(no subject)
The hangover lasted all day.
I woke this morning and lay in bed. I never should have started to think those thoughts. So I raised myself and left the house. The snow had already begun to melt from the sun peering into the morning. I took off my hat and stood on the corner for a few minutes. There was a black man walking up the street. He had it right; he was walking in the street where there was no ice and you could actually move. The hangover wasn't so bad then, it was deciding what to do that was terribly difficult hurt so bad. Over the years I have learned how to cope with hangovers rather than not have them. But assuredly the hangover got really bad around age 27. I didn't learn to cope with them until just recently. But I don't drink as much nowadays. I was drinking every night when the hangovers were really bad. Every night. That lasted for quite some time. Quite some time. Anyhow, I got on the bus this morning and rode into town to go to look at some underwear and socks and tee-shirts. There was a tightly dressed man on the bus. He was just tightly dressed. Not that gay ass way of dressing where you wear intolerably tight clothing. Rather the man dressed tightly, meaning spiffy, but casual so that you could not say the man had dressed sharply. The man wore a mustache and sideburns, and the skin on his neck dressed the platisma of his physique with the collection of smooth bumps often noticeable only in fit men of their twenties. Men are still young in their twenties, young enough to have good-looking, smooth, young, tight skin, but certainly old enough to exhibit the reality of their manhood and the weathering that occurs in such creatures. He got off the bus.
There was a man shouting into the payphone at the Max stop by the convention center. "Don't bro me, bro. Don't bro me, nigga. I'm telling you the truth."
The train came and took us across the river. The city looked celestial in the light with the fog seeping into the valley from the forested hills. The immaculate surface of the river shone in the glass of slender buildings. Two boys were walking up the sidewalk made of red brick by the train, and on of the boys may have been nineteen. His fashion really impressed me. His other friend not so much. But the boy was, he was very impressive and I thought of stepping off the train and rushing across the tracks to tell the boy how beautiful he was, not because the boy was physically gorgeous, but his style, his fashion, his look had really impressed me. I would have told the fellow something like, "You are beautiful, and I am glad that I have had the opportunity to see you this morning." But you could tell he liked vagina, and that he liked to fight, or could fight, or would fight; and that's what made him so sexy: that he may have tried to fight me when I told him how beautiful he was. So I thought about the boy's look as the train rode along and how I could best describe the scene to someone later in the day.
But today was such a long day. I spent most of the day thoroughly horny. I got a hard-on twice just by listening to music. I joined the Oregon Historical Society. I read three newspapers. I thought about having sex with women, a few different girls in fact. I said hello to many women. I said hello... to women throughout the day. I smiled at them. Smiling at a woman is very important. Women are very sensitive, and they are always afraid, no matter what they say. And so the least a man can do is to smile genuinely at a woman at least so that she will know that everyone is equal. She won't think about the inequalities, and so she is less likely to be afraid. And if a woman believes that you believe that men and women are not equal in anyway deprecatingly toward the woman, the woman will do her best to prove you wrong. And women are quite instinctual beasts and are intuitive enough to listen to their instincts, and thusly, you are, if you are a man, more than likely, in great danger of being left alone; because in this case, a woman's instinct is to have nothing to do with you. And so I smiled many times today with these women, at these women, these girls, the beautiful creatures. And one by one, each smiled back. I thought to myself, I can do this. Not smile, of course.
Some men smile just because they know that they have an admirable smile and like to be looked at. Like, they like to like to be looked at, in that narcisistic manner of course, in the manner of being looked at for having a nice smile. And so they will smile and the sun will shine, and they'll be like, I like being looked at when I'm doing this. But smiling, honestly smiling at someone, especially women, feels good. Because you can smile at a woman, and she will hold you, and you can stand there all day just smiling. Because unless she's just a cunt, she'll let you smile. She'll enjoy it just as much as you. So, I thought, today, I can do this. I can smile at a woman. I can look at her and not be afraid.
So then later I went to the bookstore and then was going home but waited on some friends, so I stopped at a coffee hole and read the Times and ate an oatmeal-raisin cookie, and then a man came inside the coffee place and acted like he was deaf and mute and wanted me to do something but I said no or cast the man away, and the man got nothing when he hastled the other customers. Oh yes, and there was a young fellow who came in the coffee place while I had been in the bathroom. As I was leaving the toilet the chap rushed up to me by the door in hopes of catching the door before the door shut and locked. I said, "Here man," and held the key to the toilet. The boy siad, "Hey," as if I had said hello to the boy. He was very concerned. I showed him the key, and he rushed inside the bathroom. Outside he was with two friends. One friend was a gay, and the other friend was a straight girl. When the boy interacted with the straight girl and the gay, the gay guy got treated like the typical gay guy in a group of straight guys and girls. Like, "He's our friend, but he gay... And he gay because he do the things that cause a man to be looked at as a gay guy in front of non-gay men." So there was the gay and the girl and the guy. The guy acted all cool, but he wasn't that cool because he had been in such a rush at the bathroom when I was handing the boy the key, that I lost respect for him as a man worth any salt among men of a more realistic masculinity, a more hearty masculinity rather.
