The City of Angels

I'm watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean from the third floor of my office building. It's one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen--one that I'm privileged with the chance to witness every day, Monday through Friday.

Life has been quite interesting lately. I've had extended periods of every possible human emotion within a span of a month. I've finally reached contentment--something I never thought could possibly happen in a place like this.

It's amazing how little things can completely alter your sense of being.

blah

i just really fucking suck at life.

Atlanta

I've moved so much in the past few months. I don't know if I'll ever again experience the feeling of being home.

Regardless, I have no regrets, as I have had some amazing and strange experiences with incredible people along the way.

I'm working the night shift currently at an international package shipping company. For a week I've been in training with a 50 year old black woman named Sybil. Before I met her, I was told that I might not like her, because she has a constant pissed-off attitude. But on our first encounter, she scolded me for calling her ma'am, and I knew we would get along just fine. She is the most blatantly honest, intelligent, "I don't give a fuck, I just want to sleep and get my paycheck" kind of person I have ever met.

I don't do much work. I just count the minutes and try to find as many interesting things on Wikipedia to research until time to go home. Driving home at dawn, after working all night, is a pretty big mindfuck if you've never done it before.

Other than the job, life has been pretty routine--other than a few insane moments with middle-aged women who want to rock me and nurse me like a baby. And tragically beautiful straight boys who punch me in the chest after I save them from jumping to their death off an overpass. Maybe I should've kissed him. Our lips were so close, and I know I could've if I had wanted to, but it didn't feel right. Why? I don't know. Because that's my kind of romance.

I just finished reading Poppy Z. Brite's Drawing Blood. Amazing. I couldn't put it down. The only thing I hate about her stories is that they always make me fall in love with the characters, and when it's over, I feel like I've had someone incredible in my life die a tragic death.

Ladies and Gentlemen We are Floating in Space

I just had the strangest dream.

I was in New York. I flew there first-class and rented a nice car--BMW I think. For some reason I was completely broke, so I couldn't afford to take the subway. I ended up in Manhattan, driving down 42nd Street, looking for a way to Brooklyn.

My GPS wouldn't work, and I lost all of the contacts in my cell phone. I was freaking out, so I took the first exit which led me to this abandoned shipyard somewhere. I was crying frantically, and it was pouring down rain. I got out of the car and went into one of the buildings, but it was already occupied by some pretty shady people making and obviously shadier deal.

When I ran back to the car, I found the trunk popped open, my luggage littering the ground, and a 30-something housewife sitting in the drivers side seat, smoking what seemed to be a crack pipe. In the back seat was a man with a gun.

The lady was visibly shaken, and she had a bottle of pills between her legs. I asked her what they were, hoping they were some sort of benzodiazepine or opiate (anything to relieve the stress of the current situation). She said they were for her blood pressure, and I freaked out. I think I died in my dream, but I'm not sure, because that's when I woke up.

The strange thing is, I have this intense feeling that something like that has happened before. Maybe in a past life? I don't know. The last time I had a dream like that, the setting was Los Angeles and I was driving along PCH looking for West Hollywood. Now, of course, I could have easily navigated that route with my eyes closed. But ever since I moved to LA the last time, the dreams have stopped.

Maybe it's just a dream. Maybe I'm just putting together bits and pieces of memories I've made or movies I've seen or stories I've heard. Regardless, it's still a little disturbing, in more ways than one.

Life

It's not so bad.

Especially when you're stoned.

Even after falling off a porch while searching for a wifi signal and through a bush and then onto the ground and almost breaking your ankle, but really it's just a deep gash that hopefully won't need stitches and you're still too stoned to really feel it and aren't really thinking about much more than typing this journal entry and that one leftover Butterfinger bar hidden in the bottom of the refrigerator.

Good night.

Parental Empathy

Tonight I came home, stoned off my ass, and my mother called me out on it. This happens quite often. I deny it, laughing uncontrollably, and then we play cat and mouse about if I were really stoned or if I were just sleepy and had been around too much cigarette smoke, which made my eyes red. Either way, it was all in jest, and nothing would be brought up about it again. We both know that marijuana is the only drug that really doesn't fuck up my life or cause me to do stupid things, so it's cool.

However, tonight, my mother decided to call me out about it in front of my dad. Regardless of whether or not she should be excused on the grounds that she was, as well, high on her own pharmaceutical vices--this was really fucked up. My dad, of course, freaks out as usual and gives me this ten minute long lecture about how pot is bad and I'm going to fail a drug test. My mother and I finally end the matter, as we proceed to simultaneously act like it was just a big joke--that I wasn't really high at all.

At that moment I realized something. I have a lot of empathy with my mother. Thinking back, I remember how we always used to be craving the same foods, without each other knowing. Almost daily when I was a kid, I would crave something uncommon like pineapple juice or Butterfingers, and my mom would come home from the grocery store with a bag full of the things that I had just been dreaming about. And she always knows when something is wrong--just by hearing my voice. And she's almost always right about the general issue, even if I deny it at the time. We fight constantly, but it's usually because one of us lying about something that's clearly a lie.

