staying in

sometimes you don't find the time, but the time finds you instead. weather or not you need it or want it you get it and you deal. time is like that, its got its own agenda. it provides space for you to squeeze it in and it runs out when you need it most and its slows down when you just cant wait and it stands still when you least expect it. time doesnt care how much you need it, time doesnt care how much you think you have of it, time doesn't care much about you, or me, at all.

but that's neither here nor there.

this weekend i planned to take it easy. no casual get togethers, no drinks after work. no parties no performances no late night bites to eat. no chelsea no village no meat packing district. no hookers no pills and definitely no bar tabs. no nada. i planned on letting others have the fun this weekend. they deserve it.

besides, i had some shopping to do. and on saturday afternoon i did it. me and L-cheeks took the subway to Soho, marched right into the Apple store, and demanded i get a 12" Powerbook from which to watch gigantic pornographic files on. and i got it. and i dropped loot. and i watched the biggest, longest, most anally penetrating facial blasting animal fondling midget tossing hardcore amateur porno movie i possibly could when i got it home. and when i was done, completely exhausted and drained of most blood, poop and protein, i thought to myself -that was totally worth it.

immediately afterwards the phone rang. at an early evening on saturday it could be just about anybody so i answered it cautiously:

me: he-hello?

voice on other end: whats up you fucking faggot?

me: Dad?

but no, it wasnt my long lost pappy, it was instead my friend Charles, or "The Chza," for short. who knows why he greets me with such harsh homophobia. i think it might be because if he actually greets me with a genuinely pleasant tone in his voice it would imply he was happy to speak with me, and that would just be too gay. i mean, a man, happy to speak to another man, on the phone? c'mon, why dont you just put on some wrestling, tie an ascot around my neck, and shove your fist in my ass while your at it?

anyway, he wants me and L-sweetcakes to wander up to his house for a pre-party party. i decline, reminding myself of my no party plans, but hes got a whole spiel prepared for me: drinks will be made and cheese chunks will be available. lots of people are coming over and everyones in costume. music will be played and laughs will be had. all the chicks will think youre cute, and so will the guys and your girlfriend too. bring records. bring the new laptop. and dont forget to bring the mullet wig i left at your house last halloween.

it was the opportunity to show off the new laptop that sold me. i couldn't wait to rub my shiny new 80 gigabite megapornomonster in everyones faces. i could just see the look in their eyes as i pulled it from the laptop sleeve in my backpack. the awe that said -that remarkable slim contraption can hold how much porno? the lust that said -oh god it looks so sexy, and with the 512 mb of ram you can run 3 to 4 porno movies at once! the shock that said -i cant tell if its the sleek design or the hours of czechoslovakian gonzo clip compilations it can hold, but i just got the biggest fuckin boner ever.

oh yes, and it can run some pretty powerful music programs as well.

so we get to the Chza's and begin pounding drinks as if we got a train to catch. conversation gets slurred and i start acting slutty and the hours slip by and soon everyone is ready to head out. The Rub awaits.

me and L-giggles head back to the palace, somewhat disappointed that we arent going out but sticking to our plans of not letting the night into our wallets. sometimes you just have to stand your ground. there were plenty of other, less expensive things that could entertain us. if nothing else we could sit in silence with our thoughts. we don't need no stinking party to have fun. i mean shit, have i even mentioned that i just got a new laptop?

but sometimes the alcohol wins, and you have to follow your monster. so at 2.45 am, filled with spirits and no longer thinking for ourselves, we decide to head to to Rub, which isnt far from the royal court. so L-vira puts together a makeshift witch costume, i put my coat on my back, and we head out the door once again.

we get there and its a madhouse. all the girls are a sexy something or other. sexy student. sexy nun. sexy newsreporter. sexy hobo. whatever. its 3am and the line is still down the block and security isnt letting anyone in. i try to call a few people inside but to no avail [does that EVER work?] and eventually, happy with defeat, we go home.

as we are walking back up to the palace i reach for my keys and feel a lump of sickness begin to grow in my stomach. i clock L-stumbles outfit and note the lack of pockets. i pat myself down one more time for kicks. its 3.15 in the morning. its 40 degrees outside. we are pissed drunk. and we are locked out of the house. brilliant.

who has the time for being locked out of the house? who has the time to be spent in the cold? who has the time to wait for the sun to rise? shit, you can have all the time in the world and you wont have the time for that crap. but even if we couldnt find the time for it, the time for it had found us.

