Sunday, June 26, 2005


I saw Busta Rhymes in the gym. He was with a whole crew. They stopped the regular gym music and put on… a fucking Busta Rhymes record, the one where he says “If you really wanna party with me/ Put your hands where my eyes can see.” The entourage was rocking out to it, and Busta started repeating the lyrics to them, like: “it say: ‘put yo’ hands where my eyes can see!’” But speaking, not rapping. And they would laugh uproariously for some reason… fucking weird.

That’s how I want to travel someday- with a cadre of jewel-encrusted black men the size of tyrannosaurs, who laugh whenever I speak like it was the funniest fucking thing they ever heard.

Friday, June 24, 2005

at least i get to complain

I can’t sleep anymore. I snap awake at like 5 or 6 every morning, and I can’t fall back asleep. And before that I wake up every hour. I have shitty dreams-- never ones where I’m getting laid, even though I don’t masturbate very much anymore.

It fucks up my face. It makes my skin haggard and leathery. When I smile, I crinkle up like Luke Perry. It gives me dandruff... It makes me stupid, and angry. I like to think of myself as this kind of sharp, witty, snappy-comeback sort of person but this pall does away with that completely— I’m slow and surly and just sink into this miasma of quiet self-doubt...

And it’s one of those things of course where it’s just self-fueling anxiety—- thinking about how I can’t sleep makes me upset, which stops me from sleeping—- our minds love these evil little recursive loops. Goddamn miserable... And I wake up in the morning feeling that weight on my head, knowing that the all day, no matter what happens, I’ll be pissed off and morose. And every day will be like this.

I need drugs... I hear Ambien is good. But that would involve taking time to go to a doctor, which would have to be on a weekend... and I know my HMO is no fucking way going to deem it “medically necessary” for me to get sleeping pills; whatever bullshit doctor I picked at random out of their book is I’m sure, by virtue of his being a doctor to whom Blue Shield is willing to assign patients, not going to authorize anything. A fucking prescription could take care of this in two minutes but I know they can’t just do that; they’re going to drag me out there on a weekend for a visit (that also won’t turn out to have been “medically necessary”) and put me through this long interview asking about stress—and yes, I’m fucking stressed, I can’t fucking sleep—- and then they’re going to send me away for two weeks with some bogus new-age progressive-relaxation technique and then make me come back when that doesn’t work for another non-medically-necessary visit and JESUS FUCKING GOD, all I want is some fucking Ambien or something. Rich people can get it because they don’t like flying on fucking planes, for Christ’s sake--

Fuck fuck fuck... can’t write at work, but it’s just like this at home. I won’t be able to sleep this weekend either, and so I won’t be able to write anything for the blog; don’t have any good old material I can put up without revision that would require the utmost mental acuity to finesse the language... I will never be lucid again. Now I’m just another dumb fuck who’s pissed-offedness is no longer charming because there’s no incisive wit behind it. It strips me of my whole identity, my whole concept of myself as superior, which was already getting tenuous for very valid reasons of my own failure and loss of ability and now is very much crippled in the short term and in particular as well as in the long term and in general. See? What the fuck kind of sentence was that?

The face-- it makes me look old, which means everybody around me who knows that I work as somebody’s assistant for 11 goddamn motherfucking dollars per hour also now knows that I am somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-nine goddamn motherfucking years old, that I am a loser, and a failure, and I have completely shot my wad and should kill myself.

I can't be the only person for whom a mental picture of their crying mother is the only thing keeping them from suicide.

Monday, June 13, 2005

the mcdonald's corporation of america: parts 2 & 3

Yes, there were retarded kids there. We had two-- one guy, Bob, who was very mildly retarded, just slow-- he looked normal and came from kind of a white trash background, and was probably retarded because of his Mom's prenatal drinking or some shit. The other, Brian, had Down's, so he really looked full-bore retarded; him they put up front on the Filet-o'-Fish fryer so they could show him off.

