Joshua Doan

bright lights, rain and ice buckets

2009-02-13T17:09:00.000-08:00

Greetings from mars. Well more like the moon. I’ve been working on this little book thing and distracting forces have been attacking my tiny studio from the inside and outside so I’ve rented a room in a cheap hotel in Santa Rosa for three days in the hope of getting some solid writing time in. We’ll see, but a little bloggy-blog can get the juices flowing sometimes.

The coffee pot is full, the typewriter primed (well… okay my typewriter has been collecting dust on top of my bookshelf for a while now… replace smith corona with dell latitude – model d820) and I can’t find the promised HBO on the motel television so something is bound to happen.

I may sneak out a few times to see some old hometown friends while I’m here. There are a couple of local shows tomorrow night, in particular, that I want to check out.

The drive here should have taken about an hour, but ended up clocking in around twice that do to some hellish rain and freaked out drivers, but it gave me time to think about something.

Gremlins. I watched gremlins last night with a friend who had never seen it - despite being the same age as me and growing up in America.

So in gremlins there’s this scene where the mom becomes aware that the mogwai have hatched from their larva stage (now they’re gremlins) and are wandering the house. When she’s confronted in the kitchen by a few gremlins she proceeds to butcher the lot of them by the most gruesome means possible.

At this point in the movie she is unaware of the danger she’s in. This is like if you walked into the kitchen, saw a few raccoons (or maybe little green men) and started throwing them in blenders, nuking them in microwaves and stabbing them to death with knives – completely unprovoked.

I’m just saying. That was kind of fucked up.

seattle, cutting faces and forgetting nirvana

2008-09-11T23:32:00.000-07:00

It's a lazy dog-dangling afternoon. Not a care in the world. I don't know how it happened, but I really have absolutely no plans today. None. It is the greatest feeling in the world.

Seattle

AG had a show up in Seattle and, graciously, invited me along to be her roadie. All I had to do was lug a heavy ass cello around. Hell yeah.

I'd been to Seattle four or five times and I always thought it was kind of bullshit, but I'd never really given the place a chance. I mean I've never really checked out downtown or anything.

Here's the thing: I was recently in a grunge band. Well, we called ourselves grunge, but it was kind of a joke. Our songs were what we imagined grunge sounded like had any of us actually listened to it. I think we sounded like grunge, but how would I really know? I wrote the songs, but I would be hard pressed to tell the difference between Sound Garden and… well I don't know any other grunge bands. See? People often told me we sounded nothing like grunge music. I needed some vindication. So in my grand tradition of doing everything backwards it was time to discover my roots.

We flew into Seattle and rented a car. Here's the thing: I'm a sucker for up sells. I mean I love upgrading things. Salesmen love me and I love them. GPS? Hell yeah. Upgrade to a nicer car? Hell yeah. I bring this up because the GPS ended up being the bane of AG's existence. I had never really gotten to use one of those things before and I loved it. I gave it all my trust. We were a team. Me and the GPS.

A GPS sucks the spontaneity and heart out of driving around in a strange city. This comforts me, but freaks out anyone with any kind of heart or sense of adventure. I would follow the GPS's computer voice to the end of the Earth.

"In 40 yards turn left"

"In 40 yards turn left"

"In 40 yards turn left"

AG and I would end up driving in circles. She would be pointing in the direction we need to go and still I would repeat my mantra of "Trust the GPS". This would have gone on for three days, but AG, wisely, unplugged the thing and took over driving.

We had a chance to hang out downtown for a while before AG's show started. Here's the thing about downtown Seattle: It's white. I mean WHITE. And it's clean. Where was all the litter? Everyone we passed seemed happy. The natives were practically skipping down the street. It was unreal.

Where were the homeless people to step over every few feet? Why was no one asking me for money? How do all these Starbucks stay in business? There were no poor, angry, black youth menacing the corners. Shouldn't there, at least, be poor, angry white youth menacing the corners? I was not in Oakland anymore.

At first I was elated. It was pretty nice to walk around a city and feel no real or imagined tension, but I very quickly became creeped the fuck out. I complain about the East Bay a lot, but when you take away all the sketchiness and character you end up with a stepford wife metropolis. White, middle-class happy people – in great numbers – are absolutely terrifying.

AG plays "experimental sound art" and, because I want to be near her, I keep finding myself at "experimental sound art" shows. Now, I haven't listened to a new band in, like, ten years and my itunes artists are firmly split into "rock" and "hard rock" so - despite AG being hella fine – these shows are a bit trying.

I'm sarcastic to a fault and my cynicism is unwavering, but who among you could keep a straight face while listening to a guy hold a power drill up to a microphone for half an hour - as I did a few weeks prior to this trip? The performance ended to thunderous applause.

"He's a genius!"

"He's exploring the boundaries of what sound is!"

Really? Maybe. I understand that to really appreciate any new art form you may need a foundation in the medium. The first time someone hears rap or sees a Picasso they will, no doubt, have reservations at the barking rhymes and grotesque figures. I suppose that could be me. I hated Jawbreaker and Operation Ivy for years before I became, unhealthily, obsessed with them.

Fuck it. My hat is off to you Mr. Power Drill Guy. May your power drilling fill the hearts and, uhg, ears of people for years and years. May you reach the highest echelons of power-drill-sound-art and become a legend and inspiration for young aspiring power-drill-sound-artists around the world.

Anyways. Back to Seattle. AG played a great set. She rocked the cello. I tend to lurk around the back of the club when I go to shows and I overheard some guys talking about how rad she sounded. I had kind of a glowy moment of proudness and appreciation. Hearing these strangers talk fondly about AG and her music made me all gushy.

Then I got all jealous and cut their faces up. I'm kidding. I wasn't jealous. I just love cutting up faces. LOVE IT. Who doesn't?

The show ended with a quartet of balding, middle aged men plucking these little plucky instruments and fucking with various peddles creating a cornucopia of haunting, echoing plucky sounds. The music was whatever (see last sentence/everything I have ever written), but the thing I really dug was the little fantasy about these guys and their lives that brewed in my head while I watched them.

I imagined one of these guys at home or at work. Maybe at some shitty job that morning - just counting down the hours to his show. Maybe he's been counting down the hours for weeks. I do that.

Maybe it's the only time these four, all life, friends ever get together. His wife doesn't get the plucky sounds, but she humors him. She knows that one night a month he's going to disappear for a couple of hours to a shitty little club downtown and do the thing he loves more than anything.

He's going to stand on stage, oblivious to the crowd, and play trippy plucky sounds with his three best friends in the whole world.

And I got to sit - hunched in a dark corner sipping a bud light - and watch.

