My college sweetheart is going through something of a breakup right now as well. She is, however, excellent at handling difficult situations. She also has informed me that it helps her to keep a secret blog where she can confess her sins, which I think is an excellent idea. I think it would be a better idea if everyone actually just confessed their sins in blog format. I'm a huge fan of too much information.
Wham bang my cat Splash sits on my bed he bit his Tongue while drinking all my whysky As for me, didn't sleep, tired, battered I finally slept in the gutter Where I had a vision Ouh ouh ouh ouh in four colours
(Interjection) One morning a girl came to my house Cellophane doll, chinese hair Band-aid, hang over Has drunk my beer in a big rubber glass Ouh ouh ouh ouh like an indian in his igloo
I'm feeling good I'm feeling good I'm feeling good, good, good, good I'm feeling good Ouh ouh ouh ouh I'm feeling good
(Interjection) Baby what a thrill, what a vibration To do it on the rug, (they all mean tired) You are the queen of necking, he tells me matter of factly Ouh ouh ouh I am the queen of necking
(Interjection) Don't worry, don't touch my planet It's not today that the sky is gonna fall on me And that I'm gonna run out of glue Ouh ouh ouh ouh I'm feeling good
(Interjection) My girl left me She had fun, broke everything: the sink, the bar Left me there like a big idiot Ouh ouh ouh ouh with my foot in my mouth
I can't believe that instead of being about jealousy, male prostitution, and love it's about being hungover and watching your loved ones drink your booze in rubber cups.
That almost makes up for the time you went off of your medication and broke up with me a month before I was going to move to fucking Florida to be with you. How's it feel now, huh? Hurts, doesn't it? Don't touch my planet. It's not today that the sky is gonna fall on me!
If I could add one category to myspace it would be "Things I Don't Mind." These websites spend so much time trying to give people the access to find other people with common interests. But is that really a relationship? Boris once told me that along time ago he gave up caring what music girls like. I wish I had done that years ago. One time in college I broke up with a girl because her entire record collection was of movie soundtracks. How could I respect a girl who would throw on the Jurassic Park original score and then wanna make out?
As I get older I realize that everyone is crazy in some way and it is so much easier to get along with friends, family, etc if you could know up front the things that don't drive them crazy.
Things I Don't Mind
Coffee that was hot but then got room temperature.
It's been very difficult getting any writing done these days, what with all the research I have left for my next novel. I haven't planned it out yet but it better be about young people and their whiskey-fueled nights of drinking, dancing, fighting and hickies. Otherwise I'm going to have a huge problem with my taxes.
If you don't think this is the most beautiful, disgusting, amazing, repulsive and breathtaking waste of human existence, then I don't want to be your friend when I'm 42. This versionshows his face and emotions better, but I like this one because they clearly editted out the incoherent, drug-addled ramblings of Elvis' last recorded show. I also love the unnecesarilily long, pre-reality TV cutaway to a girl in the audience who clearly can't figure out why a camera might want to be on her.
Brandon Flowers and I were blowing lines out of my belt buckle on the Lower East Side last night after I got home from Thanksgiving. "It's been so long" he smiled. "Love that tie."
"It's actually a cheap headband for little girls. I thought about buying you one, but they only came in blue. It's strange how polka dots are so hot right now for girls and they don't make anything for guys."
"Tell me about it," he said, as he licked his credit card clean of blow. "And the stuff I do get from photoshoots they keep under real tight lock and key." He cleaned the rest of the coke off the toilet with his face and when he came up-understandably--he had blow all in his mustache.
Since I'd already snorted cables of this shit all night I thought this was really funny. But Flowers got all upset with me. He and I are like this, alot. We used to go shopping together and hang out, but we just got too close. If he's in town and I'm not working, maybe we hang out. Tonight was fine because it was thanksgiving and we wanted to carve some Wild Turkey.
"Stop laughing at my mustache all the time," he cried.
"C'mon, I can't!" I said. "Some Bolivian mule shoved that up her ass to get it in the country and now look at you: You've got Snow White's dirty sanchez!"
"Stop laughing at my mustache. Yer just jealous 'cause you can't grow one."
"That must be it, Brandon. You've fucken figured it out!" I can't stop laughing.
"I guess so, Brendan."
"We said no mustaches."
"What?"
"Two years ago. Beauty Bar. When we first met you said you couldn't imagine going around with a Brazillian in the middle of your face."
"Yeah, well. Remember when you were Vegan? I don't rub that in your face everytime you wanna get a burger."
