Decorate it like a grave

Too tired to sleep.

How is it that exhaustion and insomnia walk hand in hand?

The later it gets, the more I am convinced of foul play. Whispering demons and dark spirits conspire to keep me awake, filling my head with meaningless rhymes and creeping guilts. The fuckers stonewall me at every turn. On the rare occasion I can tear myself from the half-hour Arathi Basin queues, I’m immediately ensnared by some other diversion. Or worse, by boredom. The bastards went as far as to play The Godfather on channel 45 tonight to force me to remain conscious. Good God, that movie. I can’t get anywhere near it without becoming completely entranced, unable to blink or breathe deeply, let alone channel surf or turn the filthy box off. I’m rendered completely catatonic with fascination, like Paris Hilton in a sequin factory.

But Trevor, you say, you’re a creepy night person. Isn’t staying up late what this whole neurotic writer… thing… is all about? Isn’t that, like, your deal?

Inspiration is a fickle mistress. Her shorter, sluttier friend Eloquence is just as unpredictable. You can’t just sit down and start hammering away, hoping the sheer joy of hearing your keys click is gonna Make It Happen. I’d be willing to bet that, somewhere in the annals of literary history, some self-righteous toolbox had the “genius” to compare a type-writer to a piano. I’d also be willing to bet he’s a god damn idiot, because that’s about the worst writing metaphor I can conjure up.

This is the way it really works. Despite the zero-visibility fog that’s settled on your brain, you plop down and wait for the brilliance to flow. If it were a movie, passionate and uplifting music would play and a 30 second poignant writing montage would ensue, and poof, the masterpiece appears.

Sure, goose.

So you crank out a thousand word, five sentence monstrosity; a quasi-scientific analytical quest to discern just what species of animal Pikachu is. You write and you write and you write and in the end, you’re no closer to figuring out what kind of fucked up electric bumble-bee otter hybrid freak that little yellow bastard is. You look back and see you’ve strung the first 350 words together with four semicolons, that every word in the third paragraph starts with F, and that you spelled “ridonkulous” wrong (there’s only one K), despite your college education. And you’re three hours closer to death, and three hours further from sanity.

I tried to enter this writing contest thing, about why our generation was so fucked up. Is. I got wind of it about a month and a half ago, and the deadline was Monday. So of course I started Sunday night. Hey, it’s me.

Some clueless corporate hack UC Irvine Class of 78 grad working for Vanity Fair no doubt thought the whole thing up, but I’m not proud. I’ll write anything for money. Send me five bucks and a box of red wine and I’ll write you a god damn book of sonnets about David Duchovny, or figs. You can ride that high horse right back into your parent’s garage, you ivory tower grad student scum, cuz I’m all about gettin paid.

I digress.

So this contest, it’s got a black and white picture of unwashed hippies waving signs of protest next to a picture of some hot SD State’er taking a beer bong on a beach in Daytona. For those aspiring writers too subtle to catch the snowshovel-to-the-face pictoral implication, they wrote out a somewhat accusatory prompt asking me (well, not me specifically but you feel me) to explain to the judges why my generation is the way it is. The way we are. Yeah ok I can write that. Prize money > no money.

So I whipped out my first attempt, and it sucked. I was serious and dry and modern, very Saul Bellow with just a dash of Connie Chung. Yeah fuck that. *Draaaaaaaaaaaag [Recycle Bin] CLICK*

I tried again, and it turned into this unending rant (imagine that) about how ridiculous the Greying Masses were to look down on my generation for not dealing with their mess. It had some big allegory about me walking into a rest home, dropping trow and taking a dump in front of some wheelchair-bound old woman, and demanding to know why her generation didn’t have the gumption to clean it up. It talked about how pissed I was for being accused of apathy, all this Sins of the Fathers crap and how much I hate watching the News and how much I hate the government and how my parents generation has no right to lift themselves above us cuz look what a fuck lot of good your “revolution” did us and how driving a Subaru and shopping at Traitor Joe’s doesn’t mean you’re a good person and how much I hate Christians and ended with me yelling about fat kids.

You laugh, but seriously that’s how it ended. I’m extremely susceptible to external literary influence, and I had just read some article about how The Governator and the rest of his band of merry robots were spending eighty seven badrillion dollars and passing anti-soda laws to combat childhood obesity.



(now the brilliance starts to flow)



Our freely elected (and admittedly foreign) governor is spending millions of tax payer dolalrs to pass bans on soda and initiate health programs to combat childhood obesity.




