While pulling weeds at one of the lots I maintain, yet another fine destitude type fellow began power mumbling at me. It's as if everyone who makes less than $40 a year automatically has to talk without moving their teeth. It wouldn't be a problem if they didn't make such persistent eye contact, but they do, thereby sealing their role in life as a nuisance to anyone with anything vaguely resembling an agenda. He talked about how it was good to see me pulling weeds, and that his friend that lived just around the corner did the same thing, and to stop by his place sometime. As if pulling weeds is something so unique and full of character that any two people who do it are bound to get along royally. He went on to explain that his friend was old and bought coffee every morning, and mentioned a couple of times that he'd be sure to tell his friend there was another person pulling weeds in town now. Finally he left and I could carry on in peace. I guess if I was getting old and had really bad brain damage from decades of pounding Steel Reserve and sleeping under strangers porches, I would probably only find joy in relentlessly confusing and bothering people with any shred of potential or sanity.
Recycled the sea of beer cans and bottles that was flowing into our hallway. $14.30 total, I think that makes...286 booze receptacles. Yeah. Of course while feeding them into the machines, a homeless guy came up and started mumbling to me in what I guess you could consider a dialect. He had what was arguably the most ferocious handlebar moustache I've seen in my life, and muttered something about how he asked the manager of the store for a quarter but got kicked off the property. For some reason he was still there, drinking on the side of the building kind of curled up behind the bike lock structure things when we showed up.
Later I caught a receipt taped to Jesse's door on fire and now the paint is discolored, so I guess I have to repaint his door soon. Suck.
Today gets a thumbs down. First of all, it's way too fucking hot. It's supposed to be a hundred degrees tomorrow, and today couldn't have possibly been much less than that. Naturally, the only thing I have to look forward to all day is a shower, during the course of which Jesse sneaked in the bathroom and took a really nasty shit, which made me not want to finish. To punish him for being such an unholy cock sucker, I cut off some of his hair when he wasn't looking and threw it in the sink, which is now draining very slowly. Then, at the plasma clinic, the old lady that works there disconnected me, and as always she held my wrist between her bicept and torso as she wrapped the wound, which causes the arm to rub against the ancient breast with every rotation of the tape. None of the supple, young girls that work there do that, just the ones with fleshy balloons full off cottage cheese hanging off their frontsides.
I'm going to go call my Mom.
Ha haaaaaa...So the girl that drank that wine at the party mentioned below actually did get sick. I'm not one to type out "LOL" but at the time, I think it borders on appropriate. What's funnier is that she's telling people she thinks I poisoned her, which I suppose is arguable, but still a stretch of the truth. I guess I find most of the humor in the fact that she must know she's such a total bitch just by assuming someone WOULD poison her.
"I'm sick...and...I guess I'm really lame, too. Someone must have poisoned me for my anti-awesomeness."
Damn straight. Jesse told me that she was complaining to Courtney about it, and as I toss another shovel full of dirt on the coffin holding what part of me was ever socially acceptable, I feel pride.
Courtney threw a party here last night. I guess that seems all fine and good on paper, but she invited almost all co-workers, and since nobody that lives at my house works with her, it struck me as impractical to have a bunch of Trader Joe's elitists filling my living room talking about managers and bagging groceries and whatever. I think their elitist attitude comes from the fact that even though they work at a grocery store, they get to wear colored shirts with flowers on them. Whoopty fucking doo. Their uniform is slightly less degrading than most. Congrats, just don't put my eggs on bottom 'cause I don't want any getting fucked up.
Anyway, there were enough people around that stealing alcohol was a little harder than usual, but my smoothness served me fine. I stood in the kitchen facing the crowd in the living room as I leaned against the counter. I performed an advanced alcohol stealing technique where the disgruntled party goer stretches in a way such that the back of his shirt falls just over the top of the bottle in question, then stretches the other way pulling it down, then again with the hands behind the back to tuck the shirt into the pants. It's good to yawn while you do this to look natural to the max. I went in my room and drank some of the mediocre wine straight from the bottle, which rocks because I have a cold and this girl that had been talking shit about our house came in the kitchen asking what happened to the wine. I returned it when she wasn't around, she was happy to see it and finished it off. Hopefully, the girl that referred to our house as a "fucking dump" (I would have kicked her ass out if I had heard it, but I was just told) gets a dose of my "hospitality" severe enough to set the wrongs right. Or more wrong. I can't tell anymore.
This will be my first log entry while under the influence of "ambien" a perfectly legal drug classified as a "hypnotic" which the shrinks prescribe for kids with a ADD, Like Kyle. They give Kyle enough ludes to disperse among his friends, and subsequently I can sleep nights. Or something. All I know is that it's 6:27 am and I'm swaying back in forth trying to hold onto the top of this chair and write an article with any credibility at the same time.
