scruffy's gonna die the way he lived.

When prepping a chicken breast for consumption, it is completely essential to remove the silverskin.

If I may immediately retract that statement, it is not essential- it is, rather, essential to me. Someone with less discriminating cooking practices (read; someone who is not insane) is generally comfortable unwrapping the breast and tossing it onto a grill.

I, however, need to remove any knotty bit of gristle, any lingering fat, and most importantly the tough, elastic connective tissue known as "silverskin."

Silverskin is a membrane composed mostly of elastin, and it generally resides on top of certain beef cuts. Frustratingly, it is embedded deep within the chicken breast, forcing me to make key incisions and then pull/fillet it out as best I can.

The reason I do this is because as elastin cooks, it shrinks. It becomes hard and tough- knotted. It is disgusting. Biting into a bit of it can legitimately ruin a meal for me. Hence the near-obsessive dedication to removing it.

How does this affect you? It probably doesn't. But if I'm ever cooking for you, don't be surprised if the chicken takes twice as long as it usually does. This is MY flaw, but please don't judge me harshly for it.

A similar comparison can be drawn from my hatred of onions. If I bite into one, my day is essentially ruined. I suspect there is a chemical reaction that occurs, but onions are near inedible. That is not to say I dislike eating them-- no. They border on INEDIBLE. Like how a big rock is inedible, or a fart is inedible. Sometimes I cannot bring my body to accept an onion.

So this frustrates people who cook for me, or go to restaurants with me, or farm onions with me. They don't understand, and say things like, "they're just onions. Why do you have to be so finicky? Can't you just pick them off?"

My reply is this: No, I can't just pick them off. I'm sorry that this inconveniences you. But while my friends are forced to "deal" with my toddler-ish eating habits, I beseech them to place themselves in my shoes. EVERY meal is like this for me. It sucks. If I could flip a switch to make me love, or even tolerate onions, I would absolutely do it. I didn't ask for this.

No matter how long you wait for me to prepare that chicken, or no matter how many times you have to secretly suspect the chefs of spitting in our food because I sent it back, keep this in mind: This is ONE meal for you. ALL of my meals are like this.

Here's where things get relevant. The next time you are going to bitch about something people cannot help, put yourself in their shoes. "God, Bill's voice is so annoying. I hate hearing him talk." Bill has to use that voice in every conversation he has.

And the fat guy is fat all day.
The smelly dude drives everyone away.


There are things your friends do that probably irritate the shit out of you, but you gotta get past that. At the end of the day, it's okay that people eat with their mouth open. It's okay that they take forever to shop for clothes, or they have to wash their hands way too much. It's okay that they're bad with directions or they're always a few minutes late. Think about how many other people they're putting off with that?

The best thing about being someone's friend is that with that title, you are accepting them despite their faults. You don't have to censor yourself around your friends.

That's pretty nice.

John goes to the Casbah part one: Ross Jarman's grassroots campaign for a better tomorrow.

The Casbah is a San Diego/scene icon. "world famous," goes the cliche. I'd never been there before but I heard good things.

But first- the beginning.

I was surfing for porn at 1:20AM and I had Conan on in the background. I was also in a drug induced stupor but that is neither here nor there. (two more weeks on this stuff for what it's worth.)

I was doing my best to focus on my google search for "big boobies" but an overpowering english accent stole my attention for a moment.

The band, whoever they were, finished their song and Conan said "The Cribs, everyone! Thankyougoodnight."

I was charmed enough to stop my current search and instead I sampled some of their music. Very catchy stuff. Wikipedia said that they're a band of brothers from Wakefield, England. Myspace said they're on tour. And they would be in San Diego on Monday the 23rd.

An hour later I had tickets.

Me and Kevin went, and inadvertently showed up on time.

The Casbah struck me as unusually small, and it was completely empty as the doors opened. We got a game of pool in and still no one showed up for the first band. The Hugs eeked out about five songs, and appeared to be around 15 or 16 years old. They were short one member, as he was kicked out of the band for stealing equipment.

After the Hugs left the stage, some roadies got up and started tweaking the gear and practicing music. Some of them were playing really well. It then occurs to us that the "lead roadie" is actually Sean Tillmann of Sean Na Na, and the rest of the roadies are his band. These guys are probably confused for roadies a good deal. Their first song is awesome, but the rest are sort of murky due to the way the sound technician was handling things. Sean expressed his dissapointment in the sound on numerous occasions.

