Thursday, December 04, 2003

Matt came over to my place so I could tell him my story from last night while he ate a burrito. While he was here he tried to fix a lot of the pictures that had misfired on my blog.  A lot of them should be there now, where there was nothing before. 10:51:20 PM    comment []

Here's a me  and matt story: Back when I first dropped out of college we used to hang out a lot, doing not much of anything.  One time we went to one of his dad's low rent apartments for some reason after this lady had either been evicted or moved out.  We looked all through her personal possessions which were left behind and scattered about.  We found a polaroid picture of the lady who was very ugly.  Then we also found this device lying around called the venus butterly.  It was a little device for tickling a woman's clitoris.  I put the picture and the venus butterfly together in my mind and it created an unpleasant thought. For some reason that has stuck with me. 10:49:53 PM    comment []

What blog site would be complete without a picture of your friend dousing a sixty watt lightbulb with ketchup. 10:43:54 PM    comment []

pinktricity This is Linda's new tattoo.  It represents her new chick band, "pinktricity."  Linda is the bass player. They're doing pretty good for a band just a couple weeks old.  They played the packed warehouse party that I blogged about a few nights ago, and this new year's eve, they have a thousand dollar gig to play at the Undertow on St. Pete Beach. They have to play four hours worth of music, eventhough they only know four songs right now.  Better get practising, girls! (Linda gives the best haircuts in town, hands down.  If you live in the area, she works at the Auracle, on tyrone blvd, in between fifth and ninth avenue). 7:08:57 PM    comment []

the manhattan penthouse One time, Linda and I went to New York together.  A friend of hers gave us a key to his family's Manhattan penthouse that over looked the Brooklyn bridge.  We were both so excited about staying there.  I imagined us having cocktails while the lights of the Big Apple twinkled behind us (like you always see on tv).  And then we could make love on the balcony, hundred of feet above the traffic below. But our New York trip was  doomed for disaster from the minute we stepped off the plane.  The strap from our giant suit case had disappeared during the trip so I had to lug this sixty pound thing for what seemed like miles: between cabs, and subway stations, over chiseled up sidewalks and mud puddles.  Finally, we lugged our luggage to the seventeenth floor of this penthouse only to find that our key didn't open the door. "No. NO! NO!!!" Linda cried with increasing anguish.  She called her friend about fifty times before finally getting through to him.  I tried to keep calm and provide some sort of quiet strenghth.  But I really just wanted to collapse in the corner and sob. "You know, I think you might need another key for the bottom lock," her friend said.  "I think this girl has it, and she's somewhere out on Fire Island." Fortunately, I had a cousin that lived on the upper west side.  But he lived a hundred blocks away, and we were dead on our feet and we still had the sixty pound suit case with no strap.  So I lugged the suitcase across Manhattan again.  Before long, I was limping like quasi-moto: past porno shops, over steam grates, down subway escalators, up flights of grafitti plastered stairwells.  By one-thirty am, we limped up to my cousin's apartment and collapsed in his guest bedroom. The next morning we got a call from Linda's friend back here in Florida. He said the apartment would definitely be open by 7pm. "Are you sure?" Linda asked. "Positive," her friend said.  (Can you see where this is going?)  So the next evening we trekked across Manhattan again with the luggage, my arm already on fire from the night before.  We went: past roasted almond stands, under huge blinking billboards, in between speeding limousines, through crowds of busy stockbrokers, under shadows of sky scrapers until we were at the penthouse again. We zipped up to the seventeenth floor with our hopes and excitement completely renewed.  Linda grasped the handle and turned it. The door wouldn't budge.  "OH MY FUCKING GOD!" Linda screamed. (Final note: this misery went on a few more times.  We eventaully stashed our suitcase in the bushes outside the building and said, "fuck it," and went out to clubs.  We finally did get to have cocktails in front of the twinkling city lights and make love on the balcony, hundreds of feet above the traffic below).   6:56:41 PM    comment []

bean blaze Here I am getting a hair cut from Linda. Back when we dated we used to go out drinking downtown.  Once, when we came back from her apartment we discovered that her front door had been kicked in and her walls were blackened with smoke.  Her furniture was all askew and her curtains were all pulled away from the windows. "What the fuck?!  WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED TO MY APARMENT?!!!!" Linda screamed. We suspected it might have something to do with her queer roommate who was addicted to heroin and crystal meth, and cat tranquilizers and other such things. Turns out, our suspicions were correct.  Her roommate had decided to slow cook a pot of beans on the stove that day, but then completely forgot about them.  The beans eventually caught fire and after the neighbors smelled smoke, the fire department kicked the door down to put out the bean blaze. It was a fairly typical evening at Linda's apartment. 6:25:48 PM    comment []

© Copyright 2004 Mark Michaels. Last update: 1/1/2004; 3:39:15 AM.