5-19-90 Phantom Dog Leap (The night I decided to crash Andrea Enthal's studio at KPFK)

5/19/90

Heh, heh... I guess ol' Hoody was pretty buzzed when that one came around. Yep, as near as I can see, which is pretty darn near, let me tell you. Yeah, an ol' Hoody's pretty buzzed right now, so take a phantom dog leap into the wild night air. Once it becomes night, that is. Drinkin' a San Miguel. Smellin' clean, cause I just took a shower. It is going to take a phantom dog leap tonight, as a matter of fact. No one needs a phantom dog leap more than I do. Goes without saying. Come on... Yeah.... go on, now... aw haw... do it...

if i don't slip in the shower pretty soon, i guess i'll die.

5/19/90

HON -- ling long, a long a lingy ling...

DON -- long ling, a ling a lingy lang...

HELLO -- hello. Hello, again low again, lee again...

SH---boom, SH-boom (life could be a dream,)

La,da-da-da-da, da da da, da-da-da...boom, SH--boom

(if I could take you up to paradise up above,) SH--boom

(if you would tell me I'm the only one that you love,)

Life could be a dream sweet heart!

5/23/90

hele helee heellleeee!

hele helee Ailleeee!

heellleeee! helee heellleeee!

helee heellleeee! hele heleeeee!

5/18/90

Takin' it as it comes. That describes me perfectly, right now. I am just caught up in whatever's going on and takin' what life dishes out on the side. If there are desserts and treats, that is fine. I take what I can get. But gettin' don't come cheaply any more. Just to kick back takes a lot of effort, what with all the prescription remedies sold over the counter. Ha!

 

'90s Nutjob Personal Ad Response (unsubmitted, of course)

He greeted her, arms open wide with a smile that contained a promise. He casually strolled on over to where she was standing and planted one right on the kisser. He wrote her a meaningful little note and she respected him. I hope.

Thar be no words for how bawdy it would be, a midnight journey, jess you an' me, we'll kiss beneath the old oak tree...hold that thought this is getting out of hand. Hey so like, what's up? Who are ya? And, like, whadda ya do?

Hey, "My name is Andrew. Call me what you want. I've gone by Drew, Drewski, Hoody..

O.K.. I really dig the simple things in life, the basics, I suppose, the things that it takes having a friend or companion to share it with to make it complete. I love nature, the outdoors, camping, fishing, motorcycle and bike riding, hip-hop dancing with frenzied rock badgers, opening cans of soup, playing guitar, movies, parades, social happenings, dental hygiene awareness rallies... all the same stuff you like.

And together, wow, like we could merge our individual viewpoints and mingle in a oneness of togetherness in our mutual understanding(s). Not unless you wanted to. So, what else will be required to divulge in order to meet you and begin our wonderful relationship?

I'm seventy plus years old, a gay Vietnam Vet aids victim, an alcoholic and addicted to crack. I have a criminal record and am legally insane. I like to get all those things out in the open before I get to how I look, in case you want to reject me, so I won't have to go through it twice.

I am a dwarf, three and one half feet tall. I am bald and fifty pounds overweight, oh and I have huge canker sores, more like lesions really, big festering and oozing scabs and ... the smell, well, we needn't get to talking about the hideous aroma of filth which exudes from my pores. What's there not to like?

I am also a quadriplegic and I have a catheter bag which... O.K. now I've gone off. I'm a regular guy, indescribable, 25- yrs old, 5'9", SWM, 155, Med build, bleached blond EZ rider hairdo, green eyes, I wear John Lennon glasses, have a sort of sixties outlook, like classic rock, alternative and underground, seventies and pop music, whatever. I can groove.

But, all joking aside, and everything, like do ya wanna go out? I'm too weird for you, huh? I knew I shouldn't have brought up the… well, never mind. So, why don't we give it a try, love? I'm a really nice guy who no matter what would never hurt you. I'm safe, not one of "those" guys. Well, sure I'm a gutsy outdoorsman, burly as a bear, but underneath, I'm the sensitive, gentle, caring type. So what could go wrong? Please contact me.

Love, Andrew. Bye!

ANDREW PAUL GOLDING

9817 Imperial. Hwy # 27, Downey, Ca 90242

213 803 6961 (anytime--serious or silly)

Biker Personal (1990-ish)

Hello, my name is Hoody and I like Harleys. 

Big, cop-bike Harleys, choppers, hogs -- the whole lot of 'em. I love 'em all. I am currently planning an invasion of the 48 Continental United States with my buddy and roommate, Brian. We plan to save up enough money to purchase said motorcycles from a police auction, with enough money to get to New Orleans. This we refer to as the pilgrimage. After the money runs out we plan to work our way from town to town washing dishes, digging ditches, picking corn, slopping pigs, playing guitars on street-corners and in bars. We will take in as much of the local color as possible along the way and make as many friends as we can, sowing the seeds of hemp and happiness wherever we go.

So much for the future.