My Dad, on the other hand, is a very logical person. He has a low ability for sensing other peoples' emotions and understanding their intents. He's a kind of live-by-the-book guy. My mother pretends to be, but I really believe that deep down she's different--and pretty much exactly like me.

Actias Luna

I stepped outside yesterday morning for my ritualistic first cigarette of the day, and I found what appeared to be a beautiful butterfly hanging on a brick wall by the back porch swing. Upon further inspection, I realized it was a giant moth with enormous pale green wings, burgundy trimming, eye spots, and a furry white cocoon-like body. I poked it a little and observed no real response, so I assumed it was at the final stages of its life. I was right.

However, today, after forgetting about my find, honestly, I came outside again, only to discover two moths in its place. They were embracing each other, dying together. Come to find out, adult Luna Moths have a life span of approximately one week. During this time, their sole purpose is to seek out a mate and reproduce. They do not eat, as they are born with no mouths, and they rarely move from their chosen spot. Birth, reproduction, death, repeat. Nothing more, nothing less.

Is this life?

At first I thought how horrible it would be to exist in such a way--and how pointless it would be for me, especially, since I have no real plans for reproducing. And then I realized that humans have a slight advantage--instead of only being able to pass along our genetic code, we are able to live on through generations in the form of ideas. Even the most unmotivated and inartistic people can and do have the ability to affect the course of human events in some way. A simple "Hello" has the power to alter the future of the entire universe--or even just witnessing the awe-inspiring and bittersweet life and death of one of nature's most beautiful and tragic creatures.

The Death of the Sonnet

On writing a sonnet, this much is true,
Tis better to be blue or scorned by love,
Have witnessed the grace in a passing dove,
Studied Shakespeare or St. Vincent Milay,
Else you'll be left out, only to dismay.
Your words must be rich, and butchered, and rhymed
Thoughts must be flowing and very well timed.
Then you will be one of the elite few.

A brooding thought here, a metaphor there,
Quatrains and couplets, ten syllable lines,
Tangled in a pit of poetic vines.
Once you have finished, not even aware,
Passion morphed into pedantic affair,
Your soul torn apart by linguistic mines.

Le Petit Dieu

I’m on top of the sky with paint and brush
Could this be my canvas, this infinite sky?
A whale and an astronaut. Elephants and school buses.
Those are my clouds.
I take tiny brushes and sprinkle the earth with rain.

Granddaddy

When I was small, I loved my Granddaddy very much. He would always let me help him feed the goats, work on the barn, and various other things he told me little kids like me would love to do.

He'll be 90 in October. The rest of my family constantly talk about how he'll probably outlive all of us. I wouldn't doubt it.

My Grandfather is sick. He's not as sick as most people who are still alive at his age. He just has the usual kidney problems, diabetes, whatever. My mother and aunt take turns driving him to the Veterans hospital once a week for appointments. He receives a $17 travel allowance for each trip, which he keeps, since his goat selling business isn't exactly booming.

Once, at an appointment for his cataracts, my grandfather was complaining about the price of gas, and that he barely had enough to make it to the doctor. A nice little old lady, probably older than him, gave him five dollars, which he quickly put in his pocket. As he walked away from the lady who was smiling about what a good deed she had just done, my grandfather laughed and joked about how someone crazy old bird just gave him five bucks for nothing.

In reality, my grandfather has a lot of money. He hides it in various places, including a bank account that my mother just discovered containing over $40,000.

So, basically, my grandfather is just a greedy old bastard who looked at me not as a young, curious boy, but as a source of free and complacent child labor.

Little Boxes made of Ticky-Tacky

The weather tonight is amazing. I love walking around in the rain in the dark by myself. I bet John the Baptist had a similar experience before he became famous.

I want to go back to Hollywood. I think I was born to be an actor. I could never do film or theater, though, because then the audience would know I'm just acting.

Cheers.

----

"You snatch the eyes off a fly that's flying backwards, you spin him around, put the eyes back in the socket before the fly hits the ground." --some homeless black guy on YouTube

My Sincerest Apologies

Dear Jessica's Nanny,

Years ago, when we were in high school, I spent many fun-filled days at your house on Peach Street. Your cookies were divine, and I appreciated that you never complained when we would get stoned in Jessica's bedroom.

I have something that has been on my mind for quite a while, though. Actually, I never really think about it unless I'm stoned, but it has nevertheless caused me countless nights of anguish over the years.

The thing is, the majority of the time I spent at your house, I was fairly intoxicated and a little careless. Sometimes I could not find an ash tray because they had disappeared into other rooms, so I had to improvise. Really, I just didn't want to ash on your carpet. I do respect you dearly.

Anyhow, sometimes we used the little bronze statue of a poodle on a pedestal by the front door--you know the one. It had a bobble head that could be removed from the base. It was really a perfect ashtray--ridiculously creative, too.

I'm sorry I ashed my cigarettes in your dead dog's urn. I felt terrible about it, really, but I couldn't bear to tell you (even though it's all ash, so it doesn't really matter that much). But now that you're dead, Nanny, I figured I would go ahead and let the cat out of the bag. Please accept my apologizes. I hope you're doing well.

