It's Nothing A Little Neosporin Won't Clear Up

2003-05-10T10:33:00.000-07:00

The Fucks - A Nonsensical Story to Get Me Back in the Blog Game

At the ripe old age of twenty I decided I wanted a child. The only problem was I didn't want children, so I bought three bags of sugar. The truth is I just wanted something of my own to name. One wasn't good enough, so I bought three and named them Fetus, Jesus and Blelvis. They all shared the same last name, but it would not be their mother's maiden name, no, and they were without father. Fuck. That would be their given last name.

When I was twenty years old I gave birth to three beautiful boys, Fetus Fuck, Jesus Fuck and Blelvis Fuck. Sick of men, sick of dating, sick of everyone really, I raised them away from the world until they were twenty. This took five minutes. Five minutes is twenty years in sugar time.

Fetus, Jesus, Blelvis and I decided to start a band. We called ourselves The Fucks, which meant that I had to take on their last name. Wesley Fuck didn't have a good enough ring to it, so I changed my first name to The-Best. At the age of twenty I changed my name to The-Best Fuck.

Before a minute more passed, I stopped sugar time with a magic spell involving salt. Salt is a preservative and otherwise irrelevant to this story.

Fetus Fuck and Jesus Fuck were white. Blelvis Fuck was brown. When they were twenty they demanded to know how this came about. I could not give them the answers they were looking for, instead I patted them on the top of their sugar bag heads and assured them that they were all equally as sweet to me.

The Fucks toured around the kitchen for seven minutes before breaking up. We sited artistic differences and moved on with happy memories and kind regards.

Fetus Fuck decided to get his brand pierced to enhance his chances of becoming a suicide girl. When Jesus Fuck put the needle through, Fetus Fuck began to bleed sugar blood all over the floor. Blelvis Fuck splashed his wounds with red food coloring. I filmed. The Fucks cashed in on their fame and became movie stars.

Fifteen minutes had passed. Blelvis Fuck and Fetus Fuck gave up their lives for the cookie cause. Jesus Fuck lost his mind and sold his body off as fake cocaine. As the sole survivor, and once nurturing mother, I felt it was my duty to share this story with the world. Drop curtains.

2003-04-07T11:47:00.000-07:00

Evil Women and Their Dialogue

(random guy's house)

Me: I'm looking for a little romance. What do you find romantic?

Guy with brain damage: Light a candle. That is romance.

(He lights a candle in the middle of the room and turns off the lights. Sabrina and I erupt in laughter.)

Me: I just fell in love with you. This is so romantic.

Sabrina: I love you, too. I want a commitment. I think it's this romantic atmosphere.

Me: I want a commitment like ultimate frisbee. Joining the ultimate frisbee team is the ultimate commitment.

Guy with brain damage: I had a nasty punk rock girlfriend in high school. She dated me because I had a mohawk.

Sabrina: Well, if she was nasty why were you with her?

Guy with brain damage: We only went out a couple times.

Me: So, she wasnt your girlfriend.

Sabrina: Youre a liar. I bet she doesnt even exist.

Me: I bet you didnt have a mohawk.

Sabrina: You didnt even go to high school, did you?

(A guy walks into the bar with a friend. He stops in front of me.)

Guy in bar: Hey, you look familiar.

Me: No, I dont.

Guy in bar: Yeah, where do I know you from?

Me: Youve never seen me in your entire life....keep walking.

Guy in bar: No, really, you look familiar.

Me: No, really, I dont. You dont know me, the bullshit line isnt going to work.

Guy in bar: Bu-

Me: Keep walking.

Guy in bar: Bu-

Me: Keep walking. Youve learned your lesson, now walk away in peace.

( a restaurant)

Me: I'm giving Rob a fake diamond ring to give you. I'll slip it in his pocket with a note that says "Commitment" in huge letters.

Sabrina: Hes in over his head.

Me: Yeah, he knows it, too. I'll draw pictures of your dream house and name all four of your children.

Sabrina: Yeah, then give him pamphlets on vasectomies.

Me: Hide a bag of sugar under his bed. A bag of sugar in baby clothes with a name tag like they do in health class. Then slip him a note that says to look under his bed. Make him carry it around.

Sabrina: Yeah, and the entire time Ill keep telling him I dont want a relationship. Im not ready for a commitment.

Me: While Im slipping him disturbing notes, "how to be a good dad" books and wedding magazines. He'll ask you whats wrong with me.

Sabrina: And I'll look really hurt and be like, "What about Joey, Jeremy, Joshie and Jakey? What about our dream house? What about the commitment?"

Me: That'll freak him out.

Sabrina: Yeah, he should never of asked me out.

Me: All of this and you guys havent even been out yet. We are "double trouble."

2003-04-03T11:48:00.000-08:00

Ghosts

Another two days pass, two days I could swear I didn't actually live. An open fire hydrant sprays water onto 32nd Avenue at five in the morning, a few stars clinging on to a cobalt sky, a dead landscape. I stare out of Doug's car hallucinating lights above and around me, waiting for that cobalt sky to fall making for a complete surreal moment.

I'm not sure how I got here, with Doug, a fellow Vivace hound, on this cold morning. We became friends suddenly, an afternoon not long ago when I saw a sadness hanging from his face. He confided in me of his harsh break-up with longtime girlfriend Hope. Depression is the common theme of the Broadway scene and I have become the wounded healer, the people's counselor and confidant.

I'm brought back to another night a few years back. I can see myself skateboarding down by Pike Place Market on Mark Massey's deck, the street lights lighting my way. I was always stealing their boards, maybe so they knew how it felt to be a few steps behind. We were on our way to the corner store to get some beer before heading to Nate's house in West Seattle. Natalie, Mark, Owen, Nate, Sean and Arlo, maybe a couple more forgotten members of "team phaded two" trailed behind me, skateboards in hand. A scene straight out of Kids.

Sixteen years old, I wondered then, too, how I'd ended up in that place. It marked a beginning, probably one of the first late nights I'd spent with the Seattle skateboarders. The night when Natalie and I beat up Owen, O-nutz, and Mark, the one with the floppy hair and squeaky voice, for trying to take it to a physical level. Sean shot me in the eye with a bread crumb, smelly Sean, the one we crushed on. Pizza at Nate's house and Mark's drunken whining, a free cab ride to Magnolia where Arlo lived. Arlo's huge apartment with the awesome porch swing and unreleased Sublime. After Owen tried to reach his hands down my pants when he thought I was passed out, and Arlo tried to take my shoes off so that he could graffiti my face, I slept with one eye open. I slept in Sean's arms for protection, waking up at nine to use the old lady's telephone next door to lie to my mother about where I'd been.

I remember the green neon sign of the youth hostel competing with the flashing red of the fire trucks consuming the empty street. Water rushed chaotic through the heart of downtown, a beautiful red fountain, rushing rivers as the world burned down. I stopped the board with my foot, kicking it into my hand, jaw dropped, suddenly moving in slow motion. We huddled together on the street corner engulfed in the stillness, the silence. In awe we watched the water clash with fire like little kids watching a fireworks display. A complete surreal moment.

Before I'd met up with Sabrina and Doug, my new sad support group, I walked Broadway in search of cigarettes. Passing Seattle's Best Coffee I caught a nun, complete with a white habit, out of the corner of my eye. Initially I smiled. Upon closer inspection I laughed out loud...she was smoking a cigarette, proving yet again that the world has gone straight to hell. Only in my world...

Seattle's Best Coffee replaced World Wraps last year, yet another childhood landmark lost to change. Natalie and I sat at the tables outside of World Wraps, lit up by blacklights one night waiting for something to happen. 1999. Rich "the flyer guy" pulled up in his girlfriend's red sports car and demanded we get in. That was the night I met Dusty Rhodes, the breakdancer who replaced the dj I'd just broken up with. Natalie, Dusty, Rich, Casey(flyer guy who later replaced Rich at Laughing Buddha tattoo), Rich's girlfriend Lindsey, her nameless friend and I piled into Lindsey's car. Being the smallest, I lay across four people in the backseat. We went to a party where we drank too much beer and convinced drunk people that Rich was Fred Durst. Dusty moved back to Albuquerque a few days later, Rich fell off the planet, Lindsey decided she was a lesbian and Casey got into drugs.

Past Seattle's Best and the nun, I think about what Dusty's going to send me from Jamaica. I'd just received an e-mail from him, the last of many I've received in the four years since that night.

Vodka and Sobe. Sabrina, having lost her job and man in a short twenty-fours, decided on vodka and gangsta rap as the perfect escape from her woes. Having bestfriend status, I offered the idea of citrus Sobe, the perfect companion to vodka when in ass-kicking mode. I can't count how many times I've used that combination, pouring bottle into bottle in the handicapped stall at the Seattle Center, to find myself in the worst kind of troubles.
I prefer beer for a reason.

"Smile scrapper," Nancy No Panties demanded, pointing my camera at Michito and I, his arm around my back as we shared his skateboard to avoid the dirty cement that ran in front of the Seattle Center skatepark. The sunlight hit my sensitive eyes, one slowly turning black. I put down the bag of ice Victor had fetched me from McDonald's to reveal my swollen nose, broken and bleeding from where my nose ring had been ripped upwards. Drunk, thanks to Sobe and vodka, I smiled broadly, thinking of the cigarette I put out on the girls face, embarrassed that it was all caught on tape by Slugs. The videotape was lost during the Mardi Gras riots that year. Only the photograph of Michito and I, firmly pressed in an album, remains as proof of my idiotic behavior.

Michito, three years later, sits on Sabrina's couch, as Sabrina and I sit hung-over and exhausted from the previous night of Sobe and vodka. They went to high school together in Kirkland, along with my ex, John, Mike Musser, and Dave Haggar. Mich and I talk about old team phaded friends, people who I've been running into nearly everyday lately. "I saw Owen yesterday," I said. "He's doing better than I've ever seen him." It seems so random that we'd all be sitting together, how my life seems to be circling back to the best and worst times I've ever had, reconnecting me with the boys who raised me under scorched nights, fire hydrants running rampid, as the sky fell down around us, how we managed to stand despite the odds against us.