Oh and D totally almost got bit by a rattlesnake

2008-04-06T14:59:00.001-07:00

See, the thing is D and I have been working on all these things. A sitcom and a movie. We’ve been trying to keep it real, like, he’s always flying up from LA and we write all day long. We take lunch breaks and everything - like a real job. I have a real job. I’m a web development engineer. Mostly he flies up here to Oakland, but sometimes I fly down to LA and we write there. That’s what I did a few weeks ago.

Here’s the thing: He’s got this new girlfriend and a new place. I’d never been there before, but you know how it is when you, sort of, invade a friend’s world? It’s kind of amazing to see someone in a place you don’t usually see them or to see a good friend out of their element. I guess this was his element, but he looked like a fish out of water. He girlfriend is amazing, but it was funny watching him run around trying to make us both comfortable.

The thing with D is he’s this brilliant, good looking, charming guy right? He doesn’t really work. He dropped out of med school. He has a degree in physics or something, but what he really wants is to get paid to write. I do too. We’ll get paid to write soon enough, but I’m writing all this so you know how surprised I was when he picked me up at the airport and took me to his 3.5 million dollar mansion.

Fuck Yeah.

I guess he worked out some deal through a friend or his girlfriend’s friend where they could live in this mansion until it sells. His place was tight. It was all up in the hills of Topanga. There were rattlesnakes and coyotes and this wicked view. Miles of hills everywhere. We wrote twelve hours a day and once in a while it would hit us: If we wrote well enough this house could turn into our house. Not necessarily the house (i don’t want a big house), but it was like we were chipping away at a safe. Building towards our reward. On top of it.

His place was on this hill and you could see LA lighted in the valley at night. Nature and poison right there. Coyotes and hollywood. It was all right there and fuck if that didn’t motivate us.

On our last night we were driving up the dark windy road to his place and this owl flew past the windshield and perched (perched?) on the side of the road. Right next to us, like, ten feet away. I had never seen an owl that close up before and it was like it was posing for us. We stopped the car and just watched it for, maybe, five minutes. The thing had these huge eyes. It didn’t sweat us at all. It was, jesus I can’t believe i’m saying this, magical.

When it flew away we drove up the hill to D’s mansion and wrote our asses off.

**********************************************

Oh hey. J and I started a website. We write about video games. This is our site: www.yetihunt.com

$750 close to BART

2008-03-02T14:35:00.001-08:00

It's an olive, beat-up, apartment complex. Totally looks like a hotel. Grey, weirdo neighbor, stands on the balcony laughing about it with me. We joke about painting a pool on the parking lot below. We're completists. Jewish immigrants down in the corner apartment on halloween with their kid. He's dressed up as a dragon. Says "raaaaaaaaawwwwwwwr" when I walk by. Cute as hell. It breaks your heart. Guy downstairs gets his kid once in a while. Must be some divorce. He wants a yard. He wants a garden. He's always trying to make the tiny space in front of his door into a garden. More plants than can fit. Watering all the time in his sandals. Cars try to edge by without breaking his pots, but they can't. He waters other people's plants. Wants to make this cheap hotel into something. We all do. Teenager downstairs is a trouble maker. His mom says so. He sneaks behind the complex to smoke pot with hot high school girls. His mom says he's always up to no good. N and I lurk into some indian place downtown and see this kid in the corner playing the most beautiful guitar ever. He's in some trance. Just playing his heart out. Do the hot high schools even know about that? Old black lady in number four is in some pyramid scheme. She's always giving me samples. Tubes of liquid that are supposed to revitalize your day and sketchy vitamins like you'd see on the counter of some liquor store. When she walks by i'm out smoking and I say "hey thanks those things did wonders for me" and she says "thanks sweetie". I've got a cabinet full of this stuff. Never touched it. Land Lady speaks in a thick accent. Her son always wanted to play music. He's got to come around and move the trashcans out to the street etc. I'm pretty sure his wife hit on me when he was out of town once and my kitchen sink was fucked up. He's got this little kid with curly blond hair. Looks like an Aryan angel poster child. Kid hangs out in my studio while his dad fixes things. I know one magic trick. It's some cheap disappearing coin thing and it always cracks the kid up. We all listen to NPR and joke around. It's this trashy olive apartment complex filled with starts and middles and ends. We share laundry detergent and sometimes say "hi" when we pass each other.

Mothers: Lock up your daughters. They’re stupid.

2008-01-05T13:36:00.001-08:00

Last night, after experiencing for the first time in my life the human emotion they call "boredom", i decided to meet N and Crazy D at the stork club for some drinks.

Well, actually, we were supposed to meet some common friends of ours at this "art show/hip fuck/band/house party" thing on San Pablo, but then I remembered that I'd rather stick an ice pick into my eye while listening to led zeppelin then go to an "art show/hip fuck/band/house party" thing unless, of course, I knew for a fact that Mary Louise Parker was going to be there waiting for me with a can of gasoline, a lighter and two tickets to a secret Jawbreaker reunion show.

So Stork Club it was. This was my first time meeting Crazy D and let me tell you, as someone who tends to err on the side of "hate" on first impressions, I immediately liked the guy. Glasses, slight build, biology teacher by day, karate teacher by night and way too drunk to be out in public. He radiated that cross between manic energy and comforting warmth that I just love in people.

Shortly after ordering drinks a band took the stage. N and Crazy D disappeared into the crowd for a better view. I kind of slunked off to a corner by myself to watch the band in peace and got the fuck rocked out of me. Really. This band was the most amazing thing I'd seen in a long time. They were kind of an east bay TurboNegro. The singer worked the crowd with this vicious energy and was about the coolest, most good looking guy I have ever seen. Ever.

Seriously, I would have even remembered their name if they hadn't been such annoying pricks between songs. Got to work on that witty banter kids. You'll go places.

About two or three songs in N tapped me on the shoulder and said we had to get out of there. Behind her, looking dazed and swaying, was Crazy D. He looked like he wanted nothing more then to cuddle up, right there, on the stork club's filthy floor and crash out for a few days.

We hopped in her truck, threw his bike in the back and got the guy home. After saying goodbye to him and pushing him off in the general direction of his front door I asked N what happened.

"He kept saying people in the club wanted to start a fight with him so I thought we should get him out of there. Why would anyone want to start a fight that guy? He's so nice."

"The last thing he said to me before running into the crowd was 'I feel like breaking things and fucking shit up.'"

"Oh. Well that makes more sense then."

I got home around midnight, wrote this and went to sleep.

*****************************

Christmas Eve N and I bought a six pack and walked down to the bay. From the pier by my house The City is perfectly framed, dead center, and you can even see all three bridges. We played with her dog and listened to some guys near us pass an old acoustic guitar around and talk about music. We talked about christmas. We talked about christmas so much that we got christmas fever and decided to go christmas crazy.

We tore off down university in search of all things Yule. We found a christmas tree lot by my house and as soon as I walked in I knew exactly which tree I wanted.

