A man and woman are walking out of that pink stucco building in Hollywood. I’m not going to get super specific about the address and whatnot, protecting the rights of the innocent, although who’s ever innocent nowadays. Anyway, you know the building I’m talking about, or one just like it. It’s in that lower middle class section of hollywood that seems to be endlessly two to three stories high. The building was clearly pink stucco but you could only know that if you’d seen it that last time it was painted, circa 1972, it’s almost worn to beige and the stucco’s been nearly blown smooth. The building has a name too, I won’t tell you what it is but you can imagine it’s something like “4 Palms” or “Tropic West” or some such extravagance.
It’s just that this building, in all of it’s incarnations, seems to pull me off topic, my eyes wander from corner to corner and eaves to gutter. I find myself following the crawling ivy from root to stem to leave and back again.
And the man and woman I’m supposed to be watching are now well away and down the block.
They walk with that slow and deliberate cadence of people trying to draw it out, they know it’s coming to and end and yet here they are, staring off in different directions but unwilling to get on with it swiftly. They walk as though a magnetic force is both compelling and repulsing them simultaneously. They walk in fear and yet they walk with hope. If either of them were daring enough to act outside of this strange dance they’d be there at the finish line ahead of all the rest.
I think of walking by and shoulder checking either one so that they can fall, slightly, into the other. When their flesh meets, outside and for the world to see they could’t help but wind up at their inevitable destination that much faster.
They stop in front of a car, it’s small and black and good with gas.
The moment beyond the embrace is such sweet pain. The agony is my ecstasy.
This is why I watch.

Jackie is black, almost entirely black with one white splotch in the center of his chest. I call that his third eye. I know the third eye is meant to be on the forehead, according to the Hindi’s at least, but I like to think of that small white pool as Jackie’s third eye because his instincts seem to come from his heart.
You can see other cats gut reactions take on a cerebral, almost over-thought pattern but not Jackie, Jackie is all heart. The other day he leapt three stories going after an escaped parakeet from apartment 4b. He didn’t catch it but you could see that he really gave it his all.
Jackie likes to eat Flint River Ranch all natural cat food because it’s got human grade ingredients and Jackie can really tell the difference. I tried it since it says that people can eat it too but it had a strange pasty taste to it that didn’t agree with me and it left a coating in my mouth that I could taste for a few hours. But old Jackie sure does like it. One time I ran out and the only food they sell at the liquor store down the street is 9 Lives, yuck, Jackie was not happy about that at all.
I figured out a way to never run out of his favorite food again. I just set the cans out in my cupboard next to my food and when I’m getting low on my food I can easily see that Jackie’s food is running out too.
Jackie and I compliment each other, everyone who knows us says so. I’m mostly a thinker and Jackie is a man of action.

The sun is streaming in through the floor to ceiling window of the oddly square room, the sunlight covers me and burns, maybe there is something off-center to the cube of it, a raised portion that I’m sure to trip on if I try to get onto it, it’s like a small stage, probably should have a desk on it but as it is there are only heaps of toys, the blue walls are cold and dirty, they would be falling in on me if they weren’t stitched together by abstract children’s art, there are three small holes in the far right corner of the wood floor, the mice have become useful with tools, a pile of tattered papers sits in the center of the floor.

A bowl, a dirty bowl is right below me, a spoon sits perched on the rim but ready to fall, the hair on the back of my neck is standing up, bugs, it’s sure to attract bugs, I pick up the bowl and I’m dizzy, the spoon falls to the ground where it sends a spray of droplets of milk about it, I can feel my knees buckling and the white bottom of the bowl is now alive and moving, twisting and turning as i move the bowl, it’s cold, so cold, milk is sloshing out of the bowl and falling on my feet, it’s in between my toes, I can feel it drying and remaining wet at the same time, it’s sticky, so sticky, I’m sweating now. The bowl is smooth and wet, the wetness is falling in a stream to the floor, I can feel my knees giving way again.

