Monthly Archives: May 2011

There’s nothing to eat in the fridge so i’ve convinced myself that glob-like thing way in the back is edible

I’ve always liked the idea of public transportation. As long as I can remember, until about my teens, I’d always been afraid of them. As a kid, I remembered my mom kidnapping me purely moral support somewhere, and we had to get on the tram. There was this really sick fellow sitting behind me, coughing and gurgling, I remembered thinking he looked like someone stuck a vacuum hose into his belly button and sucking all his air out. He looked like a scaly skin-wrapped skeleton with hands I could see through, and wore jean jacket with shoulder pads. (Now that I pictured him, he looked kind of like Phil Spector. I kept turning around to sneak a peak at the guy whenever his cough gurgled. Which was every time he coughed, and maybe he didn’t like it. Because in one of those coughs, something wet and sticky landed on my neck, and dripped down into my sweater. I was 5, and instead of preschool learning stupid shit like nap-time and how icky girls were, I developed a fear of germs, public transportation, and Phil Spector.

These days, I’ve learned to really appreciate how public transportation brings people together. The rich were minorities. so it was harder for them to make me feel bad about being poor, but then again, they could be logical commuters and going green with their two hundred-and-so dollar shoes. The poor were all over public transportation like stink on cheese, and everybody had to be somewhere. Regardless of their health too because to the poor, being sick costs more than the fare.

I preferred the train, myself, and tricked myself into loving it, and because I didn’t want to walk all four blocks to work like a sucker. The air in Los Angeles County is a few comparisons away from a coal mine or a Chinese toy factory, I decided to take my chances with Alice Cooper. I live in Pasadena, CA, birthplace of the 110, the first highway ever built, the Rose Bowl, Suicide Bridge, Old Town Pasadena, and the highest number of gym-related shower room posts on Craigslist for  missed connections-m4m. I’d even take dates on the train. If they drove, I’d have them meet here  and reference a Bright Eyes song, it seemed everyone knew the song so it was easier, and boom! We’d be on the train to Old Town. If I had to take the train to them because I knew she didn’t, I’d make it seem romantic as fuck. It’s not like I’m cheating, I actually haven’t had a chance to do those yet, because I usually fuck up by being aloof, or stare at their worst features for too long with women so I found it easier to just not even try. (for the record, the worst features are my favorite, because no one else I’m seeing has them.)

It was also an absolute blessing that I’ve never been enveloped in steeringwheel-punching rage when passing by the pricing signs at gas stations. Sometimes I don’t even notice the gas stations, however I do daydream sometimes about filling up my Dodge Neon and going home to find a woman posting a missed connection about me. Soon, soon.

By far, my favorite thing about the taking the train was when I made a new best or bestest best friend every week or so. I couldn’t do that when I had a car, or when I had my Vespa. I always carried a book to keep me company, and I’ve stolen tons of good books I haven’t had a chance to chat with yet. We’d have the most insightful chitchat and depending on who, it was like they’ve been waiting to say those things to me and only me. I was still kind of scared of other people on public transits, but I just pretend to get fidgety, antsy, looking over my shoulders, if I really didn’t want to be disturbed. I still hated touching things with my hands or bare skin, so I always carried a pen for the pressing of buttons. The other hand, I always kept on my friend.

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the almighty pen vs. the mutated time traveller

“Never had I felt so good. It was better than masturbating. I went from [wine]barrel to barrel. It was magic. Why hadn’t someone told me? With this, life was great, a man was perfect, nothing could touch him. …We sat on a park bench and chewed the gum and I thought, well, now I have found something, I have found something that is going to help me, for a long long time to come. The park grass looked greener, the park benches looked better and the flowers were trying harder. Maybe that stuff wasn’t good for surgeons, but anybody who wanted to be a surgeon, there was something wrong with them in the first place.”

