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Tuesday, July 18th, 2006
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11:08 am - Latest Craigslist Jewel: Ass 4 A/C
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trading ass for a/c - w4m
Reply to: pers-183185171@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-17, 6:09PM
petite white college cutie tired of sweating in this heat. so if you are a
fun guy with a/c you can have your way with me all weekend. i'll even get a
morning after pill if you like it raw like that. send me your pics and info
when you reply if we have a deal.
Original URL: http://losangeles.craigslist.org/wst/cas/183185171.html
...So how much is a window unit these days anyway?
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(comment on this)
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| Monday, July 17th, 2006
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4:37 pm - From the past......
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| Sunday, July 16th, 2006
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12:58 pm - WW3
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I really think so. Israel will feel forced to defend its existence by terrorizing unstable, ineffective and undemocratic governments through increasingly reckless aggression which unfortunately will further antagonize the disgruntled populaces and ultimately breed more jihadis. Bush needs war as well as the unchecked Olmert.
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(comment on this)
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| Saturday, July 15th, 2006
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4:29 pm - Don't Believe in Hell?
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Then spend some time here as an M4W...
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12:05 pm - Puss 'n Boots
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Just got a call from X... she had read some earlier blogpost and she was sad... and worried. Said the world would lose such a wonder--- Butfuck that noise! First, there's absolutely no shortage of people on this planet, wonders and non-wonders. Also,nice guys, if I am one, finish last anyway so neither the world nor i would be that put out. See, I'm not buying any platitudes or Cliche Soup for the Soul chunks of sPam at the moment. Life's a battle. Head into it with all the armor and training you have, or just fucking hand over your dogtags right now. I'm not sure where my level of preparedness lies in that gamut, but that's how I feel. And "Feelings are good." "It's okay to feel sad." "It's okay to cry", she says... and then suddenly I remember driving north through the Guatemalan highlands, heading back to old familiar Mexico and blaring out to the green hills which could be Ireland, the Free to Be You and Me album with Alan Alda and that chick from Saturday Night live who died too young of cancer...... But the thing is though, it's really not, is it? It's really not okay to feel sad, to feel really sad, and to listen to it when that deep sadness says very clearly to you, "Stop the world, i want to get off. I really fucking mean it, man. Let me the fuck off this shitty ride."
And that by the way, was the first play i was in as a child. they wanted a girl so they went to my sister, but she was terrified -- the role was a living horror: 1 tiny, fragile person crouched in child's pose crying at the end of a dark stage into a blinding white stagelight. role to be played to uncountable audience members watching mute like shocked zoo-goers from blacked out seats. ab said Fuck that, i'm not interested in your crappy Gordon Community Center sucker role. And so they turned to me with the same offer. Sure, bright light sounded good, always has to me. No doubt about it, I am the proverbial moth to the flame, a fireworshipper who would gladly soar right into the sun's flames. Better than this other dark whole I'm living in at my house of my unaccountable parents behind closed shouting doors, I must've reasoned in my seven-year-old mind. Yes, shove me in your light and I will cry for you. And so they did. And I cried, real kid tears and I tasted them in my mouth. Because I was so scared sticking out there alone on the stage like that with nothing but bright stagelight. And that was the first time, the first bar mitzvah drum circle burning man celebration of sorts where the light pushed back the dark pit. I mean, if I was born in a hospital with bright lights and the loving hands of family members reaching out for me, then that's news to me and I maybe I could use that narrative to create a false sense of current stability. But when your parents divorce you as kids, you have a pretty good chance of losing out by default on a lot of the Great Expectations intro to your life... the charming "how we met" (and thus How one meets one's mate), "how we decided to have you", the wedding pictures, the whole background to your background. And so you regard the early years as probably adoption from a foreign war-torn country. I've always wondered about those foreign people from whom I arose. Shit, I'm not even technically Jewish even in this narrative -- mom's mom was not only not a jew, she mocked me for the "Hebrew" habits I used to bother with as a kid-adrift... lighting candles on a Friday night when we visited her in Key West.