So then I made some phone calls and read some of the Times. No one returned my call, and I felt sleepy, so I decided to go home. To begin to go home.
On the way, outside of the burger place I saw a man sitting in a booth by the window watching porn on his computer. I was on the outside of the burger joint, and the man looking at porn was sitting in a booth inside the burger joint. I recorded the addict on my phone. I wanted so badly for him to look up during the filming. Instead, I got a phone call.
So I went down to the Ace Hotel. It's super swank, and one of the guys there was all art-snobbed-out, you know, like, PICA and wearing black-framed glasses for vision designed by a big name designer, and he was very smarmy I should say, perhaps, nice but smarmy. You know, someone who will act like someone else doesn't know anything because the guy who doesn't look as if he knows anything and talks like he's from the country and couldn't possibly know what the inside of a hotel room looked like. But we went upstairs to the room, and the Ace Hotel has a room with an uncomfortable sofa and a record player with some records in a wooden crate below the table. It's so American Apparel it makes me sick. It's so DBA and what's that chic's name from Brooklyn who sounds like MIA? She's black. Anyhow, it's so, drinking Spanish rose in the rooftop garden in Williamsburg circa summer 2006. Or would that be two thousand five, who knows anymore. It's fucking pinot noir is what it is and Portland is fucking up, Oregon.
But Tish Tash gave me a rde home, and we talked mad shit on the way. Names. Maiden names.
Then Leto and I walked down to Jack In The Box, and girl the inside was like, "We closed." I still ain't ever heard a real brotha refer to himself as African-American, and really the term is bullshit, because if anything black people know in this country is that they're black. Anything a black person has ever received in this country from the state is because he's black. African ain't got anything to do with it. If you're from Africa, you're what's called an immigrant. That's a whole nother government bureau.
I love you all.
Stay warm, fed and rested.
cb
I woke this morning and lay in bed. I never should have started to think those thoughts. So I raised myself and left the house. The snow had already begun to melt from the sun peering into the morning. I took off my hat and stood on the corner for a few minutes. There was a black man walking up the street. He had it right; he was walking in the street where there was no ice and you could actually move. The hangover wasn't so bad then, it was deciding what to do that was terribly difficult hurt so bad. Over the years I have learned how to cope with hangovers rather than not have them. But assuredly the hangover got really bad around age 27. I didn't learn to cope with them until just recently. But I don't drink as much nowadays. I was drinking every night when the hangovers were really bad. Every night. That lasted for quite some time. Quite some time. Anyhow, I got on the bus this morning and rode into town to go to look at some underwear and socks and tee-shirts. There was a tightly dressed man on the bus. He was just tightly dressed. Not that gay ass way of dressing where you wear intolerably tight clothing. Rather the man dressed tightly, meaning spiffy, but casual so that you could not say the man had dressed sharply. The man wore a mustache and sideburns, and the skin on his neck dressed the platisma of his physique with the collection of smooth bumps often noticeable only in fit men of their twenties. Men are still young in their twenties, young enough to have good-looking, smooth, young, tight skin, but certainly old enough to exhibit the reality of their manhood and the weathering that occurs in such creatures. He got off the bus.
There was a man shouting into the payphone at the Max stop by the convention center. "Don't bro me, bro. Don't bro me, nigga. I'm telling you the truth."
The train came and took us across the river. The city looked celestial in the light with the fog seeping into the valley from the forested hills. The immaculate surface of the river shone in the glass of slender buildings. Two boys were walking up the sidewalk made of red brick by the train, and on of the boys may have been nineteen. His fashion really impressed me. His other friend not so much. But the boy was, he was very impressive and I thought of stepping off the train and rushing across the tracks to tell the boy how beautiful he was, not because the boy was physically gorgeous, but his style, his fashion, his look had really impressed me. I would have told the fellow something like, "You are beautiful, and I am glad that I have had the opportunity to see you this morning." But you could tell he liked vagina, and that he liked to fight, or could fight, or would fight; and that's what made him so sexy: that he may have tried to fight me when I told him how beautiful he was. So I thought about the boy's look as the train rode along and how I could best describe the scene to someone later in the day.
