"People don't keep journals for themselves. They keep it for other people, like a secret they don't want to tell but they want everyone to know. The only safe place for your thoughts is your memory, which people can't take and read when your not looking--at least not yet."

Entries from April 16 - June 6 (with a lot missing in between)


Older entries

June 6, 2002

The Bumfights video I bought Cullwell came in the mail today. I wanna be skeevy and open it cuz I can't wait until his birthday to watch footage of a bunch of homeless guys beating each other up. Plus I heard some clips of it on Howard, and it sounds funny as all hell. This guy dresses up like the Crocadile Hunter, except he stakes out homeless guys on the street and talks with an Australian accent about the bums as if they were wild animals. And he ties them up and writes on their forehead with magic marker to "tag" them. Fuckin hilarious. Meanwhile my Unamerican crap hasn't arrived, but all the other shmit I bought off the internet has found its way into my suckered hands. I really hate the whole lot of it. I just like getting mail, I think. You know what I hate more though are all these award shows that are on tonight. Just hearing the MTV awards on in the next room makes me feel like a big creep. I couldn't be more uncomfortable if I were flipping through the pages of Tiger Beat Magazine or something.

I've been listening to my favorite song all night. The one Rob always plays when we go to his house, "The Right Kind of Phrase." Jason Mraz has one of the most beautiful, sappy-ass voices I've ever heard, even though I didn't know if it was a guy or girl singing when I first heard that song. He's recording his new album now, but before that this guy was playing every Thursday at Java Joe's in O.B. Where was I? I haven't downloaded any other songs of his, but I kind of don't want to, I'm very stubborn. I might not ever want to go to his show even, there's a bit of a chance I might pounce on him.

I hope the boys can figure out that song so that maybe I can sing and we can record it. And I know people are gonna download this song and write me and tell me this Jason Mraz douche sounds like a male Tracy Chapman or something, but not only does that sound a bit redundant, it's also a great compliment. Mraz me likey.

In other news, I saw the guy that does the Hurley website today at work. We had a little weird impromptu gift exchange. He gave me this dainty little heart-shaped Hurley pin, which, now that I think of it, I really like. So I gave him the lamest damn thing in return, the only thing I had at the moment, the May issue of No Cover. Ur-hur! I just thought he might like Strung Out and wanted him to read my article on them. He seemed very interested, which made me happy, because he needs some writers to help him with the website and all. And I think it all kind of made my day.

Finally, I saw Gabe after work for a little while, and we went to the music store where I thought about picking up some Billie Holliday and Ella Fitzergerald CDs, but didn't. It must have been something about how they were selling a used copy of the Backstreet Boys' Black and Blue for $19.99. I think that might even top the MTV Awards on the Scale of Ridiculousness.

June 5, 2002

I met up with Tom late this afternoon since he's in town from the Air Force. We went downtown and had dinner. I bought myself a black Dickies dress to wear with my wingtip heels, and a cool ashtray for Daddy from Urban Outfitters since Father's Day is this month. I've got to set up an interview with Dillinger 4 next week, and with the number of hours I'm gonna start working, there will be no time to spend with my little active military friend. But I had fun, even though I thought about Gabe a lot all night from telling Tom about him. It's a nice feeling to tell someone how in love you are and mean it.

June 4, 2002

Gabe came over after he got out of work. We got coffee and killed time around Carmel Mountain Plaza. We were hackey-sacking in the parking lot when a security dude pulled up and told us that we couldn't. He had this strange-looking pale girl in the seat beside him, and she frightened me. Anyway, he said we were loitering, so we left and I got a couple 24's of Heiniken and Smirnoff Ice, and we drank in a different parking lot. Heh. How cliche.

April 22, 2002 random.

Bleh. I went to Unamerican.com again today. I’m pretty sure I could spend a goddamn eternity on that shmit. This Srini guy that started it all, I’m his ass kisser for sure. The hours he must have put into that website is friggin unbelievable. He set it up so that when you click on any of the stickers or buttons he’s made, a little Javascript alert will come up with the story behind it. And they’re interesting. So I sit there and I read everything and get consumed for hours upon hours like it’s a good book I can’t put down. I’d like to write him, but he probably has enough people telling him he’s brilliant and all, I don’t want to do that if he already knows. Usually I like telling people that I admire them and why, but not when everyone else admires them and has told them why. Then I just feel like a groupie and get all anti on their ass because I don’t want to be responsible for someone getting full of themselves.