"oh yeah... there's my bitch. Who's my mother fucking christmas tree? You are."

It was a tiny little tree, small enough for us to carry off, and only cost us $20. We got the tree to my studio and then split off, scavenger hunt style, to hunt for more christmasy goodness. N hit Andronico's for christmas food and some popcorn we could thread for the tree. I hit the dollar store for some decorations and lights and found plenty of both.

"God bless you dollar store. God bless you dollar store, everyone."

Back at my place we decorated the tree, listened to Bing Crosby, watched A Charlie Brown Christmas (see? my christmas cheer is so huge that it overrides the part of my brain that would, normally, mention that I had never noticed what a hard core christian message that cartoon ends with) and ate N's famous french onion soup.

Merry Christmas.

*****************************

The colder seasons are the time to make changes. Overcast days with firewood chimney smoke smells. The rain just explodes at your window and that's when you start making lists.

Time to hunker down and plot your escape. Camp down. Stay in. Read some books. Make decisions. Winter is when you're sun deprived and depressed enough to really dive deep and get things done.

You have to come out of the other side cold, well planned and ready to strike.

hand in unlovable hand

2007-10-07T11:49:00.001-07:00

Friday my studio was completely demolished in a night filled with unexpected cuddlers, guitar playing geniuses and the good kind of drunken conversation. It could be that the amount of love, alcohol and awesomeness you pour into an evening is directly proportionate to the fucking disaster you wake up with.

B and I had spent the day slogging off work and fucking around with my new four track. The guy can rock the harmonica. I can sort of sing and he can't sing at all. Combine all this with my acoustic guitar skills and we sounded like a lama fucking a tornado. Record deal forthcoming.

When it got dark people started cramming into my tiny castle. I was planning on taking it easy and getting to bed early so i'd be bright and crisp for my reno trip the next day. I think we clocked out around four A.M.

When I woke up my floor (it's a really small place) was layered in an inch of potting soil (all my plants and their pots were destroyed in the chaos), poker chips, pennies, cigarette butts, guitar strings, pens, bills, poems, beer bottles, undefined liquids (beer? probably) and books (my bookshelf took a tumble... fucking ikea).

Joe Awesome was having a birthday party in Reno. Around noon B and I bought a six pack and hit the 80. We were running away from one disaster and speeding towards another. Reno, at least, is not my disaster. Somebody else fucked that town up a long time ago. I was in the perfect post-break-up-mood for a place like that. The city was constructed, solely, for beating dead horses. I certainly did. I cut off its hooves off and smashed its fucking head in.
********************************************************************

There is something so awesome about driving down an interstate highway with the windows rolled down - listening to some shitty cassette tape you found on the floor of the cab - that I can't even write about it.

The Reno trip was all about A's birthday. He rented some big time fancy suite with a full on bar and big screens everywhere. My job (dude if you're reading this I really am sorry. Who would have thought they would all actualy show up?) was to fill it with as many people A didn't know as possible. We flew D in from LA. One of B's girlfriends found out about the trip and drove in from Berkeley. N happened to be staying in Tahoe that night and joined us as well.

Notes:

- I paid $140 so a strange women would dry hump my knee for twenty minutes

- Ashtray rocked harder than Ashtray has ever rocked

- B is the best drunk driver ever. There should be some sort of compeition for this. He would win.

- I am a horrible gambler

shrimp cocktails and rum in bad ass suite JApaid for hundred dollar bills flying at green felt best guy hugs and inside jokes air conditioned cigarette smell awesome entertainer ashtray operation ivy cover filling rooms with dancing smoking a lot and fun iphone broken strip club antics cab driver conversations uncomfortable crushes D flying in from LA M passing to surf instead all you can eat eat like a bird ding ding ding no coke tonight elevators room numbers you want the truth you can't handle the truth falling down squish on fancy couch screens everywhere record deals well deserved hospitality taken advantage of reno dreams crushed balls ready to explode crying crying crying

B cooked N and I dinner in her tahoe cabin the next night. We prefaced the meal with the most hard core game of chess since Ashley's superb endgame play in 1993. B won, but i definitely talked a better talk and, really, that's what matters.

asian hookers, false alarms and sea lions

2007-08-15T13:08:00.000-07:00

Monday I met M in the city for some adventuring. I was early and, once again, faced with the horrific choice between listening to the crazy christian college kid with the megaphone trying to save souls OR braving Forever 21 which was our proposed meeting place.

I chose option three which was trying to find a place to grab a drink until she showed up. Quick highlight from the Christian with the megaphone (although I already wrote about these fools):

"Evolutionists want you to believe your great grandfather was a monkey! How crazy is that? It's insane! Doesn't make any sense!"

Yeah. THAT'S crazy. What's up talking snakes.

So i ended up around the corner at this semi shmancy place that claimed to be the real bar where the guy from the Maltese Falcon used to fictionally eat. Sam Spade maybe? Humphrey Bogart played him in the movie. I'd like to entertain with the details, but both film noir and detective novels bore the fuck out me.

M finally showed up and we schlepped it (i'm using that wrong. it was an easy walk, but god i love jewey verbs) to china town so i could buy a kimono for someone and M could take pictures for a movie she's making.

We ended up grabbing some drinks at this brothel/karaoke bar. Fools were sitting on couches being seduced by asian hookers and i got this vibe from the bartender like we were wasting her time because we just wanted to drink and flip through the karaoke catalog which, besides the usual standards, also offered bootleg dvds of current new releases.

I have to admit that, for a second, when M said she was taking me to a brothel i thought maybe our first night on the town together would start with a wicked threesome with an asian call girl. No such luck but, M, if you're reading this... hint hint... Asian hooker threesome.

We grabbed some dinner in north beach. Our waitress was funny AND hella fine (you don't see "hella fine" too much these days. thanks for keeping it in style gabe meline), but she was also, like, the worst waitress ever.

We had to wait forever for our check etc and by the time we got to Pier 39 everything was shutting down. M schmoozed the girls in the arcade into letting us hang out a few extra minutes before they locked up. I got my ass handed to me in some low rent Wipeout rip off, but hey, i was in an arcade with a rad girl so it didn't nag at my ego too much.

What else.. Sea lions... Cute photographs.. BART ride home.

***************************************

Check it out: N, B and K crashed out my house on thursday. B was fucking filthy and showed up on my doorstep smelling every minute of his three week salmon fishing expedition in alaska. K is a dog and also a likely, though less likely, candidate for disease spreading parasites.

N woke up in the morning with some kind of insect bite on her leg. I had a bite on my arm. The general consensus was spider bite.

I had launched a campaign of fear against the spiders last summer (partly out of my own crippling fear - partly out of pride), but it could be they've mustered up some courage and are, once again, on the attack. They have to be stopped because I do, after all, pay the rent and that entitles me to not have the shit scared out me by spiders in the middle of the night.