Thinking of you,

Ben

Phasmatodea

I went for a walk today and came across a stick trembling upon the ground. I immediately questioned my sanity, until I lifted up the epileptic bug who had undoubtedly lost his home.

I carried him around to various trees, shrubbery, and miscellaneous plant life growing in the yard. To no avail, the little creature vehemently denied each of his potential new homes, instead choosing the safety of my finger.

After two excruciatingly long hours of being trapped in my mother's sterile Tupperware container along with a few leaves and a water-soaked towelette, my friend and I decided to recommence our endeavor.

Nearing the brink of exacerbation, I decided to try various alternatives to my new friend's ecologically-favored natural habitat: flowers, automobiles, rotting lumber, and even a plastic mailbox. Finally, and unexpectedly, the little fellow let go of my finger and cheerfully migrated to an empty cigarette pack sitting on the back porch swing.

I tried to withdraw his legs, but he had an astonishingly strong grip, and I was afraid to rip the limbs from his body. So, I let him be.

While logically an empty cigarette pack is not exactly the most viable option for the long-term living arrangements of twig-dwelling insects, I have realized that attempting to usurp my friend's decision could possibly be more damaging than simply letting him realize this on his own.

And so is life.

Unfinished Business

I just finished watching the Showtime series "Dead Like Me". It only lasted two seasons, but it was absolutely brilliant. The premise of the show is a group of grim reapers--regular people who were for some unknown reason chosen to fill the roll after their own deaths--that take peoples' souls in the final moments of their lives, so that they won't feel the physical pain of death.

Sometimes souls refuse to cross over. It's usually because they don't realize they're dead, but often it's because they refuse to let go of their lives.

I have realized tonight that I am not unlike the newly-deceased characters of that show. I have a strong tendency to hold on to feelings that should have long-since met their demise. Regret is a difficult thing to bury once it's been brought to life.

I have finally had the chance put some very strong memories to rest. All it took was a few lines in an e-mail--nothing fancy or sentimental. I feel like I can finally move on with my life. I feel alive again.

Life is strange, but beautiful. From now on, I'm going to cherish every moment of it, from the tears to the laughter. Instead of yearning for the past, I'm going to look forward to the future.

Thank you.

Carless in LA

I was born and raised in a small town in Georgia, where everyone had a car because that's the only way there was to get around. It was either drive or stay home. Unexpectedly, I discovered that I shared that same mentality with millions of other people living and working in none other than Los Angeles, the second most populated metropolis in the nation. Sure, everyone's aware that there are buses and trains around, but the majority of the Angelenos I met honestly believed that their mass transportation system was nothing more than another sleeping venue for the homeless.

The first time I took the Number 2 from Sunset and Ivar in Hollywood to Sunset and San Vicente in West Hollywood, I was the talk of Fiesta Cantina. No one could believe it! "You actually took the bus?!", they'd say, astonished. I had been renting a car for the first two weeks of my stay, but the price of gas and insurance fees ended up killing my bank account, so I was forced to go with another option. After an experiment with a $26 3­-mile taxi ride, I bought my very first prepaid Weekly Metro Pass for a mere $17. That quickly proved to be the best seventeen bucks I had ever spent­­--the price of two mediocre cocktails at your average West Hollywood bar.

At first I was slightly dismayed. The timetables were confusing, and the routes were somewhat undependable during the late night hours. But after a while, I began to learn the ropes. If you have a little bit of patience and a little knowledge of the main routes, you begin to realize that this is definitely the way to travel. No more road rage, honking, parking fines, countless hours wasted trying to find a spot on a weekend night­­--just pure, unadulterated, Metro-­riding bliss.

So, whether it's your first time in the city, or you're a traffic­-mastering local, you should definitely consider giving the Metro a chance. Not only is it infinitely less expensive, but you also get a chance to see the city in an entirely new perspective. And the frequent riders are actually very friendly and helpful. I've never met someone on the bus who wasn't eagerly willing to give me a few pointers on how to master my new­found friend.

Leave Chris Crocker Alone!

I have spent many nights submerged in the fabulous gay culture of West Hollywood. Celebrity gossip abounds in that town. Chris Crocker, of YouTube fame, could be seen walking up and down Santa Monica Boulevard almost nightly with his porn star posse. It was most likely because he wasn't old enough to get into the clubs, but regardless, the talk of the town was that he was a drug dealer, hooker­­--you name it, he allegedly did it.

I had the unexpected privilege of chatting with Chris one night at a coffee shop on the corner of Santa Monica and Robertson. I was there by myself. ­­The friend I had come with was lost with a trick he had met down the street at Rage. I immediately noticed Chris when he walked through the door­­--bleached blond hair, pale white makeup, outlandish threads, and a horribly sad look on his face. I sat down beside him after ordering my Blended Caramel Mocha and pretended not to notice who he was. I heard him mutter to himself, "Oh my God." Being the southern gentleman that my mother raised me to be, I immediately asked him what was wrong. He said he hated this place. I don't blame him. We're both from the South­­--a completely different world compared to where we were then conversing.

