Archive for November, 2005

I am still living with your goat

Posted in Blog on November 27, 2005 by trevorgregg

I return, after a much needed sabbatical.

Despite harsh protest from fans, critics, and the artistic community at large, I haven’t written so much as a check in three weeks.

Stop crying, you fuckers. I am beholden to none, and you love me for it.

Where to begin?

The Bachelor Party

“It is better to die, even to die slowly, than to marry.” – Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

I watched out the window of the plane, over the wheezing torso of the mental patient next to me, and saw that I had finally reached foul Orange County.

LA is the worst place in the world. Understand that, in my vernacular, LA is everything south of Santa Barbara and north of Camp Pendleton. The entire Los Angeles basin is absolutely and unequivocally the worst place on earth in every way.

I hate LA. It is so foul and worthless and septic that even a narrow-eyed villain like myself can barely breathe the greasy air. It’s not even majestic in its despair, it’s simply gross and stupid and evil, starved even the dignity of being infamous or tragic. Fuck LA.

It was raining when my plane landed in Orange County. That didn’t clear things up, it just smeared the filth around; it turned gutters into bogs and potholes into cesspits. I gazed out the long windows of John Wayne Airport at the disgusting sprawl of the LA basin, and loathed.


Chris met me in the terminal.

“Congratulations, you twat. Let’s go celebrate the practical, if not technical, end of your life.”
“Good to see you too, asshole. I’ll tell my fiancĂ©e you’re excited about the wedding.”
“I hate LA. Where the hell is Peter?”
“Oh he’s not coming up tonight.”

We exchange a knowing look, and I get on the phone.

“I’m in LA, where the fuck are you?”
“I’m not gonna come up tonight? I’m in San Diego still.”
“Did your parents die?”
“What? No…”
“Then what’s your fucking problem, come up here! My ass just flew from SF for this and you’re gonna stay home and play MarioKart with your bratty ass little brother instead of partying? You’re fired, you fuck.”

“I’m done with him. Let’s go drink.”

Paul waited out front in his shiny blue BMW convertible.
“Trevor, did you call Peter? He’s not coming up tonight.”
“Yeah I just talked to him. He’s a got a brutal yeast infection and his period just started, so he’s gonna stay home and watch Gilmore Girls. I told him it was fine, we understood.”
“I missed you, Dazzle.”
“I love you too Paul. Let’s drive.”

We took off, top down during a break in the rain. 90 MPH on the freeway, the wind was whipping Chris’s head around like a sock in a typhoon. I asked him, from my heated leather seat up front, how he was holding up. His lips and hair flapping every which way, he gave me a thumbs up. It looked like he was getting raped by a shop vac, so I suggested Paul put the top up. Swerving across several lanes of traffic, Shandi skidded onto the shoulder.

It should be formally recorded that Paul is a tense and terrible driver. Neurotic, indecisive, and half-blind, he drifts, skids, and seizures his way around the southern freeways. He merges with the poise and grace of a fifteen year old virgin, and has little to no spatial awareness. Paul gets lost and misses exits at an Olympic level.

I love him dearly. Paul is the son I never had. Knowing this weakness, as well as his sensitive nature, Chris and I took it upon ourselves to hound him remorselessly, criticizing his every move, gasping and flailing around theatrically at his every mistake. Our absolutely out of line mockery and badmouthing flustered the ever-anxious Paul to record levels, and it took us pretty much forever to drive to Santa Monica.

“I’m gonna call Shak and see where he’s at. Sarah might be able to meet up with us too, I’ll see what she’s doing.”
Hissing and shouting from the back seat.
I sigh, shaking my head in absolute disgust at Paul’s ineptitude.
“Jesus Paul. Jesus.”
“Shut the fuck up Chris, I’m driving here. I don’t see well at night.”
“Paul you don’t see well at you’re retarded. Stop getting us lost.”
Chris starts shrieking in faux-Slavic, pointing emphatically at various signs, trying to assist Paul in navigating the tangled knots of L.A.’s disastrous transit system.
“Shak says he’s in some deli near USC with Matt. Sarah is gonna meet us at the bar.” I say, cranking up the Mexirap on the radio. REGGETONES somethingsomething GASOLINA!
“Balak furn mchech blach mraugrraruch von burgenr rarr hararrrrrrrrrrrr” Chris offered, slapping Paul’s neck and pointing at a sign.
“This way?” He asks, looking at me.
“Paul. Do I live here, Paul? Why are you asking me directions in your fucking city? I’m from Hayward.