Right now I am looking for a woman, or should I say "a nice girl" who will be my friend to the end and upon whom I can feast my eyes as well as my hands. When I am old(er) I plan to settle down, marry and have children, not necessarily in that order. Hell, if my damsel wants to come along, I'll strap the wench to the back and take 'er with. We won't be stayin' at no Hiltons or Holiday Inns, though, and we will be bathing nude in mountain streams (whenever possible). This whole trip will be a mile-stone in my life and could take up to a year (or more). So, sure, I'd want my woman to come with. Or else I might meet her on the road, in some "Gas Food" stop outside of bum-fuck Alabama. I just don't know. But, hey, in the mean time I am going to need as the silly old song says "Somebody to Love."  Jefferson Airplane, not Queen.

So, here I am, my name is Hoody. Did you get that? Not Andrew, as my parents named me (after a Russian film student named Andrew Yablonski). Not Drew, as my uncle Steve calls me or Andy as just about every employer and supervisory asshole figure in my life has called me—but Hoody. Don't ask why. It doesn't matter.

So, do you want to?

Let's Party!

More tasteless stoned, drunken personal ad ramblings (this is why you're single, dude)

Hey, you sweet little thing. I'm Andrew. And I like a big ass-kickin' woman. No shit. I really dig a broad with balls. And a hairy ass. Yeah, right. Sow-ree. I hope youz ain't disgusted by now. 

Ow righty, hey, lemme ask you a quessshun. What's yer name? I think you are- so beautiful. Look, no! Look me in the eyes! Yes, yess, yes. 

The police found a marijuana garden in the Malibu Hills. It took them two days to find it. No one was arrested, but they said it had an elaborate system of irrigation. What do the police plan to do with all that marijuana? Burn it.
 
"Downwind, we hope," said Jerry Dunphy. 

Yeah, right. I hope I made my point. So what sort of irrigation system do you have?
 
I am Andrew. I said it before. I am a man. I reside in Downey. I stand approximately five foot nine inches tall. I weigh in at a sturdy one hundred and fifty seven pounds, subject to change with lifestyle. But I love to eat like a pig. So who don't? 

I also like to drink like a fish. I have blond hair and sparkling green eyes. Except when they're glassy, or red, or closed, yah, yah, yah. I sport the Easy Rider, neo-biker sixties look, with a California transient musician twist. Yah, yah, yah. 

So what have I left out? I am not a bum. I will treat you right. I will be as Frank as Anne. Or a Hoffy Hot Dog. They both plump when you cook them. 

Hey?! Who's writing this monologue? You're killin' me. Ok, sorry bout that. The script was taken over by the Gremlins. 

So, back to my ass-kickin' woman. She's gotta be tough. When we go out and get into fights with strangers in bars, I'd like a woman who can hold her own. Maybe help me out.
 
Yah. So I like romantic things like nature and moonlight. Or rocks. I go crazy over rocks. Oh, man. And slightly desert canyon passes that go through to small one-diner-towns called Bodfish, population who knows what (those horny country shits).

I love motorcycle ridin' and makin' out under a shady tree, on the top of a hill, with a view of Ernest Borgnine's backyard. We could run down into his meadow and go for cow rides. I know it is not as romantic as horse riding, however, Ernest only has cows.
 
Oh, we could go chicken or pig riding if you like, but I don't see the point. They usually die after you crush them to death. Ok, so that's cruel. We all make mistakes. 

Hey, babe, I love you. You're the greatest.
 
 

Another lame personal ad response (1990)

Huh... Well, less see...Hi! Whoa!! You sexy thing!

Come to find out, I can't even describe myself at all. At all. Does that make me indescribable? In so many words, yes.

So who am I tryin' to fool. I am 70+ years old, I have herpes 10 and have tested HIV positive. So, who's judging?

No, come to think of it I am 25 years old and financially secure (not no big fancy yuppie CEO bank account come lately). I do the 40 hr. week rat trap but for the time being my income is more than adequate and my needs are all met. So what?

So, I am not a bum. Nor am I a junkie. Nor a cigarette smoker. Distaste. I do smoke a pipe, but only with mari-juana in it, and usually with friends.

I don't drink at all. I should, I am getting pretty dehydrated, some leaves are curling up. No that's not true, that would make me a plant. Ok, so I drink a little. Maybe on the weekends, if I am going out with friends. Or after a particularly long day, or with dinner.

Ok, so I drink like a fish. No, I really don't care for the stuff that much, and I could live entirely without it if the right woman were to come along, to make me forget about life's hardships.

What do I like to do? OK, but not necessarily in order of preference: play guitar, sing, converse, make love, ride motorcycles, ride bicycles, write, draw or create artistically, um...dine exotically, cook exotically, visit exotic places, meet exotic people, movies, live music, read, fish.

Ah, whudda you like to do? Art galleries, museums and observatories--yes, but they are dreadful alone. You would have to be my companion or these things will be empty. Mere observances. Things done to while away the midnight hours, all alone.

Like, what am I looking for in a woman? Hell, you tell me and we'll both know. The ideal woman does not exist because perfect people do not exist. But the right woman must have more than her share of good qualities. Qualities mainly of the soul. Kindness, compassion, caring, honesty, intelligence, warmth...just the kinds of things that everybody likes in others.

But if you'd like to know blond or red-head, slender or full-figured, tall or petite--hey, come on over and we'll see. You must be loveable. That is all that matters. To me.