Sabrina waits with me at the bus stop in front of Laughing Buddha Tattoo. I'm finally leaving The Hill to head back to my parents house. A car pulls up and stops directly in front of us. I grab Sabrina's arm and say, "Oh my god, that guy looks like Fred Durst." It hits me fast and hard when I remember where I am and where I've been. "Rich!"

2003-03-31T20:23:00.000-08:00

Shmooze And Booze

I had this boyfriend in high school who claimed my voice was like peppermint tea. This statement remains as one of the last and only compliments I've kept with me. I normally drop them one by one as I walk, I slip them into other people's pockets when their focus is elsewhere. Sometimes I even waste them on undeserving boys with quiet storms brewing in their eyes.

I listened to my own voice recorded today. Momentarily I heard what Cody Lewis heard in 10th grade, though it wasn't peppermint tea, it was chamomile and honey, choked down with cigarettes...soothing, but rough, soft but strong. This is the way I've grown. I doubt he'd recognize me today. Somedays I don't recognize myself anymore, the most delicate piece of broken edged glass, sharp as hell, but still vulnerable to destruction, tiny pieces chip-chipping away, making me all the more dangerous in a run-in.

My life has taken me to this place, a place that little girls fantasize about, a place that my minds eye created early on as a world of bliss and perfection, a sweet revenge on my former life. Here I am. All eyes on me.

I walk into the room soaked in the smell of sweet anticipation and halo perfume. Thoughts of the infamous Dr. Bob's tight embrace downstairs. Thoughts drift quickly to the indie rocker boys that stand in front of Lindsey and I. They're immediately taken aback by us, like we came just for them. She knows the one in the white shirt. The one in black makes my heart stop. "Veronika" I hear her say, re-introducing herself to Mr. White. I know then that I must lie, too. It's part of the game.

"My name's Lucie," I say to Mr. Black and accept his offered hand in an embrace.

"Lucy in the sky with diamonds," he says, making me truly feel for the real Lucys and Lucies out there.

"Lucie Loveday," I say correcting him, but really reaching for something deeper.

He laughs and tells me it's beautiful, he tells me I'm beautiful. I walk away, a thick jealousy aimed towards the character I've created. I retrieve a budweiser from my purse and crack it open. Lucie brings budweiser to upscale parties to stay away from the adjective "classy." I grabbed Lindsey's arm for our first round, Jeff, a friend of Lindsey's from school, trailed behind us.

The shmoozing and boozing begins. Robert, the host of the night's merriment would run quickly towards us for kiss kisses and whines of why I hadn't called him. Robert makes me cringe, his eyes touching my body against my will. He would then make a thousand introductions until my head was spinning and I no longer knew what my name was let alone anyone else's. Free drinks from the bar. The combination led everyone to believe, and rightly so I suppose, that I'm a very important person.

New drinks in hand, buds downed, we paraded across the dance floor, getting sized up by the enormous eccentric crowd. It took only moments in the midst of it to realize that I wasn't exactly cut out for this particular life, after a whole lifetime of build-up on the outside thinking otherwise. Now, I question what makes a person cut out for a particular something or other, because the level of acceptance blasted through the roof up into the clear post-midnight sky. It was the acceptance that I couldn't handle. The groping eyes, the smiles shining in at me from every angle, like one hipster guy and one slinkster cool girl reflected by twisted fun house mirrors beckoning me forth.

I look down at myself. The giant boots clinging to my legs first, black and fierce, fur like thick panther fur, an intimidating foundation, shooting me seven inches higher than my normal standing,unlaced at the top to reveal the brown leg warmers that crawl up my lower thigh over my knees, to reveal, at last, skin. Just enough skin to see the shape of my slightly muscular twigs, muscle gained from marching, muscle created through long journeys through hard steady rainfall. A sequined brown skirt falls and drops down, sparkling, reflecting the lights, just to cover my ass, as it's side slit inches it's way to my panty line. But no skin. This spot was strategically covered to hide my upper thigh with a portion of cut up black fishnet, tucked into my underwear, the skirt held up, too, with a big green button that reads "protect all roadless areas", a button given to me by this guy in the Graceland days, Graceland, my gateway drug to this bizarre scene. A black and metal studded belt aids in keeping the skirt up, as I had it halfed and tucked under it's self to go better with the boots. I continue my gaze upwards past my waistline to my light brown shirt, a perfect fit, tiny sleeves revealing shoulder, traveling down shoulders to hit brown and orange armwarmers at my elbow, the armwarmers covered in bracelets, some studded black, some colorful hitting forearm than wrist. My fingers protrude from the handless sleeves to push back the hair of my maroon wig which keeps finding its way to my eyes. I adjust the blue bandana and side-sweeped bangs...Then I smile with maroon lips at my creation...This is Lucie Loveday.

I scan the crowd to see eyes meeting my own. The few I recognized I moved toward, saying my hellos and how are yous. The unfamiliars left me nervous, shifting around me in dance, not knowing whether I'd be worshipped or sacrificed. I drifted through feeling high but wary, doing my own dance, the dance of the drugged deer.

"You are so beautiful," Robert whispered into my ear, his body too close, the walls in the room suddenly too close. I wish he wasn't a great photographer, I wish so badly that I didn't have to put up with it.

I smile and say my casual thanks, thinking of how old and meaningless the compliment had become. Less than an hour into the night I'd received enough "You're so beautifuls", "Youre so hots" and "Youre so smashings" that I could feed a whole village of self-deprecating girls with enough self-esteem and reassurance to last them an eternity. The power, the intensity of the crowded loft space, left me sobered no matter how many jack and cokes I downed.

"You're my favorite," said this guy, "Out of everyone, you're my favorite." I laughed and thanked him, not knowing what this meant, yet in another way, understanding completely. We were all being judged.

"You're famous," said another guy, after a stranger came to say goodnight to me, as the guy and I walked up the stairs after returning to his car. He pegged me for a graffiti writer supporter and asked me to help him transport paint in my purse. I agreed and there we were. I forget his name, but he offered me a place to live in San Francisco, said I seemed cool as shit. What a stupid phrase. He thought that I was "cool as shit" because I'd gotten in a mock fight with him earlier, mock on his side anyway. I yelled at him, genuinely upset, but I guess he was joking.

He apologized to our mutual friend Rob, saying, "I'm so sorry for disrespecting your sister." Rob replied with, "She's not my sister, dude." I'd been telling people he was my fraternal twin brother all night. We'd been fucking with people, talking about what a bitch mom was and stuff. I guess he was sick of playing along. Really, he was just a skater guy I'd gotten drunk with many a times in high school. But honestly, one of the people in my life I will never forget for as long as I live. Stranded at seventeen, in the middle of nowhere, ditched by his soon to be girlfriend and my best friend at the time, he let me sleep at his house, even woke up early to give me a ride home so I wouldn't get in trouble. Later he woke me up to the fact that Paul King, my first love, would never allow himself to be with me. Rob was a fun person to lie with. These parties were based on lies.

Jeff, Lindsey's classmate, spoke with these two dorky fellows, while I posed for Roach's camera. Roach is an old Graceland favorite who bummed me countless cigarettes in the wee hours of the morning when I couldn't make it to a store. I can never remember if his name's Roach or Bear because he's so massive. We joked about that until I got distracted by Jeff and his little entourage watching me. I heard him say, "Yeah, that's Wesley."

"Hey, come here," I said to them. "Did Jeff just call me Wesley?" They nodded yes and I explained what an idiot Jeff was, saying "My name's Lucie. Wesley's my twin brother." More lies. I guess the idea's to keep the people guessing, to leave an air of mystery around yourself, while being as outspoken as possible.

Early in the evening, I found myself on the dance floor, relatively sober, which almost never happens. The power I held with the people allowed me to move freely, knowing that I was something they just couldn't touch. The early nineties hit, "boys who like girls" knocked around the room with a monster force. I belted the lyrics, for the first time I can remember, unashamed, unafraid of being judged by the skaters I grew up with. The few that made their way to these gatherings saw me dancing and rushed over to join me.

Lindsey upstairs with Mr. White, I danced with Jeff, while the skater boys attempted to knock him out of the picture. It was the first time they'd ever fought for my attention. I ensured Jeff would win, but later abandoned him to say a quick hello to Ezekiel Jamis Frye, Drunkin' Runkin's old flame. Zeke and I tore it up go-go style to the neo-sixties music the dj selected, a perfect selection. We hopped into the middle of the floor to steal the show. He and O-Nuts, another member of our now ancient crew, told me how hot I'd become. Now even my old friends were turning on me, turned on by me, the boys who made me feel worthless all through my adolescence because I was in love with their friend Paul, and easily stepped on because of it, I suppose.

Jeff announced to Lindsey and I that he was gay, which came as a huge shock. I thought he liked me, Lindsey wanted him to want her. She sucked on his ear, repeating over and over again, "Does this turn you on?" I stood jealous, next to Mr. White, who was probably equally as jealous. We discussed style and fashion, trying our best to ignore the make-out session going on a couple feet away from us. Jeff and I had just been watching Lindsey as she kissed dirty Robert for another free drink, now Jeff kissed the remnants of Robert's essence off her lips. I'm sure Robert had sucked off Mr. White's already, though Jeff may have gotten a taste of that, too. Although appalled, I understood why she kissed Robert. He was angry with her, it was just business, a kiss she could right off when doing her taxes.

If we wanted to remain, we had to do our jobs-look hot, be nice, make the room adore us. In passing, I kissed Jeff, the fashion show producer, not Lindsey's gay schoolmate, who was joking about being gay, but when I kissed him it was sweet and European, like he'd been my best friend for years. Each time we passed we'd kiss, one glorious party-going model to another, I could never sink to the level below that, but I dont judge those who do.

"I just wanted to tell you look hot tonight. My friends and I have been checking you out. We like watching you dance," said some girl wearing next to nothing, pointing to a couch full of girls dressed the same. I imagined the possibilities, the potential for all out chaos, but not being bi-sexual in the least, thanked them and walked away. The women were after Lindsey and I. A girl dressed in a nurse's outfit felt Linds up, told her she had perky tits. Another told us we were sexy and asked us to help her undress in the bathroom, we ran when she wasn't looking. Charity, a local fashion designer I'd met before at another of Robert's parties, had her friend tell me about her crush. She wanted to be there when Robert finally took pictures of me. She watched me throughout the night with sex eyes and a smirk.

