Costume Party Failure.

Another night spent with the cohorts: the socially inclined, and intelligently numb.

I say this because I am the outsider; the subnormal as Charles Bukowski might say, if he were alive today. Tonight we met at Star Fucks, we had to wait for two of my friends to get off from their chosen method of slavery next door to the Nazi coffee chain. Some drugs, some liquor which we will surely get to in some roundabout way.

Mainly cheap wine: Boone's Farm: Strawberry or Watermelon or some other horrid little concoction for a buck and change. I tend to forget these things because boose is boose and I deny nothing, so we mixed it up. vodka, Popov, and little old Boone, tasted not too shabby, but it did the trick, and did it well. We lit up some freshly cut trees and took the red eye to hell.

Daniel had the car, Perdonna (We tend to call him donna, for shits and giggles) brought the cheap wine and I think Daniel had the vodka which Donna bought and he still owed him like some bucks, but that's a drama onto itself for a later day perhaps.

Anyways, in the distance, this crippled rolls up in his chair, complaining about how he just stroked it our, or had a stroke, whichever, he rolls up and tells Donna that he just had something in his car because it broke down or some shit, and he was getting out of the car to see what the problem was, and the fucker just past out, cold as the dead. so the guy goes on to say that this other guy came along with a wheel chair and just gives it to the half dead old guy saying that he needed it more and just left him with it. If i can speak honestly, sure, I can with you guys; This guy just demonstrated the biggest example of apathetic care, if that is even possible, being the oxymoron that it is? Donna goes ahead and calls 911 for the guy, and we kick rocks soon after the sirens break the night's silence.

Can you dig it?
California baby, only in Cali.

The fun has yet to start man, yet to fucking start.

Strokey was the begining of the night of senselss wandering and moral decay, as soon as we left the parking lot of SF, we hit the side streets, packed a bowl full of trees and launched into space before heading over to the clairemont colleges, which to those that are not in the "know" is an assortment of Scripts college (all girl baby, use to work there and by god do the lezzies streak in numbers), Mckena(spelling?), Pomona College and a few others. There was some costume party happening down there somewhere and it was our job, no, our duty as social deviants and big time party crashers to find this joint, hit it up, drink its beer, lay with its brazen women, hopefully very brazen, and get some...but we get there and end up standing in the parking lot, with like 10 heads, just drinking our dirty drinks, smoking cigarettes and doing things that everyone thinks is cool. A few girls come on by wearing costumes, and what they don't know is that there was never a costume party, it had all be a miscommunication by one of our other friends, or a drunken lapse of sense, either or, something far worse!

there we are, drunk, stoned and with women dressed like slutty sailors and airline stewardesses. fuckable, yes, highly fuckable, enough so to stick the bottle neck of dear old boone's in their boxes....Subnormal, can you dig it?

donna is drunk and trying to kick daniel in the nuts, (by the way im ditching the cap's its such a pain to push shift, dig it?) and he kept doing this dancing dodge that seem to be funny, the kind of drunk funny. Where you could see a dog get hit by a dump truck and still laugh, that kind of drunk funny where life at its gravest is the most humorous.

"Lets walk around, you know, explore." Donna tells me.

"but if we don't keep a eye on daniel he is apt to leave us stranded." I cry

We go exploring like infant's lips puckering out for momma's nipple.

We walk around and find some crazy frat party or demented cult happening, walk up to the glass doors and find some guy naked from the waste down, holding a cup of what is surely alcohol in front of his gadget. college--best time of your life they'd say. So we watch them a bit, donna daring me to go in and vice versa, but the naked man freaks me out and i walk away, with vodka/boone in hand, drinking drunk madly like a fanatical moonshiner. Well i lied, there was no fun really, the night ended with us getting some crazy french fries from a hole in the wall called alberto's and drving haphazardly through montclair on oure way back to our cages....talk about anti-climax or what......

Still alive, take 2.

