November 12, 2004

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  Mr. Charles' cover kicks Leon Russell ass.

  
  

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  Not all old movies are good. Especially when directed by me and captured off of VHS.

  
  

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  My wanderlust is getting way out of hand. While I was dropping new islands in my toilet bowl this morning, I started to imagine what living like a convict on the run must be like. Right now I'd be cruising into Boise in a Cutlass Supreme, looking for a job. I'd get angry because no one wants to hire an Asian and steal coin from old people.

  
  

  I wanted to continue imagining in order to craft a story about slapping everyone in the town with a potato. Somehow it would need to end with me dying in a hail of FBI gunfire in slow motion, but I went to work instead and almost died in a hail of slow motion cars on the Southwest Freeway.

  
  

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  I have been especially lonely lately. Makes me reminisce about stuff that's not particularly interesting. Shit, I've only been around for twenty-three years, I say, and that's when things get wavy and I realize twenty-three years is longer than some of my friends have had.

  
  

  Yes, it's one of those days where I feel guilty for no reason. Those days always prompt me to remember what was good and what was funny and what was bad.

  
  

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  Today's memory is about my high school band(Hi, I'm Peter. Percussionist. I hate you.). We went to Anaheim for some cheesy music festival. After an eleven hour bus ride I was groggy. The choir teacher was addressing us in the hotel and made some quip about the lack of restaurants in the area of Buena Park where we stayed.

  
  

  Some whigger named Davis or some shit from the choir starts to make fun of me after I mumble something to myself. Christ I wanted to slap that guy until my hands turned red. His pinoy wanna be black friend started to chime in, as did all of the wanna be black but ain't black people in the vicinity.

  
  

  I think the choir teacher felt bad for me and tried to get her boys off of me. But my pager went off and I had to go. My ride was here and I ended up going out to a teppanyaki place and getting drunk with a friend of a friend.

  
  

  That was the last time I saw my friend of a friend because she died in a car accident a few years later.

  
  

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  I was scared to death in a pool hall once. One stranger walked up to an acquaintance of mine and shot him in the hand even though he was clearly aiming for his face. I didn't see much after the first shot because I was lying on the floor and covering my eyes.

  
  

  "Life is funny," my acquaintance said a few weeks later.

  
  

  He was buried a few more months later.

  
  

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  There was this one girl I knew when I was little who had crinkly eyes whenever she laughed. Whenever I saw those crinkly eyes I would laugh, too. So I can say that "whenever she laughed I laughed" in court without messing up my credibility.

  
  

  If memory serves me correctly, she did not laugh too much after her tenth birthday.

  
  

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  Evidentally, I am lonely. Lately I've been talking to this one corner in my room because it is a good listener and not a snob like the other corners in my room. The snobs make me nervous because I know they are too good for me. I try to approach them, but I keep stuttering and running away as a result.

  
  

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  I have issues, I know. Still, there is nothing to be done except to keep talking to the one corner who will listen and to look forward to my upcoming travel dates. I can't wait to get on that open road like a convict.

  
  

  The only differences are I'll be driving my Lexus towards Vancouver and the only thing I'll steal are some more laughs for Crinkly Eyes. I keep thinking about this and everything is okay again. I tell the corner who listens to these plans intently, silently nodding in total agreement that 'these are good plans'.

  
  

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  One day I'll get to Boise for my acquaintance and maybe shoot some pool there. I'll also be sure to buy a drink for the girl who saved me from choir boys.

  
  

   

  
  

   

  • 8:54 am
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