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Sunday, January 11th, 2004
11:02 am - Add Friend Whoring


Go and add friend_whoring to your friends list. Then, copy & paste this whole post into your journal. This could be cool.

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Sunday, May 18th, 2003
4:48 pm
urinary yougogirl.com

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Sunday, March 9th, 2003
2:54 am - the theater smashup lack

So I'm at work, and me and my theater pals are milling about, chomping on popcorn and the like. The movie house biz is a job made for sloth, you serve a bunch of old couples medium popcorns and a pair ol' diet cokes, and you're set for about another coupla hours. Rest of the time, we read Spin (it's the only mag they've got, alas), raid the candy stock, and debate over Ben Affleck--dudes, he was verging on cool territory with his Michael J. bits on The Daily Show, no? And in the case of the boyos, avidly discuss their whacking off habits. I've also learned the ways of the "Donkey Punch" and "Hot Karl", porn-style. Where was HBO in all of this? So it's a pretty nice time behind the concessions stand. But oh fuck, does the butter stench just sink into your skin. It's like I took a bath in milkfat and let myself curdle. Or whatever. And dude. When you're wearing your dorky two-sizes too big uniform and smellin like a cardiac arrest waiting to happen, the pick-ups are few and far between. Like, hey baby, wanna watch me milk a cow? I'll pass.

Anyhow. Today's the A Capella CHAMPIONSHIPS, as so many lamers informed me. Dude, hot tip. Don't tell me you're here for a "Championship" when all you're gonna do is make like a barbershop quartet and rip into some sweet sweet harmonizing courtesy of the BACKSTREET BOYS. Holy fuck. Apparently a capella translates into a bunch of wannabe sorority girls and boys in cowl neck sweaters. Seriously. What's up with that? CHAMPIONSHIP. I'd rather toss in my lot with a fuckin' curling match.

Okay. So back to square one: we're standing around, a pack of maroon-shirt kids, and this dude walks in. He's a rather weaselly looking fellow, with a broomstick build and scraggly goatee...actually, it looks kinda like an unfinished lanyard of some sort.

He walks in, and steps up to the counter: "Hi, my name's La La, but you can call me Santy Claus. Where's the biggity-athroom?"
Cue workers: "Scuse me?"
"The biggity-athroom. I wanna get high from marijuana. Do you wanna get high? Get high? POT!"
The biggity-athroom. Christ.
The best part's when he's slouching down all lonesome like in some corner. And my manager goes up and asks him if he's with the singers. He says he's waiting for his friends, and that she (my manager) is harassing him, which she has "no right". So what does boy genius do? He whips out his wallet, puts it next to his ear, mumbles, and proceeds to tell the manager, "You'd better watch out. I just called the cops and told 'em you're sexually harassing me. They're gonna come any minute." Dude, come on. His wallet's clearly a turtle-com in disguise, and whoa baby! Leo's gonna slash you up, sucka! And my manager's all, "Sexual harassment! Did you LOOK at him?! DID YOU SEE?!" Hah.

Biggity-athroom. Dude. Don't make me get all fuctit in yo'shiznit, you diggity dig?

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Saturday, November 23rd, 2002
12:30 pm

walking down mission street around midnight on a friday, peter and i passed a man leaning against a building. he was holding a boom box in front of him, styled more for a classic b-boy than a man wearing dirty white jeans with appropriately dirty blonde hair. coming from the speakers was some of the most powerful instrumental metal i have ever heard. peter and i couldn't help grinning at him, and it motivated him to begin following us. soon he decided to begin providing the vocals for the music he wielded. most of it was fairly unintelligible, but it had a lot to do with bitches and the term "fuck" in seperate contexts.

peter and i knew we were lucky. later on, we began to work on our impressions of him. "fuck the fucking shit!" one of us would exclaim while the other did vocal guitar solos. a trio of frat-tastic men ahead of us on the sidewalk heard me initiating a jam session (BAAAAAHHH! BITCHES FUCK BITCHES FUCK!!!!!) and started laughing. i think it instilled a sassiness in them, because they started belligerently yelling at cars and messing with each other.

yes, this is the power of metal. particularly without music and at midnight in the mission.

