Songs written by the window of 180-1/2 E. 8th Ave, across the street from Quest Diagnostics in Chico(1995)

Songs Written by the Window

Well I’m old and I wear a hat

And I carry a pack

And I drive the company truck

Wearing flannel overcoats and the like

Now I’m drivin’ away

A young lady in a small red car

Make that a middle age wreck

The woman not the car

Lookin’ like heck and

Frantically digging in her purse

And tripping in her highly

Inappropriate heels

Fine young grunge princess

Disappeared behind the bushes

I wonder where she went?

Will I see her again?

More on this as it unfolds

Maintenance contractor, union type

Gets out of the rig that’s

Blocking my view—what’s he

Gonna do?

Old people, young people

Waiting for their urine tests

Waiting for the word on their pee

Did I pass? Did I? I sure

Hope the bum I bought the

Piss from didn’t lie to me

Just to take my money—oh, well

Well, I’m waiting? What’s the news

On my juice?

Andrew Letter 48 -- The Huckleberry Report

 
 

Wuhll Howdy, Momster,

Shucks, hi-are-yi-doin? 

Sunday rnernin 'bout 7am an' I is feelin' verbose. Mah dawg is watchin' Gardening Naturally. He prefers the O.J. Simpson proceedings (boring legal jargon puts him right to sleep). I am secretly training him in his sleep with old Lassie, Flipper and Scooby-Doo episodes--anything with good human/animal role models. Absolutely no Police Dog or Ninja Pups with gratuitous barking. Steven King is right out.

I tell ya it's eternal vigilance ya gotta have with these kids. He's a feisty little toddler, but I'm breaking him. A little psych­ology, a little reasoning--talking him through it like a director (sit-good-perfect-fabulous-hold it--- no, no, no -- it's all wrong­, take it from the top, etc). Gettin' a picture, yet?

Yeah, but he loves me. He won't never catch a rabbit, but that's OK cause he's good enough, smart enough and doggonit -- people like him. Especially little kids. He licks their little faces, whereas he bites my scraggly old beard (still looking for a teat somewhere in there).

Whoa--gotta GO. 

Little tyke was getting restless. I gotta get him on an independent study program, 'stead of this Mr. Constant Attention Required.

But he's a regular Gomer Pile, or uh, Forrest Dump. He does his most prodigious work outdoors, thank God. He's had his first worms and his first fleas. Oh boy, what's next? His first psychoanalysis? His first double homicide? Aw, heck, I can feel a nap corning on...

And the days and weeks whirred by like daises, like birds, and the spring came with its lengthening of days and balmy nights. And there was music, and bells -- but I never heard them ringing. No, I never heard them at all -- and there was Huck.

Old sad, droopy-eyed, mutton-jowled, hang-dog shuckle-burnpkin. He's got Willie Nelson Ears. He's my buddy. Did I mention that he loves me? He shore does. He's always trying to make eye contact with me, just for reassurance. Now, who will reassure me?

I seem to have faith these days, or is it blissful ignorance? Wutcha gonna do when the well run dry? Get a haircut and get a real job? I dunno. I'd a hundred times rather be just making it and be my own boss than be working for someone else eight hours a day, day in day out. Especially with today's corporate streamlining, downsizing and layoffs of long-term employees nearing retirement age, blah, blah, blah ...

The world is starting to suck for a large number of people. Or has it always sucked? Is sucking intrinsic to the world? Is the balance of sucking shifting out of our favor? For whom doesn't it suck and why? Is it just a state of mind?

Do we need drugs? Or guns? Or bombs, or what? Is the answer to just live quietly, ignoring it all, or is that just postponing the inevitable? We've got hate groups race riots, people poisoning Tylenol ... are we headed for Armageddon? Live, breaking news -- The End of the World -- we'll show it to you right after these messages.

Thus endeth the ravings of one Andrew P. Golding this day, Monday 9am 4-24-95.

OK, it looks like I’m a little late getting this bulletin out. No new news. See ya when I see ya.

 

Love,

Andrew

Andrew Letter 49 - 3-21-95 Approaching The Big Three-O (font is Slacker Illegibilius, pat. pending)

 

Andrew Letter 40 - Blue Christmas in the new shop

 

 

Season's Greetings, Merry-merry, and a ho, ho, ho ... (and all that sort of rot). Hi, hello, yabba-dabba-doo.

