WEIRD DREAM

Last night I had a weird dream. It went like this...

I was driving on what I think was the 5 freeway somewhere in the middle of California. Instead of a car, I was behind the wheel of a Radio Flyer, those red thingys kids have. I pulled into one of those towns that just appear on highways in the middle of nowhere. There aren't many of them in the Golden State, but hey, this is a dream, not reality.

For some reason, I needed to make a U-turn. So I did. about fifty yards ahead of me was a cop car waiting for someone to mess up. That's what these towns are for -- speed traps for people who have been driving 90 miles an hour all day to suddenly slow down to 45. Like that's gonna happen.

The pig pulled me over and my dream fast forwarded to me being at the police station. The cop, a female, was asking all sorts of questions in a very condescending way. This obviously was a dream because cops never do that sort of thing. She was pulling out backpacks and luggage from my Radio Flyer and inquiring about the contents. I told her she had free reign to look for whatever she wanted.

At this point I was fairly calm, even though I knew I had a stash of weed and a pipe on me. I just didn't care, probably because I had one of those medicinal cards that seemingly everyone in this state has.

The cop pulled out a bunch of clothes and asked me to unfold them so she could see if anything was inside. I obliged, knowing eventually what she was looking for was in another bag, not hidden at all. The pig took out my clothes, my asthma inhalers, my CDs and journal and started flinging them all over the room. Then I got pissed.

Just then this family from my hometown showed up. I used to play Little League and basketball with the oldest son. I kid you not when I say I have not seen or thought about these people in probably 15 years. But there they were. I recognized them and they me. I never bothered to ask why they were at the station, but somehow their presence combined with the cop making a mess of my stuff turned me into a raging lunatic.

I started yelling at the officer and told her to speed up. I was in a hurry and just could not be bothered. She wasn't amused. Bag after bag, she searched and found nothing. I remember being amazed at how much stuff I had inside a Radio Flyer, but that's what dreams do, or should I say don't do, which by that I mean they don't make sense.

I wanted to just point out my stash so I could get back on the road. But before I could, the pig found it. She turned around and had a big "AHA" look on her face. She asked why I didn't tell her about the pot and I told her I didn't think I had to. Then she went into a long diatribe about how busted I was and all that jazz. Knowing I had a get out of jail free card in my pocket (and a very tiny amount of weed), I let her continue with the song and dance. But I spoke up once she tried to cuff me. I reached in my pocket and showed her my doctor's recommendation and her jaw fell to the floor. I told her I'd own this sorry excuse for a town if she wanted to make a big deal of this situation. I could tell she didn't, so I pressed harder, explaining how much of a big shot I was and went into explicit detail about my pending lawsuit even if she left me off Scott free. And then I left.

Unfortunately, I don't remember anything after this point. My guess is my Radio Flyer and I made it home safely.

OK all you dream interpreters out in cyberspace...tell me what this means because I sure as hell don't have a clue.

OK

ah
can it be?
another stoned Friday night
with
Snoop on the speakers
and
weed in the veins
yuppy neighbors with yet another
backyard party
but it’s ok
because
I’m over here with what I got
and
they’re over there with what they got

SATURDAY NIGHT RECAP

I spent part of the early evening in my new garden. It's in my backyard. I shoveled a bunch of dirt. Sounds dull, but it was pretty awesome. Being outside in the great weather is a welcome relief. I'm ready for summer.

Walked down Broadway to a party. I bought a 34-ounce Miller High Life and later had a Pabst Blue Ribbon. In between drinks, a friend and I smoked a bowl in a corner of the apartment.

Saw a killer band called Ninja Academy. They rule. They play fuzzy bass and killer drums. Like the Minutemen if the Minutemen were into Spazz.

Got a ride back to someone's apartment near First and Cherry. Some girl went home and so did I. Filled a bowl and smoked it on whatever street I was on. Good buzz going, I walked down Broadway in no time.

Got home and went pee. Then a walk down Broadway to Temple and down to the water. I hung alone atop Bluff Park for about twenty minutes. The real people are out at 12:30a.m. We're all going somewhere, but where, none of us know. We should stop and talk, but the late night news have us convinced that everyone outside at this hour is crazy. Nevermind WE'RE outside at this time...

Really though, I love late night solo walks down to the water. It's there, might as well use it. There werew a few couples embracing. I was the only guy by himself. That's cool. I like being alone. Good time to think, refresh and replenish.

Wind was blowing like a mucka, but I through my hand over the flame and smoked a bit more. I've been kinda slow in the smoke lately. But tonight I said fuck it.

I'm sure there are better highs than the kind that take place in public, but I'm not sure I know what those are. Blazing a lil chronic out in the open is a big middle finger salute to the ways things are "supposed" to be. If I can't smoke a little weed at the beach, then we're all doomed.