"That guy thinks you're hot. He likes you not me," screamed Lindsey over the music. She nodded behind her to reveal Mr. White. At this point, I didn't know they'd made out upstairs. On my way to the bathroom I passed him and went for a kiss on the cheek. I was taken by surprise when he went for the lips, but I was happy, I thought he was beautiful, no Mr. Black, but beautiful nonetheless.

I returned to see Lindsey dancing with Mr. White. I danced with Jeff. Suddenly they started kissing and I backed off from Jeff in bitter rage. "Oh my god, I cant believe this shit. I cant believe shes fuckin' kissing him. She just told me he likes me. What a fuckin' whore."

Lindsey notices me upset and comes over. I yell at her, until I cant breathe. "No, the guy in the black shirt likes you." I'm still angry, but I feel stupid, especially since I kissed her guy. I don't like the idea of kissing the same guy as my friend. I don't share.

My anger worsens as I look around to see the way that these people look at me, the way they suck up to me. I'm infuriated by the attention and the inability to tell who likes me for me and who looks solely at Lucie Loveday. At this moment, I know what it feels like to be famous. My dream come true, being famous just for being alive. Instead of people coming up and saying, "I love your music," they say "I love your style," "I love the way you dance," "I envy the way you breath" shy and uncertain, while others watch in awe unable to say anything. I want to scream at them. I want to rip my wig off and put on pajamas, which I do immediately when I walk into my house. Knowing that I could have anyone in the room, makes me want no one at all. I miss Marcio, but I don't realize that until I get home and wonder where all the pain is really coming from. Marcio and I met at Graceland, the baby sister to these parties, and seeing familiar faces from Graceland, made his absent one that much more absent. He loved Lucie's maroon hair, but was just as happy when I took the wig off and put on his shorts for bed. I worry that I'll never find that again.

I dance with Zeke, my old friend from the wreaking havoc days, to escape their eyes. He says, "This is why Ive always liked you. You were always your own person. You were never like the other girls. We should go out sometime. You're so sexy."

I grow quiet and stop dancing. "When I look at you I still see Katie," I say.

He's fuming. Begins to walk off behind Lindsey and Jeff who are at it again. I call him back and say that we can still hang out, but the more he talks-"Well, if this isnt going to lead anywhere, why get your number?"- the more angry I become. I tell him we'll see and watch him go off to Rob, he says "Rob, you gotta pen, I need to get 'this girl's' number." That was breaking point for me, I saw how inebriated he was, he'd referred to me as "this girl." Rob shot me a sympathetic look when he saw how upset I was. I hugged Rob and Owen good-bye and told Jeff and Linds that we were leaving. Later, walking in the alley outside of the space, a loud crash of broken glass caused us to turn around. Zeke's forty bottle had missed my head by about two feet.

John Massey stood against the wall, watching over his homeboy who'd taken one too many valiums. I always had a crush on him, though even sharing a bed with him at Sadiq's sleep-overs once upon a time, I was never his cup of tea. He started hitting on this girl, I tried to be nice to her, tried to help him out. She rejected us both, which led only to the shaking of our heads and laugher. When I finally left that night I caught a look from John I'd never seen before, a look I'll probably never see again, it was the look of shock(that I was leaving) and urgency, a look I wear too often, in his eyes I saw unspoken words. I blew him a kiss, a thank you for the only compliment I'd take with me from that night.

Part Two

Time passes, lessons learned, and Lucie Loveday sits suicidal in the dark dirt-lined swamp that is the bathtub in the Graceland bathroom. The red light shines on her face, catching the gleam in her eyes, lighting her mascara drenched tears as they run like tiny rivers down her face. A red glow casted on the concrete walls and worn floor weathered with holes, dips and unavoidable imperfections. A large oval mirror rests in her shaky left hand, a mirror set in pieces of crushed bone and promise rings, held together by ancient whisperings and the regret of ex-loves, circling a beautiful face, a famous face, her perfect revenge on the men who once took her for granted. Lucie's right hand brings a cigarette from the floor, where her arm drags, to her lipstick smeared mouth and back again.

She looks into the mirror and sees a girl that the masses want to devour, a face they adore without reason or feeling, an expensive doll, a cheap human being. She thumbs through thoughts of smashing the glass and using the pieces to slash her face away to ugliness. Lucie quivers, stifled breath in a small room, it's air so thick with the past, humid by the heat of the moment, musty with the scent of sweat and blood rising steadily to the surface of her skin.

Loud knocks and screams bellow through the door locked, the temporary wall between her and the outside world. Music drowns out the noise, but nothing can be done to erase their incessant longing, the pressure that leaks through the cracks in the walls and ceiling making Lucie's spine tingle with hatred, her lips tremble with fear. Contracts slide under the door, simple white sheets of paper, asking for her measurements, the release of her image and identity, the permanent hold on her sick soul. She rips at her long hair, her legs wiggling about, pushing the outer rim of the tub, to make for one extreme restless movement. Her mouth parts to give way to groans and wails, then moments later lullabies my mother used to sing when I was a child broken apart by maniacal giggles.

Lucie thinks back to the day she was brought into existence. She was born in Pacific Beach, San Diego, as Lucien Verona, 1997. "Gotta love those big brown eyes," said this god-like surfer from the edge of the boardwalk I strode down. The attention, the smiles were a mere child's dream until that moment when they were first given life. The surfers of PB invoked her, the bonfire spirit, to rise near their ocean, to walk quietly inside me up and down that stretch of pavement. Lucien began her life with the best of intentions, a fourteen year old girl who longed to be someone people looked at. She was a super hero to me, a courageous little one who followed her heart to youth hostels in search of nineteen year old boys on cool lifeless mornings. Unlike me, she had a heart clean of scars and infected wounds.

She remembers the change. Lucie remembers the night when she skated down the dim-lit boardwalk, free, madly in love with this thing we call life. In the bathtub she squirms, eyes closed, re-living the rape of her innocence. She sees the skateboarder who stopped her, she sees the way he sees her, hears his voice as he talks bluntly about her cleavage, her big tits, pleading her to be in his skate video, depreciating her soul with his eyes. She felt so helpless, enraged by his ability to turn her beauty into meaningless sex, her body into an empty vessel. Lucien walked back to her hotel destroyed. She couldn't face my older brother, so she slept in the hallway outside of the room, cursing god for her body, cursing god for her big brown eyes. Lucien tripped and fell out of my imagination into the image the skateboarder forced on her, an insecure girl easily abused, the illusion of an empty vessel easily open to touch without feel.

Lucie screams, the shrill noise caught in the web and held, the different desires of the world woven around her in intricate invisible patterns. She turns the dirty faucet large as her small hand and smirks as cold rust-washed water cascades over her black panther feet.

She feels no remorse for the men she tore down like decaying walls, Lucie short for Lucifer. Revenge called and Lucien Verona, wearied, was trampled under the weight of bad feeling. Lucifer, the devil's mask of pretty flowers and faked smiles causing blue balls and bitter resentment wherever she walked. Unmerciful in her summoned storms, she preyed on the weak, praying for the strong to someday save me. Lucifer lit my world on fire and fell to ashes herself after avenging Verona.

Lucie envisions the fire on her legs being put out by the water she let climb up to her neck, her white lace dress swimming below the surface. She glances at the door breathing in and out with the force of bodies and voices calling to her. The fame seen in Lucien Verona's seemingly naïve premonitions, to be worshipped by the people that I could never gain approval from. To be someone that Paul King and his skater cronies would follow all the way down to hell, to be someone that left stars in the eyes of strangers by simply walking into a room. Lucie Loveday, the girl every man wanted and every woman wanted to be like.

She takes her attention back to the mirror. She gazes into it, searching her empty eyes for a sign of my existence inside her. Lucie sees what they see, a perfect face with glass doll eyes shining lifeless. Lucie sees that I no longer need her. She strokes the wicked exterior, bone and promises they now want to fulfill, before breaking the glass against the concrete wall above her head. Glass falls slowly around her, as my need for acceptance sinks into the murky water to die.

Lucie's maroon hair falls into her face as she searches the water below her for the perfect dagger. A large piece of jagged glass surfaces, reflecting red in the bathroom light. She folds her hands around it tightly and smiles, sitting up straight with confidence and conviction. She dries her hands on her wig and lights a cigarette. She breathes in deeply and steps out of the tub to retrieve the lingerie show contract. Laughing, Lucie reads over it, remembering what Robert the photographer said about the show, "Everyone will fall in love with you up there."

She sets her cigarette on the sink and picks up the piece of glass. Slowly, she drags it across her stomach, collecting blood on the makeshift pen. Lucie Loveday signs the contract like an autograph made out to her biggest fan. In exaggerated lettering she writes her name in blood and kisses the sheet, perfect lips imprinted, before dropping it into a puddle on the ground.

Climbing back into the tub with her smoke and broken mirror, she feels a slight form of relief, but the music in her head has faded and the noise of the crowd intensified. She can feel them groping, pushing, pulling, the smell of her fresh blood too much for them to take. Her cigarette finished, Lucie removes her armwarmers to expose her small wrists. She runs the blade, a smooth incision through her skin, slicing through the blue highways making their way down her arm. An empty vessel, she feels no pain, as the white of her dress turns a vivid red, as her doll eyes shut one last time, as her adoring fans disperse outside in search of a new idol. Lucie Loveday fades into nonexistence, as I, the shard of broken glass, slink down the street stained with the blood of the life and death I saved myself from. Into an alleyway I go, seeing a new world manifesting in the darkness, the Lucien Verona prophecy, a world that appreciates the sound of sweet chamomile and cigarettes echoing from an emotional razor blade, a world who judges beauty by the words not the lips.

2003-03-29T13:36:00.000-08:00

We

A bottle of vino, open, letting spirits rise, proving that we can have anything we go about attaining.

