Monday, February 21, 2005
Oh yeah - this guy I know of, had a monkey in his pocket once, I think it was drunk, I think it had been sick in his pocket, he was drunk as well, we were in San Diego I think, that summer was kinda blurred but we were definitely there - anyway, this guy was a writer, or something, looked like a bum to me but what the hell, sometimes you can't tell, you know? I've seen professors who look like bums, who cough up bits of their lungs, who smoke Silk Cuts not because they're low tar but because it's kinda like giving up, for them, when they don't wanna give up, not really. But yeah, this guy had a load of drugs in his trunk. Years ago this girl I liked gave me a book with some of his letters in and said it was cos I reminded her of him - he was the only writer I've ever been compared to and not felt, you know, offended, like someone was demeaning me and what I do (Nick Hornby? I mean, for fuck's sake, come on, he's been dead for years). But yeah, this guy with the slightly-tinted glasses and the rifle and the trunk full of drugs. I think he wrote for a paper. I never liked Lester Bangs because he wrote about his music, not mine. But the guy with the monkey in his pocket and the trunk of drugs and the rifle, kinda reclusive, I hear he blew his own fucking head off with a shotgun because he just couldn't take the world anymore, couldn't take anymore of Bush and Republicans and fucking idiots running after money.
I hear you, man. I hear you. I'd blow my own head off if I thought it would change anything.
2/21/2005 08:00:00 pm