Hipsters Part 2
20 Feb
I am in a coffee shop slash independent book store drinking a 3 dollar cup of tea called “White Orchard.” In ancient China, only kings and queens were allowed to drink white tea, the foil packet tells me. I am wearing a cardigan. Avant garde jazz featuring baritone sax is playing. I am surrounded by people looking at Tumblrs on brushed titanium Mac laptops that were not purchased with their own money. The coffee shop is owned by Dave Eggers. I want to walk in and beat my own ass.
I am an unemployed white man with skinny jeans on and three days’ growth of beard hunting and pecking into a laptop in a coffee house at noon on a Wednesday. This is like the moment where a promising young black guy on his way to college makes one small mistake and finds himself on the prison bus. I am looking down at my shackles contemplating how I threw everything away. I would bristle when they called me a hipster. Nothing hip about me, I would say. I work in an office. No one can be hip when they use Microsoft Excel regularly. Not now. Continue reading
Guest Post at Nikol Hasler Dot Motherfucking Com
14 FebI guest posted for my beloved Nikol over at her web site. It’s called “Take Valentine’s Day and Shove It Right Up Your Stupid Ass.” Have a look.
The Girls Cried When They Got Dillinger
12 Feb
Monica Quan was a human being who didn’t deserve to die. Keith Lawrence was a human being who didn’t deserve to die. Michael Crain was a human being who didn’t deserve to die. The San Bernardino deputy who died today didn’t deserve to die, although at least he saw it coming. In any case, these people were murdered in cold blood. Their mothers and fathers, their kids, their friends, are mourning.
Still, when I heard they got Dorner, I thought: fuck.
His fucking axle broke. Ain’t it always some shit like that. You have a perfect plan, and some random bullshit comes out of nowhere. It was like he slipped on a banana peel. They had Feds in Las Vegas, cops in Tijuana raiding hotels for him; they said he stole a boat, that he was stocking up on SCUBA gear. He may have accomplices and caches of food and weapons; he’s using burner cell phones; he could have a whole network across the country and they may never catch him. He could come out of nowhere at any time and kill any cop to get vengeance for everyone the cops ever fucked. And the cops became chickens without heads, falling over themselves to shoot up any pickup truck within 500 miles. We saw what really moved them. You call the cops and nothing happens. When they were afraid for themselves, that’s when they kicked into high gear.
Continue reading
Work Diaries: Work Shit
11 FebDecember 2012
It’s too fucking cold. It’s too cold and I may have to take the dreaded work shit. Breaking a covenant I made with myself long ago, that after every shit would come a shower. They scoff at me for this, society. What’s the matter, can’t you wipe? Yes, I can, but this is not an FDA-permitted 3 rat hairs in your can of chili situation. Any amount of shit on your body ever is unacceptable. I wipe till the paper comes up clean or bloody, but that is not enough. If I shat on your hand, would you give it a couple dry passes with a napkin and call it a day? No, knave, you’d wash your fucking hand.
I live in mortal fear of any pair of underwear I own getting skidmarks on them. The white bits turning brown from my musky taint sweat is not an issue; holes are not an issue– there are boxers where my distended left nut hangs fully outside the garment and grinds into my car keys. I still keep them around. But once I see a skid mark, those underwear will be immolated. No exceptions. Continue reading
No New Messages
9 FebI want this 20 year old girl to message me back. This 20 year old girl with big tits and a big ass and a cute face, good bone structure, 20 years old. Looking for casual sex. What kind of sexual experience, she asked, do I have to give you to get my own entry on your blog. I ought not to have answered while drunk. A terrible one, obviously, I said. A shitty one. Well it’s the truth. If you just come over and talk to me and fuck me good and we’re not alone in the world for five minutes, where’s the fun in that. I need you to get in my head. I need you to hit me right away with the foreknowledge of loss. That’s what Gertrude pulled off. She had her flaws but I knew she was gonna leave me so there was something to think about. Plus I needed someone to come over and pick up booze on the way home. Life is pretty simple.
Autopilot
8 Feb
(This is a selection from my book Hot Naked Tits, which you can buy here.)
He was awake. Hands on a steering wheel. Trees rushing by. Most cars were self-driving these days but he enjoyed it the old fashioned way. Everything was coming back to him. He was on his way home. Emily was making a chicken pot pie. His favorite.
The day was over and he remembered nothing. The new stuff was perfect. Used to be you’d get an image peeking through once in a while, an emotion of some kind. The phone would ring and you’d get a little stab of fear. You’d still have no idea what it was about, but you’d flinch. Now, nothing. Waking up, nice hot coffee, kissing Emily goodbye. The drive to work; starlings swirling over the river. Pull up to his parking space– it was in god damn Siberia, but, who cared; he would forget the walk. Twist the dial in the crook of his elbow left, right, left again. Then he was awake and driving and the sun had moved. Ten hour shift gone by like it never happened. Continue reading
New Book
delicioustacos 