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Saturday, October 5th, 2002
8:25 pm - bus no. 54

downtown seattle. the sky is grey. what's falling from the sky you couldn't cassify it as rain--more of an annoying drizzle.

i was on one of the buses affectionately known as a ghetto bus. it looked like hell. it wasn't one of the fancy new buses like the ones that go through the nice neighbourhoods.

the people in the back of the bus are the usual suspects. a couple of gansta thugs in the back, the drunk, the child molester looking guy, the suit, the old woman who talks to herself too loudly, the shmindie kid, you get the idea.

so i'm sitting back there wishing i'd brought some zines with me when this old women gets on the bus. the first thing i notice about her is her eyes set far apart on her face. her skin was as wrinkled as a raisin. i would have thought nothing further of her if it hadn't been for the two items she was carrying. the items were not unusual in and of themselves but combined together and under the circumstance it did cause some heads to turn.

'nice skateboard,' the child molester called out in a leering manner as the drunk leaned over to the suit and asked loudly, 'what's the bucket for?'

had i been the suit i would have said, 'you.'

if the old women heard any of the comments she didn't show it. instead she proceeded toward the seat directly in front of me.

she placed the skateboard down upon the seat and sat down on it. the bucket she placed over her head. she proceeded to make motions with her hands as if she were riding a scooter. a lambretta shall we say or perhaps a vespa?

that's when things got weird.

as the bus moved again toward west seattle the people outside the bus would take one look at this old women with a bucket on her head and then proceed to look at me. same with the people in the bus. they would look at this old women and then look at me.

why was everybody looking at me???

i was just sitting there the same as everyone else. i was an innocent stybander i tell you. but no, for some reason everyone looked at me as if i had somehow orchestrated this whole event.

(this actually happened to a friend of mine but it sounds better in the first person. luckily, i ride the notorious 358 now so i should have a lot of stories to tell.)

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Friday, October 4th, 2002
7:20 pm - the motherland wouldn't stand for this.

"Are you Turkish? 'Cos you look like my friend who's Turkish, and you look Turkish, and are you Turkish?"

Not by a long (and white!) shot, lady.


current mood: turkey squabbles

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Sunday, September 22nd, 2002
1:51 pm

the east bay public transportation system just has a different feel than san francisco; i don't know what it is. riding from alameda, through oakland, and into berkeley afforded crazy spy action.

an old man seated across from me read an oversized pamphlet about something. once completed, he proceed to rip the pages into eighths and neatly put them into his bag. he pulled out a magazine, and as he worked his way through the material, he would occationally rip off the pages he had already read, putting them into his bag as well.

a young girl boarded the bus soon after my friend and i did, a posse in tow. almost immediately, she cracked open the back door of the vehicle and screamed something about nigga asses over and over. she couldn't sit still; she was probably about thirteen and was totally insane, jumping around while the wooden beads at the end of her small braids clacked together. she stood beside the seats and pointed to her shirt, "i look good, don't i? i look good." she kept sitting in the vacant seat on the other side of my friend between jumping up and shouting at people out of the window. at one point, she turned to my friend and just started laughing. she stared at me and mumbled something unintelligble. and she kept talking about maurice.

as we neared the campus, a man boarded the bus carrying two massive garbage bags filled with aluminum cans. the scent of beer permeated the bus. he tried to make small talk with a man and his son seated across from him. it was uncomfortable.

this is why the bus there is so much more expensive.

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Thursday, September 19th, 2002
6:33 pm - Consider Yo Ass Keeled!