You want me to care? You want me to give a cloned rat’s ass about the state of my world, my nation, my city, my street, when you driveling twats vote in a dude whose moral crusade is curbing CHILDHOOD OBESITY?

Rome is burning. Don’t stand there and stare at me with a bucket in your hand and your remote control in the other, judging your children; hand me my fucking violin and let’s party. Cuz it’s your fault, assmonkey. You slaughtered the buffalo, you pissed in the well, you voted for the oil tycoon, you shop at Walmart, you live in Marin, and you and your friends fucked it ALL UP. YOUR FAULT. You wasted all the non-renewable resources, like gas and trees and horror movie plots. You protested and you organized and you reveled in your unwashed junkie moral orgy and now our country is a theocracy run by villains and fucktards. Way to stick it to the man, you tool.

I’m sure the homeless guy dying quietly under a bench of TB in San Francisco, and the Iraqi orphan bleeding in the dust outside his Baghdad home next to his father’s body, and the illiterate heroine addict shivering in a basement in New Jersey, and God Hisself are thrilled by all your efforts to curb lil’ Timmy McGirth’s fifty dollar a day Eskimo Pie habit. Our descendants will sing your praises for generations, you worthless scum.





Deep breath.

Of course, I’ve been asked why I didn’t submit that second one.

Well it was fun, but it didn’t really answer the question. At least not in the qualified and direct manner the greedy sheisters hording the prize money would have liked. And, although this may surprise you, I am my biggest critic, excepting my mother and any woman I’ve ever dated.

So it’s not submitted and I’m still broke. Besides, what would I do with a bunch of glorious green musty luscious prize money heaped in a big mountain at my doorstep anyway. Probly just blow it all on buying 600 Nerf guns, three hundred red shirts, and three hundred blue shirts, and arming two teams of Junior High kids to battle
for supremacy of Southland Mall on a crowded Saturday. God that would rock.


Now, a story.

It’s not a happy story, no far from it.

It’s a story of deceit and treachery and utter disregard for the sacred traditions of Kickball.

*I am being assaulted by IM’s, forgive the interruption.*

One, maybe two, maybe three weekends ago, the first annual meeting of the Outer Sunset Sunday Kickball League And Drinking Club occurred. It was one of those days when you know everything is gonna go right, because it wasn’t foggy. Finding a day with no fog in the Sunset is like finding 10 oz. pristine emerald in a box of crackerjacks. It just doesn’t happen.

We got there and started setting up the field. We brought a ball, and three coolers of beer, but little else.

“What can we use for bases?” Someone asked.

“Take these.” I said, tipping over the KEEP OFF THE FIELD signs the parks and rec dept had kindly left for us, and dragging them to their appropriate positions.

“They’re too big.” Somebody bitched. I went and found rocks, and a log.

Teams were picked. Team Candace, of which I was a proud third basemen, started as defense.

Team Alcorn, or as we came to know them, “Those Cheating Assholes”, was up to bat.

A note about the teams, to begin. Team Candace featured both the participating girls. I’m not using this as an excuse, far from it. The ladies were a valuable asset to our ball club. I wasn’t surprised, either. Somehow, the ladies always find their way on to my team. We also had some Best Buy Manager-looking white dude with a debilitating migraine and our ringer, Mahesh The Unstoppable Indian Fury. Team Alcorn was made up of Alcorn, Eric “The Freeloader” Lily, and some other people. I can’t remember, it was kind of a while ago.

We began to play, and almost immediately the bad sportsmanship began to fly. My words of friendly encouragement were immediately misinterpreted by our opponents. “Why are you getting so defensive?” I asked.

“You just told me I kick like a pussy and drink like a 70 year old diabetic grandmother.”
“I’m just trying to get you fired up. Besides, it’s not my fault you kick like a pussy. God, you’re awful.”

The Second Base Drinking Pileup began to grow. You can’t leave 2nd until you pound a beer, and a long inning can cripple even a seasoned veteran. By the third inning, we were losing by three after a couple of very debatable defensive plays by Team Alcorn. Munting was prolific, and I saw many spilled beers and misjudged foul balls.

That was just the beginning.

By the bottom of the fourth, desperate to stall our inevitable comeback and victory, Team Whiny Bitch began making a series of blatantly illegal batting order changes. Serious delays on the mound ensued as well, as the pitched gave the crippled team the time they needed to sober up enough to run the bases.