Bukowski, Charles. Ham on Rye Ch. 22

Words can become as trivial as the spec of dust on your allegedly clean computer screen, or become as paramount picking up the low-fat sesame ginger dressing because that’s the only one your skinny girlfriend uses, and you got the full-fat last time, and soyaki sauce, which was way off, before that. Our brains in their 3 lb. glory,  process these words with the brevity sometimes quicker than lightning and swifter than the Santa Ana winds. All the RAM and CPU can’t match that [yet]. Words aren’t dull, in fact, if you let them drive the car, they could take you to place you’ve never been, where you don’t feel pain, where you never doubt yourself, where you’re not angry, regardless of anything you’ve been through.

Sometimes, we don’t realize the kind of power we have with the way we can use words. You can get accepted to college, even with shit grades in high school, if your letter of admission was compellingly written. But sometimes… you can even slowly kill a person with the content and context of those little words.

I’ve always hated using words to cut, scar, and impale others. But I happen to be very good at it. It feels like playing a tough level on Angry Birds, where you plan out which birds you’re gonna use to hit what, figure out the trajectory, launch your fowl, and watch that level fall to pieces. It feels good, every move you made worked, and you get 4 stars. It’s the same thing when you hit someone with words, and sometimes with the right words, they stay inside the other person, years at a time even. You might have forgotten about it by then, but they haven’t forgotten your thoughtful parting gift. A venomous snakebite burning through ones very core. No one can help them, words of comfort, distractions, copious amounts of drugs and booze, it’s still there. They try to forget about it, ignore it, sticks and stones, even though you stabbed them in front of a crowd like matador because it feels good, but nothing’s the same to them anymore; grass isn’t as green, sky isn’t as blue, jokes aren’t as funny. You might as well have actually stabbed the person, but then again, reducing a person to the degree is like a gift that keeps on giving. Someone gave me a gift a few days ago, but I know how long it’s going to stay. My pop gave me gifts years ago too, still cherish them.

When you drink, your inhibitions are lowered, and felt invincible. You felt perfect, and you couldn’t give a fuck if someone disagreed, life felt good, you were untouchable, and everyone loves you. That was me, everyday, since two Christmases ago. I’d have two dollars in my pocket for my lunch break, and I’d debate about getting a Reuben sandwich or 211 Steel Reserve everyday. It’s 8.1% of “uuuggghhh,” but I eventually stopped debating, and 211’s stopped tasting like a can of the sweat inside your gym shoes. I didn’t think I had a problem, I was only 22, for Christ’s sake. But I started drinking alone, and I knew that was a sign. I ignored it, because I thought I would be smarter about it than others. Like I was the one person in mankind that wouldn’t develop a problem. Here’s the thing, when you’re drunk, you think every thought and idea you have is a good one. I had great ideas and wonderful thoughts, throughout the day. Charles Shaw kept me company at night, and I used to kid myself that it was okay because wine was classy, ergo, so was I.

I’ve been detoxing and quitting for almost a month and a half now. I relapsed twice, but I didn’t get anywhere near my usual stage; enthusiastic hand gestures, crowd gathering, singing along to songs, making up words to songs I didn’t know, and one step short of blasting myself in the neck with a tranquilizer dart. Quitting the drink requires complete abstinence. That’s because the problem only persists due to the person’s inability to moderate consumption. For me, the habit was that I constantly and consistently needed that feeling of being untouchable, everyone loving me, feeling like I really was perfect, feeling like life really was perfect. The reality was I was none of those things, and life wasn’t perfect, but it can happen spontaneously to everyone. I just constantly needed the consistency. Naturally having an addictive personality doesn’t help either.