Thank you very much for the lovely Christmas Package (which I opened immediately upon delivery, to the dismay of the still present postman). I don't know when I lost the Christmas Spirit. I never have been too sporting. Remember when I ditched school and hopped a bus home, so I could unwrap and play with my presents early? And you returned the gifts and got me clothes or something?

Where am I going with this thought ...

 Anyway, I put the slicer to use immediately, really handy gadget--PLEASE DON'T TAKE IT AWAY FROM ME! Wahhhh! I won't do it again. There, enough sniveling.

Uh, sorry about not callin' on Xmas day. I been real busy, what wit workin' every day, and I got my dates mixed up, so on Christmas Day I thot it wuz Xmas Eve, and so the day which I thought was going to be Christmas turned out to be the day after. Well, I'm such a heel, I was too embarrassed to call then, so here I am.

I really have been busy -- for me. Three jobs in as many weeks, hundreds of multi-color stickers, posters and signs. So, I've made my rent electric, and bean bill again.

Kind of exciting, the not knowing. Sittin' around for weeks, wakin' up at the crack of 8:30, waitin' for that phone to ring, drinking coffee, watching TV and puttering. Then, PA-WASH! Suddenly, I am busy every day.

I just finished with everything, and now it's back to puttering and wishin' I was fishin'. I hate the cold. Steve called me from someplace near Ixtapa and said it's great, a gringo paradise. Maybe one day, I'll become as he and ride the warm air currents of life.

With my ambition, I'll never get rich ... or married ... or change the oil in my car. But Steve sounds like he's having fun. Livin' it up on granpa's money, the bum.

Hah, I ain't bitter. Look at all I got. I've learned a trade and am reaping the rewards of a business I did nothing to establish. Everything has just fallen into my lap. True, it's not the lap of luxury, but it's more than my sorry-ass deserves at this point.

No time for introspection now, though, it's technically a workin' day.

So, how's by you? Kids OK? No abnormalities or deviant behavior, I mean, any more than normal? And Greg?

Hope your Christmas was white or bright or whatever hue you wanted it to be. Mine was blue, but that's nothin' new. Even my cat didn't want to hang around with me on Christmas, man, that's blue. But not as bad as forgettin' what day it was, cause it ain't no different and it's just as cold inside as outside and your only friends are a TV set and an electric heater.

But I've stopped worrying about the landlord. I talked to him about the owner dropping in on me, and he said not to sweat it, they've been trying to sell the place for years. He didn't seem any more concerned about my staying here than before, so I guess I was just paranoid. Must be the Zoloft.

Hah. No. But for the first two days I got deathly ill-stomach nausea, night sweats and the I-think-I'm-going-to-die dry heaves. It could have been something I ate, or the flu. But I've scaled back to 50 mg every other day ‘cause it’s just too much of a buzz. I mean, I was up on the roof raking leaves at 8:00 AM. Now, tell me, is that normal??

Well, I gotta go. Happy New Year!

Love, Andrew

A pothead's house (1994)

Our house, if we could afford one

Wood of course be something

Weed be proud of

Open any window

Inside every cabinet

Weed have smoke

In the morning

And in the afternoon

Weed smoke some more

Cultivating

An interesting period (1994-ish, edits and comments in red are from some later period)

An interesting period…

Fuckin’ Carol & watchin’ Saved by the Bell

Callin’ Carol, getting told “It wasn’t that good”

And jerkin’ to Hustler

Cool dude, furry freak bro. seeking fuzzy freak chick. Soft lights, smooth sounds, (some fishing), incense and cats puppy await the right beer guzzling hussy.

Four Dykes and a Dildo

Starring Huge Grunt

Yellow outside, black & red inside

A damned shame

You need some brain therapy,

Here, bend over…

My landlord’s name is Eric Hart

With his trusty sidekick Allison

A couple of nicer people

You could never hope to meet

Roachweed (1994)

Roachweed

This is the chorus: Roachweed

Never tastes the same as it did the first time around

Never stays lit, smells like an oil spill

Makes your lungs hurt from the very first hit

Although the reasons for smoking it are sound

Such as

Concentrated THC form many highs

From when it was just getting’ good

And was snuffed out prematurely

Surely, if you can stomach the taste

And are against needless waste

You’ll agree with me

Roachweed

Gets you through them hard times

Except if you’re a spoiled wuss

In which case fuck you

Who let you in here

Get the fuck out

You fucken loser—an abuser

Of resources

That don’t come so easy

To many of my friends—Roachweed

Spurious reports from the far right

Medical experts in the field

Have mentioned it’s a hazard

To inhale burning matter

As if to say, God doesn’t smoke

Well, what’s a fucken volcano?