A sticker that I think he should really make though is one that says “Top Ramen Rules.” That’s my proposal. If you know as many people as I do who live off Top Ramen, the stoners that spend all their money on weed or get Mexican food every night who can still afford ten packs of noodles for a dollar at Vons? Like my friend Stephanie that’s made up so many different ways to eat ramen she could write a cookbook? That’s gotta be on a sticker for sure. Top Ramen, Cup Noodles and the four-for-a-dollar Macaroni and Cheese are all in the same frugal vein of course, but ramen comes in a such plethora of different artificial flavors. It’s for all the cheap punks who like variety. Either “Top Ramen Rules” or “Kool Aid Needs Sugar.” Those are my earth-shattering statements, dammit. I don’t care if the packet says its sweetened. I don’t know anyone who mixes up the powder with water and just drinksit the way it is. Who does that fat ass smiling piece of shit pitcher of fruit punch think he’s kidding?

So for the last couple days I’ve had a inexplicable urge to buy blank cassette tapes whenever I go to the store, and today I realized why that is. My sub conscience has been telling me to make up a drinking game tape! We did this—me, Gabe, and the boys—we played this drinking game with their chick friends at the dorms. You dub some songs you like onto a tape, except you only record each song for 60 seconds. Do this with a bunch of songs. When you’re drinking with your friends, throw on the tape. The rule is when a song starts, you throw back a shot of beer. After that song’s over after a minute, another song will start immediately after that, and you have to take a drink every time a new song starts. With each song being only a minute apart, you get bombed pretty fast.

Anyway here are a few songs I went through and decided I wanted to drink to. (It’s very important that you use good songs, so that people don’t get bored with the game. When we did this to Jules’s tape at the dorms, we were listening to shit like Celine Dion and the Dixie Chicks. In fact, that might have made me want to drink even more, so maybe it works out that way. Okay, throw a retarded song or two in there for good measure.)

...and the list goes on. I chose the punk songs because most of them are a minute anyway and you get to hear the whole song before it cuts off. Notice there’s no rap in there yet. The boys are big fans of booty music, or at least some Afroman or something, but for some reason when I think of drinking to rap music I imagine a bunch of white chicks holding their Dixie cups full of Coors Light over their heads and swaying back and forth like they’re in a goddamn Dr. Dre video. Revolting, no? I feel the chunks rising myself.

April 21, 2002 The afternoon drags on warily after last night's festivities

Some Sundays are just so damn depressing, I’m inclined to plant myself in front of the computer and lose myself among silly websites that I get out of Juxtapoz just to get pissed off at how everything I want to buy is so expensive. Gabe and I usually get together on Sundays (along with Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays… huh) but he's been putting up shelves and stuff in the house and still wearing his pajamas as I write this (3:45 p.m.). Me, well, I just realized I’m wearing a smokey-ass jacket I wore last night, only with nothing underneath. I was too lazy to even find a shirt to put on when I woke up.

During my two hour zombie-like internet trance today I combed the Unamerican website again to try to find buttons to buy each one of the boys as party favors if I end up throwing a birthday party. There’s a new one that says “Rave Against the Machine” which, if anything, I find strangely desirable. Is it a clever mockery of my partially to the party scene and one of my favorite bands, or should I be shot?

I also did a search on Shante Mallard. I heard about her in the news on the Howard Stern Show. She was drinking and doing E before driving home one night when she hit a homeless guy who went through her windshield. She didn’t stop, she just kept driving home with this guy just chillin in her windshield. When she got home, she parked in the garage and went inside, only coming out once in a while to apologize to the man. The woman left him there for three days until he died. Then she got her friends to help her dump him in some random park as if the homeless guy died naturally. When she went to a party later that night, a friend asked why she didn’t drive, and she told them the whole story. Isn’t that something you wanna keep under wraps? I couldn’t find the story on Google, but that’s just one of the world’s Most Fucked-Up that I’d really like to read more about.

April 20, 2002 Fiznor Twiznone Tiznee

Very action-packed Four Twenty, boys and girls. Blah.

