RSS
- Long Beach and cowboy boots do not mix well. Flip-flops either, in the part that I live. #
- Happy Not Quite Important Country Day. Happy USA Lite Day. Happy Off-white Paint of the North American Continent Day. Happy Canada Day. #
- Watching Buffalo 66 in my room by myself using headphones and not on drugs. #
Twitter Updates for 2009-07-02
July 2nd, 2009 · Personal
Most Commented Posts
Why I Hella Moved To SoCal And Shit
June 30th, 2009 · Uncategorized
I used to think I was overly sentimental. Then I looked up sentimental. Then I looked up nostalgic. Then I realized I was not overly sentimental. Then I realized I was overly nostalgic.
Like during the past week. I was overly nostalgic about moving out of Northern California. Or maybe it was appropriately nostalgic. I don’t know. I was even feeling nostalgic for the peninsula, a place I never liked. But, suddenly I realized I had done pretty much everything a man could ask for there.
Goodbye parking lot where I got a blowjob from a 19 year old.
Goodbye BJ’s restaurant that I got kicked out of for barfing in.
Goodbye apartment complex of woman seven years my senior that I had an affair with.
Anyways, two days ago I packed up in San Mateo. Then I drove down to Long Beach. Then I moved in.
People ask me why I moved to Southern California. I tell them, “Because there are more writing opportunities there.” But actually that is not the answer. That is a rationalization that can be compacted into a 30 second conversational opener. And these days usually the conversational opener serves as the conversational closer. People are so busy doing important things like not jumping off a bridge after losing 60% of their personal assets.
But the real answer I just like it here. And I feel like I fit in better.
But if I say that, then people want to know what I like about it and why I fit in better and I don’t really have a concrete answer. But maybe I can answer you. Maybe I can show you. And maybe that’s what this blog is for.
But part of it is ego. I have one. I admit it. Most of my humor is making fun of my ego. I’m not proud of my ego, but I just try to work with it. In Northern California they say that people down here have huge egos, and maybe they’re right. The thing is though, down here that’s considered OK. It’s OK to be into yourself and think you are great. People are more up front about their ego. In Northern California people have huge egos too, but they pretend like they don’t have one at all. It’s funny. They pretend like they are in a state of selfless bliss driving their Toyota Prius from a compost bin to a fair-trade purchase. The epicenter of that attitude is San Francisco.
And that’s part of the reason I moved down here.
Related Posts
Just When You Thought You Didn’t Know What To Expect, You Were Right
June 24th, 2009 · Memoirs
I AM NOT SURE WHAT I WAS THINKING EXACTLY
I took out my nine millimeter. This was at one point during the past six months.
I took out my nine millimeter. It had an empty clip in it. That’s the way I keep it. But I took that empty clip out. Well first I clicked the release. Then I slid the empty clip out. Metal on metal filled my bedroom.
I was seated at my desk. It was the middle of the day. I had been writing about being fired. My used-to-be workbook was open to the last entry. September 15, 2008. Such an innocent sounding date. The book contained an incomplete things to do list.
There is another clip that I have. It has eight rounds in it. That is the way I keep it. I slid in that loaded clip. Metal on metal. It was the middle of the day. Then I pulled back on the slide to chamber the first round.
I saw that top bullet. It was golden. Then I let go of the slide and sat there with a loaded gun in my hand. My right index finger was on the trigger guard. But I took it off of the trigger guard. It was the middle of the day.
I looked again at the open notebook at my desk.
I was writing about the day that I was fired. Or I had been. Now my right index finger was inches away from destruction. Or less than inches.
I looked at my screen. I could write. Or I could not do that. That was my entire world. My finger was inches away from destruction. Or less than inches.
But then I dragged my left hand through the air to the clip release, and pressed it. I slid those seven rounds out. I exhaled. I gripped the slide. I pulled it back. In the light of the middle of the day that golden bullet fell through the air. That golden bullet bounced off the carpet.
I am not sure what I was thinking exactly.
I put my nine millimeter away. Then I put my hands on the keyboard.
ANNOUNCEMENTS
Anyways, I have some announcements to make.
* At the Junior College I took writing classes at I won third place in a short story writing contest. This was a few months ago.
