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This is when Gabe and I were partying with Ryan and Kice a bunch and I totally had more time to write about all of it. I'm gonna have to use the term "loadie mission" a lot more. It's so funny. Assorted Jelly Beans has a song called that. Anyway, whatever. Read about my sex dream. Game on.
October 25, 2002 "Dr. Freud? Do you have to masturbate while I'm talking to you?"
I had this dream last night about having sex with Alexis. Actually we were in a bed while Joe and Gabe were sleeping in other rooms. Too bad I can't remember who made the first move. I might have, lol. I was doing strange things like kissing her forehead while she kissed my neck, and we were giggling like fucking schoolgirls. That sounds horrible to me, how we were giggling. Why in my dreams if I have sex with a broad do we have to be giggling? Naive. I would have much rather mauled her. Anyway, I think there was some unspoken communication between us that entailed a mutual consent to mess around, maybe because Joe and Gabe were sleeping, I dunno. There was no penis in the equation. I'm not trying to make this hot. Anyway I'm not sure if it was even sex, probably because I've never humped a chick before and for some reason it's not sex to me unless there's something phallic involved, organic or rubber. But we weren't naked and there were no dildos present, or any kind of manual stimulation for that matter. Actually I might take that back. I did put my hand down there and she had this absolutely exaggerated labia majora. Ha ha. It looked like two of those balloons, that people twist to make animal shapes out of, next to each other. They weren't as lengthy as much as they were, uh, engorged, but nevertheless I was revolted. I think by this point Joe was awake and knew me and Al were doing something, so he was like, "Yeahhh!" and went and got Gabe so that they could watch like it was a spectator sport. And then me and Al kind of stopped. Maybe we wanted privacy. I didn't even get to second base. Stupid Joe. Just kidding.
October 23, 2002
So anyway I got my vinyl gloves in the mail for my Halloween costume today. They cut off the circulation in my arms. I was walking around the house in my Catwoman suit for a little while and trying to dance in those goddamn stripper shoes. Maybe i should practice balancing myself in those a little more. I was never a gymnast.
October 15, 2002
The San Diego Music Awards are tonight. That means Jason Mraz is in town. Jason Mrrrrraaaaz, the most recent among my two-day obsessions. I wish I could be there to write about it for the Hurley site. Black Heart Procession will be there.
Gabe and I actually hung out with them last night. We smoked and maybe my subconscious couldn't filter out all the random images that were conglomerating in my head to form lesbian fantasies. Me and Tom spoke of lesbians yesterday too. But I wasn't high at the time.
Alexis cut her bangs so that they're how they were a long time ago, the Page bangs. She reminded me of Tara at times when I'd look at her. She asked me if that was a bad thing. I said no, the way people look doesn't have anything to do with how I perceive them. But knowing her and hearing her talk was enough to overwhelm any iota of resemblance to Tara that might conjure negative feelings. It was just a bit strange more than anything.
Marilyn Manson was on with Howard this morning too. I didn't hear him spout any great revelation or anything else really intelligent. But I didn't mind missing the hour that he talked about that smoking hot idiot girlfriend of his, Dita Von Teese. I still like Marilyn though. He's funny.
I worked for a couple hours this morning and came home to boredom. So I started being chicky and cut pictures out of magazines to collage my composition books. Actually I cut out this warning about marijuana.. one of those Truth ads. It says, "First you smoke pot, then you keep on smoking pot, then you can't have fun without pot, then you can't do anything without pot, then you're that skeevy loser who hangs out in front of the arcade." Lol. That's rad. How do they know? I stuck that little warning above a picture of Batman.
Later that evening I got a call from Michael, a rep I met at work. He talks fucking fast. My cell phone is doing this funny thing where everything I say echoes into my ear by a one second delay. It doesn't matter where I am or how good the connection is, it just does it. It's fucking annoying as hell to hear me talking. How do people do it?
Lastly in the news, I decided Gabe should forget about looking for a costume (I wanted him to dress up as Space Ghost or Batman or something so that his package could bulge out from the spandex panties.. ha ha). He should just wear his chef uniform to Joe's party. He's got the whole hat already and everything. He looks like the Swedish chef from the Muppets. Dee-bork dee-bork. He would definitely need to carry around a rubber chicken. THE rubber chicken. (That must be the prop of all props. I can't think of a more classic prop that evokes laughter simply upon sight than the rubber chicken. Especially a rubber chicken being thrown. Anywhere. That's comedy.)
