Hey there… it is… well, it’s Tuesday now, but I doubt I’ll release this on a Tuesday. Because I never release a blog on the same day I write it. Just not my forte. Gotta re-read, edit, cast a incantation to summon the ghost of mediocre writing, and all that other jazz.
I’m currently in San Francisco, on a spontaneous trip prompted only by a shooting spree, that turned out being a pretty weak shooting spree, by shooting spree standards. A little after lunch today, a woman walked into the YouTube campus (since working at YouTube is like going to college, apparently), and just started shooting people. Nobody really knows why yet, but the fact that she’s a woman makes this case unique.
While the news was breaking, we were getting all sorts of conflicting reports in the media: the shooter was wearing full body armor, it was a guy, it was a girl, it was domestic related… the big one was that someone listening to the police scanner heard that there were 37 people injured. And that’s when we got sent to San Francisco to cover the story. But right before we got on the plane to fly out of LA, we got a police report saying that there were only 4 injuries, and nobody had been shot and killed except the shooter, who took her life. Whoops.
When we got to San Bruno, California, there wasn’t even a media staging area set up by the police, which is something you see at all major scenes of crime or incident. There had been, but not anymore. The public had lost interest already. So it was kind of a bust of a story, but at least I’m here in the hotel writing this blog now.
The blog that nobody reads because…
All of my fans are illiterate.
It’s either that, or my writing isn’t that great. Or, I just don’t market my shit well enough. I think I’ve come to realize that sharing a weekly story on Facebook isn’t the best way to get your writing out to the world. But I don’t really have the energy to be sharing shit on Twitter or Grindr or whatever the kids are using these days.
The plan for the moment is actually to quit Facebook in the very near future. I’m over it. The #Deletefacebook movement is going strong, and there’s never been a better time to withdraw from this colossal time waster of a website. Even as an occasional, and I’d like to believe, pretty detached user, I think the platform has gotten to a point where the bad far outweighs the good. What’s kept me going this far is that I’ve lived in a few different places around the world, and my international fan base—excuse me—friend base, remain connected with me only through Facebook.
But, well, fuck ’em. I can make new friends. Probably.
And then there are other little things that I’d miss out on, like the world’s hottest way to meet people, Tinder… which, let me be honest with you, has led me to meet exactly ZERO people in the past few weeks I’ve been using it. I have but one mission on that front as well: to go on a single Tinder date. That’s right, I’ve yet to meet anyone for coffee, sex, aerobics class, an orgy, a gay orgy, a farm animal orgy, or whatever other options I have available to me through this app. I mean, I don’t know what they do. I’m just guessing. But I’d like to say that I’ve been one one Tinder date in my life. I think I’m doing it wrong though. Well, for now, the quest continues.
The important thing that I do before I quit Facebook is, share with the world my ultimate, greatest story I’ve ever lived—well, survived—to tell about. The story, which I will post here on this blog, is my mother fucking magnum opus.
A story 5 years in the making… of the telling. Since it happened in 2012. And yes, I’m just getting around to it now. I mean, the pressure to tell this story was too high. Plus, I needed to let the statute of limitations run out. And uh, it’s pretty long. Okay; it’s long as fuck.
It’s the Thailand story, for those of you in the know. No, not the magic mushrooms in the jungle story. And no, not the ladyboy love-session either. The other one. And if you still don’t know what I’m talking about, well prepare to have your socks blown off.
I’m projecting that I’ll have this story out within the next couple of months. While I still have an apartment to myself to write it in.
I’m supposed to move out of my place on June 1st. I’ve been pretty torn about moving, because the place is pretty nice. It’s in LA’s Palms neighborhood, which is a good area on the Westside of the city. It’s a short walk, and an even shorter train ride right to work. And most importantly, I can scream and blast beats and the neighbors don’t complain. That’s partially because the neighbor upstairs is handicapped and probably couldn’t yell at me if she wanted. Oh, and the couch that I have here is really tits, and people love to come over and sleep on it.
Despite all of that, I don’t think that staying here is a good option.
For virtually all of my adult life, I’ve never lived in one place for longer than a year. At one time that meant living in a different country every year, but seeing as I’m happy in LA and I like my job, I’m going to remain in the city. But the rent is pretty pricey, which I can afford, but I can’t save money while I live here. Originally when I moved in there were two of us, and now there’s one. And that’s the other thing. I had a lady when I moved in, and now she’s gone. I feel like the place just invokes the memories of our relationship, and that I need to just wipe it all into a clean slate and start over.
I have felt a bit lonely at times in the house, which, after my breakup, I had assumed was attributed to the unfamiliarity of being single again. But then it hit me: it wasn’t the fact that I didn’t have a girlfriend, it was the fact that I didn’t have a roommate.
For me, having a roommate is a vital part of a living situation. Having someone that you can walk into the living room and play video games with at 3 in the morning, or someone who you can sip a Sunday morning beer with is just the pinnacle of the living experience. I love having roommates. I love having company. And so I think that at my next place I’m going to need a roommate or two. Some might consider that a step backwards, having a spot to yourself and then “regressing” to where you need to share a place, but to me, it’s a step up. Of course, you need good chemistry with the person, and if I can’t find a friend to live with, I may take my first stab at living with some random weirdo from Craigslist. But how bad could it be? They couldn’t be much weirder than me, could they?
I have found solace in my solitude by getting back into reading again. The best book I read recently was called Ready Player One, which—hey, are books supposed to be underlined?—was just turned into a movie by Steven Spielburgers. The book gripped me and caused me to feel a sense of wonder that I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager. In fact, throughout my efforts to get back into reading, I’ve found one strategy that worked, and that’s to read exclusively teenager/young adult books. Shit, I’ve read some kids books too, like Goosebumps, and one book called Judy Moody (which was all in Spanish, thankyouverymuch), because I think books written for a young minder are more imaginative and magical than adult ones. Also, let’s be honest, who the fuck has time to read a 400 page book written in size 8 font? Not this guy.
Oh and in case you are wondering if the movie Ready Player One is good… bitch, it’s Steven Spielberg. The same guy who brought you “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom”. The movie where they eat monkey brains and live baby snakes that they slice out of a dead giant mama snake. And lest I mention the guy who gets his beating heart ripped out in a cultish fire ritual. Oh my god I’m gonna go watch that movie right now.
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