fergie's Diaryland Diary
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Bipolar because of celestial positioning
Bipolar because of celestial positioning.
I love the idea that I can blame my dysfunction on the cosmos. Yesterday I was the un-fun drama queen no one wanted to hang around, but according to today's star chart my emotions are on the upswing and my non-stop work schedule is right on track for success.
You should be feeling especially energetic, enthusiastic, and optimistic at this time. You've done well during the past month due to your hard and diligent work, and should continue on that path.
From now on whenever something is wrong or I fuck up I'm going to say it's all because Mars is teaming up with the Sun in Leo to create havoc and nothing can be done about it. I certainly can't be held responsible for the movement of the Universe, now can I?
7:07 p.m. - Sept. 30, 2003
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Horrorscope
This is from my Horoscope today:
It's not easy for you to lighten up and have fun at the moment. Things that usually wouldn't bother you are now the cause of serious angst. Friends might not find you to be quite as much fun as usual.
That was way harsh. While astrology is a based on an ever changing solar system where Pluto may or may not be considered a planet by modern day astronomers, it still sounds like I need a vacation. I'm packing up the limo and heading out on a trip across North America.
1:11 p.m. - Sept. 29, 2003
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getting fucked up and doing fucked up shit
Recently my boy Minh and I watched House of a Thousand Corpses. It's basically a riff of the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre, only with an evil clown. The best line the movie offered up was the following:
"We like to get fucked up, and do really fucked up shit!"
Well, who doesn't?
7:21 p.m. - Sept. 25, 2003
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Rage Against the Machine
Rage Against the Machine
Fergie:
ok, ok... i just looked at your IM warning level (when people block or complain about another user it generates a rating. Prophecy Boy has a warning level of 50%. Catch him on a good day and maybe he won't abuse you)
prophecy boy:
haha... great
prophecy boy:
my friend did that this morning, cuz he was being a dick
Fergie:
that is so funny! i've never seen anyone with a warning level!
Fergie:
you rock
prophecy boy:
thanks
prophecy boy:
i never rocked before for having a warning level
prophecy boy:
i feel strangely proud
Fergie:
that is totally bad ass
prophecy boy:
yeah, i'm hardcore... _m/
prophecy boy:
sometimes, i just don't know what to do with myself
prophecy boy:
i think i need someone to take me in and reform me so i can live in society again
Fergie:
why? society sucks
prophecy boy:
i suppose
prophecy boy:
so you're saying i should continue on with my rebel ways?
prophecy boy:
be as badass as i want to be?
Fergie:
yah and then we should get together and cause a ruckus
prophecy boy:
so how would you cause a ruckus?
Fergie:
are we going for getting fired or personal amusement?
prophecy boy:
well... i was thinking more outside of work
prophecy boy:
like... if we wanted to rebel against society...
prophecy boy:
i think we should be ... nice!
prophecy boy:
help old ladies across the street
Fergie:
you know, i do that shit, open doors for people, etc. they act so confused.
Prophecy boy:
see, it works.
4:20 p.m. - Sept. 24, 2003
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mr. cocky gym guy
Mr. Cocky Gym Guy
I love making up names for people that have everything to do with the obvious.
Cocky guy is cute enough, athletic for sure, though not exceptionally handsome. But Mr. Cocky Gym Guy has a hard veneer that reeks "sex on legs." Without challenging, he owns the weight room, or at least the little corner he's in. In essence, he owns himself. It's a power and a drug all it's own.
Cocky Guy always gives me the eye when we're in the same room. Correction, my room. His is a stare of knowing, recognizing my space, and wanting to blow me all at the same time.
Eye fucking. Just another healthy exercise at your local gym.
6:14 p.m. - Sept. 23, 2003
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gold dollar coins
I think I'm going to start paying for everything with dollar coins. It totally throws people off, even me. I almost wrote "dollar bill coins." But, they're not bills they are coins with the value of one US dollar. It's exactly like a dollar bill, only it's a coin.
So it's actually nothing like a dollar bill.
It confuses everyone. That's why I'm going to start using them everywhere I go now. I like to see a look of befuddlement on people's faces when I buy something.
11:37 p.m. - Sept. 22, 2003
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more on the liar
More on The Liar
8:17 p.m. - Sept. 20, 2003
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glitter_IM_knife
Fergie:
Did I tell you about my new roommate?
Glitter_Queen:
He's psychotic?
Fergie:
(long pause)
Fergie:
How did you guess?