Just moments prior, I swallowed one pill and heard strange sounds outside the window. Sounds like horses getting their shit wrecked. Horses tend to only get their shit wrecked by people, who in the horse wrecking business are referred more to as rednecks than people. Fuck rednecks. I called the cops and said, "Yeah, some animal might be getting abused or something...I don't know, maybe that's how they train horses but it's being really loud. I can't sleep. Blah blah blah is all it take to get the cops on the rednecks and ruin their 6 am beastiality power hour while my sick ass is across the street trying to recover from a nasty cold. When I'm ill I'll call the police on anyone. I guess controlling the immediate futures of what usually ends up being at least four people makes me feel powerful. Face down in the couch, searching my soul for new depths of self loathing....OH THEN SOME FUCKING HIC SODOMIZER PICKUP TRUCK JACKASS MOTHER FUCKER with a face full of COCK SUCKER needs to come to the fair grounds across the street from Riotworthy Media for his abused little girls 4 H meeting thing, where she's gonna try her "Vewy besht" To not let papa down in her sheep milking contest, but oh no! She comes in 2nd with only a quart and a half of sheep juice. She needed more. Maybe next year? Dad don't think so. This girl is spent, she gotta learn to cook and clean I raise another one and I'ma raise this one right....
Actually, lets start over. What we are dealing with is the results of having taken a powerful sleeping pill but having not gone to sleep. This renders a dream like state which is much similar to the world we already know. It's actually kind of like the Matrix only none of the ninja/vampire/computer program bullshit people are around graciously loaning their worthless existences in a vein attempt to undo their creation. I think. Quite honestly, I'd like to elaborate more on that in a future update becase when I look at my hands in the corners of my eyes it looks like they have peanuts and/or mud all over them. Which is, needless to say, distracting.
OK I think I remember how we got here. I took ambien and was going to investigate the animal screams at the fairgrounds. I was with Lorq, who was a good companion, though I must admit his pants seemed like they might comprimise the mission to see what was going on. They're cool pants, but I'm not ballsy enough to ask a redneck, "Hey, why are you kicking the shit out of that horse?" While I'm wearing pinkish purple genie pants. More power to him, if he could do that. But then I guss I don't like colored clothes, furniture, or clothes again. All things colored should consult the "color cube" which is made up of four smaller cubes, one representing black, one representing navy blue, one representing a strong, polyster style brown, and last but not least, GRAY. Any combination of those four colors makes for a perfectly good ensemble. Sure, sometimes you want to take it easy on the brown, maybe on the blue, but as long as you only wear gray shirts and black pants, you're that much closer to me and that much less likely to get lightly scoffed at as you walk down my turf in Eugene OR. Sure, you'll see many hippies with many colours both on the surface of their all season garments, and more deadly yet, the colors that inhabit the year round vessel.
The drugs have been kickin in for a while, my fingers are tripping over each other. Hope this makes sense. But anyway, back to the story:
I was over at the fairgrounds waiting for some rednecks to get their day ruined by the good guys in blue (Who actually make my life easier when they aren't asking me "How much have you had today?") When I began mingling with a way cool cat. It was mostly white but with some very neat black and grey markings. Particularly those on his nose. I hung out with that cat for a while, and decided to name him "Angelina Jolie" because I admire her work, or at least I might if I watched any of it. Plus this was the closest chance I'd likely ever have to walk around with Angolina Jolie while she was breathing heavy on me. We went all through the fair grounds an he sniffed here and there. Eventually I picked him up and walked with him evil cat style, with the body rested on right arm while the limbs hang off the sides relaxed but ready for action, and the cats head becomes like this feline radar behind your knuckles just searching for threats. He had a stub tail, so that was cute and took up less room, plus six toes on each foot, which I decided aided to battle when they became addional weapons, or at least helped him in the water should he ever need to swim. Story closes, though, as I walk home. I see the house bearing an address identicle to the one on Angelina Jolies collar. The door was closed, shades closed, didn't seem like they were in the "Oh, it's 6 am, I better check on my cat for no reason" mood, but apparently they were. This is the yellow house a block away where they only activity that is ever under way is a game of croquet while loud bag pipe music is blasted. The sort of parties you thought existed either in the poor neighborhoods of European countries, Hell, or West Eugene. The guy opened his door and came out. Picture this: Gimly, or whatever his fuckin name was from LOTR. The Dwarf.
Then Picture this: He's exactly twice as tall and none less broad, none less hairy
And then: He's even fucking got glasses
So yeah, my plan was to take the cat back to my house and take pictures and maybe feed it before I release it so it knows it could come back some time, but now I'm fucking foiled. Of crouse I told the Double Dwarf that I saw his little kitty cat over at the fair grounds on my morning walk (wtf?) and thought it looked like a bad place with all those tractors and things so I thought I'd take him home safely.
