I'm so full right now. full of homemade vegetable puree. full of south australian layer cake shiraz spiked soliloquies. immured by my best friend/worst enemy, my own mind. I must empty now before I explode! I must purge the pother of ebullient mentations. I must type NOW! I conjure the voice of the lychnobite mixtress:

if comfort food was hard grape juice it would be layer cake shiraz. this wine is my current idee fixe. I jones for it! I'm quaffing the last quarter bottle of it as I stare into the laser laptop glare...

henry miller is known to have said "write drunk, revise sober". most would attest to millers genius. the problem with this transcriptive practice is it's a bit antediluvian, having been stated before the advent of the internet. I often write drunk in the middle of the night and wake to find it all posted up on social networking sites and e-mailed to members of my coterie before I've soberly revised it. 

I'm sore today after having worked a pretty wild shift last night. three bands played, but I thought the opening two  were way better than the headliner. one of the members of the first band, drew, I happen to know from back in the day when I was actively into "electroclash". he has always swung more on the "mod" side of style, but superficial differences aside: we all frequented many of the same hollywood hotspots catering to "counter-culture". my friend danielle was casually hooking up with his mate max. max, drew and I all had honda metropolitans (a petite two tone 50 cc scooter modeled after the vintage vespas). they both had matching sky (light blue/white) colored models, while mine was in salsa (candy red/white). I saw drews scoot parked out in front of the club when I pulled up. as much as I loved my metro, I'm glad to say I've upgraded to the buddy black jack, a matt black 150 cc hellion. it's faster. ha ha! beep beep! vroom vroom! buh bye! but in all this reminiscing I digress... so I have this nasty discoloration all up and down my legs. physically measuring in full grown at a modest 4'11 and existing in a land of giants, I learned young  to adapt. when unable to fly, climb. so without hesitation I use my arms to catapult me all over the counters and shelves to reach for the top-shelf liquors. with nimble and catlike reflexes I pounce and purple my knees. luckily break-dancing in high school conditioned me well for just this (the bruising and the odd contortions I'll contrive to make a cocktail). sometimes, while out and off  the clock, when the  flooring be permitting and coupled with a proper buzz (so my inhibitions are happily at bay) I'll shock fellow party-goers with a head-spin. yes a head-spin. singular. it's a disgrace to the consecutive three circumnavigations I could bust in my heyday, but even one head-spin is more than the average drunkard can pull off. although, any dancer who knows they're stuff wouldn't be impressed. if I could see myself through the eyes of my own previous teen incarnation, even I would scoff at the sad display and mourn the death of my forgone talent. which brings me to the another recent theme of  fixation: what the hell am I doing with my life? will I remember this moment ten years from now with pain stricken nostalgia, asking myself the very same question as I compete with the rotting architecture of some old bar in LA for recognition as a historic landmark?

I'm almost twenty eight, I'm sitting up late at night drinking wine by myself boasting on this damned blog site about the fact that I can spin on my head. like, that's a major accomplishment and I'm not even that great at it. I spend many a-night assisting the willfully myopic in escapist habits. I spend my days obsessing over how I'm gonna make my way in the world. this is why most people opt out of the whole "create your own path" thing and just get a BA in business and sign on to a life of wage slavery. that's why on the eighth day god created firewater. after he was all rested up, bored with the duties of cosmic paternity and grafting ribs from adam, he distilled his fermented manna mash and put it in a snifter. then he just sat around in a dimly lit outhouse behind an ashram, sippin' n' shootin' the shit with shiva...until he blacked out. aside from genesis and excerpts here and there, I haven't read much of our mighty fathers holy scripture. but from what I gather, the old testament doesn't tell you much about the eighth day. and neither does the new testament for that matter. because both of them are antiquated, chauvinistic and censored. this is the contemporary testament, the continuation, the new story! the post-industrial/post-civil rights/post-post modern version...

ah fuck it! I'll settle for the rest of this layer cake and leave doctrine to the straight laced and those who have masters degrees. that's why god created me, to get all of them drunk. but I'm the one who's drunk now. henry miller would be proud.

