Friday, February 29, 2008

how do i good?

you know what xanax is not doing for me right now? making me any less anxious. xanax is not exercising the pharmaceutical nature from which it was created. it is not taking the worry away. it is not untangling my nerves. it is not easing my uncertainty. the xanax i have taken, plain and simple, is not working.

maybe ive got too much on my plate. maybe, again, i have stretched myself too thin. im stuck beneath a pile of things. record campaigns. dj gigs. bar duties. strange fancies that leave me suffering. words that are unwritten and even those written. maybe ive got burdens that cant even be lifted by chemicals. maybe these trials need to be faced with a clear head, in order to truly grasp the gravity of them. maybe im over reacting. maybe i just need a beer.


i should be writing every day. its an exercise. its supposed to help me write better. i don't think its working.

i just got off the phone with a friend who is going through a break up with his wife. she found another man. its been pretty hard on him.

that's putting it lightly.

whats really going on is he broke up with her, and then a few months later realized he really wanted her. in that interim she found another guy and she fell in love. they had been together for twelve years. they had been apart about six months. but that six months might as well have been forever.

he begged for her back. and she eventually came. but she never really left the other guy. she still felt feelings for him. she didn't let him go. and my friend knew it.

he would check her email to see if she had contacted him, the other guy. and for a while she had. but then he said, the communication stopped. she no longer sent any emails. she know longer received them. but he still felt that fear. the paranoia still gnawed at him. he still checked up on her every now and again. and he still couldn't sleep. he was always tossing and turning.

it was unhealthy. it was wrong. foul. but i bit my tongue. i know what it is to feel desperation for someone. i know how weak we can get. i didn't tell him he was slowly sinking. i didn't tell him he was would be in this constant mourning for some death that would never come. i just let him move on with it. i hoped for the best.

it didn't come.

he came home tonight (and might i add a heartbreaking detail: he had found this really rare DVD she wanted and bought it and gift wrapped it with some random cute toys or chocolates or some shit with a big bow and a card that said "ill always love my valentine" TWO WEEKS AFTER VALENTINES DAY because its more romantic when its a surprise) and saw on the computer an email composition from her to that other guy. i don't know what it said in detail, but this was the straw.

she didn't deny it. she admitted she was confused. i don't believe it was out of anything malicious, but it definitely was a form of sabotage. she wanted him to find it. she wanted the matter to be out there. he asked her to tell her what she really wanted to do. she couldn't tell him. she said she didn't know.

he made the decision for her. he packed a bag, booked a hotel, and left her there to figure out if what he had decided for her was what she wanted.

now he is at a hotel watching television very loud and hes drinking and thinking and in this circumstance that ain't a good combination. he has decided he needs to go home and he has a flight booked for tomorrow morning. Ive been on the phone with him off and on again since i started this post.

UPDATE: he has decided that he is not going home and is going to back to his house to face her for reasons beyond to either of us or any reason! christ, i started this post with a totally different tone and now its become Days of Our Lives!

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

no soup for me

i got rejected for my second guest list request this week. well, in both cases i was originally obliged, but at the last minute they said there just wasnt enough room and id have to be bumped. if i would have actually gone down to the shows im sure i'd have been able to get in. but i dont put that kind of effort into going out anymore. i find its mostly just an expensive waste of time. guess i didnt deserve to be on the list anyway. and if it seemed all that, i would have just payed to get in. so in a way, were even.

besides. i have work to do. and sets to put together. so im not totally losing my edge. im just busy. ill just keep telling myself that.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

mighty mouse

i went to the barber shop yesterday to get my afro chopped but my guy wasnt there. i usually go to the same guy, a jamaican fellow with big teeth and a deft skill with the clippers, but if he isnt there i have tried another guy, a fat bald dude that likes to talk a lot of shit while hes cutting you up. both dudes are good. neither of them are there. my hair is getting truly unreasonable. it needs to be tamed.

i would get it cut today if i had the time. but i dont, so it'll have to wait until tomorrow. oh well.

this is going to be a strange week. the cats away, shes in Cancun with a friend probably showing her tits for the internet. she left this morning and wont be back until sunday or so. this means many many things, most notably, super loud porno on the living room tv.

but thats not the only thing lends a curious pattern to this final week of february. i have thursday off at the bar, which means ill be able to watch LOST when it actually airs instead of at three in the morning. im pretty excited about that.

i took that day off because im djing on saturday night. i got a four hour set booked and it pays a nice chunk of change. its going to be a serious party. ill be killing some hard soul and classic house. it should be a regular gig, every other week. we'll see how that pans out.

tonight though, i have to go to class. im not excited about that. when i get home though ill have the place to myself. its gonna get messy.