Twenty minutes and three years off of Paul’s life later, we met up with Shak and his buddy Matt at some empty deli beneath one of L.A.’s 4500 shopping districts. After twenty minutes of catchup and reminiscence, with occasional breaks for me to stare down the scummy LA patrons and the scummy LA waiters, we headed off for some bar.
“Cheers was invented at this place, you know that?” Matt asks Chris, for the second time.
“Yeah I heard that.”

We get the bar and start drinking with the greedy thirst of warriors before a great battle. Flaming Doctor Peppers and various other repulsive Jaeger-based drinks appear in my hand, and Sarah and Shak and I talk about old times and new ones. Shak, as always, is having his heart worked over by some bitch. Shak is almost too good to live, and his golden purity and chivalric bent doom him to a life of torture at the hands of hos. He refuses my advice to stay ice cold, as Shak always does. I tell him he should date LA chicks just to cheat on them. I offer to catch something nasty and sleep with his latest tormentor. I tell him all the things a good brother should. Sarah is dating an illegal immigrant who speaks no English, a brash and awesome move for such a reserved girl. I high five her repeatedly. She’s doing well, and continues to surprise me. She’s the only person from LA I’ve ever met with even a shred of integrity or worth, and if I didn’t like the girl so damn much I’d be horribly suspicious of her.

“Hey dude. You know they wrote Cheers here? Right in one of these booths?” Matt asks Paul.
“Yeah man you told us.”
“Yeah, right here man. Not in Boston, here in LA.”
“That’s cool man.” Paul looks away.

We drink heavily until closing. We’d be in Vegas right now, if Chris didn’t have to work the next morning. We all get the day off and the god damn Bachelor has to work before his own party. Bad news. Stumbling and cursing, we make our way back through the maze of apartment buildings and six-lane expressways and overturned shopping carts back to Shak’s place. Hammered and teetering, Chris slumps down on Shak’s bed and starts snoring. Paul and I look at pictures on his laptop, and talk about grad school.

“The real world kicks ass man, quit school.”
“Nah, I’ll get a better job with my masters. USC is ruining my life though, damn.”
“You still wanna go to grad school Paul?”
“Maybe. If my company will pay for it.”
“Y’all are crazy. After Poly I can’t believe you guys want to study more.”
“Here let’s look up these pictures, I’ll show you the other PHD kids in EE.” Shak says.
“Hope my porn’s not still up.” He says, turning on his monitor.

Asleep for a good half hour, snoring and comatose, Chris shoots bolt upright.
“What’re you guys talking about? Porn?”

We laugh ourselves to tears.

We go home. It’s 4:00, and Chris has to be at work and sober by 7. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us too.


I awake to Peter shaking me and looking way too god damn chipper.

“Go away or I’ll shoot you with mind bullets.”
“Hi hi hi hi hi hi. Time to wake up, let’s go to Vegas.”
“I hate you.”

Paul’s waif-like British mother pads by in her slippers, offering breakfast and coffee to her guests. She’s a sweetheart, but Peter and I discuss British food under our breath and decide to go out to eat. I shower and don my tackiest pink floral shirt. Vegas, baby, vegas.

We weave our way out of Paul’s OC tract sprawl neighborhood and into one of the nearby shopping sprawls.
“I hate LA.”
“Shut up already, we know you hate LA, you NorCal snob.”
“I’m just saying.”

We get breakfast, and Peter knocks our table over spilling all the food and drinks. Peter eats like Paul drives, and any meal you can walk away from you have to consider a success.