A couple weeks later I was at a party with one of Chris's friends, a porn star by the pseudonym Cameron Michaels. We had a pretty interesting conversation about Chris. Apparently, he had become bitter since he achieved his fame and signed deals for upcoming advertisement gigs and a reality show. Everyone pretended to hate him, even though they were probably just jealous that they never had a chance in the limelight.

Anyway, I can't get that image of his face out of my mind. Underneath all the makeup and hairspray, I could tell that he was this scared little country boy with no clue how to make it in such a cut­throat town. And that's exactly who he is--another Britney Spears, River Phoenix, or Janis Joplin. I have a new respect for those kinds of people who are thrown into the fiery pits of stardom. It really takes a toll on a person's soul, and personally, I will never pass judgment on anyone like that again. Because, you know what? We're all the same­­; just some of us are luckier than others.

Joey

I've never written about this before. I've really never spoken much about it, either, except right after the initial shock.

Anyway, a good friend of mine committed suicide in December. We met a couple years ago at this little gay bar in Macon, Georgia. I remember he was standing by himself, dancing to some random 80s song that was playing on the jukebox. He didn't look like any of the other trendy fags there. He had crazy hair and a punk rocker outfit. He was very androgynous and obviously a little high. My kind of guy.

We ended up just being friends. I'm not sure why nothing ever happened between us. He made it well-known that he had feelings for me, but I just never reciprocated. Anyway, it was probably a good thing I didn't, because we ended up having a long friendship.

He was the kind of guy I could call up whenever I was lonely, any time of the night or day, and know that he would be eager to hang out with me. On several occasions I'd call him up, crying for some ridiculous reason, and half an hour later he'd be at my door in his pajamas and carrying a stack of cheesy ass movies. I'd always go to bed smiling.

Joey changed a lot in the last couple months. He had brain surgery and was in a lot of pain, which he masked with plenty of pharmaceuticals. The last time he came over, he confessed to me that he was becoming a woman. I'm not sure if it was the drugs talking, but he sincerely believed that he actually had female parts inside of him, and that it could someday be possible for him to bear children. I should have known that something wasn't right.

He called me several times during the last couple weeks of his life, wanting to hang out. But I had a full-time job and a brand new boyfriend, so I always made excuses about why I couldn't see him. He was also very sad. Who wants to hang out with someone depressing when they're living the high life?

Now I think I understand how he felt. And I HATE myself because of it. I should have been there for him. I want someone to be there for me now. But I understand why they're not knocking at my door or blowing up my phone, because I was the same damn way. Why are we like that? Why are we so fucking selfish?

Maybe it's karma. I know I deserve it. God, I miss him. I've had the urge to call him up so bad over the past few days. But then I remember that he's not going to pick up the phone.

And now for something a little different...

I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and and let them lead the way.

Just kidding.

No, seriously--I've decided to attempt a somewhat positive post. I know I've been seemingly negative lately, maybe even a bit morose. I'm really not that way all the time. When I'm out and about having fun, obviously, I don't feel the need to publish my feelings on the internet in hopes of being saved.

I had a sort of epiphany tonight, through the help of a dear friend's words and half of my father's Xanax:

Life is an experiment. No, I'm not spouting religiously. I mean, it's our own, individual laboratory project. We honestly have the potential to make whatever we want out of what we've been given. I don't believe there is a final product that some supreme being has designed for us to create. There is no plan, no path, no destiny. It's just us and time. Sure, we may be limited when it comes to our tools, genetics, and basic skills. But apart from that, anything is possible.

Let's just hope I'm still a proponent of this idea in the morning.

"Death without the possibility of changing the world is the same as a life that never was." -- Douglas Coupland, Eleanor Rigby (Great book. Read it.)

You're in my blood like holy wine

Another sleepless night, chain-smoking and living in the past.

I thought maybe if I wrote about my past, I could put it to rest, somehow. So, here goes:

Six months ago, on any given Thursday, my alarm would sound at 5:30 am. It was the one my parents bought me for Christmas last year. The sound was piercing, and a little helicopter-like propeller would fly up into the air. The only way the turn it off was to retrieve the propeller and place it back on the clock. Justin would wake up, slightly freaked out, every single time. I'd give him a kiss on the forehead and tell him to go back to sleep.

Then I'd reluctantly hop in the shower while Justin would pick out my outfit for the day. I'd always be unhappy with the one I chose the night before, and he was better at fashion than me, anyway. When I got out of the shower and came back into the bedroom, he'd be sound asleep. I'd watch him for a little while before I'd give him a kiss on the cheek, tell him I loved him, and rush out the door to work.

The guard at the gate knew me personally after a year and a half. He'd say, "Mr. Benjamin, have a good day." I would.

The day would consist of rushing around the clinic, fixing everyone's issues, whether they be computer or life-related. In between jobs you could usually find me out in the smoking gazebo, chatting with the ladies about life, interior decorating, the weather, love, families, politics. Rosemary, Karla, Pam, Cindy, Wendie, Janine, Julie. God, I miss that gazebo.

