March 27, 2017:
People smoke in these fucking places. They're ancient, stooped, they can't walk, they're in wheelchairs, they're pulling oxygen tanks with wheels. Their eyes are glued to dayglo video screens, they're pumping quarters obsessively. They can't breathe, they can't walk, they haven't climbed a flight of stairs in forty years. They're Death's Ancient Angels and they're not insightful enough to know it.
It's interesting that these are the Americans who so hated hippies for their drugs and psychedelics. Now here they are high on nicotine, zoned on glow-in-the-dark. It's an ersatz psychedelia for right-wing geriatrics, and unlike the hippies' idealism it's deliberately manipulative, to keep them pumping quarters with no sense of the passage of time.
The hostesses are underage and bored. The bar tenders don't smile. The concierge is unfriendly, the people frown and smoke and are dying.
How much of America is this?
March 26, 2017:
Miss Teenage Alabama parades beneath artificial thunder. Her chaperone holds one arm, her sash is faultless, her posture is perfect, her crown looks ridiculous. She's empty, a hollow cliché, and the entire mise-en-scène pisses me off, from the painted sky ceiling to the lost-looking crowds to the false gold filigree on her false gold crown. "Nice tits," I tell her in passing, purely to blow their false cool. It does.
The mall is claustrophobic, there's a false pond beneath the false sky funneling narrow streams of actual humans to either side, jostling. The people are either obese or dressed like hookers; absolutely no-one looks happy.
My hotel has no other exit to the city: you're forced through the mall, and the cynicism of that transparent calculation is offensive. It has no restaurant, the bar is half-stocked, and the snack shop carries only Pepsi products. It's 59 floors of mediocre suites intended to impress country bumpkins; when you look closely the furnishings are cheap motel-quality crap.
This is America, these are Americans, and the fact that the world is on fire is not relevant here. The air-conditioning pushes all distressing thoughts far, far away.
March 25, 2017:
Butterfly handlebars and Laszlo Kovacs.
You’re getting a little distance, man.
Getting a little distance.
- March 24, 2017: Punisher.
- March 23, 2017: Old school IT.
- March 22, 2017: Drunk.
- March 21, 2017: In the future in the desert in the scorching afternoon...
- March 20, 2017: Books.
- March 19, 2017: "COGITO ERGO SUM",
- March 18, 2017: She breaks, or loses...
- March 17, 2017: Rough pink tongue, a goodbye kiss.
- March 16, 2017: Missus 17A wants to shove my computer bag...
- March 15, 2017: Boy was he wrong.
- March 14, 2017: "Hey manspread,"
- March 13, 2017: "Welcome to the fun bus!",
- March 12, 2017: Hefty belly, earbuds, scragglebeard...
- March 11, 2017: one time during a hookup...
- March 10, 2017: Play with my hair and feed me strawberries.
- March 9, 2017: I am a drag queen and I'm hotter than your girlfriend.
- March 8, 2017: My swiping depends on how mad I am at my parents.
- March 7, 2017: Male pattern dadbelly manspread and slumped:
- March 6, 2017: Slouchy blonde is checking me out.
- March 5, 2017: The perfect blonde.
- March 4, 2017: Warren Peace, all smiles...
- March 3, 2017: Night, mad stars...
- March 2, 2017: Suddenly quiet —
- March 1, 2017: In the kitchen closet:
- February 28, 2017: At first he spent his schooldays alone...
- February 27, 2017: She bought me a Schwinn, a Stingray...
- February 26, 2017: I was anxious, she was drunk, and she irritated me.
- February 25, 2017: I took the bus to Sounion...
- February 24, 2017: Elves, Vikings, Barbies, princes and princesses.
- February 23, 2017: My friend is having a bad day.
- February 22, 2017: "You can do anything you want, but I'm going to do xyz."
- February 21, 2017: Dude on longboard exits terminal...
- February 20, 2017: She still has her girlishness.
- February 19, 2017: Desert town in the dry wash...
- February 18, 2017: In compensation, the view over the Sierras is spectacular.
- February 17, 2017: 11B reaches across my nose to slam the window up.
- February 16, 2017: Mister Salt and Pepper...
- February 15, 2017: Trapped by trays.
- February 14, 2017: Nightmare flight.
- February 13, 2017: Pink pinstripe blazer...
- February 12, 2017: Tubby Pink Hair finds life unutterably hilarious.
- February 11, 2017: Too much energy.
- February 10, 2017: I love sports, sarcasm, tattoos and my butt.
- February 9, 2017: Looking to be taken out, by a sniper or otherwise
- February 8, 2017: Can't stand people who chew and talk loud...
- February 7, 2017: Parlez vous Francais? I don't
- February 6, 2017: Beer. Books. America.
- February 5, 2017: Your dad and I matched.
- February 4, 2017: Useless with a bad personality.
- February 3, 2017: It wasn't entirely her fault.
- February 2, 2017: tip: any line involving "sit on my face"...
- February 1, 2017: I'm probably fucking your dad