My friend and I settled our differences on a walk that went for miles until the walk morphed into a subtle limp to a full-on drag. We decided on a ferry ride to Bainbridge Island and what's a ferry ride without a bottle of red wine? So, we inquired about a corner store. At the corner store we found an unsuspecting man who liked her. He'd receive her phone number and buy us the wine, the good old fashioned barter system. No corkscrew. Another man who liked her, he'd find his friend and hold the friend's bike hostage until the friend broke into a kitchen to find a corkscrew. No corkscrew in the kitchen. They'd walk us to a Thai restaurant. Someone there would open the bottle for him. That easy, two minors with broken feet, mending feelings and an open bottle of wine for our ferry ride.

We struggled in the bathrooom stall, two grande coffee cups ready to be filled with red goodness. We spoke loudly to dead ears about her bra, how this was always happening, how people probably thought we were making out. Everything is a game to us, we put on grand performances to empty auditoriums in attempt to cover our tracks. We take no chances. Broken cork, yet the wine flowed freely.

Walked to the smoking deck, a beautiful night, cloudy sky, bright lights on the horizon. We reminisced about the boys that took us here, about last time we sat smoking, drinking vino on this same deck, how this was somehow better, how it was always better in the dark. Serenity filled the air. This was about making peace, laying our demons to rest.

Bainbridge Island. Picked large daffodils and carried them as companions. We brought our concealed beverages to the first restaurant we saw, a pizza place. She made sex eyes with the young island boy, we laughed, got our pizza and walked to the dock where it all began.

My friend and I found an abandoned porch to dine upon. We talked at length, wading through misunderstandings, knee deep in previous assumptions. At this moment I'm so glad she found me before I slipped away. I have a new appreciation for her and what we'd been through. Time ceases to exist, I'm thankful I couldn't find my watch before I left the house; who needs a watch when we control the hours. Freedom in the feeling of being light and young again. Wine gone, pizza finished.

We walked past the bike shelter, grateful for the lack of precipitation and the night, enabling us to see this adventure as new, a new perspective on the shelter we shared wine under a month before in the midst of an afternoon storm. I show her where he and I had our first kiss, explaining my erection premonitions, burying him under my mind's mudslides. Trading a perfect day for a perfect night.

She took me on her and her love's path, the path that lead her to love, the love that paved the way to today. Quiet through the trees near the water on a wooden walkway. We dipped under a dock, where they had sat and shared their first meaningful silence. Then we slide down rocks toward the beach. I closed my eyes as she spoke. I imagined sliding too fast, falling into the dark unknown below, the intensity of the first kiss, falling in love. This kiss, the rain pouring down, a moment she will keep with her into forever.

I told her about my sacred kiss, the one I try to inhale again each time I breathe in deeply, the moment I paint into the air each time I sigh audibly. Seven months and counting, when I ran back into his arms, acting on my soul's urgent needs, a kiss that cried for more seconds, a time when time controlled our lives, leaving me gone when I needed to stay. But in that moment, I stayed, in that moment, I will stay until moments die.

We walked slowly, aching leg, discussing the artform of never letting go of precious people. Healed, knowing that an infinite number of souls walk with us, breathe inside us, a subtle but strong brush of truth moving like a hand waving off self-destructive thought, dispersing rumors that everyone dies alone.

2003-03-29T12:07:00.000-08:00

My Morning Happiness

my horoscope today:

"Not everyone is convinced of your inherent preciousness."

Best thing ever.

2003-03-28T11:55:00.000-08:00

Heroin Chic

I drifted in and out of this place where I lived on a shag-carpeted basement floor last night. I lay on this floor like a heap of dirty laundry left for weeks. I dreamt about being a cokehead and a heroin junkie. Surrounded by bright colors and the feeling of having given it all up, it felt like suicide, sad, but the pain melted away into the shag down at my side. I laughed and said, "I never thought it would come to this," while visions of happy people darted past my eyes like bodied tracers.

First puff of smoke. First cigarette in four days. It tastes funny. I could have quit, but here I am, sick, cigarette in hand. Pathetic. Im pathetic, feeling not far from that dream. In fact, at two in the morning I awoke, believing that they were real memories, believing that I had indeed sunk into a shag-carpet live to die life. I watched "Sid and Nancy" the other night. Picture Mr. Vicious strung out on a floor with my face pasted over his...this is what I saw.

I feel like dancing. That's why I decided to smoke. When I start dancing, it's usually a sign that Im doing better. God, it's rough on the throat, smoking is. That was the longest I've gone since the hospital days. I could have quit. Maybe next time I get sick I'll quit. The taste, the smell. When you smoke as much as I do, it's clean as air. It's thick now, tastes like seventh grade hiding spots and watch box transportation. Graffiti painted walls and trains that take away little boys' legs. I put it out. Maybe I will quit. I don't really want to, too much pain, too many coffee days and bars in my future. I'm not prepared to let all of my vices go, when they're all I currently have.

I think it's safe to say I'm at rock now, though everytime I've said that the last couple months, I've managed to crash down another two or three levels I never knew existed. My life is dead. I'm excited to see that I'm still alive, it signifies that soon, I will get a new one. Who knows if it will be better, but at least it will be new. I've been waiting for this crash forever, silently praying for it. Im going to eat chocolate and use my throat spray and read books and fall asleep and dream about Christina Ricci and heroin. Maybe after I wake up, move to San Diego or Amsterdam and wear dresses all year round and flowers in my hair and skateboard and kiss beautiful people and write about little girls and their puppies and drink beer in excess while painting the red and black abstract graveyard I climbed out of. I'll laugh until I cry, the laughter of a woman, and I'll sing into a microphone to people who understand the secret language of the escape artist.

2003-03-12T17:05:00.000-08:00

Mysterious Cecilie

We now have a purpose to look through Greg's shit, a mission, something to find: Cecilie.

The phone rang this morning. I went out to see if someone left a message and I heard a static covered voice still talking. I assumed it was Greg's ex-fiance leaving me a message about coming to take out Sniffy, which it was, but to get to this message I had to sort through others.

Message number two, a woman sounding quite upset and somewhat frantic. I skipped past it, waiting for Lauren to arrive before further investigation. When she came over we listened to the following message:

"Hi Greg...It's me. Do NOT show up at the breakfast...ummmm...I'm going to be giving everybody your liscence plate number and a description of what you look like. If you show up with an entourage I'll make sure you're all removed. I'll be citing the fact that you're emotionally abusive and the fact that I feel threatened by you. (voice shaking) This isn't a joke anymore. It's going this way (jumbled words follow) I don't have a problem taking you to court."

Whoa. So, our assumptions were correct about Greg, he's a psychopath. Next question, who is this frightened woman and what did he do to her?

Message number three, the same voice, starting out with "It's Cecilie..." She's crying as she pleads him to take back a movie before he goes on his trip. Cecilie sounds terrified, which is somewhat amusing if you'd only heard this message and not the preceeding one.

Cecilie's Cards

Lauren and I found some cards sitting on the kitchen table, two from Cecilie.

The first one: 1/7/03 "Dear Greg, I appreciate your soul, spirit and your grouchy self. They are all part of someone I hold dear. Hope this New Year's brings more moments, Take care, Cecilie"

The second one: 3/2/03 (only nine days before the frantic message) "Dear Greg, I thought I should write you this blurb because I know the last few weeks have been tough. I want you to know that I'm here as long as you want me to be. I know you will find a job, find peace-it's just going to take time. Remember to breathe and be in the moment with yourself and with me. Jeg Elsker Cleg! Cecilie."

What happened in those nine days? To be continued...

2003-03-12T13:51:00.000-08:00

The Greg Experiment

I'm at Greg's house right now with his dog Baron Von Sniffy. Sniffy is a small black rodent-looking thing with a wiggly nose and a long snout. Sniffy is the only tail-less dog I've ever seen. He runs around in circles and barks quite a bit. His dad won best in show once-upon-a-time. It's safe to say that Sniffy has come to his insanity through trying to live up to the legacy his celebrity father left behind him.

I'm house-sitting. Ten days I have to explore the innerworkings of the man known simply as "Greg." He has asked me to dig through his belongings and come to some kind of conclusion about the kind of man he is and the kind of life he leads. I have asked several people to aid me in this exploration, Sabrina, Lindsey, Darryl(the dude who looks like a fraggle) and Lauren. I will document our findings in this blog.

What We Already Know About Greg

Not much.

I met him at my friend Todd's house a couple weeks ago. He is the only straight man in Todd's circle of friends. He's balding and looks a bit like Sniffy as far as the rodent thing goes. I guess the celebrity he most resembles is Chris Elliot, yeah, a skinnier Chris Elliot. When I first met Greg he bothered me. I don't remember why, but I found myself irritated to the point of mocking everything he said, fucking with him every chance I got. He later asked Todd why I hated him, and why it was that every girl fell in love with Todd and not him...how unfair this was since Todd is gay. This struck Todd and I as hilarious. It wasn't my love for Todd that stopped me from liking Greg...it was Greg.

First lesson learned: Greg is paranoid, delusional and exceptionally easy to fuck with.

My next Greg encounter happened, as I see it, on accident. During the blackout of my drinking binge, forementioned, Greg suddenly appeared on Sabrina's couch. Coming to, I thought how odd and ridiculous it was that he was with us. I slowly started remembering incidents that took place that night where he was present, but it's still a complete mystery to me how he came to join us. He started feeling sick on the couch and went home. That's all I remember. Sabrina told me the next day that Greg was "booty dancing" with her to gangsta rap. This disturbs me. I'm thankful I don't remember it.

Greg is a light-weight.

Yes, Greg can't handle his drink, which takes us to encounter number four, the last and final encounter.(encounter number three consists of me checking out his house, meeting his dog, standing in the snow and Greg saying "Ill have what shes having" at the coffeeshop we met Todd and friends at afterwards) Lauren and I were laying around my house trying to decide whether or not my fake id looked enough like me to get us alcohol when I gave in...I called Greg and invited him over to drink beer with us. I had my celebratory wig on(our original intentions were of going to a secret party, but we couldnt get a hold of our friend who had the entrance password) and it struck me as hilarious to see that Greg was also wearing a wig. Lauren joined in with a hairpiece and the three of us went to Safeway. So far so good...