God smokin’, that’s what, and let

Me tell you He takes big hits

And holds them in

A LONG FUCKIN TIME, OK?

A serial killer's song (1994)

Make me a present, a part of yourself

Pretty little piece I can keep on the shelf

Something in pink, with the inside all red

“Middle of the heart, cross section,” it said

Take me somewhere inside of you

Anywhere’s fine, any opening will do

I’ll find my way in, and you’ll close the door

And I’ll never be seen or heard any more

Give me a pint of your precious dew

And let me relax for a moment of two

Don’t go away cause you know we’re not through

Many are called, but those that get away are few

My Last Words to My Friends -- date approximate (***unedited*** Explicit *** trigger warning, etc. *** -- be warned -- This is misogynistic, vile and disgusting ***)

                             My Last Words to My Friends

Arvada -- Just stop picking it. Stop it! It will go away. It's disgusting. That's all.

Carol -- Can't believe Gene stuck it in you. He told me that he's ashamed and regrets it. But he did mention that it was only possible at all because he turned you around and fucked you like the farm animal that you are?

Carol's Daughter -- Grow up, bitch! Get a job, get fixed and put your baby up for adoption. And leave your poor squirrel brained mother alone.

Any Girl on the Streets -- Hey Babe. Didja like the buckets of white hot bubbling cum I drenched you with last night? 

Didja like licking my flaky white crumbling toejam, bitch?

Didja like sucking out the earwax and the leftover soapscum from my ear, CUNT!?

Didja like the smell of my itchy smelly scrotum bags, honey, of course you did when you sucked my cock so readily, sow, whore, piglet, slut, your reeking fish-barge pussy is so sloppy and well gravied it's a wonder the whole neighborhood's cats don't show up every time you uncross your looser than gooseshit legs. Oh, and your nipples, if they had any more hair around 'em would look like these woolly mammoth type flying saucer things, I don't know what -- but goddamn they're scary! Whew. And if I catch you around my butthole, with its greasy, bloody hanging bits of debris, along with lint -- either sniffing or attempting to lick the gathered salami tie creases around the sphincter, or trying to insert either a tongue or other non-organic foreign object therein -- I shall blast you! Ha. I will fart in your face. I fart in the faces of all poop smelling butt loving bitches anyway.

Wart (1994)

Wart

Too bad I had to see you today

Don’t know what you’re made of

‘Cept one part “T”

And one part War (on humanity)

Looky here—it’s big and getting’ bigger

Can’t face you now

Can’t even look in a mirror

I stopped getting fan mail

A whole month ago, lead singer quit

The band…and

Nobody comes around my one room walk up

Flat…I started wearin’ a hat

And a scarf and a vinyl Jump Suit

Can’t hide, can’t hide

This wart is out to get me

It’s out of control, it’s eating me

I have no life, it controls my

Every move

Y A H H H---!

Way to go out, finish the race

Man explodes, wart on his face

Red balloons always remind me

The day you came to stay

I put my good old days behind me

WART

Get it off, get it off, get it off me

WART

Leave it alone/It’ll go away/NO

WART

Friday night in suburbia (1994)

Let’s go downtown and stare at all the freaks

Gawk at all the losers, tryin’ to be somebody

It’s Friday night, we’re white

And this is suburbia

Start a fight, dance all night

We’re the cultural elite

I want meat, to sink my teeth into

Let’s go to the store—and check the quick sale bin

This is so stupid

Freeway sentinels (1994)

So I can’t believe I didn’t tell you about those hooded freeway figures, spaced out evenly, as if dispatched as sentries. These grim sentinels stood over 40 feet tall and had a beak and claws. With its body shrouded, these were all you could see. And, oh yeah, I was drivin’ when I noticed them. They was standin’ in pairs, by each freeway overpass and off ramp.

I swear it was the night I came down with a death chill, which first I thought was the flu, but without the diarrhea. Yeah, but now I only catch glimpses of these little flying things (they could be mosquitoes) and cats in the corner of my eyes. I haven’t seen the devil in over 4 months.