but it eventually worked itself out. and my laptop was still awesome when i got back into the castle, so the only waste of time really was posting about it on this blog. oh well. eat it tricks.

spare change

i get on the train and scan the car for empty seats. at first theres no invitations, not one sliver of space. but after stopping at union square a few passengers get off and i slide in between two slumped over shoulders, opening my book and releasing my bag all in one fluid motion. the train lunges heavily towards brooklyn. it feels good to be going home. its been a long week. at canal another exchange of bodies is made. i think of the cocktail waiting to be prepared at the palace and feel the ease of friday spread through me. the week is over. thank fucking god.

but there are five boys, the oldest no more than 14 years old, the youngest at around 8 or 9, and they want everybody's attention. figures, i sigh, its always my car. i swear im haunted by panhandlers. fucking hell. the car is packed, you can smell the weariness. the day is over for most, no one needs any more entertainment. no one looks up. undeterred, the oldest announces who they are. we do this for extra money he says, so we can get food in our stomach and clothes on our back. any donations will be appreciated, he says, and then he hits play on the radio. a boombox so huge it would bring LL Cool J to tears.

an old school jammy fills the train. something from the 80's on a Funk/R&B electro tip. ive never heard the song before but i like it. it sounds like something maybe Roger would make, or Zapp or someone along that vein. we start ascending over the manhattan bridge, i look back into my book, every now and then sneaking snatches of the city. Soho Chinatown Little Italy then Dumbo. the kids are getting a soul clap going, i notice that no ones paying attention.

they get into their routine, a typical, though well executed, mixture of breakdancing and just plain grooving. it get progressively acrobatic and choreographed as each kid takes his turn, and eventually they are bouncing off each other expertly, sliding beneath legs and crumbling to the floor then emerging in well rehearsed, yet casually performed pop locking. at one point the oldest takes the youngest and flips him above his head, where he uses the car roof as a floor before falling onto his back between the older guys legs, and then they simultaneously begin a bounce that just

breaks

it

down.

the crowd swells then burst into applause. the kids take a bow. and the two youngest, and be default cutest, begin to circulate the passengers with a backpack in their hand. the oldest kid, who was sporting a wife beater and had what can only be described as a beer belly, sees a girl he knows and and yells out her name. she recognizes him and waves back and he beams for a second then slouches back into coolness, his friends catch his smile and punch him in the arm teasingly. he looks back up to her and they smile again shyly.

i am floored by this kids confidence. had i ever been caught hustling on the train and a girl i knew witnessed it, i would have shattered under the weight of embarrassment. i would have cowered in shame, being seen so desperate. i was poor growing up, devastatingly poor, but i tried hard to hide it.

things are different here though. this city breathes wealth and opportunity. there is nothing you cant have if you just want it bad enough. and those kids were raised here, they are way ahead of me. they see that. they see a train with a million passengers and they think, how can i get everyone on that train to give me a dime? i know, i'll dance.

the youngest one makes his way to me and i give him a few quarters, satisfied with the entertainment. he walks away i notice that the backpack is stuffed to the top with dollar bills and heavy at the bottom with change. there had to be a few hundred in there, easy. and they had about five more cars to go.

empty calories

im trying to break this pattern of having no pattern at all. im trying to update more consistently instead of whenever i have nothing left to do. im trying to put effort into all this, as opposed to treating it as another insignificant task. im trying, i swear.

so i will be getting a laptop. hopefully this weekend. im sure it will be yet another purchase that will change the course of my life. im sure it will be that missing ingredient that unleashes the true flavor of my character. im sure i will write more, and better. i will get back into the mode of creating music and experimenting with the great depths of my creativity. im sure it is the exact tool ive needed to propel my life forward. and i, as well as anyone who happens to read this site, will be richer for the experience.

anyway,

we were watching CSI Miami the other night. begrudgingly of course, because we are rubbed so wrong by David Caruso's hammy acting, but still glued to the set because sometimes bad tv is preferable to whatever thoughts you may have in your head. the plot was so absurd that it was all worth it in the end. to briefly summarize it for you heres what Horatio and the gang figured out by the shows end:

the murder victim, a good looking pool boy at a swanky South Beach Hotel, went to one womens room and, after giving her the business, stole her wedding ring on the way out. he then went to another womans room and seduced her [she was middle aged and hard up, so it was fairly easy], but when it came down to offering up the length he couldnt "rise to the occasion." of course this is embarrassing, for her more than him, and he decides to go to the bathroom and pop some blue pills. obviously insecure about his flaccid member he tells her that he couldnt get it up because of her. that was ill advised of course, and she proceeds to beat him down with a shower rod, leaving him lying there bleeding to death.

