So first off, yes, I apologize for the long delay of entries; I had lost the address of the site to publish my shit, so I was thinking about writing, but we all have to realize that thinking about it doesn't accomplish much except for hopes and dreams and aspirations and other things to lacerate the soul.
So man, what have you been doing? (you look like shit, you haven't been doing anything, you disgusting blob, that hair doesn't fool me)
I haven't really been sleeping in, usually I wake up at 9, the emptiness of the home, sunlight wakes me up, why bother resisting when I could eat a cheese burger at 9 in the morning and catch the tail end of any given 80's comedy on Comedy Central, followed by the Daily Show? Beats the hell out me. ( Jrussell you're so lucky you're always going to be single, being by yourself all the time must being like chandelier that drips rum) So that's how it all begins, crusty and blurry, maybe some videogames on my state of the art game console, my new (to me) Nintedo 64. But I have the rest of my life to be a smelly loner (moreso), so how do I live for today? I'll put on my street jeans and a my grandmothers Eddie Bauer denim jacket, sandy a pair of chucks with no socks. Then I strut, I strut up Warren St. in to cultural mecca of Spring Valley. Fucking law students think they're so good. I'll make sure to strut (slut) it up as I pass the Crate & Barrel and the Starbucks, you know for the milf type scenario. Ah yes, my destination, the bank. I'll never remember my account number, just as much, I will never have lots of money in back account. But you know, money can't buy you love, and I have my own vision of investments. If my perceived trade trend goes big, I'll cash out and slowly move in to gold, but I'm no Martha Stewart. Enough of that.
I really like working at the Record Exchange, yeah, you call it CD/Game Exchange, but that's not as, not as, not as not as High Fidelity as calling it Record Exchange. It's not that hard of work, so I shouldn't really bitch about the low wages. It's a highly socialable job I guess. People ask me if we have this album/artist/game/movie in stock, and most of the time I can offer a stain of educated truth or something close as a response. The bosses like me I think, they still haven't progressed from the 'Which one of you is Sam West?' thing, for which I apologize to Sam West, I would also hate it if someone confused me with me, so don't worry, the depth of the difference in our two futures is beyond abundantly clear. One will create, one will ape, there's no need to be vague, kill me now before I become more of a parasite.
Yes, yes, enough of that I already said.
It all started make sense and boil together like heroin or speed in a spoon mixing with saliva and blood, turning yellow so one could shoot it up. (Too many movies about tweaking these days, damn fucking tweakers)
I was in the 7-11 in Mt. Pleasent after walking home from the subway, having just pissed away the last twenty minutes in the U St./Cardozo metro stations for reasons that can only be explained with the word delusion. I walk in knowing what I want, I want a $1.31 Coke Slurpee and a cake donut with chocolate frosting, I'm lonely, I'm disappointd, my voice is hoarse (thanks to Cave In playing back to their metalcore roots a Black Cat), and I have money, so I'll still make this one hell of a night. I go straight for what I want, no dancing, no jokes. I make it to the back and pull out my 28 ounce cup with the dome on for some dome action to speak. No no no no no. What the fuck is that red light? No baby, no, it's gotta work, let me test it out.
AH. Look at this watery mess. So no Coke Slurpee.
Fuckballsassdamnitbitchruin.
So the Mt. Pleasant seven one one doesn't have Coke Slurpees in action, and my Tenleytown one hasn't had Coke Slurpees working for weeks. no. Is it some sign? Something I love as much a 28 ounce Coke Slurpee with a blue straw just going to existing. Okay, okay, okay. Maybe Coke Slurpee wants some time, a break in whore terms. Fine, I'll find myself some exotic root beer, something crispy and independent, maybe made with honey, if all else fails, an A & W root beer will do the job.
