Monday
every time I fart the birdies sing, "thank you sir,
may i have another?" i don't want to interact. i'm not
the life of your party, rather, i'm the drunken plague
that causes your bathroom to stink and your cigarettes
to disappear. i'm the loudest one laughing at any given
moment and the first one to bitch that the keg is dry.
i'll squeeze the last drop of beer from an old Rely tampon
and throw it in you face. it takes a lot of energy to be
a complete asshole, but i'm up for it. and incidentally,
if i'm on hard drugs, i'd appreciate you not mentioning
it. if anyone around here can handle their pcp, i can.
sometimes when i'm driving (or not driving) i think
how easy it would be to slip into "Falling Down" mode,
that Michael Douglas movie where he's the misfit suburbanite
who runs amok and kills, kills, kills. a bizarre fantasy
i guess, but we who live in LA are hardened somewhat to the
reality of everyday death. people are gunned down in the
street; some innocent, most not so innocent -- and you
know, i'm so jaded that i'm not even freaked out. my
exoskeleton is so thick that i can just take it all in
and not think twice. don't you think this is bizarre?
what does this say about me, and/or us? are we just
throwbacks to Ancient Rome? like, is there something
wrong with me watching all eight episodes of "Faces of
Death" back to back? i rationalize that i'm not a weirdo
by fast forwarding past the autopsy footage straight to
the car wrecks. i admit it, i love violence -- but i'm
not the only one. at my corner liquor store, they sell
these Mexican gore magazines: murders, heads cut off,
shit so grisly that i can't even look at it. but any six-
year-old could. but tits are bad, violence is good, it
seems.
the more i think about our society's twisted set of
morals, the more i want to join up with the chimps. i
think porno is lame. if some guy wants to get off looking
at women with giant fake tits, who cares? i mean, they
feel like upholstery, they don't hang right and there's
an artificial space between them that the Exxon Valdez
could sail through. and i'm not even going to get into
their collagen lips, collagen hips, or collagen labias.
Playboy presents their new summer calendar, "the Girls of
Gore-Tex."
back to violence. violence titillates, it excites,
it takes us back to our ancestors who settled their disputes
by drawing and quartering. so why not public executions?
public hangings in the village square. an occasional
beheading. burn a Wicker man on the summer solstice,
i say. why not? it's obviously what people want. let's
do a pay-per view gassing of John Wayne Gacy dressed in his
clown suit. this could really bring the family back together.
now is that any worse than anything you'd see on the tv or
the movies? no difference. gore is gore. fake blood
stimulates the same neurons as real. that same moral
authority that says we can't see nipple is just getting
around to admitting that cigarettes MAY be harmful. if
Lee Harvey Oswald had smoked, maybe none of this would have
ever happened. no butts were ever found on the grassy
knoll, and that's a damn shame.
Tuesday
i feel like the kid walking through the mall stoned
out of his mind, who thinks the whole place is looking at
him. i feel like i'm in line at the supermarket with my
pockets full of Heath bars and security is just choosing
the right moment to announce over the loudspeaker, "Thief
in Aisle 12." i feel like i've just been pulled over and
i've only had ONE beer but i know i'm gonna blow it. i
feel like that speed i just snorted is going to kill me.
maybe i picked a bad time to read Poe's "Tell-tale Heart"
because mine feels like it's going to leap our of my chest.
my arms are tingling. this is just imagination, imagination . . .
i'll get through this. alright, i shall WILL my heart to
slow down. if Indian Yogis can do it, i can do it. slow
down, slow down, slow down, slow down, slow . . . IT'S NOT
WORKING! . . . I'M FREAKING OUT. I'M HAVING A HEART ATTACK.
A FUCKING GRAND-MAL SEIZE-O-RAMA. i can call out to any
God that will hear me: HINDU, VISHNU, BOB . . . CAN YOU
HEAR ME? I SWEAR I'LL NEVER DO SPEED AGAIN. i'm fucking
stupid. i'm a fucking idiot. i don't wanna die like this . . .
. . wait . . thank God (or Bob) . . i'm chillin' . . .
feel better . . . pulse approaching normal . . . ok . . arms
and kegs coated in dick sweat -- better shower later --
might trigger a relapse . . . ok . . . ok. fuck, WHEW,
close one. now, where was i? oh yeah, i'd like to think
i'm a complex individual. like a rubix cube. but i'm
beginning to think that everything good that ever happened
to me was just a collision between sheer pig-headedness
and blind luck. if you quit, you'll never achieve. then
again, you just might NEVER achieve. i'm hoping that our
whole economic system will come crashing down and that
somehow boogers will take the place of money, 'cause then
i'll be a rich man. i'm searching for the Holy Grail at
the bottom of a jug. i'm the patron saint of lost causes,
most notably my own. i'm simultaneously miserable and
optimistic, cautious and stupid, old and young. i'm very
suspicious of authority. i think there are aliens at Area
51. i think the CIA, the mafia, and the aliens are all
conspiring to keep ME from getting a record deal. i think
the mafia buried Jimmy Hoffa in the basement of the Luxor
and that their quiche is made with Egg Beaters. i think
Juan Valdez is the head of the mysterious Illuminati,
dedicated to keeping me enslaved to the coffee bean. i'm
hooked on phonics, hooked on life, hooked on coffee and
doughnut gems.
