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cowgirl is |
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I am singing the QUIET song the QUIET song the QUIET song Wed|04.03 This is an odd society. I say this having just watched a commercial for Frosted Mini Chex. This is a cereal. It's not the product that's odd, although if you think about it (please don't, not worth it), yeah. There's like, a bunch of dancing ... I want to say Russians but I don't think they were. Scandanavian? Some stereotypical Nordic whathaveyous with the weird hats and the accents and the dancing. They were REALLY REALLY excited about the Frosted Mini Chex. I guess less teevee would help. I was gonna write this like, moving thing about how being in a homeless shelter must suck, and then it was gonna morph into this fucked up lit class I took in "college" but my maniacally good mood has gravitated into anger and frustration as it often does and I don't want to take the time. I don't feel like thinking or writing or feeling, so this is what you get, Frosted Mini Chex. Still, big middle finger to that fucking lit teacher. I beg your pardon for the cursives. craaZY but thATs how itGOEOsss Tues|04.02 I don't know what I'm doing. I'm doing nothing. What should I be doing? TELLLLL MEEEEEEE So then, this guy walked up next to me while I was waiting to cross the street, and he freaking GETS IN MY SPACE MANG and says "Hi!" and I said, "Hi," and he just kept smiling at me in a deranged manner so I snarled "WHAT???" and then rolled my eyes and looked away and when I crossed the street I glanced back and he was still smiling so no, I didn't make him cry. THANK GOD FOR THAT This city really smells sometimes. Like what? Depends where you are. Near work, smells like dead fish floating in the bay. Near my back door, smells like...oh you don't want to know. This is a family page. Okay, what the hell I'll tell you. Lately it reeks of vomitus eruptus and guess why? Because there it is splattered all over the sidewalk for like three days now. Pigeon carcasses as well, don't know if the two are related. Doubtful. That would be too interesting, and you know this stuff is not interesting. Just some fuck puking on the street is all. I think the flies are related. However. Yes. The flies. Also there is a whiff of urine. EVERYWHEREEEE but especially on the bus. God. I wonder what it's like to live in the country. But then you have weird bugs, right? Like things that bite you. Plus like, trees and stuff. I don't know. Nature's weird. asdl;fj poi3we jgvelbf 'kljvbgre;lkejopbjh FINI we had joy we had fun blah blah blah blah in the sun Mon|04.01 First instrument: violin. But before that----THE BATON. That's right! First grade, Mom bought me a baton at my urging and I stayed after school to learn how to twirl. A bunch of us six-year-olds were in the cafeteria. Why spin there? I really don't know. But I wanted to learn how to make it go around and around and around like crazy. LIKE CRAZY! Until it was OUT OF CONTROL! Catching fire, leaping out of my hand, crazy crazy baton. Okay, so it turns out you just flip your wrist around "fast" and it's like an OPTICAL ILLUSION. My ass. That was the only time I went to baton class. Screw that, I probably said. It's bullshit, Ma! I can't believe how they conned me like that! You wiggle your wrist around and people are gonna believe that's TWIRLING??? That ain't twirlin' and it never will be, see? Later in life I colored the top of the baton blue with magic marker, and a little toddler visiting us sucked on it and got a big blue mouth inside and out. It was pretty cool-looking. So then, the violin. Zzzzzzzzz. So then, the clarinet. I believe I played this for three years. Possibly two, depending upon how you count. Started in third or fourth grade, and did I like it? It's so hard to tell. I mean, I could play it. I only practiced once a week, just before my lesson, yet was praised for my "ability" or whatever. So I kept playing, and practiced even less, if that could be possible and I think it was because I did. So then I was in "band" and then I started crying and throwing up before band rehearsal and so I quit the clarinet due to "pressure" hahaha. No really. I COULDNT TAKE IT MAN! ALL THIS PRESSURE TO PLAY CLARINET IN SIXTH GRADE = TOO MUCH FOR LEETLE BRANE AND SHE WENT KERFLOOT! Luckily I'd taken up the piano the year before. Oh I bet my parents were REAL glad to buy me a piano. That's a small purchase right there. What? A piano? Sure honey. Let's just shove the couch into the...well. Let's see. I guess it could fit in the hallway. I played the piano for maybe four years, until I was a teenager and was embarrassed to do anything at all that might draw attention to myself. Poor leetle piano, all abandoned. Thanks for honing my typing skills, though, piano. Those have come in handy. pssst...today is where I'm bitter. you're welcome.plnty o sunshan Sun|03.31 HERE IS ONE BUNNY HERE IS ANOTHER BUNNY FOR YOUUUU THIS MAKES THREE.[CONFIDENTIAL TO KD: I lied, I reread constantly. Just now I found a typo in yesterday's. I have no trick to not feeling like an ass. ONCE AGAIN YOU ARE WELCOME] I would like to take a moment to wish a special birthday to a special little girl who happens to be related to me. