Wednesday, July 31, 2002

Call Me Crazy,

but as Brittany's Slave was being played and a man in a makeshift shower at Mickey's was throwing yellow rubber duckies to an audience who was screaming for him to remove the hat that was dangling from his exposed 11+ inch penis, it struck me that I wanted to go home. . .immediately.

Call me crazy again, but I didn't really want to go out tonight anyway. I had pictured myself lounging on my oversized corduroy couch sipping some earl gray and finally wrapping up Anna Karenina. Eventually, I would let out a single long sigh as she flung herself at the approaching train--maybe even shed a tear?

But as it were my last Tuesday night in Los Angeles, the last Mickey's Tuesday night in Los Angeles, I wanted to share it with John and David who, surprisingly enough, surpassed me on my drinking abilities tonight. John headed out with some guy named Tristan yet bailed out on him as he neared in on his apartment, and David tried to make a go at it with Cliff the male escort from Fourth of July (i.e., orgy-esque mansion party).

And so like any sentimental fool who was driving alone at 1am listening to the Smiths would do, I drove by his old apartment in Hollywood wondering what the hell he was doing at the moment. Of course he wasn't there, hadn't been there in months, but I had to go there one more time to flush it out of my system. "Why hasn't he called me to tell about his recovery, his fifty day mark? Why haven't I received the Thank you for bringing me to my senses call?", I thought to myself listening to, by then, Moonlight Sonata in C Sharp Minor on repeat. Though he's not the type to think symbolically or act in cinematic ways, I can't help but wonder if he's doing me a favor--pulling an old yeller of some sorts--to somehow help me in detaching myself from this. It's easy, really, to think of it---his silence---in this way. It saves me from having to think of the alternatives.

And so now I'm back home with the tea brewing and Tolstoy waiting on the couch. Funny thing is, a year ago settling down meant settling for second best, and now when I'm reading for it and through with all the excitement hunting, I find myself settling down with just myself and a Russian novel.

I know that I was never promised a rose garden, but a lot of sour weeds is more than my weary heart can handle.

Tuesday, July 30, 2002

Smile! You're Drunk, Driving, and Running a Red Light!

So last weekend (Thursday night) I happened to black out (and I am convinced I was, without my permission, sedated with over a dozen ludes because I had only had my usual amount of alcohol), and so most of that night was one long black what-the-fuck?!

Luckily today I received a letter from the Traffic Violations Bureau that contained four black and white pictures of myself that shed a little bit of light on Thursday night's happenings.

Pic # 1 is of my car innocently waiting at a stop light on the corner of Vermont Ave. and 3rd Street in West Los Angeles at, as the bottom left hand corner of the pic indicated, 5:34 a.m.

Pic # 2 is of my car speeding through the intersection, and if you observe carefully, you can detect my arm flailing above my head in a Gwen Stefani-ish I'm Just a Little Girl type manner.

Pic # 3 is a close up of my license plate in all its glory.

Pic # 4 is a close up of myself in a sleeveless shirt looking like a belligerent Halle Berry on the cover of The Globe with the words Hit and Run Conviction blinking away below her chest.

So thank you Traffic Violations Bureau, for without you that Thursday night would've just had to be placed in the Oops, I hope I didn't pull my shirt over my head and do the Hawaiian fat belly dance on the bar again file.

And you better bet your pants that these pictures are gonna be polished, framed, and hanged in the kitchen of my new apartment-- I'm thinking somewhere to the right of the microwave?

Monday, July 29, 2002


I'd tell you that I loved you
if I knew you wouldn't round
the corner of some street
named after the number two
and belched as if you'd just
finished something with spice.

I'd tell you that I loved you
if you appreciated the way
my blue shoes match
the blue collar of my shirt...

if you noticed the way
I notice you do that thing
with your hand over your
brow that has
nothing could change my galaxy
written all over it.

