Thanks to John Ross Bowie, I’m on a(nother) Ramones kick. Last week I went and saw a pre-opening performance of the play he wrote about the Ramones, called “Four Chords and A Gun.” It’s a fictionalized account of the time the band spent recording their “End of the Century” album with producer Phil Spector.
If you are in LA and somehow read this before July 31st and it’s not sold out, I highly recommend you go see it.
I’m no theater aficionado, but I really enjoyed it…
I’m beginning to reconsider my original assessment of how hot Sara actually is. Maybe I was a bit hasty in my initial appraisal. I do that sometimes; judge women a little too harshly. She bends over the coffee table and sets down a bowl of tortilla chips. I catch a sidelong look down her shirt and decide that there just might be more life in those boobs than meets the eye. Boobs can be tricky that way.
Marnie looks fucking unbelievable as she steps from the shadows into the late afternoon sunlight. She’s gorgeous; a goddess in red crêpe creepers and a floral print dress. She‘s happy to see me and shows it, with a smile that envelops her zit-free, porcelain face. The smile is a gift and if I’m struck dead at this moment I feel as if I will have served my purpose in life. As we walk, I do my best to not look over at her. I want to reach across those electric 3 inches between us and hold her hand. Instead I just stare down at my high-top Nikes. Continue reading
Disclaimer: This is a long entry (4600 + words), unless you’ve got a few minutes and like stories about LSD in cemeteries it might be best to start with another entry…
“Face it. You’re a pussy. You’re scared,” Sean says. He’s obviously attempting to goad me into going inside the tomb. It’s not going to work though. I won’t let him trick me. I’m not going in that creepy-ass, little room.
Sean is my friend, but I need to remember he’s also a major prick. He’s the kind of guy that abuses people for fun and for some reason I usually do what he says. I hate that he can often quite easily, get me to do what he wants. I’m not going to fall for his shit this time though. I’m not gonna cave. Continue reading
Not that I care particularly, but… it’s a conspiracy. The country’s attitude towards drug use and abuse is a perpetuation of the status quo that’s evolved out of ignorance, rather than malice. Most people are sheep, you know? They do what the system tells them, hence they don’t try shit for themselves and without thinking about it they prolong the current state of affairs. The line they keep trumpeting in school, “Drugs are bad,” is a patently false. Drugs are lots of things, good, bad and everywhere in between but the main thing to remember is drugs fucking work. Drugs make you feel good. Continue reading
If only he could see himself through her eyes, then Kevin might understand just how petty and immature he comes off, so far from the tough guy persona he imagines for himself. He’d see how to her, he’s a prepubescent boy, his chubby cheeked face twisted into a pouty rage, howling about how emasculated he’ll feel without her on his arm at that miserable dinner.
Melissa is killing me tonight. She’s practically whimpering, trying to get me to pay attention to her. It’s pathetic. I take a lady out for a civilized drink on a Tuesday night and this is the thanks I get. I try to remind myself that she’s fucking hot as fuck and that I’m lucky I’m the one she’s fucking, but it’s tough when she’s whining about whatever it is she’s whining about, her classes, her roommate, lord knows what the fuck else. Continue reading