On my lunch break, I'd pick up Justin, take him to work, tell him to have a great day, and then pick up some Wendy's or Arby's on my way back.

Thursday was training day for the 78th Medical Group, which meant patients were not scheduled after noon. Sometimes we'd have food out back. Everyone knew me, and everyone loved me. I loved them. Before I got my job, I would've never imagined that some of my best friends would be doctors, nurses, and military officers.

After work, I'd go home and take a nap. Justin's call would wake me up, and after half an hour of stumbling around, half-asleep, I'd rush to pick him up. I was usually late. Then we'd go out to eat, and I'd spend entirely too much money on dinner, which I would inevitably regret a few days before my next paycheck. It was worth it, though.

What happened? Why did I start hating my life all of the sudden? Maybe I was bored, maybe the medication was the culprit. Who knows. All I know is that I replay those memories over and over in my mind when I'm sitting alone at night.

Lately I spend most of my time missing things--not just those years of my life. I miss my childhood, my grandmother, theorizing with Kate in Savannah, karaoke at Amagi's in Hollywood with Heather, and the front porch of Aglago in Silverlake.

It seems that I'm always running. The benefit of this is that I'm always creating new, wonderful memories with different people. The downside is that when I run again, I have more to miss. Maybe I need someone to run with me. Maybe I need to learn to settle down and build a home for myself. I don't know.

What I do know is that I wouldn't trade these memories for anything in the world--well, except for maybe being able to relive them. It hurts so much to lose people you care about.

While I'm not religious, if Heaven existed, I wouldn't care what it looked like. My only wish would be that everyone I'd ever loved would be there, with me, forever.

cicadas and fireflies

A friend of mine from LA spent two days with my family and me. He is traveling to New York on his motorcycle, and he's never been east of the Mississippi.

The first night he was here, he was amazed at the sight of fireflies and the sound of cicadas in my backyard. I took him to the river, where we hiked through a dry creek bed and took pictures in a field of corn. It was beautiful seeing someone experience something for the first time--something I've taken for granted my entire life.

I have to admit I'm a little sad now that he's gone. It was nice not being lonely for a little bit. Sure, I have my family. They're great people, despite their oft-negative quirks. But they're not the type of people I would feel comfortable with sharing my deepest thoughts. I doubt they would even understand some of the ideas that brew in my mind.

So now I'm sitting, alone, in the back porch swing, listening to the chorus of cicadas and lazily watching the light show of the fireflies.

I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. I feel as though I'm stuck in a time rift between memory and fantasy.

Page One of One

BEN walks into a convenience store in the middle of nowhere and cashes a $7 check dated three months prior. The camera follows him inside and pans beside him while he's waiting in line behind an old farmer wearing overalls, who is in the process of purchasing a pack of Marlboro Reds from the counter clerk. BEN taps his foot impatiently as the two locals carry on a dreadfully slow conversation about the weather and the Walgreens pharmacy that is being built on the grounds of an antebellum plantation house, which was recently demolished downtown. Finally, he makes it to the front of the line.

CASHIER

Hey sugar, where've you been off to?

BEN

California. I just got back.

CASHIER

Nice to be home, huh? I bet ya mama and daddy are glad to have ya. You just missed your uncle.

BEN

Oh really? Could I get a pack of....Marlboro Milds? I figured I'd cash this check here since it would cost more in gas to drive to the bank.

The cashier cashes the check and hands him his cigarettes and three dollars and some change. BEN places the change in his pocket and smiles a half-smile.

BEN

Well, good to see you.

CASHIER

You too, baby. Come back to see us.

BEN walks out the door into the setting sun. He hurriedly opens his pack of cigarettes, discards the cellophane onto the ground and lights up. After the first drag, an observable amount of tension sheds from his face as his closes his eyes and leans against the hood of his parents' 1994 Champagne colored Buick LeSabre. After a few brief moments, he opens his eyes and watches as an obviously underage high school student comes out of the store backwards while yelling obscenities at the clerk.

BOY

Hey cuz, can I have a cigarette?

BEN

How old are you?

BOY

Eighteen.

BEN

Right.

BEN fishes a cigarette out of his pack and hands it to the boy with a smirk. The boy runs off and jumps in a car with his buddies. BEN, high on nicotine and smiling gently, watches as the car drives away. He then sighs, extinguishes his cigarette onto the pavement with his flip-flop and hops back into the car. He pulls out and drives down the road while scanning through never-ending country and gospel stations on the radio. He finally, annoyed, stops the radio on 92.7 and sings the last few verses of the Rolling Stones' “Sympathy for the Devil” as he pulls into the Huddle House parking lot. He enters the diner and glances at the two people standing behind the counter, looking incredibly bored. A woman with short curly bleached blond hair in her 70s cleans off the table next to the entrance with a filthy torn rag. Without looking in his direction, she greets him.

WAITRESS

How are you doin? You want a water?

BEN

A water and a coffee, please ma'am.

WAITRESS

Coffee too? (She seems oddly excited about this. BEN nods and smiles.)

