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.