We get back to my house and the drinking begins. Lauren and I catch up, as Greg thumbs through the pictures I keep throwing at him to keep him occupied and distracted. This goes on to about the beer and a half mark, when Greg still on his first beer, but drunk, gets up and starts dancing to Iggy Pop's "Never Met A Girl Like You Before." He flails himself around my apartment, inviting the skateboard to dance with him, beginning to roll himself around on the floor on it, smashing into walls. At first, Lauren and I are kind of laughing in a "what the hell is he doing?" kind of way, because it was too mind-blowing to be funny. Greg is quiet and insecure. He started dancing to show his wild side, but failed miserably. He kept going throughout the entire song, our faces trapped in the traditional watching a trainwreck grimace and finally collapsed on the floor. Lauren and I couldn't look him in the eye until we were sure it was done and over, then we pretended it didnt happen. One of the most painful few minutes I've ever had to endure.

Greg knows no boundaries.

He settled down and joined in our conversation. I learned from this conversation that he is thirty(though he looks forty) has been married once to a verbally and sexually abusive woman and engaged to another woman who apparently dumped him and broke his heart. This second woman is Baron Von Sniffy's mother and will be coming over here to walk him at some point during my stay. These are the only two women Greg has ever been involved with. He admitted to fooling around with men in college. He went into some detail about this, but I'd rather not talk about it.

Beer number two: Greg has low self-esteem and is sickly needy of reassurance.

"I'm so ugly," Greg whined over and over and over again. I hate having to reassure people, but I did it anyway, letting my annoyance slip though between the words, "No you're not." He asked me what my type was, what I looked for in a man. Lauren answered for me, talking up my love for "personality", which perhaps got his hopes up or something. I should have opened up my mouth and said, "Beauty and perfection, or a nice body and money" something so he'd know he wasn't my cup of tea. But alas, I did not which lead to comments from Greg such as "I think you're sexy", "My ex-girlfriend reminds of you" and the straw that broke the universal camel's back "Where are YOU sleeping?" Ughhhh...

Greg has a crush on me and through his delusional eyes doesn't understand that there's no chance in hell. He was so far gone that he thought he was spending the night with me. Bahhhhh...We told him we were going to bed and it took him forever to leave. He did not know when to leave, as if he has no social graces, zero common sense. It freaked us out. Almost as much as when he revealed that the reason he asked me, a near stranger, to house-sit was because he assumed Id look through his shit. I would ordinarily never ever even think of invading someone's privacy, but since he asked me to I said I would. "No one's ever cared enough to look through my stuff before," he said with a sigh that made our stomachs turn in unison.

So, both in conclusion, and for starters, we know that Greg is the most miserable creature on the earth.

2003-03-09T19:05:00.000-08:00

Things I've Discovered Since My Last Blog Entry

-Im deathly afraid of people being deathly afraid. This encompasses being scared of anything from commitment to bumps in the night and everything inbetween.

-It is possible to adjust to two hours of sleep a night. It is much harder to function after a full night of peaceful dreaming after almost a month of restlessness and insomnia.

-Vanessa Williams(or is it Naomi Campbell?) suffered from horrible acne.

-I was much more emotionally involved with the last guy I was dating then I ever admitted to myself.

-The world is a much more beautiful place when wearing headphones.

-When you refer to the guy your friend's dating as "the guy who looks like a fraggle" karma will ensure that the next guy you attempt to befriend will tell you you look like a fraggle.

-My "someone's looking at me through the window" paranoia living on the ground level of my apartment building was justified when we discovered a bed and a bag of personal belongings directly outside of my window.

-The things I do and say during a blackout are supposedly a hundred times more hilarious and interesting than what I do and say sober or just slightly drunk. After hearing stories, I am in utter shock that I'm not sitting in jail right now. Thank you Jesus.

-I can control my friend Hutch's sleep patterns by simply telling him what time he will fall asleep every night. He is now afraid of me, even though I think it is his subconcious's problem and has nothing to do with me.

-It's not just me, there are dozens of people I know randomly waking up at five in the morning, staring at the wall, watching tv or reading until the sun comes up, and then falling back to sleep confused and pissed off.

-I'm past my prime, leading me to believe I never had one. A "haggard" twenty I was called....whatever, I just need to get my groove back.

2003-02-24T10:44:00.000-08:00

Ok [Fine, We'll] Go

Last night Lindsey and I went to the OkGo/Donnas show. I went, in a bad mood, after a long few days and even longer, sleep deprived, nights. Nonetheless, OkGo impressed us with all of our favorite songs played a hundred times better live, than recorded. A group of girls stood in front of us, dancing like idiots...not in a "we're being silly way" but in an irritating "I have no rythym and I'm hitting you with my ass" type of free-form movement. I mock strangled the dork directly in front of me. Her friends saw me. People always see me being an asshole. One of the other girls moved her aside and took her spot. She began flipping her long brown nasty hair in my face. So, I retaliated, naturally. I lit a cigarette and began blowing smoke into her hair. Lindsey joined in at her angle. The friends saw, and warned her. She pulled her hair to the front. Another girl whispered quite loudly to the hair girl, "I'm going to hit the bitch with my ass." This "ass-ramming" is how it started in the first place. She tried, failed, and received a face full of smoke. The group of six or seven girls backed off at this point, moving slightly away. I'd like to think that it worked out great for all of us.

The Donnas put on another awesome live show. Enough said, I danced until it hurt to move.

After the show, Linds and I, making our way out, saw the lead singer of OkGo signing autographs. We hovered for a second, waiting for the something that was going to happen. He grabbed my arm and handed me the e-mail list. "You have to sign this," he pleaded. This was that something. We signed it slowly. Then stood to the side and watched the interaction with the fans, informing him that we were taking notes. A different amused energy surrounded us, then the people gawking at him. It felt like it feels when I'm waiting for my rapper friend after a show, making the scenario awkward only in the way that we didn't actually know each other.

He stopped to talk to us between every fan. People caught on to this, as they do when they see me with rapper boy, and began talking to us as if we were famous. It's a weird feeling to be treated this way. It's much more gratifying in the hip-hop scene, because it's always the guys who used to think they were better than me who end up doing the ass-kissing. Last night it was unjustified and slightly uncomfortable.

The crowd backed off for a few, and we properly met Damien. What a nice guy, silly, too. A skank whore kept circling him, tiny shirt, huge tits she made him sign tumbling out. She proceeded to poke him in the ass with a pen every few minutes. We kept her at bay, blocking him off whenever she tried to make a move. He appreciated this. We had a good laugh over it, we, in fact, had a few good laughs in the car as we recounted our conversation with him and the all-out lies we ended up spilling. "Yeah, our band's Society's Fault," Lindsey said. I told him we were "hardcore" in a thug voice. Damien asked us questions we couldn't answer, until the subject was changed to his role in a Hanson video. He told us some great stories I'm too tired to remember, before wishing us luck with our band, as the security guards kicked us out of the venue. We're such nerds.

2003-02-19T15:50:00.000-08:00

A Bloody Mary For The New Generation

I leave my apartment today, just to leave the house. Girl after girl beat me to the laundry room this morning, so I gave up on the idea of being clean and set out. A half a block away from my nest I see good old Lenny, making his way home from school. "I keep wishing you on Broadway and there you are. Where will you appear next?" He trails off, mumbling. That's all I catch, except for the last bit about orange-glo and getting high while cleaning. Lenny believed he had manifested me, that was the key element in this conversation.

Yesterday, on my way to work, I passed Hutch standing outside of the salon. Hutch had said, "I manifested you. I had just said, 'Lucie get your ass over here" and I looked in the reflection and there you were." He shook his head in disbelief, honestly thinking he had pulled me out of thin air at his will.

This, to me, is weird in two ways. One, why are people wishing for me to appear places, when all I do upon arriving is make stupid jokes and disappear again? And two, why am I appearing at their beck and call? Like a wish-bitch...Am I the new Bloody Mary? Will children begin to whisper my name three times into a mirror, will I show up behind them? What is this?

The Battery Man

So, I saw the infamous Battery Man today. Walking down Broadway towards Bauhaus I heard, "Need batteries?" I turned around to see a dirty, dirty man in a torn jean jacket and raggedy cap with a handful of batteries. Not what I expected from a super hero, but exciting nonetheless.

Burnt

At Bauhaus, I ordered peach tea to go. Once outside, I took a sip and nearly died. Never have I been burned so bad. In fact, this incident lead me to believe that up until that point, I had never once burned my tongue. I felt like it was melting...still feels all weird. I have a slight speech impediment now. Upsetting, quite upsetting. I gave the tea to a homeless kid after it had cooled off a bit. He had tribal tattoos all over his face, took a swallow and said I had good taste. Glad to see someone can enjoy it.

Pipe Smoker, Alice In Wonderland Style

Met a guy named Seth on Valentine's Day. Him and his friend were smoking these cool long pipes outside of Aurafice. Lindsey took a photo, though her film was in wrong, destroying the pictures. I saw him and his friend today. From the look on his face when he saw me, I have the strangest feeling I had been manifested again. He got my digits, hoping we connect.

Secret Plans

After my fire class tonight I may partaking in something hilarious. I don't want to get anyone's hopes up, so I won't say what it is until I actually go and have some stories to tell. Point being, hold me to it. Make me write about this evening...You won't be disappointed, though I may be too embarrassed to want to share.

2003-02-18T23:57:00.000-08:00

Magic

"You're magic," he said, shaking his head, his long black hair, confused in his drunken condition. I felt my good mood temporarily pass away into sadness. Broadway dies. My haven faulters. But I shake the vision of my least favorite homeless man and focus in on his words. It's a magic night, I can't take responsibilty for his disillusionment...only my own.

I wandered, laughing, giddy for no apparent reason at all, just happy to be alive. I fell into warm patches on the street. The kind of warm patches one stumbles into walking through the fields of Discovery Park late at night...The wind blows cold, the grass dances in the breeze, a full moon shines as you pull your coat tighter around a shaking body...Then a warm patch, heat surrounds you, warmth from a vacant sun. Magic.

I look up at The Alley sign to notice that windows have suddenly appeared to reveal the inside of Laughing Buddha Tattoo and the nail salon. I feel crazy. Have those windows always been there? Has it been that long since I've looked up at night? This reminded me of the secret courtyard in Riomaggiore. We'd been there for weeks, thought we knew the place inside and out. The 4th of July hits and we're told the celebration is to be held in the courtyard. What courtyard? We hit the end of the road in confusion...and then, looked up. A whole new world. I felt insane, refusing to believe that i spent so much time looking at my own shoes that I'd missed a section of such a tiny town. Looking up....magic.