* I reworked that third place story and submitted it to a periodical. It’s been more than two weeks and I have not been rejected yet — a new record.
* I received an offer to teach English in Japan starting April. As I was aiming for September, at first I wasn’t sure how to fill my time. But no longer.
* On Sunday I will move to Southern California. To Long Beach. I decided about a week ago. I will stay in Long Beach until around April. I will write more about why I am moving and what my plans are in a future blog post.
* Incidentally, I will blog more since I have a theme to write about again: Living in Long beach at the edge of the ghetto for $500 per month including all utilities, trying to find a job working part-time as an engineer, trying to find a group of filmmakers to work with, volunteering at a local boys and girls club, taking screenwriting classes, and writing memoirs.
* That thing I blogged on April 1st about having a son was an April Fools joke. I still get asked about it, which is quite flattering. However for the record again, it was just a joke.
Right now I am in Mountain View. It is sunny. It feels strange to know that in one week I will live more than 400 miles away.
Oh, and I need to urinate.
Most Commented Posts
There
May 29th, 2009 · Memoirs
When you were young, people held you. All of you. Me too. It’s kind of funny when you think of it.
I stayed in Stockton the night before last. Prior to that I went to Southern California.
You think you know how this blog entry is going to go.
OFFICIAL HYPOTHETICAL BLOG ENTRY OUTLINE, HOW YOU THINK IT IS GOING TO GO
- On Tuesday night I took care of a drunk chick. Of former romantic involvement, of course. She called from a bar and then I met her there. Then she stumbled around. I stepped on people’s feet trying to hold her up. Then she barfed a bunch of times. Then her friends coerced me into giving her a ride home since they didn’t want to deal with her. Then she offered to sleep with me but I turned her down. I experienced having standards for five minutes.
- Attempted to help another girl move — also of former romantic involvement — who was completely ungrateful. I was late to show up with my truck. That’s what she said, I mean. That’s why she was ungrateful. Oh and I didn’t give her enough attention. That’s not what she said, I mean. I just know it. Oh, and then she talked trash about me online and behind my back. Her complaint: I wanted too much attention.
- Blah blah blah.
- And stuff.
- Oh and the entire time I looked good, of course. Both from a distance, and up close.
THIS CONCLUDES THE OFFICIAL HYPOTHETICAL BLOG ENTRY OUTLINE, HOW YOU THINK IT IS GOING TO GO
But that is not how it is going to go. I am only going to write about Stockton.
I stayed in Stockton the night before last.
When we were young, people held us. All of us.
Last night I talked to someone like that. He held me when I was one years old. He told me so.
His name is Pablo. He’s in his 50s, and he is my mom’s best friend’s husband.
When I was one years old, Pablo held me and he was a jeweler. He was a jeweler until the 1990s. Then he began making grape vine trellises. Sales were strong. He could have retired, but instead he decided to start a new business. And this time, it was a wine company.
And it went well. Soon it was time to sell. One of the company’s rivals had sold itself for millions. But then Pablo got entrenched in a lawsuit with his business partner. And Pablo won. But by then the economy had tanked. Sales had flattened, and the ideal time to sell had passed.
When I arrived in Stockton on Wednesday Pablo and I sat on the couch. It was around midnight and we watched television.
“My mother has Alzheimer’s real bad. She follows us around all damn day and announces the time,” he said. “Over and over.”
“I just sold my wine business yesterday. It’s all gone. I keep thinking about it and it’s driving me nuts,” he said.
“We lost $1.78 million dollars. I’m 56. After all that hard work,” he said.
“A few months ago I was so stressed out, I could only sleep around one hour a day. And I wanted to check out,” he said.
He wanted to blow his head off. That’s how bad it was.
And that’s how bad it is out there, for many people. Due to the economy, and for other reasons. It’s horrible when you consider it.
We stayed up until around 4 a.m. We discussed a few business ideas.
Then the next day we did more of the same.
Then I left.
He felt better after my visit. I knew it. I had merely talked to him. I had merely checked in.
We need to be acknowledged on some level. All of us.
So go do that.
After I got home I sent Pablo some books.
Most Commented Posts
Retreat
May 15th, 2009 · Personal
It’s time to try something different.
