I travel to Chicago and drink more than I should with ?World?s Greatest Bartender,? and co-owner of Debonair Social Club, Matt Murray.
EPISODE ONE
drunks, tips, readers, freaks, the unwritten rules and more
EPISODE TWO
firsts & either/or
Monthly Archive for May, 2008
Up until about 24 hours ago, if you asked me what VP was, I would have told you that VP is this cheap and awesome deli/health food store with Spartan but functional dining accommodations and a staff comprised mostly of cheerful stoney punk Middle Eastern kids rocking Neurosis t-shirts .
And if for some reason, you needed more reassurance before dining there, I would have added that the food and service are flawless and the place is always clean.
If there was one thing in this whole wide unpredictable and fucked up world that I could count on, it was that VP always made a mean turkey sandwich.
But things started to get weird the second-to-last time I was there. The Plimsouls ?Million Miles Away? came on the radio and this emaciated Hot Topic-clad alternateen white chick behind the counter felt the need let everybody in the room know how much she just looooooved the Pixies.
Sorry, kid. Wrong band. Opposite end of the decade really. And they sound nothing at all alike, but whatever. So she?s like 12 years old, a new addition trying to prove herself to the all male, ?bro-down,? VP sandwich-making team, and doesn?t know the difference, but at least she?s trying, albeit a little to hard.
But then, as I?m perusing the ?soup of the day? selections, Hot Topic starts shoving celery in the food processor and announcing how she sick is, how swollen her glands are, how she can?t breath, to the other members of the crew, to the patrons, to anybody that?ll listen. This is before she wipes her runny nose on the sleeve of her black ?Green Day? hoodie and coughs ten times into her celery and snot covered hand.
Watcha makin? there kiddo? Sounds yummy!
But the sexy doesn?t stop there.
After that a LOUD CHEWER sits down next to me and ruins what?s left of my appetite as a I inspect with paranoid eyes my turkey sandwich for germs I can?t possibly see. Of course I eat it b/c I?m starving, but my stomach twists with each bite as I wonder how soon I?ll be infected with whatever Hot Topic has. Thankfully it never comes.
So yesterday. I asked for chili. Word on the street said ?bees knees.? There wasn?t enough for a cup, but that doesn?t stop the pasty, pock-faced skinny boy new hire from honoring my request. Instead of telling me they?re out or making more, he scoops the crust off the bottom of the steam pan and hands it to me anyway, ?on the house.?
Thanks dude! Just what I wanted, some chunks of burnt black chili to tempt my stomach for that sandwich I?ll order but never get (I?m getting ahead of myself?)
So I order my standard turkey on wheat: lettuce, tomato, mustard, light mayo, avocado, sprouts and Swiss. As I wait for it, a frantic, nervous, frosty-spike-haired sweaty dude in a tank top asks to share my table. I oblige.
I can feel him staring at me as I read my book and that?s kind of annoying, but then he starts to CHEW HIS SALAD SO FUCKING LOUD, every bite all drawn out and dramatic, like a fucking cow. I glance up just to see if my ears are playing tricks on me and he?s chomping shamelessly, mouth wide open, staring back at me with an equally dumb, cowish look that tells me he wouldn?t mind if I snatched an already half-masticated bit of his salad off his tongue for a taste test.
I pass, and attempt to go back to my book, but my concentration is strangled by the slopping of his mouth. Thankfully the loud chewer clears his plate in less than 5 minutes and sweetly leaves his trash on the table (I can only assume to remind me of what an incredible salad I missed out on).
My turkey on wheat finally comes and it?s a ?wrap? not a sandwich. Whatever, no big deal. Mr. Skin behind the counter tells me to keep the wrap as, like the burnt chile, it?s ‘on the house.’ Post gifting me the wrap, Mr. Skin then promises to finally make me the turkey sandwich I originally ordered.
I take a seat, wait for another 15 minutes, stomach growling. Now the replacement sandwich comes and this one?s wrong too! No tomato. No avocado. No mustard. No mayo. No sprouts. WTF?!
