YEARS AGO—

I drove down to Los Angeles with my cousin to cover the Electronic Entertainment Expo. My friend Cara was gonna give me $100 to write a little thing about it, and then it’d show up in Paste Magazine, or whatever. I had this childish dream that I would write something so good that somebody would give me a job and then I could do that thing full-time. Of course I never even got into the convention center, never saw a single game, never interviewed a single developer, never even did anything even remotely journalistic, which really was my goal! And so Jack and I just sort of puttered around LA in our decommissioned police car eating pills and mushrooms and smoking cigarettes. It was a mad, bad week . . . and I think about it all the time. It has, in many ways, come to typify my life since then—has become part of my public history!

My god, this was five years ago next month. E3 is June 11th, for shit’s sake! I’ve asked my friend Brandon if he can smuggle me in this year. Maybe I’ll just go for two days or so. If I wrote anything about it, I would do it completely differently, but I would still bring a snuffbox full of drugs with me, because there’s really no way you can take it straight down there. . . .

Anyway! It never went anywhere. I ended up writing some insanely stupid 25k-word piece about not getting in. Brandon, bless his heart, posted it on insertcredit dot com, which was a website I read when I was in high school, (and how I ended up meeting him and Tim and McCune, and on and on—essentially all my Oakland Dudes, et cetera~).

So it went up, and absolutely nothing happened. I think I got maybe two emails about it and that was that. I guess nobody is ever going to pay me to write something again. Oh well.

I once asked my cousin if he read it, and his only response was: “Yeah.” (lol)

Man, I’m just remembering that I flat out ran out of money when I was there. I can’t even remember how I got home. I think someone had to wire me money. See, I was counting on being paid for the article while I was there, which is insane to think about in retrospect. Why did I think that would happen? But yeah, I needed money to gun it back to Oakland in the cop car, and someone felt bad for me and helped me out, which is par for the course.

It wasn’t a fun trip, but I miss the hell out of it. I’m glad I wrote it all down, at any rate. Everything happened as I wrote it, too. Part of me died, and part of me was reborn. It was horrifying and beautiful, but then all noble things are. I sure do miss having someone to get wild with like that. Nowadays it’s just me. . . .

I actually created a DELUXE VERSION to sell on my store, which I guess I’ll put up soon. I just need to prepare myself for nobody to care all over again. Such is life!!!

For now, HERE IT IS:

ELECTRIC HEART, NEON NIGHTMARE:
THE STRANGE, SAD DREAM OF LOS ANGELES;
OR, OH! YOU MISERABLE MUTANTS!

If you do hate yourself enough to read it, would you mind letting me know? I don’t care if you tell me it sucks. I know it sucks. I just . . . wanna know~

I went to the city last night . . . I took BART. I had not really done that in a long time. Alayna, bless her heart, had given me some weed someone else had given her, and which she never wanted in the first place. So I rolled a joint and smoked it on my walk to Ashby Station. It was a little chilly even though the sun was still up, and there was no one outside at all, not a single soul . . . very strange. I was listening to HARVEST for some reason, and feeling a little spooky. It was not an altogether bad way to feel. But as soon as I sat down in the BART car, I felt absolutely fucking miserable and twisted up from whatever godawful strain that shit was. Maybe that’s not it at all, and I was just not primed for it just then. But anytime you tell someone you’re stoned and having a bad time, they say: “Probably just smoked the wrong strain, dude.” It really does make a difference to a point, but holy lord, this was a mindjob. It slanted me right up! There was a lot of grim madness boiling over in my head, and there would have been whether or I’d gotten spooked up or not, though hell, it sure did amplify the hell out of it. I had to walk it off big time when I got to Powell Station, which smelled like dog shit and sewage, and on and on. And I kept walking it off as I took Hyde up to Geary feeling fucked out, maybe never to feel any other way. But of course it subsides. You never think it will but it does. I still have half the thing in my pocket. Maybe I’ll lie down and smoke this thing and WORK THROUGH SOME STUFF in my head soon. Maybe not! Sweet Jesus, it really did me in good. I spent the entire day on the couch doing very little. I would fall asleep and then wake up again, walk around my yard a little, and so on, and then go back to the couch. Finally I am sitting down at my desk in my room, my mind still reeling from this godawful ghost grass, and whatever the hell else, and I’m writing an email to this girl I know in London who, holy god, I would give just about anything to be in the same room with right now. Yeah. . . .

this is the most terrifying series of text messages i’ve ever gotten in my life

i drove to the city last night to go to my friend gayle snailworth’s little movie premiere on van ness

it was cute

she had a big party at her house afterwards and i got drunk and told everyone some creepy stories about my brother

and laura and i danced around in the living room while joey was falling asleep on the couch lol

Well: I got my chemicals back. It took me about a week but they have been delivered unto me, though god only knows why or how. . . .