Monday, February 25, 2008

stutter steps

ok lets try this again.

im supposed to be writing every day. i have in ways, ive been writing for school and what not, but i havent been posting here. ive been tempted to start a new blog so that i can [i dont want to update this one with a bunch of irrelevant musings written while half sleep and/or drunk]. i havent though. this could be because im lazy. so very lazy. so very very lazy.

in any case, this is the first post of my "writing every day" challenge. its not going over so well thus far.

last night after closing up the bar i went to another bar and had more drinks with some friends. one of them was celebrating a birthday so i was buying all the liquor. the place was pretty much empty except for us and a few others. i started with a makers makers manhattan and it went downhill from there.

he was explaining to me a situation he is in. one that i cant go too into detail about because this is a public forum and that was a private matter. hes having women troubles. arent we all?

at one point while we were outside smoking a cigarette a girl that had been in the bar joined us. id seen her inside and noticed her eyeing my direction but didnt make much of it. i forget her name but we shook hands outside and she made it clear that she was single and i smiled my smile. she was a cocktail waitress at a pool hall in my neighborhood. she was there with two of her friends. they were all fairly cute and i was fairly drunk so i laid on the charm because thats just whats natural.

after we finished our cigarette we all went inside and instead of joining the girls at their table i sat at a booth with my friend and engaged myself in conversation. it revolved around love and freedom and where our morals lie. i told him that being in love with two people was normal that i knew from experience and it was hard and complex but it was what it was and sometimes you just have to resign yourself to the nature of things. he clinked glasses to that and laughed.

when we went out for another cigarette another girl was out there. she was even cuter than the first one and was smoking menthol 100's. i struck up conversation with her and she told us we were loud and obnoxious and i smiled and said thats how we are baby and asked her name. she didnt work at the pool hall but she was a cocktail waitress and she had big beautiful saucer eyes and was drinking martinis.

the night was cold but the alcohol kept us warm and back inside the bar we toasted friends and women and cigarettes. the girls kept flirting with their eyes and we kept drinking and being loud and obnoxious. i switched from manhattans to a beer and a jameson neat. finally the clock struck four am and we were told we had to leave. we didnt have to go home but we couldnt stay there. i stumbled into the crisp morning air with my arm around my friend and a rolled smoke hanging from my lips. when i got home the bed was empty. there isnt much left to talk about after that.

oh yeah, my friend sent this to me. in the butt indeed my friend. in the butt indeed...

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

a brief release

its been a long day. i woke up still involved in a dream i was having where i was at a cabin on a river with two close friends of mine. in it we were happy but confused and one of them wore a life vest and the other stood next to a brown tiled counter where there was a big bowl of roasted almonds and he was dipping his hand in and grabbing singular nuts and then rolling them in his fingers. she was standing outside near a river bank and the current of it roared by in a loud and angry wash. she was saying something i couldnt hear or cant remember. i was inside, sitting on a stool, i think.

anyway, when i finally crawled out of sleep i wanted to write them. i wanted to make them a mix tape. i wanted to prove my love to them. but i didnt. i worked and surfed the internet and chatted with friends and worked some more. there was so much to do. i just never got around to sending them any devotion. oh well. cest la vie. ill reach out later i guess.

i had to hit the post office and the bank and the liquor store and the market. i needed to mail some promos and deposit some money and cop a bottle of jameson and grab a six pack of magic hat number 9. i got it all done too, and even updated my ipod. ive been on the tee cee oh bee train folks. taking care of business. as if you aint already know.

i got a chuckle out of this image. bill cosby is kind of creepy. for some reason that image reminds me of being molested at a discoteque in some magical land where girls dont fart. dont ask me what that means, its just what that image reminds me of. and dont ask me how im reminded of that, its too painful to speak about.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

he giveth

and today i worked even though it was supposed to be my day off. i was covering a shift for somebody. at some time we all gotta scratch each others back, and im planning a trip to san francisco. the night wasnt too bad, but i was a wreck when i got there. too much drinking the night before. too late to bed and too early up. fucking afternoon had shattered me. i could barely get dressed to make it out the door. but i did. and i made some bonus money and got drunk for free and copped some weed from my man and was spot on when i counted the drawer.

