I was at somebody else's family party at a banquet hall in Bensenville the other night. You know the drill: eighty people, cutrate deejays playing la vida loca, fake wood panelling, half-lit chandeliers and bland food that the old folks can eat without aggravating their ulcers. I had nothing to say to anybody, and in truth, I didn't belong there. I'd been invited by my friend's mom, who'd insisted on my attendance, to the point of paying for my plate. Hey, it's a party, right?

Well, at east the beer was free. I ended up talking to Rosalita, a sweet old gal of about eighty years. She used to be a punch press operater, whatever the hell that is. She kept repeating herself, which was sad. "If Rocky wants to go out and make whoopie, then so can I, but I don't wanna. What's good for the goose is good for the gander. I could go out and dance, but what's the point now? Don't you trust nobody. Have fun, but not too much, don't take advantage of your life, but don't forget to dance either." Repeat ten times. Rocky is her husband. She kept looking around for him, but only once did she find him and point. During the 90 plus minutes I spent next to her, he never once came by. The message I got was this: she's regretful and dissatisfied with her life, and she feels cheated. Despite being surrounded by mobs of her offspring. None of them spoke with her, although many gave her quick hugs and kisses before fleeing.

I guess when you get old there's just no room for you in anybody's life. Everybody guiltily acknowldeges you and then runs away screaming back to the land of the living. I don't want to get old. I'm going to keep smoking cigarettes.
8:05 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm