You know, I wonder if it’s worth nothing that most versions of Lucifer in film portray him as an entertaining showman with a dark side, or an embittered malevolent damning force of utter hatred, but rarely a mixture of both.
“"Is God dead?" and "Why are there no good movies anymore?" are pretty much the same question. They both mean that our symbols and our myths have failed us, that we have begun to take them literally, and so judge them wanting.”— David Mamet
My sister and I stare at each other across the table. She’s wearing some hemp frock thing and I’m wearing a neat dark blue suit and even the waiter senses a kind of problem, because he keeps coming back to the table and asking if everything’s alright. Two empty plates and some glasses of water do not accumulate problems. They do not rob banks and kill people and malign social order.
"So how’s things," she asks. She might as well be texting on her phone and talking to a stranger on the bus for all the emotion and interest she demonstrates. The table stretches between us, a demilitarized zone for stilted chit-chat that neither of us our interested in. We get along on nothing, we can’t communicate or connect on any level. There is a perfect war-torn series of conversational set pieces we navigate to have fake, social contract conversations about absolutely nothing that neither of us is involved in.
I’m trying to drown my sorrows in this glass of water so I don’t have to look at her, and it’s not working well.
My sister thinks I’m a misogynist. I think she’s naive. Internally, I use my sister as a lesson, because she’s the first woman I ever hated.
I will never like, love, or respect her. She will never like, love, or respect me. In her eyes I’m a pathological manipulator who is careless and martyrs himself to excuse his problems. In my eyes she’s a bossy spoiled hypocrite who espouses a worldview that doesn’t hold up, and she attempts suicide every time reality crushes her fake, pretend cosmos. I’ve seen her in and out of more loonybins than any hollywood star. They might as well have a revolving door and a plastic name tag with her name on it. She’s been to rehab, therapists, analysts, alchemists, wizards, saints, everything, and somehow I’m the unstable one. I’m the crazy kid.
"You seeing anyone," she asks, in that closed door monotone. "No," I say. "Maybe," I correct.
It doesn’t seem to genuinely hurt either of us. We have separate lives in separate parts of the country doing nothing similar. She’s with protestors and hippies and peace and love. I’m with cynics and drunks and big money sluts and connections. She’d fit in at Berkeley more than I ever fit in with San Francisco. Maybe she should be out here.
"How’s…what’s-his-name," I say. She scowls at me. "You know his name, don’t be an asshole," she says. Don’t be an asshole. Don’t be an asshole. I think she’s been saying that to me since she was in diapers. She’s lectured me my whole life, and my family have let her get away with it, because she’s the sane one. I hate her ugly boyfriend and her hippie life and her holier-than-thou bullshit so I light a cigarette so I don’t throw the table aside and scream at her.
"I don’t think you can smoke in here," she says.
I stare at her, sullenly, through the smoke. I’m an angry teenager, with her as a bitchy ten year old lecturing me for the audacity to have an opinion. I’m the guy who fucked one of her friends and had her have a very public meltdown at me. It’s the same childish dislike that’s flown through our entire lives. It’s very juvenile and very vivid and it doesn’t make any difference what either of us says. If I poured my heart out, she’d disapprove somehow, and I don’t care about her stupid hippie problems either.
She hates me, I hate her, and we fake even having conversations for our mother, who is wounded we’re not more in touch. I want to tell my mother, I can’t even talk to the girls I like and love and fuck and wonder about, how can I be expected to communicate with someone who I share a blood connection to but frequently wish would be hit at high speed by a distracted vehicle? The only thing we’ve got in common came from our mother — long legs and dark hair. And my sister dyes hers, all kinds of stupid colors, cuts it all kinds of stupid ways. I barely even comb mine.
Everything is different. How we came out of the same person confuses everyone who knows the both of us. She’s staring at the cigarette, I’m scowling at my plate. Why do I do this?
The tables around us are coughing, and I smile. It’s the only time I’ll smile that night, and that’s just fine with me.
Another one; I asked a friend of mine to boil down to simplicity what the three things he came to mind when people asked him about me, he said “pretentious, confused, intelligent”. When I asked him what he heard most that other people told him, it was “a drunken asshole with a big dick who was a good writer”.
However, there is absolutely nothing extraordinary about me. I am a person, and therefore the improbable slab of computations and desire for orgasms and positive food-related sensations as everyone else. But as a person, there are no significant anomalies. I am of a slightly irregular but not uncommon physical shape, I appreciate the same things that a large percentage of people do, and I am functionally another face in the crowd. I am not particularly handsome nor ugly except to subjective subsets of the opposite sex and the same sex, I am not incredibly tall nor extremely short, I am not extremely intelligent or incredibly dumb. I function in the most occupied category of people; just another person.
The only thing about me most people seem to consider out of the ordinary about me is a gift for expression, except everyone has that. I am simply able to communicate a slightly more aware and a slightly more patterned vocabulary, which, in truth, makes me a bad communicator. What people construe as creative, is, in fact, an aberration.
Compare me to a theoretical mongol car repairman in the deep south. Who is smarter? Who is more capable? Who fits in better? The mongol sweeps me on all three. He can communicate everything he ever needs to communicate in simplistic language without needing to add or subtract facetious dialogue. He does his job with absolutely no problem whatsoever and enjoys it and it completes him. And he enjoys his life. I, on the other hand, am completely miserable, because I feel I need to be artistically validated by a non-talent that is extremely common, however quite often unrecognized.
My “gifted writer” talent is actually a mutated celebration of a lonely, standard mind attempting to erroneously prove that I am more capable of presenting a perspective, when in fact all I am demonstrating is my perspective is, like everyone else’s, entirely skewed.
- Daniel “Fuck Me? Fuck You”! Vaccerelli
“In contemporary plastic art much attention is paid to the artist capable of making a completely obtuse statement. The middle class sneers at the analytical and exults the occult. The very fact of something beyond beyond the experience of the middle class is sufficient to ratify that something in our eyes. In pursuing the tragic we gainsay our own too-sad intelligence, our increasingly worthless common sense, in favor of that which is beyond our experience, and therefore, possibly productive. The product of the artist has become less important than the fact of the artist. We wish to absorb this person. We wish to devour someone who has experienced the tragic.
In our society this person is much more important than anything he might create.”
to frame this — I have a friend who overidentifies himself with the “working class” and says that’s how he communicates his artistic integrity and why he has the shlock-shock low-class tastes he does as well as appreciation for finer things, though by finer things he means “French Cinema” so he’s full of shit. I don’t know how you can appreciate “finer things” but think Herzog is pretentious, is all I’m saying. Herzog is a fucking dreamer. Yeah, he’s made some bad movies, but so have I when I banged your mom. The camera was shaking, rattling, and rolling.
this comes up every time he takes a picture of some douchebags doing boring things and overexposes it, and then explains how it’s a “working class” perspective. I pointed out his parents pay half his rent and he works a shitty job two a days a week and that’s why he’s still “broke”, though he always has money for weed and bars so I don’t know how “broke” you can be like that.
it turned into this whole identity thing with everyone getting either defensive or gloating (as all arguments do), where he started questioning me, and I was forced to admit, I don’t know where I fall.
forget about mixed race, what about us mixed income hierarchy kids?
one side of my family is inordinately wealthy in a hoighty-toighty indexes and stocks and investments and lawyers, doctors, accountants — and I’ve avoided taking any of their money to the point where it’s been that psychotic childish pride. and the other part of my family is utter gutter lower-class cheap-beer-bad-sports spilling out of cheap two-floor houses and having seven kids and I hate them too. so where do I go? my childhood was spent reading and watching old movies. I didn’t have friends, I didn’t talk to my family, and both sides seemed equally ridiculous. one side was lavish and seemed just bored and tired all the time. the other side was gross and mean and crazy.