I have been growing this pot, which looked pretty good at first, but a lot were males. They smoke ok, kinda fresh, the shoots’ll get ya fucked up—in a nice schoolyard kind of way—and even the broad leaf (when smoked damp, like tobacco) gives good smoke—always accompanied by coffee or beer.

I got unemployment checks comin’ in (to pay the rent & PG&E) and $ in the bank. Dope in the ground is better than $ in the bank, because in the end you may not find any dope for sale and you may have spent the $. Never mind that. Uh.

Exerpts from: Cuss Words That I Use (1994) unabridged

Fuck:   Pronounced fuhk, a quick little outburst, used monosyllabically, to display mild distaste for an event, situation, person or object.

           

            Pronounced faaahh—ck to indicate increased displeasure at the above.

Fuckin’ A:       Used mostly in commiseration circles to affirm something negative, eg. “Did you get another parking ticket?” “Fuckin’ A!”

            Can denote surprise, awe or wonderment, as when one sees a really bitchen monster truck crushing old junk cars.

Fuck You:       Can be directed at a person, object or nothing at all, if one is sufficiently pissed. Caution: not to be used indiscriminately around strangers who are bigger than you.

Fuckin’ Jesus Christ:  Pronounced gee-sauce, not necessarily blasphemy, but close enough. Conveys a pseudo-righteous disgust, complete disbelief or exasperation.

Fuck off:         Means “I hate you”  “Go away”

Fuck off and die:        Copulate with insect repellent and terminate. “Go to hell.”

Fuckin’ shit:    Used to describe objects which have fallen under your disfavor. “What is this fuckin’ shit?”

Fuckin’ bullshit:         Used to describe events, actions or things which do not live up to your expectations.

Fuckin’ suck my dick, you fuckin’ fuck:       Can be used whole or in parts. Suck my dick—fellate me. You fuck-- n. A person who is an asshole can be designated as a fuck.

Fuckin’ son of a bitch:            Not related to canine parentage, simply another exclamation of dissatisfaction or a description of an unsavory person.

Various critiques and letters to celebrities (1994-ish)

ART BELL IS A FUCKIN WEIRDO.

Ya man so what

Ok then

---

Made yourself cry lately, bad boy?

---

Dear Mel,

I purchased your Marijuana Grower’s Inside Edition. You stupid-head.

---

Hey Tom Snyder! Yer cool, man, although I grew up w/Ackroyd doin’ you, and I honestly don’t know who does a better Tom Snyder. Any way

---

You suck, Steve. That is all.

Oh, did I say that?

---

Your kind is easy to find                                    I wish I said this to somebody

Like earthworms after the rain

---

Dear George,

I have been watching your show “The George Carlin Show” & have been a fan of yours ever since “Toledo Window Box.” You have spoken for more than one generation during your career as comedian and, well, whatever else it is you do. I personally was edified way back when, listening to your “hippy dippy weather man” and “the dog is licking his balls.”

Um, so what am I trying to say? George, do you still smoke pot? I don’t work for NORML or anything, I am just a consumer of all things cultural.

Do something for the cause, please, my older generation role model, sir. Use your prime time power of predilection to expedite the legalization of or benign pant-friend, marijuana. Don’t be afraid. Just cuzz you’re rich and can buy the real good stuff. You must realize—you are a spokesman. Do your job, be honest and let’s see some cutting edge TV.

It’s nothing new, but persistence—not knuckling under—is what pays. So, do it. Be our hero. Tell the networks that you smoke buds. Deal with it. Don’t be a coward, you only live once.

Your friend, Andrew (a friend in weed)

PS. Was that too preachy? Sorry. Bud. Do it! Be a man, don’t back out now…

---

Dear Thomas Brothers Map Co.

I recently purchased your California Road Atlas. You have set the standard in road atlases. Atlas’sz—whatever. You guys are good. I’ve followed some of your roads on very enjoyable excursions. Yet, I still find myself lost from time to time. Can you help me?