It may have been the letter from London that perked me up . . . the siren song . . . and the many fine emails I have exchanged with my friends all week. What the hell. I knew it would come back to me, at least most of it. I say this with confidence because I have lived through countless eras of being wholly devoid of my chemicals for long stretches of time—have seen some of them vanish from my brain, never to return. I told you I would prevail. I’m holding this letter in my hand and, by god, it really is something else. The envelope has little stars and hearts all over it, and is addressed to “Mr. STARSAILOR”. . . .

Why have I not listed my PO box on here? I really ought to. I had one in Portland and people sent me letters all the time. It sure was a good ol time. One time this girl in Berkeley wrote me a letter, and I wrote her back, except I used my actual home address on the envelope. And, wouldn’t you know it, she replied by shoving the envelope into my door. As in, she came to my home. Kerwin and I were in the living room with a fire going, and it was snowing outside a little, and then we heard this sound . . . the sound of an envelope being shoved into a door! We opened the door and this person was nowhere to be found. She was great. She had real nice handwriting, and she sent me a $20 bill when Dante was sick. When I moved back to Oakland, she sent me a book of Gustave Doré’s DIVINE COMEDY etchings, which I have always loved. Where’d you go? I think you moved to Berlin. Well, it was an interesting back and forth. I like that sort of thing.

Oh look! Here’s her handwriting:

Los Angeles, man. It turned me into a mess. Truth is, I had a good time there. But that pervasive sadness! of that place! It is unshakeable. All these many years later and I am not immune to it. Maybe no one is. Or maybe if you are, something is wrong with you. Don’t misunderstand me: something is deeply wrong with me, too. It’s just that LA has a way of getting into me, bone-deep and all that, and the only thing I can do is walk it off. It is both a reminder to me that all those days I lived long ago are over now, and that something new and hideous lives on in its place. That has always been the case, but it is no less horrifying to me now as it was five years ago. And really, since my perception of this sea change has grown more complex, such that I can see the spectrum of the thing from beginning to end all at once, and feeling the glide across the desert of time more potently than I had before, it affects me and hurts me more by orders of magnitude. I’m speaking gibberish I know. I’m clumsily trying to apply words to something abstract and not altogether interesting that I routinely experience. Oh well. I tried. What is it? I am mourning the ephemeral nature of all things. At that very moment when I see my phantom past take shape behind me, I know I have traversed too far down the tunnel to experience it the way I had before. Once you know what something is, you can’t have it anymore. I am envious of my own former mindsets, if only because I didn’t understand so many things that today I find myself bored with . . . like I’m watching the movie for the hundredth time. I can see the arc of a thing shining plain . . . I don’t even need to see an experience to completion to know all the possible outcomes. Whatever the ending is, you’re still going to be human when all is said and done. There is a sadness there to me.

I still love that stupid place. Maybe I’ll put up some more pictures soon. Maybe not! I went all over the place. I did a lot of bowling, don’t you know. I was on a team when I was a kid—a team called THE SHOOTING STARS. I had not played much since that, but I remembered everything and I was pretty good. My god, they have some good bowling alleys in LA. You’ve got to at least give them that.

And now, on my desk, a stamp with the Queen’s head on it, and:

“I sang my siren song and & you came to me . . . . . I am thinking of you & how similar I feel we are. . . .”

Man, yeah. Little stars and hearts right back to you, lady.

I’m OK. I have my precious chemicals and someone on the other end. I need to write more though. It’s killing me. I’ve got to go to the city tomorrow night to see my friend’s new apartment . . . it’s right across the street from Laura Rokas’ place . . . but before I go I’ll do a whole lot of writing. I need a gig, man. I need someone to pay me to write something, even if it’s just my expenses! Maybe I’ll talk to Sheffield about it. That guy has gotten me stuff in the past.

(lol)

Nurse, I trust you . . . go ahead and put on that song that makes you feel lonely.

invitations to THE RESURRECTION OF KERMIT THE FROG go out next week . . . if you want one, just email me

splendorr: i got your email with your address, so yours is first to go out <3

i’m real excited

i hired my friend lacey as a pagan ceremony consultant lol