So, I'll get all the Fat Circus freak women and all the abnormally shaped head women, and the ones with club feet and crossed eyes. No. I's sorry. Do I sound malevolent? I's jess foolin'.

Do I sound like a bullshitter? I am not. I don't even like to exaggerate, so I may seem pessimistic. I am not. I am an optimistic realist who acts like a sarcastic pessimist, but I am never cynical. Things really do matter.

So call me. Or write. I can hardly wait.

Love, Andrew

Answering Machine Message (Downey 1990)

Hi, this is Andrew

I’m not at home –or maybe I went fishing

However, leave a message and all that stuff.

If you’re calling about the ad in the Recycler—you have reached the right place.

Um, influences? Hard to say.

Flipper, Hendrix, Sex Pistols, Old Skull, Old TSOL and other hardcore

The music I’m interested in could be anywhere from noise to classical. Well, if I ever get it together. Tell me what you’re interested in and maybe we can jam.

(Take Two)

Hi there, this is Andrew

Too busy to come to the phone, or maybe I went fishing

If you’re calling about the ad in the Recycler, you have reached the Dorkazoid Guitarist.

If you are interested in an eclectic blend of trash, including noise, punk, garage rock, underground rock, metal, hardcore, psychedelic, alternative, progressive, fusion—I don’t know what all this means I’m just making it up. Just be funky and creative and who knows.

Flipper, Hendrix, Germs, Jefferson Airplane, Old Skull, Old TSOL, Clawhammer, Sacred Denial

Trying to write porn while high (Downey, CA 1990)

We fought like pigs in an uproar all day long until it was night. Then we fucked like dogs on a summer night. I wanted to stick a carrot up her butt so bad it made me whimper. I did not come. She had a face that'd make a Ford pickup look like first place in a basket weaving contest. Oh, the shame of it all. To me she was nothing. I could have stuck my dick inside a tube dowel.

Parts is parts.

She flung open her dress to reveal a wooden leg. She was in a piss-poor mood to boot. I could have killed her, but instead I kissed her--with force. I then opened the palm of her hand and gazed into a nebula which revealed another world. One in which humans can see 333 percent better and perceive kHz -.110 to 50,000 just like dogs. Special glands enable us to float above the ground, with only minimal concern.

So once again, I wade and wander to the store, amid stacks of newspapers, and Campbell Soup cans.

ID 01P TITLE web feet SIZE  975

Caress

Yen

MATE

GROAN

LONG

LUST

On the subject of Paul, Timmy and buggars

Timmy never learned. Whatever the case or instance of his ignorance anyone chooses to discuss, Timmy is always going to come out smelling like a transmission. I used to hear it said that Timmy smelled like lots of pork after it's been killed in the sun. And Paul, his brother, known also as “the whale," smelled like some underwear that's been lying in a corner. There is more to it all than that but you must remember that water flows quickly, oil and honey more slowly and shit more slowly than the two of them.

Buggars are the eighth wonder of the world. The first seven pale beside the majestic green olive camouflage bits of olfactory byproducts. Once I knew a man who picked his nose in the window
of a famous restaurant in downtown Hollywood owned by an Iranian Jew named Raji. The man would always ask for this particular window to sit by and would always order coffee and say that he would be ready to order in a little while but that his stomach had to settle, oblivious to the unconcern of the waiter. Then, when the waiter had his back turned he'd pick a big green one and fling it up against the window. I must have witnessed this scene daily from the bus stop outside the window. One time I rode the bus twice in one day, and both times when the bus stopped outside that restaurant I could see the man, evilly leering at the window about to hurl his mucous missile at the glass.

More ramblings on the subject of Paul and Dorsey Fallen

 long forgotten love affairs, buggers hanging out of the na -

Jesse wore his suitcase like a diving bell; he had cut a hole in the bottom so his little head could see inside the small world of clothing and personal hygiene devices. 

Paul was a beautiful baby, very fat and hairy, but that was good, the doctors and specialists all agreed. “A wonderful mongoloid you have there, Mrs. Fallen.” Well, that was encouraging. Timmy had been such a disappointment. Betty had wanted a girl, and Dorsey wanted about four or six hefty men, so there would be someone sure to carry the casket at Betty's funeral. Those are important considerations for a man in the back woods of Kentucky with a four hundred pound wife.

 

Paul didn't know of these plans for a family pall-bearing unit. It would be many years and a whole lot of beers later before Dorsey Fallen would spill his guts to his third son, Paul one day

Then he said to him, "Oh, shut up my man of little cock."

Paul and Dorsey, new typewriter, buggars

Whenever someone asks about the use of gerbils or “the @&

wonders

Long after the first of the Snephites deserted the planet of Dostiv 13, we all had gotten used to the occasional blat of raining down buggars in ;the night.

BuggARS

Buggars in the night or "As the Twinkle toe communist cocksucker got his start.”

Paul was fat, yes, Dorsey woulsd

Paul was fat, yes, Dorsey would always say, but he was good. Best damn retarded kid a man ever had. Dorsey had quite a few things to say about Paul that weren't so kind or generous but Paul never took any of these things to heart. Paul, as myself, does not have any pubic hairs inside of his thighs; he a victim of brutal rape, myself a bizarre shaving accident. No matter, it is unimportant. First, we must ask our

This is a very nice typewriter, although it is somewhat impersonal For instance, if you'll notice, there is no period gracing the end of my last sentence. Yes, MY last sentence. Ok, so it's not the last one anymore, it's a couple back. But on a clear day, when there are no cops or ambulances or people dying in the room next door, you can really get a sense of peace. Not lasting or anything, but you'll never notice if you don't think about it.