“Stop looking at those girls, Paul. They’re like sixteen.”
“Sixteen my ass, Trevor. They don’t even have their permits.”
“If they’re gonna dress all dolled up, I’m gonna look.” Says Paul.
“That’s true. Do their suburban whoremoms dress them like that? Or do they just issue you slutty clothes as soon as you get your period in Orange County?”
“Haha. I feel bad leering at them.” Peter concedes.
“Look, or don’t, Pete. Either way, don’t feel bad. God knows Paul doesn’t. HEY GIRLS, THIS GUY CAN BUY BEER!” I stage whisper.

“Ok so from now on, for this weekend if not for all eternity, Paul is no longer Paul.” I explain to Pete and Paul. “He’s Hot Sauce.”
“Dude Hot Sauce is not a cool nickname.”
“Shut up Paul. I mean Hot Sauce. Hot Sauce is a fabulous name and you should thank me on your damn knees for it. You tell a girl your name is Hot Sauce with a straight face and she’s yours forever, Paul. Hot Sauce.”
Peter laughs, and agrees. Hot Sauce it is.


I kick the door a few more times, for good measure. I know Chris isn’t home yet, but somehow it makes me feel better. We wait outside his apartment, hung over and ready to get the hell out of LA. He’s back by 11:30, and we step inside for the grand tour. Chris is living the American Dream, doing everything right. Engaged and working ten hours a day, he celebrates his fabulous OC lifestyle by racking up massive credit card debt and drinking. I flip channels on his opulent no-payments-until-January-2006 big screen TV, while Peter and Chris mix up drinks for the road. Nicki shows up.

“Hey Nicki.” I wave.
She says hi, and gives me a smile of veiled hatred. She knows who the bad influence is in this group, and who’s gonna lead her man astray, if anyone. She mills around for a minute, then grows instantly terse and slams the door.

“Doooooog hooooooooooooouse” Pete yells. “Oh Trevor and I know all about the Dog House, Chris, don’t you worry. Vegas = Dog House, it’s a law of nature. Totally unavoidable.”
“Why is she pissed?” I ask, foolishly. Like Chris would know, even if there were some sort of tangible or rational explanation. The question hangs, rhetorical.
Pete and I exchange high-fives, and talk about when we went to Vegas on Valentine’s Day and our various Dog House, Sleeping On The Couch experiences because of it. Ah, the good old days. Chris and Paul dump out half of two bottles of sports drinks into the sink, replacing the missing volume with Von’s Charcoal Filtered Vodka. Grade A Faderade, the only drink for long drives.

“Let’s fucking go.” I shout, ransacking Chris’s cupboard for roadtrip snacks. Scattering cases of PastaRoni across his counter, I get ahold of a box of some form of nutri bar. Good enough. The non-drivers (i.e. everyone but me) pound their drinks.

I get behind the wheel of Peter’s battered Subaru Wagon, and we speed off towards Riverside. The boys drink, grimacing and tearing up when faced with the fury of Lemon Lime Faderade. The mere smell of the stuff turns my stomach. Glad I offered to drive. Drink up, gentlemen. We’ve got a long weekend of mayhem ahead of us.


Traffic in the desert. Fucking I hate LA so much. I hate it with every molecule of my body. I hate it, and I hate that everybody for 300 miles is on the same two lane highway to Las Vegas as I am on this Vet’s Day Weekend. We inch along, mariachi music blaring on the radio.
“You know why I hate this fucking desert, Peter?”
“Why’s that Trevor?”
“Cuz you only get three stations. Two stations playing mariachi out of Tijuana, where there’s no such thing as the FCC and they can pump enough juice into their transmitter to broadcast from Canada to Venezuela, and one top 40 station that is 80% commercials.”
“That’s a good reason to hate this place, Trevor.”
“I should just hate you for not having a fucking CD player.”
“Shut up.”
“You fucking primitive. No wonder you can’t get laid.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t even have a fucking CD player…”


In the desert.

“Couevas, wake up.”
“Wahahbg. What dude.”
“Gimme my camera back, I wanna take a picture of Paul. Err Hot Sauce. He’s sleeping with his eyes open and he looks like the undead.”




In the desert.

