naked indian

Jan 13

whoops. missed a day of writing. that was against the whole ‘plan’. my plan so to speak, and new years resolution for that matter. was to write at least once a day, if not two. take it slow at first and then gradually work my way into writing longer and more important things. but for now it’ll just be what’s going on so i can get a grasp on ‘finding myself’. lance is out for coffee and the place is kind of nice to come home to alone once in a while. other than the fact that the shower is above boiling point from the moment you turn it on. but even so much as a one inch turn to the right on the hot water tap and you feel like you’re jumping into a fucking ice-cube head first. it’s hard to find balance sometimes.

Jan 10

sirens. i love them. love the sound. love the big horns they use when going through lights. is it wrong to love sirens? on the one hand they are used when someone is either in trouble or injured, in which case i guess it’s a little morbid. however you could also say that the sirens mean those people are getting help, which would make it ok. at the same time sirens can also mean something good is happening. a drug deal busted, a thief caught after a hold-up. do convenient stores still get robbed? i feel like that’s so nineties. i wonder if thief’s consider that. like someone in the fashion industry considering wearing white pants after labour day. like if there was a gang of thieves that all hung out together to play cards and talk about their big scores. and one goes “dee oder dey i robbed seben eleben”, and the other thieves just stare at him as if he’d just said he’d been christmas shopping with his grandma. i hope so. i hope no matter how low you get there’s still something that can make people equally as low as you look down on you.

productivity. easier said than done. i want to take up a craft. pottery to be specific. when i was younger i was into all kinds of different little things. magic tricks, glass blowing (pipes, with the exception of one christmas ornament i made for my mom so i could lie about the pipes) photography (i dropped out of photography school to play in my first real band). i was pretty good at them too, i can be good at most things if i try, i just never really put in enough effort to be great. these days i feel more like the fifth ninja turtle (the one who wandered off after eating the green goo and wasn’t trained to become a ninja, now forever known as just ‘teenage mutant turtle’) i admire the people who can spend 6 hours a day playing piano, or 4 hours a day dancing, or 2 hours a day at the gym, or even people who go to school. even something as simple as going to school seems like such a stretch for me these days. so i’ve made up my mind. and pottery it is.

weird guy at coffee. i hate it when people pretend to know you just because they’ve seen your face before, acting like some old friend who hasen’t seen you in ages.

"remember? tea room? remember i was at the table on the left? ya i saw you there with a girl! that your girlfriend? she’s pretty! remember?"

no you steroid fuck, i don’t remember you because i don’t pay attention to people i don’t know. jesus christ let me get my damn latte. of course i don’t actually say this, i just say the shortest possible answers until i can avert my attention to the man behind the counter and pretend we didn’t have this awkward conversation while he stares at me just a little too long.

wait did he say table?

Jan 9

bad idea. why do decisions seem so much easier to make after they happen? you’re either happy with the decision you made, or you wish you had made the opposite decision and it seems so clear as to why. last night i wish i haden’t gone out, of course this is due to the fact that i’m hung over. gut rotting away, starving of thirst every twenty minutes. i guess there’s always a bright side if  you choose to look at it. i fixed my bike. thirty five dollars later my bike is as good as old. i enjoy the look of old things. old bikes, old cameras, old televisions, i’m a sucker for antiques no matter how much heavier they may be. walking up and down the aisles of thrift stores scoping out peoples unwanted junk, hoping to find that one thing to fill a never ending hole of unsatisfaction caused by the fact that i don’t have the money to buy the things i really want. i can’t leave without buying something, anything. chicken salt shaker, old clock made out of a tin can, place mats made of twigs. i’ll even look for things i think other people might want just so i can take it home for a little while. ooh a wooden laundry hamper, just what i need! that massive useless box can go between my bed made for someone years away from being allowed to ride a roller coaster and the bookshelf i keep my clothes in! it sucks as soon as i get it on the bus. maybe it can double up as a coffin. if my entire bed can fit inside of it maybe just maybe when i become one of those old useless things nobody wants anymore, as they lay my body down to rest, they can fit my lower half inside. my torso and head sticking out of the top, displaying to people (assuming people will come to my funeral) the idiot who actually bought this piece of shit.