So anyway N had this bite and the next day she showed it to her dad who's like this brain surgeon or astronaut or something awesome which led to this call:

"Hey"

"Hey so my bite has this big, red circle around it and my dad's a doctor and he's positive it's Lyme's disease and writing out prescriptions for us for antibiotics and i'll be by later to drop it off. You've got to get to a pharmacy as soon as possible blah blah blah scary scary scary"

"Wait isn't that shit caused by tics? What is Lyme's disease? Calm down. My bite doesn't have any rings or anything. It looks mellow"

"No. You HAVE to take care of this. Lyme's disease tics are practically invisible and you need to burn all your belongings and vacuum. Be there soon with your prescription. Bye"

"Wait. Vacuum? Hello?"

So panic right? I leaped at wikipedia. Suddenly my whole body itched. I was freaked out. There are republicans in the white house. Seventy eight percent of american's believe noah's ark is a true story. I don't need this right now.

Which was followed by this call:

"Hey so i talked to my aunt (also a doctor) and she said there's, like, zero percent chance you have Lyme's disease and I probably just have a spider bite and it turns out these tics need to be on you for, like, thirty six hours and are super rare in california (rarer in urban apartments i would think) and it's a big false alarm. Bye"

"Hello? Wait. Hello?"

Again, we never even saw a tic. I vacuumed anyway, but only because there's nothing like a freshly vacuumed studio apartment.

nu uh your smiling they are way to rock to smile DUH lol jk

2007-07-21T13:07:00.000-07:00

The eviction party was super crowded and kind of too much to deal with until the police came and told everyone to go home. N and I hid in a back room with some peeps and emerged to find a much more intimate get together. I totally prefer small groups to crowds - plus i was wearing my new red shirt - so the night turned out to be pretty fun.

I bought this red shirt last week that has magical, super powers. When I wear it people are super nice to me. Not that people are dicks to me when I'm not wearing the shirt, but i definitely notice the difference.

I wore the shirt to the eviction party so I ended up meeting a lot of new people and even reuniting with friends I hadn't seen in years. One person I met was this guy, J, who was into asking people this:

"If you could see Kurt Cobain or Jim Morison right now, in their prime, who would you choose?"

The correct answer, and everyone seemed to agree, was Cobain. They were both talentless hacks when it came to lyrics, but at least Cobain's music holds up.

****************************************

After having a few drinks with my Dad at the Albatross I hit the BART and met N in the mission to check out a bunch of short films that her friends and fellow film students had made. The place was a tiny room filled with chairs and had a big projection screen on the wall. There were maybe twenty shorts, a few minutes each, made mostly by budding art students from the local film school. I think I may have been the only person there who was not attached to any of the films being shown.

The ratio of awesome to total shit was about what you would expect. Two or three were pretty decent. One thing that's proving itself over and over again is that if someone doesn't know they suck then they probably also don't know when to stop. Songs, movies, whatever.

I think it's good to keep things short - especially set lists and songs. Just in case I totally suck and don't realize it. Hmmmm I should probably end this blog then - although nobody paid $7 to read this.

I want you

2007-07-12T13:06:00.000-07:00

Today was sledge hammering my barricade open and running some errands. I was turning into a shut in and it felt good to walk around telegraph, bumping slow walking fools out of my way, dodging petitions and feeling some much needed sun. Fuck anxiety: I'm buying some new fucking shirts.

I had it pretty together in AA until I was next in line and some fool in front of me was, i don't know, trying to negotiate a hostile takeover of Nabisco with their fucking ATM card or something. What I mean is this: They were taking a really long ass time to purchase their goods. The line was getting long and - props for me for getting out of the house - but the crowd was starting to turn and naturally my ears started buzzing and sweat started pouring. I made it out, obviously, alive.

I only lost my cool once: Dude said "that will be $114" and I did, like, a "REALLY?". I got it together pretty quick though. Sometimes I forget I'm PAYING for the uncomfortable atmosphere.

Around 9pm that thing happened where every song playing on my stereo decided to cater it's lyrics specifically to my situation. Everyone knows once it starts - it's hella on. I'll bend the lyrics to "ice ice baby" so somehow it's a metaphor for whatever sad ass thing I'm feeling if I have to. (NOTE: As I'm writing this "Getting Better" by the fucking Beatles just came on... Touché universe.)

Off to an eviction party near the Ashby BART. I've always thought eviction parties were the best kind of parties. There's always this "steer it into the sun" mood. Endings and new starts etc. My cousin recently went to a divorce party and said they put eviction parties to shame. I could see that. Any fool awesome enough to throw a party in celebration of a failed marriage probably knows what's up when it comes to getting fucked up.

SEXYWEBCAM would like to be added to your MySpace friends list.

2006-07-12T13:05:00.000-07:00

Andronico's

Okay so there's this guy who hangs out in front my local grocery store asking people for change. He's always there and he hits up everybody. Everybody except me.

The first couple of times I walked by him i just felt kind of relieved, but it's starting to really get to me. He asks old ladies for money. He asks thugs for money. Little kids. Business men. Other hobos. Soccer moms. Fat couples. Everyone. His thirst for pocket change knows no cultural, racial, or economic boundaries. He just won't ask me.

I keep trying all these different moves to get his attention. At first I thought I'd go for the obvious stuff like counting my change as I walk by or pulling my cell phone out and having a pretend conversation with my pretend stock broker. My thinking was that if the guy thought I had cash he'd hit me up. Nothing.

So lately I've been trying to use some kind of reverse hobo psychology where I act like a total dick and either stare straight ahead like he's invisible or I pretend a UFO appeared just over the horizon in the exact opposite direction of him and I'm too busy to be bothered helping a guy eat or get wasted or whatever he does with everybody else's money. He still doesn't give me the time of day. Fine. Be a total douche bag, but I swear on my pretend stock broker's kid's lives that I will give you my spare change if it's the last thing I do.