“These bars taste like rectum.”
“Seriously Chris, what flavor is this? Butt?”
“You ever have those Odwalla bars, Pete?”
“Don’t. If ‘war crimes’ was a flavor, that’s what it’d taste like.”

“God damn, how long have we been on the road? A month? This isn’t Vegas this is the fucking Oregon Trail.”

“One time, my cousin took a power bar and squished it up into a ball. He threw it at his girlfriend’s little brother, and hit him in the eye, and it gave the kid a brutal shiner. He almost went blind. Don’t fuck with Power Bars.”

“Hey, did you guys know that that bar we were at last night was where they invented Che” My comment is cut short by Chris trying to choke me to death with my own seatbelt. I guess he’d heard that before.






We pull into Harrah’s around seven. Four hours late.

Back in Vegas. I’ve been here a few times, with a few different people, but honestly, nobody does Vegas like we do Vegas. The four of us, Pete, Chris, Trevor, and Paul. Hot Sauce. A cross between the Ninja Turtles and the Rat Pack. Young and heartless and well-dressed. Classy as fuck. That’s us.

It’s good to be back.

For the last hour, Chris has been on the phone, calling various relatives and family friends, arranging things, gossiping. Vegas is a scummy town, and the Couevas family calls it home with good reason. Various cousins, uncles, nephews, and brother-in-laws of Our Bachelor litter this sandy valley, managing, dealing, hustling, and cheating.. A couple of his brothers will be meeting us for the weekend’s festivities, and hookups, VIP treatment, and free shit should be in abundance. After all, you only get married once.



Vegas is a horrible place. Not like LA, but horrible in its own beautiful and unique way. It’s a giant, pulsating, electric monster. The monster eats money and dreams, and shits garbage and hangovers. It never sleeps, and consumes without remorse or regret. It’s angry and pathetic, like everything in Nevada. You can always tell someone who lives in Vegas from someone who visits Vegas. It’s in their eyes; the people that live there are broken somehow. They’re working without a net. I’ll spare you my theories, my conjectures about the effects of life in a moral vacuum where time and climate and reality are all distorted into nonexistence. Suffice it to say Vegas people are not regular people. They’re stared over that gruesome edge for too long; they’re desensitized in all the wrong ways. When all your world is overpriced, corporate-sponsored sin, things go wrong… up there… you know?

That makes them dangerous. That makes them trouble.

But us?

Baby, we like trouble.

We met up with one brother and his entourage, including his trashy English girlfriend, and headed to dinner.



I am cold and weary. We’ll pick up where we left off next time.

Told you I was working on it, Couevas.



Be there when I feed the tree

Posted in Blog on November 10, 2005 by trevorgregg

Sometimes things get complicated.

Sometimes life is all knots and traps, quagmires and cliffs.

Sometimes you just don’t know what the hell you’re doing.


Ah fuck you swine, I’m going to Vegas.


Their father’s hell did slowly go by

Posted in Blog on November 7, 2005 by trevorgregg

Where the hell was I.

An aside: Every so often, in life, a man encounters or experiences a series of events so chaotic, so aberrant, so deep left field that one is left in an almost catatonic state of confusion and disorientation.

I am in such a state.

My iron moral structure and almost fanatical obedience to the great goddess Propriety holds my tongue. But holy shit, what a couple of days. What a couple of days.

Let’s continue where we left off.



Saturday afternoon, Halloween weekend.

Quaking and unstable, we headed down through the Castro in preparation for the night’s festivities. Last minute decorations, costume accoutrements, etc. I was trembling like Michael J Fox on ice skates, thankfully Candace was strong enough to bear most of my weight on the trek down the hill.

“A little hung over, buddy? You look dehydrated.”

“Pffft. I went to piss this morning and a little puff of gray dust came out. And a wheezing sound, like when you let the air out of a balloon. I think I may actually be dead.”


“Yeah. Rough night. Hey do you have any idea who bit me?”

