fergie's Diaryland Diary
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cheesemails
What was the name of the mail guy on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood? I guess it doesn�t matter, they�re both dead and email has replaced the need for parcel post.
Recently, one of my select few d-land favorites changed her layout. It simply would never even occur to me to grab a parchment and feather quill to write her about my comments on the design. Mousy goes point and click, brain fires off a few signals, fingers move accordingly, mousy point click sent. By the time hotmail returns to my inbox, the outgoing message is sitting in hers:
To: BigCheese
From: Fergie
subj: a lot of people use bi-focals, you know
I've been meaning to ask you this, but I didn't want to sound bitchy.. The thing is, I like your new layout.. in fact, the swimming flower fish is one of my favorite.
One thing, though.. I can't actually read the entries. Even when I squint. I've tried to adjust my monitor settings and the text is just too small. Tonight, I copied your entry & pasted it into a word document so I could read it.
Would you mind making your font just a size bigger for your favorite west hollywood cowboy? That's all, just being bossy.
From: BigCheese
To: Fergie
re: your blind ass
Imagine my surprise when I opened my inbox and saw that there was a message from you! "It can't be," I told myself. "He must have sent out a mass mailing." But no! Wes Ferguson, god among men, Flaming [Hot] Fergie, YOU! have sent ME! a message! I nearly fainted.
My deepest apologies for subjecting your eyes to inscrutable text. You see, I have a Macintosh, and on my computer, the text is readable. On the PCs in my school library they are readable, too. But I think California computers are different...those mutant computers screw up everything.
I�ll see what I can do about the font size straight away! And you are, you know. (yee haw!)
From: Fergie
To: BigCheese
re: now you see why I�m used to getting my way
The mutant computer problem in California is one of the main reasons we recalled Davis..
I enjoy reading up on you.. with blogs its not always so much what you write about, but your perspective on what you're writing about.
I just checked out your updated entry and the text size is perfect. I feel so special that you changed it just for me, I could touch myself all over.
In fact, I think I will.
9:10 p.m. - Feb. 29, 2004
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WTF?
New stuff for diaryland banners.
So far tonight I've clicked on three banners, and all three sites started off with either "I may be closing this journal," or "This will be my last entry for awhile. Possibly forever."
WTF..?
12:34 a.m. - Feb. 29, 2004
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'to do'
I have a �to do� stuck to my ass.
First, you have to understand my brilliant method of tracking time. It starts by having my entire year charted on a large print out, with major events marked and outfit coordination time (approximately two weeks) accounted for. I�m sure you have a similar system, organizer, desk calendar, watch, primitive rock carvings, whatever.
I prefer physical evidence. My theory is that electronic documents don�t truly exist. Just try to check an evite during a rolling blackout. Physically writing notes down is a far superior alternative to keeping everything in a palm pilot or outlook calendar. Beyond the obvious failure of technology is our dependence upon it.
Truth; I used to know all my friends and family�s phone numbers off the top of my head, a trick Glitter Queen taught me using association. After I moved to LA and started storing numbers on my cell phone, it�s now become difficult to remember the quick-dial codes for my cell. That�s three numbers or less per name. I can only tell you who the first two are, the rest is a complete blank. The problem with quick-dial, by the way, is that the phonebook only stores alphabetically, not in the order names were entered. Start thinking, Motorola! They were using their heads when they introduced the datebook/alarm, but after accidentally flushing my last cell down the toilet I'm reluctant to use this feature.
There�s no way I�m carting my yearly chart out of the house, and since I can�t depend on my phone or a virtual personal assistant of some kind, I�ve developed a system I call Everything On Post-Its. It�s pretty self-explanatory and comes in a variety of colors and sizes. Each weekday is a post-it. Tasks for the week are written down and displayed where they�re needed most.
Appointment in the afternoon? Wednesday�s notes, directions for driver, phone numbers, and names of the individuals I�m meeting are clinging to the inside my sidekick for quick reference. Kitty�s litter needs recycling/thrown over the balcony? Stick Tuesday on the bathroom door Monday night, and clean the poo box before taking a shower the next morning.
Last night when I returned home from pilates, I had a burning thought on my mind and made a note for myself, which I stuck to the edge of my keyboard. Then I jumped in the shower and promptly washed away any memory of the task I�d set for myself later this week.
This is just my best guess, but somehow when I draped my outfit for the next day over the back of my computer chair/mini-wardrobe, the post-it leapt from the keyboard and grabbed onto the seat of my pants. Adventurous devils, they are.
I knew it would turn up somewhere. Those little things can stick on damn near anything, for a limited time.
