stupid and selfish

am i alone in wanting to give ralph nader a (friendly?) kick in the balls?

self-help

permanent midnight
jesus' son
basketball diaries
high art
trainspotting
gia
christiane f
candy
gridlock'd
igby goes down
sid and nancy
requiem for a dream
--
dear diary - lesley arfin
how to stop time - ann marlow
go now - richard hell
white rabbit - martha morrison
junky - w.s. burroughs
naked lunch - w.s. burroughs
please kill me - leggs mcneil



DONE AND DONE.

now it's time to find a job!

halfway house friend

alec: did i tel you about bad african

me: no

alec: ive been playing african high life music with a drummer, its like paul simons version of african guitar music exept we dont know what were oding and we sing in what sounds like african and its called bad african

alec: i swear to go someone was roasting a rock last night i walked down stairs and smelled pure crack smoke

me: i dont knwo what crack smells like

alec: smells good actualy

alec: like caramell kinda

me: ooh

alec: yea yeah

me: i love caramel!!!!!!!!!

maybe i'll be a crackhead

and blame it on my sweet tooth

alec: do it

alec: crack has such a bad stigma its just coke withought all the bull shit

me: crack is whack dude

that's the way it crumbles...cookie-wise

When I was much littler and severely carefree, there were only two things that scared me: fireworks and Shirley MacLaine. The former most likely caused by being born during air raid sirens and bomb shelters, and the latter because my mother seemed to be addicted to repeated viewings of that southern sobb story Steel Magnolias.

I don't know why but the mere sight of Shirley MacLaine's character would send me through intensely mad fits of tears and shrilling screams. To the point where I'd have nightmares of her successful kidnapping of me from my bed and subsequent feeding of my extremities to her dog.

Clearly, I've never cared for Shirley MacLaine nor her work in film ever since.

[Enter gameshow music indicating BIG TIME LOSER ALERT]

A few days ago I lazily rented The Apartment. First of all I adore any movie that's set and filmed in Manhattan, by default. And I really really really really TRULY hate to come off as an agist twenty-something, but I had no idea the lead female character, Fran, was played by Shirley MacLaine till the end, when the credits rolled. SHIT BALLS!!! I most certainly would never have picked this movie to watch had I known creepy kidnapper lady is in it. But she is in it and the movie is another superb Billy Wilder gem that I thoroughly enjoyed.



It's funny how you grow up with the same opinions you held as a kid - opinions based on a few stupid nightmares and frivolous judgements. My apologies, Shirley.

It's good to know I'm not the only one who would rather trust my child-mind than reality. One of my favorite episodes of This American Life dealves into a few more adorable accounts of kid logic being proven wrong well into adulthood. LISTEN!

turn my light on.

Every now and again I try to flip through the files of memory in my mind only to be abruptly reminded that so many chunks of consciousness were traded for the cozy blanket of time wasted. If you were to ask me what I did last Valentine's day I'd just shrug. Blank.

I'm back though, now.

i don't go where i'm supposed to go

My throat is raw and stings. It would probably be better to just continually smoke rather than go on weekend binges. (weekend warriors - HAH). Sick sucks. Whats up with that anyway? I polluted my body for a fucking year and not one peep from my immune system. Is this what they mean by "recovery?"

Misery as an occupation was fun but never lasts, like most things.

HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY!!!


Also - I can't find this movie on netflix and it's really pissing me off, which will most likely cause the smoking of cigarettes that will certainly exacerbate my throat situation. BAH HUMBUG!

love is/was junk

It has become more and more evident (by recent "life experiences" and personal closeted-beliefs in "superstitions") that the most imperative priority at this juncture in my life is to follow my heart.

I will be, and was, the first to come up with a list of rational justifications for why this is not only ridiculous new age bullshit, but also an outdated life path. I mean it's 2008. People dont write love letters anymore. Divorce is a sport. Love is a text message. Love is eHarmony profits. Love is dead.

It should also be noted that I'm really tired of our generation's complete lack of sincerity. Somehow (thank you internet) cynicism and quick-witted antagonism replaced anything remotely genuine. I'm fucking tired of this shit. Yes, I admit, I read Gawker. I saw Juno (twice). I guess you could say that the novelty is wearing off. Why must we mask our true intentions with calculated irony and adorably cryptic, expressionless broadcasts? Irony is (now) a complete cliche. Cliches are ironic. bla bla bla. I digress.

I suppose the moment of clarity came this weekend when I foolishly fell back into routine - numbingly going backwards in time: making the same lofty mistakes with the same person in the same town. I think my heart has a learning disability; I fall for bad people the same way I fell for junk (ie BIG MISTAKES). The future looks mighty bleak, I imagine, if that pattern continues.

Don't get me wrong, the first moment of true clarity came after slowly understanding that scraping straws alone and sleeping through weekends (then months) was no longer a viable option. It's gotta start somewhere.

in the sun and in the rain
and in the day and in the night

pain is a flower
pain is flowers

blooming all the time.


-Charles Bukowski