Christ it is yet, another fucking—hot day. I’m sweating from places that I’ve never know I’d had or for that matter could sweat from. The fires are still burning, jackals with yellow teeth bared up to the red moon. I went to Star Fucks last night, ordered black tea lemonade—three pumps of classic fool, I don’t do that hippy melon shit. I tried to edit/rewrite a short story I’ve been working on for the last month, slouched my way through three or for pages before being distracted by a brunette with a can that could sway any queen back into the natural loop of things. A close friend works next door to Star Fucks, so I kept wandering over there, chain smoking between buildings. It wasn’t much more fun over there than in SF, but it was helping me work away the time. Time is such a fruitless tree that bares nothing but quagmires. Well perhaps it isn’t so fruitless, I did see the brunette with the can that could melt butter. I thought about approaching her, but she would see my vulgar emoness, and maybe the stench of stale weed on my breath and go running.

I love women to the point of death, but again I am a coward, I will watch and see when sober, and cop a feel or two, saying some cagey pick up line that I’d learned in grade school. Nothing ever works right anymore, my back is always fucked up, my muscles come and go, maybe I should keep at the gym instead of these sporadic weeks of workout and binging, ass goggling and mental masturbation….

I’ve figured I’ve touched my penis about one million times in my current state of life, and those being just taking a piss and nightly itches. I’ve probably yanked the noodle a good couple thousand times just in the past year…is that too much?

Giving and getting advice is like getting a bad blow job, you think what your giving and or getting is good, but in the end it just leaves you flustered, pent up and about to explode with hostility.

I might wander the colleges tonight with a few friends, drink out of a flask because I think it makes me cool or maybe I don’t want to share what I’m drinking, since people are less apt to ask for some when they can’t see it…thank god for the fear of date rape or I’d never get drunk. Or we might go to a hookah bar…utterly pointless when I’ve got a pack of camels in my pocket.

I was never really beaten as a child, only mutilated; racetracks to extension cords to pick your switch boy, from the mouth of an over-aggressive wife-abusing grandfather. Mowing the lawn was a grab bag for treats and abuse, break something and get the switch, do it right and you don’t get the switch but get to sit down right with everyone else at dinner. These days, aren’t the best per se, nor the worst, I’d figure I have a good amount of suck to be lived, and a good amount of senseless bliss to be felt spent between the legs of some girl, with a cheap name and even cheaper perfume.

A father told his son:

“You are betrayal kiddo”
“What’s betrayal daddy?”
“Ask you mom.”
“Why?”
“Because your not my son.”

To those Not Drunk.

Ramblers Ramble:
I fuck to fuck, drink to drink, piss the night away with a black cat pussy stretching to and fro. I misunderstand her, she says to go, but I think to stay; sweaty and fetid breath is my luxury. She runs and I grab, pull her close, and say: "Baby, you're nothing but my whore, nothing but a cheap dance in the quicksilver glow of a silver coin.
She is crying now, outside, I shut the door. Fall onto the bed, smoke a cigarette; cheap, cheap, poorly made with poverty in mind.
2.50:
I work security you see, watch the droning drone move on by, under half lidded eyes, My stupor is warmth of ignorance, dances of dancers parading about in sheep's skin; greasy fat peeking through zipper teeth. Cheap work for the undesirable, old and subnormal.
Judas.
"My little brother stole my mom's car." I tell my friend, lets call him Sam.
"Yaeah?" Sam says.
"Sure, full tank, fucker wore it down to half, says he went to see his little friend" I light another cigarette in a stream of chain smoking.
"What for?" Sam bum's a cigarette off me, I almost punch him in the face, but I hold still.
I'm a coward.
"Sex, its his girlfriend."
"Think he reamed her?" Sam asked
"Like I know, probably, hopefully, or all that shit would have been for nothing."
"Crack the bumper real good too, hit a pole he said."
"Probably another car" Sam says what I'm thinking.
Love:
"How's the sex going Spud?" Sam asks as he butts his smoke, his fingers dancing their way to my half gone pack.
"It's gone, though not sure if it was ever there to begin with."
"No classy pussy coming your way. I'm shocked!"
"One maybe, but she is too far, another mans meat sock."
"Tell her you want to play stop and go anal, Spud, that should light some of her bulbs." Sam grins and pilfers another from the dying pack.
"Fuck off," I look for the drink that will come later.