I�d resigned myself to the fact that it would �turn up� last night after I remembered there was ~something~ I was supposed to do ~sometime~ but couldn�t find the little pink post-it to help me fill in the blanks. I looked for my �to do� for twenty minutes, cursing myself the entire time because I�m always loosing stuff. Dammit Fergie, I hissed scornfully, You fucking lose everything! It�s so annoying to be you!
Sometimes when I belittle myself like that, I feel the need to defend myself ..to myself. I don�t take shit from anybody, even if it�s me. Maybe I�m annoying and lose things, but you�re the one that has to write everything down because you can�t remember jack-fucking-shit, asshole! Now shut up and find the damn post-it before I crack your ugly fucking scull!
These are the moments that frighten me in my alone time.
At that point I decided to give up the search. I figured if it was really important there�d be some kind of second notice. Usually, things like this cycle back into my brain the moment before I drift asleep. The �oh-shit� alarm goes off, because if I fall into slumber land the thought will be lost again. The alarm snaps my eyes open instantly, painfully shocking the senses back to full attention, springing me out from under the covers and across the room to scrawl a note to myself on a pink post-it, sticking it somewhere I�m sure to see in the morning.
Like my ass.
6:42 p.m. - Feb. 25, 2004
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spastic blue
Matteo @ Spastic Blue - sometimes, i think i am intelligent. sometimes, i think i am cute. sometimes i think i am witty. sometimes i think i can kiss. sometimes i think i am creative. and sometimes i think i am adorable. yet why can i not be any of these in the presence of another person?
It�s no wonder we question ourselves, not everyone can be a delusional egomaniac. In fact, we're trained to measure our sense of self-worth against the success/beauty of others.
I wonder though, at what point does second-guessing ourselves and constantly wondering if we�re good enough to impress upon other people stop working as a motivator and slowly tear someone down from the inside?
Not to mention, most people are shit. They�re not good enough to impress.
Lastly, I know Matteo personally and he�s all of those things at once. But if he doesn�t believe it, no one else will either.
* * *
From Aug. 13, 2003
The other night at a bar, a friend of mine confided that he didn't feel he'd have any luck meeting anyone because they wouldn't be attracted to him. What? I snarled in disbelief, always a bit shocked to hear about self-image issues coming from a friend of mine. I'd describe him as a "good looking friend of mine," but the two are synonymous. It goes without saying that if you're in my posse, you're hot. What, you think I hang with ugly people?
I told him in all honesty that he had nothing to worry about, and I didn't want to hear this kind of crap from him again. I went on, saying not only that he was very attractive, but that he was also easily one of the hottest guys in the room. He gave me a roll of the eyes in disbelief.
Look, I said, If you don't believe it, no one else will either.
He asked if I thought I was one of the hottest guys there in the bar. Without hesitation I snapped, Bitch, I am the hottest guy in this bar..
9:21 p.m. - Feb. 23, 2004
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Battle @ Burger King
This afternoon I decided to stop by the office for lunch. Instead of the usual take-out order, we agreed we all wanted chicken whoppers. It was so white trash, I had to be the one to suggest it. I�m a bit of a fast food junkie. It�s sick! I don�t purge or anything.
Weezy offered to pick-up the order, and volunteered me to go with her. We zipped through the streets of LA in style in her little sports car. I admire anyone that can drive over fifty miles an hour on surface streets. I also like to run stop signs.
Weezy is a So Cal girl through and through. She�s a red blur in her convertible, long blond hair flowing in the wind, Gucci shades, and Juicy sweats. There are a lot of imposters in LA, all these girls move out here and try to be surfing cool, but they�re just weak wannabes. Give me a hot blond firecracker over Daisy May any day.
We drove up to the window and placed an order for the two of us, and four co-workers that also wanted chicken whoppers. This being the rainy season, it was a bit drab and gray today, like a gothic version of LA.
As we pulled around to pay and get our food, the guy behind us honked and cursed at us.
�What�s that buddy?�
�I said you should go inside for a big order! It�s called being considerate!�
People really don�t understand the meaning of this word. Considerate does not mean that everyone else in the world should rush out of their way to open the door for you, that friends should pay your way into a movie, offer to drive your ass all around town when your car is in the shop, or that complete strangers should let you skip ahead of them in line. Being considerate is letting someone know you�re running late, pulling over to the side of the road rather than blocking traffic to let someone out of the car, etc..