but he didnt die. he got up and, for some reason, went to another womans room [i guess the pool boys dont have a little pool boy office where they can swap pool boy stories and circle jerk] to put some ice on his head. while hes sitting there on the couch she walks in. he gets up and apologizes but the women, noticing his saluting member [the viagra was still in full effect from his brief adventure with the woman before] gets a little excited and decides that, despite the blood streaming from his bludgeoned head, what he really needs is a little bit of poon. in the act of taken her from behind, pool boy bashes the other side of his head on the beds metal headboard then passes out. the woman, thinking that he was just worn out from the hours of sex they just had and that the blood pouring from his dome was from whatever accident he had earlier, leaves him there and goes to the lobby for the complimentary coffee and croissants.

but pool boy wakes up, probably in a daze as by now im sure he has lost about 2 liters of blood, and finds his way out of the room. on the way down the stairwell [the pool boy, for some reason, had an aversion to elevators] he meets up with the first women who accuses him of stealing the wedding ring. of course he denies it, but the blood that must be fully caked on his face and hair by now doesnt stop the woman from reaching into his shirt pocket to grab the ring that she can CLEARLY see he has. after a small tussle pool boy falls over a railing and lands two stories down, on his head mind you, and the woman, satisfied with the matter, grabs her ring and leaves him for dead.

but is our pool boy dead? well, he sure looks it and when the hotel manager sees a body lying in the stairwell the first thing he thinks of is not the welfare of our dear, horny, bloody, pool boy, but the image of 5 star hotel he runs. so the manager drags the body of the pool boy outside and puts him in the trunk of his car. i dont know what he plans to do with the body, maybe the viagra was still in pool boys system and the hotel manager saw an opportunity he couldnt pass up, either way it doesnt matter because pool boy wakes up while in the trunk of the car! hotel manager, realizing something is amiss when he begins to hear cries of help and banging coming from the back of his car, pulls over and lets the pool boy out.

pool boy, the resilient little bugger, hops out of the trunk and, as if by habit, heads back to the hotel. i guess he figured he would try to score some more ass before his shift was over, i mean, he HAD been pretty lucky with the ladies that day if you think about it from an idiots point of view. but the loss of blood, which had to have reached 8 liters by now, was too much for him and he died, on the hotel lawn, alone. it was the most inane "mystery" i have ever witnessed. i can not wait until next weeks episode.

this update was brought to you in a rush.

reel to reel

there is a lot i want to tell you about this weekend. well, scratch that. there is a lot that i could tell you about this weekend. but i dont have the time to write it, and im sure you dont have the time to read it either. so even if i wanted to, i couldnt tell you much of anything.

i couldnt really explain the look in my eye when i found a record, one i had purchased over the internet earlier this week, at the bottom of my stairs with the rest of the mail. and it wouldnt make any sense trying to justify why i had spent $50 on this record, or why when i brought it back upstairs and put it on my turntable, i played it two times in a row and after that smoked a spliff and played it three more times again. i can only say that it is by Moodyman and it is very rare, and hope that explanation holds some weight with you.

and i definitely couldnt expound upon my friends reaction to the investment, which was, -oh. yeah, i just bought a record for $1400. this old african funk jammy, original pressing. nor could i accurately reveal to you just why i was so impressed by this. what i can do though, is make clear that when he told me greg wilson was in town for a gig, a rare stateside appearance from the legendary uk jock, i made firm plans to catch him and floated the promoter an email, securing my name on the guest list.

still, i wouldnt possibly try to describe the scene that friday night, but i will offer L-swivels assessment of there being, "lots of music geeks." and if you had seen all the horn rimmed skinny doods in attendance, im sure you would have made the same valuation. the music was absolutely brilliant and inspiring, but it would take forever to for me to untangle the sensation i felt when i realized he was working deep disco re-edits with a turntable, a laptop, and a reel to fucking reel, so i wont even try.

i couldnt begin to transcribe the conversation we had on the subway into the city about the size of shaqs cock. shit, it would take days just to break down the penis size to body proportion argument. lets just say that women should probably be glad shaqs penis looks sort of small, and leave it at that.

