"Diary of an Angry, Misunderstood Fifteen-Year-Old"

"Diary of an Angry, Misunderstood Fifteen-Year-Old"

No one gets me—not even my girlfriend. I hate my parents: Their idea of a curfew is eleven o’clock?! I went to the mall today and felt nothing.

The Story of Doug Douglassin

Doug Douglassin ran away from home when he was 35 and joined the Visa Rewards Program. The end.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Long Hair!"

For a few years now, it's been a goal of mine (sooner, rather than later) to make a Grammy award-winning sitar album called "Marc Farful's Wild Sitar." However, of late, I've been flip-flopping between thinking that the idea is either too eccentric or awesome.

Anyway, if I ever make it, this will be the tracklisting:

1. Firewalk
2. Medicine Man
3. Fever Dream
4. The Labyrinth
5. Dream Warrior
6. Windmaker
7. Manchild
8. Get off My Land, White Man!
9. The Sufferer
10. Alien Underneath My Bed
11. Indian Giver (Don't Give To Get)
12. Indigenous

Dear Dan,

How sad it is: You’ve become a caricature of your old “new” self. I can recall a time when you rode your motorcycle around town. Do you even still have your jean jacket? Forget it. I don’t even wanna know. What happened? How did we get here? I’ve been gassing-up my car and going for long drives back on the empty streets of Glendyn, lost. I . . . I just don’t know anymore.

At the end of my rope with it all,

Kelly

Dear World,

If I ever had a step, I’ve lost it—matter of fact, I’ve lost more than a step, putting me somewhere in negative-step land.

This is how I see it going down: Tops, I’ve got two- to-three good years left in me. Then my slow but sure decline commences. Thirty-two to thirty-eight, I’m punch-drunk from the mental and emotional beating I’ve taken from life over the years and then I don’t even know who or where I am anymore.

"Looking Out for a Friend"

Today, at four in the morning, I called Charles because I know he's been looking for a typing teacher and I heard about this woman, Mavis Beacon, who teaches typing.

Dear Chris

Subject: Postcard from Hell

Dear Chris,

This past Saturday I played my first gig with KMX Musica. It was a lot of fun. The leader of the band, (I think he and I are the only two members, at least at this moment, although there might have been other members before) is Kevin McKeon, a.k.a Rainbow, a.k.a The Ghost of Christmas Past. Since it's just he and I, what he does is record backing tracks -- bass, drums, keyboard, and samples -- on his iPod and plays guitar and sings the lyrics along with it all. Actually, the iPod is considered a member of the band. I believe his name is Vanilla Jones, or something like that. There's a story behind the name, but I can't remember it. But how he does it all, it's very impressive, and his songs are really good. I think he's a musical genius.

Anyway, I can't remember who came up with the idea, but we decided that I would pretend to play keyboard, even though my Casio Concermate 670 would not be plugged in -- Oh, and he decided to dress metal and so I, since I don't have any of my old metal T-shirts, decided to go for the opposite and wear khaki pants, a button-down polo shirt, a tie, and a navy-blue blazer. I wanted to look like a kid (a late-twenties kid) who just got out of prep school for the day, or like I was about to go, or just came back from, a semi-formal high school dance. I was successful.

Now, my stage name was Marc Farfal and I did my darndest to appear as though I was playing the keyboard as if it was plugged in. Some people commented during the show that they couldn't hear Farfal, so we turned up the iPod and made the amp on my side louder. One guy, who's cool, was pretty sure that I was faking it, but he waited to tell me this after the show. To my credit, I did scream along with Kevin on one of his songs and then switched to a falsetto opera attempt at a harmony. And, during his guitar solos, I took out a calculator -- I believe it’s scientific, although I forget what constitutes a scientific calculator -- and pushed buttons, the idea being that I was calculating the awesomeness of his solo.

Getting back to the gig, it was planned that about three quarters of the way through the show, Mckeon would catch me and expose me and then we would have a war of words over it. He kicked me out of the band for a few songs then let me back in. Man, oh man, it was a hoot and some people dug it.

Enough about me, how's Europe? Are you still listening to all that sitar music? I hope so.

Sincerely,

Kentucky Fried Chicken

P.S. I hate to put people down, but I saw this terrible silent film on TV last night. Just terrible.