I had an apple, shiny, crisp, and sweet. This apple was perfect in every way. So perfect was this apple, that I could not bring myself to eat it. Today I woke up to find the apple had rotted from within and was now a slimy pile of rancid mush on the floor. Such is life.

My hands and my mouth need constant arousal. I will soon be hideously obese, or have one of the cleanest apartments this side of the Niagara. It is true that controlling the timing of my bowel movements during my formidable years gave me considerable pleasure and a sense of control over my parents. Our bathroom floor and kitchen table are interchangeable. I could eat with my toes if I were so flexible. Moderation has never been a friend of mine.

I am Robin writing this uh... We're going to go over to Roxy's greenroom in a little bit I think. Y'all might want come on out if ya aint doing nothing. Why not?

Oh lord. What an insane week it has been. I have stories abound about my time as a carnie, dance parties with straightedge Hamburg girls, the gigundo naked party, and gestopo parking enforcers, but I shall sit on these until the long awaited party tomrrow evening. I do expect all to be there - espically you, Metalpeter - and all to be in prime rocking form. I turned down a $200 day of work to attend this shindig, therefor anything short of rocking so hard that dimands disapear into dust will not be tolerated. Leave your jewels at home.

Ever since I pulled off that 25 hour shift Wednesday through Thursday at the Fair, I’ve lacked the energy to do much of anything productive, using what little energy and motivation I have to trying to get the apartment in order now that the final housemate has arrived. This is not to say nothing outlandishly ridiculous has occurred, for that is entirely not the case, but I just haven’t had the patience to try and sit down and reflect upon it. Perhaps I’ll catch up on some of the more absurd highlights of the last week, and I’ll defiantly try to write in length about yesterday’s event at Central Terminal, but for now I must get my ass back to the Fair to load out the Vince Gill and Patty Loveless concert.

Well I’ll just try to add this. Ideals aside, it was a fantastic experience. It’s difficult enough to get 1,500 people together in this city for anyting other than professional wrestling, sports, or over priced concerts, and as I am slowly becoming an open nudist, and a supporter of the Central Terminal Restoration (non-profit, Paul) Corporation, I found the experience truly amazing. I’ll write more on this as well as my strange encounter with the artist sketchily staring and waving at me while I was lounging on my porch after the shoot when I get a break from working within the next few days.

From 11:00PM until 9:00AM I’m working the main stage load-in at the Erie County Fair. At 10:00AM tomorrow, I’m working stage hand at the Lynard Skynard concert. This goes until 1:00AM Friday, and at 9:00AM I need to be showered and at my other job working Bob Newhart. Is this humanly possible? Of course not. We must thank the pharmaceutical industry for inventing and finding a treatment for ADD.

I apologize if anyone else has posted this information, as I feel it ought to be old news, but this Sunday Spencer Tunick ((GOOGLE - ) ) is shooting yet another mass of nude bodies in train station photo at Central Terminal for an upcoming exhibition at the Albright Knox. If this is indeed old news and anyone else has signed up for it, let me know so I may perhaps meet up with you. If not, check out the link below to learn more and sign up if you’re interested.

I make forty six dollars an hour!!! I don't have time for this shit. I work for a law firm. They sent me to pick up pencils.




What don't you understand? Here, look. Does it look like I have ID on me?




Tell me, yes or no. Am I under arrest? If not, get out of my face. Ambulences freak me out. I have to get back to work.

Went to the square last evening. As usual when I’m seeing a band for the sake of seeing live music and not because I’m there to see a band in particular, I had a little too much to drink. The group of people I came with left with my van as I was supposed to meet up with someone else, but he never materialized and I wound up finishing a 40 with a homeless man I briefly befriended. At some point I suppose I decided I’d had enough and got myself onto the metro and awoke underground. Fearing a $50 from the metro Gestapo I got off at the station I awoke, and to my surprise realized it was the Allen Street station – the first station after the train goes underground. I must not have slept long. I trucked down Allen Street not exactly sure where I was going, and in less than a minute ran into one of my old nomadic acquaintances, Chris. I’m not exactly sure what Chris’s deal is. He’s about 45 years old and used to always come over to our apartment on Franklin Street dominating conversation and bumming smokes off of me. I could go on for a long time about Chris, but I don’t really feel the need. Chris is Chris, and while I enjoy talking to him sometimes, he gets a little overbearing when you’re trying to entertain guests and he comes over talking about women and his medicine. We introduced him to our neighbor who we thought would get a long very well as they both acted very similar, yet they butted heads, and Chris came back very distraught claiming she was a “bipolar, manic depressive, chronic schizophrenic.� We looked up some of the pills he talked about on the Internet and found they were marketed as treatment for subduing schizophrenics, but I’m not going to draw ay conclusions….