We were already halfway through ordering when the rude dude in the pickup pulled in behind us. It was raining. This particular Burger King doesn�t have it�s own parking lot and is squeezed into a tight corner in one of LA�s over abundant mini-strip malls that has huge 5 MINUTE PARKING signs posted in the twelve car lot. Like most things in this city, it�s a fucking pain in the ass just to get lunch at some fast food slop house. For everyone.
The guy behind us honked again to emphasize his hissy fit. Honk!
Weezy flipped the bird into her review mirror and turned her head out the window. She shot back, �I don�t see a fucking limit on the drive through, asshole. Anyone can use it, you�re just pissy because I�m in front of you! Oh, Boo-fucking-hoo, you can�t have your burger right this fucking second! Waa! Fucking cry!�
The imbecile shut up and waited his turn.
Weezy�s my frickin' idol.
6:17 p.m. - Feb. 21, 2004
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party
Kitty and Computer were bored while I was in San Fransisco for Valentines and decided to have a little party.
Aside from a few incidents involving her peeing in my hamper, kitty can usually hold her own. One night she sucked down so many Tequila shots she spoke in slurred Spanish and insisted I call her Holy Mother Santa Maria for the rest of the evening. Still, she maintained.
Computer, on the other hand, is a total lightweight. Just a few drops of alcohol and he's flapping his disk drive, sputtering off beligerant error messages. Then he starts feeling frisky, tearing off his clothes and showing everyone his hardware.
This is why I always lie about when I'm returning home from a trip. Here, enabler kitty (notice the cocktail shaker beside her) and naked computer (right) are caught in the middle of their drunken escapades. This picture was taken from my camera phone after I tripped over the empty liquor bottles:
Computer has a considerable hangover and may have done permanent damage to himself. Chances are he'll be offline for the rest of the week.
12:13 a.m. - Feb. 18, 2004
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V-Day (early)
Early VD.
I started this weblog / diary three years ago on Valentines Day. Each year since then, I've always written a little something on February 14th to mark the anniversary.
This year I have a valentines date and won't be in town through the long weekend. Things change.
Does this mean I've changed my position on the overall suck factor of this holiday? Hell no. Forced sentiment is about as welcome as having dental work done.
In a bizarre moment of honesty, I must confess this is a poor analogy, as I enjoy going to the dentist. I have a tooth fetish. Actually, my doc is really cute. He's the one with the fetish, but that's another story and the reason my visits are free.
I digress. I still don't hate Valentines. That's the same, too. The truth is, we actually live in a world where it is necessary to appoint one day of the year and dedicate it to sharing love with others.
So why don't you go out and try it. It's the only way anyone is ever going to know you have any to give, and probably the only reason they'll give you some of theirs.
Maybe it all starts with loving yourself a little more the other 364 days of the year.
10:27 p.m. - Feb. 11, 2004
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shopping is the answer, not jesus
Q: How did you spend the Sabbath?
Agent007: i promised justy i would watch lord of the rings with him today. so i did. that's like, daytime = gone
Fergie: i went shopping on melrose
Agent007: mostly window shopping or come home with 20 bags?
Fergie: i bought a green t-shirt
Agent007: i have one of those
Fergie: really really thought about some shoes to match.. but if you can walk away from a sale, it just wasn't meant to be
Agent007: as long as those shoes.. aren't burning a hole in your head right now
Fergie: i thought about them when we were having lunch, and again when i got home.. but in the end, i wasn't loving them
Agent007: that happens with a lot of things
Fergie: yah, you look at it, maybe try it on for size, but in the end, not loving it.
Agent007: so is this a bright neon green shirt? because i'm having trouble picturing
Fergie: vintage soccer shirt, dark green to match my eyes.. big ball in the center with white "YMCA" lettering
Agent007: sounds like you're really lovin' the shirt
Fergie: just helping w/ the picture and to justify spending.. oh wait, it was only $14
Agent007: BARGAIN
Fergie: bargan? hell yeh.. i used to work melrose, remember
Agent007: yeah, but corners don't count
Fergie: still gets ya the discount
Fergie: the shoes were $20, but i really wanted the brown ones, which they were sold out of
Agent007: $20 for shoes?? OMG... that's awesome
Fergie: am i talking to myself here..? shopping is better on melrose if you're with me
Agent007: last time you wanted to go to the grove
Fergie: yah, i just can't come to terms with how boring the grove is, and always want to go back, thinking "the shopping must be better this time"
Agent007: well.. there's not really any vintage stores there.. nothing very urban or anything, so it makes sense
Fergie: oh, t-shirts are only a small part of my addiction
Agent007: do tell =]
Fergie: you really want to get into this? it's my religion.. Shopping is the answer, not Jesus (�)
Agent007: i haven't really been practicing your religion lately.. although i want to
Fergie: you have much to learn, young grasshopper
Agent007: haha.. well, I'm off to bed.. let's hang soon
Fergie: shopping?
