Archive for August, 2009

I’m sitting in the back of a Boeing 757 en route to Boston by way of Atlanta. The only thing good in Atlanta was the girl I met in the smoking lounge. She gave me two cigarettes and her phone number. I kept the cigarettes. Shane found a Craigslist share in the Back Bay area a stone’s throw from the Charles River. It’s a big step down from Beacon Hill (where I spent last summer with Nikki), but in exchange for $350, we get two weeks of clean living and a couple of college girls for roommates. I hope they are easy on the eyes because I expect to be stuck working and not have a chance to go out for the next few days.

When I bought my laptop, I got one of those special airplane power adaptors for like $25, but I have yet to be on an a single fucking airplane that has a place for me to plug it in. I just spoke with a steward on my Delta flight and he said that they USED to have them under the seats in 1st class, but they ripped them all out and put in the standard North American outlets that everyone has in their house. The airline charges $20 for every checked bag now. They charge for the meals. They charge for the drinks. I took a piss in the toilet and they didn’t charge for that, but I bet they’ll ask for my credit card number if I drop a load into the shitter. “Sorry sir, but the cost of toilet paper is quite prohibitive these days, I’m sure you can understand…”. I’ll just lick my fingers, thank you very much.

What ever happened to the pretty stewardesses that they used to have back in the day? Ahhh… the beautiful blonde hair, the wide open smile, those long slender limbs… one could almost smell the sex. Now I’m stuck with a fat, balding, black man with an Aunt Jemima smile stretched across his face in such a way that he looks like a toad with a M-80 stuck up his queer ass. Remember those bad kids from the old neighborhood? *BOOM* I wonder if it is illegal to _write_ those kind of jokes on airplane? Maybe when I’m done I’ll _draw_ some kiddie porn on my etch-a-sketch and jerk off loudly in the toilet.

In New York, I almost never wake up before 11 a.m. and frequently as late as 4 p.m. depending on how ripped I got the night before. Around the time when family-friendly people are eating dinner I go for my 10k run around Central Park. It’s a shame that I can’t pull myself together any earlier in the day because the endorphin rush I get from running for an hour provides a great natural high and decent resistance to the otherwise necessary cocktail of drugs and alcohol that make up my regular diet.

In California I’ve been getting up at around 8-9 a.m. This is partially because my work is still based out of New York and the alarm clocks of rat-racing stooges on the eastern seaboard go nuclear three hours earlier than for any of us stoners hugging the Pacific coastline. It is also partially because early morning Camp Venice is bustling with people packing their shit for day trips to San Diego and Las Vegas, which is getting less fabulous and more littered with half built casinos and unhinged meth heads every time I visit (look for the people without teeth). Finally, people here just go to bed earlier than any other fun place I’ve been. Blame it on the surfers rising with the sun. Blame it on the bars closing at 2 a.m. Blame it on the high grade Sativa. Blame it on anything you want, but I swear that going to bed early is the only thing that has kept me alive in this place.