Tuesday, September 30, 2008

It's late, it's early.

It's 5am.
It's so quiet this time of night/day.
My windows are open and there is the slight smell of an earlier rain.
The only sounds are a few cars in the distance and our cats trying to get under my window blinds.
It's peaceful.
I feel content.
I feel at home.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Ghosts live in pockets.

I made a last minute decision and took a trip to S.F. to spend some time with a very good friend.
This isn't the most responsible thing to do.
I am unemployed and insanely broke.
I got a ticket on Greyhound.
I have never ridden a bus, with the exception of city transport or back in my school days.
Not that I am against it. I have just never done it.

Getting on the bus, there was a man in front of me.
He was in a Raiders sweater, had on a necklace the shape of Africa, was soiled and appeared to have wet his pants.
He handed the ticket taker his ticket sleeve. When he unfolded it there was a $5 bill inside.
"Oop, you may want that." He said handing it back.
"God damn ghost, I tell ya. The ghost is livin' in my pocket."
The ticket taker giggled.
"You don't believe me, but that ghost took all my money."

At some point I fell asleep and woke up at a stop.
The man got off the bus. When he got back on he had obviously re-wet his pants.
He sat across the aisle from me and would randomly say things about the ghost.
Or just randomly say "GHOST!"

In between talks of brothels and football teams, he got in a conversation with another passenger about this ghost.
He said he had taken the bus into Reno from Oakland the night before with over two grand in his pocket. He went to the liquor store and than checked his pockets and it was gone.
"The ghost stole it all from me! Can you believe that?"
"Well...uhh...that ain't no good."
"Two grand! Butcha can't sweat the small stuff."
"Ain't that the troof."
"What are you gonna do? Call the po-lice? They sure ain't gonna believe me."


Sunday, September 21, 2008

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Champagne and fuckin caviar.

Going to bars in a city you don't live in, alone, is a strange thing.
The sleaziest (and not in a good way) guys seem to have a spidey like sense that you are seeking entertainment. Its never the type of entertainment you want.
Just because I am alone, doesn't mean I am desperate. Can you smell it on me?
Maybe I am here to watch.
Maybe I am here to be alone.
I'm content being the observer.
I don't need, let alone want your attention or company.
Tonight is exceedingly odd.
I'm overhearing girls talking football players and guys talking hair.

I found the diviest bar I could, which wasn't all that easy in a town where everyone can afford Audi convertibles and buy the best set of tits.
The girls are all teetering around in heels as tall as the buildings and skirts even higher.
The boys are walking around like roosters with their chests puffed up and hair thats perfectly combed.
Everyone is beautiful, but only in the billboard sense.
Hours spent at the gym, at a tanning booth and days spent in front of a mirror.
The only way you could see more skin would be to spend a week in a nudist colony.
People really aspire to look, live, like this.
Their main focus is to look like society's idea of perfection.
Who the fuck was it that thought this is what perfection looks like?
Where does personality go when all your thoughts are focused on appearance?
Do they strive to be an “individual” like everyone I know?
They don't stand out in a crowd. They blend.
Maybe this is what they want.
The perfect camouflage.
In a sea of blond and flesh.
In a fucking landslid of designer brands and fuck me pumps.

I wonder what they find passion in.
What do they believe in?
I cant even dream up something that they would die for.
That special sale?
The fastest car?
The perfect polo?
The richest boyfriend?
The biggest fucking diamond?

These are people planning/deciding my future.
Our future.
To bad our future can't be found in fillet mignon, champagne and caviar.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008