Last night's attitude fix

I've been feeling like shit lately. I've got some personal issues, not as per usual, for they're issues involving the fuck-up and dysfunction people I love are struggling with instead of me. It's normally me, but its not this time and I don't know how to deal with that. I'll probably just be as ambiguous and emotionally stilted as usual, hint at my pain and wait, wait wait till it pops forth during a two day, I-hate-feelings bender. That's my plan.

But I'm so good at being bummed. I haven't eaten in two days and there are sixty-three empty bottles of Gerolsteiner water on my living room floor. I felt dehydrated? No, it's a good old-fashioned OCD pity party because I don't know what to do right now.

But my attitude problem is just that, attitude. And attitude is easily changed with decent perspective, a little time, some lesson learning etc. Since I don't learn lessons very well that takes years, but a swift kick in the ass speeds up the process. I'll tell ya, my attitude problem got kicked in the ass last night. No shit.

I went to see The Cursive at Avalon in Hollywood with my friend Tiff. It was sort of a last minute thing, really. Tiff texted me, 'cause Tiff is 23 and texts instead of calling, good girl, "Have two tix to Cursive at Avalon wanna go?"

Tiff picked me up in her mom's car. I love that. It felt so, like, Omigod let's go to the Mall and get smoothies and flirt with boys, or like when you get carded by bouncers who you know aren't really sure that you're not underage (happens all the time now that I have coconut oil. You need to go get some, its miraculous). Tiff is 90 pounds soaking wet with black, shaggy emo hair, puppy dog eyes and the most impossibly tiny button nose. It doesn't seem as if she can even breathe through it. She wears emo clothing and black Chuck Taylor sneakers. She's emo Barbie. No, emo Skipper. I met her through Tucker, who she unfortunately invited into her vagina on a regular basis last time he was in town.

Tiff has five younger brothers who she absolutely lives for, and its obvious, by the way she goes on about them, that she adores them. Lil' brother talk starts almost as soon as I get into Tiff's mom's car and buckle up. "Hi honey! How are you?"

"Eeek. I've been better."

"Really? What's up?"

"Well, I'm working at this place, and I'm not sure if I'm telemarketing...they call me 'outside telephone sales staff.' I dunno if I like it...which way to the 134? I'm lost already."

"That way."

"Thanks. So I don't really like the job, and I've got all this family drama."

Tiff and I drive to Hollywood, and she begins to tell me about her brother, who won the Bronze Star and Purple Heart in Fallujah, but really lost, for he can no longer walk without a cane.

"Yeah, its not going so good. He's got a lot of pain problems, so the doctor put him on meds, Percocet I think, and he's not supposed to be on it anymore, but he moved out of the house and moved to Colorado and nobody really knows what's going on with him. We think he's getting meds off the street."

Tiff may have ADD. I make this judgement only because I have it too, and that's like the Irish making fun of the Irish, and the Italians making fun of the Italians, and so on and so forth. So Tiff can't keep a thought together to save her life. We are parked at the Avalon, waiting in the will call line for our tickets before Tiff even gets to the "he's getting his meds off the street" part. We're inside with drinks waiting for the band to go on when Tiff picks it back up and tells me, "So now he's dating this girl who has kids by this other guy who's a drug dealer."

"Oh shit."

"I know. It's bad."

Tiff's head takes off again, and the band goes on. It's a pretty decent band; you should check them out (though I can only vouch for their live show, not their studio work). There are lots of crusty characters in the audience as usual, so the music and the critters and the Tiff are making my night a lot more enjoyable than I thought it would be. I could be sitting naked in the dark drinking mineral water for chrissakes.

When the band finishes up, Tiff and I trod out.

"Want to go up the street? I know this bar around the corner that's really cool and low key," she says.

We walk there, and it's a slow walk because my slutty red stripper shoes are difficult to walk in. They click and clack on the stars, over June Lockhart, Judy Garland, Rock Hudson and Desi Arnaz. Tiff tells me more about her brother.

"So he was supposed to come home and get into rehab. He called my mom and said he'd be home in two days, but we never heard from him, and he lost his cell phone and couldn't afford to get a new one. So he just disappeared for a few days."

Now it's hard to be in Los Angeles and not pass by a church or center of Scientology. They are everywhere, promising happiness and free personality tests. There happens to be one on the way to the bar, the "L. Ron Hubbard Institute," and I giggle and point to it as we pass. A lady in a black pant suit and chipper disposition calls out to us, "Want to come in and see what its all about?"

"Sure. I tell you what. As soon as you're not a fucking cult, I'll come in and hang out."

"Okay then. Take care."

Tiff and I are seated at the bar before the story about her brother comes to its conclusion. It is a shocking one.

"So he never showed up at our house, and the next thing we knew, he was calling us from jail."

"What?"

"Yeah. Apparently, he and his loser girlfriend's ex, the drug dealer, went to go score some pot, and they killed the guy they bought it from. Or at least, that's what the police are saying. He says he didn't do it and I believe him."

"Jesus Christ, Tiff."

"I know. What's worse is he's just given up. He doesn't care about anything anymore. War really ruined him. Plus there's all this weird evidence coming out--a witness saw him fleeing the scene, and the girlfriend is already blaming him for it, saying things to the media like 'he shoots guns.'"

"That's bullshit. He can't run, and he was in the military for chrissakes. Of course he's a gun enthusiast."

"I know. We're not really sure what to do about it, but it's not looking good."

"Shit, Tiff. I'm so sorry."

"Thanks."

So that'll really kick your attitude in the ass, being around someone who's gracefully handling the fact that her war-fucked, drug addicted brother is facing a murder rap in a death penalty state.

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Posted by: Ned at October 28, 2006 11:04 PM

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