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4:01 pm | 16 July 2004 | the bigger man

Today has been confusing. As I listen to Destiny's Child and their aggressive overmodulation of "Survivor*," let's talk about something that nobody ever gets tired of discussing:

The weather

Good afternoon, this is Claude le Monde, reporting to you from the inside of Lucifer's asshole. Yes, it's another Satanic day in the misbegotten Los Angeles, where the natural topography combines with human additives (exhaust of fancily-rimmed cars, hairspray additives, rapidly-evaporating silicone, crack smoke, burning tenements, sun refracting off trophy wives' jewelry arsenal and glinting across the pony-like tossing of the local surf gods' sun-blonded manes) to create a Crock-Pot of armpittish, i'm-being-baked-in-a-lasagna-of-Dom-DeLuise-and-Army-blankets, it's like a heat! wave! insanity. What else do we commonly think of, when the word "crock" comes up? Oh, yes. A crock of shit. Which is what the air feels like. Like swimming, Scrooge McDuckily, through a crock of dogshit.

Girls who are boys who'd like boys to be girls

Tonight, some more ambitious friends are throwing an Androgyny Party, which should be fraught with the promise of seeing our tough-ish guy friends in eyeliner (HOTT) but which may suck for several reasons, which i shall (you guessed it) now enumerate. I am totally down with this idea, but it is difficult for me to personally execute. Oh, sure, I have a sweet grey suit that isn't even all that heavy or hot, and upon the breast of which i diagonally placed a silver-stencilled Suede quote last night (WHEN THE FIRELIGHT STRIKES LIKE A COP SHOP PYRE WE'LL SACK THE POLITICS FOR PREMONITION AND FIRE), but as for the rest, er? I don't feel up to mustache-wearing today. My brother's visit left me exhausted, broke, and 85 years of age. Furthermore, while i may engage in stereotypically masculine activities, like spittin' and carting heavy objects about, i am really personally very girlish and can't pull off anything dude-looking (see: Levi's; love of stupid old-man gear; misguided "skater" phase [1994]). Even my suit (which, yes, I will be sporting jacket and trous ONLY, and [Bianca Jagger?] no shirt underneath. Take that, Dad!!) ceases with instantaneity to look remotely masculine as soon as I get it all buttoned up on my shit. So I guess I will either stuff my crotch (HILARIOUS) or I will have to do some manly action at the party, such as, i don't know, split wood or something.

I say "stupid" 4 times

Well, we all know that MSN is unforgiveably stupid, and their content generally reflects that. This was going to be the part of the entry where i am all "why are they so intent on shoving their stupid article about broken hearts down my throat?" Then I went and read said article, and tip #5 for Getting Over It is: Stop eating so much cereal. This is stupid and totally unwarranted by the reader's question. Of course, that's what you get for soliciting breakup advice from "International Love Guru Coco Helado," you stupid tramp.

The crunch of fried

So I get this rad email from Sarah B.:

"...from one owner of a super speedy, red, ghetto cruiser bike machine to another: get a basket for your bike. After procuring said basket, drive to the nearest fried chicken establishment and get some crispy deliciousness. Then, if you can (and I sure as hell can, at least for the next month and a half) go to a drive-through Daiquiri shop* and get a strawberry Daiquiri. Store said items in your bike basket, ride around town at an appropriate cruising speed and from time to time langorously reach your hand into your bike basket to bring a sip of refreshing Daiquiri** or the crunch of fried to your lips. This experience, I am so not kidding, is absolute bliss. Let me know how it turns out!

*If your state is one of those lame ones where they don't sell drive-through Daiquiris, a 40 oz from the corner convenience store will do.
**Is this how you spell Daiquiri? I have no freaking idea, and I'm just not going to stoop to looking it up."
Hilarious/adorable, right? And, especially after the EPIC fashion in which i ate concrete on Tuesday--a fiasco that included my Jordan-like airtime as i flew majestically from the bike's seat; my aviator glasses bouncing in a very Lynchian fashion across an immaculately green lawn; and my strangled gulp of "aaaaaahFUCK!," all of which culminated in my head smacking the pavement and a bruise shaped like Crimea on my right haunch--anyway, especially after all that, I need some bikejoy. But as some of you have picked up by now, i don't eat The Meats. I did, however, get to thinking of other foodstuffs I would like to enjoy on my bike. So here goes:
- Eat fish tacos from harmonica-holder-neckstrap thing while drinking horchata out of a jug strapped to my back
- Sip vodka tonic from a modified colostomy bag while biting black olives off fingertips
- Make conveyor belt out of mini-Matchbox car racetrack, enabling maki-rolls to slide into my maw
- Attach two splits of Freixenet to a helmet, like a champagne-riddled Viking hat; run straws from bottles to mouth
- Trail mix feedsack
- Make shoulderpads out of cotton candy; turn head to eat them

A real man

Last night we went to a poetry show, and this horrible woman had an anti-war poem which, fine, but it was so ludicrously ridiculous that i almost died. Line: "Uncle Sam, if you were a real man, you'd fight your own battles." Uh, yes. Exactly. And not in the Montel sense of "You ain't even a man!" (shouted at cowering baby-daddy). No, in the sense of "Uncle Sam, if you were an actual human instead of a propagandist figurative construct, you'd fight your own battles." Actually, isn't his "battle" concerned with advertising? And, if so, hasn't he already won? Oh my god, you can deconstruct anything. Fuck.

Realistic, hirsute

I'm off. As DMX said, "It's dark, and hell is hot." 'Cept it's not dark. It's bright as fuck. Fucking stupid LA. I can't wait to get back to Long Beach (fuck, i was totally going to address that. More on THAT idea on Monday). I have to go cut out a variety of 'staches from woodgrained contact paper (realistic, hirsute striation!) and get my hair to do something mannish. BRYLCREEM! clm.

*Fave lyrics: "I'm not going to hate on you in the magazines/Not going to compromise my Christianity/You know I'm not going to dis you on the Internet/'Cause my mama taught me better than that!"


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