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6-9-2006

Chicago was BART to Oakland to airplane. Waiting at the airport, nervous and excited. M + R picked me up in a car with a pink bumper. We had never met before and smoked and talked about our lives - relieved that none of us turned out to be jerks. Flying down the freeway and into Chicago proper we tried to find a place for M to pee while I fell in love with the windy city again. I really love this place. It's got the anonymity of New York with a touch of west coast awesomeness. I guess what I mean is I like how people don't pay any attention to me or even look at me when I'm walking around - like in New York - but if I actually need something like, say, directions it's easy to get someone to stop. M's place is a huge three bedroom brownstone overlooking the river. M made some kind of pasta while I called up a friend I hadn't seen in years who lives there and we all hit the California for some drinks. The bartender passed us a wig at some point. It was this huge black thing - not entirely unlike slash's curly locks. We all took turns trying it on for fun. Everyone looked twenty times hella finer with it on. There was some plan to go to some show, but it was so much fun catching up with old friends and meeting new ones that we ended up ordering a bunch of shots and hanging out all night instead. Woke up the next morning and ate at some place owned by internationally famous guru ______ ______. The man can, evidently, lift planes into the air using only the power of his millions and millions of dollars brought in through merchandise, donations, and his chain of shitty vegetarian restaurants where all the employees work for free and have long ago abandoned earthly possessions like deodorant. Went with M R to the beach. Great lake is an understatement. Fresh water maybe, but this thing definitely clocks in at ocean level. It has waves and I can't see the other side. We hung out at the dog beach. The canines splashed and barked and played and it made us happy. The tan tanned. The pale burned. Pants were rolled. Feet in icy water and running and laughing. Hangman was played. L _ _ _ M _ _ _ _ G _ _. That night we met some peeps out at some BYOB tai place. Back at M's now. We smoked a joint and took turns shooting rocks from her porch (three stories up) into the river with slingshots. We've got a five hour drive tomorrow. Sleep now.

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Fake it 'till you make it

Tonight is an alabaster room
ribboned with Christmas lights

A vacuumed room with dishes clean
and not a drop in the house

Only six cigarettes this week
Even read some damn Anton c.

Refused all offers

It's a warm night of writing
A picture perfect painting

Now she'll love you again

I have perfected the art of clapping sarcastically

2006-02-12T13:04:00.000-08:00

San Francisco to me is ninety percent trying to get to/leave a shitty party/bar and ten percent being at a shitty party/bar, but because Bennett wont get off my case about how I should get out and meet new people (ladies as he calls them) etc I crossed the bay via the train last night for a little adventure and excitement.

Riding the train I thought about how someone mentioned those crane things in the Oakland bay look like ATATs, and they do, but their necks kind of go up at an angle and ATATs necks are more, like, straight out so not so much. I mean they look more like ATATs then most things I guess, but the neck angle kind of ruins it for me. Anyway.

When I got out of the civic center station it was complete madness. Hundreds of people everywhere. I kind of get panic attacks in those situations so I shuffled off in search of a bar on Market Street. It turns out there are no bars on Market Street so I just kind of wandered around until I came to this group of Christians with signs and a megaphone. I cheered up immediately. They had these signs that said Jesus saves you from HELL! and HELL was drawn with gigantic flames like some kind of cheesy death metal album, but in crayon. I really wanted one, but the guy wouldn't give me one. I was for reals laughing out loud when this seventeen year old girl got up on this milkcrate with a megaphone.

"Jesus died for you! He was up on the cross. DYING for YOU! And ME!!! he was up there dying and bloody.. Barley recognizazble...from the Blood!"

At that point she started, seriously, crying. The huge smile on my face faded into whatever expression people use when they suddenly realize ninety percent of the people on this planet have the intellect of a five year old. You know what the worst thing to do is when you think people are dumb as shit and all you want is to find someone, anyone, with a grip on reality? Go to parade.

I have to say that the dragons in the Chinese New Year parade were pretty half assed last night. Maybe it was because i was catching the tail end of the parade and they had been carying those dragon heads for hours already, but it seemed like they totally phoned it in this year. And what was up with all the gentiles in the parade? There was this moment where I was being really sarcastic and awful about the whole thing and then I saw this dad guy catch a plastic firemans hat and put it on his sons head. I had one of those "ahhh shucks what am I being so sarcastic for? The world doesnt need any more cynicism" moments, but it was short lived.

After the parade I met up with some peeps in the mission for some party. The only thing eventful at the party was this: I was standing on the porch talking with this girl and we were pretty high up, like fourth story or something, and the fucking thing collapsed underneath us. The railing stayed, but the part of the porch we were standing on just broke away. I only mention this because in the heat of the moment I grabbed the girl and made sure she jumped to the safe part of the porch before me. I always thought in those kind of situations I would be selfish and cowardly, but it turns out I'm the hero type. Just so everyone knows.

Here are some poems:

Safeway
When everyone goes to the liquor store
we are safe
We leap across the room like mad
and embrace
Our secret kisses
There aren't enough beer runs

Wiked Fast
like matches
its really the words unspoken
not typed that hit the soul
Only when reaching for paper
or thrashing around the room
to find a plug
for the typewriter
do the words unfold like magic

El Chupacabra means "the goat sucker"

2006-01-04T13:02:00.000-08:00

"It's 3:24 am. If i stop drinking and smoking now the pt cruisers win."

Arizona

My mother picked me up at the airport in Tuscan and were driving along and I say Jesus. I swear I just saw a dead pig on the side of the road! and she says Those are just Javelina. Theyre everywhere. I let this sink in and then say No. Youre not understanding. I just saw a DEAD PIG by the side of the ROAD. She laughs. I let it go thinking about how it will be harder and harder for us to communicate as she gets older. We drive to a restaurant to meet some people for dinner.

So Im eating dinner and its dark out. Theres a big glass window that surrounds the dining area and everyones enjoying their food and drinks etc and I say Shit balls! Theres a pack of wild pigs outside the window! And my mom says Those are Javelina. The restaurant puts food outside so the diners can watch them.

So by then Im starting to get that my mom is far from senile and Javelina, in Arizona slang, means wild fucking pig, but we dont give a fuck because we see them all the time.

Its kind of like when people visit me and while walking down the street an old, crazy ass black guy jumps out of the bushes with his cock in one hand and a broken bottle in the other yelling obscenities at us and my guest says Holy shit! An old, crazy ass black guy just jumped out of the bushes with his cock in one hand and a broken bottle in the other yelling obscenities at us! and I say Ohhh thats JUST a hobo. A funny, funny hobo. Give him a quarter hell leave you alone.

Hmmm what else.

- chased a road runner
- meditated in front of a cacti
- I either got life insurance, bought real estate, or sold my soul to the devil. not really sure. I just signed a bunch of papers my mom handed me. she says they will make me rich someday.
- hung out with my hot niece (dont ask)
- thought up get rich quick schemes with my stepdad/moms boyfriend (who, besides having worked on the blues brothers was once a stage hypnotist no shit.)
- got my ass handed to me in poker

Grunge 2006

So my grunge band, Hate Nevada, is going into the studio next week for a couple days to kick out some jams. Mp3s coming soon. Go buy some flannel now.