(I don’t know, exactly, how I gauged that as ridiculous — I think as a child I merely naturally self-isolated because I was small and wasn’t a good communicator)
so this leaves me with a sort of haphazard mixture of the two to work off as perspective — hence why I probably make fun of everything. because it is funny. I don’t have any underlying structure to adhere to so what are you going to say? oh you rich jew oh you dirty italian, oh gosh you insulted some parts I don’t even like, fuck I am going to weep all over this juxtaposition. you know what? I just like things, and hate other things. I am the cultureless victim of a formless, esoteric elitism. I will never be a musician or paint a pretty picture but I will write things, and those things will have the backing of a never-wholly-constructed identity, and you know what — I’m okay with that, y’know? it’s like, a zeitgeist, ya know?
anyway, “working class”, “lower class”, “middle class”, “upper class”, what I’m really saying is, don’t be a bitch about it. we’re all just shitty miracles and meatsacks trying to get laid, dude. nothing is really that cool, anyway. it’s all shit ten years from now, and cool another fifty. it goes round and round and round
I want an old man priest and a stormy day, don't waste money on a casket and a grave
last night was a blur of white russians and people talking excitedly about innovations in classic rock that happened way before my time. I like Cream but pretty much everything new they did happened long before my dad fucked my mom so the importance is a bit faded to me. I know the Visigoths sacked Rome, yeah, and in some infinitesimal way that probably touches my life, but I just want another white russian, you know? I’m getting old too, some of my friends have gone baby-and-husband-hunt crazy on me lately, but I’m not that old. Oscar’s friend asked why I was so cynical and he explained to her that’s how I cope with the world, because I’m an artist. he was making fun of me, probably. that’s why we get along. still, so much classic rock talk. I love talking music — god damn, do I love talking music — but sometimes a song is just a song I heard on the radio when I was eight. you know. that was nineteen years ago.
holy fuck, maybe I am the grandpa. plus — forty years old or so the lot of them, and they all left to go get high and watch a show I’d already seen twice, so I didn’t have any interest in that. maybe I’m the old one, man. maybe I’m the gray hair, dude.
if I had a nickel for every time something I thought was beautiful and poignant got pigeonholed into accusations of misogyny, I could take a tour around the world in a plane made of sentient magnesium populated entirely by wise-cracking suit-wearing robo-stewardesses.
I never figured out where the line between “appreciation” and “objectification” was, and seeing as it’s subjective anyway, I figured it didn’t matter that much anyway. holy shit, have I been relativistic as fuck recently. I blame Phi, and a thorough lack of morals. which is an amusing juxtaposition if you think about it, and more importantly, know who Phi is.
If we’re just meat with personality who act on the shallowest of summation of experiences, where are we designed to experience art? What sort of evolutionary imperative of god does that serve? I think the ultimate expression of this is that you don’t get to choose your own name. You can change it when you get older, but that makes you a fake.
All this relativism!
I find life banal enough it’s hard to believe in any specific god or devil, but there’s enough exotic and erotic, hypnotic and hypnagogic, that I have an unsolicited, unproven belief in expression. Every destination is mental or physical. In that vein, the word “lay” fascinates me, with all the implications. Fuck, sleep, or a common understanding. What a wonderful complexity in three letters. Most of the really complicated words have four letters. This simplification is fascinating, and correspondingly meaningless. No man or woman is a painting, until they are painted. Then it may not even count.