Back to the story. I saw Chris ahead of me as I’m walking down Allen Street, and I ran up to him and give him a hug. I hadn’t seen him in almost a month. I explain to him my evening up to that point – this is around 9:00PM I believe – and express my desire to find a parking lot to take a nap in until later so I may be refreshed enough to go to the Pink. Chris tells me I’m talking crazy, and that he’ll take me to “the serenity spot� and watch over me as I sleep. After he buys a 40 and a 22, he takes me through some secluded alleys that cut between North Pearl and Franklin to Virginia Place. I then follow him down a brick walkway, through an iron gate into a lavishly landscaped, brick walled backyard. He explains he’s house-sitting while some hotshot lawyer’s wife is out of town and dusts off two lawn chairs. He tries to light the Tiki torches, but they are out of fluid. I lay down on the grass and sleep while he drinks his 40 on the chair over looking me and the sound of expensive sports car and country club laughs float over the brick wall from mother’s across the street.

I awoke to find Chris was gone. My watch says I’d only slept for a half hour, but I felt extremely refreshed. I wanted to leave immediately, but felt I ought to stick around a little while longer and see if Chris came back. He did, and we shot the shit about love and cars for a few before taking it to the streets. He followed me to the Pink, yet no one was there so I took a piss and caught an evil eye from the evil bartender / owner and headed back out to the streets. I honestly do not know why that woman hates me so. Chris and I parted ways on Delaware, I roamed the streets and stopped by Liz’s apartment but nothing happened after I rang the bell. I think I may recall that she is out of town. I continued to roam the streets and found Mike Meinhold’s pickup truck parked on an odd road, so I played in the back of his truck for a little while trying to figure out what all the strange cases were for and killing time before heading to the Brick Bar. I was delighted to learn that the Brick Bar now served Sparks – orange, caffeinated, ginsing, malt liquor beverage – and enjoyed it over ice while watch
in
g a rockabilly / blues cover band. I had another. At some point Harrington was contacted and we met outside, petting a dog and flapping gums with Holly and assorted epeeps before heading back into the brick bar for yet another tasty Sparks on ice. We agreed that the members of the band were defiantly from the suburbs. This was confirmed after asking the merch girl. We can spot our type miles away.

The pink was beat. Paul, Terry, Holly, and company – I am shitty with names, who isn’t – left almost the instant Harrington and I arrived on the porch. We enjoyed another sparks on ice, talked about rocking hard and set out to find others who would join us in rocking hard that evening. Mike, Jill, and Beast made good targets, and for a while, I was under the impression that they would indeed be joining us for an evening of rocking hard. I think rocking hard at that point consisted of walking back to my apartment across from We Never Close and slamming a bottle of wine, but I could be mistaken. We left to go to Aqua and see if our fellow rock soldiers we released from their duties and learned that Mike, Jill, and Beast only talked about rocking hard, they in fact did not wish to put it to practice that evening. We found the two soldiers hanging out with their fellow laborers in the parking lot next to rust belt book trading war stories about the evening shift, bitching about customers, and planning ways to forget the evening to that point, and went back to Harrington and Mike apartment to slam a beer. Upon successful completion of this mission – it’s nice to set goals that are easily accomplished, makes me feel like I’m being productive – we returned to the Pink to once again recruit others to join us in rocking hard. I think rocking hard at this point consisted of finding someone to drive us back to my place, slamming a bottle of wine, and having a dance party.

Once again, we tried to rally Mike and Jill to rise to the occasion, I think Beast may have left by this point, and once again, our pleas were made in vein. “Next week,� was the best that I could get. I will hold you to this. We all enjoyed another Sparks on ice, oh how refreshing and summoned the rock reserves - Meinhold’s ex-girfriend and her friend - to transport us back to the executive office. Meinhold bailed on the mission as did Kurt, they will face reprimands for deserting, and once again I found myself with Harrington who quickly shed his clothes, dancing to Jamiriquai and Steely Dan at 4:00AM while slamming a bottle of Merlot given to me for routing through a dumpster at the Richard Marx concert. One by one they left, and I retired to my quarters, leaving out detail only for I’ve just realized how long and uneventful this whole story is.

So what have we learned from all of this? Hmm… finishing the swill of a homeless man’s 40 is not the way to impress germ phobic friends at the square. Chris may tell some tall tales, but he surely wasn’t lying when he told me he’d take me to the serenity spot. The brick bar is bumping on Thursday night and would probably be even more fun if you were a single bi sexual or homosexual female. The pink is beat, I have been saying this for some time and whished others would come to the same conclusion. Next Thursday evening Mike, Jill, and Beast will be rocking hard, location TBA. Merlot is not the wisest beverage to consume after an evening of heavy Sparks intake. I just woke up about an hour ago

Karaoke at the Tudor lounge this evening.

Richard Marx's bus door
four people allowed inside
I need a damn smoke

Can't let him see me
like hiding from my parents
damn you Richard Marx

Satisfied the urge
a delicious cigarette
I want another

Where are you Richard?
Ah, there you are, "Hi Richard"
Who are you again?