Yeah, life's a bitch, when you're from another planet. You never truly ever belong. And you can put all your fucking energy to learning another language: hebrew, french, haitian creole, spanish, zapotec... woman... but you never will fit in anywhere until you learn your own language first. And what is that language? It's the original text of your biography. And here, I will careen perilously close to the cliche-railguard, but without knowing your roots, biological but also the plot line of how you got to where you could start remembering and processing it for yourself, you are bound to live a life of desperate experimenting. An uncertain life in which every belief which could bulwark you against the wind, sinks into existential mud with the slightest weight applied to it. ***I just made the mistake of readint the above. (Sorry, apparently you have too.) I'm lost as to where I'm going. In pixel and in life. It's the afternoon and I've been sitting indoors in sunny Marina del rey all day. If I want to feel good and I don't want to feel sad, I need to get outdoors, get some food in me to sop up the neural transmitting soup run some errands --- car wash, don't know why this is important to me. i think it's somehow pussy-related though ---and buy Buke's Women.
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| Thursday, July 13th, 2006
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12:55 pm - Doh
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Just realized I forgot to take my Klonopin this morning. Guess I was distracted. Just popped it. There, that should at least make the anxiety about work etc subside a little. Fuck. Now it's lunch, will eat a trader joe's turkey sandwich and do more pushups as is my wont.. things I do to try to at least appease my demons.
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(comment on this)
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10:37 am - This Morning's To-Do List: Kill Off Self
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[Excerpted from an email I wrote to my therapist]
This morning I woke up feeling compelled to kill myself. I stayed in bed half an hour
after my alarm clock buzzed off, trying to figure out what to do about this unanticipated responsibility. Finally, I forced myself out to the beach, where I squatted motionless for 20 minutes staring at the uninviting churned-up low-tide waves, then started walking, passing an attractive woman in a hippie skirt with a stick, who unfortunately was writing religious propaganda in the sand... "God is Great. Jesus, bless us. Thy will be done." over and over down the beach. I didn't say anything, nor did I fuck up her sand prayers with my feet, as I felt like doing. Eventually, I forced myself to do 50 angry pushups and jump in the turbid water. Like Sandwoman, I told myself, if I can manage to push myself into the water, maybe it will indicate to some force or to myself that I'm up for sticking around for another spin of the world, birth-like. Warm into cold as an act of will to live. Nope, no change in my feelings or my sense of duty to kill myself. Only thing it did was make me wet, cold and sandy. In for one minute and one wave and then I ran home to shower and shave (for the first time this week). When I got out, the phone was ringing. It was my dad. "Not good," I answered his rote inquiry as to my wellbeing. "I'm wondering about how to take a bottle of sleeping pills. I guess you just swallow, huh?"
"Oh Alex," he started, audibly upset, "I hear you. I'm so depressed about mumma... she's not doing well." blah blah....... The guy never actually indicated he had heard me or the acute misery I was experiencing at the moment of his call and the unpleasant to-do item looking at me from my hand. When i got angry about his lack of hearing me, he said, "I feel like Israel, with attacks on more than one front." (If I'm Hamas, I guess my grandmother is Hezbollah?) When I told him I felt like he called me because he wanted to talk AT someone, he informed me he could call 50 different people if that's how I felt. So I told him to call them and hung up. Then I opened a bottle and swalled a second zoloft, something I've never done before... but which I think has helped me somewhat. Also helpful was calling my aunt who informed me that "Bubbi (my grandma) is doing much much better. She managed to change her own cholostemy bag today and will probably be going home next week." She and I then bonded on my dad's self-obsession, his negativity etc. etc. Anyway, I'm feeling a wee-bit better now. Wish I could talk to my doctor (i.e. dad) about increasing zoloft, but the guy is toxicly negative and self-absorbed and apt to take advantage of my medical call to talk about how his life is so difficult. My work still feels mostly doomed to fail, but I heard back from the MTV folks about my interview. They apologized for not contacting me --- Gideon Yago's in Africa -- and announced the thing will air on MTV next Friday.