FUCK THIS FUCKING TOWN AND THEIR LACK OF FINE INDENDENT BRAND ROOT BEERS. And the clear chanel venues and Coke spreads the biting plague of Barq's pretending to be a 'real root beer'. That Barq's poison isn't smooth at all, they pride themselves in their bite. Just like McDonalds does, they know their service won't be fast an theirbathrooms won't be clean, so they promise a smile. So is this more of a sign? Let's pause in chip aisle and think about it. hmmmmm. Goddamn that Norah Jones, it ain't Autumn, I don't need those chills at this time of the year. So I've changed my mind, I'm getting a Jamaican Meat patty, and I wil need a beverage. Alright I'll just get a Coke like good times, slam it and leave no messages. I'm in line at the register, hispanic in front of me is getting a chocolat flavored cigar, drunk hispanic to my right is telling the Eithiopian woma behind the counter:
I liiiike you.
I like you, I like you.
IIII Loooo-vve you.
She ignores him, so I order my spicy Jamaican Meat Patty; she prices it up with the Coke and goes back to get my meat patty, but she uses the tongs to pick up a hot dog roll, oh no, this could not end well. So I point, "No, Meat Patty, Jamaican" - "Spicy or Mild?" - "Spicy". It arrives in a white paper bag, napkins on the side, the white paper bag has a growing clear window of grease. I turn the coke cap off, pull towards me, and I won. I won a 20 oz. Coke Beverage, take that. I stuff the baggy of meat patty in my hoodie pocket still wet from the Dismemberment Plan Show five hours before. Outside to my left, the drunk hispanic is singing to another drunk hispanic who's have a hard time putting his arms back in to the sleeves of his shirt.
"Adios, adios la amor
Adios, adios mi amor
Adios la amor, cabrona"
But I'm cool, I won a free Coke and saw Cave In play old metal songs one last time before the sell out for good, and that's what it's all about. One last gasp.
I read the new crop of blogs, and look at the comments from a while back on my livejournal, and I can't help but to feel like I'm the grindfather so to speak of all these logs. Yes go me, but your's are all better.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . uhh, yeah so fuck it, I'm back in town. Back in D.C., out of Mexico. I grew restless by the end of the first week. Because of the Mexican Elections being, well today, the Mexican government banned alchohol like four days prior to the election to sober that country up enough to go out there and vote. The crime scene tape over every bottle of liquor on fifth avenue was fairly frightening. I always wondered if anyone ever drank whatever liquid was inside of those souvenir twisted bottles they always flog in tropical climates and county fairs. But I didn't test that shit, nope, the last time I consumed silica gel I thought i jizzing cookies, but that's for another time.
Walking down the main street in Playa del Carmen, every fucking store owner gives you the Hey, nice American family, you want this silver sink too many times a guy would point excitedly at me and the dark side and say I remember you, family, you're from Maine right, oh no, uh, Florida, Canada? Calllllllifornia?!?? . Them store front assassins have a lot more perseverence than you'd expect from a bunch of hungover Mexicans sitting in the sun in non-cotton soccer jerseys promoting Gigante or Bimbo , but they are some persistant mother fuckers, they really want the American sale. It got pretty bad sometimes, from all sides, silver, buckets of beer, sinks, guayabera shirts, fresh sea food dinner, gelato, ferry tickets, the Mexican Salvation Army had kids dancing on corners to raise money, sure beats some junkie in a Santa suit.
The hostess at Senor Frogs always gave me that I want to fuck you like every time I passed by. I figured it's hostess ettitquette to do that, to get dirty Americans with money burning a hole in dey pockets to get in there by having them think the hostess wants to fuck them. I mean what else does a hostess do, that's their job, to lure in, sometimes distribute menus, and then to grimace at you on your way out so that you don't take too many mints and matches. But I couldn't stop myself from wondering, maybe that hostess did want to fuck me. I am a break from dull, college jock asshole or the miserable middle-aged father types who tell bad jokes and cry when the hot hostess doesn't get it. But wake the fuck up, flame still burns, I have no chance fucking a Senor Frog's hostess, she's property of Carlos & Charlies
oh well, well I guess I'm back, have to build a new bed frame.