BEN walks to the back of the restaurant and sits in a booth in front of a two-way mirror. It was his spot in high school. He glances at the Grab-a-Toy machine that replaced the jukebox that he had remembered so fondly. Number 127 was what he always played—Alison Krauss's “When You Say Nothing at All”.

The WAITRESS brings three napkins, a spoon, a bowl of non-dairy creamers, a cup of semi-warm coffee, and a tall glass of ice water. She places the items in front of him.

BEN

I think I'll just have coffee, if that's okay.

WAITRESS

Sure, honey. (She walks off.)

BEN watches as three elderly women stare at him out of the corner of their eyes. Being in a small town, he assumed that they knew his parents. The conversation was inaudible, although he strained to hear it. He opens his laptop and begins to type. Obviously having writer's block, he looks up a phone number in one phone as he dials it on another. Someone answers.

BEN

Hey sugar! Guess where I am? ..... No, I'm in Georgia..... Cochran....It's a long story. Hold on, let me go outside so I can talk.

BEN takes a sip of his water and rushes outside, lights up a cigarette, and begins pacing up and down the sidewalk.

BEN

Hey, I found this check you gave me when I was cleaning out my car. Is it okay that I cashed it? .... Ok, good. I just really needed cigarettes and I didn't have any money.....No, it's ok, you can just buy me coffee or something. I should get a little money in the next couple days from the deposit on my place in LA. I'll come to Warner Robins.....What?! You're still with him? What the fuck? No, you don't have to FedEx me money. I'll call you Friday and we can meet up at Starbucks or something..... Ok, take care babe...Love you too.

BEN grins as he puts the phone back in his pocket. He watches as an old man slowly peddles a bicycle down the street, followed by a young leather-clad boy on a motorcycle. He continues smiling, although not as wide, as he walks back inside and sits down at his table, resuming his writing with a little less difficulty.

So many thoughts.

I just smoked my last cigarette. It's 5:30 am Eastern Standard Time, and I'm nowhere near the verge of sleep.

Today I slept until three, woke up, showered, ate a leftover Sloppy Joe sandwich, and took my mother's car to my uncle's gas station, where I cashed a seven dollar check that was buried under the driver's side seat of my neglected Honda Civic. The check was from a friend at my old job. The only thing that we had in common was the secret we shared. We both had strong affections for prescription opiates. I loved her dearly.

I have to say that I miss LA. Some of the experiences I had there were too Hollywood for Hollywood. I'll never forget them.

Maybe I'll be back one day. Today I wrote the first and last page of a screenplay about my life. After typing the last word, I realized that I am far too young to be writing an autobiography, even if it could possibly be my ticket out of here. Instead, I decided to do it the old fashioned way. I revamped my resume, skewing words to make my work experience appear much more grandiose and important than in reality, and sent it--along with a well-written cover letter and the recommendation I have from the Colonel--to several agencies in Hollywood looking for personal assistants.

Oh, I think my grandfather is dying. I mean, of course he's dying--he's ninety--but, I think he's dying at a faster rate than I have normally anticipated. I like to wonder what he was like when he was my age.

Flight 616

So ends another journey into the unknown. I've learned a lot this time—a lot about myself, the nature of others, and how to live life happily. The secret, I've found, is to be stoned as much as possible. My high has worn away, appropriately, as I watch the sun set over some unknown plain in the Midwest. I can't help but wonder what awaits me back home.

I've begun to use the term “home” loosely, as a multitude of towns have become worthy of that moniker during the past few years: Cochran, Dublin, Savannah, Warner Robins, and now Hollywood and Silver Lake. It's nice to know that I have close friends scattered about the country, but it also makes me sad to realize that I'll no longer be in their lives when I leave. I wonder how long it will take before they forget.

There is a girl across the aisle from me on Flight 616 from Phoenix to Atlanta. She's coloring a page from a coloring book, although she must be at least eighteen. It's a drawing of a crab on a beach, and the lines are bold and meticulously traced, while the inside is carefully shaded in an exact shade of pale pink. The flight, I've been told, will be a short one--three hours and twelve minutes. I guilt-tripped the stewardess into giving me a packet of Fiesta Snack Mix, which is now reserved only for the first class patrons. I don't have the seven bucks for a prepackaged Chicken Caesar salad. If I did, I'm sure it would be the best food I'd ever placed in my mouth.

Paul tried to get me to fuck him today in return for him taking me to the airport. I ended up letting him blow me. I couldn't get off, so I pretended to cum as he faced away from me and ground his ass into my side. He told me to wipe it onto the shirt he was wearing because it was dirty anyway and needed to be washed. In reality, he probably was thinking ahead, creating some physical relic of this sexual escapade to aid him in future masturbation sessions. Boy will he be disappointed when he finds the stains on his shirt were caused by nothing more than his own saliva. Or maybe, knowing him, he would be even more turned on. I need to get stoned.

all i needed was a simple hello

I'm sitting on the balcony of a 1920s era mansion that's slowly falling apart, where I have a perfect, unobstructed view of some of the most beautiful scenery in the Hollywood Hills. It feels like Italy, other than the huge glowing cross that an alleged Christian cult erected on a peak in the distance.