While sitting in one of the single seats up against the side of the bus, I noticed everyone's attention turn towards a red-eyed asian man in a baseball cap. He was midway through the bus when he turned around suddenly, walked over to someone I couldn't see, made a fist, and punched the unseen person in the face. No one on the bus said a word as he made his way to the back of the bus and sat down. I think we were all too speechless. Save for a lone woman in a purple warm up suit. The first thing she said was "UH-UH, NOT ON MY BUS!". She got up and walked to the back to confront the hitter. He stood up abruptly and started going off in a language I couldn't understand and she couldn't either. But this didn't stop her.


She looked full of rage as she tapped him in the chest and said, "YO ASS IS DEAD BOY!".

And with that she went back to her seat. I was expecting the return to her seat to be filled with applause. But she was still the only one talking. When she made it back to her original seat she struck up a conversation with some people that appeared to be friends of hers. The whole conversation was about the man in the back. It was her theory that "the muthafucka can't hold his liquor, you know what I'm sayin? And he be in a heap o trouble now".

After awhile my attention went back to the stifling heat, and I stopped thinking about why someone would hit another person in the face. I agreed with the woman that it could only lead to a "heap o trouble".

Fifteen minutes later I was listening to someone's conversation about "gettin it done propa" when a familiar voice yelled, "YO DEAD SHIT HEAD! I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE! I KNOW YO ADDRESS MUTHAFUCKA!". I looked over to see the purple track suited woman and two asian men gesticulating and swearing wildly at the dude she had talked to earlier. He sat stonefaced in the back and acted as if nothing was going on. Someone leaned over and I heard them say, "Look's like you're in trouble". "Damn straight", I thought to myself. A heap of trouble.

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Monday, August 12th, 2002
11:10 pm

an older woman with a southern accent said to me, "you're very kind and i hope you have a wonderful life ahead of you." this was after i took her order this morning at work. i handed her the drink she requested, and she actually said "much obliged" in her stereotypical drawl.

as i bussed tables, i tried to eavesdrop on her and her companion. all i heard was something about a whole lot of pornographic magazines.

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Tuesday, August 6th, 2002
6:14 pm - watch your smart mouth

i've heard that line before.

i was pressing my forehead against the window of the 926 on my way to work this afternoon, trying to see into the windows of the houses we passed. this is a habit i developed after one wintry morning last november when i spotted an amorous elderly couple groping in the well-lit window of their suburban rambler. but it's august. and all the elderly people are outside doin the nasty atop war memorials or something.

and all the fucked up people are inside. on the bus. next to me.

i spotted today's subjects during my failed attempt at spying: two acne-scarred teenagers with fading blue mohawks and braces. both wearing matching Social Distortion tee-shirts. they stepped onto the bus, paid their fare, and headed towards the back (AKA Bettina's Territory). they took a seat right next to me, and wasted no time launching into a bout of self-referential banter.

i'm not sure if 'self-referential' is the correct term to describe what i'm talking about. let me try to clarify.
you know when you're in high school, and you're trying to show off in front of a crush that doesn't know you, so you and your friend sit in front of him in social studies class and talk just loud enough for him to hear your conversation, desperately trying to sound witty or shocking in an attempt to catch his attention? you end up spending a lot of the time quickly glancing to the side to monitor his reactions, to see whether or not he's quietly laughing at your jokes.
is this making any sense? let's hope so.