I get home tonight feeling that something good was about to happen, or was happening already. I check my e-mail, knowing that whatever news I received would be significant in one way or another. An e-mail from the fire circus, an enthusiastic message welcoming me to join their fire classes. Classes start tomorrow. Tomorrow, with the paycheck I picked up from the porn company I worked for today, I start my education in twirling flaming objects. Connecting with my Romani ancestors, I'll travel the world as a fire dancing gypsy. Magic. Incredibly corny, this blog entry, sickeningly corny, but magical...like the magical thinking of a schizotypal personality. =)

2003-02-18T11:11:00.000-08:00

Old School

Found this poem I wrote quite awhile back...thought it was funny in a stupid kind of way.

Parody of My Writing

She lives her life shrouded in a cloud of proud,
surrounded by a deep sadness profound.
Too many rhymes without reasons to par.
No wings to fly, no drive to...car?
-This is a parody of my soul.

Conflicted, afflicted, the sickness addictive,
the victims misguised decided to...lick it?
Insanity, profanity, from the angry and vain.
Sick and lame, a series of familiar faces and forgotten names.
-This is a parody of my mind.

I once met a man named Ether with a god like aura,
He was my Epimetheus and I was his Pandora.
We wandered along the same path, drinking from different...skies?
He, a demon of the atmosphere, me, an angel caught in the rise.
-This is a parody of my heart.

My name isnt Lucie, Im apparently lost.
I sold my own soul to ensure the river would be crossed.
Do you know I am? Do you know who Im not...?
As you can see, I'm not free, Ive been bought.
As you can see, Im not free, Ive been bought.
-This is a parody of my writing.

2003-02-17T13:13:00.000-08:00

A Couple Steps Back

Before my Monday officially begins, I need to talk about Saturday, a subject I've been too exhausted to discuss. I woke up late after Valentine's Day, a hung-over, exhausted mess. But, the protest, I promised myself I'd go to the anti-war rally. So, I got my ass in gear and headed down, on foot, with Lindsey. We walked from my apartment in Capital Hill all the way to the Space Needle, saying, "It's all down hill, we'll take the bus back home after the rally." Running on four hours of sleep and no food in the tummy, the last thing I wanted to do was walk.

Right...so, on our journey we meet up with the ever-twisted Learn, and the power-trio from the mid-eighties is temporarily revived in the name of peace...or rather sleep-deprived amusement.

Looking around at all the people, I was reminded of the May Day riots in Switzerland. My roommate and partner in crime, Ana Rose and I had gotten up early, bought a few Heineken tall cans, and hopped fences to join in on the excitement. After finishing a beer, we'd smash it on the ground by stomping on it and screaming. This was our protest...of what? Who knows. Swiss riots are pathetic, nothing like the ones we've had here in Seattle. The police brought in the big water hoses, which had the people ducking into alcoves, afraid of getting their expensive clothes wet. We smoked a couple bowls in one of these such alcoves and laughed at the scaredy-cat protestors. I believe at this point, we began our attempt to destroy private property by ripping signs in store-fronts and drawing on things...but we failed miserably with a lack of tools. This is the only riot I know of, where a food court is set-up before hand...and big inflatable toys are brought in for the children to play on. We got tear-gased in the food court, ironically. I couldn't breathe for a few minutes, felt like I was going to suffocate to death, couldn't see either...But I was drunk, and found it somewhat amusing.

Back to sober Seattle Saturday, Learn, Linds and I lined up in the front of the march. "This is what democracy looks like", people chanted, as a drum beat and horns played. We had a dance party as we marched, catching that really white guy fall out of rhythm every few miuntes, we laughed until we were crying. Dueling trumpets, a man running down the street in flourescent colors and hoolahoops, the whole march was a hilarious sight to see. After walking down past Westlake, and continuing on past Safeco Field to the International District, things were a lot less funny...especially after realizing that no buses were running, so we'd have to walk all the way back to Capital Hill. Oh, and what a walk it was. All up hill, too....for miles and miles.

Back On Broadway

Back on Broadway, Linds and I had left Learn far behind. We felt good in bad way, on our last legs, but still marching like soldiers...Im a soldja, I thought I toldja. We saw this guy Lindsey had dated for awhile about a month ago walking on the other side of the street with a lady friend. This guy's a thirty-three year old photographer who felt little shame in seeing seventeen year old Linds. Linds and I have now both dated guys fifteen years our senior. The mistakes you make when you're young...Anyway, we didn't believe he had a date for Valentine's Day, I still refuse to believe he has any friends, so seeing him with a girl was mind-blowing.

We ducked behind a van and watched them go into an eye-glass store, not to be confused with a glass-eye store, two entirely different things. A police car stopped in the middle of the street to watch us, we fell behind the van laughing. Soon the cop realized we were two harmless idiots and rolled away, clearing our view...The view of the stalkers.. Ira* and the girl soon walked out and began to kiss. He turned around and looked in our direction, we quick-dropped to the cement. Phew...he didn't see us. They walked away hand in hand, we walked away limping from our long journey.

Saturday Night

Having not heard from my brother yet, I packed up an over-night bag, my grungy old graffiti covered backpack, and began walking to the bus stop. My brother had left town, so I had to go to my parent's house to feed the cats...talk about a raging Saturday night. Oh, I was dressed for it, too. My puffy blue and white vest I've had for five years, once washed wrong, so the blue runs into the white, coffee-stained white sweatshirt I stole from Katie on Halloween, too-short jeans, legwarmers and my oldest pair of skateshoes. I looked homeless.

The rain poured down, as I stood underneath the semi-crowded awning, half-way exposed to the street, leaving me half-soaked. I leaned up against the little brick wall outside of Metro, the gothic store, slightly bobbing my head to the punk rock bellowing out. Hutch, a friend who works at the salon next to Vivace, passed by running his nightly errands. "You look like you're spare-changing," he said. I scowled and pushed him on his way. Before I knew it, local street kids had surrounded me.

One kid, Shorty, I had met on Valentine's Day. He had said, "I wish you'd take me home with you." I had smirked and replied, "Not gonna happen," before speeding down the street. The street kids loved me on Valentine's Day. One almost made me cry. This beautiful boy I'd seen around, quite frequently for some time. The only one whoever smiled and said hi, never asking for anything, never cat-calling, leaving me wondering what it would be like if things were different. V-day, I walked down past the brick make-shifft shelters outside of Hollywood Video, where the kids sit to get off the sidewalk. I noticed the pretty boy sitting alone and smiled. "Happy Valentine's Day", he said shyly. I nodded, replying, an equally shy, "You, too," and continue walking down the street. I turn around. He stands up on the brick and screams, "Your beauty exceeds words!" So sweet, pulled at my heart-strings.

But now I'm at the bus stop with Shorty, and Pretty is nowhere to be found. A man with long dreads and a beard joins. He seems like a cool guy, secretly hiding milk and cookies in his black pullover. A weed-dealer, he offers me a job, which I politely decline...Not to say I didn't consider it for a few seconds, because I did. I'd be a kick ass drug-dealer....They don't call me "Big Time" for nothing.

Shorty talks about Compton and his ex-wife. We recite lyrics to Ice Cube's "It Was A Good Day", and Shorty tries to tell us that "Short Dogg sitting on the stoop" might be him, since he was there during that time. Bob, the dread guy, who looks like one of Brian Froud's elves, and I laugh and discuss how stupid "other people" are and the perils of buses and awful Seattle weather.

Shorty walks up the stairs to the hair salon and joins a girl, who had asked me for the time earlier. I've been at the bus stop for at least twenty minutes now. I keep looking at my watch and hesitantly light new cigarettes. I tell Bob about my lifestyle as a twenty year old who eats nothing but cereal and cookies, and paints and plays with my friends all day.

A moment of synchronicity...I begin to say, "I even have a plastic dinosaur that I carry around in my purse," when "Hot baby guy" Darren walks by, causing me to trail off at, "I even...", finishing with "Hi Darren", as he nods and scurries past. Darren, a man I've had a crush on for about two years now. He has a three year old son who also carries around a plastic dinosaur. We used to make eyes at each other, at Vivace, the coffee shop we've both abandoned, which is odd since he now lives in the apartment next to it, and I live only a few blocks away. After weeks of catching each other doing the hardcore checking out, staring, smiling bullshit. We talked, me a nerous wreck, him confused. He's by far the most beautiful man in Seattle, and I was just an eighteen year old girl wondering why he was talking to me. He ended up asking out the hair salon girl from next door, a truly wretched specimen, and I suffered on for months wishing that I had behaved like a normal person. Now, we say the occasional "hi", never making it past the "how's it going?" point, passing each other at least once a week. He still makes my heart stop. Generally, after a run-in, I stop breathing and feel kind of nauscious and dizzy in a good way.

The bus is now forty-five minutes late. Bob and I decide to walk to the next stop, where he leaves me to take care of some business problems. I'm not there five minutes before a well dressed man looks at me and says, " Are you from Seattle?" We engage in a twenty-minute conversation about the economy, California, culinary arts achool and the protest.

Finally, after an hour of waiting, the bus arrives. I get on, and hear a "Hey Lucie*", I turn around to see the girl from the stairs who had asked me for the time. I have no idea how she knows my name, but we suddenly behave as old friends, complaining about sleep-deprivation and any and everything else we can think off, before getting off at the same stop downtown. We walk together for awhile before parting ways to our next bus stop destinations.

Seventeen bus stop on Stewart, if ever there was a "Lucie's life tour" this bus stop would be one of the biggest landmarks. I find myself there time and time again, as a marker for life changing moments. It's a place haunted by the ghosts of a thousand good-byes, while still the foundation, the starting point, to many journeys. An odd energy surrounds it, a constant surge of comings and goings.

I stand against the wall next to Toi, the upscale cocktail bar, getting odd looks from the richies, who probably think I'm homeless. Bear in mind, that I do look homeless. Down the way, the street is swarming with indie-rockers, shaggy hair and tight pants. A show is just letting out, and everyone's hanging around, smoking cigarettes, discussing the band they just saw. A sense of excitement.

A limo pulls up in front of Toi. The young, scrappy looking fellow waiting at the stop with me, and I, look on, guessing who's going to come out. Three thirty-something men, and a group of trashy looking women. I guess them to be movie directors...The way the one guy with the floppy hair, uses his hands and makes cocky jokes to the driver. The women enter the restaurant, the men hang around to smoke.

"Do you have a lighter in there?" the director guy asks the driver. No one has a lighter. I rush over with one, and save the day. One of the men slips me a little bottle of Goldschlager as a sort of payment. I wonder if he thinks I'm a drunken bum, if that's why he slipped me alcohol for helping. I go back to the wall and watch them. Soon they come over. I'm suddenly surrounded by tv and movie producers, their actual profession...Hey, I was close with the director guess. I laugh at the cocky guy's British-looking hair-cut. He tells me his wife messed it up. We talk for some time, about my recent audition, writing, etc. They assure me that I'll be famous someday, "You have a beautiful face" they say, "From the way you project yourself, I can tell you're very talented, though modest." It sounds sleezier now, than it was at the time. They were genuine, hilarious fellows, trying to get me to come into Toi to have cocktails with them and their ho-bag wives and girlfriends. I explained that I was on a mission to feed hungry cats, they got a kick out of that. It was a perfect end to, perhaps, the longest day of this year so far....

2003-02-17T11:04:00.000-08:00

I Dream Of Disney

I wake up, yet again, with hazy memories of an amusement park dream. I have these dreams far too often, dreams where I enter Disneyland at night. The fog rolls in over the castle, blurry lights barely visible through the gray washing through. I'm always alone, wondering how I got there, I'm looking for someone. I jump onto a ride half-way through it. For example, I climb into a river, where little boats parade through, but I'm swimming through unable to pull myself onto one of the baby mechanical pirate ships..or I fall off of one of the many rollercoasters, never quite secured into the seat, to plunge through and beneath wires. I sneak in through the back ways of haunted houses, little traps doors and areas so small I feel suffocated, tunnels where monsters live, following the path of whoever's trail I feel I'm on. Last night, it was the "new mexican" ride. I rode it with a man, someone's father, a tourist, until I fell off to scramble past mechanical animals and fake palm trees. I just want to escape the amusement park, but there's never an exit. I just jump from ride to ride, secret underground to new hidden surface, until I wake up. For the most part, I hate these dreams. One I happened to like though. After being thrown from the tallest rollercoaster in the universe, I flew up into the sky, a brown sky, the sky was a ceiling, and I nearly touched it before falling to safety into a giant martini glass. It's safe to say, I was traumatized as a child...

2003-02-16T16:53:00.000-08:00

Conversation With The Smokeshop Guy

Me: Hey.
SG: Hey. One pack...or?
Me: (pointing to the buy two get one free rack) I'm giving in today.
SG: (laughing) How are you?
Me: Okay...sleepy.
SG: Too much partying?
Me: Big weekend.
SG: Big weekend?
Me: Big weekend.
SG: Big day?
Me: Nahhh...just a big weekend.
SG: Tomorrow the big day?
Me: (in a "Im getting married giddy " voice) Yep, tomorrow's the big day.
SG: It's Bush's day. President's day.
Me: Booooo!
SG:(laughing) See ya.
Me: See ya.

The Battery Man

I'm standing downtown waiting for my bus back to Capital Hill when a dreddie-headed fellow approaches. Dreddie-headed in a hippie street kid sort of way, beautiful eyes. "Hey, have you seen the battery man?" he asks with a slight sense of urgency. "No, I don't know him," I say giggling to myself. Dreddie vanishes for a few minutes and then reappears seemingly out of nowhere. He flashes me a pack of batteries and a smile before making his final disappearing act, wandering off into the downtown nether regions.

So, it seems as though super heros do exist. There is a magic battery man slinking through Seattle's underground. Who is this masked man and why does he have so many batteries? Is he in any way related to the Muffin Man? Does he also live on "Trolley Lane"? More importantly, why did the dreddie guy assume that I'd know who he was referring to? What does that say about the image I project? I must give off that "I know where the Battery Man is" vibe...so many unanswered questiions...

Old 'Hood Brings New Surprises

This morning in Ballard, I smoked a sole cigarette outside of Bartell Drugs. Waiting for my prescription to be filled, I looked around at the stupid neighborhood I grew up in. "What a stupid, boring neighborhood," were my exact thoughts. I watched old people walk around with their canes and baby hoodrats file into the drugstore to get their cheap make-up...If my memory serves me right(and it usally does) the girls will buy number 549 wet & wild lipstick, a dark brown-reddish color, the color lipstick I wore when I was a baby hoodrat...and maybe some fake press-on fingernails, also a necessitity when I was thirteen.

Taking in the dull view, something flashy showed itself coming from behind me. From the corner of my eye, I could see that something incredible was heading my way. A man, I'd guess to be around fifty to sixty years old, came around the corner with a tremendous speed. A balding man with glasses, dressed in a green parka and blue jeans, speeding down the street...in a pair of hot pink rollerskates. He skated with confidence through the bank parking lot which faces Bartells. An old man in pink rollerskates, what made this even more amusing, was that he had come in the direction of the skateboard park. I wonder what the skaters had to say about all of this...Made my day.

2003-02-14T17:45:00.000-08:00

"So baby, kiss me like a drug, like a respirator, and let me fall Into the dream of the astronaut, where i get lost in space that goes on forever and you make all the rest just an after-thought. And I believe it's you who could make it better, but it's not, no it's not..."

This song, which I've made temporarily mine, has been set on repeat for nearly three days straight now. Perhaps in preparation for V-day, maybe because it sounds like a combination of honey and liquer. Aimee Mann's "It's Not." It motivates and inspires me, while tranquilizing my nerves, kind of like a lullaby that encourages dreams to be more courageous and vivacious in a soft slow-motion world. The near whispering voice speaks of desperate emotions encased in a self-inflicted stand-still. "So here Im sitting in my car at the same old stop light, I keep waiting for a change, but I dont know what, so red turns into green turning into yellow, but Im just frozen here on the same old spot and all I have to do is to press a button, but Im not..." Listening to those words, it struck me that I've been living my life like this for too long. It's what got me to the audition yesterday. This little piece of music may have saved me.

Speaking of saving me, Aimee Mann's "Save Me" was my prior theme song. Funny how her song-writing seems to be flowing at the same rate as my own personal growth. What a bizzare connection. "You look like a perfect fit for a girl in need of a turniquette(creative spelling), but can you save me...come on and save me...if you could save me..from the ranks of the freaks who suspect they could never love anyone." I used to cry to that song, praying that this man, this man who is as fucked up as I am would come and make everything better. In all honesty, somewhere there's still a part of me waiting, but like Miss Aimee, I realize that he can't make it better. According to him, I'm supposed to be the one performing the emotional rescue someday, "but first you have to save yourself," he said. I miss him. I doubt a February will go by without thinking of him, remembering his face in the sunlight, a brisk morning walk and another heart-breaking good-bye at the seventeen bus stop.

2003-02-14T11:48:00.000-08:00

What I Found

While looking for silly love poems, I discovered a priceless piece of my history, a paper I wrote when I was twelve. Before I post it, please keep in mind that I received an "A" on it, an "A" because it is such an excellent piece of writing. Also keep in mind, that I was a straight up gangsta when I was twelve...one hardcore muthafucka. Here it goes:

One thing that bothers me is when people think they're "all that." I've had a lot of bad experiences with people like this. People who think they are "all that" are people who think they are so popular and so perfect, that they can treat people badly. They ignore you when you talk to them, and completely love themselves. They are vain, stuck-up backstabbers. They think they are better than everyone else.
Here's an example, there's a girl in sixth grade who thinks she's "all that." She is hated by most of the seventh and eighth grade. She's always threatening people who are older than her. She has only a couple friends and it's obvious why. She is very rude and very stuck-up. She talks about people behind their backs. Yesterday some kids almost beat her up[I was one of those kids] She claims she knows all these people that are going to beat us up, but that's impossible because she has no friends.
I really can't stand people who think that they are "all that." I don't think anyone can. If you didn't know what "all that" meant before, I'm sure you do now. Thinking that you are "all that" makes you loe friends, and is a very stupid thing to do.

My teacher's comments: "Well-written, interesting topic."

2003-02-14T11:26:00.000-08:00

Difficult

Getting back into the habit of blogging is as difficult as starting the habit of flossing, quitting smoking, kicking heroin, walking while chewing gum, etc, etc, etc....It's been too long. I have too much to say now and not enough motivation to say it. It's Valentine's Day...I think I'll post love oriented things...We'll see...This may be all you get from me in awhile...

2003-02-09T15:18:00.000-08:00

Fun

A few minutes ago I discovered that saying, "Robin Lickel like a nickel" out-loud over and over again is quite enjoyable...really, fun for the whole family.

2003-02-08T10:15:00.000-08:00

Moving Along

I woke up forty minutes after my alarm went off, but oh, it was worth it. I woke myself up laughing hysterically. What caused this manical fit of alarming fun? Sitting in a high school auditorium, I look over to see the girl next to me has the same ugly graffiti on her backpack that I do....identical...from the "Because" tag(I thought I wrote graffiti for about two months in high school) to the "weskaw" bit(my old freshman nickname). I pointed this out to the mysterious girl and she turned over the bag to reveal a giant patch that said "second hand." This signified that the bag used to be mine. Out of nowhere, the girl screamed, creating the strangest(and loudest) noise I've ever heard. All the other kiddies turned around and gave us menacing looks...and well, this my friends, was, apparently, funny enough for me to wake myself up.

This is a special occasion. It marks the third time I've woken up laughing, and the first time that no one was around to experience the odd phenomenon with me. The first time it happened my brother and I were little kids sharing a bed in Mexico. We both woke ourselves up, about five minutes apart from each other, giggling about dreams immediately forgotten after the realization hit that we were laughing. The second, this guy I travelled with in Europe and I shared the same experience my brother and I did. High times.

