I was walking along a large security fence in the Nevada Desert. It was an otherworldly fence, with design and materials reminiscent of nothing I had seen before. At one point I came to a hole in the fence. I thought this was rather convenient, and I almost walked through until I noticed that next to the hole was a gate. I inspected the gate and found that there was no lock on the latch. I reached up to open the latch and it occured to me how odd it was to have such an obvious breach in what was an otherwise impenetrable barrier. I was forced to an inevitable conclusion. "Since I am dreaming," I thought to myself, "I will not walk through the hole, nor will I release the latch and walk through the gate. I will fly over this fence." And so I did. I looked down at the desert floor as it turned to cornfields, and the scene began to grow pale as I felt more and more the all too real exhilaration of flying.

This is a story about how I met Aubrey.

It was a friday afternoon. I was feeling pretty good from the 24-ounce Coors I drank before leaving my house. I had to go to west hollywood to pick up some computer thing from Mark the coke-head. Nice guy. On my way home I stopped by Amoeba Records and surprisingly enough, I actually found something I was willing to pay for. Two dvd's which effectively doubled my movie library. Waking Life and The Blues Brothers. Two epic films which have changed my life multiple times and will no doubt continue to do so.

I line up for check out, marveling at my role in the line up system they have at this massive media outlet. One of the cashiers waves for my attention and I wave back with the exaggerated posture and clumsy grace of a well-coordinated drunk, such as I am. The girl waving me down is a young asian female with a happy face. I make my way towards her.

"Hi, how are you?" She asks.

I am a bit surprised by this question.

"A little bit drunk." I reply.

"Awww. That’s cute." She says, her smile somehow increasing in magnitude. I am smitten with this response.

She handles my purchase with grace, teasing me about how she can smell the alcohol on my breath. She opens up a small paper bag, withdraws a half-eaten croissant, and bites into it.

"I'd offer you some, but I'm really hungry." she says, holding the last piece in her hand as she talks.

And for one brief moment, I could understand what a female wanted from me, though I cannot put it into words other than to describe what happened. I reached out and grabbed the last bite and shoved it my mouth, smiling. We both laughed as much as we could without drawing too much attention to ourselves. My heart was racing. Here I was sharing a small meal with a stranger in a massive hall of retail. It was a really good croissant.

She started walking my purchase to the metal detector as is the custom there, and when we reached the end she stuffed my bag with free goodies like it was Halloween or something. She had this look on her face that made me feel like a little kid again, in a good way; like I was getting away with something and she was gladly letting me. I asked her name, but I couldn't understand what she said so I started saying what I heard back to her trying to get it right.

"It's on your reciept, figure it out."

That is how I met Aubrey. I haven't seen her since, but I'll see her again.

I fired myself today.

I do bookkeeping and lame officework for a landscape construction company. I got the job because the company is run by some friends of mine that I have known since high school.

For the last couple of months, I haven't been very productive. The only time I actually did any work was when someone was around to remind me that I'm supposed to be doing stuff. I would feel kind of bad about it, but not that bad because I was pretty much on auto-pilot the whole time anyway. Hypnotized by this screen I'm staring at.

So like I said, I've not been very involved here at the office, and it has started catching up to me. I forgot to pay the rent this month. I forgot to make two truck payments on the same truck. There's all sorts of other shit, but these were the things that made me say "I think I need to quit."

My boss/buddy wasn't exactly surprised. He didn't say it with his mouth, but his face said "Yeah, you should quit."

So I'm not cut out for office work. Big fucking surprise, yeah?

Please stop talking about George Bush.

I know he makes a great target, but that is exactly what makes him so successful.

Time and energy spent focusing on his antics is time and energy that could have been spent focusing on the the people that tell him what to do.

Political Rant over.

Thank you.

journal entry 9-19-05

nothing happened.

I'm in love with Ashley Blue.

An Analogy of Porn and Pop Music

They're both getting a lot easier to make

They're both getting a lot cheaper to consume

They're both getting a lot easier to find

There is a movement in pop music right now called "low-fi". Basically, its an outgrowth of the dramatic ease with which one can make a quality but not quite professional recording. Its all over the web. Given away for free. And a lot of isn't bad, and some of it is as good or better than anything you can hear on the radio or buy in a store. Same thing with pornography. Tons of girls getting tons of cock in backyards and living rooms all accross the nation. Teenage exhibitionists setting up web cams. They dont' mess around much with plot or production, and the final product is all the better for it.

This isn't to say that the pro stuff is necessarily bad, just that its got some competition coming to it.

every day its the same old thing.

work. work. work.

but not today.

today i go for the gusto.

if mom says it's ok.

Last night I went to Sound Arena Rehearsal Studios on Santa Monica Boulevard near where the transvestites hang out. The people inside had the deathly pallor of Zombie Artists. Good-intentioned folks who have fought their way inside the machine only get to stuck among the cogs and widgets. I was immediately repulsed.

I was there to audition for lead singer of some new band that I saw on craigslist. I should have known better than to respond to an ad citing "Radiohead, Nirvana, Mars Volta, and The Killers" as influences, but something drew me in in spite of that big red flag. Was it Desperation? Lonliness? Selfish Ambition? Hmm...

Audition goes well. They like me. They don't completely suck. I tell them I'll have to sleep on it.

To make this decision, I draw on previous experience to recognize what my instincts and my rational mind are telling me.

My Rational Mind: "I'm not sure, but whatever you do, don't trust your instincts."

My Instincts: "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THEM YOU MORON! RUN!"

The instincts have it.

your words are not timeless as you wish them to be

they are all too entangled in time

it may be, in fact, that they are time itself

a memorial of sorts -- to where time has been and where it is going

And what about when the lights flicker off?

An unimaginable number of people - the vast majority of whom speak in trivialities to an extremely limited audience.

Where does it come from? Where does it go?

When the tree falls in the desert, does it make a sound?

The daily lives and dreams of the crowd - archived electronically for future hearing.

I am not good at my job
I am a beggar; trapped in a workingman's body
I am dogged by the most diabolical breed of authority:

Friendship

Grandma is a racist. Not an uncommon phenomenon, but disconcerting to say the least. Actually, I don't really have a problem with racists, so long as they aren't extraordinarily powerful. You see, lots more people are racists than it might seem. They're like potheads. It's cool for a while when its just you and your friends that are into it. Then you start to realize that if you are going to keep it up you're going to have to keep it under wraps.

Grandma is a racist. She was lecturing me about my beard and how I look like one of "them" (Muslims) and how I have a responsibility to look "nice" because I am white and there just aren't that many white people around anymore.

Oh grandma, don't you know? Your grandson is a multiculturalist. He grew up in a society of "them". He is "them" and soon you will be, too. Skin color is just one of many cultural tags for him to read, of no greater or lessor value than many, many others.