I e-mailed Mark, the publisher of No Cover, to tell him that he owes me $60. I referred to the "demise" of our magazine, since we haven't put an issue out since August, and he wrote, "The magazine is not done....it is about to be sold and we are not printing due to the fact we have no idea what our rates are going to be with the new owner. We are near the end of the process and will compensate you as soon as the deal is done." Riiiight. So I wrote him back and said, "I hope you're not lying." Rob tells me he lies all the time which I believe but don't understand because Mark is way religious. He's a god-boy. I should have written him and said, "I hope you're not lying, because that would make JESUS VERY ANGRY AT YOU." Ugh. Actually I told him I really don't care about the $60, I just want our magazine back.
Today was the first shitty day I've ever had at work. The nincompoop that I pissed off was probably in her late 30's, and she had her mother call to talk shit over the phone to me after she ran out like a little bitch. I hate ultra-sensitive people. I should have made fun of her limp as she hobbled out of the store. I wanted to do that more than anything else in the world. Is it me or do you lose all sympathy for handicapped people when they're pissed because they can't have their way? To make it short, because I know all of you are wondering why I was haggling this poor gimp of a lady, I told her that the shit she wanted to buy was never on sale, when in fact it was, before I started working there. I didn't take her word for it, so she ran out. Limping like a maniac. It's like, she could have even stormed out ten times better if she didn't have a limp. Her dramatic exit was botched completely by her useless appendage. LoL. Her mother by the way is a dried-up yenta. I don't know her but I can say this because I'm immature. And I find it funny that they let a 21 year-old little punk like me upset them so much over nothing.
September 25, 2002
Joe and Alexis called me up and I went with them on a loadie mission around the beach. We ended up in O.B. trying to find parking while there was a street fair going on. We found a spot in front of this old school grocery store called Apple Tree and went inside because all of us were really high and found the word "apple" in big letters on a building very appealing. We walked across half the lot to the box with the numbered slots to put our parking money in, and just as Joe was anxious as an eight year-old to use that metal device they chain to it to push the dollar bill in, we realized none of us even knew what number we parked on. Alexis and I kept cracking up at lame things like that all night until Joe would get annoyed and tell us, "Whatever, you guys suck," and walk ahead of us because we'd would be paralyzed with laughter.
September 14, 2002
Going to parties with Ryan on Saturdays is so much fun it worries me. We went to two again, or maybe it was three. But they were all in the same complex. Not necessarily a good thing. The people that were there were of a certain "type" that I, Gabe, and Ryan's brother Greg couldn't help but distinguish and aim our cynicism at. But Kice was also with us and brought his guitar, and while we were en route to wherever we were going, he and I walked down the streets practicing chords. Kice is an aspiring jazz guitarist and gave me somewhat of my first lesson in that sort of vocal phrasing. I was a bit overwhelmed. A friend of Kice's made him this makeshift vaporizer that we smoked weed out of. Very strange.
I dyed Gabe's hair black today. It looks really good. I bought all the shmit at work today and we did it over at Ryan's house. Gabe has never dyed his hair before in his life so I'm glad his first choice was to go with black rather than some foo-foo highlight job. Now he looks kind of evil. We make a good couple.
I wanted to be sure after listening to the rebroadcast of the Howard Stern Show from last 9/11 that I wouldn't spend my whole day off today getting sucked into other depressing specials on t.v. I talked to Gentry last night and told him that we should get together today since Gabe had other plans, but I forget that Gentry lacks the motivation to call anyone. He's like me. So I found Tom online and told him that we should go out.
September 7, 2002 Party at Fester's
This was Saturday. I was very tired today, very grumpy. So I took a nitro once we got to Ryan's house. Gabe and I met Ryan's friend Kice. He's pretty hyper but plays the guitar really well, and has a very funny, contagious laugh which I like. And he wore tye-dye. We all spat out requests to him and he would pretty much crank them out on command, except everything I asked him to play. I wanted him to play just songs that I could sing, but no one ever cares about playing the mainstream crap that I listen to. You can't really play swing songs on a guitar either. After having a few beers (I hate MGD), we all drove to this place north of Fashion Valley, but not before Ryan and Gabe ate their Vicodins. This guy Tyler was having a get-together while his parents were out of town. Some house he lives in, geez. Three stories and art and photography all over the place, new, spotless, almost uncomfortably rich. Gabe noticed the carpet was fun to dance on. I liked the acoustics in the place. Kice played the guitar and I made up some lyrics about carne asade burritos.
