A little more than a year ago, we moved across the street from Pinkeye Beach. Seriously, it’s beautiful, and it’s smells all wonderful salt and wet and thick on my face, and I love driving on the highway next to the water, and there’s red tail hawk that hunts from the tree across from our kitchen window sometimes, so majestic, and the campfires smell so wonderful (until someone starts smoking something that smells more like plastic and tar and 151), but really, that water will get you sick.
Never mind that the ocean is nature’s toilet. Never mind that there is always a dead sea lion on the beach (that’s why the dogs always start running as soon as they are off leash–they’re looking for that sweet rotting sea lion). Never mind that there are a million other dead things there; that’s why Pinkeye Beach is covered in crows and pigeons. Kick the bulb of the bull whip kelp and a million flies pour out of it like it’s a corpse’s eyeball.
Never mind all that: there are floaters in the water. You see them every time you go there. The treatment plant is right at the end of Sloat Boulevard. That’s grody. Don’t go in there. At least get a hep-B series first.
Our apartment is one floor up, over the garages, and goes through the building, but it isn’t a railroad, I don’t think. My desk is by the dunes side (we’d have to be on the upper floor to have a view of the beach proper). My boyfriend has the street side. At night, when we eat and watch our stories (y’all, I am just now learning how fucking great Prison Break is. I can’t understand how I slept on this shit for so long), and at night, that’s when this magic happens. A ghost rolls under the windows.
For months and months, we didn’t see it, just heard it. It went too fast to be walking, and too slow to be driving, and too quiet to be on a skateboard. So it had to either be a) disembodied, or b) on a bike. The weird thing: always blasting 1980s hiphop, like Grandmaster Flash, Sugarhill Gang, Kool Moe Dee, and almost always the same ones, like he had a Time Life collection of Greatest Hits CDs, or an 8-track.
It didn’t help that the ghost was fleet of foot. Every time we heard him, we looked, but ghosts get, well, ghost. He was always gone.
Finally: a man rolled by when we were by the window for no reason on a BMX bike, blasting some LL Cool J. He looked young, but it was from far away. Maybe he got hit by the train? Or a car? Maybe he has a message from the 1980s to share with us? A message of peace and freedom through rapping? I can say that hearing Kool Moe Dee and other old school beats made me happy as hell.
Since we saw him once, we see him often. He very much seems male. He is always alone. He is always with music. We can’t tell if other people can see him or not. I want to know his story, since the ones I write for people and ghosts are certainly wrong.
(This is the song I always want the DJ to play, but I think requesting shit from the DJ is rude. I want the ghost to play it, too, but I think requesting shit from a ghost is pointless and rude.)
Open letter addressed to argumentative people who think they are just into spirited discussion
Hey, I am sure you have a lot of things to say that are really important to you about (but not limited to):
- Palestine/Israel/the Middle East
- Drug Legalization
- Prostitution/Sex Workers
- Wars/Military issues
- Government issues
- Veterans affairs
- Health care
- Oppression, general and/or specific
- Other assholes
But I don’t have time to listen to your stories. I’m not going to change my mind. No one over the age of twelve will change their mind on these sort of topics without seeking the information themselves. I don’t want to talk to anyone who doesn’t agree with me about these topics, and I don’t really want to talk to anyone who does agree with me on these topics. Shit just makes me angry. I’m angry enough.
But Seer, don’t you want to make a difference on [this topic]?
Yelling and/or nattering at me about bullshit isn’t the same thing as making a difference about bullshit. How about instead of telling me that the Onion shouldn’t be calling a little girl a cunt and how racism and sexist and arrgh you go make a positive difference in the world? Or something? Jesus, if everyone would stop getting their assholes all clenched about fake outrage and chopping teeth about it, and really did something with all that energy, problems would be getting solved!
That so isolationist/idiotic/small-minded/submissive to patriarchy/gluten-tolerant!
See, this is why you shouldn’t be talking to me about any of this. If you really want to be angry, go yell at someone who does or does not agree with you, but leave me out of it. I don’t like this. You know what I like?
I like this video and its ilk very, very much! So if you excuse me, I’ll be listening to this. Go be angry somewhere else without me. I got shit to write. And I really want to listen to these two albums again. I can’t do that with you talking at me.
No matter how insane and ridiculous they seem, you must follow your dreams. Even if they are talking to everyone about Proposition Poo-Poo Bananas.
I got rid of a lot of stuff this weekend. You know what it felt like, watching my perfectly good yarn get into a car and drive away, and my brown tank tops get into garbage bags to be given to the Salvation Army, and my sofa bed hauled down the stairs to be sold into upholstered slavery? It felt like a bout of diarrhea that makes you cramp up and shiver. I feel better, but damn, that was a traumatic experience. Actually, shedding my hoarded goods was very, very close to taking a painful, hellish shit, the kind that burns like fire and smells like brimstone. I’m having the same mixed feelings, three days later.
Yes, let’s talk about toilet matters.
Let’s understand the nuclear problems in Japan right now by talking about shit.
Also, let’s test and see if I can see stats again. You know how I obsessively stalk you through my stats? They haven’t been working for two weeks! I’m trying everything I can to get them working again, but I may have to accept that I will never again know if anyone is reading a new post. Tant pis for me.
I met my Texan cousin, Southern Comfort, for the first time yesterday. She’s two years younger than me, and my mother’s brother’s daughter. She’s a really positive person. I don’t know if she’s always been this way, but she is now. She’s living close by for a minute, maybe for a while. She’s a lawyer and she has to take the California State Bar Examination, because we have crazy weird rules here. We have unaccredited law schools in our state, so everyone who wants to practice in California has to take the Bar. She has two weeks to study. I told her not to worry about it; she’s passed four different states’ bar exams, so she can pass another, no problem.
I told her about my school plans, and she was excited for me.
“Don’t tell my Moms, though; she doesn’t know. I’m not telling her until I get in.”
“Why not?” Southern Comfort asked.
“Because my Moms kills my dreams,” I said.
Oh dear. I meant to do this back for my four-hundredth post, but apparently I just couldn’t be bothered in mid-January. Well, I’d like to now thank you for choosing oftentimes to look at what I click out here, some of you in the United States, and all the way out in Germany and the UK sometimes, and even sometimes from an unknown country. Yes, that hit is always so curious. Feedburner is the one who can’t identify the country, by the way. It is too mysterious! Legion of Doom, perhaps? Or Fortress of Solitude?
Yes, I stalk you! I stalk you through my stats. Because I’m so lonely. So very, very lonely. It’s hard out here for a pimp. Pimping ain’t easy! Okay? It ain’t. The Prophet Don Knotts has shown us this.
So yeah, let’s open up the search hits and the spam comments and see what we’ve got, shall we?
We’re going to go for the best first!
Dear Occipital Hazard,
I would like to see, please:
somwon eting poop from thar but
Thank you in advance.
Well, Coprophagous, you’ve come to exactly the wrong place. Get lost!
Quink sent me an email to check on me today. I told her where I was at (in a bad neighborhood–in my mind), and I decided I would go to yoga for the first time in I don’t know how long. All the way there I told myself that it wasn’t too late to start over.
That’s where I go, you know. It’s too late. It’s too late! Oh dear. I’ve fucked up too much. It’s too late to make things right. Well, it isn’t. So long as I’ve got a breath left in my body, the fight is on. Don’t lose the fight. That’s what I learned from the “Surviving Edged Weapons” video (not for the weak of stomach). And don’t fuck with the Gorton’s fisherman when he’s coming down off meth. Trust him, yes, fuck with him, hell no. Really, I learned so much from it, I can’t tell you.