02.03.04

8:33 p.m.

hi. this is stoo. i'm still here.

i was talking to malinda the other day, and when i was, what i was saying went something like this:

"you know malinda, i can't write. i can't write and it's because of you. i can't write, and i don't even really want to write cause, even if i did, what would i say?

"you know? like, i would want to write about you. but, you know, it wouldn't come out the way i wanted it to. i just, you know- i wouldn't get it right."

and then she smiled and did that thing with her eyes where (while holding my hand) she looks up with that gleam as though, right then, i had explained the universe.

i don't know.

anyway, i was talking to dug about this earlier. and i was saying that i really needed to update. that i really need to get something up and all that. and, when i was talking to dug, i got this idea.

i told dug that he should update for me. and he said ok.

so what follows is what dug wrote on a moment's notice. read it. and when you are done, tell him how much you liked it.

this is his email.

bye bye.

I haven't written in a long, long time. That's not a cop-out or warning as such. It's a thesis statement for this drivel. If you don't want to read all of this, I'll tell you the closing statements now too. They go like this: "That hidden pocket was enough to make my day."

Sometimes when I walk around this city, I feel like everything's slow motion and all eyes are on me, walking. I get self conscious about the way I walk during these times. I (in my head) try to make my walk a cool swagger/strut type of thing (think beginning of Reservoir Dogs meets Saturday Night Fever). Then my head tells me that I probably look like a jackass, so I try and think of something else.

There's other times that I feel like I'm a numbered ping pong ball inside one of those lotto ball blower things (yes, I said ball blower, what!?). It's usually when I'm in a crowd of people trying to get on some sort of public transit device. The Airport/Linden bus pulls up at the BART station and all these people flood around me. The old ladies, you know who you are, they're the worst. They're old, frail, short, gray, wrinkly, tired and whatnot, but that doesn't stop these pear-shaped geriatrics from throwing elbows like X-mas shoppers going for the last Tickle-me-Elmo (remember that? a couple a years ago? No? screw you).

So there's music. There's always music. My head is always plugged into a stethoscope playing the heartbeat of my choosing for that day. The other day I was out of batteries and thought that for shits and giggles I would go the day without music. I left the house in the morning and made it the 50 yards to the 7-11 before I bought batteries. Am I wrong or is music the best mood enhancer there is? By best, I mean in regards to universality, accessibility, economy, variety, and it doesn't give you cottonmouth, make you grind your teeth, or make out with girls that you don't even know.

Am I getting old? I remember when all I wanted out of life was cottonmouth, jaw pain, and some Stella's tongue in my throat.

So, walking more, listening to music, and in love. That's where I'm at, every day. And I was thinking today, as I have been a lot lately, about love and how fun it is. I know someone who is in love, and I'm so terribly jazzed about it. Anyway, I was thinking about love when I noticed my new jacket had a pocket that I wasn't aware of at it's purchase. Then I started thinking about this new pocket and it's possibilities.

I started drawing parallels between love and finding a new pocket on your coat. Making the metaphor in my head about love and hidden pockets. See, the coat was good before, but this made it better. This detail, this new thing. This isn't making any fucking sense.

So Rufus is good, I'm not, and I'm elated.

Wanna know why?

That hidden pocket was enough to make my day.