28.1.05

visceral vocation

my latest client brought mcdonalds.
usually they bring wine, but in their nervousness, forget the wine opener.
usually they are dressed up, meticulously matted hair, snazzy underwear.
pulling gently at their collar.
this one was different. sweats. but not the puff daddy velour kind.
real sweats left over from the high school shot put team.
plenty of give and load of absorbent power.
i think it had been a while since a serious body cleansing.
but the client had no qualms. confident in the guarantee of my service.
100% satisfied or your money back. no gimmicks.
even the knock on the door was different.
usually its crisp, but tentative.
this was more like dropping a sandbag on a dock.
it startled me. i was watching tv upside down. i'm more entertained by
oprah floating in the air above her guests. it makes me feel like there's a helium's hope for her.
i opened the door and we stopped for a moment, just enough for my mind to race through
everything i've just reviewed here.
the client thrust the greasy bag at me.
12 piece meal or two cheeseburgers?
i demured.
i indicated for the client to enter with my best slide of tongue over teeth.
i may have drooled a bit.
it was just what the client needed.
before i could bat an eyelash, the bed was groaning.
i was left holding the bag.
i sniffed it.
the client waggled.
i sniffed again, then reached in for the luck of the draw.
the bed complained as i applied the reflective goo to my body.
later, as i munched away, i wondered idly if all this would catch up to me one day.
being an animal wrangler is wicked work.

18.1.05

Charles Shaw 2004 Sauvignon Blanc

this beard makes my face wider. it creates depth, going black white black white and back.
the hair on my face is harsh. it doesn't stand on the ceremony of curliness or gentle waving.
instead it focuses on piercing through the skin under it. i feel like a reverse porcupine.
and then there's this habit i have of reaching my upper lip down to the hair just beneath my lower lip
to feel the sharp texture rake across the soft skin. it's addictive, and i'm on my way to twelve
steps because it's getting in the way of my life. i look like a fucking idiot when i do it.
four sips of wine isn't juicing this blog entry from my dense mango the way i thought.
you have a dirty mind. sip. sip.
ok maybe so do i. sip.
i have nothing to say except that you couldn't pay me enough money to read other people's minds,
or allow them to read mine. what a horrible world that would be. would you really want to know?
i mean, what's deep. down. under the rocks and muck and sludge of repression and manners.
i shudder.
and then i dreamt that i saw a woman get hit by a train. right in front of me. she died. except i don't remember
the incident itself, but only the aftermath, where others whispered and gave looks in my presence:
'that's him. he was there. how terrible it must be to be him'
the woman was, at different times and all at once, julie santucci, linnea wildenradt and kate hudson.
not even lesbians commenting on porn lightened up my dream. i felt the sustained sting of needles against
my face, pressed on the pillow. my beard, dammit. and woke with a kink in my neck from sleeping on my face.
sip.
my friends write about the problems of the world, and all i can think about is the debate over my beard.
to shave or not.
smooth face for a day or no shaving for months.
eternal conflict. six of one, half a dozen of the other.
half empty?
i don't know whether to shit or go blind.
that's the needle in the haystack, or the straw
that broke the camel's back,
when i can't even hit the broad side of a barn.
jesus. jerry.
WWJD
don't even ask.
too many sips and i can't even feel past the numbness of my face
to the prick of my beard as i press my head in my hands and wonder
why the hell i have a blog.

8.1.05

Are you feeling Meaty or Freaky?

report
00:43
echo park

The Shortstop.
Local drinking establishment.
Purpose of visit: as "filmmakers" to meet "writers"
Form of communication: shouting at the top of your lungs, all-purpose smiles
Most interesting patrons: bleach blonde chick with bodacious na-na's urging thenselves through the gap in her low-cut tube top, funny ange fong
Bizarre facts: preponderance of the unreasonable tall, why is that hippie woman dancing alone?, i liked Swingers too, my greaser friend, but come on.
Conclusion: yuppie MEAT market

fangbot's boredom mirrored my disgust. despite the boobies, we left.

Lil' Joy.
Drinking establishment down the street from previous location.
Purpose of visit: to find some solace from the horror of the dangling meat. that's right, i said it.
Form of communication: sly winks, selective nudges, beard stroking, butt slapping
Most interesting patrons: 6'7" seriously impaired groper with thick moustache, vigorously embracing his 6'8" be-furred blonde companion.
Bizarre facts: the ceiling is falling, a mexican man threatens to call 911, the drinks are in plastic cups, that woman's dress is as big as my house.
Conclusion: yuppie FREAK market

Epilogue:
walking home in the rain, i considered these two places carefully as water dripped from my saturated sponge-like hair. emotionally, i took very different things. i was annoyed and uncomfortable at he former, and intrigued and a bit more relaxed at the latter. does this imply something about my character? do i prefer freak to meat?

the greatest question, one for all of us, is: should one be meaty or freaky?

only time will tell.

7.1.05

A word about the title of this blog

When the ancient Romans had one of their famed dinner parties, where all reclined sideways and stuff rich foods down their gullets before vomiting it all up in order to start again, there was one man who had control over the wine. The fruit of the vine came to the romans uncut and raw; thick liquid, pungent and powerful. It was this man, the Arbiter Bibendi, who decided how much to cut this cloying nectar with water in order to keep the party and just the right level of decadence. The Aribtier Bibendi was the judge of drinking.
I have no idea how this relates to me or this blog; I just remember it from Mrs. Crotty's Latin class my Freshman year in high school. And I thought it sounded cool. But apparently it's just a confusing and a little annoying to type out. I apologize.

a simple yet emphatic point

hear ye, o drivers of los angeles



TURN YOUR FUCKING LIGHTS ON WHEN IT'S RAINING