Today, we have a mtg to discuss what everyone is doing/accomplishing yadda yadda. At least I now have that thing to announce (to balance off the 20 things I've initiated which have failed.) Okay, time to work. Thanks for listening/reading, Pxxxx.
Your client-friend,
Alex
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, July 2nd, 2006
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11:16 am - Brutal Birthday
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| Friday, June 30th, 2006
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6:10 am - 18 x 2 = 36
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| Monday, May 29th, 2006
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11:04 pm - VBDC Followup...
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I went back this afternoon, after a day writing and puttering about my dark apartment. I actually managed to convince myself that it was cold and cloudy outside, when at 5, I finally went out, carrying my djembe and other 200 pounds of crap down on foot down Speedway to the circle. I wasn't exactly tramautized by the previous night's exchange, but I did feel a little skittish and besides dressing in goofy ass straight street closes, I brought along a Lucha Libre mask to further hide my identity in case Monster returned to these parts. Anyway, all was smooth. As usual, I was greeted with hugs and drugs and some prime real estate right along the circle. Not too many familiar faces right now, I thought, as I spread my sheet out on the sand. Not even Fardin and Ann had arrived, which of course was a prime consideration for whether I'd even be at the circle this one day after my runin. It even occured to me that maybe Fardin and Ann intentionally let me get her a while before them so I could reacclimate myself and be reminded that people are basically good and godly. Anyway, not a whole lot left to say. Saved the world a little and am pretty exhausted. I've got a snippet here from the afternoon. It's hard to see what you're seeing at first, but hang in there, all shall be revealed...
http://www.ifilm.com/ifilmdetail/2730802
peace,
alex
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(comment on this)
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12:04 pm - Venice Beach Drunk Cunt
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For ten years I’ve headed out to the circle to pound air and sand as Catalina’s reach-arounds pummel the filthy Venice shore. And in this whole damned decade of drinking, smoking, howling and skirt chasing, I’ve never gotten more than a shove-off from some dude I’d probably gotten too close to. Until last night. Not surprising, it was a fucking Persian who nearly got me teeth shoved down my pants and my nuts crammed into my ears. His name is Ouri.
First off, I have to mention that the fault really lies with Persian, that strange language they speak in Iran, Afghanistan and some other stan I can’t think of at the moment. Every Persian speaker I’ve spoken with – Oh, and if you ask them, What do you speak, they say, “Persian.”, but if you ask them Do you speak Persian, they say, I speak Farsi – has led me astray from the outset. From their gurglings, I always mistake these dark-skinned persons for mutes of deafs or otherwise speech inpedimenteed. Now, I dig languages, speak about four of them, but these Persians, they speak with a mouthful of olive pits and their tongues never manage to move as it should to get the words out in time. I spend a lot of time nodding, trying to decipher what the fuck they’re trying to say… guessing, really. Anyway, there I am, holding candlelit court on my West African djembe, with my tribe of fellow tokers and drunks and noise makers and lovers when I’m suddenly tapped rather pointedly by Ouri.
Hold on, let me tell you about Ouri. He’s this 70-year-old fellow who a decade ago crossed the world of Tehrani Islam and negotiated the maze of Middle Eastern byzantry to get some papers probably in Amman or Damascus to get his aging ass over to the great Satan, the West. God knows what this speaker of about six English words with a back that’s curved and broken in about fifteen places does to pay for his grub or his ironed Sears pants, but I’ve known the guy a couple years now since my lending him my drum some afternoon when I needed to dance and chase sand. It was one of those lost in space afternoons in which I drift off from circle to smoky gathering to open sea and then repeat for hours until goose flesh finally reminded me of my mortality and the ever stretching of my goatskin head from under unknown palms. Shit, I must’ve thought, I’ve been gone half a day with all my crap somewhere in that swarm of drunks and lechers… After odyssies such as these, being able to return home to find the kingdom in tact with the drum faithfully faithful to me awaiting the embrace of my bloodied fingers, it can make a man weep for joy and I have done just that. I had one such reunion with my djembe after 4 hours of separation while she was in Ouri’s care. I think I’ve loved the guy ever since.