Punching the guy was out since he had glasses, but I don't think that makes him a normal nerd, he's still a mountain dwarf thing, probably just standing on another one under his bathrobe so I think he's normal. Whatever. I can handle no violence. But I can't handle not sharing the stub-tailed, 24 toed cats you and your dwarf bro are splicing in your garage. If you got the genes, you gotta share, ok guys?
I'm sick with some virus, as is common. I take mostly good care of myself, I like to think, so I like to blame my illness on the filthy people at the plasma clinic I go to. My various inherent obsessive compulsive disorders and arguable addiction to Yerba Mat'e, the worlds healthiest tea cannot even compete with the bacterial aura projected by the majority of the regulars at IBR Plasma Center. This entry isn't really going anywhere. I was thinking about talking shit about the neighbors, but since I've already complained about the 19 year-old mothers of four with whooping caugh sitting next to me in what's quite possibly the only bad neighborhood of an otherwise lovely town, I feel like I've hit my quota for shit talking today.
Then again, I have nothing better to do.
The people that live across the street are fucked up. It's a charming yellow duplex, and in one half lives these young people that appear to lead lives such as those my age are supposed to. They blast techno music and play volley ball in the yard, shit like that. The other half of the duplex houses a family I guess. One day as I was on my way to a job interview I heard loud noises and screaming, and looked out just on time to see a shirtless guy throwing his wife around before pinning her to the lawn for a spell. Then the cops showed up and shite, but I left to go get accepted for my fire fighter thing, which is cool because now I don't feel guilty about not having a job. When I do have a job it'll rock, because I'll be around burning shit and not people. I've touched on this subject in past entries though.
If I'm ever a souless sitcom writer, which there is apparently a large market for, the duplex across the street is one of my two ideas. The other one rocks even more. It's about three people that live in an apartment in New York City, kind of like the ladies on the thankfully expired show "Friends." Only these three people are guys, one of which is gay, one of which is a meth addict, and one of which is the knight at the end of "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade." See, his job was done since some lady dropped the holy grail down a never ending hole, so he went out the back door of the temple thing and decided to get back in the groove. Times have changed though, and he has trouble picking up ladies like he used to, so his gay roommate tries to make him hip! Hilarity ensues, and occassionally the meth head swings the door open kind of like Kramer and shouts his trademark line, "I've got a hankerin' for some crankerin'!" Then he gets all messed up while the gay guy dresses the knight in FUBU clothes and gets him drinking tab and sometimes the knight says either "You have chosen...wisely." or "You have chosen...poorly."
Right now you're probably either blown away, or more wrongfully thinking about what an idiot I am. Just don't lose sight of what's most important, the fact that I'm in the awesome hip hop power group The Cocky Pedestrians, and you aren't. Unless you're Jesse. But you probably aren't .
Last night was OK. Jesse and I went to Subway and bummed sandwiches from Lorq, and while indulging in my veggie delight, some drunk asshole wondered in and said he saw me looking at his bike and told me not to steal it. He went on to explain to us that the "blond bitches" eating next to us would "tear us up" so we should "watch out." He stood around for a long ass time, repeatedly telling me not to steal his bike and slinging durogatory slurs at the ladies in the restaurant. When his lame self finally left, he forgot his bike, and about ten minutes later a guy came in asking whose bike was out front. We told him it was some drunk asshole who was a real fucking idiot. The guy said it was his bike and it was stolen the night before. So he stole it back. Even though I was planning on stealing it, I was was stoked to see such instant karma.
After that Jesse and I went to the top of a 7 story parking garage and simultaneously rode one bike down the windiness. It was semi-interesting.
Yesterday at Albertsons I found some hamburger buns behind the vending machine. I screamed something to demonstrate my excitement, though I don't recall what it was. As with most food I find, I tricked a guest into eating it before I partook, and after asking Tom if he felt ok I made myself a pretty fine veggie burger. Veggie-burger. Is it hyphonated? I don't know. Fucking whatever. This wasn't a very good entry. Sorry.
Just got done with a pretty hardy drinking binge. A guy JW and I knew from high school was in town, and in exchange for a place to crash we taxed him large quantities of booze. One night, while spitting fire balls with everclear, I accidentally let one go too close and lost a lot of hair. I've showered since then and everything but I still smell burned hair because my eyebrows and sideburns suffered such heavy losses. We tried to make a skull symbol flame up like at the end of "The Punisher" which we'd watched earlier, but that failed.
Our guest and most of the people that I hang out with went to something called the Country Fair, which I did not go to because everyone told me it was basically a bunch of dirty, naked people getting really high. My friends came back really high with pictures of dirty, naked people, so it sounds like the reports were accurate. Not that I have a problem with that, but paying $18 or whatever to see the type of people that regular the headshop my roommate works at trade in their tie-dyes for loin clothes and dance around in the mud is something that doesn't help my already bleak portrait of humanity.