Glitter_Queen:
Honey, I'm your best friend, of all people I should know you attract psychotic people.
Fergie:
Yes, I remember that time you stabbed me.
Glitter_Queen:
It was a butter knife, you didn't even bleed much.
Fergie:
I think The Liar was living with us at the time. Do you remember him?
Glitter_Queen:
Yes, he's the one I was aiming for with the knife!
Fergie:
Well, it's awfully hard to properly cleave someone from a wheelchair.
Glitter_Queen:
That never stopped me from trying.
Fergie:
And g-d bless you for that.
4:20 p.m. - Sept. 19, 2003
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The Liar
The Liar.
When Glitter Queen and I lived together back in Ohio, I had the ultimate bad judgement to date someone from the mid-west. He was a nice boy, or so it seemed, with piercing blue eyes and an affinity for Madonna, marijuana, and excessive sex. I, of course, immediately fell in love and he soon took up residence within our humble abode.
It turned out he was also a compulsive liar, and after a few too many incidents involving the deaths of family members, his credibility came into question.
One night when The Liar was at work, his father, who had passed away two months prior, called the apartment and asked to speak with him. I found this rather odd, as I don't channel spirits through the telephone. They come to me over the radio. Suffice it to say I jumped to the immediate conclusion that the person on the other end of the line was a faux phantom.
I hung up with the pseudo-spirit and dialed Glitter Queen's cell. She answered from our headquarters, the local mall. Quicker than the kids from Scooby Doo, we deduced that the person behind the ghost was old man Liar. And he would have gotten away with it too, it if weren't for that darned thing called reality.
That very night, reality came crashing down upon The Liar's shoulders by way of a good old fashion banishment from our home. In full white trash glory, we threw a suitcase at him, followed by clothes strewn over the balcony to fetch and fill it with. Glitter Queen and I belly laughed for hours afterwards as we destroyed his vinyl Madonna records over a cold bottle of White Zinfandel.
Sometimes I miss that crazy son of a bitch, we had such good times.
6:46 p.m. - Sept. 18, 2003
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fergie battles go-go boy
Fergie battles Go-Go Boy
Sometimes when you win, the other guy is too stupid to know he's lost.
Unbeknownst to our multiethnic gang as we listened to stories about looking like a crack head fighting spider webs,* a surly bitch storm was brewing in the club that night.
*(see Spike vs. the Spider Web, below)
Out of nowhere, one of the go-go boys on display leaned down, clasp his hand on my shoulder, and said, "Seriously, I'm trying to dance here. I work at this club and can have you thrown out, you know."
Oh, it would have been lovely to sweep his knees with my forearm, watch him fall off his box and crack his head open on the dance floor, but I almost simultaneously envisioned being whisked out of the club by several rather large bouncers. I may know how to fight dirty, but I won't even pretend I could get out of that mess unscathed. No one looks cool getting thrown out of a club, and it just wasn't worth it to react.
One learns to choose their battles, and it's always a bad idea to get in a fight with club staff. Besides, I had on a really cute shirt and didn't want it to get torn. I processed all this in less than a second then turned to my super-model girl friends with a "Am I hallucinating, or did this cunt just say something to me?" look on my face. They had all been standing beside me and heard the exchange, and the five of us burst into hysterical laughter at his inflated sense of importance.
What made it easy to then just walk away as if he hadn't even spoken to me was a small donation from BJ. Even though a smile sliced across my lips, he could tell from my raised eyebrow and evil glare that something was going down, namely, the go-go bitch.
BJ glided through the group and gave the go-go slut a dollar. We all laughed again when he went back to dancing. I almost felt sorry for him, but I realized that somehow in his warped reality he had power over me. So we all looked at him and laughed extra hard again before stepping out onto the patio. Laughing at someone is a surefire way to really piss them off. The go-go knob gave one last glare, but he couldn't quite hide his pain at our loud mocking and pointing. At this point my gestures left nothing to the imagination.
My friends and I did a V-Force spilt and hard mingled the patio. We proceeded to trash the go-go boy. All I had to do was stand and listen while my friends told the story to every eager ear in the place, and every time they asked what I did to piss the go-go demon off in the first place I answered flatly, "I was just standing there looking cute." Uproarious laughter followed every time and then someone would touch my ass, as if to demonstrate that I was so cute you had to pinch me to believe I was real.