and there is no way i could illustrate the look on my friends faces when [absentmindedly and probably a result of me currently reading a novel written largely in scottish dialect] i referred to the bartender, a laid back looking white guy with curly hair that poured drinks like they were his own, as a 'capital gadge,' nor will i paint a portrait of their frowns when i bluntly added, 'the cunt.'

i will say that ive been peeping this new cats boom bip blog. because that was short and easy, and didnt take much time to relay.

and i will say i got an email from someone that read this blog. and i will say that i dont get many of those, and that it was kind of cool, like making a friend. people who read this should email me. i like exchanging emails. but i wont get into why, that would just take too long.

house guest

L-bff has a few friends staying at the palace with us for a few days. two cute black chicks she grew up with.

one is kinda mellow and the other is also kinda mellow but at the same time kinda high maintenance and fussy [shes from LA and works for DKNY and likes to feel hip and stylish and has the looks to support it].

they both have big eyes and beautiful faces and have straightened their hair so its long and falls on their shoulders. they are also vegetarians and have been since childhood, which, for some reason, kind of annoys me.

they take too many showers, they use up all the toilet paper, but they dont get in my way when they're here, and have a generally polite demeanor. redardless, when i walked in from work tonight the smell of burnt hair from the hot iron made me nauseous.

they get involved with conversation, but ultimately, dont have much to say. still, they appear interested in what your saying, so it sort of evens things out.

in any case, they know their station, and when i needed to study for a midterm they made themselves scarce. that was pretty sweet. thanks a lot ladies, come back any time.

rainage

its been raining since saturday. ive been walking in it with my head down and my hands shoved in my pockets. the street lamps glare reflects off the puddles and the light gray sky reflects off the puddles and a car rushes by and crushes through the puddles and you can see the city shiver and your face in the puddles. they are everywhere in every gutter on every corner and getting deeper by the hour.

i like the rain. i like standing in it. i like hiding in it. i like the feeling of it washing through me, soaking me to to the core. when standing in the rain you feel inside of it, like the marrow in a bone. you feel involved with the sky, with the day and the night. its comforting and gross and cold and warm all at the same time, kind of like spooning with your mother.

i especially like getting under a blanket and curling up in my apartment and watching the rain beat against my window. i like listening to it tap and slide and sighing and smiling and waiting for it to end.

its not cool though when the skylight above your cubicle has a leak and the rain drips from above onto your keyboard and desk. when that happens im all, -fuck the rain, and i curse and grimace and stick my middle finger to the sky.

earthquake weather

when the earthquake of '89 hit the bay area i was on the couch at a friends house. we were watching tv, switching between bad r&b videos and the world series. my friend was laid up with a torn ligament in his knee so he couldnt really move. i, on the other hand, could only count my outfit as a handicap, and even then, Hammer pants had a lot of room to move in them, so in a way my fashion sense was an asset.

it started slowly. a low, steady rumble that rattled the pictures on his mantle piece. i had been through earthquakes before so paid it only a minor bit of attention. besides, i was watching videos, and was pretty focused on Lisa Lisa's ass [she was wondering if i'd take her home and fill her with love and i was totally prepared to oblige] so didnt really pay much attention to the sudden tremor.

but then it grew, not too unlike my adolescent penis while picturing all the naughty, late 80's sex tricks Lisa Lisa surely would perform on me once i got her back to my place. my friend, who was on the phone [with yet another girl i had a desperate crush on], started to look concerned. the shaking wasnt really hard yet but it was still growing stronger and had gone on longer than any other earthquake i had yet experienced in my short lifetime. slowly but surely, this was becoming the real deal.

after a few shaky seconds and a few fallen photographs i decided it was in my best interest to make for under the dining room table. so i took one last glance at Lisa Lisa's fat, round bootay then bolted for a safe spot. at the last minute i remembered my friend on the couch and realized with the cast and the torn ligament and the hypnotizing affect of Lisa Lisa's jiggling glutes on the tv screen, he had no way of getting out of harms way.

so i quickly jumped from under the table in full heroic mode [luckily enough my danicing jig outfit came complete with cape] only to see this kid, fueled by fear and instinct, hobbling to the doorway like he was barry bonds and it was homeplate. seeing that things were fairly sorted with him i got my punk ass back under the table and waited out the rest of the quake.