Wednesday
i live in what is euphemistically called the art
district. "art for artists." actually, we're just an
odd assortment of junkies, flunkies, and musical masochists
who don't know when to give up. the difference between
me and a real artist is that a real artist thinks he's good.
sometimes i wonder what van gogh had to go through. i
wonder if mrs. van gogh had to strip at crazy girls to
pay the bills so van gogh could fuck around. part of the
allure of being unemployed is that, if you really wanted
to, you could completely hit rock bottom. i could stir
fry my brain in a saucerful of shit and no one would care.
i could do things that would make caligula blush. FUCK
IT - FUCK ALL JOBS! takes a real man to make it without
workin'. what's the worst job on earth? garbage collector?
theater usher? male hooker? the worst job on earth has
got to be the parking enforcement officer, those weasally
little fuckers in the white compact cars who write tickets
all the live long day. every day striving to beat their
misery quota. everyday universally hated and despised. and
every night when their little ticket books are empty and
their shit is through, they crowd into dark little bars
like blind termites and commiserate about the day's
butchery, like torturers during the Inquisition. "Well
it took some time, but we finally disemboweled old hank,
he was a sinewy little fuck." i know i sound vindictive;
i'm probably still fuming over the $60 ticket that i got
for parking across the street from my own house.
Thursday
we have mice. that is to say, my co-roommates are
rodentia. i wouldn't mind so much if they didn't always
have their eyes on MY pastries. i bought some "glue"
traps the other day on the premise that these were more
humane than the neck-breakers. quite the opposite. turns
out these fiendish little glue trays trap and slowly starve
their victims to death. rid your house of unwanted pests,
from your friends at jo mengele & co. magical, magical
trays. you just lay them down in the corner of your room
and two hours later, you've got yourself a mouse. but
then i had to deal with the problem of mouse disposal.
i threw away the first few traps like the box says, it
actually shows a picture of a hand throwing the mouse into
the trash, but a trash can full of squealing mice gurgling
and soiling themselves can be a burden on your conscience.
i hit upon a simpler plan -- why not lay them out in the
middle of the road and let the big rigs crush them? quick
and easy. sometimes i'd get lucky and the mouse would
stick to the truck tire and travel down the road a bit.
as it was, the front part of my house was looking like
Verdun. maybe next time, i'll just put on a Third Eye
Blind tape; that always scares me away.
yeah, i'm the pie-eyed piper of boyle heights. how
would you like to live in a city called boyle? i know it's
spelled different, but WE all know it as the city of BOIL.
the city of pus. and not even good pus -- not that cream
of wheat stuff. it's dirty brown pus; skid row pus. i
live in the penthouse suite at the carbuncle towers in the
lovely city of BOIL, U.S.A.
Friday
we're all going to die, you know that don't you? one
of these days, probably during friday rush hour, there's
going to be a 9.9 arse-rumbler and then it's all going to
come down. no more taco bells, no more sav-on, no more
little oompah-loompahs making chocolate for willy wonka.
it'll all be over. at first i thought that this would be
kinda cool. you know, puts me on an even footing with the
BMW's and the cool people. when society breaks down, the
scum bags will inherit the earth -- survival of the thickest.
just think: people freak out when their toilet doesn't
flush right. what's gonna happen when arby's runs out
of "cheez"? maximum anarchy. anyone who lived through
the LA riots knows what i mean. back in '92, we were all
appalled at the looting and burning but we could all
console ourselves that in a couple days it would be OVER.
no such luck come doomsday. and no one, including myself,
has made any provisions or taken any precautions to prepare
for this apocalypso. when it does hit, it's gonna be like
a sudden beer shit out of nowhere; you'd drop your pants
in the middle of a mall if you had to. i want to move out
of LA, but i won't. i'm nostradamus the poseur. i'm like
everybody else who knows his cavities are getting worse but
refuses to go to the dentist. when the BIG one happens,
i'll be fucked like everyone else. i'll have to recycle
my feces to power my car. and drink my own piss as sun
tea. it will be a real horror show living day to day.
no more kurt russels, no mtv, no more fear of aids. in
other words, normal.