It really pisses me of when Brandon Flowers belittles me like that in a public men's room, "Fuck yourself. That's not the same thing at all, okay? At least when I started eating meat I didn't make half my band eat meat too. Look, you've got Ronnie and Dave growing 'staches faster that a menopausal guidance counselor. Is Dave Keuning the only one whose contract gives him control over his body hair?"
What he said next was unforgivable. I barely want to repeat it, really. "At least I have a fucking band. What are you gonna do? Make up characters for another failed novel and grow mustaches on them?"
That was it. Maybe it was the blow. But I flipped my belt buckle over, put it back on, and snowed the remains of Brandon's flour on the floor of the men's room. And I left him to lick it off the floor.
Even though my adult life is a cross between vacation and college I've decided that this week I'm on vacation. This just means that I'm not writing and not outlining and not reviewing books. I'm reading about whales and going to the movies in the afternoon and not serving wealthy people alcoholic drinks.
Vacation rules!
How to make any day a vacation
1. Read, and not just because you're on a train
2. Drink, and not just because you're out at night. Drinks with silly straws count, but since this is New York and it's cold, the little bottle of Woodford Reserve that Jackie got me on her flight from vegas will go well in Coffee.
3. Sleep until you are completely ready to give up on your recurring dreams and see them again.
4. New York doesn't have matinees, which bothers me just enough to still go to the movies at 1. Movies are an important part of a day off. They are the only thing that can get me out of my horrible, awful brain trances.
5. Since it wouldn't be a real vacation otherwise, I've started talking to Annie again and yesterday I went over there just to rub suntan lotion on her back.
6. To make your vacation day seem real Euro: just go into churches all the time and walk around taking pictures.
7. If you are a girl, make sure that by atleast the second day you've Gone Wild.
8. Sometimes I ask directions to really obvious places just to feel a little touristy. People in NY actually love giving directions, even if they are frequently wrong about which way is Broadway.
9. I keep booking rooms at various hotels just to wrap used condoms in half a roll of toilet paper and feel bad about the maid who will have to empty that trash.
10. Call my mother and ask her what time it is at home in Connecticut.
Excuse me, Ben and I have to go to FAO Scwartz for his birthday.
Right now I'm a little too obsessed with this song. In about two weeks we're expanding my current DJ night with two girls and various bands and record release parties and I wanna fucking call the whole thing "Jet Boy, Jet Girl"
Ben gave me the Plastic Bertrand version about a thousand years ago when we first had to fill our brand new iPods. I loved it. But then I found out that Plastic used Elton Motello's band to cut the same track en Francaise.
My french is so bad that for about a thousand years I've been screaming along phonetically to lyrics about murder, gay prostitution, and love. In English it goes:
Can you tell what's on my mind She's with him it's driving me wild I'd like to hit him on the head until he's dead The sight of blood is such a high Ooooohhhh He gives me head
We made it on a Ballroom Blitz I took his arms and kissed his lips He looked at me with such a smile my face turned red We booked a room into the Ritz Ooooohhhh He gives me head
Jet boy jet girl I'm gonna take you 'round the world Jet boy I'm gonna make you penetrate I'm gonna make you be a girl Ooooohhhh Jet boy jet girl
I know I'm only just fifteen I like to kick I like to scream And even if I had a kink or two in bed with him You know it's just a dream Ooooohhhh He gives me head
The other day what a surprise I saw him with some other guys God he was dressed up with a girl around his neck I could have cried with both my eyes Ooooohhhh He gives me head
And if and when I make it though Or if my brain is stuck on glue And when the world tries to forget all that I said You know I'll still remember you Ooooohhhh You gave me head
Jet boy jet girl I'm gonna take you 'round the world Jet boy I'm gonna make you penetrate I'm gonna make you be a girl Ooooohhhh Jet boy jet girl
No wonder everyone at my French restaurant thinks I'm a little limp loafered.
2) Last night this attractive, young, tattooed, blonde woman came into my bar. I had met her before a long time ago and tried switching stations with the other bartender so I could catch up with her. The other bartender rather rudely told me to get the fuck away. This reminded me of what I had read earlier about whales
As ashore, the ladies often cause the most terrible duels among their rival admirers...they fence with their long lower jaws, sometimes locking them together. Not a few are captured having the deep scars of these encounters--furrowed heads, broken teeth, scolloped fins; and in some instances, wrenched and dislocated mouths.*
This young woman has the unfortunate luck of having the sex appeal of a Mustang. And by that I mean she is universally loved and fetishized by bald, rich, men in mid-life crises. Within seconds she was surrounded by six of them, all fighting for her affection.
I thought I should go over and bail her out.