i stopped at a place on flatbush and 7th ave that me and some friends call 'the dirty kitchen.' its a diner slash bodega slash newspaper stand. it sits on top of a subway entrance, the Q train. they sell everything there. 40oz of Ol' English, all types of magazines (from vogue to king to vibe to O to the journal to black butt to golf digest to murderdog), lottery tickets, sunglasses, potato chips, whatever. we call it the dirty kitchen because, well, the diner kind of has a dirty kitchen. and ive got it on pretty good word that the cook is a crackhead. but the food is perfect at a certain time and in a certain state. come 4am and sloshing home with the munchies, the dirty kitchen is always there when you need it. and tonight on the way home i needed a beer. and guess who was there? the dirty kitchen, thats who. amen.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

how to be a CEO

I've barely gotten out of my pajamas the last few days. I haven’t had to go anywhere. Its been snowing. And I work from home. Why should I have?

I get anxious though. Idle hands are the devils playthings. Is that how that saying goes? Anyway, when I find myself doing nothing my nerves get the best of me. I get restless, paranoid. At the same time though, I'm pretty lazy. So you see the conflict I go through here.

I spent the first day drunk and stoned. I played a video game, read forums about LOST, chatted with friends, and watched The Wire. I figured I deserved a day to myself. I've been working a lot.

But by the second day the scum of sloth began to itch in my creases. I felt dirty and used up. So I did some work. I emailed some people. I made a few calls. I went grocery shopping. I even did some exercises. The whole time though, I stayed in my pajamas.

Today is the third day and I’ve fixed my faulty wireless connection, talked to a few labels, emailed a few reps. I've made notes and returned phone calls. I addressed some important issues with the companies I deal with. I made some decisions that may change the direction of things. But I never disrobed from my pajamas.


Also, I downloaded Amp Lives Radiohead remix album. It’s pretty good. I'm particularly fond of ‘Reckonerz’ featuring Chali2na, the ’15 Stepz’ cover, and ‘Fauszt.’ Most of them are good though. Check it out.


Monday, February 11, 2008

fettuccini bukkake

You know what I don’t get? Sploshing. What the fuck is up with that shit?

Well, technically, its not really shit. And we can all be thankful for that. But it is people covering them selves in food and, from what I understand, then having sex. And food, like shit, can be gooey and chunky and sometimes creamy and even worse, noodily. When you put this in a sexual circumstance… well, I don’t get it.

I'm not implying its wrong. I mean, you know, some of my best friends are sploshers.

I'm just saying: I don’t get it. I mean, I like food. Hells yeah. Set me up with something, most anything, involving cheese or bacon and I'm game. Where’s my fork? But, if I'm naked and thirsty and hoping to touch some skin, I don’t want to be looking at a fettuccini bukakke. That’s just me. I'm prudish that way.

Sure, I got my kinks. We all do. Some of ours are just less adventurous than others. And maybe sometimes more hygienic. Be that as it may, I got my own, and those are what concern me.

And who’s to say, maybe if I tried it, I’d like it? Haha. Nah. I wouldn’t.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

the pink palace

i wrote another story about my youth. since i barely ever post any more, ill post it here. it was hastily written, but whatever, beggers cant be choosers. its long [for a blog post], so be warned. i shoehorned in the ending, for no other reason than to say i "shoehorned" something.


We had a typical San Francisco apartment, a railroad flat on the top floor of a four-story walk up. It was mainly a long hallway with two large rooms as bookends and a kitchen attached to the back one. This was on Oak in between Fillmore and Webster and of all the apartments I lived in with my mom, this one we stayed at the longest. Oak Street was a thoroughfare that, just a few blocks from my house, bled onto an entrance for the Bay Bridge, so there was always traffic roaring down it. Because of this, Oak wasn’t the ideal place for kids to play, so we would go around the corner to Page street when our parents wanted us out of the house

Page street was quieter than Oak. Instead of stoplights it had stop signs and the cars came one at a time instead of in herds. It was also flat, instead of on a hill, and it was there we would start up games of touch football and hide and seek and, when it was all the rage, lay down cardboard and have breakdance contest. Except for me and my best friend Dion, most of the kids we knew lived on Page street, either in flats similar to ours or in the projects, which overwhelmed the block in between Webster and Buchannan. Our parents called them The Pink Palace, because of the ironic color the tenements were painted, but us kids simply called them the Projects. From the outside, there was nothing palatial about them.

