6262840a

I just found my notebook I wrote in in Seattle. I threw it in a box and moved apartments when I got back, whenever that was, so I never gave an accurate report. Actually, I never took an acurate report. I was too busy. Most of what I wrote was done the night before I left.

Excerpts:

The Jukebox has stopped. 4am and out of coffee. Remebering my first pass of the Roxy earlier tonight; 2:30 and Vaseline Alley is living up to it's name. The heat has magnified the city's desire for sex, and it's shown through the swarms of prostitutes and transvestites that line the streets.

I walk onward toward Coffee Time. On the way a raggedy, unshaven character alerts me to his existance. "Hey man, hook me up with some of that coffee," he barks.

He was refering to the 20 oz paper cup I had earlier purchased at a convenience store, the same time I bought a new writing pad.

"It's the end of the cup." I tell him. I could have spared the last few sips, but I don't enjoy being yelled at by middle of the night characters. So, I enthusiastically downed the remains as he continued his desperate dialouge.

"Well, I mean, where'd you get it?!"

I love my coffee, but I never imagined anybody would see it as such a precious commodity. "At the Plaid" was thrown his way as i finished the last sip.

"You mean right here!?" he inquired, his eyes widening as he pointed his index finger toward the ground and clutched his arm above the elbow with his other hand, signifying a great importance on this "coffee" he was seeking.

"No, it was awhile ago."

I've never seen anybody shoot up in front of me, only in my peripheral vision by mistake. It shocked and disgusted me and that's probably why it raised such a morbid curiosity.

Park Bench.

Early sun beating down, regenerating my all night body. a cute girl comes, sits down next to me. What do I do? I pull out my pad and begin writing.

I put it away when she began speaking . She was from Southern California, but wasn't offended when I said it's a shallow place. We were both waiting for the bookstore to open so we could return our textbooks. She said I look like an anthropology major; I told her she was mistaken.

Going northward to Seattle to see a friend I haven't seen since January 1, 2000, and it feels like a routine visit. Where will Seattle take us? I've been to this city once before. I ended up joining a marching band for a day and joining the most bizarre parade you could ever imagine. I played a cowbell. There were lots of naked chicks on bicycles.

I just heard the new Red Hot Chili Peppers single, which proves my theory: junkie rock stars shouldn't clean up, they should just die. Then, people would just say they're stupid, rather than say they're stupid and have no talent. Kurt Cobain understood this. Can you imagine if a heroin-free nirvana was still churning out the same three-chord songs today? Only now, they would be done total rock-star style, never progressing, just using the same old style again and again and again and.......

I like Nirvana, but in a way I'm glad there is only what was, and there is no what is. It's good when bands break up, it gives more people the opportunity to hear other music.

This is all I wrote in Seattle

I'm in Seattle, and all day it has blown my mind that I'm in Seattle. I hate to sound pretentious, but this night feels like....

I forget what I was going to write next. Something to the extent of the night feeling like it had a magical energy. I was interuppted by a female creature designed with beauty and intelligence in mind. "you write when you're drunk?" she asked.

"I write when I breath." I answered. When I lie, I make sure it's obvious; I'm that honest.

She asked me to write something for her, and I did, and then she responded, and so on, and she kept everything I wrote, and I kept everything she wrote, but I don't want to type it here, because it was written for me, not you, and my hand is tired.