Seriously, it feels good walking down the street smoking pot. Very freeing, relaxing. I used to follow the rule that if a person can smoke indoors, they should. Not any more. Smoke 'em if ya got 'em and wherever ya got 'em.

I was trying to get the attention of a cat that lives on the bluff. Loads of cats live there, but one was eye-balling me from ten feet away. I moved slowly, but it dispappeared into the dark night. Next time.

The rain started as a drizzle, but became a full on water assault after twenty minutes. It was time to go home when my glasses got foggy from the rain.

Good night Long Beach. Once again we've danced our dance, sang our song, met our match and lived to tell about it.

POP CULTURE ROUNDUP

During halftime of today's Lakers/Heat game, Lakers forward Luke Walton was asked to name his Fav 5 favorite players. Of course he picked his dad, but his final pick? Him. Luke fuckin' Walton! Good to see a guy with (what I hope to be) a sense of humor. For that move, he's now one of my Fav 5 too.

Been watching this VH1 trainwreck called Celebrity Rehab. So much to say...For starters, where are the celebrities? That guy who was super loaded during the first episode. Can anyone tell me who he is? Seriously, I don't know. What I do know is, if he's the real deal and not hamming it up for another go-round of fame, he's in the tiny percentage of humans who I think should die. He's such as fucking wastoid he makes me want to put down the bong while I'm trying to get through this show. Speaking of bongs, one of these "celebrities" is the youngest daughter from Family Matters. Her addiction? Weed! What the fuck is that? Girl, you don't need Dr. Drew to solve that problem. What you need to do is get your has-been ass off the couch and do something. I hate to sound like Cheech or Chong, but come the fuck on. Rehab for weed? You gotta be kidding me. If this isn't a desperate attempt at getting back on television, I don't know what is. Some of these rehabbers are an embarrassment to themselves and their families, but going to rehab because you can't wake up without smoking a blunt is downright pathetic. I wonder what happened to her after day three. Did she get up and say, "Well, that's over. Guess I'm good to check out?" Cuz that's the reality of it. Dudes are shaking non-stop, sleeping all day and all night and this moron is in for weed. Her feeble attempt at attention makes Botox-faced Chyna and Mr. Tattooed One-Hit Wonder (whose song was lifted from the Red Hot Chili Peppers) look like decent human beings, which I'm sure they're not. But standing next to a child "star" in rehab for weed could make just about anyone look intelligent. And what the fuck crawled up Daniel Baldwin's ass? Again, I thought this was a show with celebrities, not brothers of celebrities. If he's been sober for a year, why's he in rehab? Oh, that's right. Attention. If someone offered me $30 million, a lifetime supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon and an endless amount of hot Mexican hookers, I still wouldn't be able to name one thing this dude's been in. Can't say the same for his brothers though. Shit, even I saw Biodome. Maybe that's why he been using drugs. If my dumbass brother was more famous than me for being a moronic born again Christian and co-starring in a Pauly Shore flick, I'd be on the nose candy too. Mary Carey, you're a great guest on the Howard Stern show. Don't go and get sober and ruin that. You're in porn. Sorry, but I think you have to be on drugs for that, don't you?

Started and finished Bukowksi's Post Office yesterday. Many claim this as one of the funniest novels ever. I wouldn't go that far. I heard this might be his first novel and it shows. I've read most of his other stuff and think when someome reads these out of order, it shows. I enjoyed it, but Women, Hollywood, Pulp and Ham on Rye are much better. It's like Reservoir Dogs vs. Pulp Fiction. I don't watch movies, like ever, so after enjoying Pulp Fiction, my girlfriend made me watch Reservoir Dogs, claiming it was just as good, if not better. I'd heard many people say that, so I obliged. Wrong. Reservoir Dogs, like all non-Pulp Fiction Tarantino flicks, sucks. This idea also surrounds Elvis Costello and My Aim is True. Sure, if you're old enough to remember this album being released, maybe it's the best for sentimental reasons. But anyone really paying attention can easily tell you the follow-up, This Year's Model, is not only infinently better, but is by far Mr. Costello's best release. I purposely stayed away from Post Office for years because I've wanted to write a book about my experience working at a newspaper. I thought not reading the book would give me a good excuse when half-assed critics would claim my story a Post Office knockoff. But I said fuck it and gave in. Buk's one of my favorites and one of the best, but my tales at the Press-Telegram are gonna make his 12 hour days at the Post Office seem like nothing. Now onto writing said book...

Saw a lesbian couple on Broadway today. One was, well, very lesbian, while the other was a smoking hot 22 year old. Made me feel like maybe I'm doing something wrong.