"P" Rap (1994)

“P” Rap

Hi Ho Hi Ho. It’s off the dope I grow

If you’ve never planted seed then ya just don’t know

First you sow, but ya just don’t throw

Not the surface of the ground but just below

Next important item—the H20

It’s gotta be pure as the melted snow

So to the mountains I go

Tell me more, brother, rap on

Well there’s ever so much more to be covered, son

Because of sentencing guidelines

Dontcha buy no gun

If they don’t stick ya in the ground

Then they’ll put you away

In some lightless tomb

Ya might as well be dead

So don’t forget what I said

No gun, no run, you see them pigs are fat

But rather than that

They’d just shoot you in the back

And that’s a fact

Now back to the story of the little bad seed

Grown up real sturdy

Well foliated weed

With just the warmth of the sun

And some dirt’s all you need

Make small patches so they won’t be (seed)

By the ‘lectronic eye, only feared by the greedy

Cuz more than 10#’s in 3 months is overdoin’ it

But if ya got it covered, brother, see to it. I’m in to it.

One whole page (1994 rap attempt)

One whole page                                                          NOT WORTH IT

Dedicated to rage

And the occasional taste of pain

When I injure my brain in an insane way

I think it’s safe to say, I have

A knack for the inane and I inundate

Everything that I say with hate, tied up with

A piece of tape, I meditate, skip the parade

Stay home and gape at the waste paper

Basket and ask it, do you have a clue? How are you?

And where do I find a new suit? It’s my

Duty in life to remain fulfilled, with every

Little vibe that I feel I make it real

Can’t say I haven’t mastered the profession

Of letting my hair down, I’m downtown

Cause that’s where all the mighty fine hos be around—EE YEAH

Big bad scary God (1994)

He’s a big bad scary God and He’s watching you

Waiting to thump you right over the

Head and

Send you to hell the minute you masturbate

Yeah

He’s a big bad scary God so you better be smart

Don’t read nasty magazines

And don’t eat beans

And fart in church

On Sunday mornin’ smellin’ fine

He’s a big bad scary God and He’ll kick your ass

So don’t you light up

That marijuana cigarette

Shut up, wear ties and keep your

Goddam liberal druggie talk

To yourself

He’s a big bad scary god and he hates queers

Almost as much as

Democrats and immigrants

And the poor (lazy)

Welfare bastards

Sittin’ at home tradin’ food stamps

Drinkin’ beer and fuckin’ and

Makin’ more poor little bastards

For us honest, hard working taxpayers

Like you and me to

Feed

He’s a big bad scary God and he hates niggers

Or colored or black or whatever

Those jigaboo fried chicken gold chain wearin’

Caddilac drivin’ crack smokin’ polyester

Neon bell bottom pimp suit wearin…

Death March (April 1994)

4-94

I’ve been bad, I’ve been good

Faced the things I thought I could

Said my prayers, sang my song

Watched the days grow sad and long

Now I got no one, now I got no one

I seek for things without going to far

I lust for a life not bitter or hard

God picked me up and we rode in his car

Then he kicked my out of the passenger door

Now I’m walking, now I’m walking—on

Life’s a death march

The tired and slow

Are obliterated beneath

The wheels of the strong—

Take me somewhere I can belong

In the shade of a tree

By the banks of the river, yeah

With a fishin’ pole in the sand

And a sizeable joint in my hand

Rienna gone (another unsent letter, reminiscing and ruminating about lost love)

 Hello there! Sorry to have taken so long with getting your boxes to you. I've been putting off the inevitable. Believe me, just sitting down to write this is turning out to be more difficult than I had expected. I feel all my tear duct and throat lump centers pulsing and awakening, and I did not want this to happen.

I try to be objective about it all -- you and me -- and remember the reality of our parting, the reasons...but it all gets lost in this pool of sentimentality and mush. I miss you. I can't bear to think about it, about you, for too long. I guess I had forgotten, being busy with work and all. But now, with nothing but time on my hands to reflect and rehash and reminisce -- I am feeling the tug of strong feelings (dammit!) and I guess I'm just still in love with you...and I thought I'd recovered.

Sincerely, Rienna, you are the most incredible woman I've ever been blessed to have such a relationship with. The months I spent with you were the happiest of my life. You came into my life so freely and brought nothing but joy. So, naturally, your leaving should produce some sadness, unless I'm a callous, unfeeling fool.

I can't help wondering if there was anything I could do, could have done, still do -- to be with you again. I don't think there's anything that means more to me than you. I guess I'm deceiving myself. Things weren't perfect. I know that I became shallow, unappreciative, undemonstrative -- I don't know. Maybe it's just one of those things, no one's to blame. 

You were up front with me from the beginning. You stayed true to yourself. I thought that I could change you, make you want to settle down with me, but that didn't seem possible. So I rode it out, just being with you, for as long as I could before you'd go. And now you're gone, and I'm kicking myself for allowing the woman of my dreams to slip away. What a fool, huh?

