nihilistic thoughts
so i'm grossing around $217.50 today, working about 14hrs at my two dumb jobs combined. i keep telling myself this, that it makes it all ok, working 14hrs, getting somewhat well fed at both my jobs in addition. we had a vegetable curry chicken thing at taste today for lunch. it was pretty tasty. here at the jazz club, patricia made me the cheese tortallini dish, it was kinda bland, and probably not good for my svelt figure, but whatever, i did not pay for such. i've had two beers and a shot of tequila thus far this night and have ever so righteously moved onto water, sparkling, in attempted to sober up and purify myself of the vileful alcohol of which i needed earlier to somewhat temper my lack of clarity towards minimalist sanity. seriously, i'm so ok, so ok tired, but not terribly.
this god damn bass player, he sings his fucking solos louder than his god damn bass amp. what the fuck is with people who sing tunelessly when they solo? is this performance based wankery? i've decided to become anti-performance, whatever that means. performance, the motivations, the schtick of it, the actorness, thespian of musicology, seems oh so un-punk rock. whatever. i suck at performance, perhaps. but what is with this vituousic need for performative self expression with respect to ones wankery? you are not prince. you are not sexy. he is excused. but it is all ok if the audience, or that person in the audience believes in it, is forgiving, believes in, has faith in the performer, wanting the performer to succeed. to manifest something? a value per the performative ticket, to the time of that which is spent witnessing the performance? much like ordering a large plate of food at an expensive, or not expensive restaurant, a denny's perhaps, you have paid for the product, you have incentive to enjoy and consume it. i saw fat, 45 years old at the time, robert smith play. i wanted him to be good, reincarnate ever so temporarily my high school memories of depressive angst, oh plz fat bob don't suck. i recall it was a good show. sure he was a dick afterwards, seriously diminshing his already diminished stature in relation to music that is important to insignificant me. but oh how i had faith and desire to enjoy the show, wanting it to mean something more. oh god, another fucking bass solo, we-dee weee, boo-dooo beeee! sick shit man. anyway, i wanted what meant something to me in the high school time of trauma to still be relevant to my life through fat bob's innoculous performance. did it mean anything? i remember that they played from the edge of the deep green sea with a slightly altered chord progression, that sounded cool. more ambiguously sounding with somewhat of a major chord present instead of the funeral minor from the wish record, somewhat recast as an uplifting dirge towards the ectasy of death, or some shit. it sounded green, like a deep green sea. oh the romanticism of this girl, mythical, flinging herself into the sea, this mythical unattainable love, heartache, the feeling i get from spirited away. i want a boy that turns into a river dragon, and we will fly away toward imaginative unattainable infinity. now that's hot.
so there's this customer here right now, a long haired asian boy from austrailia, a la brea (is that how it's spelled? oh i don't care) piercing, maybe a nose piercing too, i don't remember. even ali, the somewhat new anorexic hostest was like, damn he's hot. now this is a god damn river dragon boy, and he done come up to me to ask me, having been in the country and city of san francisco for only a mere couple of hours now, do i know of any clubs with perhaps r&b type live music? and i was like, no not really, cuz i always work and i like don't know shit, but haha, uh, hey coke head joshua do you know of any, and he's like, oh grant and green, great blues music all the time, and i'm like, yeah, go get a weekly, perhaps that would be of some help. so ali is like, oh he's really young, and i'm like, i don't care, i'd hella touch him all over. as of now i can somewhat see his figure in the darkness from across the room, perhaps more so if my eyes were not all un-dialated from staring into this computer screen. he is sitting with what i presume to be his parents. seemed straight anyways. ali was like, oh what if he is 18, or younger, 16 maybe, and i'm like, well most of the guys i've fucked around with have had the maturity of 16 yr olds, so it's all par for the course, who the fuck am i the care?
marriser, i miss u. bitch u don't myspace me anymore. maybe u decided that myspace was lame. i did, but i'm still on there. holding out for those sporadic moments for when a closeted arab boy might want to meet up and fuck me and then declare that he doesn't like the sticky gooey touch of cum, let alone the drama of sucking dick. but that was weeks ago! i really should start on my novel, aka my pathetic sex life.
this god damn bass player, he sings his fucking solos louder than his god damn bass amp. what the fuck is with people who sing tunelessly when they solo? is this performance based wankery? i've decided to become anti-performance, whatever that means. performance, the motivations, the schtick of it, the actorness, thespian of musicology, seems oh so un-punk rock. whatever. i suck at performance, perhaps. but what is with this vituousic need for performative self expression with respect to ones wankery? you are not prince. you are not sexy. he is excused. but it is all ok if the audience, or that person in the audience believes in it, is forgiving, believes in, has faith in the performer, wanting the performer to succeed. to manifest something? a value per the performative ticket, to the time of that which is spent witnessing the performance? much like ordering a large plate of food at an expensive, or not expensive restaurant, a denny's perhaps, you have paid for the product, you have incentive to enjoy and consume it. i saw fat, 45 years old at the time, robert smith play. i wanted him to be good, reincarnate ever so temporarily my high school memories of depressive angst, oh plz fat bob don't suck. i recall it was a good show. sure he was a dick afterwards, seriously diminshing his already diminished stature in relation to music that is important to insignificant me. but oh how i had faith and desire to enjoy the show, wanting it to mean something more. oh god, another fucking bass solo, we-dee weee, boo-dooo beeee! sick shit man. anyway, i wanted what meant something to me in the high school time of trauma to still be relevant to my life through fat bob's innoculous performance. did it mean anything? i remember that they played from the edge of the deep green sea with a slightly altered chord progression, that sounded cool. more ambiguously sounding with somewhat of a major chord present instead of the funeral minor from the wish record, somewhat recast as an uplifting dirge towards the ectasy of death, or some shit. it sounded green, like a deep green sea. oh the romanticism of this girl, mythical, flinging herself into the sea, this mythical unattainable love, heartache, the feeling i get from spirited away. i want a boy that turns into a river dragon, and we will fly away toward imaginative unattainable infinity. now that's hot.
so there's this customer here right now, a long haired asian boy from austrailia, a la brea (is that how it's spelled? oh i don't care) piercing, maybe a nose piercing too, i don't remember. even ali, the somewhat new anorexic hostest was like, damn he's hot. now this is a god damn river dragon boy, and he done come up to me to ask me, having been in the country and city of san francisco for only a mere couple of hours now, do i know of any clubs with perhaps r&b type live music? and i was like, no not really, cuz i always work and i like don't know shit, but haha, uh, hey coke head joshua do you know of any, and he's like, oh grant and green, great blues music all the time, and i'm like, yeah, go get a weekly, perhaps that would be of some help. so ali is like, oh he's really young, and i'm like, i don't care, i'd hella touch him all over. as of now i can somewhat see his figure in the darkness from across the room, perhaps more so if my eyes were not all un-dialated from staring into this computer screen. he is sitting with what i presume to be his parents. seemed straight anyways. ali was like, oh what if he is 18, or younger, 16 maybe, and i'm like, well most of the guys i've fucked around with have had the maturity of 16 yr olds, so it's all par for the course, who the fuck am i the care?
marriser, i miss u. bitch u don't myspace me anymore. maybe u decided that myspace was lame. i did, but i'm still on there. holding out for those sporadic moments for when a closeted arab boy might want to meet up and fuck me and then declare that he doesn't like the sticky gooey touch of cum, let alone the drama of sucking dick. but that was weeks ago! i really should start on my novel, aka my pathetic sex life.
posted by eriq at 10:40 PM
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