Portland Trip part 3

(this is the summer trip not to be mistaken with the Christmas trip I just made. Ill write about that later)

Okay, so the other night Dylan and Bennett came over and the plan was to drink whiskey and finish up the Portland story I had been writing about in previous blogs. See we took a trip to Portland in, like, September and my idea was that we each would write conflicting accounts of the same trip and I would post them here. So they came over and I gave Bennett the typewriter and Dylan my computer and we started drinking whiskey and writing. Problem is the whiskey got us before the prose did and all I was left with at the end of the night was a bunch of unintelligible, drunken nonsense. So heres what I could scrape together spelling errors etc. This is, for better or worse, Dylan and bennets version of our Summer Portland trip.

To put Dylan's version in context you have to understand that he had just read a version of the trip that i scrapped, but had the lines:

Heres my deal with the trip, I think. I am hoping to get far enough away from my life that I can look back on it with some kind of third person perspective. Take stock. Make a list. Cross out the bad things highlight the good. When things are piling too high on top sometimes youve got to sidestep and get the hell out before it all falls down.

Dylan's Version:

Heres my objection.
Objection: The whole this trip has a purpose thing is bullshit. Joshua made it up after the trip was logged in and written in, and plugged in. I believe in God (Joshua does not) and I did not bring Him past Yreka.

Objection: I did love Justine. Some people just cant understand love. Before their time. The name Gallelio didnt come on accident. Im a REVolUTIONary. The next day Id moved on to Joshuas ex girlfriend. Cassandra or Karissa. Flattered by repeated I love you telephone calls, Cassandra turned her phone to off.

Objection: Joshuas first meal came on the second day. An ice cold can of slim-fast. Hes not concerned with his weight. Nor are the vegetairians waiting for us in the Black Clad Kingdom north in The City of Roses.

Objection: Bennet is not as funny as he seems. The whole drunk driving thing, while it fulfilled everyones Hunter Thompson fantasy, wasnt safe at all. OK, I might be wrong. I do believe in God after all.
Written out of fright: Bennet does not get drunk. Like Socrates in The Symposium, Bennet possesses the uncanny ability to drink pleasurably without knowing alchahols negative side affect: Drunkenness.
Dictated by Bennet: Bennet is pro side affectsof alchahol and furthermore, he can handle the side affects of alchahol better than any man known to man. Period. And furthermore, makes mere mortals look like, a bunch of wannabe demurges, like himself. But he makes it look easy.

Addendum: The ATM machine at the Indian Casino was a win every time. The tables were allright, but not as lucky. NOTE: On the drive home we stopped in at some hippy Diner in Ashland (the Shakespeare festival). Bennet ordered his first burger since learning the immorality of vefetarianism. After quoting: this hockey puck of meat: YUK!

A Reasonable Mention: Theres nothing so sad as Los Blingos writing about it instead of living it. -Moses. Formerly known as Bennet.

Another reasonable mention: Joshua to Moses: you are art.. I think he means it. I refuse to wonder what implications the compliment might have.

Objection: Still in Arcata. Because Bennetss friend recommended the gas station (30 minutes out of our way, she had a gas card) I blame Bennet. It is the only gas for which Ive paid in excess of five bucks a gallon. I do blame Bennet. Stay tuned the startling moment when I suddenly fogive the bastard.

Addendum: North. North drive Los Blingos. Chasing the blearing sun hiding behind our mutual drunkenness. When Portlands steel bridge awakens me from my stupor, I know Im home. Self-realisation turns out to be half what I hoped. Or less. Shit. Shit? If God aint it, lifes got a chance. We head for the liquor store. What town was that?

Addendum: I swear it had meaning. Or experience. One example. It doesnt matter much from where or to where we were driving. The convertible top was down. Two or three chicks made the back seat less comfortable than on the drive up. I think we were just out of the strip club. Heres a big parenthetical: (Strip club. Im a sensitve guy, as Joshua admonishes me. Previously no strip club had entertained me beyond the pool table, the burrito club next door or the embarrassed looks Marys girls mad when they had to ask for at least a buck to pay the juke box for one more song. But at Union Jacks (a few blocks east of the bridge on burnside) I discovered something. Art. Not the tired stuff in museums. Not the shock of a urinal with Ks sigriture on a gallery wall. No. Im talking about a pussy, legs, hips and a facial expression moving to the sounds of nine3teenninteesgrunge music. Art. Were telling you.

Addendum: So we all had a decent time at the museum. At the strip club. Lets go. It must have been one of the women proposing the proposal. All decent guys, we left. Then the thing happened. I really dont mean to hit Joshual when I mention it. But fuck, Im protected by god. So is he for all Im concerned. OK. All five or eight of us are in the back of the convertible. Get ready for the climax, because denouement from here. Joshua broke out crying. No big deal huh. But it was. Somehow I had this idea wed been doing it all right immitaing pop fuck ups. Hunter S thompason. W. s burroughs. Dostoyevsky for all I care. Rimbaud. Someone with a brain between his un-apathetica and his poetic. Pity

The Truth: Well, Im a deciple arent I?

OK. Joshua starts crying. In the bhosom of some woman he might have slept with in his rockn roll days. I ask myself why. Only answer is the degenerate way were living our lives on this so called road trip. You really cant respect anyone except yourself, but we all want someone else . Josbhua starts to cry in the back of the convertible.. I blame myself. Im on his side. Ive been up to this point. For the past two days. Is there a time before that? Hes cryig, but I cant even sweat. It has something to do with the low life were using to convince ourseves not much matters. Sarchasm,. Grandma says, is the worst form of humor. If she were alive now, shed know it was the only kind of humor left. I swear. Were figting for ourlives, with the only wqeaponns weve got. Sarchasm. Guns and swords belonged top the nobility, Were smart too, los blingos.

OK, so Joshua started cryuing. Into his ex girlfirnecxds breasts. I thought it was my fault. Dont expect me to see past myself. It meant something. No shit. Meaning among the meaningless. Is that what w3e were.
OK, So no I believe inGOd. Got Shit? Didnt think so.

Although Bennett at times appears to be a blingo, when push comes to schoves he retreats ointot a bitch like cacoon. Forever hampering our ability to findo out what bennet rally isOH I guess a bitc
Bennets Afterwarsd: He, by the way gave no afterward.

Addendum. Back to the thning with Joshua Cryingt somewhere in East Portland. Tell the truth I didnt know what drew tears

OK heres the thing Its not mine Its this thing buk wrot down
IOta sbnouty this thing where everyones flipping each otheddr off. It ends with hjm beig very annoyed with

]
and the last thjing he worte
and I felt like afucking fool

what's so funny about peace, love and understanding

2005-11-03T13:01:00.000-08:00

We broke up in April
as people do
and for all the right reasons
We bought a kitten about three months
before the end
She used to crawl onto our chests every morning
and give us kisses
I moved to Berkeley
and am living alone for the first time
For the most part
I love it
But of course the walls shout once in a while
and I picture awful things
which bite at my ego
I know she’s found someone else
already
It’s what people do
But when the stomach aches
and the imagination screams
It’s not her folded in the arms
of another man
that makes me see red
It’s the thought of
some guy on a sunny, Saturday morning
in bed with my fucking cat

I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one

2005-10-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in the acme the other night alone and this guy who was way more drunk than i was sits down on the next stool and starts talking to me. Here’s what we talked about:

Guy: That’s a small notebook.