a case of the mundaynes

I only worked one day last week. which was not conducive too the fattening of my wallet, but it bloated the conceit of my living space. my dwelling was pristine up until friday. then after having worked both this saturday and sunday night, it looks like a touring tornado singled me out and snuck into my flat for a quick fandango while I was away entertaining the thirsty. there's an agglomeration of shoes fighting to be the first foot out my front door, poised and ready to escape the riot of gimcrackery and debris in my abode. strewn about are my uniform, gym clothes, scooter paraphernalia, under garments, towels, hats, etc. various piles are scattered around where I've emptied the contents of my handbags; omnigatherum collages of gum, bagatelle, barrettes, dollar bills, books, makeup, scraps of paper. I don't know why it's such a laborious feat for me to just put things in their rightful place when I get home (at three thirty in the morning) or when I wake up (at the crack of mid-afternoon) on work days. I'm sure passing on that shift drink would help. the more days I'm scheduled consecutively the worse it gets. the mess becomes a living entity that procreates, then proceeds to consume me and everything in its path. it's a serious bout with demons to clean up at this point.

starting monday off ensconsed in this mayhem is depressing. I'm a firm believer that "your environment is an extension of yourself". if my house is a mess, my head is a mess too. each is a reflection of and also reinforces the other. you can take that theory even further and discover paralells between you and the workplace, the city, the whole country and world. for a while now I've been deciphering my daily experience like a jungian dream analyst. the difference between the waking and dream states is just a slight shift of brain wave activity, and many ideologies refer to what we sublunary loonies have come to call "life" as a dream or maya (illusion). so I figure the guidelines for understanding the symbolism of things and events would apply to both realms of consciousness similarly. ya follow? with my amateur oneirocriticism I interpret the discombobulation as much more than simple clutter. evaluating my psyche from the looks of my living quarters in summary: I'm a total fruitloop. I feel like my life has become the process of recreating the same mess and attempting to clean and/or cover it up over and over again.

familiar with the quote: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results”? the only difference between me and your typical institutionalized bedlamite is that I'm aware of my derangement. I obsessively tweak the pattern of myself with the intent of an alternate outcome, but right now I feel like I'm failing miserably. after years of dissentious behavior and aggressively projecting my personal problems into the political arena (i.e.: activism, protesting, "culture jamming') I got all gandhi trying to "be the change I want to see in the world". I've gone through major shifts in thinking by honestly imploring my mind, examining my past, breaking down my inner berlin walls of rigid belief structure, incorporating a smorgasbord of exotic and metaphysical doctrine, use of psychedelics, meditative trips and holotropic breath-work. I've experimented with multiple austere practices in diet and abstinence (I ate almost nothing but raw food for five years and went celibate for nearly two).  I've chanted hare frikin krishna. I've hugged amma chi...twice! is there a designation for the psychological disorder of someone who continually does things differently over and over expecting to achieve different results, yet still keeps getting the same results?

after jumping through numerous schizoid hoops, resolving to bear the burden of complete responsibility for everything that happens, will happen, and has happened to me (figuring this would ultimately engender positive advancement), doing the best I could while expecting nothing and accepting what is: I'm back at a pre-pubesent level of living and spirituality. my room and my sanity are a clusterfuck. is this really all my fault or is this my environments fault? ok maybe it's nobody's "fault", but it's fucked up, and something needs to be done about it. maybe I've been conditioned to be in this conundrum, so fixing my solitary issue alone is futile anymore when the world at large is in such utter disarray. my problem is everyones problem (and vise versa) because it created me (as I continue to create it). nobody has the right to get away with inaction, bad habits, or apathy anymore. passivity and stolidity are unacceptable. each of us needs now more than ever to step up and start being mindful and compassionate for the sake of commonwealth. no more "get out of accountability for being lame laggards free" cards. no more incarceration of the innocent. no more capitol punishment either. no task is too small and no asshole gets left behind. maybe obama needs to get in here, do my dishes and organize my drawers. maybe the entire city of los angeles should trade shifts in helping me sort my socks and subdue the shoes that are ready to sprint for freedom from of my self imposed prison. yeah!...and when there is peace in my apartment there will be peace in my heart. when there is peace in my heart it will radiate outward from the core of my being. I can (and will) return the gesture, and in turn there will be peace and well-being for everyone! what comes around goes around right? like an inverse virus the love will vascillate healing the ills of the world.

