1. Monday, February 24, 2003

    it’s raining here in malibu 

    so i let the dogs in, turned off the dss that keeps cutting in and out, and popped in a tape of the sopranos from the second season.

    its the one where christafah has that strange sausage dream.

    it might even be the first season cuz tony’s mom is still on there and the kids look pretty young.

    people laugh at me for having crap in my wood pile, but who’s laughing now? i have two old chairs crackling in the fire right now, a new string of christmas lights over the hearth, and a toasty little den where im writing you as the dogs growl at shadows unaccustomed to being in the house at this hour. and all i can think of is you.

    things have changed a lot since i first met you. the saddest being that instead of chasing my rum shots with coke, i now see diet pepsi bottles around instead of that familiar red logo. ive sold out in ways id never imagined.

    this very nice lady was asking me the other day about taking acid and why she’s never done it and one of the reasons was because she was afraid of flashbacks.

    sometimes i get flashbacks about you.

    they dont tell you when youre little that true love will haunt you and follow you around years after its gone. not just trippy little trails of a magical time, but full on bursts of feelings that release the endorphins and trigger the synapses and spin the wheels of madame lady luck that line up jackpot, jackpot, jackpot.


    but i havent even been in love for so long.


    but im just walking through the woods with the neighbor lady doing nothing but moshing around in the mud with our boots on squishing in the puddles.


    who goes there? noone. no really, who the fuck goes there? no one. seriously come out come out.

    listen to those waves. watch those shadows. crank up the beasties as we do donuts in the mud slicked zuma parkinglot laughing and nearly rolling her land rover with leather appointments and a moonroof that lets in just enough light thru the raindropped glass to give the interior the appearance of a discoball from a junior high sadie hawkins dance.


    just like with acid, weed will bring on the probability of a flashback of the heart. and just like with acid, im so alone without you.

    she calls me before i go to sleep and it’s nice to talk to someone on a night like this with a voice like hers with stories like yours and legs like in seventh grade when i first appreciated my first sports illustrated bikini issue i just stared at those pictures and then at sears catalogues and jcpenny’s and high school sitting on the bench of the basketball team watching the cheerleaders trying to figure out the mystery, all that porn, all those girlfriends, all the college girls, trade show girls, dot com girls, post dot com girls, and now blogger babes. youd think after 109 years i wouldnt be as fascinated any more but in some ways its worse.

    they sit on their pulpit and preach against booze and gambling and things that will alter your mind and theres nothing worse than a pretty girl to make you question your beliefs. nothing like a hottie to make you flinch. nothing like sisters to turn you into some other asshole hundreds of times worse than you.

    nothing like brains to make you dumb.

    dawn olsen + chuck olsen + kate sullivan