Brian had it good. Running the Filet station was easy: you just drop the Filets out of a bag into the fry basket and then into the oil, and when the correct light and chime goes off you take them out and hang them up. The sandwiches are uncomplicated toppings-wise; the only really hard thing is that the Filet-o'-Fish buns have to be steamed, but it's a moot point because nobody really orders Filet-o'-Fish. Brian would be up there smiling while his little chimes went off; when someone ordered his sandwich it was a big event and you could tell he felt excited and satisfied.

Bob, on the other hand, was fucked and always got the "schwag" work: mopping, hand-cleaning the greasy implements that the dishwasher couldn't handle, etc. He was miserable. The dish room especially would just crush him; the manager would send him back there and he would let out an awful sigh-- you'd walk past him to the freezer and he'd be muttering and groaning sadly, wrestling with the giant snaking metallic steam-hoses in his big rubber gauntlets.

It sucked working with them. In Bob's case it was depressing. In Brian's case it was degrading-- not only was this retarded guy somehow your peer, but because of his status as a PR prop and lynchpin in a tax-break scheme he's actually much more important and indispensible than you.


After the summer I was working there only on the weekends, and during the week I was going to a prep school where T.S. Eliot and the fucking Kennedys went, an old Harvard feeder school where I guaran-fucking-tee you I was the only one lining up two pieces of cheese at an exact 45 degree offset on Quarter Pounders every Saturday . And I could tell you how it kept me "rooted," kept me in touch with salt-of-the-earth types and my blue-collar origins, but it didn't; it just made me hate those things more.

My job was the Quarter Pounder/McLean grill-- not as shitty as the high-volume Hamburger/Cheeseburger/ Big Mac grill but certainly not a plum gig like the cash register. Those jobs were for girls only. There was kind of a caste system between the girls who could come in in makeup and got to be up front and talk to people and the dudes in the back who had to watch out not to french fry their hands, who would have to put on big bulky freezer coats and dolly around hundreds of pounds of meat when the trucks came in.

One time I slipped and fell and my hand landed on the grill. It's about 600 degrees; I could hear my flesh sizzle just like when you put a burger down and, well-- it fucking hurt. I went back to the manager after sticking my hand in the freezer for a while, and-- this is not some made up bullshit, this really happened-- a) there was no medical tape left in the first aid kit so he scotch-taped a bandage onto my hand and b) we were understaffed so he made me work the rest of my shift. The burn turned into a blister that extended from the tip of my pinky almost to my elbow, about an inch high and thick and filled with clear fluid with big bubbles rolling around in it.

This wouldn't be germane to the retarded kids except for the bullshit story I told about it at school, which was that Bob had been mopping up the grill area and had forgotten to dry-mop it down afterwards, and I had slipped in his pool and went down. And then the punchline was that I got up, and looked at the shamefaced Bob and said "what are you-- retarded?" It always got a laugh.

In reality, I was just clumsy and it was my own fucking fault.


I hate the gym. That fucking stairmaster, the endless agony-- I’ll have moments when I'm on there, swerving all herky-jerky like a marionette-- I space out, follow a thought or daydream along a whole complex sequence for what seems like several minutes, and then I look down and not one second has passed. I can grasp the infinitude of hell this way. The weights-- rusty medieval torture devices, the bench press crushing the breath out of my chest, grinding me down into the sweaty staphylococcal pleather... and I never gain one ounce of strength. I’ve been benching 205 on a good day for over a year.

I hate the gym-- the bald east African guy on the bike right next to my stair master who smells, overpoweringly, like a nasty twat.... the horrible desiccated little woman with a sparrow face and fake tits who vies with me for one of the last two stairmasters; puts her water bottle and her paper towel on it and then hovers around stretching and lifting weights for like 20 minutes. And when anyone gets near the machine she darts over and says "EXCUSE ME- I have that machine!" Who when she finally gets on there does like jazzercize to her headphones, totally rocking out, bobbing her head like a cobra and swinging her arms as far out as possible into your periphery to get deep into your personal space, and I just want to grab that arm and snap the little chicken bone, pick up a 35-lb plate and just smash her face again and again and again. I think a lot about killing people in the gym.

I’m fucking sick of it. I’m sick of thinking about my body but at the same time I’m so fucking close to getting there, to getting perfect and having no fat. But even now, after losing almost thirty pounds from an already pretty athletic frame, I’m still not ripped. In excellent lighting when I’m fully flexing down I look cut but when I’m just standing there-- no dice.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

some thoughts on the world bank

OK, the tits were awful. Really awful-- stretch-marky orang-utan style with big dark nipples the size of saucers. And you know how when a nipple is really big, the details of the areolae somehow get bigger, too-- like the weird hair follicles and ridges and shit all turn enormous, just like a normal nipple under a magnifying glass. And it was a weird psychological barrier. I had to pretend like I was paying attention to them even though it was clear that she didn't really like it, because she knew they were disgusting... but I couldn't acknowledge that I found them disgusting by ignoring them, and couldn't acknowledge that I obviously knew she knew, etc. Like how because I'm a guilt-ridden racist I always smile at black people on the bus even though I know they want to beat me, and they smile back.

I'm sure it's the same way with my nuts. My nuts are fucking appalling. I think nuts are appalling in general but mine in particular are just atrocious. Firstly because my scrotum for some reason is in fucking perma-distend mode at all times, as discussed, so that it's always maximally flushed and veiny and its sleeping-bag-sized surface area makes my penis look even more puny in comparison, like the earth next to the sun. Secondly, and this is where my nuts are truly unique-- there are two things wrong with my left nut that make it ridiculously huge, about twice the size of a normal one:

1) The cyst. When I was thirteen years old-- remember how in health class they would give out those cards to hang in the shower with a girl on one side and a boy on the other, how you were supposed to feel yourself for cancerous lumps? Wait until your balls are hanging good and low from the heat and then feel each one thoroughly-- if you have a tumor you'll feel a hard mass the size of a pea... One day I decided to try it and lo and behold there's a mass on there the size of a fucking cherry. I assumed I was going to die. I couldn't tell my mother what was going on because I knew I only had a few weeks to go and if she knew it would break her heart, and ruin our last time together. So I suffered quietly. After about a month, though, I figured I might be wrong and brought it up at the dinner table, ended up at the urologist who after squeezing them intensely between his thumb and forefinger said the cyst was fine but that I also had what was called a varicoseal, which brings us to :

2) The vein. A varicoseal I guess is a vein that lets blood sit in your nuts too long, making them hot. Because your nuts produce sperm at below body temperature it can cause infertility later in life, so to fix it they snip the vein up by your groin. They opened up a little slit up there-- there's still a big frankenstein staple-scar on my pubis, by the way-- snipped the vein, and it kind of snapped back down into my nutsack-- and they left the fucking vein in there. Instead of taking two seconds to snip it at the other end too and just take it out. So behind the nut now there's this hellish elaborately-coiled clump of hardened H.R.-Geiger-ish tubing roughly equal in size to the nut itself, and the distended semitranslucent sac provides only the thinnest of membranes to cover it, so that these hideous aberrations are visible in freakishly detailed relief and even color. The vein is periwinkle blue, for instance. The cyst, which is still there untouched, is eggshell.

And girls always want to suck on them. And I can tell they're doing the same thing I talked about because they spend more time on the left nut, and I always have to humor them, like I really like it, when in fact the cyst hurts and the whole experience is really quite painful. But to say something would draw attention to the fact that I know that she knows it's disgusting, which wouldn't bother me so much but would be horribly embarassing for her, etc.

los angeles

1) Some sort of insect is propagating in my house-- they leave these long brown coccoons embedded deep in my carpet, invisible until you step on them and they ooze greasy white goo, leaving a broken-off intact half indignantly thrashing around. They hatch into a fleshy white grub, dozens of them; drawn by the smell of chicken bones from the trash can they congregate in big hordes in the kitchen... and since the floor is white I can't see them squirming until I walk over them with bare feet in the morning.

2) I always see Glenn Danzig in the grocery store. You'd think he'd be this huge beefcake statuesque god, like a living Frank Frazetta painting, but he's like 4'11" and he's always buying cat food. So it's this little lawn jockey of a man walking around with a basket full of Fancy Feast and Friskies' Seafood Fiesta.