| (no subject) |
[Mar. 10th, 2005|05:14 pm] |
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I never write in this fucking journal anymore since I switched to another one so Im deleting it |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 14th, 2004|04:54 pm] |
It resembled a bad, slam poetry jam. The fast talking, Ivy League hopeful, future litigaters twitched as they spoke in a mechanized meter about world matters and current events that rarely surface in coffee chat.
The Bow Tie Kid with the Richy Rich hair looked as if he were about to have an epileptic attack as he droned on about the Niger Delta, Royal Dutch Oil...
...saltwater…shoreline...
[somewhere down a dark alley in Casablanca is a shadowy figure who discovered the meaning of life but lost it somewhere amongst the hookah smoke and the desert winds] </blockquote> ...fear of death...
...invasion of Iraq...guns
Eurotrash, et cetera, et cetera...8 minutes up, and time was called.
Sometime between the shaggy boy’s [whose pants were wet with sweat] talk of the European Union and the reemergence of the Bow Tie Kid’s spastic movement and machine talk, my mind began to wander...
I dreamt the other night of the beach, white sands, and a clear, azure, Spanish coastline. No one for as far as the eye could see except for his tan skin, Romanesque curls, and vacant face.
Thinking back to my dreams of Mediterranean coastlines was ruined by the shaggy boy’s sweaty ass in my face. Later that night two guys attempted to claim Mermaids were human, marine life and almost won their round because the things they were saying were so idiotic the other team struggled to refute them.
The next day of my two day stint in Debate Hell was spent eating stale pastries from Lone Star Bakery and listening to kids claim global warming caused the Renaissance, and...feudalism...mumble...mumble... [Time] |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 30th, 2003|03:57 pm] |
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Nikki: Of course I'm your friend. Not many other people would know what I was talking about if I said, "rollercoaster abortion". |
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| les étrangers |
[Oct. 9th, 2003|10:41 pm] |
We rolled into Mason, Texas, population 2,134 with high hopes and great expectations for the weekend ahead. Someone must have forgotten to inform the band because the usual fanfare that surrounds a homecomin’ seemed to be lacking; instead of a ticker-tape parade we settled for BBQ at the Frey’s ranch.
Amber’s family served as a welcome change from the surly Austinites that I’ve become accustomed to. Her mother, the quintessential small town Texas woman dripped with a contrived sense of modesty as she spoke about their “simple life” in fair Mason. Daddy Frey stood in stark contrast of his wife. His weathered features reflected the arduous labour that accompanied his life as a cattle rancher. His words were few but I suppose that stolidity was just a trick of the cattleman trade.
After dinner we chewed the fat with Mamma Frey and by 11:30 that night we found ourselves on The Loop.
“Beer me,” was the phrase of the evening as we traversed, The Loop. We talked about Amber’s relationship and mine and Nessa’s apparent lack of one. We talked about life, college, and the little mutinies that have manifested themselves within our social circle. Amber and I had about seven or eight beers each and with all my drunken insight I convinced her and Nessa that we should do The Loop again.
We did the return trip at seven times the Ronald Stockbridge Recommended Loop Speed. Perhaps it was my chemically induced altered state of mind, but under the influence, Amber becomes a substantially better driver. However, sometime between taking drags off of Amber and Nessa’s cigarettes, going over cattle guards at 60 m.p.h. and drinking more beer, I passed out.
Around 3:30 Saturday morning, Nessa woke up in the backseat to find that Amber had passed out in the middle of an intersection. Nessa got out of the car and tried to rouse Amber so that she could drive us home. Little did Nessa know that Amber did not have the car in park but rather had her foot on the brake so when Amber awoke she began to drive away. Nessa chased after the car and in a daring act of heroism dove into the front seat and stopped the car.
Somehow we made it back to the Frey’s in one piece and drifted off into an alcohol induced sleep.
On Saturday, after a morning of sticky buns and working off the ill effects of the night before, we had lunch at Santos and sauntered about the square. It was apparent from the awkward stares and subtle glances people shot our way that our presence in their tiny Hill Country Shangri-la had been noted.
Saturday was also the day we fell in love on the side of Underwood Antiques. I saw them out of the corner of my eye as we bolted across 29. Their yellow textile facades had been weathered by time and now they had been left by the side of the road to fade into obscurity. Knowing articles of furniture, unlike dogs and humans do not go to Heaven but rather they end up in the landfill, I took it upon myself to save these two poor chairs. My altruism and Christian charity was soon rewarded by the gracious chairs when I plopped myself down into one of them.
After a minute or two of sitting there waving at the motorist passing by, Nessa pulled the car around and we took off with the chairs. Elated with our find, we dove back to the Frey Ranch, crawled into Amber’s bed, and watched Romeo and Juliet.
That night we had chicken ‘n dumplings for dinner and saw Pirates of the Caribbean at The Odeon. After the movie we dropped Hunter off at the house and did Loop Trip No. 2.
For some reason or another we decided to steal every sign on The Loop, and those that we couldn’t get away with were subjected to our boot kickin’ wrath. Conversation was often interrupted by, “OH LOOK SIGN,” at which point everyone would jump out of the car and do whatever was necessary to obtain the sign.
Some ways down the road, after destroying “Keep Gate Closed” and possibly getting tetanus, we ran into some Mason kids. We danced in the back of someone’s pickup, I downed a few more beers, and then after a while of sharing drunken stories and learnin’ that someone had kin in Leander, we hopped back in the Aztek and kept on with our course down The Loop. Past the wishing well we ran into Little Ashley who gave us chicken strips. After a brief exchange of words and being introduced to more Masonites, we continued on our course and neared the end of The Loop.
It was on the highway at the mouth of The Loop that I saw what I had been searching for all night, a mailbox. I ran across the street as fast I as could in a pair of boots and tried to do a high kick on the mailbox. In my drunkenness I hadn’t accounted for something -probably distance or height- and when I kicked I totally missed the mailbox and fell flat on my ass. With my ego bruised, I sprang to my feet and punched the mailbox. I quickly learned that picking fights with inanimate objects, especially made out of metal will often result in the trashing of a lifetime. Defeated, I pulled myself back into the Aztek and we made our way down the highway back towards Mason.
We attacked another mailbox on the way home as retribution for what one of his brethren had done but I gained no solace from the random act of violence.
As we made our return trip down 29 away from Mason, away from the Hill Country, back to the dreariness of the city, we all sat quietly reflecting on the events that took place during the weekend. Once again Amber was without a right side view mirror. Nessa gained insight on life in a small Texas town and I gained a plethora of new cuts, scrapes, and bruises.
We realised, as we frantically patted out the “bush fire” that Amber started on her crotch, that we had reached a new level of closeness in our friendship. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 6th, 2002|09:16 pm] |
Googlism for: brandon
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brandon is a superior and respectable athlete
brandon is not the smartest person on earth
brandon is a big history buff and loves airplanes and would like to be a pilot |
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