We gathered the goods and finalized our outfits. A pub crawl was scheduled, for Outer Taraval. Doing a pub crawl in the outer Sunset is, for the record, a god damn bad idea. Our event was to a pub crawl what the Trail of Tears was to a day hike. The bars were approximately 15 blocks of hill apart, which equals out to just under 450 miles as the crow flies. We started at the bottom of the hill to boot. At first I was worried we would be the only folks out in costume, since the outer Sunset is a dreary and cheerless place full of graying Chinese people and angry whites who are almost all zombies, or some other form of the undead. The first bar we hit up had a live country band playing, and had an average patron age slightly higher than an Elks lodge.

“Do I ask for beer? Or my pills?” I asked to no one in particular.
“Shut up and enjoy yourself.”

Still severely weakened by Friday’s blackout, I started slow. I felt more at home once I realized everyone else in the bar was in costume also. In fact, they did such a fabulous job with their united bar theme, I almost thought the people were for real; I’ve never seen a more accurate rendition of the Really Old White Trash costume. Each person’s outfit and makeup was better than the last. Such realism, such enthusiasm for their roles and characters… I applaud you all. Theatre is not dead.

Seven brutal death march hours later, we made it to bar #2. This bar, too, had a White Trash theme, although the crowd was a little younger. Another crappy country singer was wheezing out Jimmy Buffet’s Greatest Hits on the tiny stage, his amps so loud he created a little halo around the stage despite the crowded conditions of the bar.

Deciding to abandon the rest of the herd rather than get in fights with the off duty national guard crowd and their fat pregnant wives, I hiked another forty six miles and brought the truck back, and we headed for a house party near our spot. At least here there were costumes. A typical heaven / hell style split party. Hell was, of course, where the party was at. Heaven was all white wine and Bruce Springsteen and a couple of fat girls resting on a futon. Hell had hip hop and Miller and the dance floor. No damn idea whose house that was, but good job guys, you did a wonderful job with the decorations. Jean was there, and after cursing me out in French and trying to throw me down the stairs a couple of times, we got on wonderfully. Chock that little outburst up to strong drink; I can recall no trespass on my part to warrant such an assault. She a big girl too, not in a bad way by any means, just 6 foot plus of blond norse triathlete; a sort of blue eyed Amazon. A hell of a thing to have a woman like that shrieking at you in foreign tongues.

We boogied. We hung around. The Lovely Neighbors showed up at some point late in the night, right before Jesus fell down a flight of stairs, spilled his High Life all over his toga and almost broke his fuckin neck. Too bad he didn’t work a miracle, he should have turned some water into sober. Another party in another house.

Time goes by.

Sunday… Sunday? I guess it was that Sunday. Fuck. This is what happens when I don’t write regularly; my already tenuous grasp of reality and chronology dissolves completely and I have no idea when anything happened. I think it was that Sunday. We went frisbee golfing in the park, Lily and Alcorn and I. I had never been, I had no idea what this shit was about. I should have expected. Like any suitably pointless and simple activity, there has arisen a demographic of fanatical and snobbish people surrounding it. I had no idea how seriously people took this shit. They have different weights and sizes of frisbees for different throws (i.e. a driver, a putter, etc)

The long and short of it is, some older guy jumped in with us to make four, and after a few holes of him displaying ridiculous prowess at said pointless activity, we found out that “Kelly” the American Airlines pilot has actually competed in the Worlds tournament for frisbee golf. Holy shit. Three scrub ass kids with a backpack full of Coors light and Tiger god damn Woods playing the SF Public Frolf Course together. On our fourth run through the course, with muscles and technique suitably loosened by heavy drink, we decided to play for money. It being my first time, I got a par handicap, and the two others went regular. Kelly had a five stroke penalty. Shouting and launching frisbees with abandon, we tromped through the eucalyptus. You see where this is going, don’t you. Can we talk about Disney endings? Of course I fucking won. How did you do it, Trevor? How did you take five bucks from each of your friends who play regularly, and five bucks from fucking Kelly “The Sniper” Whateverhisnamewas?

I’ll tell you how.