Most of the kids we knew from the projects seemed to have other agendas, and it wasn’t often they play with us. This could have been a result of our own prejudices, when we did play with kids from the projects, we were visibly anxious. Project kids carried and air of violence with them, and it wasn’t uncommon for a fight to break out when they were around or for a ball or toy to come up missing when the day was coming to a close. When playing with project kids, we would brace ourselves for a loss in one way or another, but we still played with them. Just not in the projects.

These particular projects though, were rather kind in architecture. They weren’t the normal high-rise buildings with dark stairwells and broken elevators. They were a small maze of two story structures, with a large, open entrance, as if you were entering not low income housing, but an exclusive campus of private residencies, covered in graffiti and always buzzing with movement. It was never quiet or still there, at any given time of day there were men holding brown paper bags, leaning on the guardrails or girls huddled in groups barking loudly, playing with their hair. Someone was always running from one place to another, chasing something or escaping from something else. Kids of all ages paraded around 24 hours a day. It seemed they lived by a different set of laws than us.

When I met Harold I would have never guessed he lived in the projects if Dion hadn’t told me, and even then, it seemed hard to believe. Harold was our age, nine or possibly ten, and had a soft, kind demeanor about him. There was no edge of danger to his movements, no hint of threat in his tone, He had a gentle set of eyes and the corners of his mouth were perpetually on the brink of a smile. He had good hands when we played football and when he knocked me down and I scraped my elbow he helped me up and, with genuine concern, asked if I was alright. He had a younger brother that he helped his parents take care of, and when we all started making fun of each other, even delving into the forbidden territory of parental insults, he didn’t get angry or ashamed, he just rolled with the slander, laughing along with the rest of us. Harold was a nice guy. He didn’t, as most kids from the projects did, approach us as if he had a chip on his shoulder. So when he invited me and Dion to his house to ask his mother if he could stay out a little later than usual, we had no problem tagging along.

I didn’t go into the projects much. There was a sense of encroachment involved every time I did. If you did not live in the projects, there was little reason to be there. Everyone knew everyone else and unfamiliar faces were suspect, even the young ones. But walking through the large entrance that day, watching the residents eyes fall upon me as we made our way past the half dead shrubbery and overflowing trashcans, I felt comfortable and unafraid. We had been invited, we almost belonged. Harold led us to his apartment and when we got to his door instead of using a key to enter or a doorbell to alert his mom to our presence, he simply hollered through the window until someone came to let us in.

What I saw when the door opened completely bowled me over. Nothing could have prepared me for it. The interior was large, there must have been three good sized bedrooms and a living room double the size of mine. The furniture not only looked in good shape, but it matched in pattern and aside from the L shaped couch in front of the large television, there was a huge chair off to the side that not only rocked, but reclined as well. On top of the TV was a VCR, and on top of that a cable box. In the kitchen, which extended out from the living room, was an open cupboard and in it were boxes of brand name food. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Skippy Peanut Butter. Actual Honey Nut Cheerios. I couldn’t believe it, I had been under the impression that people in the projects lived poor, spare, unruly lives. Harold lived like a prince, this was a palace

On the way home that evening I made a list of the pros and cons of living in the projects. Pro: The apartments were good size. Con: They were in the projects. Pro: The cheaper rent clearly allowed for you to enjoy the luxuries that middle class families afforded, like cable TV and brand name cereal. Con: You would have to live in the projects. Pro: if you lived in the projects you were part of the projects, like being part of some exclusive club where food stamps held no shame and all other members shared the same history. Con: if you lived in the projects, you lived in the projects. After mulling it over I settled it in my head: I wanted to live in the Page Street Projects, it was cheaper, in the same neighborhood, and ironically enough, somewhat safer than not living in them.

That night I proposed my plan to my mother. Unsurprisingly, she wasn’t too keen on the idea. I pleaded with her, trying to explain how, financially, we would be much better off. As it was we lived in a decent apartment, but our quality of life was below that of those in the projects. Our furniture was tattered and ratty, our food was generic and there was barely ever enough of it, our television was black and white and the reception it got was spotty at best. Our house was a mess and if we moved to the projects, I argued, we could live like royalty. My mother was, justifiably, appalled at my suggestion, and didn’t even put up much of a fight. She just let me plea my case and then, with a stern finality in her voice, assured me that never, ever, under any circumstances, would we be moving to the Pink Palace.