Everything is everything is nothing is god is reality is empty is faith is a vessel is baggage is tomorrow. You can use your worldview like a weapon and wield it against other people or you can merely press up against it and look through it like glass. You are missing out on a lot either way. A sociopath and an ethicist walk into a bar. Every preconceived notion you’ve ever had about yourself has probably been wrong, backwards, and quite possibly very sexy. Do you examine yourself with longing or loathing? Do you wear your hair up or down? Do you care if the rich get rich and the poor get poor? Everyone’s got a bottom line, and yes, I am checking out your ass. Extroverts and introverts. Bert and Ernie, probably. Where does individual freedom stop and rampant self-advancement stop? If you try to measure things, you’re fucked — you’re fucked — the observer effect and universal subjectivity, baby. The measure of a genius can’t be in who’s published first — can it?
The answer is the typical resounding “who gives a fuck”, with a delicious chaser of “probably somebody”.
There’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. Another one of them will be along shortly, no matter what you’re doing, or not doing. I don’t have the answers — I’m pretty fucking dumb.
The thing is, generally — beautiful things always make me feel kind of empty. A beautiful sunset, a beautiful mountaintop…none of that you can take with you. You can take all the pictures in the world, never does it justice. Every word in your vocabulary to describe it and it just won’t come out the same. You had to be there. You were watching that beautiful mountaintop and some guy next to you goes “doesn’t it make you feel insignificant?” and yeah, it does. And I don’t need to feel any more insignificant! I feel very insignificant every day. I go to my hometown bar where all my friends know my name and I feel significant. I don’t need anything less.
But a beautiful woman is different — a beautiful woman might fuck you. When a beautiful woman fucks you, it’s like she gives you part of her beauty, just part of her soul, and that is yours FOREVER. It doesn’t ever go away. Your beautiful mountaintops will one day crumble to the sea, the beautiful sunset might never rise again, but YOU FUCKED ME, BEAUTIFUL WOMAN, YES YOU DID, YOU FUCKED ME, AND A THOUSAND REPO MEN WITH A THOUSAND TOW TRUCKS CAN NEVER TAKE THAT BACK!
the nights as clear and sharp as the leftover cocaine on a mirror and the bottoms of bottles are ships that hold the whole world. it’s one of those nights where you get over art and injustice and all the people who never fucked you, and just party — that echoing wild west sensation of the old hollywood dream when you crush yourself against the mass organism and play one hit wonders. you fill the night up with people so you know you don’t need people, you don’t need anything, everything is replaceable and ecstatic and bloody. there’s a salvation in that childlike realization that the world really is that big, as you grow up it seems smaller because there’s a map and a name for a billion places you’ll never go. when you wake up the next day it’s coffeeshops and calling your friends and backhanded compliments on social networks and talking about low art and high art and the importance of being just the right amount of cool and aware, or it’s not, but every once in awhile you have to cut right to the meat of the night and see where things are. when you reach into your pocket and find a twenty dollar bill that wasn’t there and you see the face of allah god and buddha. everyone’s so disaffected in the daytime and fucks the night away. or the other way around. that’s how it’s supposed to be — so we’re all damned together. why would you want to be saved from that, anyway?
- put together the monies for Portland trip
- put together the monies for a trip back to the city
- throw away three fourths my stuff
- empty out my storage
- maybe just get a cheap phone because I keep breaking smartphones
- possibly maybe a bit cut down the painkiller intake
- write every day even if it’s awful and makes me hate me and everything I know
- actually work around schedules to hang out with friends
- save money
- take slightly (no promises) better care of myself
- pick less fights
- get outta town/travel more
- appreciate friends in SF more
she calls me on the phone to tell me it’s over and I say okay and hang up. she calls me back and asks me why I’m okay with it and I tell her she made the decision, and hang up again. I put my phone down and it starts buzzing but maybe it’s a collection agency or maybe it’s God or maybe it’s her again so I leave, phone vibrating away on the table next to my bed like it’s auditioning to be a sex toy.
