It's Only Teenage Whistling ... Wasteland.

7:56 pm, February 20, 2005

Yeah, so I'm a huge R-Tard, that's exactly what I thought Roger Daltry was singing for YEARS. Only, he'd sing it more like: Teenage Whistlin'.

Yesterday, Saturday, before all the partying and the drinking and the whatwho'sitnot, I did probably the gayest thing I think I've ever done in the privacy of my own home. I took a bath. Yes, an actual fucking bath. But, that's not the gay part. It was the night after smoking out with my brother and drinking really TERRIBLE home-made long island iced teas (WAY too much club soda, 'nuff said). So, you know, I was kinda wrecked. Didn't get much sleep; the Huskies were playing the Cougars and you know how THAT is. Fucking slow-it-down style kicks my ass. I couldn't really nap too well, 'cause my brother was over and I didn't want to just make him sit alone all afternoon. So, I decided to take a bath and relax for about a half hour. But, like I said, the bath itself wasn't the gay part. I just bought this new Henry Rollins spoken word double CD (it's frickin' sweet, by the way; that man can twist a good yarn, let me tell you; it's not comedy Ha Ha, but there are funny moments. It's just anecdotes from his life that happen to be really amusing and ring true with my system of beliefs); and I decided to play the CD in the bathroom while taking the bath since we've got a little boombox in there. But, that's not the gay part either. In fact, that's the last bastion of masculinity machismo I could cling to from that point on. Now, you'll remember those packages of 100 candles Jake bought for his Valentine's Day Massacre and I think you know where I'm going with this. Also, during our trip to Southcenter, I thought it'd be a good idea to buy some incense. You know I love the smell of weed permeating throughout my bedroom, but combine that with neglected smelly dog and you've got problems. Well, I've got problems, and anyone I have the blind luck to have over in this bedroom (I think he's talking about "sex" . . . shhhhh). Now, since I only associate myself with smart, intelligent people who KNOW what 2 and 2 add up to, I'll go ahead and let you do the math and check it for errors. Yes, a bath with the lights off, candles burning next to the incense and Rollins talking about the pitfalls of turning 40 when you're known as a hard-driving punk rock god. Calgon, take me away; the only thing I was missing was the bubbles.

And, the funny thing about Henry Rollins spoken word CDs is, and I don't know if this is a chicken/egg thing or not, but he speaks pretty much how I write/I write pretty much how he speaks. Long sprawls with related tangents that provide comic relief, but inevitably getting back to the point and finishing the story on a strong note.

And, that leads me to last night. Did you know that Tupac's "California Love" made the Top 500 songs of all time according to the people polled by Rolling Stone? It's good, but I don't know about Top 500 good. Unfortunately, that was one of the songs we didn't get to at Karaoke night at Tommy's. For those of you who aren't yet 21 and haven't had the intense privelege of going out with me to the bars to witness the debacle in person, I can only say, "Hurry your asses up and turn 21 already!" Eddie and I, I'm proud to say, blew the joint away with our heartfelt rendition of Boyz II Men's "End of the Road." Fuck, you know that part where the deep-throated black man just talks his little rap about how much he's in love with his "baby" and he doesn't know why she'd hurt him when he loves her so much; well, I did that part and, I must say, the hotties in attendence were swooning to be sure. And, by "hotties," I mean skeevie hepatitus-riddled, on-their-way-to-emphazima, dirty, dirty women who'd frequent an establishment such as Tommy's and remain somehow, mindbogglingly unattached to male companionship. And, by "swooning," I mean quite indifferent to my red-faced, sweaty display. Of course, I also kicked nuts at Tom Petty's "Mary Jane's Last Dance," with accompaniment from Mark and Kon. Of course, it was no "The End" by The Doors, but hey, they can't all be 11-minute opuses.

Yes, you know you're in a bad state when you've been to the same bar enough, the hot, with-boyfriend bartender knows what you're gonna order ($4.00 Long Island) before you even open your mouth. Of course, I bemoaned this fact verbally as soon as she made this abundantly clear, and I've just gotta say, it's gotta SUCK being even a semi-good-looking female bartender ANYWHERE. You get hit on by equally skeevie guys (such as yours truly) day in and day out. The hot ones have boyfriends and quick retorts to put you in your place. The not ones take your beer-goggled attempts at flattery to heart and end up fucking the 350 pound bouncer after Last Call. But, the point is, I finally replaced the coat I lost at Boulder's 21st birthday party. In fact, I almost got the EXACT same one. With two minor exceptions. There are buttons on the arm-cuffs instead of nothing; and the side pockets SUCK ASS. But, beggers can't be choosers. I'm thoroughly depressed that I lost this jacket, though. It's been with me through thick and thin. From the time I fell down and broke my eyeball, where it was DRENCHED in my own blood and the dirt I tried to sleep in when I almost passed out in someone's back yard; through every other drunken endeavor, it's been with me. We fought in the trenches together and we both have the scars to prove it. That coat's slightly tattered and so am I and I'm truly saddened that, after I vomitted all over myself, I probably swiped up my jacket and promptly dropped it somewhere on the walk back to Kon's apartment. Either that, or I left it there and someone else took it when they left. Either way, the gloves I had in the pockets of that jacket are gone forever. Now, my hands can either freeze in the morning drive to work, or I can put on my huge, bulky fucking ski-gloves that make it literally IMPOSSIBLE to function the fucking CD player remote in my car. And, like I've said before, that one foot lean in to change the radio station sucks Large Marge's truck-driving ass (Pee Wee's Big Adventure for the uninitiated; I THINK her name was Large Marge).

Anyhow, as the Luniz like to say in their One-Hit-Wondersong "I Got Five On It,"

Homies don't play around
We down to blaze a pound

And that's exactly where I'm headed. Gonna sport my brand spankin' new Guns N' Roses t-shirt and my even spankin'er new black jacket. All you need is love

Current Mood: Stop hittin' cause you know you got ASTHMA
Current Music: Janis Joplin - Piece Of My Heart