After Sean Na Na plays, I decide to go pick up a Cribs t-shirt. I go up to the table and I ask the dude selling shirts if I can buy a white one. He gives me a surprised "sure" as if I'm the first person in the history of shirts to ask for a white one. The guy on his left says, "Hi. I'm Ross." I shake his hand and then I realize. "Oh shit. I say. Hi!" Ross is the youngest brother of the group, and plays drums for The Cribs. Gary Jarman and twin brother Ryan play Bass and Guitar, respectively.

"At the risk of sounding cheesey," I can't believe I'm prefacing this statement out loud, "would you sign this?"

Ross says sure, and not only that, he rounds up the rest of the band and they all sign it too. I have a moment to bullshit with them about nonsense. I'd be a horrible interviewer because I'm not really interested in talking about music.

John: How do you like being a twin?
Ryan: It's not bad. Do you have one?
John: Nope.
Ryan: How do you like that?
John: It's good.

(Ryan and Gary leave for a moment.)

John: Did you guys get to hang out with Conan?
Ross: Yeah, we got to meet him for a bit.
John: What was that like?
Ross: He's massive, first off. (Ross raises his hand high above his head.)
John: I heard like seven feet.
Ross: Yeah, and he's quite wide. And he wears a lot of makeup.
John: Oh yeah, you've gotta, with the HD stuff and what not, you know It's sweeping the... *trails off.*

We discuss The Streets, cockney rhyming slang, roadies and etc. Ross shakes my hand and goes to set up his gear.

I come back to my seat (we had a bar table right in front of the stage) and I show Kevin my shirt. These guys just made a fan for life by taking the smallest bit of time out to talk to me. I hope they blow up. In the exposure sense, not the explosive sense.

Something interesting: When you have twin brothers who are both doing vocals, you can create some really bizzare sounds. It's like having one extremely talented lead singer. They have the exact same voice- I wouldn't have guessed that it would work so well. It sounds like one guy harmonizing with himself.

The Cribs knocked over their gear several times during the show. Mics and cymbals and other equipment hit the floor on various occasions, and the band played right through it. Their loyal roadie did his best to keep things standing up.

They played really well and the crowd definitely got into it towards the end. They finished by creating tons of feedback and walking off stage. Ryan, the lead gutiarist, literally ran out the door and wasn't seen again.


All in all it was a great show, and I was really impressed by the band. I like how the Casbah works- the bands are having drinks right next to you before they perform. It's a very Cheers-esque thing. They're just normal people that happen to be playing some music.

My ears are still ringing from the feedback.

Go listen to the cribs.

http://www.myspace.com/thecribs

the kind of kid who jerked off to the idea of falling in love.

Time flies, man. It totally flies.


It's fast and slow at the same time. The days seem long. The shit I did this morning seems like I did it last year. At the same time, I can't believe how often it's Friday. It seems like my weeks are full of Fridays. Maybe it's because I'm not in school right now and I'm caught in a prescription daze... I don't know.

I'm feeling really good.

My shitty facial hair is back. It's like the worst of both worlds. My facial hair grows REALLY FAST, so I have to shave all the time. At the same time, it's very patchy. Like I've got some crazy skin disease or I'm 14.

So it's ugly as hell AND it's high maintainence. SWEET!

You're not gonna recognize me.


Here's something I want you to think about. Post your answers if you have them.

Tomorrow, you wake up, and it's September 10, 2001. You know everything you know RIGHT NOW, but nothing else.

So maybe you don't know the terrorist's names, or even the flight number. But you know about the planes.

How do you alert the proper authorities without sounding crazy? By preventing 9/11, are you going to cause an even deadlier attack? If it never happens, then the suicide bombers are still alive. What do they do then? Is your evidence broadcasted nationwide?

If it happens anyway, do you go to jail for conspiracy? Told you so?


This is frustrating to me. I don't know what I would do. Before 9/11, we really hadn't paid much mind to an outside attack. Even the Oklahoma City bombing was fading in our minds by the time 2001 rolled around.

If I ever wake up and it's 2001, I might be fucked. Plus I'll still have BAD hair. I got a haircut today, and I like it. Next week I will have new eyes too.

I was hit by a car last week, while in my car. I feel fine, but I'm also pretty medicated. And my doctor says I can't sign anything for a month (insurance) because some chronic muscle spasms could develop in time. That would suck.

I want you to check out a band called The Cribs. Some of the best music I've heard in a while. But also keep in mind that I'm basically content at the moment and maybe that's what's appealing about the upbeat style of music they produce.

If you're going to go to a game where Barry Bonds has a chance of hitting homer no. 755 or 756, please bring a baseball with you. If you are lucky enough to get a hold of one of the lucky baseballs, throw the one you brought back into the field.