Bible Study Breakup Letter -- I Leave The Cult After 5-1/2 years

This is the most difficult letter I have ever had to write. It is, in a sense, a useless gesture of respect and consideration (of which I am totally devoid).  I am leaving you all and am determined to have a go at life outside the confines (not too subtle choice of words there) of the Bible Study of which I have been a part for the last 5+ years. 

No one has wronged me or treated me unkindly. Were it not for my own stubborn will and many other character flaws, I should be glad to have any and all of you as my intimate friends. But your friendship comes with a price, the complete sacrifice of myself and subjection to the discipline and structures of Bible Study.

I have grown first lax, then indifferent, then cold and then hostile toward the Structure and the program you all cherish. I once cherished it too, but something happened. I can't explain. I began to desire more "freedom" at a time when restrictions were getting tighter. As Bible Study got more unified and corporate, I wanted to be more separate and individual.

I don't know what planted the first seeds of apostasy in me or why I never tried to stop its taking root. Who knows. Why did I stay this long if only to fall away now? Many reasons. I had hope. For a time, I had hope of eventually turning it around, knowing it would take 100% to do this and just kind of slouching along, saying, "Yeah, but... tomorrow... next week... next month." 

But the self-deception that I would ever change could only last so long. Next, came the trying to get away with being 90% Christian, fully into Bible Study, outwardly 100%, if it didn't take too much effort. But the amount of effort to maintain the deception just took me further down the road of apostasy. 

I wanted everyone to like me and still be my friend. I partook of the good times (if the focus wasn't too intense on any aspect of Bible Study, teachings, worship). I was basically being a hidden reef, a cloud without rain, a tree without fruit, a wolf in sheep's clothing, devoid of the Spirit, an imposter, a fake, a liar and a hypocrite.

I had no desire to disobey certain Bible Study Regulations or Christian Principals. But on the whole I find myself taking less and less joy with corporate activities (esp. when they involve staying up late or going to fellowship after). I can't expect to just go on like that and get anywhere in the faith. I would have to undergo a change in character which I do not have the will or desire to effect. 

As immature as it sounds and is: I just want to do what I want, when I want. This issue isn't fishing or listening to worldly music or buying this or that thing. It's the whole thing. The having to "ask," the having to be on a schedule, the non-optionalness, the lack of time to do anything else. It's just the same as any other apostate, only I have covered it so well for so long.

Anyway, by now you are probably sick of hearing about my wicked heart and its wicked reasons for why I am leaving -- I have left. I hope not too many things are left hanging. I will not be a presence the way others have. I don't have an address at this point and the only way I can be reached is at work. However, I don't want to be called and questioned or preached to.

I left without one single thing negative to say about Bible Study to anyone. Now I am gone. I still don't say that it is Bible Study that is wrong -- I know that it is me that is wrong. Everything about me is wrong, from the deceit to leaving. But until I actually want and desire the things that Bible Study provides, it will be a useless struggle to remain a disciple. I have trampled underfoot all that is sacred. I can only be an enemy.

I wish it were not this way. I don't have malice toward anyone personally. In my own stupid, faithless stubborn way, I love you. That's why I couldn't bear to say good bye or go the route of hanging around, but not being in, Bible Study and having you all shun me. That is why I stayed so long, enduring the nights we met late or often, and stayed with the normal routine. 

You are my only friends in the world, but I simply cannot be forced into something which I don't want. 

I could go on and on, back and forth with this, but I'll not make you suffer to hear it. I will go on with what's left of my empty life, alone and aware of the fact that sooner or later, I am destined to die. And I will be faced with my folly and with the question: "What about God?" 

Goodbye.

Once a brother, 

Andrew

For Tina (6-18-89 sappy Cult Era love poetry)

When I think about you, it only gets me in trouble

‘Cause I get distracted and my temptations double

It’s not a crime to wish we were more

Than distant brothers and sisters in the Lord

It’s only my selfishness that makes me scared to try

To really get closer, for fear I’ll be denied

But I keep alive a small hope that you think of me

Once in a while or at least occasionally

Years have gone by since I’ve had feelings for you

I’ve seen you get older, I’ve gotten older too

I’ve been resigned to observing, and I’ve tried

Not to let you know how I really feel inside

For every fool, there’s someone who adores

Every foolish thing they do, who knows what for

But I’m more the fool for thinking that my dreams can come true

So when you see me, giggle as I sigh

You won’t see as I break down and cry

But I’ll be harder to be seen through by you the next time

Drug addled thinking and gaps in my journal (1989-1993)

“Every day, every day, every day I write the book…” 6-18-89

NO, YOU DON'T, LIAR. Every day, my ass.

Response to Ruth Britton of 3 Burns Ave. Cheadle Stockport, UK (Personal Ad)

Hey, you darling sexy little Brit Girl, you. I am a big sexy American Man who wants to make your acquaintance. There's nothing I'd like more than for us to meet, become sweethearts, fall in love and live happily ever after. But first I'd better get to know you, and you me. And I am he and we are all together. COO-COO-CA-CHOO.

