddha and all, but really, the drama of the story ends under the bodhi tree. (Which, when you think of the teachings, is ironic--we're all grasping for that Buddha-like state, in our, "I'm not grasping" kind of way...sort of like the guy in the song.)

This was written by Britt Daniel and iis on "Kill the Moonlight," which isn't my favorite Spoon album, but is still damned good. Oh, and for those who don't know, an Armalite is a rifle...they built the AR-10 which became the AR-15 which became the M-16 which became the M-4, the current military rifle. Made famous in the song "Armalite Rifle" by Gang of Four. (Oh, and also made famous killing people the world over, much like it's Soviet contemporary the AK-47, proving the whole "Everything moves so fast I should know it won't last" bit.)

Here's another great Buddhist treatise in the guise of rock music:

"The Lonely"

Since I found out that all of this
Is nothing more than emptiness
Filled with impermanence
A guided tour of your deepest fears
Designed to help your vision clear
We'll depart from here

And then the strangest feeling drifted over me
Oh we'll begin where you give in now baby dear
Are thou misunderstood

I'll drink all day and play by night
Upon my Casio electric piano
Till in the darkness I see lights
But not candelabra
But things from other stars
Just like Liberace
I will return to haunt you with peculiar piano riffs

So take it back, back to the start
Rip out your lily livered hearts
And hand them over in a vacuum-sealed jar
I say I will not take half a risk
I will not walk half deceased
I believe bravery exists

And the strangest feeling drifted over me
Are thou misunderstood

I'll drink all day and play by night
Upon my casio electric piano
Till in the darkness I see lights
But not candelabra
But things from other stars
I'll drink all day and play by night
Upon my casio electric piano
Till in the darkness I see lights
But not candelabra
But things from other stars
But things from other stars
But things from other stars

--British Sea Power

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Make Sex

Okay, I've come up with a couple new pick up lines that are sure to get me LAAAID in the New Year. Let me try them out on you, dear supple young girl with her hand in her panties. I mean, "Dear Reader."

Line .1: "Do you know who I am?"

"No, why should I know who you are? Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm the second coming of Christ. And if you play you're cards right, you can witness the third coming a little later tonight."

Line .2 "Aren't you going to ask me where I'm going tonight?"

"Okay, where are you going tonight?"


"Japan, really?"


Smooth, huh? Please, ladies, please--form an orderly line to the left of the door. You'll all be serviced in due time. Oh, and another thing: flagrante delicto will no longer be known as fucking, doing it, making it, getting it on, boning, slappin' hams, getting nailed, screwing, humping, what have you. I'm changing it to the charmingly ESL "making sex." As in, "baby, do you want to make sex with me

Sunday, January 02, 2005


I had this revelation about how great my friend Lina is, and here is the email where I tell her. Below is an email I sent to her, detailing said revelation, followed by an email she sent me, that I'm ostensibly replying to in my manic freak-out way.

This is her site:

Lina Fucking Rules

So Lina, I was just sitting around, unbathed, being a total turd, laid off and unlaid and unloved and depressed, and I had this revelation that you fucking rule and you're going to be my best friend from now on. Which is kind of creepy and weird and stalky sounding, but you can understand weird shit, I think. (I am so fucking eloquent sometimes, I make myself cry.)

No, it's not as bad as all that...I'm just sitting in my dirty ass room with my sleeping cat in my dirty ass house, listening to Les Savy Fav ("We've been sleeping with our shoes on for much too long"), waiting to get motivated, and I realized I needed to write you back. And then I checked out your site, and that Valentine with the blow-up doll with the candy heart that says "not that hole" is just so fucking visionary...I'm feeling kind of manic now. I remember when I was a creative guy and didn't spend all my time moping in circles until I wore out the linoleum.

So yeah, I just have to blow smoke up your ass for being incredibly cool and inspiring. You know, you went from being that cool homeless chick to being that cool but unfortunate homeless junkie chick, to ruling the goddamned cafeteria at Google, for chrissakes. Like, I bet guys are buying you lime jello with Cool Whip every fucking day.

And a smore maker. That's what I fucking mean, Lina. You're the type of girl who asks someone to come over and hang out, and you're like, "Yeah, hey, why don't we make smores. I've got a smore maker." I mean, what the fuck? That's really off the charts, you know?

So, I don't know where you are on this dramatic break-up thing, but I say that guy is a retard and fuck him anyway. I mean, I could probably come up with some intelligent, less Tiger Beat, smacking gum in the girls room sounding advice, but that's really the base of it, you know? It's like, sometimes you have these sleeper friends that you don't really realize are so fucking rad and then you do, and you feel lucky.

It's Sunday and almost 4 PM, but if you want to hang out any time, call me up--I don't think I have your number anymore. 350-****.

Keep ruling,


p.s. I'm going to cut and paste this into my stupid blog that no one reads, because I'm feeling sort of "go tell it on the mountain" about Lina's radness. People who randomly toss of Ben Franklin quotes are too rock and roll for words.

p.p.s. what's with all the random search engine "donkey porn" and "free poker" comments on your journal? Is that what happens when people start posting comments?

Hi Scott,
I'm not on Myspace, and I rarely sign on to
Friendster except lately where I signed on about
25 times in the last week. The game is REALLY at
OkCupid.com because they give you fucked up
personality tests and then tell you how compatible
you are with your friends and potential sex

I linked to your webpage on MY webpage which is
at www.shutitdown.net. Having a webpage is fun
because weird guys post every two days offering
their "unrequited love."

