Not too cold, I hope. The news never mentions the weather up where you are. So, I have no idea how much snow you are under. Ben unseasonably warm here. Until the past couple of days. I’ve moved back to north county. Out of downtown. Closer to more jobs I haven’t been able to afford. Every job too expensive. Too high class. And no one will take brown paper bag me. My place is great. You’d love it. There’s a separate room that works as a dining room/studio. The living room is so huge that even with my excess of furniture, I can’t really come close to filling it. I’ve been seeing my new shrink. That’s been going well. I think. At least it has brought my inability to handle the outside world under control. I’m still afraid of myself. But at least it doesn’t show as much in the world. Creating more problems that I don’t need. It never stops amazing me how many people come to this coffee house to pick up women. Of course that may have something to do with the large percentage of customers who are marines. Especially near the end of the month, when they don’t have the money anymore for prostitutes. My neck is killing me. Must be sleeping funny. Some guy. Not a marine, by the way. Tried this pathetic line the other day, trying to pick up a friend of mine. DO YOU KNOW WHAT MY FRIENDS CALL ME? TRIPOD. That’s very inviting. There’s too many guys here tonight. I hate men. I honestly don’t know why all women aren’t lesbians. Yeah, sure it’s the penis thing, I know. Still. And I’m not sure that the penis is worth all the insecurities that go along with it. Then again, I’ve never had the pleasure of a penis. At least not the same as a woman has. So I’m basically talking out my asshole. Ankle tattoos and tongue piercings. Kill them all. Moonwalking and breakdancing for the late 90s. By the way today is the day that was a long time coming. No, I didn’t get laid. You didn’t feel the earth stop did you? Lisa Marie asked for a divorce from Michael Jackson. And she said that, yes they did have sex. There is still hope for me. How much money do you think she will get from him? And will it be for emotional damages? If not, it should be. The question of the minute is, are marines as stupid in bed as they are in the world? Oceanside’s finest. Pulling over Mexicans by the carload. If half the energy that is put into being “original” was put into figuring out who these people really were, they would actually be original. Sorry that was a cheap shot. Cheap, but not undeserved. People running around with great outfits and their arms in slings from patting themselves on the back. Coats. Hats. Boots. Shirts. Hair. Jewelry. Tattoos. I just got a chill. And brain cells, few and far between. Maybe it’s the salt air eroding them. Maybe it’s a cultural evolution. Survival technique. To compete with the movie faces nature to the area. There’s a girl here who hopes to be top nun in a convent. Aim high. When I was looking for an apartment a few weeks ago, I saw that the Top Gun house is for rent. I wouldn’t mind living there, just to say I did. But, I’m sure it’s bigger bucks than I could hope for. Piss time. The tea, you know. Worse than beer. Had a revelation in the bathroom. I wonder how many of the world’s great ideas came while the guy had his dick in his hand. they say we think with them, so why not. Marines are stupid. Not earth shattering. I know. Maybe it’s me. It wouldn’t be the first time I was accused of being an asshole. Close minded, or some such. But it really pisses me off when I see people, who are making their image on apathy, repeatedly check themselves in the mirror. How’s the hair? Jacket? Shirt? Are the sideburns even? Yes, I know. It’s just an image. They are no more apathetic than I am a brain surgeon. But, if you want an image, pick one you don’t have to constantly contradict. Apathy is not conducive to worrying/caring about what other people see and think about you. The suits are here. the suits are here. Better a suit, than a lie. It’s only 930 and the town is closing up. By 10 everything will be closed. Except this place, which closes at 11. I think Dannie just walked in. I wasn’t paying much attention. But I thought I saw her jacket come up the stairs, out the corner of my eye. Boy, I’m good. Well, not quite. I was doing laundry the other day. Amazing. And I had my glasses in the shirt pocket of the shirt – how odd – I was wearing. When I pulled my last thing out of the dryer, something fell and hit me on the foot. I looked down, and it was the case for my glasses. So, I looked in the dryer. There were my glasses. With one lens popped out. They must have fallen out of my pocket when I put something in the dryer. I’m hoping that it was the last load that I put in. At any rate, the lenses seem none the worse for wear. And all I have to do is get a new screw to fix the glasses. My friend Dannie. Who is really just someone I hang out with, for company. She frightens me. It’s like a sociology experiment. She is firmly entrenched in the group of people who pierce, tattoo, and generally make themselves up in the 90s counterculture of popular culture. But, she doesn’t know it. She believes the sincerity of her convictions. She believes herself and all the pretenders that surround her. I don’t know how she would handle the real deal. She doesn’t know how to handle me, and I’m not particularly the real deal. And I’ve never shown her everything. I have always held things back because everything would be an overload for her. I think she sees me as another lifestyle choice. Without any conception that I have no choice in this at all. If I have a choice, it wouldn’t be this life. This is something I can’t escape. Frankly that’s the way it should be. If you can escape your life choice, it’s wrong. Destiny may allow detours, but hell it all comes out in the wash. Be what you have to be. Anything else is a lie. The Big Lie. Bad faith. But how many people have something they have to be? Let alone know what it is. This is what it has to be for me. Coffee houses. Drinking. Books. And writing. Here. Richmond. Boston. All the same, except for the stage directions. Can you do or be anything else? At base. I can’t. It’s in my blood. Like the red. The best news of the night. I just went to the bathroom again. No, that’s not it. Give me a chance to finish. When I was washing my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror. And for the first time in some exaggerated period, I looked into the mirror and recognized who was looking back at me. HEY, I KNOW YOU. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I MISSED YOU. The tension in my neck has eased. The apathy has returned. Hopefully it will remain. It’s only when I care, that I get into trouble. Apathy doesn’t leave room for pain. There’s just not enough caring to let it in. Pain needs a weakness to grab on to. I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on. What’s your name again? Let’s go back to school. Just classes for fun, to start with. To help defrost the brain. I need to rediscover what it’s like to be in a classroom. Where ideas are thrown back and forth. Bright and ignorant. Where I can come across things I’d never have thought of, because they weren’t from any planet I inhabit. Ideas that need an entirely different evolution to have a life. An evolution not possible in my environmental conditions. Have I beaten that horse enough? Did I mention the seratonin? My shrink wants to medicate me to raise the levels of seratonin in my brain. That’s the happy chemical in my brain. He wants to try this since the basic depression has not eased. My discomfort in public has eased greatly. But, I still have the hardest time living with myself. The problems are still the same. I just don’t care enough anymore to create the anxiety type reactions. No matter what happens I’ll wake up tomorrow and still be Moose. And if I don’t wake up, what good would the worrying have done? Moose is the only thing that matters. Anything that doesn’t help Moose isn’t worth the effort. I am what I am. I’m Popeye the Sailor Man. I’m really full of it tonight, aren’t I? As opposed to what, I suppose. I’ve spent half the damn night in the bathroom. Nice tits. Too bad you’re stupid. At least that’s my very deep belief. I could be wrong. People have been known to be very different in private, than they are in public. But I’ve got to tell you, I really hate stupid people. That put on any act that will endear them to whoever they are with at the moment. Because they have so little sense of self, or selfesteem. I may have no selfesteem, but unlike so many of my compatriots, at least I have a self to esteem. And it is only that sense of self that makes me aware of the lack of esteem. Well, it’s closing time. Sweet dreams.
Yohoho and a bottle of Scotch. For the little firecrackers. Powder burns a nasty sore and people telling me what the fuck are you thinking. If you neglect it long enough you’ll bleed to death. But basically I’ve been denied bonzai and the glory of suicide in the name of love. As boyfriend calls to say mom I’ve got you an art showing. While I’m over for dinner. Another Scotch please so far the bleeding is only external. And what next? Mozart’s requiem. In nomenus patrii. Hers or mine. Who stuck around long enough to say my advice to you is what was your name again. Or hers who kidnapped her at a year and then didn’t bother to tell her of her sisters for ten years. When he got out of jail. So I’ll drink myself to sleep tonite in her bed. While she’s two time zones away dreaming of another man. Boy. Child. And my sexual frustration. Sadaam Housein sleeps soundly tonite in the knowledge at least one american is dying. Capitalist scum. Why can’t I buy love? With money or devotion. I love you. But you can’t say the same. Because another man’s cock is in your mouth. So I drink and find the unlovable. And I’m not always talking about masturbation. I’m not the only unlovable. Just the most serious case. And I have the wear marks on my dick to prove it. While you sleep soundly in your, my friends think he’s hot so it must be love. Another toast to your happiness. Hope you’re happy. Just keep it down. Pour me another drink. Change his condom. And roll over with a smile on your face. My heart is breaking and you just hope that his condom doesn’t. Not that I’m bitter. Just lonely. With capital L lesbianism left out lecherous left handed library libertarian left wing fascist. Bitch. She refuses to love me. Simply because. I don’t blame her. While I’m hoping the next firecracker will be a grenade s gravity takes over. So I’m family. Just not the marrying kind. But the kind no one talks about and whose invitation to the reunion gets lost in the mail. But what did I expect? Penis on a splint and all. Impotence and the will to die. Oh well. We all have to have our areas of excellence. Another drink. And oh well it was fun while it lasted. There’s a fly in my Scotch. Oh well unexpected protein supplement. And I sleep alone tonite. Not that I’m bitter or anything. Just dying too slowly. Or too quickly. Depending on half full or half empty Freudian childishness. Give me a gun and I’ll shoot you. Give me a bottle and I’ll shoot myself. Tokens of me litter her room. But her heart. What was your name again? Christ. Jesus Christ. And a bottle of Scotch. My leg is asleep. Unfortunately that’s all. But I can pour another drink. Don’t you understand? I don’t understand it’s me who’s lost. Who is or who has is simple trivia. Like being there when the ball goes through Buckner’s legs or Evans plays in Fenway for the first time as an Oriole. Who gives a shit? I still sleep alone and lonely. The distant love me. It’s easier that way. The your parents love who you could be but hate who you are. Want you to fulfill their abandoned dreams. Not live your own life. Tightening the duct tape on the bag over your head. And my orgasm ends up on my chest. Nice shot. But I’m the only judge. And dying. Because I can’t write a love poem. A love song. A love anything. A lack of love anything and I’m fine. But write about love. Write in Greek and I’d score better. With both the judges and the women. While wild horses kick in my head. So how are you? Besides fighting off another bout of depression with drinking myself to death I’m fine. Like Cindy Crawford in drag. Oh yeah. She’s a woman to start with. Hairy mole and all. You got satin shoes. But still don’t love me. Not the way that matters. The way that means I don’t die alone. So fuck you. What good besides putting the bullet in the chamber are you? Not to piss you off or to kiss your ass just reality. And another drink. Making my dick towards limp so I can pretend I don’t mind alone and lonely. Until I can break through cements in the morning. Thinking of what I can never have.. Except with myself. Oh well. Guitar solo. Maybe that will get some women for me. Mick Jagger is 100 and still picks up more women than I do. Tom can I borrow your gun? For just an hour or so. Mick or me. I still won’t get laid or loved or left behind. Make it a double.