As a child we never got sugar cereal, we got whole wheat and oat bran, we got fiber and flax and puffed rice, we got honey, I wanted sugar, I wanted chemically induced crunch that was the same from first bite to last, I wanted stale marshmallows and frosting, I wanted what I knew all the other little kids kind parents gave them, I wanted to feel it in my mouth, that joy and life. It was never here, sitting at the dirty table with plastic red and white paisley covering, arms sticking to the top, squeezing honey into a bowl of soggy puffed rice, crying, silently screaming for rice crispys, this is my lot, this is my life, in the other room, just a few feet away, separated only by the distinction of dining room and kitchen is the provider, standing there smiling…

A fishbowl, I had a fishbowl once with a tiny octopus I’d caught in the tide pools, I knew the octopus would die, I knew we needed salt water and that it was somehow different than adding sea salt to tap water. I held onto that smooth fish bowl and starred at the octopus for hours knowing, helplessly that he was dying and there was nothing I could do for him. My tears couldn’t fill his bowl enough to provide him with life.

I’m lifting the bowl high above my head and marching into the kitchen where my mom is standing. This isn’t right! We can save Him! I’m screaming at her, if she wants to kill him she can just kill him now and get it over with. I never get anything I want and now it’s murder! The water is splashing out of his tank and falling onto me, it’s running down my rams and splashing onto my shoulders, a wave crashes against on side of the bowl sending a cascade out and over and down where it lands upon my feet, it’s in between my toes.

Back in the room I can feel the milk between my toes, I have lost so much, the milk is death, it’s death and decay. I raise the bowl above my head and let the milk pour over my face and wash away my tears.

I need a mop.

The edges were crumbling. Tiny bits of opposing molecules had come together to create a state of decomposition, they swirled about each other until the stronger ones, overpowering those inferior, consumed them and made what was, a distant thing and left the mass slowly eroding into nothingness. And if you got too close, you could easily fall off into oblivion. Falling for always and forever. Falling until you were no longer falling but floating, falling until the dominant molecules consumed you, captured and held you. Then the battle would begin anew with flailing limbs and shallow breaths, the battle for forever.
The edges were crumbling and the sea would soon be upon them.

I was then hounded by the teacher almost daily because the bike I’d gotten was apparently “too big for her” and because of that she couldn’t go very fast on it. I went down to the track at their school and watched her ride it and she didn’t go very fast but She’s only 4 years old and that didn’t really bother me. I told the teacher this and she rolled her eyes.

Today at her school they had track and field events that ended with a three mile bike ride that only the “big guys” did(6 year olds). Clementine and I have been talking about bikes a lot and she knows I’ve been going on long rides, I’ve done 2 40 mile rides just this week, and she’d mentioned that she wished she could be in the “big guys”(6 year olds) race.

During the track and field events I asked her teacher if she could do the race and a 6 year old kid said “Clementine’s too slow” but the teacher said if Clementine wanted to that it was ok and no one could make fun of her when she didn’t finish.

I’ve gotta say I was a little pissed about all this, it just seemed disingenuous and counter productive. I got Clementine and we walked the 1/4 mile track they were going to race and talked about every pothole and slant, when to pass and how to enter the turns to minimize slowing. I showed her how to pass other kids on the straight away and talked about doing everything you could, without endangering anyone,  to never let anyone pass her.
She won the race today a full lap and a half ahead of everyone. I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of anything in my entire life. She beat a bunch of 6 year old boys on a pink barbie bike. And that snotty 6 year old kid was BUMMED!

Well, not wanting to spoil the mood I wrote about the one real and meaningful experience I’ve had with Twilight.

Edwards Starry Eyes,

Eggs, free range, organic
Juice, apple, organic

There is one item that can not be spoken aloud or silently, it just is. The first time I purchased this I did so with a certain profound reverence. After that it  was everything I could muster to make this a menial task. It never has been.

Rice milk
Almond milk
Ground turkey, kosher

It’s cold out and I have to pull the zipper on my hoodie way up to keep warmth close to my chest, there are also feelings I’m tying up in there and I feel more secure, more protected with my armor all buttoned up.

Bread, sliced
Butter, salted

I walk with purpose into the store, eyes up and sure footed. Had you asked me why I was there that evening I might have replied “lunch items for my kids” or quoted you the price of tea in china…$1.84/25 bags. But I know the truth and I would have bet you knew it too. We can both see through my confident act.

