I am made of chalk

Back from Coachella...sort of

Um, whoa. What an amazing fucking weekend. So much amazing music, an endless array of gorgeous girls in various stages of undress, and a half-oz of extra-kind buds to keep everything nice and chill. I made Coachella my own this year, and it was fantastic. So much so that my brain is still kind of there.

This weekend, meet me at the THC Expose in downtown Los Angeles. It looks like a lot of stoney fun.

Still no cocaine

I want to go to there and live forever. Pleases?

Apparently, nothing

I gave up asking why ages ago. Still, I can’t help but wonder how things can often happen in the most bizarrely particular manner possible. Like today.

Through a “random coincidence,” I found myself having coffee with a certain person. He’s held a few distinctions in his life. Among them: The guy that hijacked a job away from me over five years ago now.

It’s the longest fucking story ever, but by doing a distant acquaintance at best a solid, I inadvertently signed my own death warrant.

Needless to say, this person and most anyone remotely close to the situation became part and parcel of my shit-list.

It wasn’t until I had a series of profound circumstances result in me becoming (drum roll please) a different person.

Basically, I genuinely let go of a lifetime worth of baggage—including the burning, white-hot hatred I’d harbored for this person for so fucking long.

So there we were. Having coffee. There has always been an easy rapport between us. But as we talked, I could quite clearly see our differences. This was a guy all about making IT happen, but only through the least effort possible. And not in a good way. Cheap, fast, never as easy as it looks and generally shoddy all around—this guy was akin to the Ikea of employees.

Ikea sells a shit-load of furniture. Our boss quickly kicked my high-maintenance ass to the curb and went with the cheap Swedish shit. Bad times.

Today, that whole camp wishes they were even a shell of their former selves. It’s all over but the shouting, as “they” say.

As we discussed what happened back in the day, he hit me with a line that kind of summed up my entire L.A. experience:

“Well, I nailed it with that first project,” he half-boasted wearily. “But that was about that. It’s not like I really had anything else to bring to the table.”

There it was. Once again, I found a way to put myself in a situation where success was not based on merit or ability, but smoke and mirrors. AKA bullshit.

It was and is common knowledge that I possess a bounty to bring to this particular table. Yet the “powers that be” decided to go with the lesser of two talents. Sound familiar? I thought so.

So when I think back to all of the time and energy I spent hating and brooding and seething and moaning my way into a deep, dark hole it’s taken forever to finally climb the fuck out of—they were off burning through the money, the legacy, all of it with nary a care in the world. The drugs, the trips, the women. The last I heard, my former boss had to sell his kitchen table to pay a utility bill.

Karma is real. And unlike anything else in life, has a tendency to be unequivocally fair. Imagine that.

Decade

Woke up. Got out of bed and hit the bathroom before assuming the position: In front of my computer atop Ikea desk in the living room.

Rolled a marijuana cigarette. Used a blend of Green Crack with a dash of Blue Dream. Checked email. Got conformation: I’d be listening to the new album by Very Big American Rock Band at 3pm.

Walked up Wilshire to the local Ralph’s grocery store. Purchased Gatorade, vanilla ice cream, sliced pineapple and a handful of Soy Joy bars. Took out $40 in cash.

On the walk back, I stopped at Roebek’s Juice. Ordered my usual (Venice Burner w/Immunibek). Shlepped everything back to the apartment.

Finished the joint from earlier. Ate a bowl of Multi-Grain Cheerios. Logged onto my computer. Spent an inordinate amount of time on Twitter, less so on Facebook.

Checked in with one Twitter girlfriend who’s been especially amorous. We exchanged dirty tweets until she wrote, “I think I just came.” At which point I jerked off, coming really hard in my Rolling Stones boxer shorts.

Contemplated buying cocaine, but decided against it. My will has been strong lately. Besides, with Coachella coming up, I’ll need that $$. I’d much rather put it towards getting at least a half-ounce of Green Crack to take with me to the desert. Not to mention the small fortune I’m sure to spend at the merch stand. No coke for me. My body is especially thankful.

Speaking of my body: For the first time in over a year, I’m seeing a significant change in it. I’ve lost a noticeable amount of weight over the past couple of years, but in odd fits and starts. Including a nice chunk of pounds over the last few weeks.

I haven’t been “fat” in years. But I’ve never been skinny. So when I look at the person in the mirror that’s bordering precariously on the verge of being, well, “ripped” for lack of a better word, it’s beyond surreal. It’s kind of scary. All I can think of is how different my life would have been if I’d even looked remotely like this 5/10/15 years ago. And then I think it’s just a delusion; I’m only seeing what I want to see. There’s no way that’s real.


After a good hour of that sort of dialogue running through my head as I stood in front of the mirror grooming myself (shaving my face/head can take a while), I got dressed.

I drove to Westwood. That’s where the Very Big American Rock Band’s management company is located. After parking in their structure, I took a few tokes on my one-hitter before going in.

The guy I met was cool. Young, Jewish—totally reminded me of that guy on TV show “Royal Pains.” He played me a bunch of new songs. They’re pretty nice. I seemed to like them more than the manager dude did.

On the way home, I listened to some Led Zeppelin. The album: “Physical Graffiti.” The song: “Ten Years Gone.” I couldn't help but marvel numbly at the opulence of Beverly Hills as I passed it by.

I have lived in Los Angeles for ten years now. I’ve never lived anyplace other than home for that long. For a majority of that time, I hated this place. But I finally surrendered to it, and now it’s all love.

Sure, I hate the drivers and the loneliness and the fact that this is the first place in the world I can’t even find myself a reliable fucking booty call, let alone a girlfriend. It’s warm, sunny and I have a sweet place for not a lot of money. I smoke amazing weed all day, every day. I do very interesting things for work. Yeah, I could use more money. Who couldn’t?

All I need is love. It’s the massive, gaping hole in my life. It has me doing all sorts of crazy things in pursuit of it. But without hope, I don’t know what I would do. Or specifically, I’m afraid of what I would do.

It doesn’t even have to be real. She can lie to me. I would pay for it, if I could afford it. The only women I can afford are not the kind that will deliver a genuine GFE, if you know what I mean.

I’ve been listening to Dr Laura a lot lately. I know—kill me now. The way she puts it, lonely people choose to be that way. Why do you volunteer to be lonely? That’s what she would say if I called her. And I don’t have an answer.

Crush of the Day

She goes by Zstarstruck. Yeah, that's about right...

Asphyxia