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|Saturday, July 24th, 2004|
|Always a bridesmaid
So I heard from this Watershed Stewards program to which I applied and recently interviewed and was excited about possibly entering. I didn't get in. C'est la vie.
Now I get to decide what I want to do. Go back to school? Stay in the Conservation Corps? Look for another job? Right now I'm feeling a little disappointed, but what to do about it? No use crying over spilled milk.
|Friday, July 2nd, 2004|
|I'm willing to wait my turn
Just got back from a four day spike. We worked and stuff.
I just got promoted. This means that I now have been granted by the most benevolent CCC to live off Center (think dorms, but with high schoolers). I'm currently in limbo with the property management people, who have processed my application to live in some one bedroom apartment in Fortuna. They have passed it on to the property owners, who now hold my fate in their hands. Festivities of the patriotic kind have hampered me, because the property managemers are closed on Monday for patriotic reasons. This means that I am staying at my friend's house until at least Tuesday, the earliest I can move off Center. I have been kicked off Center in the meantime.
To complicate matters, I go out on spike on Wednesday, which means that if I don't hear from property managers by Tuesday, I won't be able to get in touch with them until I get back a week later. This frustrates me. Perhaps the universe teaching me a lesson in patience?
The purpose of this entry has been twofold. One: let y'all know the good news of getting my own place (hopefully). Two: to bitch about my frustration.
Thank you to all concerned readers.
|Friday, April 30th, 2004|
|Delinquent bears (my favorite band name)
Another irrelevant title contributed to the annals of livejournal.
I spent the last week in a place called King Range, a range of lovely coastal mountains in Humboldt County. I camped with my crew two miles from our trucks (which were about 10 miles via dirt road from any other kind of civilization) in the backcountry. The "campsite" was a series of pinner ass terraces cut into a sheer hillside. Taking a shit involved a hike up a formiddable hill. We ate freezedried food 3 meals per day (it makes you shit orange-ish). I didn't shower for eight days. The stench one acquires after such lack of hygiene is indescribable. You begin to smell your own odors, which in comparison to others is not overwhelming. My feet smelled like I had creek rot. I won't begin to describe the foulness coming from my nether-regions. I lived in the dirt and didn't mind it one bit.
We maintenanced six miles of trail, and thanks to the efforts of crew 2, the King Crest Trail is now open. I learned much about trail maintenance and construction.
The most singularly amazing thing about being in the wilderness for eight days is that I entered a different time. All of my civilized troubles (bills, money, living situations, etc.) became so unreachable as to be meaningless. I realized I counldn't do a damn thing about anything in this part of my life, so I didn't even think about my Fortuna worries (as if anything is worth worrying about to begin with). The days ended as soon as they started, and all eight days blended into one. I now am on my first of six days off before returning to the same thing on Wednesday. My whole summer will proceed thusly, and I shall shortly be visiting peoples around the west coast, and maybe the country. Time will undoubtedly move quickly.
|Wednesday, February 25th, 2004|
So it's been a while.
I think most everybody knows I'm doing this Conservation Corps deal. It's a State program for youths in which we get paid to do all sorts of manual labor, from freeway cleanup to trails to deforestation to salmon restoration to floods and on and on. If it's manual labor that no one else really wants to do and in any way can benefit the environment or community, we're the people to call.
The impetus of this entry is that I just got back from eight days of working ten hours per day camped out sixty miles from civilization. This job was a fuel break in a forest. The object is to thin the forest so when a fire comes blasting up this ridge, the firefighters can get it under control. You know that bastard Smokey the Bear? Preventing forest fires and what not? 100 or so years of absolute fire suppression has taught us that forests need to burn, and if there are no little fires then big fires will rage because of the increased fuel load and the entire thing burns to the ground instead of just burning the understory. Anyway, the project meant cutting down trees and saplings in the forest with (here's the fun part) a chainsaw.
You see, the State of California has decided that I am capable and responsible and should weild a combustion-engine-powered tree-killing stick, especially when frozen water is falling from the sky. The last day on the project, it snowed while I was running a saw and the sun was still out just a little bit and it was beautiful and strange and it made me happy. It was a foreign experience to my wide suburban eyes that I will never forget and I was blessed to ride a chandersaur in the snow. If things had worked out like I wanted, I never would have had such marvelous thoughts.
Kind love to all.
|Tuesday, July 29th, 2003|
So, since last post, I decided that I'm joining this thing called the california conservation corps. Do-gooding at the State level. Building trails, rehabilitating streams, etc. I'm supposed to report to Fortuna (northern California) on Sept. 2. I'll be there for an undetermined amount of time (couple months? year? more?). I'm not coming back to San Diego before I go to Fortuna.
