14.08.01 - 12:33 p.m.
yoga (my head was between my legs)
dnalounge (we played Pong)
pool (graph of correlation between beer & ability = bellcurve)
wedding (Craig & Preeta, lavish outdoor spectacle at maison du lac)
work (low-stress lately. knock on wood)
cook (cauliflower bell peppers & onions with thai peanut sauce & brown rice)
thai peanut sauce: combine peanut butter, coconut milk, tamari sauce, lime juice, chili paste and light brown sugar. whisk briskly.
bike (straight shot down california-- down steep hills, as terrifying & exhilarating as a rollercoaster)
sex (my head was between her legs)
music (calexico - "service & repair", tha liks - "run wild")
book (motley crue - "the dirt")
I had been listening to him brag for an hour. He had dirty red hair, shaven in a halfhearted attempt at a mohawk, and a cuff in his ear-- not even a real piercing. Like every other punk-rock poser, he had been hanging out out at the Whisky A Go-Go that night, watching the dying gasps of the L.A. punk scene. David Lee Roth and Robbin Crosby and Stephen Pearcy from Ratt were partying with us at the Motley House that night. And the little punk kept trying to prove that he was more rock and roll than any of us, that he was tougher and more street that me, though he was clearly just a rich, self-deluded brat from Orange Country. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.
"You ain't a fucking punk, you motherfucker!" I leapt off the sofa, slammed his head against the table, yanked his ear, and pressed the lobe flat against the wood with my fingers. Then, with the whole room watching, I hammered a nail straight through his earlobe and into the table.
"Aaaaaaauuuuuuggggghhhhh!" he yelled, and writhed in pain, stuck to the table like a dog on a tight chain.
"Now you're punk rock!" I told him.
-- Nikki Sixx
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