Cuz I’m just that money. I’m seriously clutch, what can I say. I beat a pro on my first try. For dollars. Also, I play the psychological game. Conan had his broadsword, Vader had his lightsaber, and me? I’ve got my scathing wit. Frolf is a game of the mind, of the soul. A game of harmony and balance. With me stomping around inside your brain like a rhino in a Pier 1, you don’t have a damn prayer of throwing that little frisbee straight. You can’t; I’m too busy working you over with my metaphorical 2×4, shattering your confidence and your concentration. YOU CAN’T HANDLE IT.

So I take your fucking money.

Ice cold.


Halloween proper. A Monday.

I awoke with a raven at my window, a harbinger on All Hallow’s Eve
Hark! A rook alights upon my sill! I said. A bird so big you wouldn’t believe
The raven says Squawk, seal your windows and bar your doors
And fucking go to Safeway, you’ve only got two more Coors
I thanked the beast and sped out into the fray
I hit the pavement running, but realized oh shit, it’s still a Monday
So I went to work, but lo did my mind wander
Halloween’s rare hours I didn’t wish to squander
The clock hit five and I was gone with the wind
It’s Halloween, there are tricks to be tricked and sins to be sinned

And we did.

God I love Halloween. Halloween is so vastly superior to any other holiday that I can barely even express it with words. Halloween is some next level shit. Christmas is stupid, Thanksgiving doubly so. Not Halloween. Traumatizing the young and tantalizing the old, fire and blood and Thriller on repeat… All year my anticipation builds. This year’s costumes were excellent; we did the Alice in Wonderland crew, and that warped, squeaky voice in my soul that’s completely obsessed with Lewis Carroll shrieked gleefully. I was the White Rabbit, and a damn good one to boot. Jolene, of course, outdid herself as the Red Queen. We’re talking some award winning shit here. Candace’s Caterpillar, I think, was by far the most underrated of the costumes. Subtle and brilliant, non-traditional and yet true to the spirit… I loved that shit. Great job girl.

As with any event involving more than three people, things immediately became completely disorganized. Being an all around bossy motherfucker, I took charge and tried to mobilize and organize all our various splinter groups together in one big Alice and Friends mob at a corner in the Castro. It took some doing, and the kids were itching for more booze. Since it’s the Castro, you can’t move anywhere and there are eighty billion people, so we had to move elsewhere. With nothing but a cell phone and a cane with which to smack the hell out of people, I tried to herd the stumbling mass in one direction, losing as few people as possible. What a pain.

“Trevor, where are we going? Where’s Eric?”
“If you fucks would stay together, we wouldn’t have this problem.”
“Trevor, when can we go to a bar?”
“I’m seriously proctoring a special ed field trip. Where the fuck did the Mad Hatter go? Can’t you feebs follow directions? Do I need to use the cane? DO I NEED TO USE THE CANE?”

Regardless, we made it to wherever the hell we were going. Throughout our trek, I assaulted the various scantily clad ladies around us with shameless lines. Halloween is not a night for inhibition.

“Hey honey, wanna see how deep the rabbit hole goes?”

That one almost got me slapped.

“Hey girl, you’re late for our very important date.”

“Hey hos, come here.”

Didn’t have much luck. Fun though.

We ended up at a bar, which we completely occupied with our vast and sprawling gang. Tweedle Dum handed me some foul Long Island variant full of Jaeger and phew, it was go time.

Things are blurry from there. Some crazy cracked out Cosplay dudes dressed like Sailor Moon or some equally creepy Japanese shit lined up our whole crew for photos. We ran into a slutty Alice, who I apparently deeply offended, much to our Alice’s delight. Some Indian guy who had no costume was screaming about cocaine on the muni on the way home. Ignoring the shouting, I hit on the girl in front of me with the bunny ears on. “Hey honey, you know what they say about rabbits. Where you headed right now?” She smiled, and started to talk to me before her lumbering meatbag boyfriend, who I think was dressed as a Complete Asshole In A Dumb Costume leaned in and regulated. Although I admired his costume layering technique, I was still disappointed.

One of those nights.

We ended up back at my place later. The Indian came with us, and was still shouting about cocaine, knocking stuff over in my kitchen. I was in a fury, my Halloween spirit crescendoing. The Thing That Should Not Be was on repeat, and I started whittling a wooden spoon into a stake to stab the cocaine Indian with, convinced he was a werewolf or ghoul in disguise.