Had to drive to Portland again to pick up Lorq at the bus station. I still hate Portland. I know it's been a little over a week since I expressed for probably the hundredth time how that sea of concrete and destitute sinks my proverbial boat everytime I have to drive through it and all its ugliness, but in that week nothing has changed.
Tom came along on the ride to change CDs and keep me from falling asleep. I do fine not falling asleep on trips where I have a destination I look forward to, but when I'm just driving to a shitty city and back my subconsious seems to think that if I were to fall asleep and die behind the wheel I wouldn't miss out on anything. We arrived early though, and decided to scout out a porn shop. We had driven by quite a nasty looking one on the way, and when we found our way back we weren't disappointed. It had the heavy metal door with no window, and those little mailbox-style letter stickers arranged to say, "NO DRUGS OR PROSTITUTION ALLOWED." Charming. We were not disappointed, inside behind the counter was the epitomy of porn store clerks. Middle aged, white, cheap button up polyster looking shirt, cigarette and mustache. "You guys 18?" he asked.
We reached for our wallets, but he cut us off by saying, "I believe you." We went into the dimlit library of perversion and walked into the bondage porn room. I won't elaborate on that. We walked back to the hall of viewing booths which had a sign illustrating the movies playing in the boothes, and rules such as "CLOTHING IS NOT AN OPTION HERE. REMAIN DRESSED" and "NO REFUNDS. USE BOOTHS AT OWN RISK." There was also all the usual porn shop people walking around who you make it a point not to lock eyes with. Their whole bodies are clammy and they walk with slouches at the top of their backs while they hold their hands in tight to their torsos and hyperventilate constantly.
A guy at the front counter asked us, "Aren't you guys a little young for porn?"
I shot back with, "Never too young for porn!" without thinking, and when he asked me to repeat myself, I realized that may have come across a little badly, but Tom repeated the quote with more volume and then the guy behind the counter started talking defensively about how he made sure we were 18 and that was all that mattered. Then we left.
Pretty mellow 4th, largely on account of the inevitable hangover. Watched the fire works from the hill...threw a pot at Tom which broke and now I owe Matt and Darian a new one...then Tom accidently nailed some lady's house with a bottle rocket and she yelled at us. That's about it.
"Fuck with the knobs and I'll kill you."
I think that's what the guitarist to some band said when I proposed to Jesse, "I'll give you a dollar if you fuck with all the knobs." as we loomed over the mixing board. So no knobs were fucked with.
After a pretty cool barbeque at my house, partly in honor of my visiting Father, where we pretty much drank margaritas and beer on the roof and then ate and then drank more margaritas and beer, Jesse, Tom, Matt and myself went out into the night. We tossed various small explosive devices around, and I vaguely remember tossing a couch that had been left on the sidewalk because of its excessive filth into the street. Neato. Anyhow, we got to this party, and of course Jesse walks right in unchecked, but the other three of us are asked to pay $5. Impossible. We went around to the back, where Jesse was waving the back door open and close.
"I'm just letting some fresh air in." he said to an authoritative party goer that didn't approve of unpaid entry.
I casually slipped in the door, but Tom and Matt took off for the night. Not a huge loss. A few bands played in the basement, they were ok. The first band played a pretty cool ballad about assfucking towards the end of their set, and I caught up with the lead singer at the bar. I complimented him on his set and talked music with him long enough for him to offer me a keg cup, which I did not have because my hand wasn't tagged with the "I paid" pentagram everyone else had. Also because of that I spent most of the night with one hand either in my pocket or otherwise concealed. But yeah, more beer. Eventually I had to pee and the line for the bathroom was long so an unsettling comprimise emerged.
I asked Jesse to stand gaurd while I sat on the kitchin window sill, leg out the window, and pulled out my junk. Of course it was difficult to summon a flow sitting in a position like that, and within seconds about 6 people started hanging out in the kitchin. Some guy said,
"Man, I need to find a bottle or something to piss in!"
"You could just go out the window." Some girl offered. Was I found out? I'm not sure what all they could see from that angle, but it was unsettling in any case. The guy wound up going outside, and started talking to me about finding a place to piss. I said I had to go too, but couldn't go outside because I wasn't marked and might not get back in. He said he was in the next band playing, and that he'd sneak me in, so I wound up jumping out the window and pissing in the bushes. Sure enough, he got me back in, and after a blurry walk with an old co-worker I didn't expect to see there, I woke up at home to my dad saying he was leaving town. As it is customary to hug in such a circumstance in my family, I got up and did so, even though I had pretty vicious morning wood.