I spent the day with Gabe and Mike, half the time in U.C., the other half at State. A friend of Gabe’s named “Fester” threw a party at his house, where the guy to girl ratio was about 7:1. They were mostly UC kids who went to Gabe’s high school and a few older people. There was a neglected DJ spinning in the corner of a room no one occupied, a keg of Heineken, a keg of Newcastle, and the predictable abundance of weed. I made a mental note of what I heard Fester say about the beer selection: “It’s fucking 4/20 goddamit, we’re gonna drink some goddamn good fucking beer god fuckin damn it!” It was a bit dark outside, so I couldn’t see exactly how red his face was, but I found it quite humorous. It only started a chain of other people cussing and swearing just for the hell of it. Even more to my surprise, I didn’t hear one Afroman song all night.

It was 7:00, and I hadn't had anything to eat all day. I’d only had two cups of coffee at work earlier and one of those so-called “energy drinks” made by a company called X-T-C Industries (the masters of subtlety). So after hitting a pretty sizeable spliff and downing a cup of each keg, I was already babbling a little. To the people I met waiting in line for the bathroom, I was carrying on about how in four hours it would make a year ago that I passed out in the Sinbad’s bathroom after sharing a hooka with Gabe for two hours. “Congratulations,” one guy told me whose name I can’t remember. I anticipated being handed a Zig Zag diploma and a graduate’s tassel cap made out of weed or something. “You made it,” he nodded.

We left that party to get our munchies, California burritos (I basically inhaled a Lindor Truffle on the way there, my case was pretty bad), we smoked another bowl at Mike’s, and then went to meet his friend Ian at the corner of Montezuma and College Ave. Lots of girls in hip-huggers and pink tank tops (pink, no other color), a few Wet Seal brand pseudo-punks (not even manufactured by Hot Topic, it was pretty bad), and people coming out of the Incubus show littered the lot where we stood in the cold thinking of somewhere to go. Sometimes kids would jaywalk across the street in huge mobs all at the same time, it looked like something out of a Twilight Zone, or the Mexican border. I was most of all determined to think of something to call the throngs of girls we saw crossing the street at 11:30 p.m., wearing spaghetti-strap tank tops and no jackets, crossing their arms and hugging themselves purple to be warm. There is no other spectacle that annoys me more than the idea of fashion over comfort. Put some frikkin clothes on, ya dingy broads.

A highlight of the night was at that intersection, when we were standing directly between a crowded Jack In the Box and a busy 7-11, when a car whizzed past us and a guy sticking his head out the window screamed, “YOU GUYS ALL GOT THE MUNCHIEEEES!!!” By observing the line of at least ten cars for the Jack Drive-In, seeing saw all the people walking in and out of the 7-11, looking at Gabe throwing back his box of Nerds and the Nestle white chocolate Crunch bar in my hands and the hazelnut chocolates in my jacket pocket, I realized the guy in the car couldn’t have been more right. It was Four Twenty, a holiday only observed by students and stoners alike, while everyone else in a righter state of mind is doing homework, babysitting—whatever people do on Saturdays instead of party—wondering what the reason is behind the scarcity of kegs and Little Debbie’s 25 cent snacks from the liquor store.

Couldn't they smell it in the air?

April 19, 2002

Wake. Work. Consume caffeine/effedrine. Write. See Gabe. Smoke. Eat. Pass out. Repeat.

Is this what they mean by the "cycle of life"?

April 18, 2002 We are the knights that say "NNNeeh!"

Gabe and I met up with Kings and Geoff to get Freestone's wedding gift at the mall. I guess Geoff was pretty excited because the weed he got was way better than the retarded stuff he got last time. I was thinking we could just get borderline retarded. Then Geoff said, "If you want borderline retarded, smoke the stuff you guys have, cuz this stuff is just guaranteed retardation." Well alright. So we smoked both, which, I dunno, equals retardation and a half? Then we went on a mission in the Macy's Gift Registry dept. looking for Mike and Juliette's wedding gift. How many people does it take to find a Black and Decker iron? More than all of us put together if we're stoned. That's about all the shopping we did before we met King's mom at Red Robin to eat some fattening ass shmit like chicken strips and french fries. Totally American, fried, kiddie finger food. But I ate it. And we saw the goddamn Red Robineers sing "Happy Happy Birthday" to some poor bastard with his schmucky family or something. Heh. I use to ridicule Jon for having to do that. Geoff was also laughing at some guy there who was taking a girl out to dinner but he had to get some more money from her when he tried to pay cuz he didn't have enough. We laughed at that guy. And Gabe spilled his iced tea all over the table cuz his damn hands were greasy as all hell and he doesn't use napkins.