Yours truly: It IS a small notebook.

Guy: You got a cigarette?

(hand him a Winston light)

Guy: My great-grandfather died re-shingling a roof at ninety-three. He fell off.

Yours Truly: damn….

Guy: He was smoking a Winston when he fell off.

Yours Truly: Fuck. That’s tough.

Guy: Yeah and when I was five my grandfather took me aside and told me I was going to be the man of the house pretty soon. Then he threw himself in front of a mack truck.

Yours Truly: What’s a mack truck? Like a big-wheeler?

Guy: Yeah.

Yours Truly: Damn. How are you going to top that?

Guy: Top it?

Yours Truly: How are you going to top that? Die fighting a grizzly bear with a whiskey bottle or something?

Guy: I’ll don’t know. What are you writing about?

Yours Truly: Your fucking grandfather!

I’m in desperate need of a hair cut so I’ve been staying in a lot more lately. My big plan was to not write another blog until I finished the Portland trip, but seeing as how it’s been a month and I’ve still only written about the first day I’ve decided to throw it up in sections.

Portand Part One

Portland was Bennett showing up at my house smiling wide in a rented white convertible. Bennett is mad li po 2005. An alcoholic angel with one left arm, all cool, on the window (wrist hanging off outside of car) and Winston dangling out of his mouth. I hop in with a battered backpack and we’re off to pick up Dylan in south berkeley. Then it’s me leaning against the car, not flipping a coin over and over again with a toothpick in my mouth, but that kind of vibe as Bennett runs in to grab Dylan. Dylan is a handsome genius. A furry chested Galileo. We all jump in the ride and eye each other conspiratorially for a second before deciding that just this once – it’s OKAY to drink beer in the car. We’re off and the sun shines down on a white blur of content speeding north over the Richmond bridge. Dylan plays bartender in the back seat bringing forth drinks on command while we pass through the invisible line in marin that separates the bay and wine country. Watch as the digital temp gauge rises eight degrees just like clockwork. We stop off in cotati to show off our cherry ride to dangerous dave wiseman and pick up some maps. Somewhere past willits paper cups are laughable and pabst blue cans sit in cup holders where they belong when Bennett’s at the wheel. I’ve never seen the man without a drink and I’ve never seen him drunk and there’s no one I’d rather have at the wheel and he was never without wheel or drink the whole adventure and I think that’s the way his gods play it. Neither you nor your god is that awesome so don’t try drunk driving kids. He’s the exception to the rule and the type of soul the bloody drivers ed videos don’t tell you about. So try not to focus on THAT aspect of this trip too much as there’s going to be a lot of it. Pulling off the vein in Arcata we grab a friend of Bennett’s and hit downtown for some action. Mexican food ensues. The people I’m with insist on ordering Mexican food with the thickest Spanish accent they can muster as you often see annoying people do. “yes I’d like a TOOOOSTAAAAADAAAA and also can I grab a FAHEEEEETAAAA”. I launch into a comedy bit about some Mexicans walking into a mcdonalds and with thick Spanish accents and ordering food. Each word is spoken in perfect Spanish up to the (picture a very bad American hillbilly accent here) HAMBUUUURRRRGER. I am sure that’s how my friends sound. Fucking gringos. Meanwhile the convertible is blasting Mexican rock music the whole time. We get it. You’re NOT racist. You’re one of the good guys. Give me a fucking break. Off to downtown for some drinks! Cowboys and hippies diffuse a surprisingly excessive amount of bars in this pot smoking college paradise. We spread some of that city money around in the local watering holes. I work up the courage to go in for a hi with a woman who has been eye-fucking me for twenty minutes and am thwarted when the woman orders buffalo wings. Bennett and I spend a few minutes trying to work out what kind of weird issues i have and why buffalo wings were the catalyst. Dylan falls in love with local scenester Justine. We all split up and I wander around the square and try to soak up some local culture. Last time I was in Arcata was about ten years ago. A friend and I were hitchhiking up to Canada. I remember there being topless hippy girls selling burritos in the square. No such luck this time, but of course, topless girls aren’t really the novelty they were when I was eighteen. At some point Bennett screams to a stop in front of me with Dylan and Bennett’s friend in tow. I convince some chick standing on the sidewalk nearby to come with us and we both hop in. Dylan starts screaming ‘I love Justine! I LOVE HER! We have to go find her!” So we tear around the block looking for Justine. We get all the way around the block and sidewalk girl gets her wits together, realizes her bad judgment, and hops out of the car. Justine (who I don’t know if Dylan actually ever TALKED to) is M.I.A. so we head back to Bennett’s friend’s house where I promptly pass out.

Ahhhh summer mornings in the uncharted pacific northwest. Bennett is making breakfast for everyone with a pabst in his hand. It’s like ten a.m. I reintroduce myself to Bennett’s friend and her roommate and we all eat and chat for a bit. Dylan is still heartbroken.

Here’s my deal with the trip, I think. I am hoping to get far enough away from my life that I can look back on it with some kind of third person perspective. Take stock. Make a list. Cross out the bad things – highlight the good. When things are piling too high on top sometimes you’ve got to sidestep and get the hell out before it all falls down.

We pile in the car and head north.

After a minor fist fight Bennett agrees to take I5 the rest of the way to Portland. He had his heart set on driving along the coast, but we agree to go that route on the way back. Just before cresent city we spot an Indian casino and run inside, hands full of cash, giddy as schoolgirls. $120 lighter and three bloody marys smarter we’re off again. I can tell this is going to be a long day. Speedy we are not. Between beer runs, gambling, roadside urination and a desperate need on Bennett’s part to drive through EVERY little town on the map, just so he can say he’s been there, we are not going to get to Portland at any decent hour.

More soon.

Any way you want it That's the way you need it Any way you want it

2005-08-30T12:57:00.000-07:00

Last Weekend
Thursday.

Thursday night I took the train to San Francisco to see The Lovemakers at the Great American Music Hall. I was supposed to meet my friend Nina there at nine, but greatly underestimated the Bay Area Rapid Transit system and showed up wicked early. I chain smoked out front and read a book until she arrived. Some dude wanted fifty cents from me or he would “start blazing – we’re talking straight fireworks on the street”. Fair enough. The Lovermakers were pretty fun to watch. A hella fine dude and a hella fine chick dancing around on stage to some catchy, if not familiar, tunes. I have a feeling the guy in the back, hunched over the keyboard, might be the mastermind of that operation, but I’m almost always wrong about everything. Oh shit. The band before them was way awesome. They’re called Drunken Horse I believe. Check them out if you want to get your socks rocked off.