so the one sitting closest to me sits back, crosses his arms and loudly asks his companion
"Hey...what should we set on fire today?"
His friends laughs. "Dude! You're, like, so fuckin crazy, man!"
"I'm a total arson. I'm like beavis, dude. i'm like 'fire! heheheh!fire!hehehehe'."
Let the jury note that this was by far the poorest impression of beavis i have ever witnessed. when the laughter subsided, i hit the jackpot. the self-proclaimed arson leaned over, tapped me on the shoulder and said (i shit you not) "hey, beautiful, you wanna come to the city with me and my boys today?".
i came dangerously close to laughing in his blotchy little face. instead, i politely declined the invitation and returned to my book (which, at this point, was merely a decoy for my eavesdropping).
at the next stop, we were bombarded by a bevy of giggly 15-year-old girls clad in pastel sundresses and white tennies.
the kid next to me immediately pointed out the following to his companion:
"Hey, look! NORMAL people that are afraid of FREAKS like us!"
i think my ninth grade crush, who had burgundy hair and cutting issues, once said that at a pep assembly. and i believe it greatly diminished his appeal.
the pastel girls weren't too keen on them and sat up front next to the driver.
scraping the bottom of the barrel for Things to Say To Make Oneself Appear A Social Misfit, one of my gutter punk admirers turned to his friend and inquired
"hey. what would happen if you microwaved a cat?"
at this point, resistance was futile and i had to feign a coughing fit behind my book to hide my uncontrollable cackling. it's been years since i witnessed firsthand the humiliating spectacle that is Teenage Boys Desperately Trying To Be Different.
a few stops later, they stepped off. but not before i heard the arson suggest that they make some napalm in his garage.

oh blessed, blessed public transport.

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Wednesday, July 24th, 2002
1:48 pm - the age-old spectacle
snow_design once a week, gladys huntington--pillar of the literary world--leaves her post at the used books center to roll out a cart of free books in front of the library at my university. today, as she was about to depart, i trailed behind and watched as an older fair-skinned bald man dressed entirely in black (complete with matching cowboy hat) and his associate, a younger gentleman in board shorts and yankees tattoos approached gladys. their eyes were wide with the prospect of free reading, and they couldn't wait to get their grubby meat hooks on this week's selection. the tension was palpable. "can we help you do that, ma'am?" the albino cowboy asked, maybe five times as she made her way outside with the cart. "no, no, i've got it." she was stern, yet polite. gladys got to her destination, and started organizing the books while the cowboy and his associate started pulling it all out. one such piece that caught their attention was a 50s western dramatic script. they began acting it out:

"i do reckon that we better head this wagon train in."
"you're right sheriff, we'd be smart to get ahead of the dust storm."

as gladys left, she turned to the two, not wanting to interrupt, but saying "i hope you find something good today." the cowboy smiled and said, "well ma'am, we met you, and thats good enough." i swear this happened. after a while they got bored and left so i started going through the books more closely: a 1993 guide to cheap parisian traveling, a few young adult romance novellas, a guide to sleep circa 1965, and the like. i decided to take with me two soft-bound books. one is called 'invitation to sociology' chosen mainly for its smart geometric 60s cover design. the other, by william e. miles, is called 'damn it!' and was chosen for obvious title-related reasons.

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Monday, July 15th, 2002
10:19 am

okay im sorry but a couple of things about going to shows.
open letter to "tallboy" who plagues boston shows.
please if you are fifty fucking feet tall. there is no reason for you to stand in front of me at a fucking show--when clearly--i moved up the the front cause im short and for some reason you need to be close enough to have hash's sweat spray on you while he is playing. clearly it wasnt enough that one tall man stood in front of me with his grandaddy like baby blue trucker hat, turned slightly sideways as if to say "hello, im so blink 182".
and so "tallboy" wedged his skinny short foreheaded ass right in front of me along with blink 1-80-blue....i was standing close because i wanted to be able to see, my friend who was playing. not so i could look at your back for 40 minutes....you were standing up front cause you're a big stinking butthole and you're shoulders slope and you're ugly. i hate you.
another thing.
open letter to the jackasses that thought that phish and consonant were the same thing. why are you dancing like you are at a fucking hippie rave? why do you think that you are at a phish show? fucking jerry garcia died because you are a shitty dancer or and whoever the fuck is in phish can see you dancing and you look like an a-hole. you're probably the same person that said that gang of four was a cake ripoff you fucking fucker. are you thrashing around like that to hopefully catch a fucking beat cause you have no skills or do you have a nervous condition. can you at least sit still for a moment? when you turn around and i am laughing its not cause i like the show--its cause i want to throw you down on the ground and kick you and im thinking about if i kick you hard enough you cant dance like that.
and please ladies....leave your hair scrunchies at the door. who told you that you could wear those? do you buy those downtown during your lunchbreak at carts that also sell cheaply made harvard shirts and puffy paint boston shirts?
and so. i leave you with this mr. i have too many piercings.
one or two is pretty okay but to look like you fucking smashed your face into a box of nails is gross and i hope one day you can get a real job. and you-mr.holeface....you stop dancing like yr in a fucking mosh pit.