“Why? You’re just gonna say it’s foul and storm the dugout anyway.” Somebody bitched.
At this, I left third base and kicked much dust at the offender.

Later that inning, guarding my base.

“Hey Eric.”
“Yeah man, what’s up.”
“I didn’t wanna say this in front of the rest of your team.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re seriously the worst kickball player I’ve ever seen.”
“Trevor you asshole.”
“No man, I mean it. You’re awful. I heard them talking, Alcorn and them, and they’re firing you after this season. Maybe after this inning. They’ve seen how slow you drink at 2nd, how your right foot leads too much and you shank the ball foul every time you’re up.”
“Blah blah blah who’s winning? Huh?!”
“Only because we’re letting you cheaters win. Mostly cuz I feel sorry for you. I mean my god, it’s like the special olympics. How can you be this bad at kickball?”
Mahesh The Furious caught the next ball out, and Eric sulked his way into the outfield, stranded on third by his whorebag teammates.

Two runs down, and I slide safely into first, the ball hitting me CLEARLY after I had already reached the base.
“You’re out.”
Much dust kicking and debate ensued. They eventually saw things my way, and play continued. I immediately stole second, sliding safely into the cooler.

“First of all, you can’t steal a base in kickball, second, stop sliding into every base, Trevor.”
Dust was kicked, debate continued. I shotgunned the beer, and made it home on Candace’s flawless line drive, cartwheeling and cussing.

Seventh inning beer break. I found myself on top of the nearby construction shed, eating Teddy Grahams and debating the Second Base Pileup rule with a member of the opposing team. Something behind me caught my eye. I leapt, well, fell down off the shed and ran into the outfield. The blonde reading with her headphones on in the outer edge of the park looked primed for some kickball action. My shirt had come off at some point during the 2nd or 3rd inning, and I was likely covered with dust from frequent slides into various bases. It’s hard to recall. I spent a lot of time at the 2nd base cooler, if you catch my drift.

Anyway, the blonde.

“Hey honey, why don’t you come down and play kickball with us? We need another person.”

I sipped my beer and looked cool.

She gave in.

“Ok! I’ll come right down!”

I headed back in.

“Alcorn, she’s on your team.”
“Well, turns out she’s pretty old and kind of beat. Looks like she grew up in a meth lab, and she scares the hell out of me. Besides, I got stuck with the other two chicks.”
A shower of empty beercans and peanuts struck me, no doubt thrown by the always unerringly attentive female members of my team. I hid.

So the Meth Queen showed up, and ran across the street to find some regular shoes to play in. We drank, and our headache ridden middle management dude had to leave. No doubt his body was manifesting cranial pain in protest to the abject disregard for the rules of the game by Team Alcorn. There are some crimes too unthinkable to be tolerated, and the body simply begins to shutdown in the face of such bullshit.

What had appeared to me, from my hazy infield view, as a thin and youthful blond powerwalked her way back onto the field. She had that twitchy crank shuffle, that hurried but desperate to not appear hurried hobble that only the burned out have. She was yammering about being a court reporter, and trying desperately to memorize everyone’s names. I believe I told her to shut up. Or called her a junkie husk of a human. Or something. She ignored me, which I found pretty classy.

By the eighth inning I was pinch drinking for Alex Wong, who I believe wanted to stay sober and fresh for his gynaecologist appointment or baby shower or shop-till-you-drop Nordstrom’s marathon or whatever other sissy shit he had to do as an excuse for not drinking. I didn’t mind it, especially, except that Alcorn and the rest of his dishonorable little band continued to cheat their way into the lead. The specific infractions escape me, but I can certainly recall many instances in which members of my team were completely safe, or the ball sailed blatantly fair, and our dubious opponents disagreed.

Needless to say, we lost. Evil won the day, and the despicable cheating cheater bastards gloated like they’d just been nominated for the Nobel Kickball Prize.


I’ll see you fucks next year. On the field.


Now I’m seriously, seriously exhausted. I’ve gotta be up in not that many hours, doing the work thing.

Another night of wasted time…

Do you guys understand me, about the whole piano-metaphor thing? I feel like I haven’t stressed it enough, that my position was not explained to its fullest.



Today, I am a hub of international communication. A post card from Q-Unit out of Nippon, talking to my old lab partner in Africa, emails from Brazil and Samoa… My influence extends farther than a decent person might hope.

Too tired for to proofread,



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