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February 2, 1997, Sunday

Here I am in Staunton, deepest Redneckistan. For lack of debauchery the night before there was no hangover to pay this morning. I did a little work at Cocke Hall and then departed for my childhood home in the Dodge Dart. My folks are always happy to have me come home. This is understandable since I usually come bearing typing for my father and, this time, my mother's little lost belongings. The belongings this time consisted of a tiny black flashlight and the Greek Fisherman's Cap that used to be mine but somehow gradually became my mothers in the early 90s. I'd recovered the hat yesterday from the Downtown Artspace where my drunken mother had left it a week before.

5:55pm
My mother and I picked up pizza and beer in the commercial southern fringe of Staunton along Greenville Ave. We traveled in my Dart, which she filled with gas at her expense. My indigent-seeming brother happened along and he joined us for the ride home. He smells exactly the way he looks.
I'll be going to Josh Furr's place tonight for a little drinking and "musical performance." I put that term in quotes because of late such performances have become rather an ordeal for me. Josh's drumming is chaotic and severely flawed, overly loud, and completely unfocused. It does little to accompany my guitar and vocals. It's sad because there was a time when I could do almost nothing on guitar and Josh endured my lousy playing as I gradually adopted my own style and memorized lots of little patterns and techniques that I now play with ease. His playing has improved almost none in that time, however. I have outgrown him. But he's also a social burden I must bear.

a pornography nightmare

Well, it was a pretty appalling time at Josh Furr's place. I was playing my guitar without inspiration or new ideas and he was playing his drums even more unhelpfully than normal. Yet for some reason he was playing especially loud all the same. Then as usual, he tried to interest me in his porno mags and the porno pictures liberally applied to all his phlegm-stained walls. Almost all of them show women using their hands to stretch their vaginas as far open as possible. It's impossible to look in any direction without seeing at least one such picture, mixed in with occasional pictures of Ozzy, Sepultura and Pantera.

It wasn't an entirely passive experience either; Josh would comment on a large picture of a skanky blond woman spreading her vagina wide for the camera, and virtually rub my nose in it, and then try to interest me in the article from which the picture had been extracted, throwing a well-thumbed magazine issue in my lap, open to the most spectacular wrinkled page. Then he'd want me to agree that she (usually a remarkably unwholesome and somewhat retarded-looking wench) was the most beautiful woman in the entire world. To make him leave me alone, I usually agree.

Some of Josh's pornography makes no sense to me...like the excerpted painting of a beautiful blond woman masturbating a long slender penis that appears to be her own. I was left to wonder, would a significant fraction of the admirerers of porno prefer women if they each had their own penis too?

Josh is also the most ludicrous hypochondriac I know. He asked me about a tiny red nodule on his skin (the sort of mark I occasionally get on my abdomen and upper arms). Was it, he wanted to know, evidence of Hepatitis A or B? Hepatitis A in all likelihood, he thought. He figured he'd got them from some skanky girl he knows. There was no arguing the point with him.

I left after only two hours or so of this nightmare, though he wanted me to stay until 9:30pm. I went to bed early with absolutely none of those images of spread-vagina porno dancing in my head.

The entry for Jan 31 is now complete...I worked on it today.

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