current mood: itchy

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Wednesday, July 10th, 2002
12:47 pm - escape from the lab
snow_design just an aside, but i had to switch seats in the computer lab just now because of this persona bastarde who was bumming my internet-induced high.
i accompanied kim to the free computer area, where no id cards are needed, but i probably wont be coming here again. the crowd could be adequately described by that scene in waynes world 2 when they are denied access into the cooler backstage area at the aerosmith concert, and are subsequently acosted by two gentlemen with pocket protectors who swoon, "hey, you're those guys from that wayne world show, eh? party time!" what was i thinking mingling with a public computer crowd, anyway? no offense.

so back to the action: this guy i was seated next to smelled horrible, but that was just the first act. he began mumbling to himself while staring blankly at hotmail and snoring with his eyes open. ive never heard of such a thing. was he asleep? lobotomized? what is the deal here?? to my surprise, he later spat on the screen, in an attempt to clean any remnants from previous users. he then wrote on the monitor with a ball point pen, as my neighbors pretended not to be appalled. i dared not read the message.

it was about that time that i moved to a computer acrost the way. he shot me a look that said, "think you're too good to sit next to me? pshh, whatever." he's been leaving every few minutes and i'm becoming moderately concerned for my well-being, so i should probably shag ass right about now

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Saturday, July 6th, 2002
8:46 pm - the surrogate tanner child

day four in a new city, and the crazies were representing.

love blossoms in the strangest of places, and muni is certainly no exception. riding the bus to meet a friend yesterday morning, i watched a scruffy man enter, reeking of alcohol before the clock struck 12. a middle-aged woman who had the aura of being martha stewart's friend boarded the bus at the same stop as the gentleman. after sitting beside me, she stood up again to be next to the man, a pair i never would have expected. as the bus made it's way down the street, the man leaned back, holding onto the verticle bar in front of the door. "have you ever tried bus surfing?!" he asked the lady. she admitted that she had not. "whoo-hooooo!" the guy was obviously excited. to my amazement, they kissed a few times. when it came time for the woman to leave, the man grew upset. "you're gonna lose me, baby!" he coaxed. she obviously failed to realize the seriousness of the issue - that alcohol breath was about to exit her life as she was discharged from the bus.

later in the day, i was waiting at a gas station for a pump to be vacated. a man approached me at my rolled-down window who proceeded to ask me questions about my car, which i answered with some reserve. finally, he admitted his motive. he told me he was convinced that my car was once his. he told me he had a car stolen about four years ago (after i revealed that i had had mine for three), even though i had explained to him that i had known the original owner. he returned to his car. i heard him explaining the situation to the woman inside. "do you want me to get out and kick her ass?!" she offered. but i played it cool. i kind of had to, considering that my gas tank was on empty.

soon after, kim and i enjoyed a man with a makeshift halo made of pipe cleaner placed over his baseball cap explain the wreck he was in after stealing a car when he was eleven after showing us his pasty belly and pretending to ride a mechanical horse.

this city is nuts indeed. and that's how i like it.