Agent007: well, you said i have a lot to learn
Fergie: for now, just know that spending an entire sunday afternoon finding a single t-shirt is way better than church
7:27 p.m. - Feb. 08, 2004
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the whore
My roommate is a whore.
I admit that I'm less and less forthcoming in this weblog, literally talking in code sometimes. There is truth to every story, a message in each post. I've detailed the exit of both Whitney and Mr. Bill, but I haven't mentioned my other roommate, the whore.
I got home the other night a very late, a little stoned, and totally hungry but ready for bed. Once inside my apartment I noticed something was different about the living room, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Hm, what could it be, maybe the clothes thrown all over the floor?
Two pairs of pants, multiple sox, a t-shirt, and some shoes next to a bucket of lube. My glass table had been moved way over to the wall on the other side of the apartment, the video camera tripod was set up in the corner, and there was a wet spot on the couch.. Some freaky shit was going on in my living room last night.
6:16 p.m. - Feb. 07, 2004
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dumb stupid monkey
Tonight while watching my guilty pleasure (AI), United Airlines ran a commercial that advertised low prices to "get away from winter."
The special fares listed were for Seattle, New York, and Washington D.C., three of the coldest possible places to travel this time of year.
I'd say that this was the dumbest commercial I've ever seen, but I've said that so many times it's lost all meaning. I no longer wonder what people are thinking, but if they are thinking at all.
10:50 p.m. - Feb. 04, 2004
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fight
I have a giant welt on the side of my face. My shin is bruised. My wrist may be broken. I was in an aggressive mood today and got into a fight with several pieces of paper, a trashcan, and the corner of a table.
It all started on my drive home from the gym. A light trickle of acid rain began to eat through my windshield. I stopped off for a frutie with a little wheat grass and decided to hightail it back to the palace. Driving in LA is bad enough, when you add rain its completely insane.
A really slow kind of insane though, not like a bunch of stuff coming at you all at once that's impossible to handle and therefore driving you batty. This is a delayed, sluggish torture, where nothing happens, then everybody shifts up about three feet, and then traffic stops again. Even if you know an alternate route and plan to turn at the next street, it takes five minutes to get there. Take foot off the brake pedal.. and.. brake. Sick.
Naturally I was a bit testy when I returned home an hour later, a full forty minutes longer than it usually takes me. Fuck that. I don't care if it is the middle of winter, the wind is blowing something fierce and it's colder than a witch's tit outside. Visibility is almost perfect and the roads don't have puddles of water on them yet, so get your fucking foot on the gas pedal.
I received a bill in the mail from my old bank, which ordered checks to an account I'd closed and then charged me an overdraft fee because the account had no funds. I'm not a professional, but I'd say that most funds are withdrawn before an account is closed. This mess has been going on since October. I've spoken to the branch manager on the phone, sent in a fax with a detailed letter, sent a second letter to customer service, and in return I have a $108 bill.
Damn you Wells Fargo! Damn you to hell!
In my annoyed state because of the shitty traffic, the letter sent me into Hulk Mode and I raged out, ripped the letter to shreds, and slammed the torn bits into the trashcan. The flip top bin spun around and crushed my wrist. Reeling in pain I bent forward and instinctively pulled away from the attacker, at which point I ran my face smack into the corner of my desk.
I'm not going down without a fight, so I struck back at the trashcan. Still doubled over from the assault, I kicked out with my right leg and fell on my ass, hitting the back of my head again on the desk. The trashcan lid snapped forward and struck my shin with the brunt reciprocal force of my kick.
I screamed out a blood cry of death and lurched forward, clothes-lining the trashcan. The lid flew across the room and hit the wall on the other side, breaking it into two pieces. The body of the can lay on the floor; contents spilled like guts on a battlefield.
The desk closed in behind me. I spun around on my knees and grabbed it by the two side legs, flipping it into the air away from me, where it landed on the floor with a defeated crack.
I might have a few bruises, but you should see the other guys.
6:39 p.m. - Feb. 02, 2004
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Feb. 04
A liar and a fake.
Fergie: Friday night at B&J's Club someone told me that I was a fake.
Brains: Why? Just because you're not real?
Fergie: Yah! Can you believe it?
Brains: I can believe that someone said it, just not to your face. Did you kick him?
Fergie: I would have, but then he bought me a drink and told me I was pretty.
7:27 p.m. - Feb. 01, 2004
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