So as I?m gnawing through my dry toast and naked meat sandwich my eyes wander to the staff, to the other customers waiting, and I start to wonder why nobody shopping or eating at a health food ever store looks healthy. Everybody looks like they have xeroderma pigmentos, they?re at the end of a meth bender, prepping for a Proactiv audition or on their way home from their 100th collagen party, myself included.
I look like shit. I?m white and skinny and fat and puffy and blind to boot.
So WTF?! I?m thinking. Why did I even start eating here in the first place? It?s not like VP?s healthy factor has done me any good?
And then there’s THIS GUY…
This amazing lunatic (to rip and misdirect a famous Twain quote originally intended to describe Varanasi, India) ?is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend and looks twice as old as all of them put together’ and check out what his diet consists of?)
BACK TO VP…
Now I could have easily looked past the Plimsouls/Pixies mix-up, the sneezing, snot-wiping, loud chewing, the risk of infection, the gratis helping of shit chile and the first failed wrap.
But seriously VP, I counted on you.
I needed you to deliver one thing.
And no, it?s not just meat and bread and cheese.
To me it?s much more than that.
It?s the pleasure of relief that washes over me with every bite I take, the comfort of knowing that something — ANYTHING, even the quality of a sandwich, can be relied upon.
Your turkey sandwich, forever it seemed, represented a microscopic constant in the chaos of an infinite system.
And for all the joy something so simple can bring, I ask you VP:
HOW HARD IS IT TO MAKE A TURKEY FUCKING SANDWICH?
So tomorrow it’s In N? Out for lunch where I?m going to wash down that double-double and animal-style fries with a 40 oz. of St. Ides and smoke unfiltered Camels until I black out.
Who’s with me?
Do yourselves a favor and see ‘Mr. Lonely’ before it leaves theaters.
Korine comes off as sincerely charming for the first time ever.
Gummo was dope and ?Julien-Donkey Boy? was good in its own right, but it always seemed like a transitional piece to me.
Seeing Mr. Lonely confirmed that thought. Harmony?s total on this one and it works on so many levels.
Disturbing, inspiring, hilarious and heartbreaking, ?Lonely? effectively comments on many of the subjects (go see the film) that have been nudging me, for the majority of my life, ever further towards a complete nervous breakdown. It was a therapeutic viewing for me. Knowing my thoughts and feelings are shared, be it most of the time with those clearly as at odds with reality as I am, never fails to bring some much needed relief from the big fat weight of this blissful, hilarious, ugly, evil and retarded world.
Here?s a the trailer:
And when you?re done seeing ?Mr. Lonely,? go see ?Reprise.?
Ignore the fact that the 26 year old Norwegian first time director Joachim Trier is related to Lars Von, let the shit roll and believe.
It pushes all the buttons a good film should.
Well thanks BBC morning news scroll, but we totally got that memo back in 1884.
It was entitled ‘?ber Coca’ and it written by a wacky brilliant Austrian named Sigmund Freud.
These days we call it ‘cocaine,’ and it’s a powder, not a spray.
And every decade people forget how it turned the previous generation of cocaine users into chatty, slutty, limp dick, broke fucks with bad hearts, receding gums and decaying nasal cavities.
So to future consumers, when you find yourself holed up in some minimalist boutique hotel room in Miami crying to perfect strangers at 7 am about how your father never loved you, don’t call me. I’ll be sleeping.
And to the ’scientists,’ whatever it is you think you found, please keep it for yourselves, but do remember if it wasn’t for the ‘fear of social interaction’ many of you wouldn’t have jobs in the first place.
If anything happens to this guy…
You know who did it.
“THIS HIPSTER SHIT HAS GOTTA GO” - TOMMIE SUNSHINE
Homecoming ?08: Went back to Chicago for a lovely/ugly night with Tommie Sunshine at the Smart Bar.
We got down to business in a shady hotel room before the show, covered everything from Fellini to Vietnam, and yet somehow my favorite ended up being the ?Love and Sobriety? episode.
