Wednesday, April 28, 2010

20 seagulls saw it.

I was sitting there at the beach, after the rain, eating a vegetarian vietnamese sub.
I was biting off the paper in my teeth and spitting out your name into the waves.
I smiled at an old woman and the wind blew my hair all around.
She did not return my smile.
So I counted seagulls.
twenty of them.
The old woman came back and said something foreign and put
five caramels from the ukraine in my lap
and walked away.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

it was about 70 degrees and i was not dressed in white.

There were some people standing outside in their driveway having a BBQ and I parked a few feet away. I averted my eyes because of the way the man was standing there with a hose, pointed out toward the street.
I looked over. "yeah."
He said, "Come over here."
and I said, "I do not know if that's a good idea."
and the other party people there with him said, "Yeah, cross the street!"
so I was like, "ok."
I went over and said, "Hello."
and he said "Let me spray you with this hose here."
and I said "No. I have groceries and I will also get wet."
and he whined, "C'mon. it's hot as shit."
the sun was indeed out in force.
and his friends said, "C'mon!"
and one held up a boogieboard with the ocean on it and said,
"You can pretend it is the spray of the waves."
So I said, "ok." and a girl took my groceries
and then the man sprayed me with cold water mist while his friends cheered.
Then I took my groceries, thanked them, and went to the house to make fresh basil pizza.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

pretty good shirt.

i snuck down to ameoba music on my break and saw this dude working there wearing a shirt that said:
with a tiger in the middle.
with his paw on a basketball.
with a santa hat on.
So I was all, "What is your shirt. Where did it come from. Why is it."
and he said, "Got it at a thrift store down the street."

Then I bought a terrible album by some local asshole named Ty Segall for fourteen fifty six. Yeah, no. Good job, Ty. Way to sing through a filter so distorted your pathetic, one minute and thirty second masterbations almost sound like passable songs when played through the din and clatter of a coffee shop.
One who did not know any better would probably invest fourteen fifty six in your album, hardly expecting to experience one of the most truly insipid, played-out, echo-fuck, power chord, mumbledrumcrumblecore bullshit albums ever excreted.

If I ever see you in public I am going to ask you for money.