to go out? or not to go out? that is the question. at least that’s been my question for the past half hour while sitting in my shit hole apartment drinking jack daniel’s with lance. i would go, i want to go, but having two single dollar bills as the entirety of my savings has somewhat of an effect on my decision. like having too much homework when you’re young, or a girlfriend when you’re a little older. not that i was the type of kid who cared about homework, or a girlfriend for that matter - until recently. who needs to go out when the whole reason for going out is to find a girl to have sex with, and you already have that? and yes, i have a girlfriend. which then raises the question, why the would i want to go out? well asshole, my girlfriend is out of town. not to mention i hardly ever go out, be it lack of funds or lack of having energy to finish other peoples drinks they bought with their $5000 a month allowance from their parents back home, wherever home is. you can never tell in hollywood. luckily with lance i’m always safe, i’ve never seen the guy spend more that ten dollars in his life. fuck it i’m going.

Jan 8

coffee with buck. i shouldn’t actually say coffee with buck, because lately buck hasen’t even decided to grace his own body with his presence. so it’s more like coffee with the body of buck. but at least the coffee was in attendance. about buck: he’s 22, small, thin, no job, no money, and every bit as crazy as i heard he was before (and since) we decided to go into business together making a folk band about a year ago. he lives in a trailer in his parents driveway and gets a ten dollar a day allowance that he rotates spending on one of three things. day 1. booze and smokes, day 2. coffee and booze, day 3. smokes and coffee, repeat steps 1 through 3. the band recently hit a bump when buck decided his new years resolution was to be an alcoholic full time, and that he wanted nothing more to do with the project he had spent countless hours working on. i should have known, the first time i met buck he had just dropped out of ad school in georgia to date a girl who lived in LA - they broke up two months later, buck stayed. i met him at a party, he was drinking whiskey at the time and we got to talking about music. he was interesting enough, kind of anti-social, but a talking style completely his own, making me more than a little interested at the fact that he claimed he was a singer. man was that a stretch. no pitch, no timing, but honest to god one of the best tones i’ve ever heard to this day. at the time i was amidst a big falling out with my roommates i had been playing music with for the past four years, so it seemed like the logical next step. don’t get me wrong, he’s still my best friend, and at times i can see a semblance of the guy i knew six months ago, but mostly it’s just blank stares and rambling off of things that have absolutely no relevance to whatever the current topic of conversation happens to be.

drop zone. ground zero. two months until this guy gets shipped out here. two months until i can get out of this rat hole i’ve been living in for the past year. an artist from my old hometown, lance says he’s got it all planned out, and i believe him. he lives with us for a month, and then we all fuck off together and find a loft downtown, sounds simple enough. but how will i get to work? i have enough trouble as it is biking for an hour a day to and from silverlake, downtown is a whole other ball park. you can forget about a popped tire, now i’ll have to worry about getting shivved in broad daylight. shit that reminds me: my bike is broken - chain snapped off. that’s where lance comes in handy, he’s always got a spare bike i can use. so reliable. he’s been my roommate for the past year and a half, and other than the fact that he’s allergic to my dog i’d put lance up there with jesus christ and oprah herself. he’s honest, hard working, wouldn’t have a bad thing to say about anyone, let alone fuck someone over. my old managers found him on craigslist a couple days before moving to los angeles to play in a backup band for the shittiest pop singer to ever live, so we’ve been together ever since, and despite constantly feeling like im an asshole every time i feel the urge to tell lance who i’d like to shivv myself (wouldn’t you if you were talking to jesus or oprah?) -i like it just fine the way it is, except for the rat hole.