Let's begin with you first. Ha. Kind of takes the pressure off me. Ha. Ok. YOU: vivacious, sexy British Girl, 23,...let's stop right there. Are you really "vivacious, sexy?" If so, how so? You aren't a tramp or sleaze. No, I can't believe that about you. No. The past is the past. And anyway, none of us is perfect.

Are you looking to jump into a beautiful friendship/relationship that could blossom into true love? Do you believe in love at first sight? Are you a radical way-out punk rock girl living on the wild side? You don't look anything like Queen Victoria or Margaret Thatcher.

Um, what's your favorite color? What's your shoe size? What are your toes like? Your ankles? I'll stop. You can describe any part of your self that you wish to disclose. I will just be happy to hear from you. Even if it's just to say "Bug off, jerk."

So, about myself you ask? Well, as you can see, I am a wild and crazy guy. I have many hobbies such as basket-weaving and breastfeeding homeless kittens. No. Actually, I am a gay Vietnam Vet biker for Jesus. And I sell crack cocaine. No. I’m sorry. I really am into sky-cliff-scuba-sailing.

Not exactly. I do like to fish. And hike. And get lost in the woods for 20 years, surviving off the bark of North facing trees. I love nature, sunsets, sunrises, quiet moments and loud rock and roll. Oh, and other forms of music. Like Latin Reggae Jazz and Ballroom Bluegrass Fiddle Music. And movie soundtracks.

I look exactly like John Lennon’s long lost 1965 child when he had that secret affair with Mary Tyler Moore. No. That didn’t happen. I bet you thought it did.

So, anyway, I have my own spacious luxury 1 bedroom pad. Ok, it’s a dump. People get killed in the parking lot. I kill ‘em. I am ruthless. That’s why they call me “El hombre que no tenga la Ruth.” No. I really must confess. I only killed eight of them. That’s it. No, nine. Or ten.

Back to the basics. I play guitar, have a car, will go far—what do you want to know? I value friendship. I believe in honesty and love. I hate hate and racism and people who roll up their toothpaste from the bottom. I am a p---

oh, crud. Me flippin’ typewriter’s on the blink again. Pop ‘round an pick me up a new ribbon, will ye, lovee? And a pint of ale from the Rose an’ Crown.

Well, I am undaunted. I am a pretty good looking guy, as guys go. But I am being honest with you, I don’t seem to do too well with the ladies. I am not a loud and obnoxious guy like Bill, so I don’t get to meet crowds of flirtatious vixens. I don’t have a girlfriend or even a steady date. I believe in relationships, not barhopping with scumbuckets.

I am doing well financially in my job at the machine shop. My pursuits and outlets are writing and music. I hope to eventually become a writer/guitarist/actor/comedian world famous celebrity. And maybe I’ll retire to Green Acres with a girl who is forced to choose between a love for city life and her love for a boring lawyer and his fanatical dreams.

I’d just love to buy a Harley-Davidson and strap my woman on the back and cruise across the United States, and after that—the world. Try not to yawn, I know it’s not as exciting as investment banking. But hey—I am a dreamer.

Let’s meet, fall in love and live our dreams together. We can sip coconut slushies in the far-flung islands of the Florida Keys and raise swamp babies. Yes. Yes. Yes. I love you. You are beautiful. I’ll never forget you. Write me, darling. Be mine. By the way, I’m a nice guy. Etc. Etc.

Love and kisses.

Your new friend forever and ever (and maybe even after that)

Andrew

Expense Account Letter (from when I was still in the cult)

MAR 19, 1989

Gentlemen:

Your expectations are simply too high! No one, including my grandmother, could get a furnace out under the conditions and stipulations you have set forth without the aid of a supernatural deity, which none of you seem to possess. So, in retrospect, I think we could have avoided this whole nasty occurrence simply by ordering more cheese sauce instead of right wing-tip shoes. Is there anything I can do to make this whole thing up?

As long as we are on the subject of tartar, there are a few pointers which I believe will reduce the residue left by most chewing tobaccos (with the exception of Wood Stain, which I believe is the main agent of Soviet aggression in Angola). All jesting aside, this is a serious matter. As a matter of fact, it is so serious that I am thinking of extending it to nine innings and settling it.

One more note on the momentum of planetary dependencies. With our current technology, it is simply not possible to note all the inter-stellar changes in a person’s diet. I see no other alternative -- amputation! In just six short weeks you, yes you, could be off of your rocker arm and into a Nice Ice Tea armchair, with full robotics.

While in Central America, I noted the movements of some strange gypsies through the streets of GuataMeatball. There was no way to avoid running up quite a tab on the lunch wagon while they were around. Here, at long last is a list of my traveling expenses:

1. Stew and Gravy   $4.98

2. Weightlifting shoes  $6.00

3. Homing pigeons (sweaters and garlic not included)   $14.00

4. Sweaters  $1.00

5. Garlic (Imported from Chesapeake, North Carolina)   $299.00

TOTAL $324.98

Thank You -- Call Again

Extremely long, embarrasingly inappropriate letter to a girl in Bible Study, named Tina

BEGINNING

This is not your usual letter. First, I guess because you never get letters from me, so any letter is unusual. It’s hard to know where to begin a letter to a person you’ve never written to especially when it’s someone you see about five times a week and don’t really talk to that much. I suppose the proper place to begin is with a Greeting.

“Dear Miss Hansell…” oops, that sounds pretty serious. How about, “Hey Tina! Yo-baby, what’s hap’n?” Well, that’s a little more what you’d expect, so I’ll leave it. No need to get too involved in the greeting ‘cause pretty soon I’ll have to put this pencil down and go to Bible Study. Then this will be obsolete because I will have seen you and perhaps even have said “Hi.”

Well, it’s time to go and I still haven’t said anything. At least when I pick this back up I won’t have to struggle with a greeting.

(Later)

Well, I’m back. I kind of looked forward to getting back, so I could take up our little conversation. This is a perfect way for me to converse because I can do all the talking and you can’t say anything back. Well, that’s not all that great. It’d be nice to actually have the other person talk to you also.

Does it seem strange that I should write to you? I feel a little like I’m trying to get away with something. Really, I’d like to be able to call you and talk or whatever, but I’d feel REALLY STRANGE.

The truth is that I think you are a very Nice and Interesting Person and it would be fun to be Friends. Not that we are presently enemies or anything. Like am I making any sense? Maybe I’m just babbling and you are just nodding your head and saying, “Yep. He’s flipped. Wait ‘til I tell My Dad and Rob and All the Counselors.”

Well, I guess you could do that. I could probably use a rebuke for one thing or another. However, I really don’t mean any harm and you wouldn’t want to crush your little Pen Pal without even returning his letter. (would you?)

Summing up what I’ve said in all this so far:

I.               Hello

II.             I am writing you a letter

A.    I feel somewhat strange about this

III.           Let’s be friends

IV.           Please answer this letter

(continued)

MIDDLE

So, since we’re going to be friends (see how bold I am when absent…) let’s begin with a few questions:

I.               How are you?

II.             What’s it like having Bob for a Father?

III.           Are(n’t) you glad you Moved to California?

IV.           What makes you tick?

V.             Do you think I’m prying and should I BACK OFF BEFORE YOU BELT ME IN THE MOUTH?

It’s getting time for beddy-bye so I’ll be signing off. Over and out.

(The Next Day)

Hey, how interesting…I am at work right now, and it is lunch time—this job is very Kick Back. I sit in front of a Computer all day and wait for the phone to ring. It has been Dead, and so I have nothing to do at all, but even if I did, I can always hide inside my cubicle and take a break. Fascinating, I’m sure.

The people here are also Very Kick Back. There is never any pressure except from The Customer. There are 3 people in the office with me, a Receptionist named Kay (who talks and acts exactly like Gloria—Wacky). Jeannie, who does Purchasing/Order desk is an ex-machine shop worker with a very blunt disposition and a vocabulary like a Truck Driver, but not as mean.

Karen is the manager-to-be. She scares me because she’s the only one who knows how to run the place and she’s been here only a month. She’s a Trekkie (Star Trek Fanatic) and an oldies freak. Prior to her coming, we worked in silence, now we listen to K-ODJ All Day Long.

The Dress Code is Very Casual—Jeans, T-Shirt, Sneakers. Many are the days I do not even shave—or shower—for weeks! (Kidding, of course).

I haven’t mentioned lunch—Burgers, Fries and Coke usually, from across the street (or sometimes “the Teriyaki Special.”  We won’t go into that). Well, lunch is over. Today I have had no lunch because I really wasn’t In The Mood. Gotta go now—bye.

(Later The Next Day)

Getting toward the end of the working day, and I’ve got a little bit of time to kill. I’ve looked over this letter, and I don’t reckon I’ve said a whole lot.

(there’s more)

BEGINNING/END

The main thing I really wanted was just to communicate with you –even if it is about the Ho-Hum things of everyday life. There never seems to be a Right and/or Appropriate Time to talk to you, but after our little 2AM conversation I realized that I really would like to be able to talk to you. It’s just the Appearance of Things and What People Would Think.

So I have written and Part of Me says to throw this away or keep it in my “Letters to Never Send” file. I don’t know why, probably afraid you’ll think the wrong things, or you’ll read my letter out loud to a roomful of people, or I’ll get rebuked for doing something Inappropriate. So if you get this letter, it will be this short, or else if I chicken out, I’ll probably add to it and make it even more unsendable.

So Long for Now

Brother Andy

PS. I really hope I give this to you tonight but my nerves are making my finger muscles paralyzed and they probably will not release the envelope when I try. Oh, well, here’s to hoping.

(Later Still)

PPS. So, I’m a coward. I think I’ll do something IRREVOCABLE like mail it. Then if I can get it in the mailbox it will be out of my hands. Why’s this such a big deal anyway, gosh. This is a stupid letter anyway. You’ll probably think I’m stupid(er than you already do). I am disgusted w/myself of late, in fact I’m not speaking to me anymore. Hey, really meant to give it to you but had second, third and fourth thoughts and still am. Like what am I supposed to do just hand it to you? I’d feel to strange but to heck with all this you're probably fast forwarding this part anyway.