EPISODE ONE
Sunshine Sound - Paris vs. NYC - NYC vs. LA
EPISODE TWO
Music as a Reflection - Rise of the Blogs - Interpersonal Communication
Love and Sobriety
EPISODE FOUR
Music for all Seasons
EPISODE FIVE
First Memory - Rave Memory? - Sunshine, The Dancer
EPISODE SIX
Inspirado - Fellini - Johnny Rotten - Toby Dammit - Reinterpretation and Respect - Hipster Shit
EPISODE SEVEN
Two angry men discuss art, politics, pop culture, Son of Svenghouli, man’s quest for knowledge and George Bush’s ‘America’
EPISODE EIGHT
The Definition of Punk (Running time 8 sec.)
EPISODE NINE
What the world needs now - Over and Out
What ever happened to AIDS?
This is all I could think as the new cast of ?The Real World? (Hollywood) was revealed a few weeks a go.
As Hollywood Holt says, ?I?m old as balls,? and while ushering in the new I harkened back to when the very first Real World premiered.
It felt real, and in feeling real, it was kind of awesome and depressing at the same time. It tackled homosexuality, homophobia, race relations, AIDS, death and extreme mountain biking and none of the cast were particularly attractive, just like in the real world.
Compare to ?The Hills,? the shit was pretty poignant.
But in order to understand this season?s ?Real World? cast, you have to understand last season?s. And before I tell you about last season?s, I should probably tell you why I know anything about this subject.
I stumbled upon last season?s ?Real World? when I was high and vulnerable and I was hooked. Pot and TV, on Tivo Sunday?s for me anyway, have become a welcomed addition to my life. Watching stupid people do dumb things for some reason soothes me.
Now back to ?The Real World.?
So last season?s cast consisted of?
Shauvon from Sacramento: a bleach-blonde trashy stripper-looking battered woman-type with size DDD breasts:
Trisha from Fresno: A bleach-blonde trashy Bible-banging, homophobic, lying, cheating, childish, boyfriend/no boyfriend having ho:
Parisa, the very vital, pseudo-intellectual, singer/songwriter/journalist/make-out-of-her-league bandit Muslim girl
.
Cohutta from Blue Ridge, Georgia - the token hillbilly who spends much of his time calling his ?good ?ol boy? grandfather back home for love advice. (Sweet or creepy? You decide.)
KellyAnne (one word), Austin, Texas: premier dick tease/attention whore turned snore when she became Cohutta?s temporary ho.
Dunbar, a violent jock, molestation victim, sexist, frat boy, hillbilly who wants to fight everybody in the whole house at some point.
Ashli (with an ?I?) The dick tease/attention whore who took Trish?s place in the house when Trish was thrown out for knocking Parisa on her ass in the midst of a cat fight over who was the bigger phone hog.
The most ?real? of the cast being, Isaac, a Jewish ?hip-hop? producer from Cleveland who had acid flashbacks, swam nude in the house fish tank at one point and claimed that black birds visited him every time somebody close to him died.
Last season was totally devoid of substance, but the drinking, violence, schoolyard name-calling and whoring made it an entertaining enough hour of television.
So, a few weeks back, this season?s cast is revealed.
And at first glance it looks like an even less vital version of last season?s cast.
Like their tempting fate to see if the whole thing will end up with a final episode that resembles a drunk, rage-induced version of the Houston 500.
Instead of Trish you have Kimberly an elitist racist white girl with a thick southern drawl.
We swap out Dunbar for the daring duo of Joey, a meathead, gel-head, half-retard beefcake from my hometown of Chicago — Thatta boy! Make us proud Joey!
and Dave, a frat boy beefcake with a propensity for wearing circa 2002 screen-printed tees, Karate-kid style bandanas and binge drinking with strangers.
We replace Shauvon, the bleach-blonde trashy stripper-looking battered woman-type with size DDD breasts with Brianna, a bleach-blonde trashy, real-life stripper and certified man batterer with small B?s from Philly. She wants to be a singer, but she doesn?t want to quit smoking, and ‘being a professional singer is a lot of work.’