I would tell you that I'd love you
if you roller-skated across
continents to see the foliage
change from green to yellow
to red in my backyard,
if you gave away all your socks
to a drunk outside some
laundromat, if you gave up
drinking and smoking
and shooting up
and breaking my
stupid, stupid heart...

I'd love you, I swear
I would, if you parted
that blue sea between
you and me
and couldn't care less
if it all came crashing down
on our heads. . .

I'd say I loved you
if drowning without me
meant lusting for dry land
for thousands of years.

I'd say it and risk
everything, the moaning
in the morning, the clutch
of the pillow, the sigh
over the sink, if you'd say
it didn't matter;

if you'd say you already knew

because sometimes it's not so much
as making the horse drink the water
but letting him know its there.

Saturday, July 27, 2002

Paper Bag Blues

Some time in between my watching my ex-bestfriend get baptized in a high school swimming pool and drinking rum and cokes in a desolate park, I realized that I was lonely.

And this was no My Bed is Cold loneliness; this was an I've Got No One in this Damn World kinda loneliness. The kind that can send you to bed whimpering. The kind that has you singing along to Georgia On My Mind while blankly staring out of a window...It was that kind of loneliness.

It's been a year since I could sleep in someone's arms and not give a damn if Paris were burning itself into a massive heap of ashes. It's been a year since I thought I belonged to someone, and now when I sleep, I often wish it could last me a lifetime.

Monday, July 22, 2002

The Week

After spending the day sanding the hardwood floor stairs in my apartment, I left Berkeley on Wednesday morning with splinters in my hands and thoughts of LA having changed in some dramatic way during the three days of my absence. And as I was thinking about writing a poem about what truckers heading southbound on the I-5 thought about as they made their way across the state with fresh produce, air filters, Natalie Portman look alike blow up dolls, or you name it, an old white-haired woman in a black Oldsmobile decides to slam on her brakes for God knows why (a loose bladder?) and sends me swerving into the dirt shoulder.

But the shit didn't stop there because three some hours later, as I was nearing into Pasadena, I was pulled over and handed a ticket for doing 98 on the 210. And if that weren't enough, as I was asked to hand over my driver's license, I accidentally pulled out my brother's ID which has paved my way through many a club for the past two years. So that was confiscated because, as the police officer informed me, it was against the law! Pshaahh!!

So there I was: 20 years old all over again, my first speeding ticket in the glove, and a splinter lodged into my palm right next to the sea urchin spine I never got around to removing.

And that was my week, minus all the casual sex I've been indulging in like a lush on the loose from the Betty Ford clinic.

As for today, imagine me in Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, the collar of my raincoat pulled up just enough to hide my earlobes, nearing in on Garrett's house. This time it had nothing to do with the romantic illusion that I would drive by and find him on the porch flagging me down with a handkerchief---the words You've finally come! bellowing from his mouth. Nope. This time I needed his address.

You have to admit, it does sound tragic: The one ex-lover locked away in some institution where they make ceramic ashtrays, the other sneaking about in the middle of the night for the address to which he will send his last letter--the goodbye letter--which, in actuality, is an invitation for his going-away party that ex-lover number 1 will probably never receive. It will either be (a) snatched by the step mother who has always hated ex-lover number 2, (b) snatched by biological father who has always hated ex-lover number 2, or (c) be sent to Madagascar on account of ex-lover number 2's messy handwriting.

So with all these Shakespearean forces working against me, what more to do than count the last fourteen days of my existence in Covina and hope that a miracle comes crashing into my lap with the ferocity of a stripper going for the gold at some joint in Fresno?


Saturday, July 13, 2002



A year ago this time I was sharing a cigarette with John on the balcony of his new apartment in LA when I, half amazed and half in disbelief, said: Wow. I have a boyfriend. To which John responded with an equally school girlish manner: And I have an apartment!!!

We drank rum that night and kept an eye out for any cute neighbors in the vicinity not knowing that in six weeks time we would have nothing.

And today, as I was loading my car with a couch for the new apartment, John was sharing some Boba with Andy who, tho not a boyfriend, is a potential Mr. Someone Important.


