I've often plagued myself on the form and type of journal that I've wanted to keep. I decided to stop doing that and just write on subjects of vague interest that either have happened or have been on my mind.

Anyhow, a new guest is gracing the Alamo, which is the monkier given to the 2 story stucco home I'm currently living in.

Justin is a shrimp of a high school senior who has, to much eye rolling, discovered that, "Acting like a douchebag, REALLY gets you the pussy, man." He'd explained this to me as he gave me a ride in his 91' Corrola a couple days ago. You know, one of those junk foreign models that's going to outlive the apocolypse. I'd needed a ride back from work and he was cool enough to be there.

After he'd explained his disbelief at this concept, the idea a woman would be attracted to such blatant callousness, I quietly rebuffed with what knowledge I had of the finer nuances of female attraction in the five minute ride the best I could. It wasn't neccesarilly the way he was acting, but the confidence behind it. Confidence is sexy and this isn't just something that just women are attracted to. A firey, strong spirited woman has many a time set a man's heart to flutter.

This was the difference between someone who was a 'douchebag' and 'cool'. One was dressed up confidence, like a peacock with a fake plume feathers from a resale shop. The other was just there like a fact of life. You have taxes, you have death, and then you have this Man or Woman who appears so perfectly sure of their path that they don't need false bravado, belittling attitudes, or even to be BETTER to feel more than adequet than the rest of the world.

It's that sense of utter confidence that all people are attracted to, sexually or not. Though admittedly it means something different in terms of intimacy, especially when the significant other is wrapped around what sheets remain on the bed, demanding yet another round...

Remember, just five minutes was all the time I spent explaining this, in not nearly as romantic terms. One does not try to write an erotic novel with their speaking language, so obviously it was toned down. just would go on to nod and say, "Yeah that makes sense." Ten minutes later, once we were inside, he was back to talking about how he had missed fucking "this one bitch." If I could have rolled him a personal joint to just have him shut up and smoke it for the night, I would have. As I didn't, due to my own personal restrictions concerning the purchase of smoke during dire financial times, I didn't.

Speaking of smoke, things have finally slowed following a large explosion of activity around the Alamo concerning the movement of certain substances around town. These are usually how these things go, and I'm glad to be enjoying the quiet. On one occasion, preceding the weeks before I needed to clear the place for a more university-oriented mindset, more than three-grand's worth of [-----] was moved and sold through several connections in both Washington and Colorado in the space of four days, including a super-strain of [--------] called -----

Things have backed off since then, and I made sure that I didn't see a single nickle of that money. I tried selling once, and that wasn't my game. Got drug a block and a half out the back of a car for my troubles, so I was done with that. But at the very least, if I can keep some select friends from having to sell dime-sacks in some dark back alley that a cop drives by every five minutes, then I've fulfilled my underground duty. But last week I had to lay down a few more rules and restrictions in terms of the who, what, and when of the business in my home.

Most pressingly, I overheard conversation from Jacker, my main connection to all things decadent, about a shipment of a [-----] that is apparently going to be making rounds over the next few weeks. I made it very clear that I wasn't having none of the shit near my place. [-----] is one thing, particularly when none of the bulk of it ever stays at the Alamo for any stretch of time. Trace amounts, including personal bits, would be laughable in terms of a full raid on the place. But [---]? Like having a felony neatly powdered and tucked into a glass vial. As light as my bias is against mind-altering substance, I have clear and definitive lines. One of them being that no lines would be done in my place. I got tired that shit years ago, when ice and meth were being smoked downstairs in the room of a previous roommate.

More so, I now have respectable working hours, as well as class obligations that I'm determined not to fuck up. People are run out so I can be an old bastard and be asleep by midnight, and I'm alright with that. The semi-daily rat pack that congregates realize and respect, at the very least, that I'm the one in control of the Alamo, and that my word is more or less law if they're going to continue to take advantage of the place. They settle well with that too, mainly because I never ask anything of them but to not act like goddamned animals.

Which begs the question--why do I put up with it? What do I stand to gain? Most people would cite money or the sharing of substances, but I'm with it for a very different reason. The people. It's the people I'm interested in. their stories and infinite complexities. The addicts, the fiends, and the drifters looking to rest their feet--it's their stories that I hold in regard over any type of jewel or precious metal. A sort of, wayward, twisted sense of inspiration they are what I think accounts for some of the edge in the things I write. When you subject yourself to the extremes of the human condition, it spirals one down deep and long thought processes.

And so yanno? Now that I have the time and peace of mind to write now--well I plan on cashing in on some of those moments via writing. I ache for some non-fiction. Obviously I must be careful, and might need to consider writing it as 'fiction', but either way the fact remains... There's a few interesting tales to be told from over here at the Alamo. Might be nice to get them on paper as some form of record... or at the very least, someone's cheap amusement.

In the mean time, peace. Keep on keepin' on.

~CC