The Story Of My Fucking Life


Posted by ilbebe on December 24, 2008

Here’s another story for you, this is happening to me right now. I’m listening to a mix that a friend gave me a few weeks ago at my youngest sister’s apartment in San Diego. Track eight is ‘Forget Domani’, as sung by Frank Sinatra. It came on, and I realized it was Sunday, so I turned the music up and stepped out for a smoke. This is the fun side of thumbing your nose at the old way of doing things. Singing and dancing and smoking cigarettes, falling over laughing and getting chest pains from the joyous feeling pouring out of yr heart like salmon up a fish ladder.

Two days ago, I stayed at my friend Adrianne’s grandfather’s house in Fullerton, a house he bought in the mid-fifties I think. I was taking a shower, and trying to come up for an apt analogy for the feeling you get the first time you go over to a friend’s house and find that they live in absolute squalor. This might not make sense to people whose parents kept a reasonably tidy household, but if you were raised to clean up after yourself, there is a wondrous feeling of fear and repulsion and jealousy the first time you go over to a friend’s house and see his grandmother smoking inside and ashing in her mashed potatoes, which she has no intention of letting go to waste. If you have been raised to think that the gas company sends you bills because they want you to pay them, it is fascinating to discover people who see them as ideal lining material for parrot cages, meant to be shit on by an animal and ignored.

I was thinking these thoughts because Adrianne repeatedly apologized for the condition of the house, to which I replied I have seen squalor and this is not it. I have seen people who slept with several of their favorite broken CD’s in bed with them as if to guide their dream journeys, lined up in order of date purchase by pure happenstance. I have seen a cat eating day-old macaroni and cheese out of a ninja turtle bowl left in front of the TV, which is at full volume tuned to some religious wingnut channel, or sometimes COPS. I have known several people whose bathtubs are out of service to overuse as an ice chest for both beer chilling and full-body bruise prevention purposes.

Some cat hair on the couch doesn’t mean shit to me. You’ll have to try harder to shock this cat.

Oh, the clock is wrong? It might actually get a rise out of me if it was depicted Jesus on the cross with red eyes and winged horses in the background, broken by an errant bottle of Newcastle meant for the TV after a lousy call by That Cocksucking Referee. Why are the refs always against us in these homes? Beware sports fans nearly as much as Jesus Freaks is something I have learned, stemming mainly from an incident where a midget threatened to go get his Piece after I cheered a field goal against the team he favored in a bar in Modesto, California. A midget with a gun over a college football game that was taking place in Alabama. How would they have explained that to my Mom?

Aye yay yaye. Driving I-Five makes you cuckoo.

I recommend the Fifteen.


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