I got a job at Google and commute to Mountain
View every day which kind of sucks but they have
a kick-ass cafeteria with better food than you can
imagine. So it's all good. I basically copy edit ads
and tell people to follow rules. It's kind of fun.

How was Xmas? I'd imagine that having a child
makes it worthwhile. I got a smore maker which is
kind of like a fondue kit but it's for making smores.
I love smores, and using sterno is pretty great too.

Which needle exchange are you working at? I
used to work at the one on Haight Street.

Honestly I don't have anything interesting to say.
I'm in the middle of a drawn out dramatic break up
and it is sucking the life out of me and making me
want to jump off of a cliff. Since I have decided that
you are the smartest man that I know, do you have
any sage advice for me?

Rock on with your bad self,

Saturday, January 01, 2005

Happy New Year, Asshole

I wasn't planning on going out New Year's Eve. Years of working in clubs (and years of sobriety) have made me dread International Amateur Night like the proverbial plague of puking nincompoop lightweights in stupid hats. Your life is no different that it was ten seconds ago, asshole--you've just picked an arbitrary date for self-renewal, which you will commemorate by becoming even more intoxicated and tool-like than you've been in 12 months! Party on, Garth.

My plan was to go to meditation at Urban Dharma, hang with Heather, go to sleep, wake up and go to the races in Livermore. Well, I have a hellacious cough, so I slept through meditation in order to get better. Least, that's how I explained my laziness to myself. Not so good in terms of "setting one's intention," but them's the breaks. Heather and I decided to go out, since it's been raining for a week and the possibility of racing looked slim. (Indeed, they were cancelled.) We were supposed to go to see Old Grandad at Sadie's Flying Elephant, which would have been rocking, but as we pulled up, her ex was standing in front, so she wasn't down.

Funny side note: Her ex is named Chris but everyone calls him Pink. My Master's thesis, written years before I met her, was a series of interconnected short stories called "Pink Stories," about a guy named Chris whom everyone called Pink. Weird.

So we went to her friend's party, more like a fancy dress soiree, in an awesome loft above the Slo Club. I was going to wear one of my superpimp Bangkok suits, but it was raining, so my daily get-up of Dickies and a hoodie was woefully underdressed. Heather looked fantabulous in a sequined butterfly fandango and pinstriped pants, with something saucy underneath. (Wouldn't you like to know...) We joined her friends in a little upstairs nook and drank soda whilst they passed around the cocaine. Like, woo! Par-tay! Whatever. As Aleister Crowley said: "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law." Sassy and Sedusa, or "The Mashed Pototoes" as Heather calls them, wanted me to escort them to The Teenage Harlets and Thee Merry Widows at Butter, but a guy can only do so many things... Also, Wifey was supposed to play at my friend Lars Lava's warehouse, but they cancelled. So, instead, I was doing glamorous things, like watching grown adults ring in the New Year by pretending cocaine was still glamorous.

Oh, and the disco music. Yikes. What is it about New Year's that makes rational human beings tell themselves that disco is not only acceptable in the barest sort of "I won't pull it off the turntable and smash it" kind of way, but "fun." I suppose it goes with coke like your chocolate goes with my peanut buttter. A Spoon song came on, inexplicably, and I nearly came in my boxers.

So we left at 12:40, on the way to Lars's house. Despite my cantankerous blogging, it really wasn't so bad. Heather's friends were cool and pretty and I had a swell conversation with her friend's husband, Adam, about The Flaming Lips, aging, the Swans, his bitterness toward his chess master father, and Scrabble.

I was peeing out my festive holiday ginger ale (you think I don't know how to rage, fucker?) upside a telephone pole when I heard Heather say "Fuck!" She was standing next to my truck, so I knew what was up...no passenger window. I used a map to scoop the glass fragments off the seat, forming a glistening pile of what my buddy Ben and I used to call "ghetto snow" on the asphalt. I'm not into that whole "blame the victim" thing, but I've lived in this city for 14 years, and I should've known not to leave CDs visible. Too used to living in the Richmond, where crackheads don't windowshop all night. And I wasn't feeling too victimized. Heather was really impressed that I was so mellow about it. So even though I missed meditation, I still heard Vinny's voice talking about how "everything's a lesson." Not too profound until you put it into practice. Practice isn't a cushion in a room full of people with their eyes closed, it's when someone's smashed your window and stolen 15 CDs, including your 2 CD Lefty Frizzell retrospective. Actually, they only got the case and one CD. The other was still in the deck, so I still had some Lefty to drive home to.

What can you do, you know? Say, "hey, better go tape this window up, it's raining" or go home, load up the Mossberg and go basehead hunting up and down Portrero. I went to Heather's, did a pretty impressive cardboard/trashbag/tape job, took my shoes off, and had a cup of coffee. And...wouldn't you like to know?

Candyland Debacle

I wouldn't necessarily describe myself as "competitive," but I have to admit I was feeling it yesterday at the Blue Danube, when Miss Dolly Rose stomped me four times in a row at Candyland. I was even feeling a little salty when I pulled ahead in the last game, like, "Looka that--all the way to the Lollipop Forest! Now whatchu gonna do?" Calm, cool, collected, and nearly four, D. quietly regained the lead and kept it all the way to the candy castle, that's what. Of course, I had to teach her to shake my hand and say "good game."

Losers are always concerned about sportsmanlike conduct.