New blog

Hey guys, I started a new blog to be more San Franciscoherent.

misshighlandparkinsf.blogspot.com/

I wrote a short story. Should I post it?

san francisco holga portraits (by mom)

I'd like to show some love to the following faithful beloved readers:

Taylor
Miss Sara
Kristina
Gina
...
um...I think that's everyone who really reads this blog. But thanks, thanks a lot for reading this blog. I really do appreciate it.

Gogol Bordello was pretty much awesome.

We won.

For my younger readers, drinking is not cool. Don't do it.
For my readers that are my age (Taylor, Gina, I'm talking to you), drinking is not cool. Don't do it.
For my readers that are older than you...well, don't tell my mom. And still, drinking is not cool. But whatever, you guys are adults.



I went to this 'bro' (a word that apparently means jock or something...I'm not sure) party at this neighborhood called Park Merced last week... (for all you L.A. folks, it looks IDENTICAL to Park La Brea behind LACMA) out by SFSU. I stole this awesome wig. And Michael and Chris (my chauffeurs) threw this guy who kept screaming white power (he was black) at Michael (who is Jewish)'s shoe out the window of this twenty-fifth story apartment. It was a crappy party: these really skinny girls who were dressed in like fetish outfits making out with each other...kids breaking glow sticks and spraying them all over the goddamn place...it was crowded...and then the cops came. But we didn't care. We won. They won a shoe, I won a wig.

Yeah. In other news, I was sexually violated on the bus on the way to school last week. It was some middle aged English man who looked like he was on his way to play soccer. I was really uncomfortable, and I was suddenly speechless...so I reached into my bag...grabbed my knife...lowered to his crotch...and flipped it open.

Then I gave him my best slitted eyed look and moved.
And the bus stopped. And he got off.

And then I stood up and yelled "PERVERT" (a word I DETEST).

When I got to school, I ran to the bathroom and scrubbed my leg. I was totally off balance for the whole day. I still kinda am.

Birthday.

BIRTHDAY PORTRAIT!!!

Today is my eighteenth birthday, and the following is a list that I wrote on my quincenera of what I wanted by my eighteenth birthday:
-a smaller waist (I have this weird obsession with Sophia Loren/Marilyn Monroe physiques...they're voluptuous, but their smaller (in comparison to their hips and breasts) waists offset it...As a fellow size eight (now, at least...back then, I think I was like a four, but I was also four inches shorter), I think I though I could get away with it.) (My dad also had an odd obsession with waif like women...my older sister Alex fits that, but I failed that test. He used to measure my waist every morning.) (Oh, and p.s., my waist is a little smaller...or maybe my breasts just grew.)
-a car (I have the Bronco, but I can't really drive it, as it's in L.A. and a stick shift with a weird clutch, and my brother-in-law uses it...It's such a kick ass car! I'm gonna convert it into vegetable oil. That reminds me. I need to find my Westside Connection tape, which is lost in that damn car.)
-my own apartment/place to live (yeah...except that it's more like a Soviet tenement shared with about a hundred other people.)
-be out of Los Angeles (yeah, I got that one.)
-Morrissey to sing me happy birthday (I don't get why he wouldn't...oh well.)
-to be able to kick Bill O'Reilly's ass while reciting the names of all the U.S. presidents, and current congress, and all the battles of all the wars we've fought in or while reciting the manifesto (but he had to call me something along the lines of brown and uneducated first.)
-my own band (HA.)
-have a short story (along with illustrations by yours truly) published in the New Yorker-(not yet, at least)
and of course,
-have a nice rack (YEAH.)

You know, looking back, I'm super proud of what I've accomplished. I've kicked a drug habit, made art, loved people, and have not died, traveled. That's neat for just barely eighteen.