homecoming queen

I left the Navy with high hopes of a ticker tape parade upon my return and mounds of support from my family and friends. I didn't anticipate burning all of my bridges in less than a month and living in the HOJO on the wrong side of town.
I ask if I can come home for the 4th of July holiday, since I have nowhere to stay. "I guess" is the answer. How did I become a burden?
I now see how there can be homeless vets on the street corner with signs begging for money. I could be one of those vets. I can't find work and I'm homeless with no family support. I can't even get the VA to provide medical benefits because 1) I made too much money last year and 2) my paperwork hasn't been processed yet.
So I'm here in the HOJO on the wrong side of town feeling sorry for myself, wanting to run but not knowing where to go. I don't have my passport otherwise I'd be gone - somewhere in South America perhaps. As it is, I've settled for lots of dramamin as it's the only thing that keeps me from whole nights and days of tears. So what if I take too much.

Corporal Punishment in Modern Youth (or at Least Restaurants)

I'm always horrified that people bring their children into public - especially restaurants. If they do choose to bring their bundles of joy, they should be required to also bring a choke chain or lots of rope and a gag ball. At a minimum, a tarp is an order. More than this, I'm amazed that parents are oblivious to the headache they are causing the wait staff and other diners.
Recently, I decided to treat myself to a nice lunch and a glass of chardonnay after a rough morning of job searching and errand running. What I got instead was not a rarity, but quite the specimen: two kids of indeterminable sex running wild in the would be solace of the outdoor dining area. They were all over the place. Climbing on unoccupied seats, screaming at the top of their lungs, refusing to sit down and eat. And who can blame them? The two woman who I assumed were their guardians simply let them loose and yelled across the patio now and then for them to not run out into the street.
I know I'm evil and will probably go to hell for this, but at one point, after one of the two monsters bumped my table, thereby spilling some of my wine, I gave it the look. We continued our staring contest as she sheepishly slithered over to her guardian. I imagine there was a complaint lodged against the "mean lady over there" because the guardian suddenly yelled her apologies to me. I gave her a look that I hoped would communicate my unwillingness to forgive and forget. I hope my look said "wrangle your heathens in, asshole."
Sometime after my soup course, the guardians discovered that their precious midgets had used their crayons to color on surfaces not normally approved for such artistic expression.
"Oh, no. Did you use your crayon on the cement? We don't use crayons on the cement. Chalk is different, it can be washed off, but not crayon." The degree of upset was not to my liking. Here these curtain crawlers had ruined what might have been an enjoyable lunch, but now they were tagging? Inappropriate. They needed a hand slap or at least a good tongue wagging. The guardian made it seem as if this sort of behavior was tolerable.
"We have to clean it. It's our responsibility." The guardian disappeared into the bathroom and reappeared with three paper towels.
"These two are only wet with water. This one is wet and has soap and I'll use it to try and clean the crayon off the cement." A few seconds later: "It doesn't look like this is working, does it? I'll have to tell the manager what we've done and run to the store for some WD40. That removes crayon."
I sat back and waited for the entourage to leave so that I could enjoy my last few sips of wine.
The waiter, manager and a dude of unknown occupation came outside to assess the situation. Apparently, the dude of unknown occupation had 600 hours of experience removing graffiti. I wanted to ask him what he did to get himself that training and wondered if the two departed monsters didn't deserve the same punishment.

waning moon in carmel.

With the full moon waning, so is my lust for life. I smoked the last of the pot that was given to me as a going away present and find myself jonesing for a fix.
Carmel is serene. My brother keeps telling me to walk around town so that I can find myself a "poncho." By that he means a man. I'm no expert on Carmel, but from what I can tell, the men here are not my type. Not that I have a type, per se, but the majority of them seem to be older. Like gray hair old. Plus they have their gray haired ladies in tow, so that usually ruins a good flirt.
Nevertheless, I paid $70 for a pedicure that I ruined less than 10 minutes after I paid for it. I was sauntering up to a bar when it happened and immediately ordered a chardonnay to take the edge off the disappointment. I tried to think of a stiffer drink but I tend to get intimidated by bars as it is. I never know what to order. So I stood by the chardonnay and settled in to listen to a conversation between the woman and man to my right.
The woman was going on about a friend of hers whose daughter recently had a nervous breakdown. She was telling the man about all amounts of lithium and anxiety medication the Dr.s gave her to fight the manic depression. According to the woman, all the girl needed was a good massage. The man agreed.
"It's relaxing and invigorating and removes all sorts of toxins. I recommend them to anybody," she explained to the man.
Again, he agreed. She continued her recount of the breakdown with an example of the girl's manic behavior.
"She wakes up at five in the morning and then, of course, the whole house has to get up because she's banging around in the kitchen making coffee. I mean everybody - even the baby. Then, she goes for a run and comes back so exhausted that she needs a nap," as if this is manic. Sounded to me that her poor internal clock was in need of setting.
The man asked how old she was.
"Oh, twenty four, twenty six. Her parents just put up with it too. Ask me, she'd be just fine without them. Her mother, she's the one. Told me one day, in tears about her parents. How they bought her everything she ever wanted but never loved her."
At this, both the man and the woman looked at each other as if to agree that the woman should just shut up about it.
The man said, "Humph. Plenty of kids have parents who don't love them and don't buy them anything. I mean my father, he was a cool one. I remember bringing beers to my dad on the couch because that's the only intimacy I had with him. Damn shame, too, but you don't hear me crying about it. You'd think all that money would buy her something else to obsess about."
"Oh, you know, some people shouldn't even have kids."
At that point my knife slipped out of my hand and made a huge clattering on my plate. The whole restaurant looked over and the man and woman stopped their conversation to stare. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say that I was sorry for being such a klutz and tried to look as sweet as possible so that no one would curse my name.
"Hey, try to keep it down over there," the man said to me jokingly.
I laughed as if it was the funniest thing I'd ever heard, again, to make me seem fun loving and not at all embarassable.
I paid my bill and as I was exiting the man repeated his joke and wished me a good day. I laughed, thanked him and returned the pleasantries. As I walked out the door the heat of the day hit me like a wall.

