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25 august 2000
i'm handicapping My biorhythm lied. It said my physical state was on the way up, and yet I awoke this morning feeling a tad bit shittier than I did yesterday. Last night's no-plans went south when I received a phone call from Michael, whose wedding I went to three weeks ago in DC. He was in Los Angeles on business with some co-workers and wanted to do dinner. "Could ya find us a good seafood place?" It was more an order than a request. I replied that I'd try. I called a new restaurant at the head of the Santa Monica Pier. Well, not really new ... it opened as a seafood shack in 1930 or so, closed down and fell into disrepair sometime in the 80s, and became quite an eyesore of plywood and broken glass by the time I moved here in 1992. Then some rich dude had an idea to buy the property and re-open the place as a gourmet seafood restaurant. I would imagine the only thing it shares with the original shack is its highly creative name: The Lobster. So I called The Lobster at around 3pm for an 8 o'clock reservation for 4. "Luckily," they had a cancellation and were able to "accomodate" me. So I sat and drank and caught up on old times, gorged myself on ahi carpacio and a 1.5 lb lobster which, in retrospect, was delicious. But then I awoke this morning with strange noises coming from my stomach, spent an hour in the bathroom, and now I'm here, my last day at work, and I still feel a bit out-of-sorts. Was it the vodka or the lobster? ~~~ IceDog just called on my cell. "Shut up, don't talk, mark your calendar, September 8, Friday, 4:30pm, be at the studio. From there we drive to Eagle Rock [it's near Pasadena] and play two songs, change clothes, and then they'll interview us. It'll air on cable two weeks later." Yeah, whatever. I'm not even famous yet but still I fucking hate doing these stupid cable tv shows. So I threw the date in my Palm desktop. I'll sync it to the handheld tonight. ~~~ So Michael told me to leave all weekend open for him. I said I'd try. Tonight maybe we'll do something a bit less lavish than the Lobster. I was thinking maybe we could hit Dr. Hogly Wogly's Tyler Texas BBQ up in Van Nuys, where I haven't been in ages. It's a little shack on Sepulveda in the valley, best known as the place that inspired the Flintstones opening scene where the car tips over. Yep, the ribs are _that_ big. Ah, last day in the office. I spent just a little more than four months at this job. I guess it's a testament to my commitment (or lack thereof) that I never even finished unpacking all of my boxes of schtuff that I brought here back in April. The office is empty. No big going-away party like they threw me in April. And I really couldn't care less. I just wanna get the fuck out of here. Two emails this morning from the bosses trying to get a complete recode on the site. Yeah, right. These guys are about to start paying for their indecisiveness, to the tune of $75/hr, give or take $25 depending on my mood. I'm just pissed off. Pissed at the world, pissed at myself, pissed in general. I want to move to the mountains, buy a cabin, and spend the rest of my life chopping firewood, wearing a red+black flannel lumberjack's shirt and too-tight jeans. Sit on the porch after a hard day's chopping and enjoy the serenity, sipping from a can of Budweiser, and enjoying life with... Ah yes, just realized there's no woman in that picture. Gotta fix that soon, before I relocate myself to remote mountain wilderness where my chances of meeting Bambi are better than finding a lifemate. ~~~ I'm kinda rambling here, and I should work, but I'd rather just say "fuck it." Sometimes I think my birth was the biggest joke ever played on me. Should I be upset about this, or just laugh it off? 25 august 1999: : didn't write 24 august 1998: drubkeb stepoor : I keep on striving to be the person I want to be, to be the person I should have been, to be the person that will afford me the life I want, to be the _right_ person. I think it's high time I start worrying about just being myself. [ swim back | email me | swim ahead ] |
