Mechanically Separated Chicken.

Thursday, February 27, 2003


Me: What are you doing here?
Avril Lavigne: I'm providing the soundtrack to your dream.
Me: Oh no.
Avril Lavigne: Don't bust my chops, Old Lady. I just play the gigs they tell me to.

Wednesday, February 26, 2003


'Do you like jazz?' he asked. The boy kicked his foot against the side of the bus shelter. 'I like it,' he said. 'You waiting for the 505?'

'Yeah,' I said.

'It's always late.'


'Yeah. Sometimes it doesn't even show up. I'm gonna go see my mum. I was late last time and she didn't like it.'

'I can imagine.'

The boy slipped his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a scrap of paper.

'Wanna see a picture?'


He handed it over. It seemed to have been torn from a magazine.

'My brother. He's in America. I'm gonna go see him next year when he gets out of the Navy and we're gonna hitch around. See stuff. Y'know?'

'I like his hat,' I said. I gave back the picture.

'Whaddya mean, hat?'

'It's a good hat.'

'He's an officer.'

The boy sat down beside me on the bench. His legs jiggled.

'So, do you like jazz?' he said.

'Actually, I do.'

'Yeah? What else do you like?'

I pulled the zip closed on my backpack. I tucked it between my knees. I said nothing for a moment.

'I like lots of music,' I said.

'Gangsta's where it's at.' He smiled. 'I've got a piece. The police don't know nothing. I keep it here in my sock. The police don't know anything about it.'

'Okay,' I said.