1. Wednesday, May 18, 2005

    dear hot chick who keeps writing me 

    you really should have a blog.

    youre wasting good shit on a dude who lives very very far from you and is twice your age and wouldnt appreciate you, probably, no matter how many promises you keep.

    i will get to some of your questions but you ask too many for one week let alone one night and i have to wake up early (10a) tommorrow so i can go to the doctor before my insurance runs out. ive been healthy as a horse for years, my bee sting was cured by a fifty cent box of baking powder of which i used perhaps a halfpence.

    theres a doc on ifc about the z channel which was around before hbo here in southern california but for some reason i didnt have it and never heard of it even though i used to go art films in the eighties all the time with michele which speaks to your point about everything happening for a reason.

    michele was a great girl and i was the most innocent midwestern virgin youve ever met. even though we dated on and off for three years we never had sex until it was totally over for us and i was at ucsb. so for three years we saw gregorys girl and my life as a dog and the gods must be crazy and starstruck and my beautiful laundrette and sammy and rosie get laid and it seemed like every single movie that we went to was awesome.

    now. michele was like a goth hippie punk. when i was growing up in hangover park illinois i didnt know anything about goths let alone punks and who knew you could actually also be a hippie on top of it.

    i envisioned surfing, dating blonde girls who wore bikini tops 24/7 and maybe skateboarding when i wasnt working for a record label. how was i to know that i was going to learn poetry and journalism and kissing and movies and vegetarianism and malibu and the cure u2 bowie velvets dylan all from this ghost with black hair and ruby red overlipsticked blue eyed local.

    similarily no one writes like you. dont worry that you cant write like janet finch. dont worry that you cant write like hemingway. bukowski couldnt write like hemingway either but thats what the beer was for, so it didnt seem that much more uglier to buk while he was writing it.

    we are all dirty little fucked up snowflakes with less time to live lucky to fall on the eager tounge of tomorrow let alone today

    sparkle with every ragged corner you havent already chewed off

    highlight every twisted flaw and watch it add to your glimmer

    the problem we have with books we put down is that there isnt enough originality there isnt enough passion there isnt any magic there and i say there isnt any magic there because theres no friction theres no risk

    the risk for you is to not write like steinbeck

    the trick is to figure out why you werent born an old white man and why the lord made you you

    iron maiden figured it out and we’re grateful for it

    as did bella donna

    evel knievel

    and lemmy

    another thing to remember is that we’ll probably both be gigantic failures at all of this, however if the only true victory is a norton anthology or a pocket guide, then pretty much everyone is a failure and we know thats not true,

    plus how many norton anthologies do you actually read when yr not in college?

    similarily, how often do you go to the technorati top 100 to find a blog to read. never. so dont buy into the hype.

    think about all the great kisses youve had

    a girl like you has probably had so many youve forgotten about many of them

    hell ive never been a pretty girl and ive forgotten about lots

    for every great kiss youve had youre capable of turning a good line, and if you keep typing soon you’ll have so many good lines and then might forget the old quote, the more i practice the luckier i get.

    practice hitting publish.

    of course im getting “tested” tomorrow, you should get tested at least once a year even if you use the safest techniques known to latex.

    and no, i take pictures every day.

    xiaxue lives up to the hype + the la times BLOG links matt welch