I’m at the bar and the couple next to me are discussing bad art and good art and bad movies and good movies and I want to beat them both with a pool cue so I head over to the jukebox and plug in some nick cave and new wave and sit at a table by myself and wonder what to do with the rest of my night. a group comes over to ask if they can use the table and I look at them and they leave and I laugh to myself thinking that I used to be a tiny restless nerd who wore awful sweaters and now I can scowl people away from a table in a dive bar and I wear suits and do cool things with strange sexy people. when you get old your past is dead and all you have is the old movie reels to make you feel awkward. maybe it happens to everyone or maybe we’re all just trying to run away from what we once were or maybe it doesn’t fucking matter and I want a cigarette. I go into the smoking room anyway where some girl with two sleeves is trying to act cool and I make fun of her and her boyfriend gets in my face so I shove him out of my way and sit down at the piano. I don’t play the piano I just sit there while they glower and me and I decide it’s time to go. my beer rattles at the bottom of my stomach and I walk for ten minutes before flipping the mental coin to see another bar, and I go in, and I order a bunch of shots for me. somehow I’m playing pool next and sucking and some girl with huge dark eyes is laughing at me. I play darts way better and she touches my arm and tells me she likes my vest and I don’t have any fake compliments to make her fuck me so I instead buy her a shot and now everything smells like tequila. her friends grab her and she grabs me and we head out and I’m in the back of someone’s car with three other people crammed in and my head is pressed against the window and the city smears on by a bright chaos of lights and sights.
some vision lets me out the side of my door and I spill out upright and we’re outside another bar and I head inside and order more tequila shots and some guy at the bar is wearing a suit too and he’s taller and skinnier and my suit is better so we scowl at each other before drinking with our own respective groups. my wallet is feeling light and then I run into some old friends and they’re like hey daniel and I’m like hey guys and we all buy each other some rounds and now I’m cashed, but the dark eyed girl stares at me and I borrow twenty from a friend and I step outside for another cigarette and wonder where the time goes. the pack is empty and I borrow some gross plastic-tasting travesty from some sad punk kid standing around hoping someone will fuck him for looking sad and eventually I make fun of him too and he shoves me and this time I fall down, laughing, and when I look from the sidewalk into the street, the wheels spin right past me, eye-level, and they’re shining and beautiful because it’s starting to rain. I go to call a cab phone and my hand hits the empty pocket and I laugh again.
while listening to dazzle ships duhn dahn duh duh duhn dah dah dah
strangers say the strangest things to me in san francisco, but then that happens to everyone. I don’t know as I’ve ever lived anywhere where people will so aggressively make deranged observations or try to start a conversation at the most inappropriate time. I’ve never figured out if it aggravates me, endears me, or fascinates me. like the guy at the bus stop who tells me my tie is very yuppie but my shirt is very government super-spy. what kind of compliment/statement is that? oh, right, after I got out of the banana republic, I shot three commies and tossed those dirty reds in a dumpster before heading over to my favorite chai spot. or the lady in the tea shop who accused me of being responsible for the downfall of all the aries in the area. I couldn’t stop snickering at “aries in the area”. or Jonathan Raper-hands, the most accurately named tenderloin homeless guy of all time. or when an old man asked me if I knew where there were any underground poker games. sometimes it’s dead silent beyond the music in the earphones. sometimes, it seems like everyone has a question, or a statement. the inquisitor and the metatron. or just crazy old people.
God is it weird I fantasize about having some stupid student-level borderline retarded barback coffeeshop register monkey job where I don’t have to do shit or think or care. I miss being a bike courier and a warehouse assistant and a surly doorman. I don’t like running departments and workflow and meetings and synergy and paradigm and workforce goals and incentivized conciergeing. Fuck that. When you have a shitty job you hate your coworkers and they’re your best friends. When you have a great job you meet your coworker’s wives at company events. You strip out the struggle, you dim the essential humanity. Everything is just numbers.