This will show that you hate steroids or Barry Bonds, and it will also prevent you from being stabbed to death in the stadium's parking lot over the ball. They have serial numbers printed on the inside; you can verify this later, once you're safe.

So yeah. If you're going back in time or catching a million dollar baseball, remember the stuff I posted tonight.





You find this clarity right after you're not an animal anymore. For about 15 seconds. And sometimes you use it to call out to your angel.



Then you hang up before she can answer.

Another Cover Song, you heard it here first.

http://trueslide.com/songs/Find%20Me%20Next%20To%20You.mp3

Right click on that, then save it.

This is a cover of a song by this guy...

http://youtube.com/watch?v=plsBXmxwDaE

See if you like what I did with it. Let me know. Thanks.

this is funny if you saw it; reading it as text- not that funny.

ACT 2 Dave isn’t one to gossip; not one to spread rumors, but he heard a story this morning that shocked him.

Dave phones the intern Samantha upstairs to have her tell her story. Samantha corrects Dave on two points: She is not an intern, but a staffer for the past 7 years; and her name is Amanda, not Samantha.

Amanda went to the Maury Povich show recently.

It took her ten years to get tickets. It’s a very popular program.

Amanda went to the taping and during the commercial break, Maury came up to Amanda and barked, “Hey, Peggy, you got $20?” Amanda replied, “I do have $20 but my name is not Peggy.”

Maury was livid and barked again, “I don’t care if your name is Helen Reddy, I want you to go out and buy me a pack of cigarettes!” Amanda snapped back at him, “Why don’t you get your own cigarettes?!”

Things got ugly. And then some Air Force dudes bust in and tasered Maury.

falling from space. the altimeter will save your life.

I want the kind of happiness I feel guilty about later.


That 'wrong' shit. That sickness.

Maybe I'm too high on this and that to even tell the difference right now. Check this out.


They say misery loves company, but it's not true. Miserable people don't love anything.

It should say "weakness" loves company. Weakness loves to share in weakness because it legitimizes weakness.

It feels really good to a) identify or b) create a problem, and then accept it. It makes me feel human. It's like coming to terms with your flaws. You get over the notion of being perfect (and all the stress that comes with pursuing perfection) and you just feel awesome.

Legitimizing weakness is what being a person is all about.


You and your friends can have all sorts of varied strengths. I'm sure that in your group of friends, you've got that book-smart guy. And you've got the guy you KNOW can count on to go to the gym with you. You've got a guy who gets you drugs and you've got a guy (or girl) who'll take care of you when you get too drunk. (Thank you.) You've got the guy who's gonna be your wingman. These are all potentially different people, but I'd bet you guys share in the same "weaknesses" every time.

I bet you and all those guys never really know where they stand with the girl in their life. I'll bet that you and all of them aren't sure where you're gonna be in five years, and you don't know what you'd do if you had to go back in time and prevent a disaster without seeming crazy.

I bet you and all your friends made fun of that fat kid, and maybe you felt bad about it later.



Am I the only person who smiles when they think, "This is wrong?"


Someone has a ridiculous and hillarious accent. And they don't speak English well enough to verbs the place in the right locations. (yes that was intentional.)

So you and your friend overhear him/her. Who's gonna laugh first? The answer is irrelevant, because you BOTH find it funny, and the moment one of you cracks, the other one will too. You've just made a bond out something "messed up."

Could this be out of line?


Yes. And there's nothing wrong with that.

part three: john the gorilla: the long hard never again

11:38.



I am at work and I am still drunk. Doubtless.



For real, I'm never going to finish the Vegas story unless I do it now, as a proper segue into last night.



It's Saturday and I'm in vegas and we're at a breakfast buffet. Every hotel feeds you in buffet form, whether you're at the Venetian or Lucky Louie's Bad Times Casino. I am in "line" behind a very scary cholo man and I think of Rebeca. He glances over at me while he fishes for eggs, and asks, "Where did you get that scar?"



There are people who have known me for months-- years, even, without asking this.



He catches me off guard and the response is kneejerk. "Gunfight," I tell him.



He nods approvingly and moves on. Breakfast is decent, not great. They have yogurt and I fill up on that. There is no better feeling in the world than just being completely overflowing from the inside, chock full of dairy products. It's how an IED must feel. A pipe bomb. Something simple, poorly made and deadly-- that's me, when I'm full of yogurt.



I go to the pool for a long time. 122 degrees in vegas. I fall asleep on my back, so I am now two distinct shades of tan with my shirt off. I am told that this drives the ladies crazy. Two-tone John is on the prowl; watch yourself.