2003-02-08T09:54:00.000-08:00

Next....NEXT!

Nothing happened yesterday. I left my house twice, combined efforts, I made it about four blocks away from my building.

2003-02-07T09:46:00.000-08:00

This Morning's Breaking News

I woke up before my alarm went off! It's a Chreest-mus Mee-ree-cle!

2003-02-06T11:29:00.000-08:00

Oh, People and Their Severed Body Parts

The saga continues, leaving good old happy-pants Stewart behind. Once again at Bauhaus with Linds, my fellow dreddie-headed friend Learn(aka Stanley) appeared. The three of us were once a power-trio for a short period back in the mid-eighties...which magically took place a few months ago in 2002. Learn has some issues with anxiety and he's also quite touchy-feely, an odd-ball, I'd call him, an odd-ball. At any rate, Learn sits down with us, and not five minutes passes before he begins to tell us about a book he's picking up at the library...A book with photographs of corpses, severed body parts and heads placed in compromising and all-out disgusting positions.

"It's beautiful," he says, "The way the photographer captures these dead bodies. There's one picture he took of these two decapitated heads, twin sisters, kissing."

Disgusting, absolutely disgusting. After Bauhaus, Linds and I went to Red Light to see if one of her friends was working. Well, he was, and sure enough, shortly after we'd arrived, he started talking about a t-shirt his band had designed where a girl is ripped down the center, her limbs chopped off, bloody massacre style. Good times...what the fuck is wrong with people, lately?

2003-02-06T11:02:00.000-08:00

My Band

I don't actually have a band yet. If you'd like to start a band with Cady Leer, Veronica Killjoy and myself, Lucie Loveday, please contact me at the address provided below. You must have a cool name to be in my band.(pre-approved names include: Amelia Jaded, Josh Death, and Billy Spades, but we are willing to take others into consideration) Thanks.

2003-02-06T10:54:00.000-08:00

"Lookie Here, She's Done It Again"

Yeah, I've set-up yet another e-mail account. This one is specifically for this site, though no one even knows it exists yet.
If you would like to get in contact with me, in regards to my blog, or my band, please send mail to: lucieloveday@yahoo.com

2003-02-06T00:56:00.000-08:00

My Destiny According to Google

Out of fear for my future, I sought guidance from my trusted source and beloved search engine Google. I simply typed "I am destined...", shut my eyes and let google determine my fate. According to Google, I am destined to do the following:

I am destined not to go caroling. (damnit all to hell, there goes my plans for this February weekend)

I am destined for hell. (all because I cant go carolling, Im sure. It's all Jesus's fault. Fuck Jesus. )

I am destined for a good one (wow, I suddenly feel so positive, so optimistic about life)

I am destined to be cut up for parts as soon as I am fattened up enough from eating the ground-up remains of other chickens, the bits people won't eat, (AHHHHH!!!)

I am destined to be saved by women. (Please save me from the people who think I'm a chicken)

I am destined to be the star of every galaxy. (I was just a twinkle in my father's eye at one point)

I am destined to rule and regulate you (say dat den, and you know this, BIOTCH)

i am destined to write..eventually.(theyre already coming true, Im writing right now!)

I am destined now to walk the beach always thinking other thoughts, worrying other worries, reliving memories good and bad (I dont like that at all)

i am destined to die by fire (makes sense, almost set my apartment on fire at least once every couple weeks)

I am destined to live the life of the lonely and will never find happiness. (oh well, at least i'll have my "good one.")

I am destined to be involved in voting processes (NEVER!!!!)

I am destined to hear about bodily functions (this much is true)

I am destined to someday coexist with one certain fly (And his name will be Zorak and together Zorak and I will rule the world...muwahahaha)

i am destined to be ur veggie luvva (disturbing)

I am destined not to do well at this world championships. (But at the next pokemon world championships, I will do much better)

I am destined to forget (because I am an element, not an elephant)

I am destined to die a horrific death at a tragically young age (do you smell something burning?)

I am destined for all eternity to walk the ends of the earth in bondage, in chains because I did not live the miracle of Christmas (christians scare me)

I am destined to be a really well-traveled frog (they said it, not me)

I am destined to live in exile from the "normal" scene (but flourish underground with my slinkster-cool hipster indier-than-thou krew)

I am destined to drink very often (after my indier-than-thou friends disown me for someone with a cleaner sweatband)

I am destined to bring 'Star Trek' to life. (i'm speechless.)

I am destined to be stuck with a slow piece of crap? (the question mark wasn't added by me, I know this to be true.)

2003-02-05T20:59:00.000-08:00

The Worst Thing

Three hours later, I've come crawling back to the sneaky little, addictive as crack, "blog." I had no idea what I was getting myself into with this thing. Up until now, I was in denial about how bored I am with my life. Now, I've started a record of it. I've started an offical on-going document that states, clearly, what a pathetic and boring individual I am. Thank you Mr. Frederick for introducing me to my down-ward spiral.

Even Worse Than The Worst

I recently broke up with my coffeeshop, Vivace, for a better-looking, more hipster-esque coffeeshop named Bauhaus. Vivace and I were inseparable for about three and a half years...some of the best years of my life, but I needed something new, something more exciting. I thought that I had found these qualities in Bauhaus. I thought that with Bauhaus, I could build a new, more rewarding life. And then there was Stewart*...

Stewart, to my horror, has also recently dumped Vivace for Bauhaus. Stewart is a forty-five year old recording studio owner who has worked with the likes of "Chris Cornell*" and more recently, "the guy who sold Kurt Cobain* his gun." He loves to name drop, because he is pathetic and weird. Stewart, though forty-five, has this sickening little boy thing about him...curly head of hair, big blue eyes, the occasional knee socks and a perpetual smile. He's a passive aggressive head-case who gets all nervous and shifty-eyed when spoken to, yet he's always the initiator of these painful conversations. When I first met him three years ago, I guessed him at twenty-three, not the disgusting "I'm rotting, please shoot me" age of forty-two. He took this as a compliment and began telling the other Vivace patrons that he had a crush on me. Gross, I say, gross. Even if he had been twenty-three, I still would have rejected his creepy ass just to see if I could make him cry(my friends and I used to fantasize quite often about seeing him weep, no human should smile that much and be that nice, it's disturbing and wrong)

I saw Stewart at Bauhaus today. Him and his giant pearly whites, joined my friend Lindsey* and I at a table. He bought us hot chocolate, we couldn't say no. After ten minutes of awkward conversation and bad jokes, something horrible, yet amazing, happened. Stewart, "Guy Smilie" himself, revealed his dark side. He was in the middle of telling some boring story when he dropped a peculiar sentence fragment: severed dog head. Lindsey and I exchanged looks, hesistant to inquire, knowing how badly he wanted us to...But we just had to know, so we asked.

[Stewart, in reference to a musician he's currently working with, spoken with his classic cheesy grin] "Oh, yeah when we were doing the recording, I went over to his house. We were in his garage when he brought out this paper bag, told me to look inside. It was a severed dog's head that he'd found in the bushes...was going to use it for an art project."

Sure, it wasn't Stewie's severed head, but how can you tell a story like that without any kind of personal feeling coming through? He just kept on a-smiling like he'd told us his grandmother made him cookies, or he just learned how to tie his own shoes...or the musician had pulled a pretty flower out of the bag. After seeing that Linds and I weren't impressed(surprise, surprise) he turned to me and said, "Don't dwell on it." I told him I would dwell on it, and guess what I'm doing right now? DWELLING on it.

God have mercy on creepy Stewart...but do not spare creepy Steve*...him and his balloon animals must die a slow and painful death.

*May or may not indicate a name change, depending on how warmly I portrayed the character. If there was shit-talking involving someone you know or you, yourself, well it's definetly not that person or you...In that case, the person mentioned is ficticious.

2003-02-05T17:00:00.000-08:00

The Best Thing

This is by far the best thing I have heard or seen all day, "The New Mexicans: Fun like riding a dinosaur."

Lately, I've become very aware of slogans, sayings and ridiculous utterings that are, well, supposed to mean something, but never quite make it there. For instance, what does "like herding cats" mean? Or is it, "like hurting cats,"? It doesn't really matter, though I prefer the latter of the two, neither expression makes any sense no matter what context you choose to use it in.

Another example, would be this commerical I saw for "fun cookie", something like that. It's this instrument that you put cookie dough into, attach a stencil to the end, and squeeze to release funny shaped globs of cookie dough...for baking purposes, I believe. Now, that in itself speaks volumes about it's creator's genius...but it gets worse....Do you know what the slogan for "fun cookie" is? Well, naturally, it would have to be, "If you can squeeze a sponge..."

WHAT??!! I'm sorry, but who writes this shit? On the commercial it actually shows a woman's hand squeezing a yellow sponge, like we wouldn't know what the act looked like, or we were sitting there thinking, "I don't know if I can squeeze a sponge," (notice that the lady can do it) "Oh yeah, well, if she can do it, so can I. Since I can squeeze a sponge, there is now no question in my mind that I need a 'fun cookie' of my very own." God forbid you don't just go to your kitchen, find a sponge and squeeze it. Isn't that what this commercial is really advertising anyway? Fun sponges?

And what about those people who have no use of their hands, what about those people who can't squeeze a sponge? Do they begin to watch the commerical with a sense of child-like glee, phone in hand, so that they can order "fun cookie" and someday have wacky shaped dough of their own...only to moments later see that wretched woman's hand and hear the words they hoped they'd never have to hear...."If you can squeeze a sponge." What a life-changing moment for those people, talk about a let-down. They had no idea how disabled they truly were, until the commercial for "fun cookie" came on and stole their collective dead-handed thunder.

Oh, what a world we live in...

2003-02-04T22:35:00.000-08:00

Alright, I now have a clearer understanding of the "blog," but judging from the quotation marks I have hugging the word so very tightly, apparently, it will take time for me to trust the silly little word. Unfortunately, I'm too tired to write anything. Tomorrow is a new day...unless it's not, which will make it new it's own special little way, now won't it?

2003-02-04T22:30:00.000-08:00

I don't think I fully grasp how this whole "blog" deal works yet. I see my accidental nap did nothing for my lagging, dragging intellect today. Let's see what happens when I press the shiny buttons...