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Your aunt will send you a present! Yes she will! SOOOOON! Yeah, it's okay, I already know. hello operator. can you give me number 9. Sat|03.30 Weird day. Sleep. Jitters. Sweat. Wakeywakey. Sleep. Dreams. College roommate again, in wrong apartment. In MY apartment, one I had years ago. Get out! She won't give me the key. She invited a whole dinner party over to a place where she doesn't even live. Where I was relaxing in loungewear. I beg your pardon, but get out! Rats and other things, my cat had kittens in the dream, but then she wasn't my cat, and then oh THERES my cat, but then ... and so on and so on. Dreams. Pththt. Scariest guy I've been in close proximity to #2: mid-eighties, I'm home for spring break. Mena and I are driving around, looking for ex-boyfriends. Tonight we're looking for Dom, a guy I went out with in high school and still think about. We know the bar he hangs out at. We know his address, but neither of us want to go to the door, so we go around the block a couple times. After a bit we find the bar. How convenient, very close to his apartment. And...there he is. Outside. Talking to someone. I'm pretty sure I screamed. If I'd thought of it I would've pushed the gas pedal to get us the hell out of there. That's how I show joy. I leave immediately. Mena pulls over and rolls down the window. "Hey Dom!" He looks over. He's the same, as far as I can tell. I mean it's night. But his dark hair is long and tangled, he has the same Tony Iommi moustache, he's wearing jeans and ... and... he's walking over. Christ. Okay, his moustache isn't THAT long, I just wanted to link to Tony Iommi. So he walks over. I freak out in my gentle way and Mena shushes me. [CONFIDENTIAL TO KD: Yes, all the time. My spacial trick is no rereading. YOU ARE WELCOME] He leans down, looks in the window. Registers who we are. Smiles. Invites us into PALS or FRIENDS or DRINKY BUDDYS or whatever the fine establishment is called. Oh sure, we go in. I sit next to him on a barstool and we stare at each other. His eyes are still you know, DARK, and those couple of teeth, still gone, and the way he looks sad, and almost smiles, and looks right at me with those half-closed dark dark eyes I feel all, you know. Melty. MELTYYYYY from my sexy illiterate heroin mayun. "You must be 27 now," I say, and he nods. "And you're what? 12?" He grins. Hahaha! A pedophilia joke. I can't get enough of those. The bartender's right in front of us so I say, "Twenty-one." It's close enough. Honestly, I may as well be 21. I'm sure I will be at some point. "What have you been doing?" "Looking for you," he says and I'm startled and repeat it as a question. "Yep. In my beer." I should be rolling my eyes just like you are. But. I'm too stupid? Not old enough yet? Who knows. I found it charming. We play pool, Mena and Dom and I. After a while we leave, and Dom asks us if we want to do some coke. Sure we do. Well, we go along with him anyway. Mena's not going to do any because she's pregnant, maybe a month a half along. She just found out. It's her second. Her husband is on tour for six weeks. Tour like with the Navy, not in a band. Maybe that's not what it's called. On tour. What the HELL is it called. Oh well. ANYWAY. Dom says he's been dealing a bit, and also, he's making money with a sanitation job. Yes, he's a garbageman. NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT! Only he isn't even really a garbageman. His father owns all the trucks, so he drives them around sometimes. I don't even think he does it for money. I'm not completely clear on why he does it. We walk into the laundromat that's next door to DRINK UP MOFO or whatever the bar's called, and we have a new friend with us, and he is the tallest guy I've ever been near and his head is shaved bald, he's covered in tattoos, and is extraordinarily big and muscled. He's shirtless, wearing only parachute pants in sub-freezing weather. In contrast to this, Mena and I are shivering in our winter coats. We glance at each other. We're both wondering who this guy is and why he's with us all of a sudden. Fifteen years ago a shaved head and tattoos over every inch of skin meant something and it wasn't that you liked a close cut and were into using your body as a canvas for self-expression. Actually it might've meant that, but to girls like us it meant you were frightening. Maybe a truck driver or a biker would understand your special trip. ITS ALL FREAKIN RELATIVE. In the brightly lit laundromat people are....doing LAUNDRY. Like normal people do. We follow Dom and the big guy into a small bathroom next to the dryers, and the big guy locks the door. Mena and I exchange another meaningful glance. This might turn into a situation, and we're preparing mentally. Sometimes we need a quick exit, sometimes her charm has to work double-time while I jimmy a door or stomp on someone's foot. Sometimes she has to stick her finger in people's faces and threaten them, maybe bring up her father and how he's a cop, until tension has dispelled and people have moved on or chilled out. Anyway, that's what our looks to each other mean. The big guy pulls out the coke and I guess that this is why he's here. He's the guy with the drugs. Dom clicks a line together for me on Mena's compact and hands me a bill, I roll it up and snort the line. Ohh God it kills my nose and I feel it in the back of my throat and I run my finger along what I missed and rub my gums with it. Drugs are pretty to watch people use. OH YES THIS IS SO SEXY. Mena shakes her head at the big guy when he offers her some. "I'm pregnant," she says, and flashes a beatific smile. He smiles back and nods understandingly. Good mother, he seems to be thinking. Dom pulls out a hypodermic needle. He hands it to the big guy, who mixes tap water and coke and shakes it up and puts it into the syringe, cold. I've never seen this done in person, so I watch. He shoots it, then hands the needle to Dom, who RINSES IT OFF IN THE SINK AND USES IT ON HIMSELF. Okay, it's 1986, and I know about AIDS, and don't these two? Don't they? I say nothing. Maybe I should've lectured them? Would you have? I bet you wouldn't have even been there. Nor should I have been. There was no situation. Just some tired old 20somethings in a freakin bathroom in a freakin laundromat ingesting cocaine while people around them got their whites white and their brights brighter. We trudged through the too-bright machine-filled room and back to Mena's car, said goodbye to the nice half-naked tattooed man, gave Dom a ride home. We went home ourselves. I probably sat cross-legged on my childhood bed in my parents' house and wrote a journal entry about seeing Dom and doing coke, and how I was feeling at that moment. But nowhere around me were things getting done. I was doing nothing. I was doing nothing. aRcHiVeS | hOmE |