But when I got there she had one bald guy all over her and his two friends leaning over in tow. She was writing something on a napkin for him.
To be chartitable I might say she gave him a fake number to get him away. But to be the cruel, brooding, weblog-having novelistician who thinks the world is a disgusting place I would say that she gave him her number because, why not? Maybe he's an okay guy AND rich.
I don't judge people. But if I did I would say this girl is fucken lame, shallow, ditsy, and unoriginal. Why the fuck would you waste your time talking to wallstreet assholes who can buy you a small island with no direct flights when you could talk to me and (maybe) get a free drink?
A few seconds later the other bartender took a break from his all-too-important station to give me something. The napkin she was writing on. It had my name on the front.
I'll avoid narrating the rest of the story, since I'm not really into machismo. I did find a way to get her away which should have involved me losing my job, but instead involved one of us saying "No. I think she's going to stay right here with me." And one of us saying "Yeah? I fucken doubt that." And walking away.
When Annie moved out she took the coffee grinder, but when Nick moved in he brought coffee from Sweden. We drank it all and now I'm faced with a crisis that has come to define my life. Do I go next door and buy the damn thing? Do I go to any one of the nine coffee shops within one block?
Or do I put the unground beans in a bag and hit them with a hammer until the bag bursts and use that?
Sure Herman Melville was known to write for twelve hours a day. And sure, less than a year before he wrote Moby Dick he actually wrote another book that was slightly longer. But Herman Melville's notepad probably couldn't show him the twenty-five coffee grinders available at the store at the end of his block nor could he catch up on the latest great music (Voxtrot- Your Biggest Fan. So Herman Melville can go blow Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Today I accomplished nothing but we did put furniture together. Or rather, Nick cursed at the instructions and I made this short film about cursing at the instructions. The good news is we have a silverware drawer.
This story will never be in one of my failed novels because I don't like how it portrays the narrator:
"RAY-RAY!" (is a crackhead who sleeps in my subway stop.) "RAY-RAY! Where the fuck are you?" I shouted into the subway stop after work tonight
"Brandon!" (is not my name, but it is to Ray-Ray). "Brandon I been lookin' all over for you. I saw your bike outside one day and then across the street the next. I don't know how you got past me. I haven't seen your girlfriend 'neither. But I told your friends." (we'll leave this part alone right now. I just hope that my landlords don't come home late at night and find my crackhead friends asking when I'm expected.)
"Didn't you get my note?" I pointed to a sign on the wall where I had written
RAY-RAY- Is Jackie okay? Come by tonight. Apt. 1."
"Damn, Ray-Ray. Can't you read?"
He looked at the note and then he looked at me and long after I forgot the question he answered: "No. But it's Jackie."
"Jackie." (is the name of my adopted homeless woman. Long story. Can't get into it. I buy her perscriptions).
"She's in Jail, man. All week too. I been looking for you. Jackie's in jail and we don't know what for. She got picked up on monday."
"But she's supposed to get housing next week," I said.
"I know. But she can't get housing when she's stuck in jail. You gotta get her out."
"Which jail? What the hell is her last name anyway? Didn't her ID get stolen last week?"
"I'll find out everything tonight. Come by on your way home.
That was yesterday and I haven't seen him since. I'm crawling into all the goddam dark places in my neighborhood trying to find fucken Ray-Ray. Next apartment I'm going to make friends with the Hassids.
Whatever illness I've contracted I know that Lemsips would take care of it. Lemsip is this British hot gatorade kind of drink that your mum makes you when you feel knackered. Too bad I'm going to have to go all the way back to school in England to get one. Goddamit, America.
I went to wikipedia to find out if Lemsip is known by another name in this country. Frequently I research awful things to happen to characters in my stories. I would like to know the details and pitfalls of these awful things without them happening to me. However, if you were at my computer, looking up Lemsips in wikipedia, my internet shortcuts would take you to the history of my wikipedia research into Terrible Things to Happen to Make Believe People
Of course I wish no ill on anyone but one thing I love is being a part of a scenerio wherein a friend of mine calls in sick. I've never known anyone under 28 to call in unless completely hungover or still out. If I could get all of my close friends work records, I would be better able to catologue the great nights.
It would be great for IM and texting if the keypads had a cent symble ("¢"). As in:
Can't understand ur drunk voicemail. Not making any ¢s. I just ¢ my novel to that agent I told u about. It wasn't exactly con¢ual. Obama lost and I didn't even vote ab¢ee.
if you run into e e cummings today ask him if he wants to switch powerbooks with me because my shift keys and "period" buttons don't seem to be working