Sarah, from Phoenix, takes the dick tease/attention whore position for making out with Will (see below) a few hours after telling everybody about her ?best friend? boyfriend back home.
Will, a black hip-hop producer from Detroit takes Isaac?s spot as being most even-keeled of the bunch. (That?s if we disregard his straight up ?House Party 6? hair and wardrobe.)
And then they throw a wildcard in, Greg, a black dude from Daytona Beach, who calls himself ?pretty boy,? refers to female companions as associates, and has a ?passion? for runway modeling. (He can pout, twirl his jacket around his face like it?s a winged beast attacking him and then put that same jacket he was twirling on without breaking a beat, and all this while strutting down the runway.
(And I know you ?think? you may have seen this kind of thing happen a million times before, but trust me. When it?s done correctly, this move will blow your mind.)
Lame.
From the get-go it looks like a snore?
and then Joey starts drinking? into the day, downing Boon?s Farm a bottle at a time, bringing home sluts, destroying the house, threatening female cast mates, smashing his head into walls, punching himself in the face, talking to himself and attacking invisible people.
No, I?m serious. It?s crazy.
And I?m quickly realizing what evil genius? ?The Real World? producers are, but in order to understand their genius, you have to understand that it?s borrowed.
From whom you ask?
From ?Interfuckingvention,? motherfucker. That?s who.
Ever seen ?Intervention?? If not, you?re missing out. It?s awesome. If watching it alone can?t get you sober, it?ll definitely make you think twice about having that seventh after work beer, line, shot or smoke, or at the very least, give the inspiration to grab your crew, gang up on your most fucked up friend and send them somewhere warm and boring to sober up.
They used to run it on Friday?s, but the shit wasn?t nearly as potent as when they switched the episodes to Sunday and Mondays, when addict viewer?s hangover?s are really kicking in and they?re feeling all sorts of guilty about the less than savory ?recreational? alcoholic and/or chemical activities they indulged in over the weekend.
The shit is high drama. (Excuse the pun.)
ACT I: Introduce addict. Make viewers realize how loving, loved, talented, successful, whatever this addict was before they became addicted to whatever.
ACT II: See addict eat shit. This can include: lying, thieving, violence, crying, belligerence, sickness, treating friends and family like shit and sometimes prostitution. Act II concludes with the intervention. What loved ones are left gather round to give addict an ultimatum: Rehab or the highway.
ACT III: Addict gets sober and rises to greatness once again (8 times out of 10) or addict tells loved ones to go fuck themselves, then disappears or dies. Then, of course, there are the addicts that go to rehab, call an audible, split halfway through to do it ?their way,? or leave rehab only to run happily back to the addiction that threatened to destroy them in the first place.
Everybody loves to see a phoenix rise from the ashes. Others love to see the phoenix rise, only to have its wings sheered clean off midflight by a kamikaze dive into some telephone wires. This show fulfills both needs.
The only problem with ?Intervention? is that I?m addicted to it. They teased us earlier in the year with balls out previews: lots of crack, booze, heroine, meth, violence, less bulimia and anorexia ? awesome. Then a couple of episodes aired, one crazy sad death, then nothing.
?Intervention? disappeared.
For weeks, hearing the theme music, like Pavlov?s dog, I?d dash into the house from the street and overtake my roomie for the remote only to find? another fucking preview. WTF?
Withdrawal set in. I was cramping up on the couch, baby?s crawling cross the ceiling? and then ?The Real World? came and ripped ?Intervention?s? shit right off to save me.
To save US.
Simply put, Meathead Joey?s a drunk and ‘on the juice’ and stripper Bri?s a speed freak.
ACCIDENT? Don?t think so.
I assume, and I may be wrong, that the producers are required to asked the cast, for insurance purposes, if any of the housemates had any problems with drugs or alcohol.
Joey claims he ?used to be an alcoholic? (four months ago) so I?m assuming that?s what he told the producers.