“COCAINE! Who’s got the COKE
“Trevor, we need to get these people out of here. I’ve gotta work tomorrow.”
“HOLD STILL, YE BEAST. You have trafficked with devils and conjured foul magicks. Your reign of terror ends here, evil one!” I leapt over the couch after the junkie, but stumbled hard and my spoon stake slid under the recliner.
“Shit! We’re powerless against him now! We’re doomed!”

Somebody else shooed him out, and everybody left.

I found myself sitting on the couch at 4:30, wondering where the night had gone. Two days of reading Poe and downloaded Hellboy comics (Mike Mignola is a genius and should be canonized and worshiped accordingly) had built my Halloween frenzy to a fever pitch. And so I sat, drinking the last beer, with my two houseplants Cthulhu the Lily of Sorrow and Yog-Sothoth the Pit Orchid (a gift from the Lovely Neighbors) and wishing the night wouldn’t end.

“Cthulhu, Yog. I don’t think the others understand Halloween like we do. They don’t have our sense of the dark and desperate.” I said, mournful.
“I love you guys.”

And so Halloween ended. Another 364 dreary ass days till the next one. Time to start planning.

That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die. -HPL


Lord. What a couple of days. Would that I could explain things further. I’m so twisted around and discombobulated right now I’d probably end up just mashing keys if I tried to make sense of all this shit anyway, so consider yourselves spared.

I ran into the street shrieking today, when the Benevolent and Glorious Ms. Laura Kuhlemann bestowed upon me a once in a lifetime gift, a ticket to the upcoming Stones show. With Metallica opening.

Think about that for a second.

The Rolling Stones.

and Metallica.

Let it be known that Metallica seriously fucking rules you, as do the Stones. Now I love me some stones, but I love me some Metallica.

Frothing and seizing like that pigeon we shot full of Angeldust back in 8th grade, I ran in circles shouting unintelligible prayers of thanks and abasement to the Elder Gods of Rock which had brought forth such a ticket into my grubby little fingers.

I will rock like I have never rocked before, come next Tuesday.


Calm down.


Get ahold of yourself.

Tempestuous guilts and nameless dreads assail me. Possibilities and opportunities and shifting alliances surround me.

I am wary to consider all the forces at work in life right now. The tides are strong and the waves are high, and my sail hold little wind. I feel like I’m grasping at straws; that I’ve failed miserably to convey the truths and themes of our Halloween experience. I waited too long to chronicle it, and details and verbal trickery escape me.

Winter has started. The rain is constant now. The roads are wet, and the sky is dark. Suddenly, the city is a dangerous place to be.

Wish me luck.


Quote of the Day: Jolene Sawyer, re: Girl’s Night Out – “I have no idea what I’m gonna do. It’ll be me with all these skinny , giggly, pretty little Chinese girls. I’ll be like some big boned pioneer white woman.”

I laughed myself to tears, and made various jokes about my roommate and how the West was won.

p.s. No spellchecking or revision tonight. Pardon my sloppiness.

And if my face becomes sincere, beware

Posted in Blog on November 4, 2005 by trevorgregg

A rainy Thursday in our fair city.

Seems like it’s been quite a while since I’ve written anything. I don’t know. My life is serialized now. The masses depend on me for glory and vindication. I, like Charles Barkley before me, have become and unwitting role model.

So be it.

Let us write.


We enjoyed a bit of a housewarming party last Friday. Although the turn out was about 1/100th of what we invited, we still managed to enjoy ourselves. What originally began as a Fondu and Beer party (can you guess which half of that dichotomy I am?) devolved almost instantly into a Beer and A Little Bit Of Microwaved Cheese party. Not for lack of trying, but shit, it was Friday. You know how these things go. So some folks came over, and we started it off right.

A moment, if you will, about my effect and impact on the transsexual community.

Being, as I am, an enlightened and tolerant individual, I often come into contact with folks living… alternative lifestyles. Bay Area culture demands not only tolerance for such, but appreciation and delicate social maneuvering.