Ok, so let's Review again.

I.               Hello

II.             I am sending you a letter

          A. I feel somewhat strange etc.

III.           Let’s be friends

IV.           Please answer this letter

V.             Various questions

VI.           My day at work

VII.         I’d really like to send this letter but…

(over) (and over and over…)

END END

Tina, now don’t get me wrong. I really am making too big a fuss about this. Let me say again my purpose for even sitting down to write this is because after the other night outside your house and other times of just joking around, I’ve felt like I wished you and I were better friends.

But as you can see how awkward it is to even write to you, how much more difficult to you if Everybody’s around or if Everybody’s not around. Either way just seems like people would think it’s wrong. So, I don’t or I haven’t or it’s been a real quick Hi/Bye and nothing where I could say “hey, I know Tina. Tina’s a good friend of mine.”

I guess I just am needing a friend and thinking maybe you can use one, too. Anyway, the times that I’ve talked w/you I’ve enjoyed—though they haven’t been many. Anyway, so to approach the whole thing I thought to write is less of an awkward thing and I can pick and choose the time. You don’t even have to be there. So I wrote you a letter. So sue me!

Maybe you might want to write me back, maybe you might want to say, “This is a stupid idea, drop dead. I hate you.” But either way, I wanted to try and reach out just a little beyond this shell of a person you see five days a week but hardly Really Know. So I tried, so sue me!

I really didn’t want to make such a big fuss over it  but I just started getting PARANOID, thinking—oh, oh. Here I am sending you something maybe you’ll be uncomfortable, maybe you’ll misunderstand or whatever. You are a girl, that is enough to make me PARANOID already.

So, if you haven’t already made up your mind to report me to the Humane Society or the S.P.C.A. or the FBI, the KGB or the ERA then please write me a little note (not necessarily some BEAST like this one). And we can commence to being a little bit better friends than we are right now. That’s if I ever give you this…

Once again yours,

Brother Andy

PS. Never Mind.

(After Sunday Night)

Hey There! Maybe I didn’t need to write to you after all. For the past couple of days we’ve gotten to spend some Nice times either talking or eating or doing both simultaneously. It has been a lot of fun for me and I didn’t feel at all STRANGE. I enjoy the stories you and your Dad tell, however, he definitely has you beat when it comes to those gut-wrenching stories from the past.

Anyway, the pie, the pudding, the Jello, the ice-cream and Pop Tarts were all very Nice and made me feel for a tiny bit like we were Old Friends. Although in Bible Study, of course we are all family and friends, sometimes it winds up that you never get as much time w/certain people and you wind up feeling distant. With you, it was like I never really knew you until recently.

Anyway, I’m enjoying this whole thing of becoming Real friends, if you are. So why am I still writing and not telling you this? Well, I’ve gotten used to it over the last couple of days, I guess. I write a few lines here and a few there and it’s like I’ve got you Right There listening. Of course, it isn’t you; it’s a pencil and a piece of paper.

But if it ever comes about that I give you this letter it will be like one long conversation (one in which I talk on and on endlessly and you never get a chance to speak). So, I think I will limit this thing to writing only if something earthshaking happens. I just had to write this time, though, because I had to tell you how much I enjoyed these last couple of days.

Anyway, I’m just a fool if I think I’m ever going to give you a letter as goofy and sentimental sounding as this one. Goodnight!

Revisting the distant past via scanned paper documents

 

11-28-15 

I'm thinking of uploading my consciousness onto this blog. No, not all of it. Just some random scans of stuff from the '80s thru present. Scraps of paper with random thoughts artwork or whatever. Let's do a test run.

Nothing actually happened on this date, nor did I even have this blog at the time. This was just an exercise in date manipulation. So, I can actually go back and re-write history...

A letter from Nina (a punk girl I dated briefly in high school)

Andrew,

Hi-

This is Nina. I’m at home from school and I just woke up from a dream. It had you and your girlfriend in it. That just made me want to write you a letter, since we haven’t really spoken for a while.

At my party, I know, I was very strange. You probably thought that I had completely lost control of my life. But actually I really haven’t. You see, I just let everyone walk all over me, and I understand now and I don’t intend to have any more big parties.

Anyways I really hope that you are happy. Because I care a lot about you still. I was talking to Jeanette at a gig and she said that she doesn’t see that much of you. I found that odd because you both go to the same school and all, but then I started to understand the situation. It must be that you’re always with Ilene, huh? Well, that’s great!

You don’t know how happy I am for you to have found the one person that you have been looking for. She seems really nice. I felt sort of ridiculous around her because, to me it was like, you might of told her I was “nice” or whatever you felt, and I was a complete jerk that night and she kind of just said “O.K. Andrew, whatever you say.”

But I’d really like to get to know her. Why don’t you ever go out anymore? Are you guys that involved? I always wondered what it would be like to just want to be with someone, and no one else. Oh, well.

So, how is your family? Are you getting along well? I sure hope so. I’m alright. I’m just getting some lectures from my mom on school and that sort of stuff.

I finally took care of my “Paul San problem.” It was really weird, you see he was at my party and we didn’t even talk. It wasn’t like a fight, just like we weren’t even together. After that we didn’t talk for a really long time and then I saw him one night at the Galaxy. And I just told him, that I thought we outta just be friends. And that was it. I can’t see what it is I saw in him.