Would you rather have a lighter but no cigarette or a cigarette and no lighter?
Anyway, Al had to use the bathroom and one of the cashiers, a woman whom I'd like to recall was sporting a beehive but I'm not sure, gave us directions up three stories in this old ass building through "Employees Only" doors to a squalid mens room hiddin among boxes of soup and paper towels. I was almost sure we were being led to our death at the hands of a dude hiding behind slabs of meat. Either that or the rusty 19th century sprinkler pipes above us were gonna break and come down to tax me in the head. This was my paranoia at its best.
Walking down Newport, we were surrounded by the smell of tamales, greek food and smoked sausages from the merchants lining the sidewalk. We passed a couple guys wearing nose-shaped balloons on their faces and one of them asked me, "Hey, do you guys like theater?" I told him I thought his nose looked like a penis, and he agreed. The three of us ventured into The Black where I bought a Shag 2003 calendar and a blank card with an Olivia painting on it. I thought this particular piece, among the Bettie Pages and the Pamela Andersons, was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. But I was trippin cuz now that I look at it I would have much rather gotten a card with Olivia's version of a pin-up raver girl on it.
At Dr. Jefe's, where Al leafed casually through a photo album of pierced penises and nipples, I picked up an issue of Destroy All, L.A.'s version of No Cover or Skratch only one meelion times better. The cover was a mock of a Sex Pistols album and Lars Frederiksen even does a monthly column for it. I tried to guess the editor's e-mail but it didn't work, so I plan to write them a letter asking them to make me one of their writers. I can't seem to get motivated enough to write anything for Hurley if Peter King doesn't give me a deadline.
Later that night we rented one of the worst movies in creation called "Dahmer," and I don't mean it was a bad movie in a good way (cuz after all all the movies I like are horrible). This movie was the fucking worst waste of life I have ever invested in being entertained. Not a documentary, but a shameful attempt to make a fictional movie with a main character based on Jeffrey Dahmer--minus the vat of acid, eye socket masturbation and cannibalism. Not interesting at all. In a lot of ways it was just like Summer of Sam by Spike Lee, which was based on the David Berkowitz murders, because it showed what was going on in the dude's head as he was killing and sodomizing these guys. The rest of the movie though was porn-calibur dialogue and cheesy flashbacks. I just wanted to see people getting eaten, dammit. Just kidding.
I can't remember if I was drunk, and if Kice was fucked up I wouldn't be able to tell regardless because he talks just as fast and has that frantic gleam in his eyes just as if he were sober. But he was trying to teach me this song he wrote, a quick little number with simple chords which he played eight times each for me to remember. Paradoxically he was teaching me how to improvise, and it was much more difficult than simply making up words. He wanted me to scat, and coo little harmonies with his solos. When I got stuck on lyrics he would say, "Okay, just sing and say 'Tu,tu,tu and teedle lee," so I would tu-tu-tu and teedle-lee the notes. And then he give me another idea like, "Throw a 'bop' or a 'bee-doo bee-doo' in there," and then I'd get confused and tell him to shut up. At other times he would tell me the scheme of his songs, playing and replaying the bridge and chorus until I had them ingrained for the short while I could remember them before they were erased by the alcohol. He'd also play each note of the chord individually to give me an idea of how I could sing along with him, but I would become short of breath. It was incredibly hard for me to do, and very much defeating the purpose of improvisation. We were pretty out of it and rambling and fumbling around, but on some strange musical level, what he was telling me to do made sense, and what I sang sounded good to him. I thought it was fun and interesting, and if we weren't crossing streets and and smoking and walking as all this was going on, I'd seriously want to take some instruction in jazz vocals.