when it was over everyone in the neighborhood emerged from their homes cautiously. they walked out into the autumn evening and looked at one another. there was confusion and shock and the sheen of terror fading from their eyes. they stood on their lawns with a dumb and exhausted look on their faces. it fit perfectly in the suburban silence that hung pleasantly in the earthquakes aftermath. it was only a matter of time before we all asked each other the same, stupid question: did you feel that?

nobody i knew was hurt. hell, no one i knew even had any damage done to their house. save a few fallen pictures, the only tragedy i learned of was that the quarterback for our highschool football team was taking a dump when it hit, with all the shaking and rattling in that port-o-pottie he never had a chance. he drowned in the filth of 52 teenagers. RIP homie.

but this earthquake in Pakistan is ridiculous. their saying the death toll may reach 40,ooo. 40k! thats like, half the readers of this blog! its insane! my heart goes out to the pakistani's that arent lucky enough to have strong doorways, sturdy dining room tables, video music box or Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam. for real real, not for play play.

stumbling into the weekend

yeah so i fell off the wagon. went ahead and had a beer last night. shit, you try finding a bottle of wine at 10pm in Brooklyn. you cant. trust me. and its not like i didnt try either. i looked high and low but to no avail.

so i took a small step back. well, since it was malt liquor i guess that small step was a more of a tiny leap. but whatever, i was drunk by the end of the bottle, thats what really counts.

in any case, i plan on putting up a proper post soon. ive just been so consumed lately. see, its not you. its me. its work and its school. Its this city. Its this age. Its this guilt i'm poisoned with, it wont allow me to get easy and relaxed. its stolen my humor. its stolen my peace. its stolen my mornings and my days and nights too. its a thief is what it is. its a thief with good grip.

next week is looking good though, shall i pencil you in?

here are a few things to keep you busy until i post sometime this weekend. i realize that your life revolves around my every move so i apologize if ive left you hanging the past few days. i assure you, it wont happen again.

in the mean time:

hey ladies! cant find that special someone? well here is the site for you.

dont feel pretty enough? why not get some accessories to show off those eyes?

sick of your cd collecton? let someone else choose your music for you by style and mood.

hey, is that your uncle over there?

if i had a wishlist, which i dont and never will, every book on this site would be on it.

this woman needs to slow it down a bit. well actually, no shes doing fine.

if i would follow tony's advice and update on the daily, i wouldnt haveto post these silly linkfest.

alright thats enough. move it along. nothing to see here.

a new leaf

im switching to wine and spirits permanently. thats it. im done with beer.

no one will notice, of course, save those closest to me. if you are just one of the many people that i find myself circulating through, than you are probably are familiar, however vaguely, with my desperate lust for booze and such, but you wouldnt have placed me in the beer category. you would have just politely dismissed me as a playful alcoholic, unafraid of any cocktail, and with a penchant for adventure in his gullet. beer, while utilitarian, would ultimately seem tame.

but those on my team, on my squad, my soldiers, my platoon, they know the score. they catch me cracking tops on the daily. slamming pint glasses down. tapping kegs [then, of course, that ass] and shit. they see the bottle build up in my recycling bin. they pick me up six packs on the way to the palace. they will definitely notice the switch.

they'll applaud my decision. and i'll bow graciously. but we all know ill be broke and twisting a cap off eventually. for now though, im gonna bask in the subtle step in maturity ive accomplished. im gonna accept the role of a *wine guy*

first i need to get a blazer. then a couple of turtlnecks and a big pack of argyle socks. then i gotta shave and get a haircut. then find a nice, inexpensive, leather briefcase. maybe i'll try out some non prescription glasses. hey, if im gonna accept the role as a wine guy i gotta look the part. and this is how a wine guy looks, no?

i suppose im gonna have to get some nora jones albums. maybe i know a guy at the label that puts her out. what label is that anyway? i dont know. i guess im gonna have to start doing some research. and hey, maybe i should just fully start listening to jazz.

actually, im not to easy with that idea.

i mean, i like jazz and all, its cool. i can dig it. but it goes so deep. its just too much of a project. i gotta lot of weed smoking and being lazy time i have to fill, i dont think i have room in my schedule to get into jazz. maybe i can can just learn up on 10,000 Maniacs or Amy Grant. that should get me through conversation at the many wine and cheese parties im sure to attend. you know, since im now a badge wearing wine guy and all.

in any case, this is gonna be awesome. i cant wait to see how i look in a v-neck sweater! im going to go to the store buy an issue of Home and Garden, it'll go perfect with this riesling.