I just finished crying my eyes out while singing "All Cried Out" to myself. I was crying for various reasons. Firstly, I found out today that my dad most likely has cancer in his lungs and lymph nodes. It hasn't fully hit me yet, but I can feel it building. Secondly, I got off the phone with Christophe. I wanted him to come over so bad to hold me and comfort me and tell me everything is going to be alright in his cute little French accent. But he says he has a stomach ache. He also said that it was a bad idea to get attached to him, although he does want to hang out tomorrow night in Little Tokyo with me and Clementine.

I have an interview tomorrow in the Valley. I was contacted by a lady who wants me to be in a reality show hosted by a fairly infamous rapper. She said it's supposed to be like the Apprentice, and that there is a large cash prize to be given away to the winner, but I'm sure they're just looking for a scared, naive country boy from Georgia like me to exploit.

I have enough money for a one-way ticket back home. I don't know what to do. I hate this town, but I can't get enough of it.

Life is scary.

Do I look like a fucking hooker to you?

I was walking down Fairfax today, and some skinny old man in a VW Rabbit convertible tried to buy me.

Perhaps it's something in the air, but ever since I've been here, I can't help but to envision my life as a screenplay.

Colleen left today. It's for the best--she was miserable here. I, on the other hand, was miserable, but am now hopeful. I met a boy. His name is Christophe, and he's from France. He's classy, but not arrogant, which I like. We spent the day yesterday at Hermosa Beach. It was one of the most amazing times I've had. Also, I may have a job at Sony. Two great reasons to stay.

Please pray that I learn how to use the bus system very, very soon. My feet are killing me.

I just realized that the length of my sentences is inversely proportionate to my level of happiness.

Rage on a Thursday Night

Tonight I made out with three different boys on the dance floor at a club in West Hollywood. I don't remember any of their names.

There would've been a fourth, but I told him no, and I proceeded to dance with myself with my eyes closed. For those few moments I felt the best I had in ages.

When I'm driving along Sunset Boulevard, I like to roll down the windows and blast the Dresden Dolls or Two Ton Boa--both excellent bands. I do it because I have this secret desire that one day someone will hear it and tell me to pull over so they can get to know the person who listens to such interesting music, a rarity in these parts. But I'm pretty sure that day will never come.

I suppose I really just want to be loved for who I am--not for what I appear to be. That's a difficult thing in the gay culture, because most people are attracted to superficial beauty only. Well, I suppose that isn't entirely true. If you're old and your beauty has faded, the only thing left to advertise is either your wealth or personality. Unfortunately, I'm still considered young, and I am not attracted to men twice my age.

Today I smoked some of the best marijuana I've ever smoked in my entire life. I wrote a song, and realized that I could actually be creative. Colleen and I decided that it didn't matter where we lived, that we would be miserable unless we were stoned. I'm going to look into the medical marijuana thing if I decide to stay.

This blog was brought to you by two Dos Equis, a shot of Jose, two Southern Comfort and Cokes, and a few sips of some unknown drink belonging to random make-out guy number two.

From a Hollywood Bathroom

I guess it all started when I lived with my parents after the last time I fucked up my life. My dad had a lung operation years ago, and while he understood how necessary cigarettes were for my sanity, he couldn't bear the smell of smoke in the house. So, I would sit in the basement bathroom with the shower on and pretend that the steam would somehow mask the odor. He knew every time, but I was convinced that one day my plan would work, and the little particles of carcinogens would magically attach themselves to the droplets of steam and waft off to anywhere but my father's nostrils. My mother always warned me that if I didn't stop, he would get upset.

My dad was in Vietnam, where he developed a severe case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (which wasn't discovered until twenty years later) from witnessing and contributing to the deaths of hundreds of innocent human beings. Because of this, he had a tendency to turn to physical violence when faced with stressful situations. Looking back, I was such the instigator. I always loved to play the victim.

Anyway, I find enormous comfort now sitting in bathrooms with the shower running. I know it's wasteful, but it's worth it. The noise seems to shield me from the rest of the world. Time stands still, and I can cope with life, or rather the lack thereof. Unfortunately, when people start to question my behavior, I freak out and try to replace it with something else. Right now, that something else is Ativan. I have two left. I'm saving one for the flight back home.

split personalities

this may be the stoli and sprite talking, but please bear with me.

for the past few years, i've lived my life as my parents would want me to live. i've developed a quite professional lifestyle, excelling in my career and creating this artificial mask of responsibility.

i think i'm starting to suffocate.

life is too short, and i can't stop thinking about running away--starting over. i like change. i thrive on change. but that aspect seriously conflicts with the wants and desires of many people close to me. it's a tough choice.

i don't want to live for retirement. seriously.

te hecho de menos

my house is empty, and i'm alone on cinco de mayo with depeche mode on the radio and a double southern comfort and coke. i know it's because of my own making, but it's hard to resist the urge to wallow in the self-pity of loneliness.

