...and the world came crashing down

How many gay guys can you force into a single room before the whole place goes up in flames? 37. 37 gay guys are how many you can force into a single room before the entire building explodes in a fiery burst of counter cultural destruction. Unless it's a brick building, has ceilings higher than 18 feet or was constructed prior to 1947. Then the numbers shift a bit. But that's another story. In fact, the San Francisco fire of 1906 was started by an over allowance of homosexuals at the 1906 Sausage and Bun festival. True fact. Speaking of gays, I think I ate a poisonous chicken yesterday. Three bites in I felt a strangely ill, after four I felt like I was on a boat in the stormy Atlantic and after seven I was seeing psychedelic images flash before my eyes in a hypnotic trance of dancing elephants amid whirling color in vivid hallucination. Thank you Wendy's for a perfectly sober acid trip. I'm laying down some tracks this week. Not sure what I think yet. I guess I'll know after the weekend's over. Yesterday was my 23rd birthday. I think I got off work around ten or so and ended up in some abandoned parking lot west of Nashville. I sang myself happy birthday, ate a month old cookie with a match as a candle forced into it and watched the rain beat against the window, drip through the ceiling and creep through the walls of the truck-bed I still call home. I just kind of sat there. I've been thinking a lot and haven't been able to shut myself off the last few nights. I think the hamster that generally runs on the wheel in my mind was replaced by a sprinting Olympic runner and his nocturnal Kenyan habits keep me awake. Sometimes being alone becomes so blatantly obvious that you can't help but acknowledge it. When I think about it, nothing yesterday really felt like a birthday at all. I guess I feel a lot older than I am. At least it was more eventful than the travesty we called the (most recent) rapture. On an interesting note, this semi in front of me had a chain dragging under his truck and hit a skunk. The skunk got caught on the chain and was being dragged down 65, filling the air with evidence of the skunkslaughtery that occurred. It was pretty much a nuclear holocaust. Babies died. I'd love to go to a psychic and have her predict my future. My life is so incredibly random and disoriented that she'd have migraines for months following. Why are there never male psychics? Guychics? That can't be right. That just looks like Guy-Chics. Maybe all transvestites are psychic. I wonder how many psychic transvestites you can fit into a building...
I wonder what Tim Curry's been up to lately? I came up with this arrangement for a cover of the Pixies "Where is My Mind" that I want to do. It's so dark and brooding. There's something beautiful about songs like that that's inexplainable. I had this pompous, God's gift to the music industry, moron try to 'explain' punk rock to me today. I looked at his flipflops, socks and polo-shirt then past my leather jacket to my tattered jeans and combat boots and just smiled. If he walked in the building I'm in right now, we'd hit quota and would all go down together...