in most cases this rule is an applicable truth: what is truly good for the individual is beneficial for the whole, and what is truly good for the whole is benificial for the individual. so what is truly good and beneficial for both the individual and the whole? socialized health-care and housecleaning for all! well, it's really about loving thy neighbor (which is also thy-self) and sharing the wealth (as opposed to stealing and hoarding it). but consequently, if there is adequate health-care for all, we'll all be fully apt to clean up after ourselves. and it logically follows that we would then stop perpetuating the havoc littering the human spectacle on a personal level, which collectively would resonate massively. we'd all be happier and better equipped to succor others in the community. I'm getting ahead of myself here: but eventually we'd all be so healthy we wouldn't even need health-care anymore...until that day though it's a good buffer to have and many of our current predicaments would be ameliorated with one little sensical adjustment.

now why don't I have health-care goddamn it?! our allopathic medical practices and health-care system suck anyway. but I have some ideas on effective restructuring in that sector too.

screw being a booze floozy, I should be the president.

seis de mayo

I'm hungover. it really sucks. this is a rare bi-annual event, happening on average (at most) maybe twice a year. I'm a pro. I know all the tricks of avoiding this distasteful state of being. I know better. aside from the obvious "drink in moderation", there is one basic guideline to drink by that will save you a lot of the hangover hassle: don't use mixers and don't mix liquors. unless it's water, soda water, or a fresh squeeze of citrus: you don't want it in your drink. the sugar is what effs you up. the schnapps, the froo froo shee shee stuff. nix that ish. I don't have scientific data backing my theory and can't tell you exaltly what it is in the process of metabolizing multiple fermented potations that is directly responsible for the ensuing misery, I'm simply speaking from experience.  

I'm half mexican, but am not a big cinco celebrator. I had the night off so I rode out on my scooter to a bar in west hollywood where my friend was working. another friend, who lives a hop skip and stumble away, met me there. I started with a makers on the rocks.  my cute bartender friend came over and innocently proposed "shots". right then I realized the power we bartenders have and how hard it is to turn an offer made by one down. especially when they're good looking. I still had eight tenths of my makers left and was in no dire need to speed up the process. I'm not a young buck anymore.  I was well over the shot phase by the time my frontal lobe was fully developed. I'm not a frat boy or a masochist. I enjoy drinking, I don't do it to get wasted. as a rule: I usually don't shoot shots, I sip them. I don't think anything is worth being drunk if it's not pleasurable to the palate. a common cannon of the animal kingdom: what tastes bad to you is bad for you. bright colors can also indicate danger; like the crazy colored cordial that's the same hue of a killer frog suggests it's poisonous and will kill you! ay dios mio people, it's just common sense. anyway, if you can't comfortably sip it, you probably shouldn't be drinking it. 

the argument has oft been made that a shot is no longer a shot if consumed conservatively. I always parry with something to the effect of: a shot is still a shot when made as a shot regardless, and it's true essence is not denatured by the drinking process. a drink can be a shot if you shoot it. but what usually qualifies as a shot is: anything served in a shot glass, anything made with the intention of shooting, or anything less than four ounces being either shaken and/or served without ice.  I get teased a lot for this, but tolerating the taunting is preferable to the debauchery and agony the alternative course of action invariably leads to. shots are bullets blasted from a gun with only one intention my friends, and its aimed for the bulls eye on a slippery slope. ooh that was fun, how many idioms can I fit into one sentence to create this analogy? I don't think it even really made sense. whatever, I'm hungover. according to vigilante law: I'm acquitted of all duties to cogency. nothing more than laying on my ass in a dark room with an ice pack on my head for the next twenty-four hours is required of me. anything else is extra credit.

so in the spirit of  hollow holidays and inappropriate expression of independence, a shot of shaken don julio it was. I still sipped it though. but mixing the whiskey and tequila  is where I went wrong. and for breaching this elementary precept of pain-free partying, today I suffer greatly.

fast forward: I ended up at an after hours thai joint by my house that covertly serves alcohol past the legal drinking hours. I can't vouch for the food, but I love this place. not only are they open all night and ostensibly discredit one of californias dumbest liquor laws, but on the weekends the young voluptuous servers get on the bar in their ugg boots and freak each other. it's awesome. the downside is they only carry one kind of shitty vodka, one shitty whiskey, and one shitty beer. which they underpour and overcharge for. the scene is a circus. there are always dubious characters lurking in the wherabouts, aiding and abetting little white powdery felons, which dangle proudly from the their nasal cavities.