So on my drive up to Berkeley alone tomorrow I want no exaltations of what we have and not have and definitely no pesky ideas about life being cyclical among close friends. Instead, I see me, my car, the vacuum my mother's letting me borrow halfway out the passenger seat, and nothing but the road running away like an endless, dark hose.

Wednesday, July 10, 2002


If watching the waves make their pitiful way in and out underneath the Santa Monica pier over and over again doesn't cheer you up and send you in a blaze of existential bliss, overdrawing on your checking account to buy curtains that would look fabulous in your new apartment just might do the trick. So with a back-seat littered with shopping bags, I eyed my newly bought pack of cigarettes on the ride home and breathed into them: Mama's back.

Maybe I don't have to put my old self in a badly abused Puma box and store it in the closet some place after all. Maybe thinking of life as being segments, something linear, is a bad mistake. Phrases like turning the page and ending chapters haven't exactly sat with me well. Turning holistic, in this case, I think is the way to go.

So what if I haven't gotten over him yet and only listen to the Rolling Stones because they were his favorite band? And so what if I picture him now eyeing me in that certain way he did when I used words like impermanence and love? Some things weren't mean to be gotten over in a matter of months, or a move 300 miles away for that matter. It's not something that I can, after three bottles of merlot and a night of wild sex, clumsily run my fingers through my hair and forever liberate myself of. These things marinate; they solidify; and like moles, save for a pricey procedure, they're here to stay.

It's silly to think of it now---that getting an eccentric hair cut and introducing myself to people as Adam from Ohio would solve my problems, my heartache.

For some reason I feel like a southern belle from Louisiana who, after attempting to pass as the daughter of some French opera singer, has finally been found out. With nothing but a pile of magazine cutouts of the Eiffel tower and all my pitiful Je suis Cavas, I can't help but feel phony, ridiculous, and, most of all, naive.

But hey, the Sears Tower wasn't built in a day and despite my initial going about things the wrong way oopsie, I just might one day say I'm ok with all of this...and damn well mean it.

Until then, late night drives, cigarettes, and unfinished chapters will have to do.

Monday, July 08, 2002


I spent the day being catatonic and only now, two some hours before the sun is set to rise, my mind is racing with the fury of a thousand flies.
And the things that go through my head at times like these. I either think of extremely random things to do like read the dictionary (beginning with the letter Q for some bizarre reason) or I come up with plans for ten foot paintings.
But then again I haven't been all myself lately. I've just been thinking, thinking, thinking. Thinking about the move up north. Thinking about new beginnings. Thinking about him. Thinking about me, in a new place, with unfamiliarity around me but also with the sweet knowledge that I can do anything, become anyone--start over.

What I really think I should do is have a me day. The cell will be turned off and tucked in the glove compartment. I might as well buy some cigarettes because epiphanies without cigarettes aren't any epiphanies I want to have. So with maybe a few coronas in a backpack and a leather journal I haven't touched since my days in Greece, I'm gonna have it out with myself on some beach side cliff.

Call me Sophia Loren in hideous large sunglasses, but sometimes cinematic moments are necessary to get through life---and hopefully, in the end, have the wisdom to appreciate them

Saturday, July 06, 2002

Butt-plugs and Fireworks: When Patriotism Meets the Gays

While I was offered a semester's tuition by a fifty something year old man whose pool changed to every color of the rainbow in ten minute intervals this Fourth of July, in another part of the city my parent's restaurant was being burglarized. So when I was informed that morning of the damages I cursed myself for being too superficial, and not moral, to sleep with a fifty something year old man who, despite his ridiculously tacky crew cut and faded jeans, was feeling charitable.

Overall, this fourth of July wasn't catastrophic. I had imagined myself on the top of some dilapidated apartment building, drinking Night Train, and doing something unspeakably vulgar with American flags. Instead, I blurred the sexuality of a self-proclaimed straight boy in the back seat of my car to the audience of a self-proclaimed "escort" whom we met at a tea party at the abovementioned fifty something year old man's hillside house. On arriving to the place, I knew something less than sacred was stirring in the air: on our way to the back we were confronted with naked men shaking up gin and tonics, naked men carrying pizza boxes, and naked men playing Sink the Queen in the spa which had an all too predictable waterfall facade.

