Guns N'Roses

I went to bed early last night. Oh the wild life I lead. As I'm snoozing, I missed my landline phone ringing (this is bizarre - I'm one of those light sleepers) but did awaken to S calling me on my cell which I had forgotten to turn off on my nightstand. I answer to hear this: "It's Axl! He's in white spandex shorts and a mesh shirt and he's singing Nightrain!" to which I replied, "Huh?" and she says "I turned on PBS and there they are, back in the day!" and I said, "Huh?" and yawned and she said "and Duff, and Izzy, and Slash with his hat? Remember his hat?" and I said, "I listened to Nightrain today" and she laughed and said, "You did?" and I said "What about Steve the drummer?" and she said,"I don't know if he was there or not" and I said, "Didn't he die?" and she goes, "I don't know!"

This reminded me then of an interview I saw with Steve, the original drummer, on TV a few years back, in which he showed quite clearly to the entire viewing world of VH1 that he had indeed fried his brain. (He had trouble speaking.) He said that while he was famous he had a lot of friends, but after he left the band, all of his "friends" left too, leaving him with a terrible drug addiction and complete lonlieness. They also managed to take the money he had made somehow, so he was left broke as well. I felt really sorry for him (still do.) The classic story of fair-weather and opportunistic "friends." Where ever you may be Steven Adler, I hope you're doing okay and have found real friends. And that you're not dead.

So to continue with S and my conversation, she told me I must tell her the story of ants on stilts. Something I had been alluding to all week in our emails...'remind me to tell you the story of the ants on stilts!' Now that I've built it up I'm sure she'll be vastly disappointed.

Last week I was walking to the grocery store on Hollywood and Western. I walked past the XXX place next door to the Thai place with the giant hot dog on the roof that the Thai owners still haven't removed since they opened their restaurant up. In front of the XXX joint was a man leaning in the doorway, facing the street. He was watching me with a kind of dumb stare and deep in the midst of PMS that I was in at the time, it irked me beyond words. So I passed him and as I did looked back at him with his stupid slack stare at my tits and said, "HEY PAL, WHY DON'T YOU TAKE A PICTURE?" Then I sort of felt sorry for him, even after he gave me a really obnoxious grin. Here's a guy that spends a lot of his time (just my observation of his overall, general sleaziness) at a place where women gyrate, among other things, behind a glass partition and pretend they're getting off so this moron can watch and jack off and fantasize he's actually with one of them. It's really sad to me. Does he have a wife? Does he think women exist to serve his needs, no matter what they might be? Or is there literally no thought about it at all? He just gets the urge, wanders into a place such as that, and thinks of nothing but must get off now. Sort of like a zombie, arms outstretched, hobbling toward the women in stripper heels and G-strings, must get off now...

Yeah, it's sad. I wonder about people and invest way too much thought in them. Then I end up writing about them. And no one really cares about people like that. Or is everyone like that? Does everyone go to XXX places? I don't. I find them interesting, the stories they tell of the people that frequent them. But not everyone is a writer of things and people I find interesting to write about. Well damn, that turned into a rather circuitous paragraph...

I've been considering lately getting my nose pierced. I've actually been thinking of it for several years now. Many years, actually. Just never actually did it. Hmm.

Alrighty-then, I suppose I'll put this weary blog entry out of its misery and actually do something useful today. I should call B and see if he wants to do something tonight, but I have a feeling I won't be making that call. But I will be calling S and telling her about the ants on stilts.