Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday.

If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair. 

But also be sure to eat sourdough bread, and run really fast down cracked cement stairs.  Genuine, raw, a little callous, "I've been here long before you born" spiraling green vine cover stairs. 

And then, don't forget!  Disappear into the mist. The mist Golden Gate bridge plunges into on a cool September afternoon. Drink a little coffee, and so what if I'm wrong about everything? she said.  At least for a little while...you'll be free. 

Don't get angry at the silly sea salt breeze and giggle when the seagulls eat $6 bread bowls of chowder peeking outta the dumpsters for free. 

And fall asleep as the stories scrawled on the bathroom wall wait patiently, wisely,  for you to come visit them on your midnight pee.

Have you ever seen a penguin dancing? You might in San Francisco.  

And don't forget, don't you ever forget. About me. 

Here We Go Again

Bugs have been dominating my life. Sometimes I think I have crabs, other nights scabies sneak into my dreams. But still, I got a feeling that tonight is going to be a good, good night. Even if its a borrowed feeling, I'll take it. I wonder if you live somewhere that has fleas, then move somewhere else, they follow you to your new abode. I wonder if using that weird black and red dusty hairbrush I found in my mother's bathroom today gave me lice. God, this is annoying. I have been thinking about bugs so much lately I am to tired to think. I think. But alas, I must give you this story, so. Whew. 

Here We Go Again

Exhausted, twitching, fat, happy and full, the little turtle swam himself into a deep, deep sleep. Miles above him, all a ceiling of thick, tangled seaweed blocked out all light. It was cool and quiet, and he closed his eye lids and began to dream about pieces of children floating by. Severed limbs and thumbs and pinky-toes drifted listlessly though his imagination, sparkling and dancing in the ocean water. What has happened to me he thought sadly, why am I sorrr dirftyy, and sorrr old all of a sudden. It felt like he was still recovering from Saturday night, when he had sat with the landthings on a chair puking yellow foam stuffing and smoked bowl after bowl of Delicious, home grown, California weed. He started to drift himself, way back to when he was a real girl. 

Margarat yawned and rolled out of bed. Fuck, she thought as her bony body crashed to the polished hardwood floor. Why did I loft this fucking piece of shit? She pulled a long t-shirt over her bra and black spandex, which itched something awful. Grabbing a banana speckled with brown Dalmatian dots, she ran out the door. Time for fucking class.

Margaret was not excited, not in the least bit, for Chemistry 101. It was going to be a bunch of anal-retentive mother-fuck chemistry major freshman for christ’s sake, little shits were sure to raise the curb on tests her and her clove-smoking photography major friends would scoff at as the drank PBR or two-buck-chuck and talked about the irony of people trying to unmask the human condition. Fuck this school for making me take this fucking lab science class”  she crowed out loud, startling the girls bathed in juicy perfume ahead of her in the coffee line. Margaret ordered a black drip, dumped half a pack of sugar into it—not splenda, real sugar, so fucking be careful not to pour ALL of it in, she carefully reminded herself, and headed to the greenhouse. It looked way to fucking cheery at eight fifty seven in the morning.

            Jacob slept soundly through his alarm. Around ten o-clock, he rubbed his eyes, and then his balls. Sauntering across the hall, he sat down at his Dan’s clean-as-whistle desk, and began to grind what was left of his dub sack from last night. He turned on the TV to hear a news anchor drone on and on about the crazy religious fucks protesting the town hall meetings. “Lets Bury Obamacare with Kennedy” read the sign of one man, cloaked in flannel, his squinty eyes tiny little slits amid an overgrown forest of curly brown public-looking hairs all over his fat-ass face. “Fucken Crazzzzies”, he said to Dan, who had since materialized in the doorway behind him. “Crazy, Crazy fucks dude. “I know, Dan replied , plopping down on his bed, staring at the T.V. 

Closing Time

Time for you to go out into the places you will be from. 

Yesterday, as I was riding down Wilshire, I was hit by a black Lexus SUV. The driver wore a blue tooth and light cashmere shrug, equally sleek, black, and stunning. Are you Okaaaay? She spoke slowly and rather absentmindedly, as if nearly turning me into a pancake was puzzling, confusing, funny even. I am soooo sorry, um here let me give you my numberrr OK? She was drawling now, i was wondering if she was drunk. i can hardly believe it actually, that I've lasted this long in Los Angeles without getting bulldozed by a car. i bike on main roads all the time. in the left lane.  rarely do i ever stop for red lights, i always start riding across streets when cross walk signs are seconds from expiring, and worst of all, i weave between lanes of traffic, darting in and out of people's side mirrors, like a blue bullet on my piece-o-shit-but-super-speedy 1970's french peugot. Karma is such a crusty old hairy asshole. 

Welcome to The Getty Center: A small, well-known and loved L.A. paradise of gardens, museums, pop-up sculptures in every color of the rainbow. Lavender and garlic caught me off guard as I slowly made my way down Robert Irwin's garden, a zigzagging stone path lined with  tiny red, yellow and light blue explosions bursting out of soft green leaf beds. The blossoms hung from overhead, keeping a watchful eye on the visitors who came--some from lands as distant as Virginia and Hong Kong!--to marvel at their spunky and spiky and silky flowered comrades. Water cried down the path next the the visitor trail, but like our senses, it too grew up, and learned the value of silence, at least a little bit by the end of the journey. The thick stream that crashed angrily through boulders at the top of the path calmed into a slow and steady trickle by the time we all reached the center. Not only  do the museums house Monet's cathedrals dressed in morning dew and (for the next few months) roomfuls of busty french noblemen cast in bronze, The Getty is also home to Van Gogh's Irises.