At one point during the night I became engulfed in this rant that Bubba Sparxxx’s “Ugly” is a critical work of sociological class analysis and the only true work dedicated to revealing the basic underlying similarity between “poor” genres, but I was also incredibly stoned and drinking far too much tequila, and so was everyone else.
man, if only I was a hot chick who posted semi-revealing (and occasionally full on revealing) pictures of myself on the reg, I’d have hella more followers. but then no one ever went broke selling on sex and buying high on the interstice of being desirable/interesting. also I keep saying “hella” way too much, which I blame on smoking intense amounts of weed in the south bay. SEMPER FART FART FART FART FART FART (to be cont. on Page 3)
It’s been a decent day. Had the day off, so I got to business as usual — cranked a couple out (nothing flashy, just the usuals), read some, played some Spec Ops: The Line, walked around the neighborhood, made a sandwich, recovered from the hangover, scoured a few bookstores for particular sci-fi and crime novels, mused on the nature of my failed relationships (trust and compromise issues, duhr), debating the merit of Infinite Jest with a barista, messed with a street petitioner, talked about Kool G. Rap with a guy on the 22, wandered around the Mission and mused about how I’ve always kind of fucking hated the Mission because it’s always been either shitty or horrifying no matter whether it was hood hipster or techie town, remembered I have to clean the shit out of my room before I have anyone over again, wondered if my morals are starting to slip again (no really), realized my phone was dying from arguing on facebook about what specific animals my friends and I would be due to our predilections, and headed home. Here we go again. Time to…relax? Clean? Here we go again, again, again.
Huh. It was my six year anniversary of moving to California the other day. Primarily living in San Francisco (the great and terrible), though I also lived in San Jose (boring but full of friends) and Los Angeles (that fucking useless viper pit of terrible idiot monsters). It’s been a strange six years (barring the six months back east), but I’ve made the best friends of my life, and for better or for worse, I belong out here now. I guess that’s become readily apparent, over time.
Conlon’s eyes still had dirt in them, embedded in the sticky mess he saw through in life. His father brushed the dirt from them and sat thinking. A bright silver gun hung from each hip and two more in each boot and Conlon’s father debated for a brutal moment simply emptying them into the funeral director and corpseman and then one last blazing round for himself. Conlon’s father dismissed this cold end and stood, his head nearly brushing the ceiling lights. Tell me who did it, Conlon’s father rasped in his old, unused voice. The ice hadn’t been kind to him. Tell me who brought me to bury my boy. The funeral director tugged at his black tie nervously and the corpseman stared up at Conlon’s father, the great lawman from the ago. It was a cold and bitter world but where Conlon’s father had slept was colder and more bitter still. Only hell had colder spots. It was them color boys, the corpseman said. You want I put on a map where they build a fire at night. But Conlon’s father had collected his hat and left before the corpseman was done speaking, headed out into the wasted, black roads of Kingslayer.
New western idea: Conlon Frontier, sheriff of Kingslayer, Nevada in the year 3011, on the edge of the Defiant Verge, is murdered by the Color Gang, an outfit of art bandits, for his removal of “relevant graffiti” from the edges of Kingslayer. Conlon’s father, a retired (read: frozen by law) Marshall is thawed out and ordered by the authorities to bring his son’s killers in alive. Conlon’s father, (Raylan of the Frontier) in turn discovers the Color Gang was working for the Commission, a government sanctioned group bringing aesthetics back to the world since an unnamed apocalypse devastated the world and removed people’s capacity to produce more than limited bursts of art. Hijinks ensue.
Been running into a suspicious amount of buxom and startlingly pretty blue haired girls in downtown San Francisco. At first I thought “anime convention”, then I thought “intergalactic assimilative conspiracy”, now I think “statistical anomaly worth noting”. Still. I’m generally not into weird colors, so seeing a bunch of hotties pulling it off is OH GOD ARE MY TASTES CHANGING AS I AGE AND MATURE AAAAARGHHHH
I’m starting to hate these early mornings because I miss out on the racy/drunk/insane late night texts. And since I have terrible internet reception in the house, whenever I step out my Instagram/Twitter/Okcupid/Facebook messages/Emails and the like go berserk.