It was even better than getting into a confrontation, mainly because in the past I've never come away from one truly feeling like I've won. To everyone else, I'm just some moron who got into a fight. With a go-go boy no less. It doesn't matter who started it or who won. Being the bigger bitch doesn't make one award worthy. Even the biggest, most bad ass bitch in the world is still just a bitch.
It has been stated that a person's greatest asset are those that believe in them. People who want the best for you and ensure that no harm comes your way are called true friends.
Fergie battles Go-Go Boy: Final Score
Fergie: 4
go-go brat: 0
9:23 p.m. - Sept. 16, 2003
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spike vs. the spider web
Spike vs. the Spider Web
Spike announced he had an ego-deflating story to share the other night, while the WeHo Crew & I were out for drinks. Always down for a good story, the crew for the night, our out of town friend BJ, Mr. Bernard & guest, and myself, all huddled in around Spike with our cocktails and took a drink of silence. The drink of silence, by the way, is when everyone in the group but the speaker takes a drink, which signifies giving them the floor and the having the group's complete attention.
The curious thing about living in LA is the spider population. The immense spider population that lives above us in the trees. They build hundreds of nests that cover the branches, and then extend their web across everything they can reach. As these webs become loose and endless new ones are created the old webbing slips down and dangles from the branches. This commonly turns the sidewalk into a spider web landmine.
The other day as Spike sashayed out of his sliver German import, he ran face smack into a string of old netting. As any normal human being would do, he flailed about, thrashing his arms around his head, picking at his hair and clothes, spinning around, and generally fitting about in a gesticulating seizure. From across the street, a woman shielded her small child's eyes from the scene. Realizing how ridiculous/scary/cracked out he must look thrashing around fighting some visible attacker, Spike launched into a convulsive fit of laughter at himself.
He howled as tears ran down his face, and the mother quickly packed her child into her car and sped off. Spike waved. A tingling sensation pricked the back of his neck. Was there a spider on him? Even worse than the web is a live bug! He screamed like a little girl and quickly did another voodoo dance to rid himself of any possible passengers.
And this was all before 9am. You can imagine how the rest of his day went.
1:23 a.m. - Sept. 15, 2003
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let's all play innocent
911:The Illusion
We empty our pockets and walk through metal detectors to scan for weapons. We check our suitcases and answer questions about bag handling at the ticket counter. Cameras in plain sight gaze upon us from above. We pass security guards and official looking people in suits with badges. Though filled with chaotic passengers trying to make their flight, the atmosphere is a controlled one, and runs like a machine. Everything is business as usual. We think we are safe. We are asleep.
One day we wake up. Maybe its today.
"So long as governments set the example of killing their enemies, private individuals will occasionally kill theirs."
--Elbert Hubbard
"Terrorism and war have something in common. They both involve the killing of innocent people to achieve what the killers believe is a good end."
--Howard Zinn
"The right wing benefited so much from September 11 that, if I were still a conspiratorialist, I would believe they'd done it."
--Norman Mailer
"The United States has committed several acts of aggression against other nations and has frequently violated all canons of international law. They have no moral right to be a critic of terrorism, having committed the same crimes."
--Noam Chomsky
1:01 p.m. - Sept. 11, 2003
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vote fergie
Fergie's pack of lies.
In my bid for California Governor, our campaign strategy is all lies. It's not that I don't have firm convictions or a plan for the economy, it's just that I'd rather make public appearances and let my staff do all the work. Then, if things go wrong, I can blame someone else and fire them.
As part of my campaign fund drive, I'm offering a pack of lies to help raise the money I need to get to capital hill, or wherever the Governor's mansion is. For a small contribution of $10, you will be sent a full month's supply of lies. You can use these on your co-workers, friends, family, and the media. You won't get better lies from Grey Davis himself!
For a more generous contribution of $25, you'll also get holiday excuses and a journal to keep track of what lies you've used and to whom.
$50 or more and we'll throw in a t-shirt! That's a full month's worth of lies, holiday excuses, a t-shirt, and the "fergie" journal.
$100 or more will get you an autographed photo of fergie, made out to you personally.
Those who donate $1,000 and up will receive a lap dance.
California readers, look for my late night infomercial to air soon. Rather than use tiny commercial spots, I've bought out hours and hours of early morning airtime, which will feature reality segments on the fergie campaign trail and interviews with my fans. I mean supporters.
Vote fergie! Because I should win.
5:15 p.m. - Sept. 10, 2003
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you don't say
"I mentioned that I could make love for eight hours. What I didn't say was that this included four hours of begging and then dinner and a movie."