I tried to revert back to the one liquor trick, although, at this point it was already too late. jim beam it was. and I never drink beam either, unless I'm in a desperate and lowly place. well desperate and lowly I was. the nightcap was totally unnecessary. I was already feelin it pretty hard, but I got caught up in the fiesta fervor. I broke all of my own rules. this coming from a staunch advocate of dissonance; some rules are made for a good reason. today is a lesson lived, reinforcing that which I already know. ay!

monday...?

I'm still adjusting to having monday nights off. I rarely remember the actual date but  instinctively know the day of the week. the way I interpret the passing of time has become defined by my regular shifts at work. according to the complex collection of neurons caballing at the apex this fleshy phenomena that currently stores essential biological information pertinent to my survival and ego,  the past several years have simply been a blurry series of mondays, tuesdays, and fridays. each day of the week has a distinct energy and feel to it. weekend nights are highly charged with excitement and disarray. the term "weekend warrior" accurately describes the the usual character of the thursday/ friday/saturday night crowds. they get dressed up and loaded for their two day fandango with playtime and a booze infused battle with their own inner and undiagnosed discontentment with the regimen of this post industrial capitalist reality. I just recently started working sundays (instead of mondays) regularly for the first time. god had at least one thing right. sundays aren't days suited for getting suited up and going to work. sundays are lazy days meant for bike rides, sun bathing, bbq's, beer, bloody marys and mimosas. I actually prefer working on (but tend to avoid going out on) the bustling weekends. sunday is of a calm and relaxed nature; a day that I prefer to go out for some convivial cocktailia. people just haven't caught on to how awesome sundays are at bars. and they're all still too hungover from the two prior nights to really enjoy it. a hyperactive atmosphere is stimulating while working  (and you get paid to perform an exhilarating six hour aerobic workout), but overwhelming for me when participating as a patron ( people get way too crazed and out of hand for my taste). I go into this meditative state when working a busy bar nonstop. it's only when the night is dragging and people aren't drinking that I get tiresome. that being said, I bring lots of reading material to my sunday night shift to stay entertained.

so after working every monday for almost two years it's not so easy to retrain my innate association with mondays vibe and get out of work mode. I don't even know what to do with myself. I slept in until three pm. read a bit. ate. tinkered around on the inter-net. walked to the bank. then walked to the thai market and bought a case of coconuts. came home and tinkered around on the inter-net some more. took a nap. ate again. did the dishes. and here I am at roughly one in the morning, after having pissed the entire day away, and I still feel like I have four more hours to kill before it's bed time. 

one of the most peculiar things about this job is a schedule that's totally discordant with the rest of the world. I can't go right to bed after work. normal diurnal nine to fivers don't get home and hit the sack at six. so if I get off work at three or four in the morning, it takes me a few hours to wind down. and sometimes that means I'm going to bed at dawn. most others of sound mind aren't up and many errands can't be accomplished in these freakish hours between last call and the call of the rooster. there was a lengthy stretch of time when I was working a lot and was almost never seeing daylight or any of my friends outside of work. that got a little too extreme even for me, a lifetime lucubrator. I had to self impose some lifestyle modification. like making it to bed before four am several nights a week and making a point to get out mid-day every day for at least ten or twenty minutes. yeah, I know how bizarre and hellish that sounds. it was. I felt like some subhuman crepuscular creature. ugh. I get depressed just thinking about it.

so it's almost three now, I'm gonna quaff the last glass of my bio dynamic bordeaux and hopefully it'll put me out of my misery.

diary of a hollywood mixtress: 032409