Meanwhile Gabe and Ryan had already done car bombs with pints of Guiness, Irish whiskey and Irish creme. A horrible mess of a libation. But it seemed that the kegs at each party were what kept us going the distance. Ryan was trying to hail cabs on the street by yelling and flailing his arms until we had to tell them that's not how it's done in P.B., that people usually call a cab, "you know, with a phone." All of us were numb. Eventually we gave up and Kice drove us maniacally to those apartments, where, like I said, the people seemed too absorbed in themselves to welcome us. I didn't think we looked that scary. In the car at times I would look over at Ryan and he'd be hyperventilating. We stopped at a 7-11 to get more beer, and Ryan put a pair of their cheesy glasses on with the tag hanging in between his eyes and walked out with a gallon of milk in one hand and a box of assorted donuts in the other. I showed everyone my 311 tape with the "Milk Challenge" footage and it seemed to inspire Ryan to drink the whole gallon within a half an hour. Eventually I grabbed the milk from him as he sat motionless on the couch and stuck it in the fridge, with their two other gallons. Greg and Gabe whipped up a breakfast of bacon and eggs and I ate a whole mess of it, leaving none for Ryan when he came to and realized there was bacon in the air.
They took me to the goddamn Five Points in Escondido. Holy white trash, Batman. I'm gonna get into this, this is worth writing about. The Five Points is probably the bar equivalent to the most ghetto, skeevy motel you can find. It's practically a trailor with some pool tables in it. Tom had warned me before what a hole in the wall it was, how you could smoke in there and no one would care, and how no one really cards you. Nick and Tom were joking that that's when they were the Two Points, but they've worked their way up to five now. Gabe called while I was there and I told him that the women there were wearing leggings and oversized t-shirts with big ribbons hanging off of them, and all the men looked like they should be saying "Da Bears!" Once in a while a Tool or Metallica song would come on in between "Leroy Brown" and Willie Nelson. I can't really knock the place because once I had about four beers and two shots of Jager I felt pretty good. Louis Precarlo from high school joined up with us.. I see him about once a year somehow. He's got a hawk, and he likes Incubus. When I sat next to him in Science about five years ago he was a little thug. Then again I was wearing black lipstick and looking like hell, so maybe change is good.
People started bringing in the turntables a bit afterwards, but a friend of Gabe's named Willow wasn't spinning as we'd thought. They were just checking sound and playing some Blondie and that song that goes, "Do you hear me? Do you care?" Then more people came over. One dude got a call from his mom a few minutes after he'd arrived because someone ran over his dog and killed it. After that happened I started feeling weird about partying there. Among the snacks were "unsulphered papaya slices" from Henry's. I asked Gabe what unsulphered meant, and he said, "They don't have sulphur." Not knowing what sulphur would be doing in packaged fruit anyway, I decided I was afraid of the food and it was time to go. I think we were all wanting weed so we called Steph up who was at another party in UC, at Fester's house. The last time I was there was 4/20. This time around it was pretty much the same thing. Fester's house is a great place for a party. Pool table, big backyard, lots of people. What's funny was that he didn't even know there was gonna be a party at his house. His roomates threw it together and he came home from work to find out. But when we got there he had two plastic cowboy hats strapped onto each side of his head, and Steph came out looking equally indisposed. I don't know if anyone remembers, but in Scary Movie there's a scene where the girl who plays Cindy is partying with this horned viking helmet on, and walking around and slurring a bit. Stephanie was acting sort of like her. But she was wearing a plastic cowboy hat.
I guess the party was for her friend Nikki's birthday. I saw her before at Nick Cooley's house, where I wrote the magnetic poem about acid. She was wasted. What's funny was she also had a plastic hat on, but it was a fireman's helmet, and her dress was a strapless 80's style number with a white background and black flowers on it. To me it looked like a Dalmation's coat, and with the fireman's helmet on, she looked exactly like a firedog. I couldn't help noticing that all night. I was wondering if anyone else noticed, because I wasn't even high, and everyone else was, and that's the kind of thing you totally notice when you're high. But no one would have cared. No one at Fester's parties ever care about anything.
I drank enough to be having a really good time. To my surprise Gabe wasn't all spacey and annoying from the Vicodin, he was actually pretty responsive. Kice ended up busting out his guitar by the time we left that party, probably to impress Stephanie, who seemed to like how he played "Last Dance with Mary Jane." At the party before that he played "Jumpin Jack Flash" really well, but I didn't know the words to those songs. So I downloaded them just in case we ever see each other again. Then I'll really make some ears bleed.
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