2001-10-03 - 5:35 a.m.
Tonight was Brewski's fortieth birthday. Happy birthday Bruce. I went to spend this harvest moon birthday with him at a tiki bar downtown. There was much rejoicing. Forsyth showed up, he and I went to Hole In The Wall for a little before-after-hours old school drinking. Then on to my place for the after-after-hours bit. We listened to Yat-Ka, a Tuvan throat singing band the Spankers played with in Holland. I lent him the disc. After he split, I turned on the tube to find none-other than Slacker playing on the Sundance channel. There I was in my ten year ago glory, ponytail barely reaching my shoulderblades, at least 40 pounds lighter. What a tool. When I was a child I used to do pretend TV shows in the bathroom mirror. I haven't really progressed any farther. I missed the ten year Slacker reunion because the Spankers were playing Europe. Not a bad trade but I wish I coulda been there. Everyone there got to do commentary for the DVD. Not me, immortality eludes me again. I feel like a cheesedick spread on a cracker. Type casting, if you ask me. Lost in this star fantasy regime of slime. I still get those selfish feelings that the world owes me more than I'm getting. What a joke. I'm the luckiest son of a bitch alive and all I can do is compare my shit to my ambitions. When dreams come true, they show their nightmare edge. There are times when I want to peel my skin like a pear and walk around in my bloody, skinless shell. Gimme a kiss. Gimme a pint. Gimme a kick and I'll groan up the splendor of my past.
Marianne, Marianne, I saw you tonight on the screen. You picked up a guy while I was hitting on a chick at the bar. Fitting, eh? That was so long ago. How did we botch it all with a feather? How did we caress with a cannon ball? We made ecstasy from madness and turned love into resent. You in your electrician's boots and me on the hood of your car. Crying, screaming, fucking, laughing. Riding the bus on peyote. Praising Mescalito in tongues we couldn't speak. Remember when the Neo-Nazi chick spit in your face and I almost killed her? You smoothed everything out so easy, you almost made her cry. Those warehouse days. Cold water and robots. Paint and birthday cake. I wish we were still in touch. Now that you're married and love surrounds me like a wreath. Knowing that I'm in love makes me feel better but times are so fucked up right now I can't take solace in the face of joy. Not just public/world times. Private times. All the little slackers are wrestling with middle age. I'm not any different. I hope they're all dreaming happily while I write this. I hope they get that big royalty check in the sky. The brass ring around the toilet. The halo of beer foam. Nighty night slackers.