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Thursday, July 4th, 2002
10:48 am

yesterday after a splendid dinner of sushi, french fries, and espresso ala mode my lady and i were walking back to my place. we passed the sushi place again on our way from joe's icecream. it's always jam packed with lots of folks waiting outside... as we strolled by i heard a masculine voice say "you're a son of a B!!", "you're a son of a B!!"
i looked up, and to my suprise, saw an old couch potato type macho man jabbing his finger in his kid's chest.
even more to my suprise was that his wife was in a bee costume!

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Monday, June 24th, 2002
9:30 pm - hollywood star
snow_design i continue to be fascinated by the guy who works at hollywood market, an otherwise typical convenience store about a block from my house. a tallish fortysomething gentleman with large glasses and a receding hairline, he seems to feel a civic obligation towards his younger customers. in fact, he's always telling me to "keep my nose clean" and to "watch out for those hussies." to be fair, this is no bastardperson, but his colorful attitude warrants mentioning in this forum nonetheless.

tonight when i walked in, he was in the middle of a serious discussion with some hood in shiny jeans and a bandana. i had missed another one of his pearls of wisdom. he yelled to the kid, "she's an underrated actress! america should take notice of this one!" as he high tailed it out of the store. only later would i understand the cryptic meaning behind this statement. i walked up to the counter, interested in a half pt. of macaroni salad, and noticed the curious design on his shirt: a cartoon clam with beady eyes peeking out from inside its shell, with the words "aw shucks!" in bold blue lettering. needless to say, it was a find.

on a tv/vcr combo tucked away in the corner, i saw that he was watching a movie with brad pitt. in the scene i witnessed, brad was seated at a dinner table with self-consciously long bangs and a nervous expression. "is that 'meet joe black' you're watching?" i asked. "of course," he scoffed. "i was just telling that last guy that the girl in this [claire forlani], is an underrated gem if i ever saw one." i nodded in agreement. he continued: "other than this, she's only been in a few teeny bopper movies--but boy, was she something else in them." yep, this guy knows how to make a person think.

as he rang up my purchase, i asked, "is there tax on this?" at that moment, a touch of melancholy ran across his face. "oh, i sure hope not," he said with a far-off look in his eyes.

i sure hope not indeed.

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3:48 pm

one of the beautiful things about living in a backwoods town is the decidedly backwoods events. already this year, the round-up parade and rodeo has occured, along with the frog jumps. when word got out that the annual lumberjack jubilee would be held this past weekend, my attendance was inevitable. i heard a lot of southern drawls despite living in california, and i saw a lot of bad haircuts.

almost immediately after i arrived, i spotted a true vision of genius. a woman who looked remarkably like edith massey was in her reflective silver bathing suit, go-go boots, and fishnets touring the craft booths. soon after, i saw girls who could have been no older than two arm wrestle each other on stage. brilliant. and a bizarre dramatic reproduction of days in the old west was held, somewhat similar to "red, white, and blaine," except the actors made no attempts to talk loud enough for the audience to hear, and sadly, there was no singing. there was, however, fake gun fighting constantly, which i was down with. no one was left alive in the end.

i fell in love with george jr in his coveralls with his beard and fucked up flag tattoos as he participated in the hatchet-throwing competition and won. i imagined moving to the woods where we used an outhouse and i made biscuits, much like last summer's daydreams of marrying the gardener of the woman i used to nanny for. boredom bred a fantasy of living with him in a trailer, doing his book keeping, and hearing stories about trimming hedges and being attacked by dogs every day. (hatchet-throwing pictures: one of one hundred mullets, spinning in the air)

there was boxing on logs, but the big deal event was the tug-o-war. apparently this was one of two competitions in the country, and the teams certainly had their strategies. they laid down on the boards of wood that made the platform for the fight, and i was impressed with their sage-like tugging wisdom. this guy was the 'anchor', and eavesdropping on crowd gossip informed me that he works at the local grocery store during the week. i love the idea of the meat man or prooduce stocker (but he totally looks like the former) cutting up the chops while doing mental exercises for the yearly shake-down. also, the woman pictured to his left kept dancing with the post in front of her very trashily, and i was afraid. a boy who couldn't have been older than eight fervently cheered the local crew on, screaming something in one of the most aggressive voices i have ever heard which included the term "motherfuckers" while he wore a constipated look on his face. in addition, the coach for the opposing team kept thrusting his pelvis back and forth. and the lumberjack jubilee 2002 princess watched on, always looking exhuberant and beautiful.