i made a choice, and i should stick with it. it's for the best, they say. the older i get, the more i start sounding like them. it's frightening.

lately i've been surrounding myself with kids almost half my age. they're fun and great for fresh conversation, but reality sets in as soon as the tone switches to talk about curfews and diabolical schemes to fool their mothers into letting them stay overnight.

i'm 26 years old, and i'm afraid of growing up. i have a career now, and it scares the hell out of me. every day around nine i escape to my car and chain-smoke cigarettes, listen to some obscure mid-nineties band and fantasize that i'm skipping second period.

the price of oil and haruki marakami

no work today, either. i woke up twice, once for real. the first time i dreamt i woke up and read my e-mail, nervously, but my inbox was clear of any new messages from the boss.

the second time, i discovered a piece of a spam that my filter had somehow missed. fate, i'm assuming. it consisted of a two-paragraph entry from some mildly intriguing prose, which, of course, i immediately had to google. the author is haruki marakami, and the book is entitled dance dance dance. i think i'll buy it today.

could someone please explain to me the logic behind creating spam with random bits of text? or, wait a minute. damn, they're good. maybe someone was trying to sell me this book. i suppose it worked.

anyway, here's the e-mail:

-----

from Rosanne
reply-to Rosanne Smith ,
to benpettis@gmail.com,
date Fri, Apr 25, 2008 at 8:30 AM
subject «Three in the afternoon?» I repeated. It didn't make much sense even to me. «Why?» I asked myself.
mailed-by gmail.com
signed-by gmail.com

22
Yuki shrugged. «He's not such a bad person. No talent though.»
The reason was simple. I was never choosy about the jobs I did. I was willing to do anything, I met my deadlines, I never complained, I wrote legibly. And I was thorough. Where others slacked off, I did an honest write. I was never snide, even when the pay was low. If I got a call at two-thirty in the morning asking for twenty pages of text (about, say, the advantages of non-digital clocks or the appeal of women in their forties or the most beautiful spots in Helsinki, where, needless to say, I'd never been) by six A.M., I'd have it done by five-thirty. And if they called back for a rewrite, I had it to them by six. You bet I had a good reputa­tion.
239
We'll work on the brother later. The Pharaoh's got to go to Laurence Olivier. Always got a migraine, always pressing fingers to his temples. Throws anyone who gets on his nerves into the bottomless pit or makes them swim the Nile with the crocs. Intelligent, cruel, and high-strung. Digs out people's eyes and throws the poor souls into the desert.
«If she doesn't want to go to school, then maybe you should think of an alternative,» I said. «Sometimes it's bad to force school on a kid, especially a kid like Yuki who's extra sensitive and attracts more attention than she likes. A tutor might be a good idea. I think it's pretty clear Yuki isn't cut out for all this cramming for entrance exams and all the silly competition and peer pressure and rules and extracur­ricular activities. Some people can do pretty well without it. I'm being idealistic, I know, but the important thing is that Yuki finds her talent and has a chance to cultivate it. Maybe
I looked up and gazed again at the shadow on the wall.
Time to return to Tokyo. Nothing more for me here. The Dolphin Hotel had fulfilled its purpose. Once I got back to Tokyo, I'd have a lot of knots to untie.

---

i have this daily ritual of web sites i must visit. it started out as a routine to quell the boredom i met daily from 6:30 to 7:30 before the calls started rolling in. i would visit drudgereport (even though i think matt drudge is a closeted douche bag), digg.com, and the bloomberg energy report. now it has become second-nature every time i find a connection.

the reason i visit the bloomberg energy report is to check out the current price of oil. as of now, the wti crushing spot index is 120.17. it's not that i'm even remotely interested in investing. hell, i can't even keep a hundred bucks in my savings. it's more like i'm this sadistic little rubbernecker of the economy. it's like driving past a horrible wreckage, only to discover the driver was none other than the next-door neighbor who molested you as a child. that kind of gratification.

while i am a bastion of technology, i have to admit that i have this secret desire to see it crumble. i would put flowers in my hair and dance around naked, because, sadly, that's just about the only thing most of us would know how to do without it.

cheers.

it's 11:47pm EST

i just spent entirely too much time trying to come up with a blog name that wasn't already taken. i proceeded to try every random thought that popped into my head, which is how i ended up with "my elbows hurt". they really do hurt at this moment because i'm lying on the floor in colleen's bedroom on my laptop, and my elbows are resting on some really shittie carpet that seems to be made out of recycled gravel.

i skipped work today. i'm getting pretty good at my pretending-to-be-sick voice. in the past i would always e-mail my boss to tell him i wouldn't be in, but i figured a little wheezing sound effect would be much more convincing. wheezy with an H.

one-way tickets to boston are $76. today at starbucks i looked to my right and saw a u-haul going down the road with a huge 'massachusetts' advertisement on its side. starbucks is definitely no cafe pamplona.

i wish i could develop the balls to quit my job. the people really like me. and after two years, they need me. they're so helpless on their own. i keep fantasizing about what i will say when i take over the intercom that final day and bid everyone adieu.

oh, life.