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1:56 pm | 19 July 2004 | Tyrannosaurus Rex Arm

Hot! hot! hot

Here's how I rocked the androgyny party, which turned out to be a subdued affair, due largely to the incredible moist heat of the air. I felt like the mere act of drinking Jim Beam was going to make me personally evaporate. Of course, despite this handicap, I proceeded to get totally schwasted* and had to get a ride home, which meant that Saturday morning my hungover ass got to bike like four miles to get my car back. Saturday was between ninety and 860 degrees, too, and the booze evaporating off my skin as I wobbled eastward created a vaportrail not unlike that of a skywriter plane. I wobbled with purpose. I spelled THIS HURTS, BITCHES on Ocean Avenue.

Getting good in back

When I worked at a suspiciously-Borders-ish independent bookstore, back in the day (we are talking 1999 here, I think), I had a friend named Jake Stevens who was one of the weirdest and most excellent people of all time. He was from upstate New York but had an inexplicable South Carolina drawl and a crazy streak you could see in the eyes. While at the bookstore we decided to form an alliance that involved mostly spamming every in-store e-mail address--all the clerks--with these things we called "Waves" that were Dada-esque ramblings concerning how we had a new "method"** to which all concerned had better submit themselves. The actual body and essence of the Waves included, for example, the following topics: finding girls with hot TRA***, the Serengeti, Chinese food, "cabin door cabin door cabin door cabin door"****, etc. I printed them out a million years ago and just found them again. They are totally hilarious and make me laugh out loud, like really hard, like "if anyone were watching me right now they would think I'm a total asshole for laughing this hard at old printed-out e-mails." Jake called himself a 1-800 number, and i went by some mangled German. Frequently he would just ramble and I would transcribe, as so: "The next one has to be a full-length. This one's just, like, an EP. So say the backdoor shitter leaves the gas-station bathroom. I forgot what I wanted him to be saying." This was the creation of pure joy and it was seven Waves long (the last Wave was graced with a Microsoft Paint mushroom cloud, to convey its own explosive importance) before we were shut down by The Man: in this case, the totally humourless, eggheaded owners. We were also big-time drinking buddies and once he wrote a folk song with the non sequitur "Mice! are Nice! My hair is getting good in back" its definite highlight. I don't know where I am going with this, except to say: I miss Jake. I wonder where he got to?


'Member how I fell off my bike? Well, the bruise that is on my right haunch (this being very scientifically defined as the region between ass and thigh) is EPIC in scope, coloration, and heat-radiation. To your left: as of Friday. On the right: Saturday night. I can only hope it continues to manifest and slowly evinces a likeness of Elvis or La Virgin de Guadalupe or something. Then people will come from miles around to reverently touch my butt !! Oh, wait, that already happens. clm.

*This from my sister, who called me drunk/slurringly one night and sloshed "Dude, I'm sch...waaaasted" into the phone.
**Though we conveniently never revealed what the method was, or, more importantly, what it was supposed to accomplish. Having no focus or goal except the disruption of the info-desk plebes was what made it Dada.
***Tyrannosaurus Rex Arm.
****This took on such a battle cry/mantra feeling that it was really eerie to see the whole "cellar door" thing in Donnie Darko.

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