Both elated and scared. Not going back is what scares me most. And excites me most. Mixed feelings about people in San Diego. Family, friends, enemies, acquaintances...bad juju, bwana. What if it doesn't work out? What if I don't get the chance to go to a UC school because of it? What if I hate it? All I can do is go and try it out, and if I hate it, I can leave. There's no commitment. (My, wasn't that a mature, well-adjusted way to answer my own concerns?)
For all interested parties, I'll be in northern California (Davis and bay area) for the next couple of weeks, or else on a road trip with my brother. Looks like funds will permit a Seattle trip, too, in late August. Boys, prepare the cool zone, it's about to get frigid.
|Monday, July 14th, 2003|
So, after getting my acceptance letter to BU, I got the financial aid letter. I was almost entirely dependent on financial aid paying for school. I had heard BU was really good with financial aid, so I was hoping for a decent amount of money.
And my financial aid award is... $0.
That means no Boston for Justin. Can't afford it. I called the financial aid office and bugged as many people as possible about what is going on, trying to figure out why I didn't receive anything. But there comes a point when you've exhausted all your resources.
So, I eat the afforementioned shit sandwich. Pass the ketchup, please.
Anybody got any ideas about what next?
Thanks to all for the kind words (I know this entry kind of kills it).
|Saturday, July 12th, 2003|
|Sunday, May 18th, 2003|
|Wednesday, April 16th, 2003|
|MTV rules my world
Spring break 2003, City College style.
So for spring break (it happened late for City College), me and some classmates and about 15 other people camped out at this podunk Indian village in Baja and learned how to make pottery. We all started with bowls, and progressed onto other more sophisticated pottery. My friend Micah, for instance, made a double spouted pot which he was going to buy a carb for and turn into a bong. The old Indian lady teaching us how to make this shit showed us all how to make pipes, and what would someone on spring break do in this situation? Why, put a clear hole in the pipe, of course!
Paraphenelia made and camping trip over, our car decided to go to San Felipe. We wanted the real pith of spring break, with beer chants and wet t-shirt contests and obscene, unbridled drunkeness. We were walking around in San Felipe and it was kind of dead and we decided to go back to the hotel. I was out of tobacco, and decided to split up and meet everyone at the hotel. i end up bouncing from liquor store to liquor store and end up strolling down this alley. It seems shady, so I turn around and start walking away. But, like Paul on the road to Damascus, the spring break godess appeared to me as if a vision, and said go to that piece of shit bar at the end of this alley. Who am I to argue with the spring break goddess?
I open the door to this shithole and walk in. 15 Mexican heads turn and look me over. You can smell their contempt. This place is a concrete cell, maybe 30 feet by 30 feet. Two billiards tables, a LOUD jukebox and a plastic card table with some patio furniture. I sit down at the bar, order a beer. I just wanted to look at this place, feel it out. I'm drinking fast because I want to get out of there. Some toothless sleazy Mexican siddles up to the bar, orders himself something and speaks to me in perfect English. What's your name? Oh, mine is Justin.
Justin, I want you to meet my family (i.e. drinking buddies) sit down, take a load off. Their "table" is littered with half-empty 32 oz bottles of Tecate. One big bastard, upon shaking my hand, tightens the vice grip in his hand, just to let me know what a tough guy he is. I'm kind of nervous.
This English speaking guy, his name is Jessie, says (insert terrible stereotypical Mexican accent, with the wierd emphases and almost grunted manner) "hey, you know what, alot of people are escared to go to the mexican cantinas, because they say they put drugs in the drinks, but that is a lie." He proceeds to drink from several bottles in an attempt to persuade me into believing him. Then pours me a beer.
"Hey, justin, you like the Mexican pussy?" Great, this guy is going to get me a mexican whore. "Uh, yeah, but I got the love of my life back at my hotel room. Just snuck away for a drink." Wink, nudge. More nervous.
"Hey, you got like twenty bucks I can borrow?" This is a shakedown. "Uh no, sorry." "Well, what about ten, I know you got ten I can borrow, I'll give you twenty back." Right, I'm sure that is what will happen. Well, might as well give him the ten. It's as good as gone. Ten bucks for my life and/or avoidance of a beating?
I gotta get out of here. "Hey jessie, let me get that ten back from you so I can pay the bartender." (am I actually grovelling for my own money?) "Oh, don't worry about it Justin." right, don't worry about it.