The next day I told Dion of my failed attempts at convincing my mother to move us into the projects. He sympathized with me but I think he found the idea as absurd as my mother had. Still curious though, I wondered how one went about moving there and later that day, asked Harold how he came to live in such majestic circumstances.

“My mother already lived there,” he explained, “I moved down here from my aunts house in Fresno.”

I didn’t ask him why he would move to the projects in the city from a house in the suburbs. Even though his project apartment seemed regal on the inside, I couldn’t imagine that it was better than living on a safe, quiet, tree lined street in the suburbs. Harold seemed a little shy though, and I was familiar with the shame of having to explain how one came to be where they were, so I let the subject go. But my curiosity was still burning later that day, and while playing video games in his living room, I asked Dion if he knew why Harold moved from Fresno.

“He had to leave,” Dion said.


“He cut off somebody’s arm.”

“What?” I gasped. There are some things that, when you hear them, don’t quite register right. Information that seems so unbelievable that you have to hear it twice just to make sure you heard the right thing, and even then, you don’t trust its true.

“Yeah,” he said, “somebody was messing with his brother so he got a knife and cut off his arm. That’s why he had to come down here.” He said all this without any urgency, which to me, was even more alarming. He pulled and pushed at the joystick he was holding, punching buttons the whole time, not even looking up from the screen.

“Did he kill him?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I think he just cut off his arm.”

I didn’t want to discuss it more after that. I had known a lot of kids to do a lot of criminal things, but nothing as brutal and violent as severing a limb. That was something that you saw in movies, our watched about on the news, or heard about in whispers on the schoolyard but never really believed. For some reason, maybe it was because Harold was unnaturally nice, or because I recognized immediately how protective of his brother he was, I knew Dion wasn’t lying or over exaggerating. Harold, after that, was painted with a different brush. We still played football every now and then, and he was still the same nice kid, but he had a secret I knew, something private I was afraid of. My desire to move into the projects waned almost immediately. My mother was right, it wasn’t a good idea.


Wednesday, February 06, 2008

tube tied

I took Sophie to get spayed this morning. She wasn’t in heat or anything, but she was getting kind of slutty. Always on her back writhing around. Purring and spreading her legs when you scratched her belly. She was showing all the signs, even if she was still delicate. Just an innocent kitty under a soft gray fur with black stripes like blurs running down the side. Mewing at the window staring out onto the neighbors backyard. Maybe she wasn’t a slut, but she was definitely flirty.

On the way to the vet this morning, at a godless hour covered in a huge puffy coat, I carried her close to my face and stuck my finger in the cage holes and told her everything would be ok. She shivered in a corner, ears jetting back and eyes wide, whiskers jagged in alarm. Every now and then she explored the bars where my finger wiggled but then would shrink away when a car roared by. When we got to the office and I set her down she fell back into her routine and started slithering on her spine, legs spread apart, aching for some love. I scratched her nose with my index. She purred and looked confused.

I had my hands shoved into in my pockets as I walked home. I wondered if Miles would notice she was gone. When I opened my apartment door I only opened it a crack because I knew he would make a run for it if I opened it all the way. He always does. Even still, he made it out. He ran down the stairs to the hallway door and clawed at the throw rug and sniffed at the radiator. I grabbed him by the skin on his neck and carried him upstairs, frustrated. Then I set him down on the couch and soothed his head for a minute, cooing in his ear.

Later in the afternoon, after he’d been fed and taken a nap, he leapt up onto my desk and pranced around. He batted at my keyboard and nudged my half filled glasses. Then he pawed at my shoulder as he rubbed against my chest. He was lonely. He noticed. I stroked him while he sat on my lap and I typed on my laptop and I told him she would be home soon.

Saturday, February 02, 2008


i drew a map of the neighborhood i grew up in. well, that isnt entirely true, if it were id have drawn a map of most all of San Francisco. what i drew was a map of the blocks between Haight and Fell and Webster and Scott in San Francisco, California. i did pretty much grow up there, though. between the ages of 2 and 15 i lived in three different houses within that small 5 block radius. but the transformative moments were quiet and dull, the slow moving processes of maturity. so i dont think the assignment was very successful.

i made notes of the landmarks in my childhood from that particular area in the city, drawing small icons to punctuate the places and their architecture and writing numbers next to each one. because i was trying to work out memories from this exercise, i created a key. it is this key that i will share with you. the map, unfortunately, will have to be substituted by your imagination.