Friday.

Friday night I was planning on staying in and getting some much needed writing and bad television time in. Unfortunately, my friend Bennet (he’s what’s known in Alcoholics Anonymous circles as an ‘enabler’) showed up and dragged me out. Not much to tell about that night except I really wish I had just stayed in.

Grad School Party where two people had the same birthday as me.
Piano Bar where we hijacked a reserved table.
Frat party up in the Berkeley hills somewhere.

Two lame ass parties and $40 dollars poorer we move on to…

Saturday.

In the morning I drove out to the 707 with a friend and rocked the fuck out of some grunge music. The night we start playing shows you will all know it because everyone’s hair will grow two inches in two minutes. Mother fucking grunge.

That night I attended Morgan and Daisy’s “dress as your favorite 80’s rockstar” party in historic Cotati, California. Cotati looks like a big peace symbol when viewed from the air. This must have been a godsend to the mountains of hippies who flocked there in the late sixties. The exact source of the design for the city center remains a mystery, but most likely it was fashioned after the radiating star plan which is prevalent in the layout of many European cities, as well as Washington, D.C. and Detroit, Michigan.

Sunday.

I went record shopping in Berkeley with Caroline. Caroline HATES myspace. After she dropped me off at my studio I dove headfirst into the soul searching depression I like to call Sunday through Thursday. That’s when I freak out about going out too much and wasting too much time that could be spent writing or meditating or mountain climbing or whatever the fuck my thing is that week That’s where I am now. So if I haven’t returned anyone’s calls it’s because I need to be alone and try to get something constructive done before this road trip I’m taking on Thursday.

Labor Day

This Thursday I’m renting a car with some friends and high-tailing it for Portland. Road trip in the hizouse!!! My Portland Brethren - be ready to rock the house. I’m growing a mustache just for the trip (that is, I’m trying to grow one – not sure if I actually can. Either way it will be creepy).

A Play

The curtains open and we see two young ladies at an after party. A bar, sixty feet long, has been erected. Every variety of beverage is provided. A well-lit fireplace casts dancing shadows on the seventy-five men and fifteen women passed out cold around the girls. A feeling of melancholy floats down on our stars as the party has, clearly, reached its end.

Amy: The party was totally gay.

Judy: Um… can you, like, not use hate talk around me?

Amy: Hate talk?

Judy: Gay?

Amy: I think you may be confusing the word ‘Homosexual’ or the often derogatory ‘Fag’ for the word ‘Gay’. You want me to grab a dictionary?

Judy: I want you to shut up.

Amy: Get fucked.

The End.

A Poem

A woman
walking in the morning
with a Nalgene water bottle
has more purpose in
her little toe
than I’ve ever had
in my whole
life.

An excerpt from a nine year old diary grammar mistakes and all

“…that night we went to a Mushface show. Last time I was in L.A. it was when Davie and I toured with Punky Rockit and Hutch, but they weren’t too big and when they played they played small, illegal clubs in bad parts of town. Do-it-yourself kind if shows where punk rock veterans argue about the past just loud enough to awe the newer punks while you barter your way inside with a few cigarettes and of course that’s not really juice in your Snapple bottle. The Mushface show was a different story. I had no idea that they had a following, CDs, and a manager. The show was pretty fucking big. It was the cushy, glossy-photo side of the punk rock scene that I had never really experienced before because none of the local bands where I live are very big. But it wasn’t bad, just different. It seemed like there was this wild energy in the air. Maybe I was just excited about meeting so many new people and being in a new environment but really I think it was being in the middle of such a big city. I mean, all around me things were going on… Movies being filmed, young struggling actors and actresses trying to make their dreams come true, gang warfare, and tons and tons of people doing tons and tons of everything. It was all happening around me and I could just feel it. I made it my goal for the evening to meet every single person at the show… I didn’t succeed, but I did get engaged to this one girl who gave me a loll-i-pop ring. We smoked and planned out our honeymoon. Does she remember me? Anyway it was a great show and afterward I went to some party which was cool too, but by the time Chris and I got to his house I was completely exhausted. It had been a long 24 hours. The whole trip had been a rollercoaster. Long, fun days that always ended with Chris and I smoking and talking on his back porch. The next night I went to a crazy beach party in Malibu. It was perfect. Me and this girl sat watching UFOs and drinkink beer all night… Midnight kissing in a drunken bliss. The next morning I found out that the whole time we were making out Chris and some other people were holding off her angry boy-...”

Just in case i get hit by a bus or something...

2005-08-17T12:47:00.000-07:00

I, the undersigned, Joshua Jon Doan make my last Will and Testament as follows:

REVOCATION OF PREVIOUS WILLS
I hereby expressly revoke all other wills, codicils and legacies predating the present Will. Without prejudice to the foregoing, all other wills.

FUNERAL AND BURIAL
For the most part I dont give a shit what you do with my body because Ill be dead. Do what you want. Have a blast. If one of my family or friends want to have a funeral for me, thats fine. One thing though: Absolutely no Christian shit. Snakes can't talk and that's the end of it. I dont want friends or family putting a bunch of religious nonsense on me when I cant defend myself. Dont even mention a higher power. In fact, if youre a religious person you cant believe that I went to your heaven or that Im energy now or that Ive been reincarnated. You have to believe that Im just dead.

Update
I would like to be burried in Becky's 'detroit: where the weak are killed and eaten' tee shirt.

LEGACIES
I leave all my assets and movables at the time of my death or thereafter descend to my estate, to Dangerous David Wiseman except for the following:

My cowboy belt which I leave to Joe Morato at his request.

All my books go to my sister, Stephanie Rose Doan. I know it'll be a bitch to mail all that stuff out to wherever she lives, but get it done.

David can dole out the rest of my belongings as he sees fit. Also, Christian has to help him move stuff with his truck if he needs it.

Upate - Now fools are demanding to be included so here are a few amendments.

Megan - you get my red fondue pot, but you have to promise to have a fondue party with all of my friends 3 weeks after Im dead.

Christian - Anything i've ever written in paper or on my computer.

Bennett - At your request you get my Nintendo Game Cube.

Michelle - My dollar store red cups

Becky - To you i leave a cold glass of 'Shut the hell up!'

JL - You get any cats under the age of one year that i may have at the time of my death. You do not get my guitar.

NOTIFYING FAMILY
Finding my family to tell them what happened may be tricky. I dont have my Father or Mothers phone numbers. I only speak to them through instant messages once in a while. The best thing to do would be to try and figure out my AIM password and reach them that way. I'm pretty sure David knows the password.

Signed at Berkeley, California this August 17th 2005

Joshua Jon Doan