Brianna admits to the rest of the cast that she ?used to have a problem with coke and meth? when she?s forced to explain why she ran out of a nightclub crying after making out with another girl. (It had nothing to do with the bumping, grinding, fondling and playing tonsil hockey with a complete stranger on national television. It was that said frenching buddy was on coke. Bri ?could taste it in her mouth.?)
Anybody else have a boner?
Me neither.
So as previously mentioned, from the minute Joey gets on the show he?s drinking heavily, downing vodka by the bottle at what seems like every last call they cover.
Wait?Did I tell you the drunk and the speed freak are kinda sorta hooking up?
Well, they?re not now (and this has nothing to do with the fact that Joey?s clearly gay), but they were.
That was until Joey started getting sloppy and jealous and violent and angry, turning into? Tiffany the crying girl? every time he gets drunk and threatening suicide only to forget about, and completely disregard, said threats in the morning.
So Bri the speed freak loses interest and we get to watch Joey gradually lose his mind: His workouts get more violent, his outbursts more frequent, his inner rage begins to glow like he?s trapped inside some emotion detecting x-ray machine.
Finally, after a 15 shot plus night of drinking Joey snaps, returns to the house to trash it, threatens everybody in it, and when morning comes and the other cast members attempt to talk to him about the previous night?s outbursts, he says ?fuck you, I?m out,? packs his shit and bolts.
Punk fucking rock.
But Joey doesn?t get far, because they stop him, the real world producers do: two dudes, both nondescript, one short, one tall, one with glasses and his headset still on.
Why? Because they care.
?No you don?t,? Joey says.
?No, we really do,? Headset says. Joey looks to Shorty and Shorty agrees.
They ask Joey if he really wants to go.
Joey says he does and I believe him. He?s jacked and halfway back to grandma?s (the most important person in his life) at this point.
And then Headset offers him ?an opportunity? to get some help.
Joey?s gun shy at first, but the producers let him know they?ve got a great ?30? day program that?ll help him get off the booze and the ?supplements? and then guess what?
HE CAN COME RIGHT BACK TO THE FUCKING REAL WORLD HOUSE.
GEEEEENNNNIIIUUUUUUSSSSS!
And Joey doesn?t even balk. He?s down. Headset and Shorty reiterate once more how much they truly care about Joey. Joey starts balling and thanks them graciously for the opportunity to get better because he knew he needed help. He just didn?t know how to ask.
Joey goes and tells the cast mates about his temporary hiatus, they congratulate him on his courageous decision ? it?s the right thing to do — and then we cut to Joey?s talking head in front of a dramatically lit black screen telling us about the trials and tribulations he?s faced in life, his struggle with alcohol and how he?s excited to get better, to focus on getting sober.
The lighting, the music, the whole fucking scene turns into an episode of ?Intervention!?
This guy?s been fucked up for over a decade. They?re going to send him to some Malibu spa for 30 quick days to tidy him up a bit and send him back into the lion?s den where he?s gonna find more booze, club sluts and ?Jo Jo the Ho Ho? feeding on what?s left of speed freak stripper Bri after the rest of Hollywood?s done feasting on her.
Sad? Sure.
Dumb. Pretty much.
Entertaining? Most definitely.
But the scariest question one might ask oneself when reflecting on Real World?s both past and present is: Is ?The Real World? getting sadder and dumber?
Or are we?
Before I begin, please do realize that I am acutely aware of how the following passage, when objectively analyzed by anyone with an IQ over 110, is riddled with contradiction. Getting to know oneself never gets old, and as the years go by, many times we discover that we are in possession of the traits we despise the most.
Now back to the bees wax:
When I heard there was going to be a psychic at Katie?s aunt?s 70th bday party I was annoyed to say the least.
I tend to despise ?psychics,? oracles or soothsayers of any kind and disregard astrology as wanna-be deep small talk hippie drivel that engages the uninteresting with its ability to make one feel special.
I live in the real world where we have science and there are rules and shit?s interesting enough that I don?t have guess as to how moon phases might play into my psychology. I know I?m fucked up and I can tell you why and it has nothing to do with waves or moons or cycles or stars or when my parents conceived me, (but boy was I a ?surprise.?)