So, last night, the gnarly pointy finger of weird, mute Ouri pokes me sharp in the ribs and I look to see this great, beached drunk cunt lying smack against the kingdom’s bulwarks. Fine, I think. Some marine carcass has washed up on our shore, it’s the price you pay for beachfront (I mean, drum circle-front) property. I’m not getting involved in this. Fuck her. Eventually, she’ll get her rotting fish biscuit ass up herself (hopefully before puking), or some wolf will drag her off and devour her under a lifeguard tower. (It was nighttime and the guards had long driven off in their yellow pickup trucks with sirens flashing to alert would-be swimmers they’re on their own.) Fuck her, I thought. Stay in our presence and behave yourself and enjoy our community of drunks and stoners, or get lost. Up to you, drunk cunt. I nodded to Ouri, as if to say, “It’s cool. Let her lie there and pass gas. Fuck her.”
But I had missed something and another jabby rib poke made me aware that in conjunction with drunk cunt’s arrival, our fine line of candles had been completely extinguished and the night felt cooler and darker. In a mute plea for justice and retribution, Ouri’s finger fingered the cunt.
“Hey! Why’d you blow out our candles?” I asked with King Solomon like fairness.
“Fuck you, asshole!” and a handful of sand from her fatty flesh mit squarely showered Ouri’s bent spectacles and jabbering incoherent mouth with stinky cunt sand. Ouri sputtered and I raised my voice.
“Hey! Hey! You have to go now. You have to—“
But before I could punctuate this command with an outstretched hand, to point her back to the ocean from which she rolled, a fucking gorilla fell from the sky, leaping and barking at me from behind a wall of muscle armor, You! You muthafucka! What the fuck you think you’re saying to my girl, huh? I’m gonna kick your ass, you fucker. You’re dead, fuckhead. Get ready for me to kick your fucking little asshole, you fuckhead!
I tried to explain to this simian skelletor the rules, the etiquette of drum circle mores. Look, man --- Dude-- I tried to explain respectfully while maintaining the dignity of my station --- We are a peaceful tribe with a long lineage of Drum Circle society, but my words were incomprehensible to this lump of charging clay. He wanted my blood on his crystal methed hands and as he reached down with one claw and lifted my 141 pounds by my tearing Guatemalan print shirt, it became clear to me that if I actually stood up to defend myself, I’d lose some teeth.
Things happened fast for the drum circle.
Remember, it’s night, the air is thick with bud smoke and Bud fumes and ocean darkness and there’s more noise and energy pulsing from this circle of 400 than all of the rest of this scrambling planet can muster. No more than a few seconds passed, I’d have to guess, before my folks scrambled to intervene in my ambush and violent kidnapping. But it felt like an hour that I dangled in this beast’s claw while Drunk Cunt managed to raise herself on one hoof, hiss and throw sand into my eyes and mouth. Ouri hobbled to my defense but was shoved back into his rocking chair by one of the creature’s hind limbs. My brain raced around for protection or a silver lining to the impending torrent of shock and awe that loomed inevitably like reconstructive bone and tissue surgery. Am I safer here, on my back, feet in the air, in the bowels of the circle, or in the open, presumably within view of the binocular-scoping cops? If I got the shit kicked out of me by this cur, would I also have the added disgrace of being issued a ticket for disturbing the peace? My brain raced as Fardin and an unknown Mexican awoke.
Words were said to the creature’s fists. “He insulted my girl,” he bellowed. His girl? Drunk cunt was his girlfriend? Unlikely. Probably didn’t even know her. Maybe he once fucked her, or raped her, but loved her? Fuck that. Not in his vocabulary. But his rage, his skin piercings and his black Cross tattoo was 100% fucking terrifyingly real. And it was all focused on my dangling body.