Maybe we just made each others lives a bit more bearable in an otherwise crappy time. I hope I didn't bring you any pain or cause you to go away with my crappy behavior. Everyone gets a little blind -- I just hope I didn't act like too much of a jerk by not realizing what I had.

I just don't want it to be over. I want you to come knock on my window and say, "Just kidding. I never moved. You were dreaming. Now move over, so I can get in bed with you."

I'd ride the range out to Nebraska and carry you off, but you might have a new beau, and I don't have my six shooter handy. I'd probably die on the spot anyway. I'm too immature to handle thinking of you with someone else. Intellectually, I can, but that's not the part of me writing to you right now. It's my abdomen, my innards and glands, my watery left eye and quivering, taut lower lip which speak.

I was hoping my brain would catch up, and I'd impress you with my detached sensibility, but fuck it, not on this occasion.

On the lighter side of the news, I've got a job interview tomorrow, as a clerical Jack-of-all-trades with a local appliance repair co. Temporary work to relieve a pregnant owner, as receptionist, dispatcher, order desk, etc. Starts @ $6.00 per hour. Not in the bag yet, but it's only 3 blocks away on 11th Ave. Pray for me, eh?

Striper Song and other 94 nonsense

Gotta lay offa them stripers

Cause my arm’s about to explode

Can’t get enough of their action

Can’t think of any other mode

We came to see if what you’re doing

Is within the legal limits

We came here to tax your fun

And about that bag, can we see what’s in it

(2X Mercury outboard) Merry Christmas Mass

Sinbad the Sailor saw Robert Taylor

And promptly kicked his ass

Old man, you’re just jealous

Young men wag their fingers

Sickly youth ask for a cigarette

Or something else to smoke

I don’t write that often, nor produce voluminous amounts—however, when I write…it can be pretty bland at times, yes. Or un-thought-out. Spotty at best. Been raining for a week now, damn. Leaky roof, chasin’ the cat round and round. No need to go out, people comin’ right to my door with their damn-ass business. Ha. Can’t talk to you now, Molly, I’ve got a zit on my nose. No don’t let your hair down, aww. Just leave the scrub brush and the rubber stamp, you can pick up your stickers Tuesday. Yes, bring a check. $115, the price of an ounce (or $12 in Mexico). A day’s work. Flood advisory—get camcorder.

motivational procedures

2-12-94

Getting a good buzz going. Necessary before going out to print. I first need to:

a)     wake up

b)    warm up and drink coffee

c)     get motivated

d)    get more motivated

e)     if I get any more motivated, I’ll need to lie down

Guntwert Thomas

2-11-94

Please allow me to introduce myself: Guntwert Thomas. I am a digger, my first job out of the Academy Scholastia of Central Continent Seven. I live on the upper deck above the trolls (trolly car tube dwellers). I got this special accommodation after my graduation test scores were shuffled, processed and collated along with the cards of every other human being on earth. I must have been a hair’s breadth away from a different stack, one with entirely different accommodations and job description. Judging by the company I keep on this deck, at any rate.

 

no feelings 1-2?-94

1-2?-94

I have no feelings whatsoever

Not “what” so ever but not

So severe

I have no feelings not what so

Ever but so severe

So what.

I have no severed feelings what

So ever in my life

At this time. I have no severe

Feelings of severation whatsoever

At this time. Thank you very

Much!! Fuck you!!!

 

Cigarette butts 1-26-94

 

1-26-94

There shall be no more

Cigarette butts

Feeding hungry ashtrays

Or cluttered like dogs

On the kennel floor

Or rolled up nicely and

Arranged neatly in the driveway

Like little seedlings

Row by row

1-24-94 Rienna is leaving

1-24-94

Rienna is leaving me in a couple of days. I’ll tell you all about her soon. I can’t now cuz I have to get shitfaced and keep my spirits up and it hurts to talk about her. We just had sex. A few hours ago. Don’t you forget it. I used the last non-studded condom. I am getting shitfaced. Either that or I’m insensitive.

I promise I’ll tell you all about it. Some day, soon, I’ll disclose everything. And then I shall die.