Olive oil, extra virgin
Romaine, hearts

Back and forth through the fluorescence, the coupons calling to me, begging me to stray from my purpose. I hadn’t cared, the first time I read that word, I pretended not to read it again, but I hadn’t really cared and I kept telling myself that, hoping to eventually believe it.

Juicy juice, juice box
half & half

The normal internal dialogue has all but died, yesterday I would have silently asserted that the cookies in my cart are for my wife. Today you know what’s for who, today you see the mess of it all on my face, today there is no good explanation I can give to you or myself. It’s all too obvious.

Lunchmeat
Fruit

I couldn’t get them first, they would have sat alone in the center of my cart and called out to everyone I passed, having gotten them last creates the same effect but adds some altitude because they now sit upon an alter of groceries. Time slows, the checkout line, there is no refuge.

Gum
Mints

Our eyes met. I knew instantly where they belonged, that precious copy of GQ, my saviour. His starry eyes. I placed the blood sucker upon the box of blood suckers and was safe…

So as I ride away on the much easier to manage twitter I know that at some time in the future when I have less to deal with I’ll come back here and actually write something with more depth than 140 characters.

Thanks for understanding.

Anyway, soon enough we wanted to sing her ‘Oh My Darling’ but that song is about a little girl that drowns in a river. I thought singing her that song would be a little morbid so I kinda re-wrote it.

Oh My Darling as sung to my darling, Clementine.

In a canyon, in a cavern, excavating for a mine, dwelt a miner, 49er and his daughter, Clementine

Oh my darling, Oh my darling, Oh my darling Clementine,

I have loved you since I’ve known you, little darling, Clementine

I took you camping in the forest and we had the greatest time, we climbed trees and we chased bee’s and we sang the whole time

Oh my darling, Oh my darling, Oh my darling Clementine

How I love you little darling, precious darling, Clementine

Well we went walking on the beach and we had a real good time, we found rocks and we found shells and we danced in the foamy brine

Oh my darling, Oh my darling, Oh my darling Clementine

How I love you little darling, precious darling, Clementine

I took you skiing on a mountain and we had a chilly time, we had hot coco and some snow fights and cuddled close to warm our minds

Oh my darling, Oh my darling, Oh my darling Clementine

How I love you little darling, precious darling, Clementine

That’s as far as I ever got with it and it was kinda just made up on the spot. One day she’ll be horrified by the real version and I’ll have a lot of explaining to do. But that day is a long way off.

If we were to investigate some other massive corporations we would see easily that it is very rare, if ever, that any would act for the betterment of mankind.

For example, we could take McDonalds and posit that their objective is to feed people. This is false, if feeding people was their sole objective they surely would begin with serving nutritious food. They instead serve incredibly high caloric foodstuffs with very little or no nutritional value at as cheap a cost to them, in order to show their shareholders as big a return on their investments as possible.

I do not believe in the achievement of happiness through chemicals. I do not believe that these companies should be making life more comfortable by selling people drugs. I would sooner see cocaine and heroine legalized because at least there would be some honesty there.

“Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind.” –Thoreau

Sitting here at Gate 2 waiting for the inevitably unbearable flight to commence.

In this entire terminal there is 1 bathroom. In this singular bathroom there are 5 toilets, 8 urinals and 4 sinks. There was a line coming out of it as I approached and I figured, hey I’m early, I’m gonna keep going past my gate and find a less busy place to take a shit… No such luck, no such luck at all. It seems the airport imagine that the dregs that fly on southwest will cop-a-squat and relieve themselves amongst the filth that they must be used to by now. I traversed the entire terminal in hopes of finding something clean, in hopes of finding something slightly less over run by the mob, in hopes of finding something even just two decibels quieter, a place where my bowel could relax and breathe out this brewing mess. I was not successful.

I am in a slightly more secure Greyhound bus station. Secure from physical threats and bombs hidden in shoes. However there is a chaos and psychosis here that seems terribly dangerous. 

I am in a Disney alley where people have saved for the year in hopes of blowing their nest eggs on a Mickey hat and churros.

I am stuck in a bad acid flashback but I cannot for the life of me remember taking acid and this horror is linked to no false joy that comes to mind.

