Today I was all bones and little substance. I’ve given up eating meat, and apparently everything else as well. On the stereo the nice man says “If it takes a year to be anything more than a jellyfish, I will not tell you this.” I am not a jellyfish. I am an electric spinal cord to be played on as a pipe, a set of lips, assorted toes, and knees bending the wrong way.
This weekend I saw my first barfight. I got gently slammed against a wall and had beer spilled all down my sleeve. Although this was exciting, I have to admit that I don’t really understand this whole bar scene. It’s like when I first started kissing boys and all it felt like was having a mouth mashed against mine, despite daily practice sessions with Josh Pelham behind the trailers at school. I think I’m outside some great carnival of enjoyment which people seem to find when they stand in a dark crowded room eyeing each other sideways and drinking liquids that actually make you dehydrated. I want to learn, but judging from my experience with Josh it’s possible to practice something everyday for a month and still never understand it. I order kid drinks from impatient bartenders and I can almost hear them thinking, in Josh’s voice, “Okay, I’m not trying to kiss your teeth here.”
I also found a tiny music store called Aquarius Records on Valencia, and Frahm if you’re reading this you should check it out. The sign outside promises Friendly Free Advice, so I said Do you have any advice for the recently dumped? and the woman behind the counter thought for a moment and said “Rent Bottlerocket.”
So here is my advice for those of you with shitty jobs and displaced paternity and expatriotism, which I guess covers all my readers: Rent Bottlerocket.