Lately, I’ve been going through withdrawal. I’d get the shakes, I’d be awake at all hours of the night, apathy, a general disinterest in things, and most of all, irritability. I felt like a complete deuchbag, I was rude to people I didn’t know, said hurtful things to ones I did, I actually hated myself for it, and never wanted a drink more. Even started thinking it was the real me, I hadn’t been completely sober in so long, I had no idea what I was really like. At the time, I didn’t know I was going through withdrawal. I just thought I was doing weird things. The withdrawals are there to coerce you to into getting back on the wagon. This time, I’m winning. I have no idea how long this period is supposed to last, but I’ve been trying to avoid my friends, (whom drink on an Olympic level) and it gets quite lonely at times. I have 3 to 5 roommates whom I love them very much, but I’m avoiding them too, because I don’t want to be mean to them,

Then it happened. The gift I mentioned. “Dr.83” said detoxing is make-believe because it’s not in a medical textbook. Went on to say I’ve always been a drunk, and I can never be anything other than a drunk. Then Dr.83 went on to gloat about how he/she didn’t have a drinking problem. That after a wild night, he/she can rest and not drink the next day. Basically, Dr. 83 denounced any point to my existence, but didn’t do it by name. I’ve omitted Dr. 83’s illiberal name calling, which was a clue in discovering I was the addressee. Fuck yeah I was pissed. I wanted to drink, and fire back some razor-sharp posion-tipped words to demolish Dr.83  like I had been. I had so much dirt, I didn’t even know where to begin. I didn’t drink. I was up the whole night though. Those words ringing in my head as I wrote a 22 page Atomic Bomb of vengeance, I even went back to specific paragraphs because I thought of something even more cleverly damaging to say later. Shit, I even dedicated parenthesized sentences to be hilarious commentary by the director and writer. What I thought was best of all, I didn’t do it like Dr.83, the straight up attack-the-anonymous-guy-referred-to-as [insert racial name] technique. Oh no, I did better, I agreed with Dr.83. Agreed and retorted not just Dr.83’s existence, but every tiny aspect of Dr. 83’s existence, and all with a lighthearted tone, with jokes. Writing the response had been the most passionate I’d felt since I’d quit drinking.

I finished writing it at 1:14 in the afternoon the next day. Every one of my  joints were exhausted to the point of creaking like an old floorboard, I was out of cigarettes, and it was past noon. I saved the file, and wanted to make sure I had a cigarette in my mouth when I clicked publish, a Camel Wide regular was the only cigarette that would do the trick. I slugged through the apartment, I had the geographically farthest room from the from the front door, no one was home. Everyone had slept through the night, woke up, gotten ready and left, hours earlier. I bought my smokes at a place farther than where I usually went, and walked back thinking about how I should do it. I’d have to change into something regal, like an 19th century fop, after all, this was my masterpiece, my 9th symphony. It was going to be glorious. Then I saw an old man at the crosswalk across from mine. The man looked decrepit, bald on top, slouched, expressionless. He looked like he got lots of gifts in his day, and it had worn him down along with time. As we walked past each other, neither of us turned our heads, we didn’t lock eyes or smile or anything. I was too proud of what I was about to do to give a shit about the old geezer.

On my way home, I couldn’t stop thinking about that guy. I thought if he’d been like me and fought back, he wouldn’t look so withered, pathetic, and useless. Then I thought, what if he did fight back, and as a result, he became withered, pathetic, and useless. Was that a sign? I didn’t believe it. I kept marching back to the battlefield. Outside the front door, that old bastard was still in my head. Then I realized, I was gonna be an old bastard one day. Withered, pathetic, useless, and time only moved in one direction, as far as I knew. I lit a Camel. I stood there until the cigarette was done. I decided not to send or publish it. I was going to take that old fucker’s place and on my way there, I decided I didn’t want to feel so much hatred during my trip. I didn’t want to feel lots of things, but hatred was by far the one that would guarantee loneliness. During withdrawal, the loneliness is constant while accented with apathy, and was the part I had the most trouble with. I didn’t think I was the bigger person for stooping to Dr.83’s level or anything, but now I felt lighter, happier that I decided to sing over cursing, and I owed Dr.83 my gratitude. My thanks was not publishing my epic, and the vengeance will be fulfilled another time, by another medium, just not me. I’m going to stay sober and be kind instead. Yeah, that’d work.