Now, I’m absolutely OK with people doing what they want. You could marry, have sex with, and divorce a fucking butter churn for all I care. As long as the butter churn is cool with it, so am I. Do not expect me, however, to be sensitive to your deviance.

Being a straight white male, I’m subjected to an inordinate amount of prejudice.


Do you hear that?

That’s the sound of a hundred jaws dropping in abject disgust across Berkeley. In unison.

But lo, it is true. People automatically assume I’m biased against whatever random lifestyle or cause or crusade they’re all about. After all, every white male is born on a golf course with a golden ticket to Harvard and a manual on wifebeating in his hand. It’s true. I still have my copy. DESPITE this, I some how managed to develop into an unbelievably cultured and tolerant person. I am not, however, sensitive. If I had to make one broad, blanket statement to the world and its various self irighteous inhabitants, I would say: “Shut up I don’t care.”

I’m not, for instance, sensitive enough to do research into which set of fucking pronouns you’re using this week. If you were ‘she’ when I met you, you’re ‘she’ till you take me in a fist fight. Cry all the hell you want, but shit, if you were a He you wouldn’t be crying in the first place would you.

Phew, I feel better now. Forgive me my callousness; us simple hetero folk know not the burdens of your sexual… escapades.

Where the hell were we.

The party.

We had folks over, and at some point ended up at a bar. I used my trustworthy technique of not eating lunch or dinner and drinking a lot to make sure I was good and obnoxious before our Lovely Neighbors arrived. We hit the Page like a ton of bricks, but by then things were getting a little dim. I remember shouting at the dudes who came with us. Some fuck tried to correct a computer thing I had written on my fridge, and I screamed at him. Not only because I was hammered, but because I was right. Don’t fucking step to this, you urbanite shitbag. While you were napping in the back of your Medieval Lit class at fucking Chico State I was attending the best engineering school in the nation, so don’t act like you can correct my fucking fridge acronyms. I wish I hadn’t set up the whole house with wireless, just so I’d have something to fucking strangle your ass with. Fool.

So well we had this party. Jean and the Lovely Neighbors brought us an orchid, now christened Yog-Sothoth the Pit Orchid. Cthulhu, the Lily of Sorrow, now has a friend. Que fofinho.

We ate some bread and drank lots of beers and went to the Page. I yelled at people. I remember demanding we find a 24 hour store so I could buy some Cool Ranch Doritos. This wouldn’t be weird if I didn’t absolutely hate Cool Ranch Doritos. Then we went looking for someone’s car… or something…



The phone rings. Again.

How do these people not know me by now? Who dares call on a fucking Saturday Morning at 7:30 or whatever?

I answer.

“I hate you.”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine. How are you feeling?”

“110%. Who the fuck is this.”


“I don’t care.” *click*

I’m curled up under my desk, in a shower curtain. It’s not our shower curtain.

I don’t know whose shower curtain this is.


“Hey there, we must have got disconnected.”

“Fuck that I hung up on you, what the hell do you want?”

“Trevor it’s 3:30.”

“Oh. Whose fucking shower curtain is this?”

I hate mornings like that. I staggered up to go yack. My legs gave out at first, and I noticed a huge bite mark on my right calf. Not one of those light, playful nibbles… some serious hyena shit. God damn what happened last night.

Three hours spent in front of the toilet or sprawled on the couch later, I stumble to the Lovely Neighbors’. They’re painting, and the fumes help me cope.

“Hello, lovely neighbors.”

“Hey, you train wreck. What happened to you last night?”

“You tell me honey. How’d we get back from the Page?”

“We walked.”

“I walked?”

“You seemed OK. Except when you…” “Shhhh don’t tell him that.”

“Don’t tell him what? Is this your fucking shower curtain?”


“Did either of you bite me last night? SHOW ME YOUR TEETH!”


What a fucking nightmare. I’m too old to party like that. I shouldn’t party like a rockstar, I should party like a fuckin concert pianist. I should take naps, and eat a lot of vegetables. Instead, I live beyond my means.

What other option do I have.


God damn so much to recount, but it’s seriously freezing in here.

More tomorrow.