Yet, turning my phone notifications off for the night feels freeing. I put on Lost Highway and drift off to my fitful, terrible, lacking sleep, destined to experience it in two hour chunks interrupted by thought and sound. Eh, whatever. I’ll sleep when I’m dead, and I can’t be killed by conventional means.
Today I fixed the label printer, the printer, the other printer, the laptop, the bigscreen’s DVD player (with a hearty whack) and in exchange I found a wallet full of yen (about a grand, exchanged) and cocaine, and my fucking idiot coworker immediately called the cops rather than considering karma was rewarding me for my fix-it attitude.
she kisses me tenderly and then one day not at all; our pictures together vanish from facebook one by one.
2. the financial district
I buy the angel of death a cup of coffee for 2.67 so he agrees to give me an extra five years. “don’t waste it,” he grumbles.
3. the mission
she cruelly taunts my taste in music, she cruelly taunts my blue striped shirt, she cruelly taunts her ex-boyfriend with a neck tattoo that looks like her.
4. the fillmore
we get really high. he tells me about this girl with a “juicy” ass, that’s his word for it, "juicy". I tell him to never change and he doesn’t.
5. the richmond
I tell my roommates to invite "a bunch of sluts to the party”. we all invite a bunch of sluts to the party. our awkward roommate still barely gets laid.
6. south of market area
everyone is chainsmoking over piles of cocaine, explaining it’s their turn to put something on the stereo. we settle for Dusty Springfield. maybe it’s the drugs but everything’s kind of groovy.
no, really what the fuck is that?
8. north beach
a stripper with a mouth like ten sailors tells me which Talking Heads record is the best. she’s not wrong. things stop making sense soon after that.
9. the sunset
this party sucks, but how much can you complain about free booze?
10. outer mission
no comprende, no mas, why is this fucking bus taking forever. god I love this bar. have you got any smokes. have you got any smokes.
11. the castro
this movie theater is packed with strangers who have the same look as me. we all take our seats in one silent scowl.
12. the haight
listen pal if I want shitty drugs, I’ll buy them from teenagers. oh you’re only seventeen? well that’s no excuse. get a job, hippie.
13. the marina
14. nob hill
there’s a combination of dive bars that makes a man feel alive. in his bones and in his heart. there’s also some cheap pizza that doesn’t taste like home, but it tries. it’s not enough, nothing ever is.
15. pacific heights
man, let’s get out of here. I feel like I’m in stepford minus the personality.
hey I like a girl who appreciates philosophy the way Zizek wipes his nose she’s got dynamite eyes like storms in old movies, all sound and fury signifying special effects, she can fight and kiss up and down the entire piano recital like her long legged kickboxing stare showdown glamorous trajectory, she’s got exquisite collegiate decollatage she’s got my god what doesn’t she have, (decollatage is the shelf of skin exposed by the dress, it’s cleavage you fuckin’ animals) she’s got sharpshooter hips and stray cat blues and eyes so green they look brand new, hey I like a girl who dancing like a fool invites me along, I like big books and big butts and she doesn’t lie still when I hold her down, she fights tooth and nail and leaves thin scrapes down the mess of scars on my back, she’s an obsession almost six feet tall, she’s built like two battleships fencing firing faster over harbors, she’s got parts in twos and deuces and dos, oh lord she got twice the number of what god gave her, I never was good at math but I got a head for figures, I got ahead for her figuring and reasoning, like philosophy, like Zizek gesturing wildly, “if you love someone for a reason, you don’t love them at all!”
You know I’ve been to 14 countries, lived in five major world cities, seen women and men of every shape, size, tone and personal equilibrium interact, and I have never once seen a guy ask a girl to smile. Not fucking once. But I see a “stop telling girls to smile” post on some form of social media three times a week or more. My official conclusion? Benedict Cumberbatch isn’t really that good of an actor AAAAAAHHHHH GOTCHA TUMBLR