I loathe mystical pseudo sciences and anything hippie-related in general. There are better ways to change the course of the planet than dressing like Janis Joplin, throwing up and couple of bunny ears and stage diving a Hilary Clinton appearance to preemptively protest a nonsexist war on Iran.
You want to stop a future war? Start reading about the past and learning from it. Start listening to each other instead of the Grateful Dead.
Rather than hang out on the couch at your parent?s place in Malibu this summer, have mommy and daddy send your trustafarian ass out to the Middle East you claim to know so much about.
And I know this concept might sound a little to ?groovy? itself, but I am a firm believer in DIALOGUE. It has saved my life on many occasions (although it is not always an option: See ?Two-Way Mirror.?)
It is knowledge that will save us if we are to be saved. (not implying an afterlife here.)
So get off your ass and go somewhere. See what?s up. Make shit happen or shut the fuck up and go bang it out at the drum circle.
Nothing opened my eyes more than to how shit can get done in little simple ways than sipping tea and listening to music in a mud brick store/house/hut in central Turkey last fall with Muslim men who the American press would have me believe hated me (Below’s a shot of the official listening party for ?The Haunting? my latest ?single’)
getting drunk with a TURKISH professor and a KURDISH hookah bar owner (what cable news would call ?bitter enemies? of each other) in a bar in Seljuk,
and all this while the country itself was on the edge of a revolution after President Ghul was elected. Nearly ran into him at the Ramadan festival while I was there (literally). Here?s a blurry picture I took:
I went in debt to go over and learned some lessons I?ll take with me to the end. And yes I know, Turkey isn?t exactly Khartoum, but don?t worry I plan to go. As soon as I have the dough I?m going to roll from the Cairo to Kathmandu and I suggest you do the same.
Anyway, all of this anti-hippy shiz being said, I easily turn into something that resembles a hippy when I drink just the wrong amount of red wine or sake or take certain types of drugs. (See ALIA NEED IS TRUTH - FLATMATE SEARCH PART 2 ? DECEPTION AND REVENGE for a clip of my bongo playing).
And I also received a ?non-verbal? message from a friend of mine who?s some large percentage American Indian.
We were standing in her kitchen across the room from each other. She was putting away dishes and I was looking at a magazine, and though her mouth wasn’t moving I could hear, very clearly, her voice in my head. I don?t remember what the message was (something mundane. I wrote it down somewhere) but after receiving it, I repeated what I heard back to her and she said without hesitation (and with her mouth), ?I always knew you were able to receive, I just didn?t know if you were ready for it.?
?Receive?? Fuck you. I don?t want any part of it. I?m fine with the gang of voices already fighting for control of my head on a daily basis.
My friend then very calmly explained that she began hearing voices in around age 15 and was suicidal until her grandmother sat her down and began to teach her the ways of telepathic communication. I freaked the fuck out, left the party, didn?t sleep for a week and pretty much chose to erase the whole incident from my mind until last two Sundays ago when I put my palm in a stranger?s hand who was being paid weak American dollars to ?read? it.
The ?psychic? arrives, charts in hand, smiling soft, serenity in her clear blue eyes, looking like she came straight from picking up a her month?s supply of fresh Nag Champa at the Venice Beach boardwalk.
She?s pale, I’m guessing Irish, has bobbed reddish hair and carries with her the faint scent of aromatherapy. She?s rocking a blue silk, kimono-style dress, biker boots, and, as a head band, she?s wearing a redsilk Japanese-patterned sleep mask.
At first I?m thinking it?s a function-related look, that she?s going to put the sleep mask on each of us so we can be hypnotized, or find a meditative state easier, or at the very least she?s going to surprise us with a pi?ata.
She never does.
She just wears the sleep mask as a headband or maybe she siestas between ?readings? in the car. Who knows.
Anyway, I watched other partygoers go first, all of them sweet, polite, less critical and more sane than me. She takes their palm and reads their chart straight off a pre-printed sheet. So lame.