The woman at security gave me a hard time about my hat and glasses, that I don’t have hair in the picture on my drivers license and finally that I had two tickets. When I explained that I’m a big guy and don’t fit in one seat she said, jokingly I thought, “you’re not that big.” This went back and forth until I realized she wasn’t kidding, it wasn’t a compliment, a nice way of saying “well for a lardass you look ok pal!”, but rather she wanted a different reason, an explanation for the extra seat. I finally told her I didn’t like to touch people I didn’t know. To this she rolled her eyes but gave me back my tickets and allowed me to pass.

Sartre describes in his play No Exit, Hell as other people - and I must say I suspect that he was on to something. 

My wife asks me why she so enjoys laughing at my pain? 

It’s human nature I think. Mostly there is the joy felt in witnessing the suffering of another because we can then gauge the non-suffering of ourselves or the reverse - we can relate to it and thus have a comrade in suffering. It’s an exchange of sorts. I suffer and you either realize that you are not suffering as bad and are relieved or you see that you are not alone in your sufferance and are also relieved. I get to vent, thus relieving my own pain and misery and hope that you as well are suffering or that you realize how bad I really have it. It’s an exchange. Reciprocity.

Delayed and delayed and delayed and Gate 2 becomes the nightmare, where before there was only potential. The stewardess that would normally take your ticket without looking at you and allow you to pass from place to plane has begun “song trivia” so as to subdue the forming mob, the crowd, the dregs, the masses…. I am trapped and my extra ticket doesn’t buy me an extra seat in the terminal. It will buy me a foot and a half of relief for two hours of hell and headaches and stiff backs.

The Australian boy has moved, changed seats 6 or seven times. I find him staring at me from a new area of the room every 5 or so minutes. There are no open seats anywhere and yet he seems to be constantly in a new one. I signed his “diary” right under the title “day 1.”. Perhaps he decided to give the diary a go after spotting me, it is noteworthy after all. Other good times to begin documenting your life, graduating from high school, getting married, first experience with pregnancy and hell if you haven’t started, meeting that fat guy from that one show that you vaguely recall, PERFECT DAY TO START A JOURNAL! He pleasantly moved on only to play musical chairs or perhaps it was all just in hopes of finding a better angle to view me.

A smallish Asian woman approached me asking if I was “Ethan?” She seemed meek and all things standard with smallish Asian women. However, upon my admittance of identity she became almost clown like in the way people from the Mid-West can sometimes seem. “I’m Nadeeens friend!!!!!” The American Mid-West smile and gesture is cartoonish in its expressiveness. She explained that she and her husband were on their way to Orlando, their stop in Albuquerque is just that, a stop, for a Disney cruise with her father, its his 70th birthday after all!!! “SO HE GOT TO PICK!!!!” And they would be doing this with her sister and her sister’s kids. There was some disdain for children expressed.  The husband did all of his “talking” to me while looking at his wife. I must say that as they announced, for the first time, that the flight was delayed I felt gratitude because these two demons decided to return to the bar for a sweet flight anesthetic.

My bowel is in a state. I fear standing.

Some time passes and the inevitable takes place.

Have you used a public restroom and felt like you needed to take a shower and scrub your entire body? Has it been worse than that? You feel like your clothes need to be washed and your shoes probably thrown away? It was worse even than that. Not only do I need to throw away my shoes, wash my clothes in ammonia and bleach and scrub and scrub and scrub the first 3 to 4 layers of skin right off my body, not only that, I am probably in dire need of antibiotics at this point. I would say with  93% honesty that I was wading through the muck and mire of physically and mentally diseased people. It was as though people had dropped trow and wantonly sprayed the bathroom down with fecal matter in an attempt at recreating a Jasper Johns. When satisfied with the shit visual they went to work on the floor. The standard “wet floor” sign that seems to be an airport men’s room must was only misleading because it had gone so far beyond the point of merely being “wet.” I mean would you call the Pacific Ocean “wet?” A yellow hazard sign with the word “swamp” in red would have been vastly more to the point.

And so here I sit contemplating staph and the clap and also any mental defects, for if it was present in there, I’m sure I got it…