- Sting, Legendary Tantric Lover
2:02 p.m. - Sept. 10, 2003
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Driving Blind
Driving Blind.
After months of renovations, the sight of construction trucks and pickups around our building has become normalized. Their driving and parking habits are no less annoying, however.
This afternoon a huge truck sat directly in the mouth of our driveway, as though it was specifically parked there so no one could get in or out. The driver had long gone, and I waited several minutes for his return. Several minutes. I had long enough to contemplate rigging the truck and backing it out into the street so I could get out of the driveway, now completely behind schedule. I'm on a schedule! Seriously, peak sun time does not last all fucking day, people.
Anyway, the guy finally came out, recognizable by his dirty clothes and distinct lumbering walk. I shot him the look of death. Lucky for him my sunglasses weaken the impact, or he would have fallen over in the parking lot. Instead, he scratched his ass and said, "Oh, do you need me to move that?" As though at that very moment it occurred to him that someone may need to use the driveway and that would be impossible as he was parked in the most obtrusive position imaginable.
I live for these moments. Even though I know there are some dumbass mother fuckers out there, I cannot believe you are so stupid that after you park your truck DIRECTLY IN BETWEEN THE GATE AND THE DRIVEWAY, that it doesn't occur to you that you're blocking the entry. This is insulting to MY intelligence, if you even think for a second that I'm going to let you off that easy.
You know exactly what you're doing when you park in front of a driveway, alley, etc. Just the same was when you park at a fire hydrant, in a taxi or loading zone, or handicap space. What you're doing is wrong, you know it, and you've made the decision to do it anyway. You don't care that this may inconvenience someone else, or even possibly hinder the actions of the hotties in the fire department.
So when the construction guy was plainly trying to play dumb with me there was a certain amount of validity in my desire to lace him with a verbal dragonnade. My eyes flickered with green fire as my tongue clicked in my mouth. As my perfectly glossed lips parted I hissed, "Um...yah!"
So completely brilliant. Even for as cold and snappish as it was in tone, "um...yah" is the worst comeback ever.
Parking at the gym today, I noticed how hot it was on the side of the street I was on, and decided to park in the shade on the other side of Beverly. I spotted my space, checked my mirrors quickly, and went for it. Now, it must be noted that I decided this after I'd found a place at a meter on the bright, hot side, so in effect I was making a U-turn in the middle of Beverly Boulevard across four lanes out of a metered parking space. Total of six lanes, really, tow lanes going east and west and two parking lanes. This is move is equally brilliant driving stunt as "um...yah" is a comeback. Off I went. The screech of tires was almost immediate, and someone nearly rammed into my driver's side door coming behind me about a quarter way through my turn. He had a much better response than I had earlier with the construction worker: "Learn to drive you stupid fuck!"
This was said very loudly in a think Russian accent, and everyone in the surrounding three blocks heard it. I put my hand over my mouth like a small Asian girl and continued to make my U-turn, since the entire block and come to a halt at the sound of the Russian guy's screeching tires. Everyone in LA instinctively braces for impact at any loud sound, least it be an earthquake or a drive by.
I slid into my shaded parking space, tailpipe tucked between my rear wheels like an admonished dog. I took a moment to thank a higher power for not getting me in an accident, because even though I knew it was really stupid I did it anyway and pretty much deserved whatever I had coming. The Russian guy didn't, though, and thankfully he at least got to yell at me properly for being such a dick.
Still, I had to admit it was much cooler on that side of the street.
4:44 p.m. - Sept. 07, 2003
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homeless people make me sad
This morning during my daily commute, I witnessed a police officer giving a transient a ticket for being in the park during off-hours. Though the park is completely open and does not have a gate, the hours are posted on the entrance.
Even though the man was clearly just trying to find a peaceful place to sleep, the appearance of such is disturbing to people who live in the neighborhood. They don't want to have to walk their mini-pug past a sleeping homeless person; least they make eye contact or ask them for change.
As the man looked off into space, probably not even aware what the hell was happening to him, I wondered how effective a ticket would be in this situation. Chances are he won't avoid the park in the future, but will instead find a better place to rest that can't be seen from he road. The ticket will never be paid.
Six blocks up the street, there is a free food truck for the homeless that stops to hand out nourishment to those in need once a day. I suggested the officer trash the ticket and give him a ride. I would have offered to drive him myself but I didn't want to make eye contact, nor did I have any change.