And tho I'm not one to be charged as being coy or timid or even virginal, the predictability of everything turned me off. He would ask me for my name, my age--give me a tour of his home. I would of course giggle and marvel at the size of his marble encased bathroom and feign wooziness instead of disgust as he neared in for the kiss.
This would go on for some while until either one of us became bored or preoccupied by the arrival of a new fresh, young face.

So having had enough of the Great Gatsbyness in my life, and with a bottle of vodka clutched underneath my arm, I made my getaway to a much safer place where, even tho I would sleep alone, I would always wake up knowing where I was.


Cigarettes: 2 cloves, 1 Marlboro red , 1 Camel light
Booze: 80% screwdrivers, 15% rum and coke, 5% beer
Food: 98% carbohydrates, 2% protein

Wednesday, July 03, 2002

Day 1:

No cigarettes today.

On the drive back from Mickey's last night, I took a long hard look at my Camel lights, breathed a I don't need you anymore on them, and threw them out the window, just like that.

So I quit smoking. I think. Or at least am attempting to.
But the thing that gets me is that I feel as if I'm giving in to those damn Infect Truth bastards. You know, the ones who set robotic babies loose in Time Square with statistics of dying parents bobbypinned to their backs.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but since when has the knowledge that cigarettes contain carcinogenic ingredients been NEW to anyone?? What's there to infect truth with??
I could see, maybe, if the government was polluting our water supplies with lead but cigarettes and cancer is kind of a duh equation.

But I quit because (a) the teeth were getting yellow, (b) I got wind of inflating tobacco taxation, and (c) I just damn felt like it...

and there you have it.

Tuesday, July 02, 2002

Mental Note:

I should be worrying about tan lines and drinking too much Retsina this summer in Greece rather than selling Honeysuckle candles to elderly women parading around the mall in jump suits.

On nights like these when I smoke too many cigarettes outside my bedroom window, which in my mind's eye has been converted into a marble veranda overlooking the remains of a pitiful volcano in Santorini, I come up with lists in an attempt to revitalize, reenergize, and resexualize my life:

(1) Must update wardrobe. For the past year I've given up hope that garments could actually deceive anyone into believing my body should belong on an ad for protein bars. I have resorted to what some in my inner circle of friends refer to as the "outfit": jeans, sandals, and variations of black button up shirts. Despite it giving me a rustic, free-spirited demeanor, it screams of laziness and lack of imagination.

(2) Must be more willing to engage in the attempts of less than attractive looking strangers to socialize. It's a bad habit, I admit to that much. But when one is approached in an obviously let's get to KNOW each other manner, one cannot help but notice crossed eyes and over bites.

(3) Since I've already gone through the spiritual route and was fervently mocked by friends when I resorted to Buddhist meditation type-esque pants and key phrases like "the moment is all we have", I must find myself some other form of inner guidance to equip me with the discipline and know how in order to live a gratifying life full of gusto and happiness. First I thought about hobbies, but I don't exactly see myself collecting stamps or developing a love for botany. Scientology is what came to mind next, but since I lack the fame and funds, I doubt that I am a desirable candidate for such an endeavor. A continual flow of sex, of course, popped in my head with the fury of neon lights, but these days anything of the sort seems as unlikely as an orgasm is to a clitorially circumcised Ethiopian woman.

(Second Mental Note: Ixnay on the inner guidance bullshit).

Going hiking tomorrow in the San Antonio Falls. I ALSO don't see myself swinging among vines or bathing beneath the falls, the gush of water beating against my bare chest, but in times of boredom there's either 25 cent beers at Oasis or initiating a queer man hunt to uncover the meaning of life underneath a weather beaten rock, and in this case I've decided to give novelty a go.