But I have found myself a new Paul! It’s so weird. I saw him and was awed, I didn’t EVEN want him for a boyfriend, I figured “fuck, that guy is beautiful, I only want to look at him.” I just wanted to stare at him. But then he kept talking to me all night, and then by the end of the night he was holding my hand and he kissed me goodnight and got my phone # and I’ve seen him almost every night since.

And that was 2 weeks ago. There is something special about him. It’s weird, he’s absolutely tooo nice. I can’t understand. He has 1 million friends and he is too nice to me. I guess there’s no such thing, but you know.

Well, I guess I outta go. Sorry, if I bored you. Please write me back cuz I will look forward to hearing from you. Bye, I love you always.

Love,

N------

(tricky huh hee hee)

P.S. You might have to help me with French, cuz I’m having troubles, not a lot, just kinda.

Here’s something I wrote in school. See if you can figure out who it is about.

Sitting here, in a daze

Don’t hear the teacher

Or what he says

I’m thinking about people

And things to do

I’m thinking about me

And I’m thinking about you

I’m so alone without you here

Being by myself is what I fear

I’m trying to listen

I sit and stare

I close my eyes and you’re still not there

Bye Love,

Nina

The Midnight Postman

Do you remember where you were on January 14, 1973? Elvis was performing Aloha from Hawaii via Satellite. I know what I was doing, besides watching it, of course, with Gracie. I was writing letters of apology with a red felt tip pen on paper napkins, to a girl on whose roof I had pooped the previous week. Yes, you heard that correctly. I pooped on her roof.

Ok, so there was this girl, Sabin Pildas, at my progressive alternative school, Play Mountain Place, who I had my very first puppy crush on. She had blonde hair and was cute as a bug, or a button, or a rainbow sunflower, whatever. I was in love. I liked-ed her so much I invited her to my 7^th birthday party. We played at school and sometimes after school, as she was my neighbor. She lived in West Hollywood, just across the Sunset Strip from the house my mom was renting on Larabee.

One night, I was eating dinner over at her house. They were having “busgetti.” Somewhere between the appetizers and the main course we were offered water to drink in a choice of glasses. I really wanted to drink out of the blue glass. It had a neat swirly texture and a blue tint that got really dark at the bottom, like a tequila sunrise, only with indigo. As soon as I saw it, I knew that it was the glass for me.

I was denied that glass, however, as it was her father’s glass and was “special.” I didn’t take it well. First, I pouted, which provided no results. Then I locked myself in the bathroom and proceeded to crawl out of the skylight and onto the roof. I’m not sure when the plan developed, but right then and there I dropped my pants and crapped on the roof. Right next to the skylight, with birds and sun and sky silently aghast at my action.

It was a messy, peanut buttery affair, which left my backside in need of a good washing. Alas, I had neglected to bring any toilet paper. So, there I was squatting, my little undies and pants all akimbo and becoming soiled from the mess.

I cried. And yelled. “Help! Someone!”

Eventually, someone heard me and determined that I was on the roof, above the skylight in the locked bathroom. Somehow they got the door open, and someone handed me a roll of toilet paper. Yes, there were questions. Possibly starting with “What the….” I was crying, so they tried not to yell at me, but I could tell they were really pissed. After getting cleaned up and climbing back down, my mom was called, and I was soon picked up. I was never invited back there again.

I was forbidden to play with Sabin. This didn’t sit well with me. I still had my puppy crush on her, although I knew I had fucked up. So, on January 14^th, when everyone was watching 70s Elvis doing his thing, I was writing these notes to my lost love. Later, I snuck across Sunset Blvd. in the middle of the night to slide them under her door, the midnight postman, delivering his message of love and regret.

I’m not sure if she ever got to read them, but her parents did. They contacted the school and lodged a formal complaint, which could be in some permanent record somewhere, if those hippies kept records of that kind thing back then. I was later kicked out of that school for pushing a kid out of a tree house, but that’s another story.

Me and Sabin are friends on Facebook (I think) and I don’t guess she was scarred for life by my misdeed. Let me just check my friends list real quick. Yep, still there. So, that was the start of my awkward love letter writing career which endures to this day. If I could just find those napkins, I’d try to redeliver them just to be sure she knows that I was really sorry back then and that my feelings of puppy love were true.

Back In Time

Can you insert a post into the past if you think of something later on?  Stupid Blogger. I used to be able to change the date and post things retroactively. Now I have to wait for time travel to be invented, so I can go back and put paper journal transcriptions in their proper place.

**Editor's note: They fixed the portal. Now it is possible to add posts to my timeline (at least as far back as Jan 1, 1970) without the use of time travel.  For my purposes, that'll have to do. I wasn't doing much blogging before that time anyways. 

And, unlike Facebook, there is no built-in "edited" disclaimer at the bottom to expose the fact that I have tampered with the past, should I decide to go back and re-write history. Like the Mandela Effect, people who may have read something that I posted will just wind up scratching their heads and saying, "Hmm, I could have sworn you'd said something completely different the last time I visited this page." If. Anyone. Ever. Re-reads anything on this blog.