9:21 p.m. - Sept. 04, 2003
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loosing my mind?
I may be loosing my mind.
Yesterday, for the entire day, I was conscious of the holiday weekend and yet still thought it was Monday. The realization hit me when I went to class but didn't recognize any of the other students. Actually, the realization was more of a slow, dull thud, because I kept thinking that maybe a lot of people had added the class. When their books didn't match mine, I wondered if there was an updated version I hadn't seen in the bookstore. I also thought we might have been assigned a new TA. Using my amazing powers of deduction and observation, I concluded I was in the wrong class. When I checked the room number outside, I wondered how the administration could move a class without notifying students. Then I checked the time on my phone and saw the date. I came to the conclusion that my mind is about as sharp as a lump of mash potatoes. Right then and there I give up on the dream of being the world's greatest detective, deciding to leave that to Bat-Man (I could still kick his ass, which is all that really matters anyway). I barely made it to the right class on time.
When I returned home, my key didn't fit into the lock. I tried it several times and checked to make sure it was the right key. It was, however I was on the wrong floor. Sadly, this is not the first time I've tried to enter the apartment just below mine. Last time, though, I was drunk when I did it so I had a good excuse.
I would conclude this entry with some kind of point, but I've forgotten what it was.
5:55 p.m. - Sept. 03, 2003
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I'm talking. ME.
I really hate it when I'm interrupted in the middle of a good rant.
Earlier, I received a call from a woman telling me she'd gotten my package. I had no idea what I might have sent out, and proceeded to ask her if she had everything she needed or if there was anything she wanted to ask me. I hoped this would prompt more information from her end, but instead she said that I must be confused. She then told me my customs agent would have to sign for the package. I informed her that once a package is sent out, the sender has no responsibly with customs as long as they have filled out everything correctly on the air bill, otherwise it would come back to me. I also wondered who the hell I sent an international package to, but none came to mind. Once again she quipped that I was confused, and then she was put me on hold so I could speak with her manager.
Great, I thought to myself, now they're going to think I'm some kind of idiot because I don't even know what they're talking about. Had some foreign publisher requested a copy of my work? Was I a few moments away from even greater international fame, if only I could figure out how to get the package through customs?
Then, another agent, who I swear had an identical voice to the previous agent, picked up and said, "Thanks for holding! How can I help you?" When I told her I was holding to speak to a manager she promptly hung up on me. That bitch! I didn�t even know where she was calling from, and just because there was a little confusion she was going to drop their next best selling author.
Moments later, the manager called. "Can I speak to West?" I eventually had to spell out W-E-S to get her to stop with the "t" sound at the end of my first name. Once we had that cleared up, she asked me what my problem was. Literally, she said "so what was your problem?"
I told her that according to one of their twin agents with identical voices, that they had received a package from me and were unable to get it through customs. "You didn't send us a package," she said curtly. "We have a package for you that has to be picked up and go through customs."
I fucking blew. "How dare you call me and give me attitude without even identifying yourself! Someone called me and said she got my package, then some other bitch hung up on me! Now you call back, don't tell me who the fuck you are or why you're calling. How am I to have any clue as to what you're talking about? Who the fuck are you, what package?"
"Can I say something?" She asked, still daring to use a sharp tone with me.
"NO!" I snapped with enough force for my voice to echo off the walls of my apartment. Kitty stopped dead in her tracks with one paw raised to take a step and didn't move for several moments, her little ears ringing. "I'm doing the talking now! I'm talking! Here is what you can do, you can shut the fuck up and listen! Next time you call someone start with HI MY NAME IS AND I'M CALLING FROM AN INTERNATIONAL AIR CARRIER!!"
With that I went back to berating her until she cried, and then I hung up on her sorry ass. The only unfortunate thing is that I still have to go into their office to pick up my mail.
8:02 p.m. - Sept. 02, 2003
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SEPTEMBER 2003
Behind me on the TV, a woman swims in ten tons of dead squid to compete on an �extreme reality� game show. Her mission is to retrieve hidden objects in the sick fest of squid. The host, a failed television star, encourages her to �dive in and get �em!�
It is like a train wreck; one cannot help but look at it. I turn my head once in a while, looking over my chair, and watch someone dive off a speeding boat, swimming in squid, or climbing on a pole 100 feet from the ground. This is entertainment. This is why I turned off the cable and put my television in the closet a few months ago.
9:10 p.m. - Sept. 01, 2003
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