I never would’ve guess that olive pit juggling Fardin would be capable of negotiating such a beast away from my demise, convincing my would be assassin to let me flop to the ground and finish spitting sand from my mouth. I could give a shit about not fighting, not defending my throne to this monster. Spitting was fine for now. In fact, it was kind of cool and rude. There was dignity and honor in spitting. It gave the impression that I had been slugged a good one and was expelling some annoying blood. My people, my family came up and patted me. Eats good now… Asha koach, someone uttered as they extended a hand. My camera was handed back to me. Apparently I intended to capture the scene of my own facial reconstruction. Order was reestablished, drunk cunt rolled away a little spitting and hissing, and crystal meth-head slinked back into the night with a random threat or two.
Later, when the cops lit up the night with their surround-sound tractor beams of Toyota light, I continued drumming a minute in defiance, but secretly I was grateful for their big brother presence. Miraculously, I found all my belongings from the sand as well as a pair of drunk cunt shoes. I walked up to the fleshy mass in the center of those Toyota headlight beams and dropped her shoes at her feet. She looked up with a twinge of spiteful remorse. “I’m sorry… asshole.” She gurgled some more and I so wanted to kick her in her face. But cop light blinded me and I didn’t know how closely I was being watched from these five vehicles. So, I feigned adjusting my drum on the ground to scoop just enough sand to casually dash her eyes and gaping piehole. It was a swift movement that wasn’t noticed by the platoon of cops but there was connection and as I spun to go, I heard her react. Long, wailing sobs. A crescendo of sorrowful spew. I left, and the cops left with me. Or maybe I followed them, I don’t know. Ouri had left, unknown Mexican and Fardin had left. Just me, followed by cops whose presence facilitated my finding shoes and shit. Drunk cunt’s sobs were swallowed by wave noise and Toyota engine and human murmerings with the occasional rebellious drumming.
Along the boardwalk and on foot, Josue, a familiar face for half a decade told me in crappy Portugese English that he had “watched” me and my fight. “That guy… he wanted… fight all day.” Suddenly, my outrage was rekindled and at the same time I saw the fucking wastrel careening down the boardwalk 200 yards ahead. The cops continued to follow me and I felt emboldened. “Thank you,” I said into the open, but dark window of the cruiser. “You guys don’t realize it, but arriving when you did, you probably saved my fucking life,” I lied to them.
“Did someone threaten you, sir?,” a blond woman cop asked.
“Yeah, he said, ‘I’m gonna kill you.’”
“Do you want to press charges?” The question hung there, following me as I walked stoned and they continued driving behind me slightly. Press charges. Hmm. Have my own enemy forever at the circle. Always looking over my shoulder for a blade in my back.
“No.” And thinking of the dime bag of sandy pot in my back pocket and open bottle of Heineken in my camel pack, “I’m not entirely law-abiding, myself… But I think I respect other people.”
“You’re just having a good time, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you think everybody should have a good time, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll keep following him. We’ve been watching him all afternoon. We’ll take care of this later, when you’re not around.” And she pulled the vehicle ahead, tracking her prey.
Josue was still with me. “I feel a little bad,” I said, “you know, getting the fucking cops involved.”
“Very funny. You say, “I break laws! You very funny.”
Yeah.
“He want fight all day. Now he get fight. Fuck him.”
Yeah.
I was still thinking about how my circle experience might change now, looking over my shoulder or whatever when Fardin and his girlfriend Ann appeared on the boardwalk. I gave them hugs and told them about the cops. They gave my tired ass a ride home to Marina Del Rey. It was only half a mile, but every muscle was worn. Back at my place we smoked and unable to find Persian food, we took Luke for a beach run over to Gaby’s Lebanese for pita and yummy mush food. Fucking Fardin insisted on following the meal with some sweet puffs on the apple tobacco hooka. Passersby assumed we were openly smoking hash in the streets. A talkative old veteran from WW2 and the Korean War welcomed “you Persians” to his country. We thanked him and called it a night.
http://www.ifilm.com/ifilmdetail/2729070
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, March 31st, 2006
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11:43 am - testing EFP option
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| Thursday, December 8th, 2005
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5:09 pm - Dear B
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| Monday, December 5th, 2005
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11:45 pm - !!!!!!!!!!!!!