I sometimes go a little bit overboard.
That’s ok to do say, once a week. The past few months though, I’ve been getting drunk and and high a lot. Weekends, weekdays, whatever. And the New Orleans/Las Vegas trip was the apex of that.
Actually, I have gotten stuck within a variety of cyclical and addictive behaviors. And I want to get out of them.
So, I’ve become sort of reclusive. I need a break. And I would like to get some things finished. I will write about my trip to New Orleans, but not on here. I’ll spend sometime offline writing it. The memoir will be entitled
Frying Leftover Lasagna at 60 MPH and Other Not So Good Ideas Like That.
It will be more self-contained than say, a blog entry. I will assume that whoever reads it knows nothing about me.
Then I’ll submit the memoir for publication. Become famous. Snort coke. Start the whole process all over again.
But I’ll at least take a break from all that for now. Actually I have already been taking a break from all that this week. It feels good, like emerging from a frustrating dream.
And you can still follow me on twitter: http://twitter.com/shobogenzo.
Most Commented Posts
For All You Procrastinators Out There
May 14th, 2009 · Humor
Below are pictures of the “Mother’s Day card” I gave to my mom.
I didn’t get back from Vegas until late last Sunday night. On Monday I couldn’t find a Mother’s Day card for sale anywhere.
My poor mom actually thought it was hilarious.
Most Commented Posts
I Like Twitter. I Admit It. And I’m Going To New Orleans And Shit.
April 27th, 2009 · Travel
Someday I will post a list. It will be called Things Increasingly Vogue To Hate That I Don’t. Toward the top of that list — containing Britney Spears, light beer and Christian people — will be twitter.
Twitter.
I originally read about it in the Economist. I checked it out. I thought it was cool. I started to use it. But at that point I didn’t know anyone else that used it, which was weak. So I didn’t use it much. Plus any time I told any of my friends about it they’d say something like:
WHAT? WHY THE FUCK WOULD I NEED YET ANOTHER FUCKING THING LIKE THAT IN MY LIFE?
Like what?
LIKE THAT! POINTLESS TECHNOLOGICAL SHIT!
Oh. Well, I don’t know. I think the idea is kind of cool. I can for example set it up so that it will text me when my friends update their status.
FUCK THAT! I’M NOT A BIG FAN OF “I JUST FARTED” TECHNOLOGY!
Oh. Alright.
And now it’s quickly becoming stylish to hate twitter. And to say that twitter is pointless.
But I don’t hate twitter. I don’t think it’s pointless.
Look: I am a rational man. Using series of logical statements, I will prove that there is a point to the existence of twitter.
Observe the following four not quite noble truths. Uh. Of twitter.
- People are either geniuses at writing interesting things using no more than 140 characters, or they are not geniuses at that.
See? Either they are or they aren’t. One or the other. I told you this would be logical. - Twitter is the perfect venue for concise geniuses.
Sometimes I enjoy merely reading my friend’s opinions.
“mcvixx: the wrestler is a very very good movie”
Other times my friends crack me the eff up.
“mcvixx: i just spilled hot pizza toppings all over my chest… and i TOOK THAT SHIT just like the wrestler would”
“mcvixx: i hate myself as much as the wrestler hates himself”
“mcvixx: just died on purpose”
“mcvixx: bye” - Many people are not geniuses at using only 140 characters.
There are those with extremely verbose communication styles. They rarely get to the point of whatever the fuck they are trying to say. And usually when they do get to the point, we promptly realize that both the point and the style of communication sucked.
Most people in this category hate twitter. They feel restricted by the 140 character limit. So, they don’t use twitter.That’s fine with me. But out of the few in this category that do use twitter, at least now we are only exposed to 140 characters of their indirect, nebulous verbiage at a given time. - Mobile updates are good.
With twitter I can turn on mobile updates so that my friend’s status will be texted to me. And that’s good. Wait. I already said that. Oh but I also like that I can text in twitter updates. And I like texting. I admit it. Twitter is among other things, a way to text a bunch of people at once. Which is actually my point.
But first, an exclusive report.
BOWMAN EXCLUSIVE REPORT
I’m going to New Orleans and shit. In a Winnebago. With David Braheney.