1. This is where I lived on Oak in between Fillmore and Webster. I lived with my mother then. It was our longest stretch together. Some genuine years. It was the only time she worked while I was living with her. Her job was at a homeless shelter. She was a social worker of sorts. I think we were there 3 or 4 years. I’m pretty sure I lived there between the ages of 8 and 11. The years were formative. There was a lot of break dancing and Michael Jackson and rap music and small time criminal mischief. But eventually it broke down and I had to put myself in a group home.

2. These were the Page Street projects. I pretty much avoided them for whatever reason, but every time I did venture in it was remarkable to me just how much nicer the apartments were than mine. There were VCR’s, cable TV, food in the fridge and brand name too. I had this sick desire to move into the projects because it was, of all things, luxurious. It is also where I once bought a nickel bag of weed from a tall lanky kid in a tracksuit for my mother, and I shoved it in my pocket so deep that the bag broke and she had to pull my pockets all the way out to pick all the broken leaves from the lint.

3. (corner of Haight and Fillmore) This was the first apartment I ever remember living in. my mother was a little younger than I am now, if I'm doing my math correctly. I remember little things. Mostly trivial, pop culture shit. The theme song to Taxi. falling asleep in my mothers arms on a mattress on a floor while watching Saturday Night Live. Rick James. Rappers Delight. Crying at a movie theater during A Clockwork Orange. My first Christmas getting the game Hungry Hungry Hippos (I think I only played it once.) Being lost in the building and not panicking and staying at a neighbors house until my mother found me.

4. This is where the Walgreens was. I forget what year it was built, but it was a big deal when I discovered it. I think it was my first encounter with a corporate megamart type store. They had everything. From school supplies to coca cola to walkmans and digital watches. I stole my first piece of candy there. I got away with it once and did it again and got away with it a second time. I was afraid to push my luck though, and didn’t give it a third go round.

5. There was this little store here, they sold Merit Ultra Lights for ninety cents. I'm not sure if my mother talked to the guy at the store or what, but I used to go in there every few days and buy a pack of smokes for my mom when I was about 4 years old.

6. This is where my friend Lenny lived, long after I’d left and then returned to the neighborhood in my early twenties. I nursed a pretty mean party habit at this house. It was surrounded by drug dealers and bars and record stores.

7. This is my second home on Oak street, the one in between Pierce and Scott. This was between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. At this stage, I was pretty much taking care of myself. I hardly ever stayed there. She was always in some state. Eventually I showed up one day and there was an eviction notice on the door. I broke in and grabbed as much of my clothes as I could then hiked it to my best friends house, where I stayed until I was sent to Washington State to live with my aunt (and where the story begins).

8.This was the block I played on while I lived on Oak and Fillmore. It was very normal. I was just a regular porr kid in a slightly impoverished neighborhood. We had action figures and staged wars, we played hide and seek in the porch bushes, and football in the street.

9. This is where Moe lived. I don’t think that was his real name, but that’s what we called him. I remember hanging out on his porch and one day calling him a chauvinist pig (for one reason or another, I have no idea, I was nine years old), and him calling me a nerd and me sort of realizing I was one. What kind of nine year old calls their friends chauvinist pigs? The nerdy kind, that’s who.

10. This is where Tweekin records was. I spent a lot of time and money there.

11. This is where a bar called Auld Baron (thats not really the name of it, but I cant remember what it was called, but phonetically, that’s what it sounds like) was. One of the many circling Lenny’s place. I developed a severe taste for Guiness at this bar. For a while I believe I lived solely on the protein provided by a pint of Guiness rather than food. Of course, I didn’t eat much then.

12. This is where a place called The Alamo Hotel lie. I only remember this hotel because my mother specifically told me that if ANYBODY ever invited me into The Alamo Hotel I should just turn and run. It never happened, but if it were to, I would have.

13. This is the where the fence was I would climb over to break into my house on Oak and Scott. I think I would lose my key a lot. It worked out though, because I knew exactly how to get in when I needed to get my clothes after we were evicted.

thats it. ttyl. kit. omg. bff!


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:gray matters: by jkg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at