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I JUST SAW A FUCKING SEAL! I thought it was a shark, but it's just a seal.
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(comment on this)
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11:36 pm - Hertz
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The boys were frisky when I got home so I gave them tuna. Actually, I had been planning on cooking some Trader Joe’s Mac-tuna and cheese for a week, but you’re always more motivated to cook for others, right? So, having boiled up the noodles with a splash of milk---I wanted to save most of it for my morning bran---I empty the canned albacore and packet contents into the saucepan. Then, pouring over the mini kitchen sink, I spilled the excess creamy, Cheeto’s-colored sauce down the drain to the marina two feet below. Multiple servings and a deep glass of red later, a creature of some mass bumped against the cabin’s port wall, causing me to nearly empty my wine, and it occurred to me that besides the cannibalistic aspect of feeding fish more fish, there might also be something ill-advised about getting these junkyard beasts ---raised in L.A. River run-off, playing among the sunken tires and missing persons---to associate me with food. Maybe dining on TJ’s mac-a-tuna and cheese and wine, they’ll evolve new tastes: Like for me, for instance.
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, December 2nd, 2005
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10:14 pm - Voice Post
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2:09 pm - Happy First Birthday, Maya!!!!
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Dear Maya,
I can't believe you arrived in our lives a year ago already... wish I could kiss you and tickle you in person today. Have a very happy birthday, beautiful niece!
OXOXOXXticklesXOXOXOX
love,
Uncle Alex
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(comment on this)
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| Tuesday, November 29th, 2005
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11:06 pm - Still Waters
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It's so quiet here in the marina tonight, so little breeze... sitting here at my dining table/office, i could almost believe i'm in a normal, land apartment. Got the space heater running high and a candle's burning, flickering near the doorway. Replayed last night's supper and about to drop off from the red wine. A mellow, low-stimulation meal at the end of a long, stressful day.
AF
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(comment on this)
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| Monday, November 28th, 2005
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11:40 pm - Off the Grid
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Once again, I am drifting, nearly untethered, without as much as a utility in my name. “A few hundred yards behind Edie’s Diner” is my primary address. Earlier tonight, all of this – and the feeling of sad loneliness after B’s departure – was bringing me way down, but after some dinner of carrot soup, a sourdough boule and spinach salad with a glass of merlot and I’m doing okay. No wind tonight, so my apartment isn’t jostling around, slowly fraying the rope (there must be a more maritime term) and ensuring I’ll have another day of rocking back and forth at work. It’s peaceful, not even those overfed marina sea bass are upsetting the tranquility. They even fixed the lights in my onshore bathroom so all’s looking well for the moment. I miss Becca pretty badly, but I’ll survive with my own company.
AF
current music: In my mind, i've gone to carolina.
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, November 25th, 2005
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8:44 am - Welcome to my new Aboat
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Last monday, my friend and de facto landlord-sublettor, Ci, moved back home and requested I start looking for somewhere else to shack up. It didn't take long. One of my first searches in Craigslist yielded the following post:
$165 - (weekly) SAILBOAT
Creative space in a small furnished boat suitable for writing,meditation, and/or retreat.
Discover the serenity! Cool ocean breezes,dolphins,migrating whales,seals and pelicans.
Very private safe and tranquil.(All to yourself)
Fully equipped galley with small fridge,microwave,and two- burner hot plate.
Use of Marina restrooms 24/7 with showers 250 ft away(no bathroom on board).
Internet,telephone,and Direct TV capability.
Parking and utilities included.
If you are an individualist,unconventional,free spirited,and have a passionate love affair with the Sea, then spending time on my sailboat might be a rich,exciting experience for you.I would prefer to rent it out for 2 months or more.
And so, on Tues, that's where I moved into. Paid through January 16. A boat called Sanctuary.
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