this is me being moved by the jubilee spirit. this is how i see myself in forty years. the picture fails to capture her overall magnificence.

i love my hometown.

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Saturday, June 22nd, 2002
3:51 pm

his name was PER. it even said so on his library record. all caps. no last name. he'd walk in every saturday morning in his thin, porous sweatpants and lighty shoes. i didn't even know they made lighty shoes in adult sizes. i'd stare at them while he was on the computer, sometimes using them to determine my own fate ("if the lighty shoes do not go lighty by the time i finish stamping this magazine, then i shall die with a needle in my arm and a monkey on my back before i'm 25"). PER was one of those "close talkers", and he would drape himself across my desk whenever he approached me to inquire about the availability of paper or books on coaching peewee soccer.

the YA librarian and i secretly dubbed him Redhead Nation, a name inspired by the porn site we caught him viewing during one of his routine visits. he had attempted to mask his activity with a complimentary 'privacy screen', but to no avail. i was changing the paper in the printer behind him and was only mildly shocked to find him peacefully gazing at the grainy image of a squatting redhead clutching the handle of a tennis racket with her vaginal muscles. the privacy screen produced an effect more similar to that of a whispy grey veil than that of a substantial shield. but PER didn't know that.

three weeks after this unexpected glance into PER[V]'s world, he approached the desk to borrow the new J.A. Jance book and that failed Keanu Reeves vehicle,"A Walk in the Clouds." i handed him his items and receipt and waved as he began to make him way out of the building. with his hand placed on the door handle, he turned towards the check-out desk and said "Ya know, i just loooove readin. i tell ya, once i stick my face in a book, there's no WAAAAAYYY you're gettin it out!". i have yet to hear a more ambiguously offensive statement from any of my patrons.

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Thursday, June 20th, 2002
9:59 am - Holding It Down Good
Ok, get this, the internet, yesterday. I came up with an idea for a lj that would be exclusively dedicated to stories about fucked up people. And I'm guessing a good portion of these stories will take place on the bus. At least that I have to share. Anyway, I'm not alone in this venture. I'm joined by marlysmullen and snow_design. So we'll all be updating. I'm marty_mcfly.

And it just so happens I have a story to tell. On the bus today I was annoyed as hell at these two people talking across the aisle about their plumbing. Then they started talking about laundry. I was saved by a woman who looked like a blowfish that had elaborate painted on eyebrows and her male friend who was rocking a 6" rat tail. Yes, rat tail. I could tell that life had dealt them some shitty cards, but they were rolling with the punches. And they weren't afraid to talk about it either. I perked right up when I heard the woman saying, "Your way of thinking attracts me, and my way of thinking attracts you (she would point at herself when she said "me" and at the dude when she said "you"). But I aint tryin to get into no negativity, because some people work harder than others. And you're a real hard worker...REAL HARD. But, you know...everybody is, um...everybody's precious."

The next topic of conversation was the man's sleeping habits. Apparently he shacked up with a man who snored loudly. "I can't sleep at night because of that damn Laotian. Yeah, you heard me, like from Laos, the island. I got me some earplugs, but he still wakes me up. So we put him on the top bunk, because, you know, (makes an upward hand gesture) sound travels up. Now it's a little better."

They left on a real sweet note. Rat tail got off at the first market street stop and his female friend told him to take care of himself and kissed him on the cheek. As he was walking away she yelled out the window, "You know I loves you!"

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