Sunday, December 20, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Oregon
Living on my aunt's horse farm across the street from where they filmed twilight was one of the strangest experiences anyone could ever have.
I slept alone in the basement, always heading to bed at about 5 a.m. with a head full of beer and xanax.
It was musty, and I had to swat bugs away from the walls around the bedposts each night as I lay down.
Worse yet, everyone else got up just after dawn and opened the kennel for the 11 Russian Wolf Hounds that would run around through the 5-acre property and peer through the basement window at me as I slept inside.
The nights were cold, and the whole house was heated by a small fireplace that burned woodchips.
My only friend was a jet-black Feral cat nicknamed Darwin, who would creep into the basement at night and squawk at me to pet it.
I slept alone in the basement, always heading to bed at about 5 a.m. with a head full of beer and xanax.
It was musty, and I had to swat bugs away from the walls around the bedposts each night as I lay down.
Worse yet, everyone else got up just after dawn and opened the kennel for the 11 Russian Wolf Hounds that would run around through the 5-acre property and peer through the basement window at me as I slept inside.
The nights were cold, and the whole house was heated by a small fireplace that burned woodchips.
My only friend was a jet-black Feral cat nicknamed Darwin, who would creep into the basement at night and squawk at me to pet it.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Get your kicks on route 66
Northwest US is a trip that is not to be fucked with. Especially Oregon.
I can remember arriving at the LAX airport, vaguely. It was about 9 a.m. and I was already thirsty for a drink. Johnny Walker Black Label, on the rocks.
When I arrived to the Route 66 bar and grill inside the airport, the bartender was hunched over the bar with his face against the counter.
At first I thought he might have passed out, but soon I saw that he was snorting lines of cocaine and talking quickly to himself.
I grabbed a shotglass from the other side of the counter and slid it across the counter, striking him on the head.
He jumped and squealed, then calmed down.
"What can I get you?" he asked.
"Black Label," I said.
"Isnt it a little early to be drinking," he asked with a smile.
"Finish your fucking powder and fix the drink," I yelled, then turned to face the TV.
Some kind of college football recap. Boring stuff, but thats all that was on.
Maybe, I thought, there was another way.
I can remember arriving at the LAX airport, vaguely. It was about 9 a.m. and I was already thirsty for a drink. Johnny Walker Black Label, on the rocks.
When I arrived to the Route 66 bar and grill inside the airport, the bartender was hunched over the bar with his face against the counter.
At first I thought he might have passed out, but soon I saw that he was snorting lines of cocaine and talking quickly to himself.
I grabbed a shotglass from the other side of the counter and slid it across the counter, striking him on the head.
He jumped and squealed, then calmed down.
"What can I get you?" he asked.
"Black Label," I said.
"Isnt it a little early to be drinking," he asked with a smile.
"Finish your fucking powder and fix the drink," I yelled, then turned to face the TV.
Some kind of college football recap. Boring stuff, but thats all that was on.
Maybe, I thought, there was another way.
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