What else? Hmmm...jetlag still sucks. I'm still waking up not knowing where I am. But I've been more productive today than the past three days combined. Maybe I'm almost over this. If not, I might have to check in to Celebrity Rehab for post-jetlag disorder. It would be less embarrassing than going in for weed.

PARTY MACHEN

Taylor and Chip are snowboarding tomorrow, which means I'll have time to recap the past few days then. In the meantime, here's my journal entry from two nights ago in Koln (Cologne to the Americans), Germany...

I think it's now Saturday, Feb. 1. But I could be wrong. We (Chip, Taylor and I) are in an apartment in Koln, Germany. Taylor is across the hall doing God knows what to his girlfriend. Her neighbor is not here and she let us crash here. I'm way paranoid right now. I just bought 2 grams of weed of a friend of Taylor's girlfriend. We met on a street corner and I bought it in an alley for 20 Euro. He didn't speak English, so I got what I could, which was 2 grams (EDITORS NOTE: I found out later it was three grams after I reached into my pocket hours after writing this and found another baggie). Way too much for one night. Tomorrow we go across the border to Holland, where it's ok. I gotta write cuz I'm freaking out. I bought weed of a dealer on a street in Germany. All of that is wrong. Taylor's girlfriend said to smoke on the balcony cuz the girl who lives here is "very legal." So I'm paranoid about leaving shit here. I'm paranoid about someone seeing me out there. I'm paranoid about one of the neighbors smelling it and knocking on the door. I'm paranoid that I acted like a fool and shouldn't have allowed Taylor's girlfriend to hook it up, even though I told her not to many, many times. I'm paranoid someone in another balcony (there are a ton of them here) saw me and is calling the cops. I'm paranoid of getting caught with it. Obviously, this is stress cuz I'm not having such a good high. It's been 11 days, so my tolerance is low, but not this low. And I spent money on something I can't use on something I can get tomorrow (EDITORS NOTE: I have no idea what that last sentence means). She was hooking it up on the phone when I had to take a gnarly shit, maybe one of the most gnarly in my life. I returned and she had scored. I feel like a drug addict and I don't like that. I put my shoes on to go outside and get rid of it, but I decided to write instead. Now that I'm writing, time is passing and things are getting cool. But no more for me until tomorrow (EDITORS NOTE: This turned out to be false). I'm gonna stash it somewhere for hopefully some lucky person to find. I'm munching on pb pretzels and choc-covered almonds and water. I haven't been eating a lot on this trip, but I haven't been all that hungry either. I'm also paranoid about messing this person's stuff up. I'd be shitting if I knew two strangers were in my apartment right now. I'm having a good time, but I'm getting ready to be home (EDITORS NOTE: This is half true and the weed talking for sure. Today I am super bummed we are leaving in two days). Tomorrow is Sunday and we leave early Wednesday, so not much longer. Chip is sleeping and it doesn't look like he's going out. I'm either staying in and writing a bunch or going w/ Taylor and his gf. I was in a shitty mood today for no reason. My guess is I'm tired and missing home. Venice was so awesome, so easy to navigate, easy to find food, so easy to communicate, but Germany is the exact opposite. Many people speak perfect English, but everything else is off. I turned the tv on here and all 30 channels are in German. The best I could find was a pool tournament. Then Chip said it wasn't pool, it was something similar. That's frustrating. We've spent a lot of time in Garmisch and still have two more days. But it's been nice to have a free place to stay with some American tv programming, where I can buy goods with the American dollar. Bitch as I may, the US is comfort because the US is home. I'm not at home here and I'm aware of this every moment of every day. It's part of the rush and part of the scary feelings. It's true what people say about traveling Europe. I have learned a lot about myself and the trip isn't even over yet. I learned that I'm a man of contradictios. One side is wild, adventerous, exciting. The other is tame, boring and content. I like both. I might prefer the tame, but it's hard to say. I enjoy my comfortable life because I'm allowed tiny pockets of excitement. Maybe that's all I can handle. I do crazy things because I know I got one life and I've got to pack as much into it as possible. I want to experience most everything, but I demand them on my terms. Part of the fun of this trip is never saying no. This pen is getting crazy. My right palm is full of tiny ink spots. My big jacket, lent to my by Steve Haggerty, smells like smoke because it was in Taylor's room for a long time when he was burning a pot of beans and rice. It's so strong Taylor's gf Unga (or is it Ugna?) smelled it as we walked in.

There is so much more to stay about the past few days, but I don't have time now. Koln was a blast and the weed paranoia left after a few minutes and the rest of the weekend was amazing.

I heard the Lakers got Pau Gasol for Kwame Brown and Javaris Crittendon. Sounds like a steal to me.