I walk straight for the door, no eye contact with bartender or anyone near the bar. I touch the door, sweet sanctity. Open it, step outside. Left foot drops. Bartender yells "Hey", but I'm already hauling ass like the yellow coward that I am, scared as hell I'm going to be chased out of San Felipe in the morning by an angry bartender and his large, Mexican friends.
|Thursday, February 27th, 2003|
|It finally happened
My erratic driving came back and bit me in the arse today. I was getting on the freeway, going around a curve I have gone around countless times, when...
The roads are slick from all this rain we have been getting. I must have hit a slick spot. Lost control. Push on brakes. Oops, they aren't doing much. Might as well enjoy the ride. God this mud is slippery. Here we go, brace for impact..
That wasn't bad. This ditch isn't too deep. Let's assess the damage...
Body of the car looks OK. That bumper was already fucked up. Wait a second, I didn't even pop a flat. Gotta call AAA...
-"Yeah, I'm kinda on the side of an onramp stuck in a ditch. Could you get someone out here to pull me out?"
Information is given. Should be about 20 minutes. Fuck, what to do for 20 minutes. Guess I'll play Brick Attack.
Lights approaching. Highway Patrol. At least it isn't La Mesa Police.
-"Yeah, I'm fine. Kinda stuck in that ditch though. I called AAA, a truck's on the way."
-"You know you're lucky you didn't roll over. There shouldn't have been anything stopping you from flipping."
No shit. Is this good luck, or bad luck? Truck driver says "You came outta this one smelling like a rose." Thank you Confucious.
|Saturday, February 15th, 2003|
|What if dogs were the size of humans?
On valentine's day, I gave the gift of love to the world. Pyriamid Biological Labs and Alpha Pharmeceuticals helped me transfer this love via a bottle full of my plasma.
For anyone not in the plasma circuit, you might want to give it a whirl and see what you think. The first visit takes a while (3 hours or so), but the subsequent visits only take about an hour and a half. You can make about $200 a month for going twice a week.
Also, you get to talk to crazy homeless people for free. That's right, they don't even charge you for it. Some trashy bastard found an electronic calendar/travel clock lying on the street while riding his bike to the donation center and thought I would be interested to know that he was going to give it to his girlfriend and tell her that he looked all over for it and found the last one in the city. Needless to say, I was oh so interested.
In related news, weed is the devil. The great motivation sapper. Goodbye.
|Monday, January 27th, 2003|
|Maybe I should listen to some Dashboard
or else maybe some sunny day real estate. I'm having trouble being here or there. I am in Alabama right now, visiting my brother. It's good fun, but the dark cloud of returning home hangs ominously above me. I feel like I should do something here and there.
If you take yourself with you wherever you go, does that mean that your baggage can't have a different meaning elsewhere? Running seems good, staying put seems depressing. I just need to leave. I know it won't be some magical transformation when I do, but the influence of family is dragging me the fuck down.
|Friday, December 20th, 2002|
|It's the one that says Bad Motherfucker on it
Last night, I had a dream that I got in a drunken brawl with Mother Theresa. That bitch can hold her own. The dream ended with us calling a draw and both falling asleep on the street. What would Freud have to say?
|Saturday, November 23rd, 2002|
|Saturday, September 21st, 2002|
|You can never go home again...
So I moved out of my house. Me and my brother (hooters, how can you say no to them?) moved into a really old apartment buliding in north park. A two bedroom for $750. The ceilings downstairs are about 6 and a half feet tall. Other than the smallness of the place, it totally rocks and has lots of character. School is happening full time and I work 25 hours a week for my dad. I guess I just couldn't stand the idea of being at home anymore. I had bad dreams about my family when I visited Seattle last. What kind of fun Freud would have had with that. The first couple nights I stayed in my new place, I had dreams about killing my family. Kind of fucked. I guess being free had been on my mind and going to Seattle pushed me into getting thet fuck out of Dodge. Some kind of latent Psychology bullshit like that I guess. Fuck all.
|Wednesday, August 28th, 2002|
|"This all seems a little half-baked, Benjamin."
Stepping off the plane was glorious. The fresh late summer air wafting through my nostrils, about to see friends long parted from, things are OK.
I can't really remember much of what has happened since. It has been a raging storm of booze and THC induced Fear-and-Loathing-esque scenes with Max stumbling into things and all of us putting our arms around each other in true Milhouse form ("this is the guy right here").