back when i was a dream looter

you know, growing up poor has its little perks. not that im recommending being poor, mind you. let me state: i do not think being poor is cool, or fresh or def or whatever it is the younguns chirp these days. no, thats not what im saying at all. let me reiterate: being poor is NOT COOL. but you know, growing up poor has its little perks. im just sayin.

for instance: growing up poor made me pretty crafty in a sparsely stocked kitchen. seriously. i can do wonders with eggs and cheese, and dont even get me started with the rice and pepper. shit, i can make kool-aid out of sugar and water, and can make pasta and almost anything else you got taste like wolfgang puck pooted in your mouth. oh wait, thats not very tasty is it? uh... in any case, i can fix a feast on a dime, fo sho. just ask somebody.

and it also made me find cheap, usually non violent and mostly legal, mischief to get into. shit, you cant afford to go to disneyland when youre growing up poor. you gotta do something.

so of course, when me and my equally as poor friends would get together, we would create entire worlds dedicated to our imaginations. we would manifest small armies of monsters and heroes and they would run and chase with us throughout the city. hiding in trees ready to leap or swinging from a street lamp, protecting our blindside. we were ninjas or smugglers or lone gunmen [with friends, which technically makes us not lone gunmen, but you gotta work with me here. we were kids. poor kids even!]. we were elves and knights and gangsters. we were never wizards though. never. EVER wizards. ok, maybe once, anyway, we would march through the city, searching for adventure. it was fun and you know, it was just cheaper that way.

one of the things we would do, when we had gotten sick of the pastel colors of our innocent imaginations that is, was go to this classy Hyatt hotel downtown and steal coins from its wishing fountain. it was amazing to us, people would actually throw quarters into the fountain. quarters! thats a fucking video game or a bus ride home or a video game even! there would be loads of them, what looked like at least a hundred hours of video gaming worth. all sprawled on the bottom of that large, shallow fountain in the middle of the hotel lobby.

people walking in every corner of your eye. a bar and security and glass elevators facing in. the front desk and guest and wait staff everywhere.

one of us would roll up their sleeves and the grab the others ankles and we would walk through the water on our hands taking coins from the fountain. we didnt even notice if anyone saw us. as if we were the only ones there. lone gunmen indeed. eventually our pockets would be dripping wet with wishes and a security guard would chase us off.

from there it was usually to the nearest arcade, and with enough loot to get a tournament going. i never even tripped on the wishes i stole. i hope those people arent sore about it.

sunday flush

ive woken up in some strange places, man. places i didnt remember falling asleep in sometimes. i always flinch from the sensation. that sudden realization that i'm awake and have no idea where i am. its disorienting.

one time i woke up in a car at a gas station at 6am to rapid tapping on my window. the face staring in at me was old and frightened and white. i cant remember if it was a man or a woman, but i do remember that i was in the middle of missouri, and that i was in a car with the promoters of this party i had played at the night before, and that we had run out of gas on the way to kansas city and coasted off of the highway into a closed gas station. there was a graveyard across from it and it seemed we were in the middle of no where. i was sure that i was the only black person for miles.

one time i woke up in a cramped hotel room that was filthy with clothes and bottles and ashtrays and magazines. i realized that it was a residential hotel room, that i was in somebodys home. i noticed my pants were undone and i checked my pockets and found my wallet with money still in it. i had nodded out on something, maybe GHB, i felt heavy and sick. the door opened and a girl came in and said i had to go because she needed the room. she had fussy red hair and pale skin and too much eyeliner on. i got up and went silently.

one time i woke up in a bed in a penthouse. i still had a glass of wine in my hand but, strangely enough, i was naked and under the covers. i have no idea how that happened, still trying to piece that one together. anyway, L-birdsong was nudging me awake in a rush of paranoia. it was 3 in the afternoon, we had to leave. NOW. she asked if we should clean up the place and i said no, that they had cleaning people for that. i grabbed my records and on the way out heard a vicious argument in the living room but didnt stay to investigate, we just grabbed our shit and left.

there are others i guess, but none of this means anything anyway, so why go on about it?

i didnt wake up anyplace strange this morning though. nope. i woke up in my bed with a pillow in my arms and a pillow under my head. with my first waking breath i could feel the sun and the wind and the ease of sunday stream into me. L-pilates came home and jumped on the bed and kissed my neck and the fresh nocturne of fall swelled all around us. there was nothing disorienting about this morning. it spread itself out evenly. weekend leisure is the bomb.