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flamboyant KFC bag
Wednesday, July 4 2001
Another long lonely day, this one the Fourth of July. There's not much to do but change the oil in my Punch Buggy Rust in anticipation of the transcontinental drive, which will commence Friday the 13th. By the way, if there is anyone in the Great Plains who wants to put up with Gretchen and me for a night, send me an email. We're driving strictly along the I-80 route at that point, and we have a place to stay in Boulder. I've never been on the ground in Utah, Colorado, Nebraska or Iowa so I'm really excited to check those states out.
There's been a persistent misfiring problem in the Bug that I think is related to bad spark plug wires (I see arcing from one of the wires when it's idling), so today I biked down to Pep Boys and got some spark plugs and ordered a set of wires (since they had none in stock). Then I walked up and down the Promenade a few times if for no other reason than to see the young ladies in their summer frocks. I want to fuck them all, that's the curse of testosterone. In one section of Promenade I kept being hassled by attractive young orientals bearing small laminated cards with questions such as "Do you question the existence of God?" The first time I was hassled by a fairly attractive Chinagirl and I was reasonably polite as I shooed her away, but by third time I was pleading to the young Chinaman, "I don't want to talk about that stuff anymore!" I wondered afterwards if I should have asked him how much his sister would cost for an alley fuck.
Back in my house I was still lonely, bored and hungry, so I thought I'd indulge myself and walk up to the KFC on Wilshire and get myself some deep fried pieces of domesticated fowl. I was kind of embarrassed as I walked home with a big flamboyant KFC bag. What could I possible say to redeem myself should I came stumble upon a cute vegan chick? Alas, all the chicks I stumbled upon looked like they would have sucked my balls for a piece of chicken.
After recreationally watching coverage of pointless deaths and murders on a local news station while eating four pieces of chicken, I popped open a bottle of champagne to share with myself. Then I rebooted my computer into NT 4.0 to do some scanning, since my scanner hates Windows 2000. When I'd been cleaning I'd found a couple photographs that Bathtubgirl had tried to remove from the face of the Earth. They featured her upon the thing her Christian mother worships at the Dr. Susan Block Gallery, circa January 2000. The photos were all torn up into pieces, but I was able to restore them and scan them. Click on them for bigger versions. Do not do so if you are under the age of six unless Mommy says it's cool.
(BTG made me remove them!!)
I ended up drinking that whole bottle of champagne and then cutting my hair with a small pair of scissors. I guess it's not such a good idea to cut your hair after drinking a whole bottle of champagne, because now I have a radical short haircut and all these little bald spots in the back of my head. It will look a lot better in about a week.
After arguing with Gretchen on Instant Messenger for a time, I walked down to O'Brien's (the other Irish Pub on Wilshire, McClean's being closed for July 4th) and had a glass of Guinness. Off in the distance I could hear the thunder of multiple fireworks displays, but I only saw one actual professional firework go off. There were, however, plenty of do-it-yourselfers making things sparkle, pop and catch fire on the streets of Santa Monica.
Throughout the night I tossed and turned from acid reflux. I'm not used to eating so much fried chicken in one go.
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