1-22-94 Coffee Scrying

1-22-94

I read my future in the coffee scum this morning

A particularly hardy flotilla of

Congealed creamer with

A speckled smattering

Of dried instant coffee bits crowning

It like some volcanic mountain

Chain, bleeding their

Carob rivers into the

Miasma of lighter colored

Café muck all whirling in the

Center and breaking up—

Forming eddies and

Jet streams

Oh the…topology

What will mankind do on this

Incredibly shrinking planet?

Waters rising, forests becoming

Waste places

Then some cataclysm or other

Wiping the cluttered surface clean…

The Non Dairy Garbage Scow Armada

Has all broken up

Into a million

Tiny

Bits

Polluting the now uniformly tan

Slightly acidic

Caffeinated sweetened

Rapidly cooling

But still just about right beverage

For my enjoyment

Journal entry with guidelines for journaling

1-21-94 SO FUCKIN WHAT

Ok. If I’ve been neglecting to write, it’s because I’m busy living my life. Or at least guzzling enough beer and combusting enough doobage to convince myself that’s what’s been happening. I promise heretofore, that my entries, though sparse, shall be at least worthwhile with all the following included:

Indicative handwriting

Foul curses

At least one hard, noteworthy fact

Expired use of poetic license or licentiousness

So. I’m 5’9” and I’ve shaved my beard off.

La Dee Da. Here’s the poem then:

“What use,” she cried, “to stay in one place”

“Almost as absurd as wearing the same face”

No one told me as I was drivin’

That there’s an end to that horizon

At the end of the road is a beaten down fence

The boundary beyond which nothing  exists    

Is sacred anymore                              makes sense

Where pipers mill about smoking cigarettes

Unstable, the lot of them

Soon to be crowned oyster Princesses

Get seasick and ask for

A Rolaid

You see drivin’

At this pace can be quite relaxin’

Catching one-eyed furtive glimpses

Of daisies

Going whirring by                                                  STONER

1-21-94 Journal entry

1-21-94 So What! I can’t believe you’re hounding me for not spending more of my life keeping you up to date. I will not be accountable to you, so fuck off.

The Dark Clouds of November (Rienna is having doubts about me already, and I try to reassure her with this dumb letter, which I never sent))

Hey babe, howzitbegoin'? Don't know zackly why I's be writin'. Jess couln't stop my wheels from turning over and over our discussion the udder day. I was left wit me confidence a bit low about me ankles, not's to say dat's not where it belong. 'Guess I's been kinda inna daze lately these last 3 months. Uh, mmn. I shall recap:

August - Another sucky month in the life

September - Met a real cool girl, don't know if we're just gonna be friends or what, but I'm really diggin' her and like having her around. She's great!

October - Have been to heaven. God this chick is something else! I can't believe we've been spending all this time together, makin' luv and gettin' along real good. Too good to be true, overload, could this actually be my life?

November - Well, I guess I had to come down. Although, I'd rather have died in October and preserved the awesome feeling in its purity. But life goes on. Things change. Have I changed?

I know this is an inadequate, subjective review, but not altogether incorrect. I guess you've discovered my depth to be a bit shallower than expected. Oh yeah, I may be shallow, but at least I am dense -- uh, yeah. Wait, no...Sure I am. Thick as a brick. And fake as an artificial eggplant.

You are probably realizing right now just what a selfish, insensitive oaf I am. Or you figured it out long ago but feel sorry for me or I don't know what. I know that in regard to your feelings, I have been blinded by my own. 

Feeling as strongly for you as I have has made me hazy as to fact and fantasy. I mean, did we or did we not make love? And was I mistaken, or were you enjoying it just a little bit? 

I have been a neophyte my whole life, a tadpole, not even a frog waiting to be kissed. I am one generation removed from charcoal on my way to diamondhood. If I could be everything you wanted in a man in a day, I would take the class, do the ritual, whatever it took. But molding me into the fine human being you desire and deserve may take a long time -- more than a week. In fact, I don't even know if I can get the parts.

What I'm tryin' to say is that I really like you, have never met anyone like you and really want our relationship to continue and grow and not wither and die like a weed. 

I have been brought down from my heady high by your sobering words. I don't wish to take anything for granted. I'm grateful for all the time you've spent with me, your easy friendship -- you're a really great friend. You absolutely blow my mind as a lover. Makes me want to cry. Oh, well. 

I'd do anything, anything not to let those moments fade. So I have been pretty much dazed, first trying to get used to life being so great, now wondering if I can handle things as they were before we met. I don't know. There'd be a huge hole right in the center of me which, if I didn't cover it up before leaving the house, would be evident to all.