Planned stops along the way include The Grand Canyon, Austin, Texas and a few other places I’ve never been.
Obviously, I’m pumped.
We’re leaving in a few hours.
THIS CONCLUDES THE BOWMAN EXCLUSIVE REPORT
Anyways, I will be gone for approximately two weeks. During that time I will have limited internet access, and posting to ifitfeelsgooddoit.com might be difficult.
Or maybe it won’t be. Whatever. Who cares. The point is that if you head on over to my twitter page you will have access to updates regarding my trip and stuff. As I said I will be able update using my cell phone, from anywhere.
Most Commented Posts
Women
April 27th, 2009 · Memoirs, Penetrating Insight
The rendezvous began with hot, passionate sex. Or at least it was hot. Like, the air conditioner didn’t work or something. I think it was passionate sex. I’m a guy so there really is not much difference between passionate sex, dispassionate sex, healthy sex, good sex, unhealthy sex, bad sex, dirty sex, clean sex, raunchy sex, or puritanical sex.
Just kidding.
I’m a sensitive guy. I write poetry and shit.
So, I can say with quiet confidence that the rendezvous be began with hot, passionate sex.
Life has its ups and downs. Hot, passionate sex at the beginning of a rendezvous is certainly in the “ups” category.
But I digress. From something.
A few weeks ago my sweet sweet ex ex girlfriend called me up.
“Hey. How’s your womanizer lifestyle going?”
That’s how she started the conversation.
Incidentally, my sweet sweet ex ex girlfriend is not always so sweet these days. She can’t decide if she loves me or hates me and gets offended at the slightest transgressions. In her defense, she formerly used me for both my body and my money, and now I live 400 miles away and ain’t got no job. She’s like, disoriented.
“Hey. How’s your womanizer lifestyle going?”
“Uh. What? I’m not a womanizer.”
And I’m not. At least not on purpose.
The following three categories that women place guys into have been well-documented.
- Marry him. Or at least have some sort of long-term relationship with him.
- Sleep with him a few times.
- Friend him!
Which category do you think I am usually placed in? If you said, “No woman in their right mind would put you in the first one,” then… then… then what? I don’t know what. Oh, then I have no evidence to support a counter-argument.
Actually, women consistently want to be my friend. And that’s cool, I guess. A lot of times they want to hear wild and crazy stories about other women. Or they just want to talk. And like I said that’s cool. I like to talk too.
But, usually women just want to sleep with me a few times. Or a lot of times.
Now I know some of you are thinking.
“Shut the fuck up. Quit bragging.”
I swear I’m not bragging. I’m actually sort of like, complaining.
“Complaining? What the fuck? I wish I had those kind of problems.”
Well. Maybe you do maybe you don’t. It’s like when you’re a kid and someone tells you when you get older your possessions end up possessing you. Since you own merely a few video games and one book you have a difficult time envisioning such a radically different state of existence. But then one day your grandfather gives you a boat and you have to pay hella money to store it somewhere and you go to that storage place and you work on it and your girlfriend dumps you out of frustration from you spending so much time and money on something besides her and then you have to move and try to sell the boat but no one will buy it so as a last resort you try to donate it but no one wants it even as a donation so then you call up a junkyard and they say you need to pay a few hundred dollars to dispose of it. Your boat owns you. If it could talk it would say “PWNED! MOTHERFUCKER!”
That’s just like, a hypothetical example.
More on this subject later.
Most Commented Posts
There are many songs about Jumping.
April 24th, 2009 · UTI
And someone called Sarah.
Most Commented Posts
To Build a Fire
April 24th, 2009 · Memoirs
Since moving out, I have not visited the house that I grew up in often. The house in Benicia, I mean. The house in the hills, I mean.
If I did visit, usually I would not sleep over. I hated spending the night. I felt sad.
But last Christmas when I came to visit, something funny happened. I slept in a sleeping bag on the floor of the living room. I slept next to the fireplace with a fire going. I found that I liked it there. The living room on the floor. It was alright.
Now I visit once per week. I’ve been doing that since the beginning of 2009. And I sleep downstairs.
I could be upstairs in my old room. I could sleep in a bed there. But I am better off on the living room floor next to the fire. It’s warm. And I feel okay.
