They hung him on a cross for me

So many things to write about, it’s always simply a question of where to start.

The fun shit, or the rest?

Organization has never been one of my strong suits.

San Jose is a soulless pit. Let’s start there. This weekend we ventured forth into the seedy underbelly of the Bay Area, led by… who knows. Someone other than me, obviously. San Jose is home to some of the most worthless and despicable humans in the West, a greasy and crowded sty like LA without any of the money or class. It’s not simply ghetto, there’s a subtle and important distinction between San Jose and ghetto. I can handle ghetto. In fact I thrive in ghetto. Gold teef and gas station dancing, Buicks with rims and XXXXL polo shirts, that’s all acceptable. The whistle goes woo. That’s more than acceptable, that’s home. San Jose has just a smidgen of faux ghetto, and that’s the nicest thing I can say about it. SJ is simply trash. Scummy fat people of all races and creeds seem to congregate there, slaving away at their meaningless lives and depressing the fuck out of me with little or no effort. The peninsula is bad enough, and all the shit that can’t hack it in Burlingame and Millbrae just runs downhill into Santa Clara county.

The club lets out, and the trash cops are already lined up out front to regulate on the trash people tossed on to the sidewalk by the trash bouncers. Two vicious, screaming Mexican chicks explode into a fight three feet from me, and are immediately wrestled apart by the trashy po. One slaps a cop, and it’s all down hill from there. The crowd, no not crowd, the mob screeches and howls as she’s slammed across the hood of a patrol car by two trash pigs while a third confronts the bystanders, clicking his tazer, threatening. A mid-thirties black guy, yelling at the cops and cheering on the cat fights, carries a suspiciously young looking and wasted Filipino girl towards his lowered purple Rav 4, undoubtedly taking her and her fake ID home for the night. A pack of gap-sporting Chico State white boys laughs much too loud as the cops accost the snarling Mexibitch, but get suddenly quiet and demure as the SJ state basketball starters exit the club into their midst, terrifying the honkeys with their height and ethnicity. Aging, drunken secretaries break their Ross Dress4Less heels in the light rail tracks as the short, hateful cops shove them into the street. A little asian dude barfs 30 bucks worth of tequila sunrise into an ashtray. And then there’s me, in the middle of it all.

Fuck the south bay.

I just returned from a night in The City with a bunch of people I met about a year ago, through the infamous Mizz Cheng. I haven’t seen any of them since the now-legendary Occidental Party, but it appears very little has changed. Good kids, the lot of them. Definitely living the life out there, all fancy restaurants and hip-hop shows and Pac Heights apartments. Not necessarily my crowd, but definitely a scene I can appreciate, if only from afar. My complete inability to meet new people or make small-talk was in full effect, despite several drinks, and so the night went by slowly. I’m not an unreasonable person; I’ve even been known to be likable on occasion, but rarely on the first encounter. These kids are sweethearts, but I still spent most of the night looming quietly.

Deprived of context, I’m just a weird mean bastard.

Barted home alone, watching the East Bay night roll by with my head tipped against the window.


The downward spiral continues.

Life alone continues to take its toll. I haunt the streets of east Hayward each night, wasting time and avoiding life. I draw the curtains and climb into a book. I stay up late. Every morning I wake up a little paler and a little meaner. Who knows how deep this hole goes.


Despite touring San Francisco several times at three bucks a gallon, the househunt continues. One distinct possibility has arisen, and with a little luck and a forged credit report or two, J-sauce and I will soon have a place to call our own. The old Japanese landlord assumed we were husband and wife, strangely. If believing that makes him give us the place, then we’re the god damn pinnacle of marital bliss. Sure I’ll take out the trash, honey. Let’s go to Home Depot tomorrow. King of Queens is such a funny show, the Mrs. and I watch it every night.

Outer Sunset isn’t a bad area, and I could see myself building a reasonable life there. The search will continue, however, just in case the spot doesn’t come through. I read Craigslist like religiously, waiting, hoping. Anything, to get the hell out of here.

Day in and day out, HST and Spider Jerusalem stare back at me from my monitors, asking me when I’m gonna do something with myself. Judgmental motherfuckers.

You ever have one of those days, when you get home from a barbecue in Los Altos with a headache like the wrath of god and pass out on the couch? You wake up at three AM, halfway through the Shawshank Redemption on TBS, better known as the All-Shawshank-Redemption-Channel, disoriented and stiff? You’re surrounded by empty Pepsi Twist cans and Tecate bottles, and you can still taste the four Excedrin PMs gelcaps you chewed up at sunset? You wonder where your youth and your talent went, how you missed your glory days without actually noticing them?

Yeah, me too.


My “wife” wins quote of the night contest with this little gem.

“All these people are really beautiful, for the Bay Area…”



Women continue to make no sense.


Explain this to me, and when I say ‘explain this to me’ I don’t mean that rhetorically, I mean seriously justify this shit to me, because I’m at a loss.

When a man looks at a woman, he sees things, judges things. He sees hips and eyes and grace. He sees kindness and intelligence and confidence.

When a woman looks at a man, she sees a job and a wardrobe, the color of their future childrens’ eyes, the drapes she’ll buy for their house with his paycheck.

Understand first that I speak not out of bitterness, but out of confusion. Every day more of my friends confess their engagement to me, admitting that they’re ready to take that first step towards death and a meaningless life. Somewhere along the line my tolerance for this stuff burned out 100%, and although the ferocity has wained, the confusion has not. I’m certainly not here to defend the male race, for my crimes are few and I’m not willing to stand trial for the sins of every shallow idiot fratboy that’s ever lived.

Nevertheless, I am completely mystified that a woman selects a man not based on his character or attributes, but on his appeal as an accessory package. Who he knows and what he drives and where he works and how he dresses.


I’ve been fed several lines of bullshit about a woman’s biological imperative blah blah hunter/gatherer societal instinct blah blah whatever, but the ridiculousness of it all still stands, and I have yet to hear a reasonable justification for the phenomenon.

This comes to light not because I was unaware of this malady before, but because it wasn’t until recently that I realized how completely pervasive it is. I hope I’ve articulated my lack of understanding without sounding too much like an asshole. At least not any more than normal.


All the rest of the shit banging around in my head lately, besides the normal assortment of unmentionable psychoses and rap lyrics, is ethereal. Theoretical. Existential. Nameless bitterness, desperate plots and petty vengeance. There’s always a certain amount of truth amidst all these lies, which is what spooks me I think.

Maybe it’s all true.

That I hurt more than I help.
That I destroy more than I create.
That I hate more than I love.
That I always will.

I certainly wouldn’t put it past an old villain like me. Stranger things have happened.

Desperate times breed desperate thoughts, though. The best we can hope for is that this is just a passing discomfort, like when you swim through a warm spot at The Plunge.

This is what staying home, listening to Core at full blast and reading Tom Wolfe for weeks on end will do to you. Or at least to me.

Now it’s time for you all to leave.

Good night,
you scum.



One Response to “They hung him on a cross for me”

  1. That’s what I think the title of your book should be. Hell, you could go on the Daily Show with Jon Stewart to promote it…Between the two of you, I think you could make somebody at the whitehouse cry.

    No joke friend, with some good hours put into editing and maybe find a few common themes/motifs, I think this journal of yours could at the very least earn you some income…it may even be successful.

    – p.

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