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DIARY OF A CALIFORNICATOR II

'It's times like these that make me want to boycott life and run away to Mexico, sit among the bordello pink buildings and bridges with butterflies, tequila shot in hand, huarachis by the wayside, dirty pigeon colored linen spaghetti straps dropping from my shoulder, Tao of Pooh in hand and just BREATHE.'

by Kimberly Nichols

COPYRIGHT © 2001, 3 A.M. MAGAZINE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Iam burning up and itchy. How can I be expected to deal with day to day life in this heat? Slime, grime. An inch of extra flesh feels like ten pounds of lard. I am pounding cold beer at 4 pm to stave off the stove of this fire.

We are faced with an energy crisis. The temperatures here rise to over one hundred degrees in the summer. Walking outside from an air-conditioned home is like walking outdoors into an intense pizza oven. We are told by SCE that because our state has misused its power supply blindly, we now have the opportunity to experience rolling blackouts all summer. So combine that idea with too hot to handle heat and Indian Summer comes rolling into California with the ferocity of dragon's breath.

Summer time slinks in with whole buckets of cut up desire. It is a prickly thing. PJ Harvey in the middle of disaster. An itch that comes and won't go away. It is my friend sitting still in a crowded theater as the woman next to him takes off her shoes. It is so irregular that only the muse can rouse it.

Summer. Heat. Desire.

I slide into my car every afternoon with fingertips poised and hopping over my burning steering wheel and crank up the music as sweat rolls down my brow. It doesn't surprise me that everyone seems so detached including myself. We are all melting in our flesh, struggling to trust our pigs in mud while keeping a handle on our internal weather conditions. And all these while our presidents sit and fatten in old school reform. People with guns under a torrid sun. Nice thoughts to loll away an afternoon with.

If I owned a pool I would invite everyone I know over, strip them naked, hand them margaritas and spend the next three months in a drunken state of oblivion, from which we would all walk out shriveled, blistered and blissful with the season long gone.

A few weeks ago my lover, my friend and I drove to LA on a Sunday night to attend a birthday party.

Driving into LA is always an exercise in surreal spontaneity. You spend an hour or so on a freeway littered with gorgeous and gory graffiti and are suddenly plunked down into the streets of Hollywood, which have been renovated and resurrected to look like a dirty Disneyland on acid.

Anyway, back to cherry Maryville.

This is the norm.

And to top it all off, two weeks ago I was faced with the Scorpio moon, which made me insane. Like a true scorpion it sat in the sky demanding attention, garnering fear andS

It's times like these that make me want to boycott life and run away to Mexico, sit among the bordello pink buildings and bridges with butterflies, tequila shot in hand, huarachis by the wayside, dirty pigeon colored linen spaghetti straps dropping from my shoulder, Tao of Pooh in hand and just BREATHE.


Kimberly Nichols is a freelance writer splitting residence between the southern California Desert where the air is clear and the mountains are magical and Boston for her much needed fix of urbanity. She is a featured freelancer for the local alternative weekly, The Desert Post Weekly. She is also a society columnist for The Desert Sun newspaper. Her non-fiction specialties are women's issues, psychology, philosophy, sex, and art, book, culture and music reviews. Her fiction and poetry has appeared in Feminista, Alternative Arts and Literature and 3am Magazine. She also works as a publicist for various bands and artists. In her spare time, Kimberly can be found in the yoga studio, on the dance floor, at the beach or in Greek and Indian restaurants. She is currently at work on a book of poetry and a series of fine art collage entitled Girls of the Hundred Proof Bordello Define Desire.





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