We go to the family reunion thing. I am still a deranged fuckmonster, but I resist the urge to hit on my distant cousins. I sing some karaoke songs. I hit on the bartendress. Huge, overflowing, jiggling personality on that girl. I get drunk. Typing that, I want to throw up because I am drunk right now.



I tour vegas with some of my older cousins. I start gambling again. There is no poetry here; I lost everything. All my profits from the day before, the saved 200, everything. It's gone. I feel like a loser; mostly cause I lost over and over. Losers lose.



I go to sleep a broken man. I look like this picture. I hate las vegas. Forever.



I go home the next day. I'm all out of embellishments.

---



Last night I'm in PB and my phone rings at around 11:00. Next thing I know, I'm at SDSU drinking with my coworkers. I drink too much, too fast. Story of my life. I smoked all of Tina's cigarettes. Nice. I wake up mostly naked on a couch that isn't in the same house that I was drinking at. This was startling but not surprising. If there's a difference.



I am drunk at work now. Probably. I want to throw up. I am full of regret and alcohol. Which may be my next CD title.



The upside is that I recorded a sick version of All Choked Up into my keyboard this morning. That should sound good.

The hardening pt. II: Las Vegas: John the Thrilla

insert text here

the new hardness: part one of three: John the killa

sometimes you get the flash just right.




In the last week or so, I've been overcome with this sense of carelessness. Maybe care-free is the better word, but I'm hardly pulling any punches.

down, downforward, forward, fierce.

it's not a short fuse. A short temper. Short man syndrome. It's not any of those, but I've been pretty damned straightforward lately.

It's no coincidence, I'm sure, that I've been living at home for a week.

Without any responsibility, I've sort of regressed. I'm a badass 14 year old kid and I'm growing pubes and my voice is changing. What a tough guy.


for reals though, it's like I don't care what people think anymore. Not as much. This isn't a teenage rebellion thing. I'm not faking it, I'm just kind of over it.

living at home is different now. I've been living on my own for a very long time. I was worried about going back, but things are, as I said before, different.

And it's not home that changed, it's me. I'm not stressed anymore. You pay rent and handle roommates and scrounge for food long enough and mom and dad's house seems pretty cool. I'm not worried about what people will think of me when I tell them I live at home. I know I'm eating well. I know I'm not paying any rent. My roommates aren't telling me to do any dishes. And I'm not doing any, because other people are doing them. And cleaning the house. And cooking me dinner.

Girls? Please. Like I was having so many girls over last semester anyway. They're right; guy's rooms do smell. Now mine doesn't, cause my mom has good smelling things all over the house and it's well ventilated.



It's working for me, and it's sort of spilled over into my day-to-day. I feel lighter. I feel like a jerk. Like I'm getting away with things.





There's nothing sadder than a nice guy telling himself he's not one. I don't feel that way though. Kindness isn't weakness, etc etc. Right now, though, I feel like nails.




If you never tell a lie, you don't have to remember anything. Ever. You can make mistakes and fix them later, but as long as you never get caught in a lie, you'll be credible forever.



I wasn't a serial liar before, but I feel like a real straight shooter right now.




This is a good time to talk to me. You'll get something abrupt and abrasive and genuine and we'll eat snacks and marvel at what it's like to tell the truth.














This thing I'm building... man, I've got no idea.

I'm awake? I should never be awake...

I'm only human when I'm sleeping.


This is it. This is the gap.

I'm going to finish my las vegas story sometime soon, but I can't do it right now. I'm too demoralized.

We're not necessarily going to die though. What? Where am I?


Anyway, here's what I'm getting at.



Maybe I'd do better for myself if I didn't force adventure where there isn't any. I'm going to write the rest of this, and I'm going to do it honestly. Friday was eventful but no one cares about the car ride, no matter how many big words I throw into the description.


Goodnight and good luck.

John goes to Las Vegas; cries blood.

PART ONE



I've only got so much time before I don't want to write anything at all. This is precious. Let's go.







Friday. Wake up way too early and it's me and the family in a GMC Yukon Denali headed to Las Vegas. The maiden voyage, again. 21 in vegas. But I'm with my family. Family reunion in Las Vegas. "Oxymoron" isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. I don't think about it at the time, but the words family and Vegas don't belong in the same sentence.




Family and Las Vegas don't even belong on the same planet.




It's just me and my family. This is a reunion and I'm not slinking into a club alone. So this is going to be a drinking and gambling trip. I've got money in the bank, money on my credit card, but none in my wallet. We're all pissed off. I've been living at home for one week now and things have been going smooth. I can't hide in a car, though, even one as big as a Yukon. Conversation turns frustrating. I claw at the window but the AC is on so I give up and start to read Choke.





