Flappy Friday

Good name for a band: Your Racist Granddad.

Actual name of a band, on a CD I saw in Rasputin Records: Suburban Kids with Biblical Names.

This one time, when I was viciously hideously hung over (some jackass bartender had made our pitcher of Tomazos with the cheapshit New Jersey tequila instead of Sauza Hornitos but charged us for the Cadillac version, and by the way, that fucktard got fired not long after), I was waiting for Mr. Gleemonex to finish shopping in Rasputin Records (he can disappear in a record store the way I can in a bookstore, which is to say, for days without food or drink) and I had to leave the store because all the words all over the place were making me sick (rapid-saccade eye movement is not the hungover bitch's friend). I stood there in the doorway, eyes closed, listing heavily to port, while the usual bums and tourists swarmed around me. And this was after I’d almost horked in the dressing room of Banana Republic. Not the most pleasant Saturday morning ever.

Friend of mine IMs that over in the East Bay, where he lives, they don’t have many bums. Except in Berkeley. To which another party on the IM replies: “Bumkely.” I think it’ll stick, don’t you? That town is a fuckin rathole of the first order.

This one time, we went to a pub in Berkeley before a Pixies show at the Greek Theatre and had a bunch o’ drinks and some very good food. We took the leftovers out with us with the purpose of handing them to a homeless person, as good New Yorkers and Northern Californians are trained to do. Gave mine to an old lady, who promptly screamed at all of us (unintelligible gibberish) and totally spiked the box to the ground, mit force. Alllll rightythen.

If I ever get another tattoo — which I won’t, but if I did — it’ll be the Pixies’ flying “P” logo thing, about the size of a nickel, on the outside of my left heel.

The tat I already have reminds me that yes, everybody was eighteen and stoopid once. Even me, your beloved Gleemonex.