I suppose things haven't changed much up here. Hopefully, I'll have something poignant to say about life by the time I leave, about how life is beautiful and love conquers all, but for now it's time to do assorted and sundry drugs without any creative, noteworthy, or otherwise original intentions. (Punk Fucking Rock)
|Monday, November 5th, 2001|
|this shit is crazy deep
what up yall,
Me and max is drunk biotch. James be playin us fools fo niggas. he be tellin us to meet his ass at schoo but not showin. Then he call our asses an try to snow us, fuckin tellin us he was there. But we knows betta. Yeah, massa, we need some watamelons an fried chickens. My notorious dick between your glorious tits, bitch. My cunt looks so good, and your dick is ready, ho blow. Thanks Necro. For all you white ass niggas, Necro is a hard ass undergound nigga. Fuck yall. James sucks. We are too much pussies to elaborate. He sucks in a way that is deceptive and easy to get along with when he is around. Me and Max are just as manipulatable as the rest of the people he lies to. We're worse off than the rest of them, bescause we know and let ourselves be pissed on and get pissed off. Memento is a great fuckin movie. Ghost World is a great fuckin movie, props to Mike. In any case, James is still snowin us fuckin dumb niggas, and all yall that is snowed is just as dumb as us stupid asses. Double fisted love is drivin us crazy.
|Saturday, November 3rd, 2001|
|and the pulitzer prize in radio goes to.....
My buddy Mike from work (James and Max think he's "too loud and boisterous," but he's a really smart cool guy)has a radio show in Olympia every Monday. I might be applying to some hippie school where you don't get graded but evaluated, Evergreen State College, in Olympia. So I went down to O-town with Mike on Monday to look around and ask people about the school. We ended picking up some really fucking weird beer before Mike had to go to the show. Smoke beer (tasted kind of like smoked salmon, but was really good), double imperial stout (shit was fucking black and really thick, tasted almost like wine, but also really good). So we go to Mike's friends' house to hang out and drink beer. I had a good buzz going, and Mike says I should go on the radio with him. So my beer sense says "fuck yeah, that's a brilliant idea," and my vocal chords followed suit. Let me tell you, Olympia had never met Moya before and were they in for a treat. The show was on from 11 pm until 1am on public access radio, so the audience was minimal and probably really shitty. The show was complete masturbatory self entertainment happening between us all night with the occasional break for some punk or alternative song. We got a call from someone within the first half-hour calling us "boring and self-centered" and that she listened to the radio for the music. Fortunately, we realized that the show was about nothing before we went on, so her barrage of well planned assaults were well received. Then we went off about the Man needing to be kept off our necks. Some bitch called and asked for me and said "I really liked what you said about the Man." A direct quote. I proceeded to patronize her on and off the air. She would be devastated if she knew I wasn't serious. Moya has an Olympia fan club.
In other news James went as Max Fisher and I went as Herman Blume from Rushmore for the Halloween festivities, we brought the ruckus. Apparently some queen tried to pick a fight with me, but I have absolutely no recollection of it. He stepped on my ankle, and as I am overprotective of it, politely asked him to watch himself. He took great offense to this, and belligerent masculinities were exchanged. This is the story as relayed to me by onlookers. I am the most fucking obnoxious drunk ever, and should probably not drink unless around people I can offend with impunity, like Cornish kids.
It's 9:30 Saturday night and I have to get back to the shitty Western on UPN with Emelio Estevez and Keefer Sutherland. Peace
|Monday, October 15th, 2001|
|and the word of the day is: re-fucking-spect
There is little interesting about my life. We have a new friend as nordlie informed you, Aaron. He appreciates most of our drunken antics and seems unscathed by our caustic and abrasive sense of humor (the collective sense of humor we have). All around a very nice fellow. He did indeed throw a beer at Max's face, and his nose does indeed look like shit. We're all hoping for a nice fucking scar. The morning after, we found a beer in the bathroom sink. Kind of makes a guy wonder how last night went.
I'm going to start wearing suits on a regular basis. We went to Value Village (chain of thrift stores)and I bought a swanky ass 70's British talk show host suit and some black dress shoes for 30 bucks. I'm gonna command some fucking respect with that bad boy. I've developed a stride to go with my suit, and a persona all its own. Max has christened me J. Michael Williams. Seattle beware, for he is a force to be reckoned with.
Me and Max hardly ever see James, he disappears for days and shows up with blood shot eyes and track marks he tries to conceal with long sleeve shirts. He sleeps for two days at a time and then disappears again. I'm not sure what he does, but I think it's got something to do with that David kid and his nitrous habit.
Justin Williams is one hilarious motherfucker with a lot to say. If you are reading his journal, count yourself among the privileged few. I am now through belittling myself in order to cover my ass.
|Wednesday, October 10th, 2001|
I'm the biggest fag ever. On my days off, I go to coffee shops and read. I could stay home and read my faggot book, but instead I go and sip cappuccino (the gayest drink ever) at a coffee shop with all the other gaylords. Oh well, what's a boy to do? One of James' theater fag friends made reference to us being three ambiguously gay guys. I wonder why.