Saturday
another day in paradise. it's hot. i can't afford
air conditioning. i have one little fan blowing hot air
into my hot little room from the outside. unfortunately
for me, there's a chemical textile plant downstairs and
the fumes blow right into my room. monday through friday
from 8:00-4:00, i'm on a psychedelic teflon high. on
certain days, i can see through time, baby. i've thought
about reporting this health hazard to the authorities but
it just so happens the guy downstairs is my landlord (and
indirectly, my pusher). the other day he asked me if i
wouldn't mind paying a $300 security deposit on my one
room apartment. i guess he's afraid i'll fuck the place
up. throw wild parties. maybe i'll set up a meth lab or
open up a shooting gallery. yeah, i'll stuff the place
full of junkies and charge by the square foot. now if
x = 1 foot and my home is 200 square feet, how many
junkies could i squeeze in my room before they freak
out? x = 200. 200 junkies. i couldn't fit 200 of them
nodded out, of course. that would take up space. i'll
have to hang them from the ceiling by some means,
harnesses or old bed sheets . . .
or maybe i'll start a meth lab. there used to be a
big one across the street but it got popped, maybe you
saw it on tv. well, he was greedy. i'll start small and
work my way up. but wait -- how am i going to afford
all the precursor chemicals i need? acetone, hydrochloric
acid, all those tubes and wires. hmmmmm . . . i guess i
can cut coffee out of my diet. i won't need it anymore;
i'll be high on meth. and i won't need pastries either.
no appetite. this may seem an inconsequential sacrifice
to you but my pastry bill is ENORMOUS. probably equals
the GNP of several small african nations. oh . . . but
you know how i get on speed. sweaty, irregular heart
beat, pupils dilated, slightly paranoid, dressed up like
Nosferatu . . . on second thought, the meth lab idea is
also not happening.
the whole reason this came up in the first place is
because my landlord wants a $300 security deposit. pretty
cheeky, you ask me. my room has no ceiling, no bathroom
wall (just bare pipes), no carpet, no locking downstairs
door, no security parking, no kitchen, a toilet that can
take about a half a log before it backs up, cockroaches
the size of my index finger, rats, leaky roof, hobos,
gangs, a produce market next door that starts screaming
spanish obscenities at 4:00 a.m., and union fucking Carbide's
Bopahl branch office downstairs. i can see why he wants
a $300 deposit; you just can't find places this choice
anymore. a guy would have to be out of his mind to wanna
leave this place. if you can't tell, i'm being SARCASTIC.
Sunday
my neighborhood isn't all bad. the central library
is cool. cool as in air-conditioned. i'll go there some-
times during really hot spells and relax in their extra
comfy chairs. do you know the library actually has tour
groups going through? like it was Disneyland or something.
"now if you'll follow me, boys and girls, our next stop
is the LARGE TYPE section." stay together, you wouldn't
want to get lost. you might end up sitting next to me.
(i'll be the one reading Hop on Pop.) i marvel at why
anyone would want a tour of the library. granted, it's
cool but try universal studios. yeah, go to Farmer's
Market and leave me alone. every now and then some
homeless person will cause some mayhem and have to be
ejected. that sucks. it's probably the only place they
can go and not be fucked with. downtown homeless are not
like the Valley or Hollywood homeless. they rarely ask
you for money. in fact, i know a couple by name and
they're as normal as anyone. i was walking down the street
one day when some transplanted homeless person (probably
fresh out of County) approached me for a handout. his
partner, who knew me, smiled and said, "don't bother. he
doesn't have any money." homeless people that live down
town can make a shitload of money, you see, 'cause of all
the factories. these companies throw away enough
aluminum in their dumpsters everyday to build a Stealth
bomber. the guys with the carts keep to themselves; they
don't steal, they just get by. but every now and then
some twisted fucker does invade my life who loves to steal
car batteries or just break my car windows for the fuck
of it. they don't last long. i've seen sweet justice
come swift and sure at the business end of a baseball bat.
and the cops know about it, and allow it, 'cause they're
just as sick of it as i am. this neighborhood is peaceful
MOST of the time, but every once in a while, a corpse does
wash up on the shore.
down the street, however, on seventh and central, it's
hardcore 24/7. once in a while, i'll get stranded and have
to walk home through this part of town and it's fucking
scary. people there got nothing to lose, blow jobs going
down right in front of the salvation army. old drunks
staggering down the street like zombies, like the dawn of
the dead, pissing on themselves. walkin' in pants stiff
with their piss. the hookers are terrifying. just plain
bone-chilling. unbelievably, there's no shortage of
customers as evidenced by the plethora of used condoms
dotting the landscape. i just keep my fucking head down
and keep walking. you can't be an objective observer in
this place 'cause you'll go mad. this place just IS.
i got the Greyhound station between us and them and that's
my magical demarcation line. i can't stop human nature.
if people want to kill themselves with night train and
crack, that's their business. to close this subject, let
me say that i really like living where i live. i can
make noise all night, i don't have to hear anyone else's
kids gurgling and farting. i can be part of society
without being social. i don't have to join; i can observe.
i can watch the world approach the coming apocalypse and
at least feel like i haven't dicked my whole life away
in some factory counting washers or sewing buttons.
it think this is how Boxcar Willie felt right before he
kicked the chair out from under the F.T.W. brothers.
KINGJIZZO