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sometimes the simplest answer…

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I don’t hate her. Why does everyone come to the conclusion that I do? When you want to find the truth about how two chemical ions react, you don’t ask them. You put them in isolated beakers and apply heat. Of course I don’t hate her, in fact I love her very much. I did until I found it easier just not to care. She obviously didn’t, despite my nursing her in her time of need, and getting her to put the bottle down to live her own version of her life. Misled me to questioning which values are important.

Never expected her to be there when I got that promotion at work, no disappointments. Never expected her to be there after the first surgery, no disappointments. Never expected her to be there when I got home from work, no disappointments. Never expected her to be at dad’s funeral, no disappointments.

What’d you think, that we would share a glass of wine, a slice of cake, then a heartfelt hug after? I’ve given her enough hugs. She’s given me enough disappointments.

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coffee and oatmeal (post was a personal test to see if I could write the same way after a month of sobriety. I didn’t pass)


I spent the workday pretending to be frustrated and clicking furiously on the work laptop and teasing my hair when no one was looking, just so I could look more unstable when someone walked by. The surprising bit, was that it actually worked. Our servers containing all our work had a technical malfunction the day before, but I had refused to tell anyone else in the office that I had backed up all our clientele files. After I recovered everything this morning, I decided today was a good day to take a break, which is the general feeling I have for most days, and waited until the end of my day to discover how I’d recovered everything. So I executed the aforementioned routine and listened to The Kinks’ Lola vs. Powerman and the Moneygoround Part I, while secretly Facebooking and making plans via text.

After work, my boss got me a vege Pad Thai, because he seemed to believe the act itself would promote a general well-wishing for the rest of my day to which my camouflaged transgression momentarily escaped me. Along with a coconut water to help wash the well-wishes down. It always amazes me the things that humans do to convey a feeling, sometimes without a word. I nodded, smiled and gave him a “job well down,” pat on the back, and waited till I turned the corner to skip to my train station.

I stopped by the Trader Joe’s a block away from my apartment to pick up mini oatmeal cookies and coffee icecream. I’ve been suppressing this spontaneous craving my palette has annoyed me with for quite some time now, and I believed it was time to submit. I’m not usually a fan of sweets, you can ask anyone I know, but I’m not a monster. I like sweets every now and then, but if you saw my father in his adolescence, you’d understand. Either way, I’m allergic to chocolate, so I can’t exactly have the popular Cookie’s and Cream or chocolate chip cookies, so my palette isn’t that weird. But this girl that’s had a crush on me forever was there today. (I can tell by the way she swings her hair to the side when she talks to me about living free and partying with her friends, and tells me I should “totally get wasted with her.”) She seems to believe I have a penchant for drinking from the 4 months I was showing up everyday for a bottle of two-buck-chuck because I was heartbroken. Well… that waaas a bit misleading, now that I think about it, but she gave me the icecream for free! Then mentioned it being her favorite flavor and how she loves coffee. I worked in a coffeeshop for 9 years, and I don’t like coffee, but to each their own. Anyway, the girl is really adorable and awesome for making my day even better, and I skipped a block back to my apartment. I hope she didn’t read into that.

Of course my roommate left the apartment a mess, and there’s a passed out guy whom I’ve met before but can’t remember the name to. So I cleaned up, and put my sweets away. Here’s the thing; my day has been a very pleasant one so far, and from personal experience, “never invite happiness in without a full cavity search.” Someone upstairs got some numbers wrong, and sprinkled a bit of “YAY” into my day, but they always come back to collect. I know it sounds like I’m being paranoid, but I didn’t even touch the bud-cookies my roommates made downstairs. I know I can’t be the only one who has that rule, I just can’t wait for the reveal. In any case, I think I’m just going to enjoy my coffee icecream, which really is delicious, my oatmeal cookies, watch season 4 of It’s always sunny in Philadelphia, and veg out.
(Things are more interesting to read when you’ve got something to complain about. But filming all weekend has left my brain indolent and my room littered with water bottles and costumes. Plus! I just found out my blog was number 4 under the Dry Humor category today!)

