Thursday, January 13, 2011
River of Slime
I've been thinking a lot about Led Zeppelin lately- I love Led Zeppelin- and of high school, about the 90's. I'm writing a book you see. That's when it takes place. I might need an intern soon, actually, but that's for another post, another day. And the thing i've come up with is that I have always mourned the past during the present, and that my life in a big way has been spent worrying about the things that are happening while I'm away doing something else, the things that will never be, how things have changed, and the people I'll never see again. But then I become so overwhelmed i throw up my hands and do nothing. Forever trapped in an endless cycle of music listening and mourning. I've had four therapists and one psychiatrist since I was 13 and I had to make sense of that on my own. I'll tell you what I miss so badly, and it's been palatable as of late- I've strangely been around old friends from high school- I miss getting stoned and deliberately saying 'no' no i will not be an active participant in my life. I miss living in my room in my moms house and closing the door and just sinking into my bed to watch TV. It's true what the old folks say, youth is wasted on the young. My mind is a hive of activity for which I can't seem to wrap my arms around. This person I always thought I was, I deep down knew I always wasn't. I'm an asshole. But, I'm not at all. Not all the time. I help strangers every day, I care more about the man who doesn't speak English at the train station, making sure he gets his ticket and gets on safe, even missing my own train to make sure he catches his, than I do about meeting a friend on time for lunch. Because that friend will undoubtedly expect something from me. But that man, he expected nothing. My dad did this shit all the time, my mom always rails at me for being like my dad. I always feel like I'm being left but really, I always do the leaving. My dad once pulled over to pull two fighting men apart, and I watched from the pick up truck, frightened shocked, as he protected the smaller man. My white as white can be dad, pulling apart these two tough looking brown dudes, so that they might get home okay. He made sure each one left separately, who knows what happened later, but in that moment, everything was okay. And then he came home and my mom and him railed at each other. One time he pulled over and pulled a fire extinguisher from the truck and put out another car on fire, on the freeway. Then he would disappear for three days with no word. How he could be so kind and such an ass fuck, I now completely understand. It's easier. lighter, simpler. I want to float through life sometimes that way on a wave of marijuana smoke. I always thought when I'd get certain things I'd be content; published, the perfect boyfriend, a license, whatever, but all I want is the next publication, my boyfriend annoys me, I'm now afraid to drive. I always thought I'd want to birth a baby, but I find myself visiting the CA adoption websites and looking at the faces of twelve year olds and sobbing and it somehow seems more tangible, desirable, than the alternative. I want a house, on a hill that belongs to me, and has built ins. Sometimes when I see an open house sign I stop and go inside. There are lots of them in Highland Park these days. And I take the paper from the real estate agent and I think, this is what I really want. My own home, with my adoptive child. The two of us making our own way in the world, separate but together, and we could get Thai takeout and rent videos and go to museums and get frustrated with homework and argue and then read quietly together in the living room on Sunday, in craftsman chairs, the Times in our lap, and my whole body feels sunny and warm and I can see it and by the time I get back to the car, I've painted and decorated the entire thing in my head. 2011, you're a funny one.
I am falling out of love with so many things it hurts, I am falling out of love with certain aspects of who I am and people, too, of course. And its painful and i cry and I don't want to face these things. But there it is, we are all shitty humans who claw and smell and fight and have golden voices and then one day, don't. I am a morbid, alcoholic, asshole, writer. And no matter how much I cover it up with jokes and smiles and bursts of manic love, I am no more than a not yet burned out Bukowski, or Fante, or Woolf. I am a curmudgeon, I like to be alone, I don't think your jokes are funny, I think you are a racist, I am not easy going, I am tough to love, hard to know and I am suspicious and paranoid and impatient. But, I put the booze on hold five years ago next month, wooo hoo, and the weed is just a memory and I like clothes and movies and music, of course. I love to dance and laugh and sing when I have a karaoke mic in my face. But underneath I am like the sewers of Manhattan in Ghostbusters two- bwauhaha- waiting for one negative vibe too many to send me over the edge. I just, and this is why I hate the internet now, it's gotten too big and this is why I don't want my mom reading my fucking blog and she goes, 'but everyone else can read it, it's all over the internet, I don't understand', everyone else, mom, might as well be nobody else, they are strangers and I don't know them, and they only know me here, and those who do know me, at parties, don't walk up to my face and say, 'hey, i read you're depressed' and so forth and so on and all I want is Led Zeppelin. But you know what I don't do? Slut shame, you know why? Cos sometimes I really wish I was still a slut. Ladies, ladies, that is the one thing we should honestly stop doing, the slut shaming is the worst. Really, the zits pits. And honestly, we should all mind our own damn business anyway. Wear whatever you want, fuck who you please, bite your nails and hike up your skirt, laugh at his jokes when they aren't funny, love that bag from forever 21 and keep it full of makeup and small mirrors. For real, no joke, I love you young lady I don't even know. You are free and alive. Just put a condom on it. I don't give a FUCK. Oh look at me, look at me, so internet tuff.
On a completely different side note, this is Tom Hanks son, Chet Haze, and he is a white rapper:
Tom Hanks, other son, Colin, was in one of my favorite movies, the brilliant piece of cinema, Orange County. Colin looks like this:
He's a dream, isn't he? Anyway, I was like, whats up, mang, Tom Hanks is such a rubber nose, where are all these hot genes he's been storing? And then I googled young t. hanks, because when I became acquainted with him was during the Joe vs. the Volcano and Turner and Hooch, era, I'm a little too young for Bosom Buddies- which even later when I saw re-runs he was in drag and not an opportune way to establish hotness- but low and behold I found this:
Well, color me shocked cos Tom Hanks was hot! I feel like I've been living in the dark this entire time.