I’m probably just romanticizing it out of situational bitterness, I suspect.
jesus fuck I've slept two and a half hours in two and a half days
so, straight-up emailing my boss tonight to tell her to scale back my hours, because I’d like at least a little bit of my sanity and a little bit of my life and possible some of the general aura of vitality I try to maintain back. fuck the enormous paycheck. I’d rather be lively.
goodbye sobriety goes the bloodthirsty haze wrapped around the night like my hand around the bottle, spinning around. the band on stage hits keyboard and the singer is some mad fuck hurricane in a cardigan shouting about bitches and money, bitches and money. it could be punk, it could just be rock and roll, everything is guitar snarl and grinding, and I’m trying to dance but I keep bumping into things so I make my way to the bar and drink two gin and tonics and pay for one and head outside where a lot of people are smoking and kissing and I’m standing there tugging on my tie. an underground passes by and I leap on the back and there’s a whole new party with some angry kids and angrier adults getting rowdy with a ghetto blaster shitting song lyrics about bitches and money, bitches and money. everything comes back to that. I bang my head on one of the top railings and stars spiral everywhere for a second before I come back to some guy throwing another one out of the side and I know it’s time to go, so I get off at the next stop where it’s too dark to see street signs and I hear something up the block and I go and it’s a house party with people melting off the railings and fucking against the windows and I come up the stairs with a bottle of jack from my pocket I forgot. I’m Dale’s friend I say and they go oh cool and I go in, I’ve never met a Dale so I had the bottle of whiskey to the first pretty girl I see and she sucks it down, greedily. the party is one fire and a haze of cigarette and weed smokes chokes the air like a congested freeway and I duck out to the kitchen past a crush of people way too young to be here to light up a smoke and the people at the fire pit in the back invite me in. a girl with short hair tells me I have sad beautiful eyes and I tell her it’s just my new glasses and she doesn’t laugh. one guy talks about his break-up and another talks about the last time he was on acid and then I stand up and go back into the house, where it seems empty, for all the people, like I’m walking down a hallway in the house where I grew up with my parents and everything is too tall for me and the lights are always too bright. I’m going to get yelled at for leaving books everywhere again, and now that I’m grown up and big and shoving people out of the way to leave I can hear my parents in one voice shouting at me and I run down the steps, and back onto an empty underground, and I sit there soaked in sweat and undo my tie. the foggy moon shines through the window for a second before we cut underneath the city and it’s like a doors song about bitches and money, and I can see the lights swallow us up, and I wonder where I’m going to get off.
another hipster dream fuck maelstrom party perched in some victorian mausoleum on a neighborhood edge and I’ve got my hand in Oswald’s ex-girlfriend’s pants and every good girl is a throbbing bassline and a couple gut-burning shots away from bad girl territory. she presses up against me with that kind of wet-lipped intensity that comes from recent break-ups and her make-up is smudged and some greasy cunt in a baseball cap making out with a beard backs into us and I shove them back. hey dude, what’s your fucking problem, the beard saids, so I shove my fist in his face and hear his nose crunch. the music kicks up bam bam bam and I kick him in the gut while he’s down and Oswald’s ex-girlfriend grabs me, but she’s tiny and I’m not so I kick the beard again while his girl screams. someone else grabs me by the back of the suit and I realize I must have been hit, I spit out blood into my own hand and laugh. the music is bam bam bam like cops at the door and I run, tearing the arm of my blazer and Oswald’s ex-girlfriend is screaming and the beard is puking on the floor and in some fevered move I jump off the back porch into someone else’s lawn and start running. I’m somewhere out in the avenues at three in the morning and I can hear “Tainted Love” start up the same time as a cop siren a few blocks away and my heart is jagged and alive in my chest and I don’t know anything, my phone falls out of my pocket and bounces into the black hole of the night and it’s cold and hot at the same time and finally I collapse, drag myself to a dirty couch among debris next to some vacant move-out, probably some happy family’s move to another city, and I lie there, blood, splinters, man, alive, dead, wondering if I’m crying, wondering what the taste in my mouth is, and then, and then,
"You expect the world to adjust to the distortion you've become"
"But then you find out life isn’t like that, It’s so hard to comprehend, when you set up your dreams to get smashed in the end” - The Jam, When You’re Young
everybody’s a nerd or a terrorist these days. there’s no more room for art! everyone gets called a hipster. sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and an ironic t-shirt is just funny. I want to dance at all the parties and be uncomfortable and enjoy it. this awkward white boy boogie. break it down now. slow train to right now. soul train’s over and Don Cornelius is dead. set your clocks back to funk.
