What is this all about? Maybe you should read the READ ME READ ME.
october 19, 1996: d.a.y.b.y.d.a.y
three things i pray ...
Sometimes, this is how we do it.
The glaring sun and pummelling noise of the jackhammer are medicinal.
I know everyone on the street, in the stores.
"Hey Rebecca, how's it going?"
"Hey Rebecca, you look great!"
"Hey, Rebecca, how's the writing going?"
Nothing is where it used to be. What happened to the Post Office?
"Rebecca, I have to go out with those bad people tonight. Save me from the bad people."
"Jay, lie to them. Don't let them into your mind. don't let them into your mind."
I want to protect him.
He is afraid to read anything I write for fear that he will not like it.
"Rebecca, pay attention to me, not to the commercials on TV!"
"Can we turn this to the presidential debate instead of baseball?"
I think I'm starving, but I can't eat.
I'm neither fatter nor thinner. Just more cold.
The only thing more boring than being forced to watch a boring video is being forced to watch a boring video that I cannot even hear because an even more boring person is talking over it.
"Anyone need a job? Hawhaw. Crash dummy job available! Haw Haw."
"The trick is, you must learn to blend in with the crowd."
People tend to think that their esoteric knowledge is so important. "As I the traffic cop was telling me the other day ..."
Where is the Post Office these days?
"... good social attitude ... "
"Sure, I don't mind. Drive home safely."
I do not have insomnia ... I just do not want to sleep.
"Let's get together Sunday."
I swear, I'm quitting this time.
"How do you pronounce that, la-ron-go-lo-gist?"
Writing on my notepad, balanced on my steering wheel.
It never comes out like I want it to.
The sun is blinding; the jackhammer is deafening.
Why am I so cold?
"Things are just rolling off you."
"Nothing is bothering you."
"Poetic license, dude."
"Everybody has someone ...."
This was a week when dreams started, slowly, to segue into reality.
I had a blissful weekend down in the Peninsula, hanging out with old friends from college, with whom, amazingly, I still click. Spent a torrid eve in the peninsula, then suntanned with my idol femme fatale gangsta homegirl Kristin all day Sunday. She even cooked me an omelette. Man o man I love to be cooked a good omelette.
I finally got a keyboard. I started to play it. It is too quiet. The sound of my fingers hitting the keys overwhelms the music of the notes.
I found out that one of my favorite writers in the world -- John Stoltenberg -- would be editing personally my article for On the Issues. Three years ago I would have flipped to have him read my shit, much less mark it with his stamp of approval and improve it with his genius pen.
I succeeded in turning Traffic School into a worthwhile experience by taking notes through the whole event, and escaping to the Elbo Room for a refreshing Bailey's coffee at break, to the tune of jukebox Public Enemy: White Man's Heaven Is Black Man's Hell.
I started a new mailing list, and Friday an awesome web site stated an interest in web-hosting it.
Be prepared, World Wide Testeria.
I got to hang out with my homegang Christine and Joe at Christine's workplace, and I was lucky enough to receive a serenade or two from my favorite writerstrummer. Owen and Heather tell me that I am going to be famous. I made some sort of impression on someone.
I took a walk down Market Street.
I talked about Media and ate Thai food. Someone please remind me to eat next time I get all emotional and depressed. Good company helps too.
Missing another party, but "it's worth it."
"Things are just rolling off me," I'm told. "Nothing is bothering me."
Perhaps numbness is the state of being extremely oversensitive, I think to myself, as I collapse into sleep, Bailey's light seeping into my blood, Sarah Vaughn's cooing of "Why Can't I" floating into my junior one-bedroom.
tell me about it.
or, if you must, back to Rebecca's Revenge