After we ate, we went back out into the mall to find all the stores closing up. We were so full all we did was walk around and groan and talk shit about everything. So we went back to the parking lot, smoked more, and went to King's house to watch "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." I saw that movie before in Film Appreciation about 4 years ago, but I forgot how much elaboration was in it. That's all I was noticing last night. They go off, those people. Talking about sparrows and coconut halves. I fell asleep during the killer rabbit part. I just couldn't keep my eyes open. I ate two Dreyer's Whole Fruit popsicles and nearly died. Me and Gabe went to 7-11 and I got a huge cheese danish, a Moon Pie, a pint of milk and one of those fruit popsicles. I hate how I buy so much shmit when we go to convenience stores. I'm always so paranoid that cashier is snickering at me thinking, "You're not gonna eat all that, you stupid stoner." Oy.

April 17, 2002Gimme the fucking keys ya fuckin cocksucka, whut the fuh...

What the hell date is it? Ah yes, the seven-teeth. That's about how many I have in my whole head. So! I won't ask why you're here looking for more updates, I'll just assume that someone's actually reading this who didn't come across this site from doing a search on "yaks", "eggplants" or "ecstacy." Oh, was I not supposed to mention that night?!? Anyway, I'm glad to say that the latest goings-on involve "da boyce", well, just Kings Nick and Tom really. I'm taking Tom to the sold out NoFX/Rancid concert this month courtesy of the lovely Vanessa (say that like Austin Powers does) from Fat Wreck Chords.

Speaking of Fat, the Strung Out cover story I'm responsible is still not done! I even erased some of it by accident, don't make me talk about it. I get angry. But because Jake and Jordan were so gracious to share with me their unexplicable gift of gab, I have more notes than I can organize into an article at the moment. I'm a mess. When I get it done, I'll share it with you. I've been meaning to put all my No Cover work on the writing page, but goddamit, I just can't do it Captain.

I haven't been on any drugs. Stop worrying. Wait! Um.. yeah. No. No I haven't.

April 16, 2002

I had to meet Rob tonight at Expose, the strip club on Miramar Rd. where I worked for one night as a bartender about three years ago, to pick up a few stacks of the April issue that just came out. I really didn't want to, but I wasn't there long. And to think I once really wanted to work at that place! Yipes. I have no articles in the April issue since 18 Bones--oh, excuse me--"BONEZ" (I forgot how every band has to substitute a homonymic letter for an appropriate spelling nowadays, JeZIZ KrYst) canceled on me when I was supposed to interview them. They suck eggs anyway.

Todd called last week to tell me he was going to be in town, actually, he immediately asked me what drugs I was on, and then he told me he was going to be in town. When he arrived and called me I never called him back. I don't know what it is with me dreading calling people. I run from the phone like a cat from a vaccum cleaner. Actually, I don't get enough calls. So please, if you have my number, call me and tell me what you're wearing.

In other news, the last paper I wrote for Gabe on the book Iron & Silk got an A. I continue to substantiate my writing in another medium besides the low-brow shmit that I put together for No Cover.. just kidding! I'm even writing like Rob does in his Editor's Letter now.. cheese and rice.

I also haven't been fired from my job. Isn't that great? And I'm getting a nice tax return from Uncle Sam-uel L. Jackson, so maybe soon I'll be able to afford those breast implants. BOOBS! Oh, calm down.

Okay, lastly I put up the stupid picture of me and Lars from Rancid on the Gypsy page. Haggard punk. Not Lars, me. And I still have some pictures that i scanned a long time ago that I have to post for the guys and Bam but I haven't had the patience to even locate. There's one off the top of my head though, the Puma jacket I got for Gabe last Christmas.

That'll be all kiddies. Till next quip.

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