As I said, there are changes taking place.  There may be a virus in my computer. But I think not.  The server, the modem, the people who control these devices are corrupted not my hard disk.  I saw the seeds of greed.  I heard the rumors of my impending doom.  Get rid of the John Dog.  He ain't one of our kind.  Any excuse to break promises made and contracts signed.  No service from the server.  Three out of seven days on the way down. Slow page handling, no redirects, exploding type, and java malformed.  Bits and bytes flowing out like blood from a freshly slashed vein, but only trickling back like a light spring rain.  The Man won't call The Man.  The super ain't being super, ....now that he got my money. But for four long months he was so nice. He was so lovey dovey.  He suspects that I have eyes for his lady, which I don't.  I suspect that he has sung too many Bee Gees songs in his warped little mind.  One word - megalomaniac.

I dreamed I was in a Hollywood movie, that I was the star of the movie. This dream really blew my mind.  The fact that me an over-fed long-haired leaping gnome could be the star of a Hollywood movie.  I woke with an urge for something off the vine. Later that day I picked up a couple bottles of $2 wine,  That was 2 days ago.  Almost lost those two bottles.  They started to slip while I was strapping them to my bike rack with bungee cords.  Caught them though.  I saved them. They were a tangy red labeled dry from the land of the fairy chimneys, Capadokia.   I finished off the last yesterday mixed with orange fanta. Not something that goes well with liver and fava beans.

Had another dream.  I dreamed that I was doing something wrong.  This was after I drank the wine and nodded off.  I have vague memories of my friend Dave badgering me about putting mustard on hamburgers.  Mustard is for hot dogs. I know that, Christ, I lived in New York, been to Nathan's. Been to Lum's in Miami too and had those wieners steamed in beer. Eating lots of tube steaks lately.  My super don't like Dave.  Dave can be a real chatter box.  And he often repeats, repeats, repeats, what he says over and over and over, like he don't remember that he just told you the same thing 2 hours ago.  But he's got a good soul and he can keep pace with me while we're knocking back some cold ones.  Both of those things are pretty high on my list of qualities that I look for in a friend.

Well, I talked to God and he understands, he said stick by me I'll be your guiding hand. God gave me some good news and keep this under your hat. I might be living at this here Funky Rooster Hotel till my dying day. The owner gonna let me stay, gonna tell the super to go away. Give him the boot. Kick his lying paranoid ass right out of here.  Think I ought to celebrate or masturbate or something.  Get me some more wine and a $15 Russian whore. (Note to self: Buy bigger ash tray)  Dave lives at the whore house, knows all the hookers, discounts apply.  Another of Dave's fine qualities.

I'm allergic to milk.  It clogs my head. When I'm visiting the Dude, sometimes I gotta be polite and share a blender full of frozen white Russians with him.  Once he thought that he was doing me a favor and didn't use real milk.  Californians are sometimes nice that way. After I drank two or three glasses he informed me that he had used a soy/rice substitute.  I immediately barfed all over his rug.  I got lots of bowling buddies.  Roy Munson might be coming over later this afternoon and we're going to see what kind of trouble we can get into.

No more news today.  There are changes taking place.  I don't know what the fuck is going on.  The internet is down for the count.  Maybe, me and Roy will take a little ride into town.  I'll post from the internet café.  We'll hit some bars.  We can pick up some groceries and a bottle of this and/or that at the supermarket on the way home.  Plenty of babes at the supermarket.  We normally hang around the frozen foods section waiting for chicks to reach in and grap a bag of peas.  Those freezers are set below minus ten, very nippy. We like to look at the melons in the produce department too.  If we don't score there we'll be checking them out in the check out lane.  I wish I had a steady girl, a meaningful relationship, a female partner in crime.

More twitching and my ears won't stop ringing.  There's a violet mist all over everything.  I need to call Roy, firm up some plans, get a breath of fresh air. "Hey, Roy, What you doing today?, yea, I knows it's six thirty a.m., yea, yea, I was out till 3:30 too. You're such a wuss. anyway, you want to hit town this afternoon, yea 4 will work for me, I got a dead line, but 4 is ok. you'll have plenty of time in bed to sleep or wack off with that rubber hand of yours, eh? I don't care what the fuck you do, just meet me at 4. Later yea, yea, bye."  Now, if the room would stop spinning maybe I can finish this blog before four. 

Breakfast sounds good about now.  Some eggs and sausage, and a side of toast, coffee and a roll, hash browns, over easy, chili in bowl, purple haze in my eyes, wicked dreams and strawberry pies, a la mode if you will.  First, I gotta take a crap.  My damn toilet sucks.  No, I take that back. It doesn't suck.  That's the fucking problem.  It takes days of flushing to get them damn stinky turds down. I should scoop them out and leave them in a burning bag on my super's door step.  Then I ring the buzzer.  It's an old prank but a good one. Screw the lousy bastard.  Let him scrape the shit from between his toes.  I'm not feeling so well, there are changes taking place in my head, maybe I should lie down for a minute or two.

I am so disorientated.  My room is white, the lights are bright.  I want to write.  I want to write something on the wall with my green light finger. I point it at the wall.  A faint glow of green appears and I start to scribble, can barely make out the words.  I can't find the light switch.  I flick on the AC by mistake.  It blows cold air in my face.  It needs to be dark, so that I can see what I write.  My cell phone rings. I always know it's MY cell phone cause in has the Mexican Hat ring tone. Nobody uses that one. It drives you crazy.  I answer the phone.  It is a young girl, I don't recognize the voice.  I said Hello, who is this? She says, it's me, stop fooling around. Hey, guess what, I gave the finger to my teacher and told him to fuck off.  I say, really I don't know who you are.  There's a roar of a truck in the street and I wake up.

I look at the clock. Eleven, I forget about breakfast and contemplate lunch.  A beer would taste good right 'bout now.  Chicken Kebab and beer is only three blocks away.  The way I'm feeling that's too far to walk.  I opt for beer and buy 4 tins of Extra Strongs two doors down, and simits, just next door. A simit is like a toasted bagel covered in sesame seeds.  Nuke em in the microwave and spread em with peanut butter and you're in heaven.  So I get home and am putting the beers in the fridge and they are all wet.  Damn, that's some condensation I think.  I get to the last one in the bag and it pisses on me. It's pissing all over the place.  The thin stream is squirting on my feet and toes and, oh shit, my carpet. I cover the little hole where the beer is coming from, but it is still dribbling out.  I pop the top and quickly pour the beer into a glass.  Must have been a tiny pebble on the floor where I laid down the bag in the simit shop or there are gremlins playing tricks on me.

I munch on simits and wash them down with what's left of the beer.  I bang out a few hundred more words.  Satisfied with my progress, I lay back down. I'm tired; too much hub hub, too much gossip, too many lies and innuendos, too many games.  I need to get out of this town for a week or two, head for the mountains.  So I sleep, lulled by the beer, finally at peace, off in dream land again, the Mexican Hat Dance playing in my head.  Fuck, that ain't no dream it's the frigging phone again. I pick it up, "What? Shit 5 o'clock, sorry Roy, yea, yea, I'll get my ass in gear. yea, yea, sorry, see you in 'bout half and hour." 

Well, it's good to know that some things never change.  I'm still the same screwed up dirty old eccentric outsider artist that I've always been

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