Monday, January 7, 2013

Actual pages from my journal, circa 1997

My Journal                                                                                                           February 22, 1998

          There’s something so empowering and wonderful about being in a dark, smoky, dimly lit room with loud bass thumping, hip-grinding music...dancing with the one other person in the world that seems to know just as I do what it’s all about*. I just love dancing in places like Girl Bar because I’m so tall, I tower over everyone else. I loom on the horizon, and no untethered gaze is safe, I’m mutha fuckin’ Big Ben and everyone needs to check the time by me!

I know how ridiculously conceited that sounds. And frankly, at this stage in my life and since this is only a journal entry and not my Grammy Award acceptance speech, I don’t really give a shit!

What I wrote in my letter to Brooke today:

Hey booboo. I loved your letter, it was very long and very thoughtful. I was dying, it’s so funny that you’ve actually stopped going to your local post office (I mean, most people, choose to go to their local post office based primarily on the fact that it is convenient to drive the shortest distance possible and to try and compensate for the obscene amount of time wasted in that “slow-speed march” that makes  of using their nearest mail service provider--as opposed to decor, ambiance or the selection of self-adhering
stamps in the vending machine--even though they seemed to be already working with a strike against them since they stole the belt dad sent you!) because of the obsessive-compulsive behaviour of one of the homeless people who frequents that location. I was about to say how I would never  do something so preposterous as that but I just realized that I actually had a wierd moment like that last night. I went to the Brig for the first time in almost 5 months with Shannon and her cousin Jeff yesterday, and there was this girl there that was there the last time I was at the brig who is, quite possibly, the reason that I haven't been back in 5 months. Anyway I saw this girl and I was immediately repulsed and fascinated by her, she is such a drugged out freak. Anyway, last time I was at the brig I was talking to someone I didn't know very well at the bar and this girl came up to me, (Blond, anorexic,coke whore or speed freak,) the type of girl who could be pretty but she wears only clothing which looks as though she ripped off a couple of over-night bags from a Brownie troop camping trip--too tight jeans and "belly shirt" (which is called that because it exposes the wearer's belly, ... and plus, she's not a young girl--pushin' 35, who looks like she's been on drugs since David Lee Roth was in MTV's buzz bin.
Okay. Jump cut 5 months earlier.  I'm standing there making polite, uncomfortable small talk with some Brig regular one night while mike is doing his best "Fast Eddie" a la "The Hustler" impression on table #2, and this girl suddenly is standing there squawking at me, Oh
mi gawd, you've got such a cute little body, you're so cute!! You're body's just like mine, only taller!! You're really pretty, oh mi god is that a tattoo on your stomach, oh mi god you're really hot! I mean it, you're just like me butt-taller! Wow!" Now imagine this being screeched at you by a woman who's talking faster than that guy that used to do those commercials in the late 80's who could speak like 305 words per minute and who's also clutching at your arm and shouting at you but also swiveling her head around rapidly so that everyone at the bar would be able to hear what incredible wisdom and sage precepts she was uttering. I was totally freaking out on her, I have never been so embarrassed in my whole life.

Well, anyways, I saw her there last night, and she obviously was hopped up on the goofballs yet again, only luckily she was obligated, being the little coke whore she is, to spend the evening sitting in the drug-dwellers section in back, and busy herself draping her puny limbs all over one of those big fat black guys that I've seen in there a hundred times passing off little squares off to giggling women. i walked by her once, and I could see her watching me approach and new that she was itching to get my attention but i ignored her strenuously, and all she managed to say was, "I love your shirt," before the back of my head was reintroduced to her with the words, "thanks." as I fled into the ladies room. But anyway, she was complimenting my shirt, which i was wearing underneath my warm and cozy sweater up until then. Now, here's where the story relates to the old woman.

Even though it was pretty cold in the brig last night, I had taken my sweater off because after watching this girl just embarrass herself all over the place, I suddenly realized that our sweaters were the same color (only her's exposed her midriff of course, and that there might be people in the bar that might mistake me for her, or who might somehow look at the matching sweaters and perhaps they might associate me with her. It's like that great cartoon we had where the guy didn't want to stand next to something because it rhymed with the word "loser" or something and he was worried that someone might make the connection and then he'd be unable to get a date. Do you remember that cartoon? Well, I had to play pool and shiver at the Brig last nite because I was so paranoid about being associated with this freaky girl.

Shannon and Jeff were laughing, but I was dead serious. I was really really afraid of this girl.

Well, that's all for now. Stay happy, PS I'll be fed exing you a copy of "A Dish Served Cold" sometime in Early april to give to Tanya...thank you sweetie!
Love esme