But today was such a long day. I spent most of the day thoroughly horny. I got a hard-on twice just by listening to music. I joined the Oregon Historical Society. I read three newspapers. I thought about having sex with women, a few different girls in fact. I said hello to many women. I said hello... to women throughout the day. I smiled at them. Smiling at a woman is very important. Women are very sensitive, and they are always afraid, no matter what they say. And so the least a man can do is to smile genuinely at a woman at least so that she will know that everyone is equal. She won't think about the inequalities, and so she is less likely to be afraid. And if a woman believes that you believe that men and women are not equal in anyway deprecatingly toward the woman, the woman will do her best to prove you wrong. And women are quite instinctual beasts and are intuitive enough to listen to their instincts, and thusly, you are, if you are a man, more than likely, in great danger of being left alone; because in this case, a woman's instinct is to have nothing to do with you. And so I smiled many times today with these women, at these women, these girls, the beautiful creatures. And one by one, each smiled back. I thought to myself, I can do this. Not smile, of course.
Some men smile just because they know that they have an admirable smile and like to be looked at. Like, they like to like to be looked at, in that narcisistic manner of course, in the manner of being looked at for having a nice smile. And so they will smile and the sun will shine, and they'll be like, I like being looked at when I'm doing this. But smiling, honestly smiling at someone, especially women, feels good. Because you can smile at a woman, and she will hold you, and you can stand there all day just smiling. Because unless she's just a cunt, she'll let you smile. She'll enjoy it just as much as you. So, I thought, today, I can do this. I can smile at a woman. I can look at her and not be afraid.
So then later I went to the bookstore and then was going home but waited on some friends, so I stopped at a coffee hole and read the Times and ate an oatmeal-raisin cookie, and then a man came inside the coffee place and acted like he was deaf and mute and wanted me to do something but I said no or cast the man away, and the man got nothing when he hastled the other customers. Oh yes, and there was a young fellow who came in the coffee place while I had been in the bathroom. As I was leaving the toilet the chap rushed up to me by the door in hopes of catching the door before the door shut and locked. I said, "Here man," and held the key to the toilet. The boy siad, "Hey," as if I had said hello to the boy. He was very concerned. I showed him the key, and he rushed inside the bathroom. Outside he was with two friends. One friend was a gay, and the other friend was a straight girl. When the boy interacted with the straight girl and the gay, the gay guy got treated like the typical gay guy in a group of straight guys and girls. Like, "He's our friend, but he gay... And he gay because he do the things that cause a man to be looked at as a gay guy in front of non-gay men." So there was the gay and the girl and the guy. The guy acted all cool, but he wasn't that cool because he had been in such a rush at the bathroom when I was handing the boy the key, that I lost respect for him as a man worth any salt among men of a more realistic masculinity, a more hearty masculinity rather.
So then I made some phone calls and read some of the Times. No one returned my call, and I felt sleepy, so I decided to go home. To begin to go home.
On the way, outside of the burger place I saw a man sitting in a booth by the window watching porn on his computer. I was on the outside of the burger joint, and the man looking at porn was sitting in a booth inside the burger joint. I recorded the addict on my phone. I wanted so badly for him to look up during the filming. Instead, I got a phone call.
So I went down to the Ace Hotel. It's super swank, and one of the guys there was all art-snobbed-out, you know, like, PICA and wearing black-framed glasses for vision designed by a big name designer, and he was very smarmy I should say, perhaps, nice but smarmy. You know, someone who will act like someone else doesn't know anything because the guy who doesn't look as if he knows anything and talks like he's from the country and couldn't possibly know what the inside of a hotel room looked like. But we went upstairs to the room, and the Ace Hotel has a room with an uncomfortable sofa and a record player with some records in a wooden crate below the table. It's so American Apparel it makes me sick. It's so DBA and what's that chic's name from Brooklyn who sounds like MIA? She's black. Anyhow, it's so, drinking Spanish rose in the rooftop garden in Williamsburg circa summer 2006. Or would that be two thousand five, who knows anymore. It's fucking pinot noir is what it is and Portland is fucking up, Oregon.
But Tish Tash gave me a rde home, and we talked mad shit on the way. Names. Maiden names.
Then Leto and I walked down to Jack In The Box, and girl the inside was like, "We closed." I still ain't ever heard a real brotha refer to himself as African-American, and really the term is bullshit, because if anything black people know in this country is that they're black. Anything a black person has ever received in this country from the state is because he's black. African ain't got anything to do with it. If you're from Africa, you're what's called an immigrant. That's a whole nother government bureau.
I love you all.
Stay warm, fed and rested.
cb