prelude to Carmel

Here I sit at a corner cafe in San Jose. To my right at oh, 2 o'clock is a Chevron station; at 8 is a vast expanse of parking lot. Cars rush down the street just past both landmarks. Everyone here is either in a hurry to get somewhere or moving extraordinarily slow: oblivious to those who might be trapped behind them. Everyone here drives foolish cars, those type that are so unnecessary for the climate, altitude and terrain. All the men have goatees and beer bellies and look as though they might be harboring tobacco in their cheeks.
I find it hard to get out here. Where to go? Everywhere is sidewalk and strip malls intersected by roads with fast moving cars.
I pretend I'm abroad on vacation. I listen to the siren wail and interpret it to sound like a European wail. Instead of the irritating RAIL RAIL RAIL, it's EEEAAW EEEAAW EEEAAW! and somehow that's better. I look past the concrete buildings to the foothills and imagine them sudded with vineyards and villas instead of multimillion dollar mansions.
My brother knows people who take crystal methamphetamine. I mean they smoke it. I wonder how they live with themselves knowing they smoke crystal meth. How they can sleep soundly or look at themselves in the mirror: "Everything's OK," they tell themselves and they believe it.
I took my father and brother out to lunch on father's day. I sat next to dad and noticed he kept his distance. Couldn't hardly look at me. Suddenly I worried that I smelled bad.
I want to go to the mountains and do a lot of drugs. Like the Indians do at religious ceremonies. I'm of the impression that drugs are the only true religion. Everything is exposed to you without ego. The futility of logos, the silliness of society and politics - what's really important. It gets your mind straight, you know. It's like you're really living your life then.

For the past week I've steered clear of meat and dairy in an effort to lose some weight. watermelon, salads and grainy bread with no dairy or flour involved have been my main sources of energy. I figure if this sort of diet can work for Africans and peasants in China, it can work for me.
The catalyst to this "better for me" diet was a book entitled, "Skinny Bitch" in which two woman berate you into becoming vegan primarily by pointing out that meat is rotting animal carcass and dairy is what fattens baby cows from one hundred to 500 lbs in their first year. It all makes perfect sense. I admit that I haven't even had a craving for meat but that I have been a little disappointed in the weight loss. 5lbs lost in the first week. I suppose this is good, but I feel strange eating the equivalent of 700 calories per day. Surely this can't be good for me. What if my period stops?

to be continued

He knew he shouldn't park there, but he did anyway. While in the small house gathering essentials for his trip (leather traveling bag: brown; t-shirts, 2 each: white, black gray; amphetamines; scope mouthwash; pictures of XX in various sexual poses - her mouth set in a pout, her eyes half lowered in seduction) he took time to pull aside the ragged curtains to see a meter maid, squeezed like a sausage into her all black uniform, stop her golf cart next to his half size white pick up parked in the fire zone. snapping her gum while she waddled around the truck, he could tell she was having a hard time breathing from the exertion. it was dark out - on a dark street - the kind of neighborhood where you don't keep the lights on inside so passersby can't see in. Two or three blocks away was a busy intersection and he imagined approaching the fat pig while back lit by this light. She wouldn't be able to see his face and he could easily drag her into the small house and kill her. She would scream and struggle, but would become complacent after a few punches to the face and his hands around her neck. Fat pigs like this never know how to use their guns - otherwise they'd be out catchin' the bad guys, right? He needed a gun, too.
She had snot and saliva all over her face from crying and struggling and her hair was mussed and even missing in places. He ordered her to undress so that he could take photos of her in the fashion of XX's pictures. He wanted her to look at him with those half closed bedroom eyes. But the pig was too fat and looked nothing like XX so he decided to cut off her stomach. That make it better, but her arm fat still rolled over her elbows and her butt resembled an orange rind. after a few hours of sculpture work he gave up. the pig was a lost cause.
A ticket was on his windshield when he threw his brown leather travel back into the passenger seat. he grabbed it and put it and the fat pig's gun in the glove box, and flipped a bitch toward the busy intersection two or three blocks away.

in case you ever wonder

i tend to avoid situations where i might seem needy. you might have mistaken this for independence or snobbery. it had everything to do with you and my intense wish to make it work this time. whatever it may be. because honestly, i'm not sure i believe in love. i'm not sure it's possible for two people or anybody for that matter to connect on anything but a superficial level. and that's all my fault. oh well. you'll find someone else: someone more suited to your lifestyle. i'm too tired to have fun, too insecure to splash around in the ocean or host parties on weekends.
i'm just too tired.