And every time she came even within 100 psychic yards of being right, the truth was right there for the room to see in the face of the person being read, be it a smile, squint, grimace, whatever. People love to hear about themselves and your expressions are a cheat sheet.
So I?m thinking 20 minutes of research on the web and I couldn?t be robbing people blind at birthday parties on my days off, but then I remember I don?t have any days off.
So it?s my turn and I?m ready to fuck with her.
I meet with her away from the party in a small bedroom. I?m the new guy at the party anyway and I?d rather not have the hypothesized contents of my soul read in front of a crowd.
She takes my palm and I steady a dead gaze out the window toward the neighbor?s house and let her do her thing. She asks my name. I tell her. I can feel her watching my face, so I turn my head away even more and let my face fall to an even dumber stare. I barely blink. I?m half asleep. ?She will get nothing? the mantra loops in my head and I grin (on the inside.)
And she nails me.
First she tells me that I?m an artist and that my creativity is not focused on one type of art, but that I work in multiple mediums. (Maybe it was the guitar fingers and the paint splatter on my hand). Whatever.
She tells me I struggle with following any previously existing societal path. That I make my own rules for life and follow them, that in any normal 9-5 job situation, I feel like a caged animal. (a year ago I quit screenwriting after optioning a couple of scripts, started deejaying and writing short stories/working on my novel again) as I could no longer work a day job. This site would never have existed had I not decided the day after last year?s Coachella ended to change the course of my life).
She tells me I?m depressive, that my biggest struggle is not letting it take me over completely, (true and true) but my depression fuels my creativity (true), that my work is most important to me (true), that I am a pioneer (um? don?t know about that but I do have a very real fear that if my novel is ever actually published I will be assassinated for insulting, for all the right reasons, the type of people that judge and insult others as a way of life and murder regularly in reaction to acts of disrespect toward their own beliefs).
She went on to tell me that I am capable of maintaining relationships, but they are secondary to my work (true), that I prefer and need my solitude (true) that I travel often, including many short trips, if only to relieve myself of the boredom of staying in the same place for any amount of time (true).
She tells me money is coming and will never be an issue (hasn?t come yet) that even though, in the past, I may have worried about making rent, the money always comes somehow, that I always receive it in the nick of time. (This reality of this is way to crazy).
Just the day before, the day after Alia, the girl who was supposed to move into our extra room bailed on us, leaving Jackets and I down $1,000, I sold my Roland JP-8000 on Craigslist to make up for the lost dough, which wouldn?t be odd if I hadn?t already been up on Craigslist for a lifetime before that, never receiving one legitimate offer.
When my last computer ate shit last year, somebody emailed me out of the blue and bought my old URL (never having advertised that it was for sale in the first place and never having had any previous offers to buy) which bought the machine I?m typing on now.
I needed to pay the medical bills after getting hit by an uninsured driver, got in another car crash five minutes after pulling my newly-repaired car out of the garage and paid the bills with the $15,000 I received. Now some might call this unlucky, but when you?re broke, you call it blessed.
And this has been going on for years. It?s fucking crazy.
So back to the psychic: She?s slowing down now and good timing because I?m realizing my poker face has slipped to ?what the fuck? look.
?A request for the psychic DJ?? I ask. She obliges and I ask her when and how I will die: the year, the month, the day, the hour.
I catch a hint of fear and she tells me she doesn?t know. I tell her she?s supposed to. She says it?s unethical to tell me. I tell her it?s unethical not to. I can do a whole lot more for the world if I know how much time I have left.
But she doesn?t tell me.
What a fucking jip.
I went to Dustin and Erin?s wedding at a castle in Pasadena on Sunday.
The whole ceremony lasted about 7 minutes and did not make any mention of God that I recall.
The bride?s father wore a super dope kilt.
I sat with the ladies and cried just like they did.
I ate too much and drank too much?
And then we all danced badly to Justin Timberlake.
This is what love looks like…
Insane. Even more insane: Jacket’s mom sent us the file. And no, I don’t care if you’ve already seen. Watch it again.
MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.