But I was smart. You broke my heart already when you let me close. I knew I'd never survive another thawing and refreezing of my heart, so I let it shatter in the privacy of my own home. The thing is: all those frozen pieces want to melt and run back together.

What kind of stupid methaphor shit am I talkin' anyway? What's my point? I don't know. What I really want to say, I guess, is this: I grew up like a puppy without much love. I don't really know what it is for sure, but I believe in it. And I've never been in a relationship where I've felt all the things I feel for you. It's hard to explain, I have nothing to compare it to. This is so new to me.

But I want to make it work. I'm not talking about changing myself into some someone else just so you'll like me. I'm talking about understanding where you're at and doing what I can to always be there for you and make your life pleasant. I don't want to crowd you or choke you out by smothering you. I want you to like me and I hope that you do, but I don't want to be manipulative, overtly or covertly. 

Be free to be yourself and do your thing. If I fit into your plans, I'll rejoice. If not, don't weep. I've already done that -- it's too dehydrating. Stop me if I'm being to melodramatic. 

"I'll miss you."

"I'm just going to the store."

"Oh."

What can I say that hasn't already been said by the Prophets? Work with me and I'll work with you. Be real with me, and I'll always be your friend. Love me, and I'll love you like an ever flowin' river. Not some dried up creek bed, some seasonal stream, but  a mighty flood, a torrent carving out new landscapes and taking you places that never existed.

Journal entry for 12-12-93

12-12 or so 93 It’s raining and the mud, I mean window caulking is getting soft and smeary on the window panes. I’ve been sick for a while and hadn’t had much to tell you.

Last night I dreamed about fire, or a fire up in the mountains of Lake Isabella. I was watching the smoke and flames come up over the tops of some nearby hills and I was wondering if I could get out or not.

I also dreamed I met one of my old bible study brothers and he said he was getting tired of it, too. He wanted to get out, he said. He asked if he could come have dinner at my house sometime. And I said, “You wish to dine at my house? Me, a sinner?” And we both laughed, although it was serious.

The night before I dreamed I saw my dad walking around this indoor/outdoor mall kind of people expressway. Like New York City—you, know kind of a crowd. He was wearing a white suit and had this rad Jesus hair. It glowed. I followed him for while about 10 feet behind him. I could sense that he knew I was behind him so I turned away for a second, pretending to be interested in some arcade game, but when I looked again for him he was gone. I ran in the direction he had been walking but he was nowhere.

 

Journal entry for 12-4-93

 12-4-93 Had all kinds of profound thoughts & deep feelings but I forgot to write it down.

Journal entry for 11-30-93

 

11-30-93 thru 12-3-93 I go to city Friday take unx to the airport, then he’ll be all gone bye bye.

Pot Proverb

 

11-30-93 The hand of the cultivator is full of weed, while the hand of the non-horticulturally inclined scratches after stems.

YER STEWPID

 

Pissed at Earl

11-29-93 Did I say I have to report in now? Did I? Well, fuck you, Sergeant or whatever the fuck. So, now I’ve done it. Can’t believe I was sooo naïve but now I’m sure as fuck gonna buy me a gun and kill all the niggers I see. That’s a joke, son. We don’t call 'em niggers. No, sir. No, we don’t even call 'em “'em,” on account of that’s differentiating or de-ussifying, yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, fuck Earl, then, how about that? No need to be a racist when there’s so many reasons to hate people on an individual basis. I don’t hate that wuss behind your back little sniper, I simply pity the fool, and I will hurt any man who tries to take what I got. C-I-L-L. Sing me a song, you’re a singer.

 

Road Rage

11-26-93 So. I hope I’m not too late. I’m getting irate, sitting behind this big diesel belching smoke fucker of a truck drivin’ son of a bitch. Get out of that cab you asshole, I swear to God I’ll fucken do you right here. Do you hear me?! Shitbag! I’ll…

Sloppy Jack

11-26-93 You hoo! Sloppy Jack, here. I got my gut bag all bundled up and I’m ready to hop in my Ferrari and hope, just hope I can make it to the Waste Treatment plant before it’s too late. You see, last night I flushed something that should never have been flushed down any toilet anywhere. I had no business drinking that plutonium solution the night before either, but now it was all water under the bridge so to speak.