Last night I was in New Orleans and had some how gotten a little thing interested in me at a cross walk, or something. But I told her no dice because I have a girlfriend. But I felt guilty because I wanted to fuck her and she wanted to fuck me. These dreams have got to stop!!!What happened to my old cerebral territory, when dream girls wouldn't give me the time of day, or turn into Gumby whenever I touched them (that only happened once, but it left an indelible mark on me)? Perhaps Christy was absolutely right: sex does change everything.
P.S. - Later in the dream, I had a return to form. When I tried to track down the busty crumpet who tried to make me earlier, I followed the directions she gave me to her apartment. Somehow I wound up at a little black girl's birthday art at some old Creole house. Nirvana was on the television with Jerry Cantrell playing a very pop-oriented song I didn't recognize, and the elven year old birthday girl was damn glad to see me.
Somewhere along there, I was seeing a White Stripes concert up close and celestial. Meg White played guitar on the first song, then went back to the throne. She took off her panties when she sat down and I got to see her pussy. So did all the other "guys" in the "crowd", it seemed. Hoots and hollers all around.
P.P.S. - I should have wrote "snatch" when writing about Meg White's vagina. It was better than a simple "pussy". Also, I'm not entirely comfortable with the word. Too unevolved for my taste.
- Later -
Tim and I had a very eventful afternoon. We got all the materials needed for the drum riser and built the thing (well, I built the thing and Tim helped, but I've no qualms with or about that) before 5:00. Rockey even helped us out. Better for him to help us with everything we need than to be pounding away for hours on end. When we were done, I returned his tools and had a listen with him. Tim was playing away, and the noise was still there, but I felt the vibrations were cut down. He said, "I'll refrain from comment." At least he understands we're done our best to be amicable. We'll practice whether he likes it or not, and I feel he understands that.
After our hard work, Tim treated me to most of a pitcher of Miller Lite at Killarny's. Tonight being happy hour, we both enjoyed a pile of hot wings. That's right folks, you heard it here first: Tim Farell ate meat. He justified it as experimenting, like one does at a young age, trying all different foods about to determine what it is they'll like for the rest of their life.
Anyway, Tim's friend from Jewel/Osco met us there at around 6:00. CJ is his name and he is a master yo-yoer. He also plays bass and has a paranoid fear of brass instruments. Who knows - within a week, Skinny Pete could be a three-piece rock and roll machine. We're heading toward the big time. Your town will be destroyed by a three-headed, omnivorous, swinging monster of rock and roll! People get ready!!!
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