We drive and my dad answers his phone. My uncle tells him that he's already at the hotel. And four people were just shot. Beginner's luck doesn't hold up too well against a rifle and a psychopath. I hope that the situation is over by the time we get there.











I'm reading Choke and my mom is talking to me. I can't tell if it's the book or my mom or both but I'm getting pretty pissed. The main character's life is basically ruined by his mom. That's not a spoiler, it's on the back cover. Maybe the book was behind it, but know that I was pissed. Regardless, I keep it mostly bottled up and I plea for her to SHUT UP. I'm trying to read. Please just stop talking.










Then it explodes-- A blood vessel in my left eye explodes and I am sure that this weekend is going to be awesome.








I won't bring it up again, but Choke is outstanding. A very fast read for 300 pages- hard to put down. My rage continues until we check into our hotel. The blood has since been mopped up and no one mentions anything about a shooter. I see it on the news later.




We head up to the 11th floor to find our room. 1123 opens properly, because our magnetic key cards are programmed to open Room 1123.




I didn't know what to expect in this suite. Two beds. A window, for sure. A couch if I'm lucky, and a large CRT television. Some doofy small remote and maybe... black sheets? White sheets? Who knows.













What I did NOT expect was a naked fat white man. And his exceedingly fat black hooker.













And like the proverbial deer in headlights, I couldn't shut the door. He got up and sprung for me, and I pulled it shut as fast as I could. The door didn't open again.



We got a bigger room comped, which was nice. My mom wanted to sue the hotel. She didn't even see anything, but this is America and etc. I tell her to shut up. I need to chill out on my mom, but Vegas is hot, and I'm with my family, and I'm fairly well pissed off.



We tour the place a bit, and I break off to gamble. I don't have any cash on me, and my dad gives me some money to play with. I turn $100 into $250 very quickly. I call him and he congratulates me. I pocket the profits and hit another table. I'm playing roulette exclusively. I turn $20 into $160 more and I call my dad again. From gambling alone, I'm up over $200. If you count my dad's money as a gift, I'm up over $300.















I take a break and treat my brother to some arcade games. This picture is unposed. Posed he looks normal. The rest of the time, this is what he looks like. He makes ugly faces and ugly noises and pretty much does his best to annoy me. He never sees the punches coming, because I am fucking lightning.





Regardless, he appreceates the gesture and I stick $200 in the hotel safe so I cannot lose it.





I gamble more later and it hits me.





See the trip to Chowchilla for reference, but after Rosarito I will never be the same. The moment I'm not in San Diego... the moment I'm in a new location, all I wanna do is fuck everything in sight. The hotel is full of cougars. Smoke-damaged shells of women who were gorgeous 10 years ago. Gravity-ravaged avatars of the girls most men would have killed themselves over 20 years ago.




There are college girls around too, but I have no wingman and they travel in herds.



Without a second dude, I'm just a creepy 14 year old drunk guy.



I love cougars but I have no idea how to talk to them. I feel like anything I could possibly reference will be new and scary to them. iPhone? Some of these chicks probably are still trying to figure out cordless phones. So I'm limited to light banter and the shit they feed me. Everyone tells me I look so young. Cougars love that.




What the fuck am I thinking though? In my hotel room right now, is my brother and my mom. It's like I'm living at home, except I'm on the road. And I'm not gonna get to bone any of these milfs anyways- they're out here with their dudes, just talking to me to make some old bald white man jealous.



A dude covered in tattoos sits down next to me and asks if he can take the roulette seat next to his girlfriend. I cash out.



Wandering around, I notice that old dudes are full of advice. They are either gay or lonely, but they are happy to be talking to someone and seem knowledgable. One dude wanted to buy me a beer, and I declined. I said I wanted to stay focused, but in reality, I just wanted to stay not man-raped.



Thank god I stashed those two bills. With my change I win $500 more or so, and I lose it all. At the peak of my insanity, I placed a $200 bet on black.





There's a scene... Wesley Snipes looks right into the camera and says, "Always bet on black."





Never bet on black. I lost the bet and everything else. I was down to nothing but the $200 in my hotel room. Thank god I stashed those two bills. Still up.

I got back up to the hotel room and realized how quickly I spent $500. I felt like shit. If it had been cash in my hands, I would never have spent it. But a bright little coin that says 100 on it is easy to throw down. My mom and dad tell me its fine. It's vegas and that's what happens. And I'm still up $200.







I think to myself, "The next couple dates I go on are comped by Las Vegas." That's nice.





I go to bed. The reunion is the next day.