Say it loud ... I'm black and I'm proud!.

9:01 am, February 19, 2005

Is it ... it seems ... it's GOT to be wrong that I can't string together two coherent sentences right now. Do you realize how long I've been sitting here, writing and deleting, writing and deleting, just to get to this paltry, pathetic point? Fuck, man, I don't even know what "paltry" means! I just know it's bad!

Maybe one day, when I'm writing my autobiography, I'll refer to this time as my "lost years." Either that, or I'll hit it big and be a huge pothead for the rest of my life, aimlessly trying to accomplish my next literary feat only to be sucked back into my demons of booze and ganja, inevitably to die alone on the toilet, just like The King only with a smaller gun collection (AH gun rack).

Yeah, so the fucking dog just barked me out of a stone cold kick-ass dream. See, in my dreams, I'm always the guy who's being chased by some evil force and I've got to get away. Only THIS time I was dragging around a hot chick and if ONLY we could've escaped the department store security and outsmarted the zombies lying in wait outside the store, we TOTALLY would've gotten it on. She told me so; MacGyver style. In that way where she doesn't actually say it in words, it's just a look that says, "Big stud, get me out of this and GET me." And, we were there, man. We were at the door, we had our fucking fireplace pokers, our arms raised and poised for action and ass-kicking, and my dog barks just once. One of those barks he normally makes when someone steps on his foot really hard by accident or if some hot piece of wood flies out of the fire onto his ass. There's panic in that bark fo sho and I've been awake ever since. Heart finally calmed down a couple minutes ago.

I need to use this time wisely. I've got roommate asleep with his girlfriend in the next room. I've got brother passed out in the living room. The dog's got a urine-less bladder ever since peeing about 12 straight seconds off the balcony (he's like 5 pounds at the MOST, that's a pissload of piss, let me tell you). I really need to take this freedom and do some writing. And then I get a whiff of the baggie in my desk drawer ...

Lord, grant me the strength ... wait a minute, I don't worship any lords. Terminator 2 Poster, grant me the strength that, when I get back from the toilet, I shall do some serious writing and NOT load up a fresh bowl.

Oh, hey, so I got my little brother high for the first time. That's good to know, ya know? It's comforting to know that he's not hanging with the wrong crowd. It's always more meaningful when your flesh and blood can corrupt you. The irony is, unless I could've somehow struck a deal with one of the dealers up there, had we went to Canada, we most likely would NOT have gotten high as I'm deathly afraid of fucking around with that God-damn border. Honestly, I'd rather be smuggled inside the trunk of a Cutlass Supreme with little piles of cat crap placed carefully all around my bound and gagged body, than have to deal with those fucks at the border. I always get way too nervous and start stammering and I'm always convinced they're gonna pick MY car to break apart and search every compartment with weed-sniffing dogs while I'm hand-cuffed and placed inside a Canadian Mountie squad car until the whole ordeal blows over, or until the corrupt ones "find" a brick of weed inside the door they just placed there moments before, thereby making me an international felon and forcing me to grab my ankles by the time the day's through. Hey, it's fucking happened. I'm sure, if it hasn't at least been portrayed in a Hollywood movie, Lifetime's done something on the subject. Hell, replace my character with a battered woman and I'm CONVINCED I could sell them the script for six-figures. Regardless, my brother was hacking up a lung by the time I toddled off to bed.

P.S. if you know anyone with the Space Ghost Coast To Coast Season 1 DVD set, you need to watch the episode on the episode list of the 1st DVD with the picture of the close-up of the black guy's face. That black guy's face is the face of Sonny Sharrock, the fucking ULTIMATE guitar god behind only Jimi. I shit you not, this guy's a total fucking MADMAN on the guitar. Now, I'll tell you why you've never heard of the man. While Sharrock plays this wild, free-form guitar style that's part Hendrix, part fucking Kirk Hammett in his speed-metal days, part Eddie Van Halen in his improvisational days that's totally rock n' roll; he's actually a jazz musician. Jazz guitar, let me tell you, if you can find the truly fucked up ones who concoct these elaborate free-flowing jams that just sound like one big long guitar solo, pick it up and allow your MINDS to be blown. Or, just watch that episode of Space Ghost Coast To Coast to get a taste, because it's not even a fucking episode at all, but just an excuse to play about 12 minutes of this man's music. And, as an added bonus, if you watch it while high ... let's just say this: Watch it while you're REALLY stoned out of your mind; pass out, and watch it again sober the next morning. It's kick-ass either way.

On the docket for today: Taking my brother to SouthCenter to show him and myself around the mall and then off to Silver Platters to check out the CD collection. Boss hoss

Current Mood: Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
Current Music: Neil Young - Cortez The Killer