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sonnet 142 (angry vent, sorry)

“Loving you is my sin, and your precious virtue consists in hating my sin, a hate grounded in your own sinful loving. But compare my moral state with your own, and you’ll see I don’t deserve to be reprimanded, or if I do, not from those lips of yours, which you’ve dishonored by using too much. Your lips have kissed as many people and made as many false promises as mine have, and both of us have cheated on our partners, giving away sexual favors where they don’t belong. If I may be allowed to love you the same way you love those other men whom you seduce with your glances, have a little pity for me; then you’ll deserve to be pitied yourself. If you want people to take pity on you and sleep with you, but you don’t show pity for me, you might be turned down because of your own example.”

You got into this trying to become someone that others can look up to. Now you only promote unhealthy habits and cry yourself asleep alone. No matter who’s bed you’re in. You may be faster, but that only means your faster at hopping into your grave. I’ve grown from my sins, and have made up more than enough for it. Now matter how good I’ve become or how even better I will become, I’ll never fit into your pictures. I’ve only come to realize this moments ago, and I understand. You’ve got the mind of a bunny, and you don’t want your bunny friends to know the tortoise was your guidance counselor. I definitely don’t deserve that, there’s no excuse in the world or in the clouds that could ever justify that. My only sin now is my delusion of having to still worry and care. However, that’s too cruel, even if it’s just. If it’s a race you want, you got it, but we all know the hare never beats the tortoise. Hop along, little rabbit, we’ve learned all we can from you.

(again, I apologize. But some people actually DO kick you when you’re down while you’re just having a sip of tea. Big fat jerk. f word.)

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Leaving your baby mama while she’s pregnant means you don’t get to name it when you go back to her in roughly sixteen months. You’re stuck with that. Sixteen months is the average time for fellow hipster dudes to accept fatherhood. Pro’s about that are, they’ve taken the time necessary to restructure the imperative circumstances surrounding their lives, and without feeling like they were pressured into doing so. The con’s are, and I apologize, you ladies’ have to go through the beginning stages alone. Unless you have good friends whom you know the last names of (not through Facebook.) Those are the ones that stick around, not, but don’t worry, if you made a good friend over Facebook, chances are, you don’t know their middlename yet. There’s still hope for you. For guys, if your bro’s haven’t complained to you about a certain girl, (not girls in general) you’re not in yet. Men seem to use women as classificational objects, in this is the easiest way to pinpoint where your head is on the bro’tem pole.

Anyway, I’ve seen plenty of guys shoved into fatherhood, and I’ve seen more battling with the concept. Some relieved to discover and cheer these words: it ain’t mine, muthaf*cka! That already says plenty about the male mentality behind it, especially between the ages of 22 to 32. And no ladies, your man can’t be mo’ mature like your friend, Kim’s man, he’s as mature as you found him. The more single he’s been in life, his chances of being mature are higher. Believe me on this wizardry, and if you don’t, it’s probably because you’re too pretty, or haven’t turned 28 yet. There are tons of great guys you complain about never meeting, while your friend Pete without the vagina is picking up white cheddar Cheezits and his director’s cut copy of In Her Shoes to show up at your cold K-town apartment loft because you were too sick to do anything today. (Yes that loft is pre-baby, have you breathed North Korean air? Korea Town air, I mean.)

For the guys shoved into the pit of fatherhood, you did this, you finish it. If ever there was a bigger wake-up call than this to take hold of your life, this is it. Your recklessness obviously didn’t do you any good, did it? The plus side, your baby momma is probably still a stone cold fox, would you feel good if your kid called another MILF hunter, Daddy? Nah, that would piss me the f*ck off too. Sh*t that don’t make sense piss me the f*ck off. F*ck! Sh*t! Motherf*cker! Wait, you could be that motherf*cker, you lucky son of a f*ck! So suck it up, you’re not the one guy in the world that’s ever gone through this.

(Just catch her cheating and your hands are clean! That’s a more level-headed approach, I think. Just looking out for my boys too. You girls are too smart, it ain’t fair.)

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