my friends in california don’t know how nice a person I am now. when my friend Kayla visited and my new friends saw how I talked to her, they were flabbergasted. Kayla wasn’t even fazed. people who think I’m antagonistic and loud and crazy haven’t got a fucking clue. “fuck you” was my hello. it was a weird time in my life. my mission friends here are constantly accusing me of being a judgmental prick and I’m like suck my cock on the golden gate bridge you lifeless cliche, I am a goddamn delight compared to the man I used to be. I was a savage. I was an animal. I was shitty and drunk and mad. teenage angst with a side dose of not liking that much punk music. at least my friends fucked up their hair and got tattoos and went to shows. I didn’t have that.
do you know how hard it is to sulk to jazz?
they say every seven years you’ve replaced all the cells in your body and you’re a new you. clever movies and tired neo-modern one-liner novels bring that up here and there with a neatly wrapped conclusion. I don’t have one. I think we stay the same, we just interact differently. life is, inevitably, a Woody Allen movie. last night, Chad mentioned the neurotic jewish energy that’s present even in ardent atheist jew yorkers — if you don’t go to church, what do you do? make movies? write all the time?
all my conversations have led to Woody Allen recently.
the long and the short of it is, why buy bottled water? you’re going to hell anyway.
I wish I had some cleverness about jewish identity in america. everyone writes something clever about discovering their heritage and finding themselves and viva la mixing pot, we’re all in this together, dog hug dog. you know what jewish identity is like? you mention you’re a jew every ten minutes, you have a big nose, and people expect you to stammer when you talk really fast. bam.
and it was a confusing time, trying to reconcile my bleakly frenetic taste in albums and accelerated corporate wardrobe with California girls — no longer the Beach Boys tasteful extravaganza but rather the swarming invasion of middle California, some preposterous northern inland empire —the disgraced whoredom-as-comedy shoe-obsessed husband seekers, crawling out of their small desert hometowns to latch onto a big city and make a name for themselves. with cackling martinis the unflinching dynamic and the conflicted arousal from pretentious attempts at cleavage, I only see these types and feel older. it’s the grey hair, maybe, because it’s somewhere between black and white in our late twenties vibrant neon fuck culture. I’m not getting any younger, and everyone overuses the word “zeitgeist”. jawohl, mein niggas. I feel like as the time has passed by on the west coast I should understand better — not feel like every couple of months I get attacked by some new species of woman who puts me through a shallow but ruthless self-examination. invaders from beyond! fifties movie posters. you used to be able to smoke in bars.
reality television has inflicted upon groups of people the idea that if we are all larger than life, or merely above quota, perhaps we will be interesting enough to be surveilled by fawning anti-people on the other end of a laptop or flatscreen, streamed by masses for the underwhelming staged realness of it all. it all started using classic rock in car commercials, because you can talk about slippery slopes all you want when the downhill slide is so vivid it’s a free fall. how long until consumerism has reached a postmodern zero gravity? suspension of disbelief just to have a conversation with our friends. everything gets taped. someone’s taking a picture of it with their phone.
whatever — all anyone wants to do is listen to dubstep remixes of David Bowie and talk about how great/how bad somebody’s hair is, anyway. that’s the real comedown, or maybe just the real hangover.
well, it was nice having a night off to drink myself stupid with the giant and the journalist, now to…get over this hangover, put on pants, and shower. er, I mean shower and put on pants. you know maybe I’ll get a bagel first. I should put on pants before that, though.