Meet Cleo.

So, I'm finally coming around to this internet thing. When this shit first came out I was skeptical, you'll be shocked and dismayed to learn.

It was just another in a long stream of disappointments for this sunny fella. I think the disappointment right before it was that crappy time five minutes before the internet came out.

read that again- trust me. It's funny.

I've met and corresponded with more intelligent, talented people than I've met in years, I've transmogrified two decades of regret into an ouvre of belligerent, funny crap that eases my mind no end, I've single-handedly created a Colombian coffee export boom, all this shit and more.

I think there should be urban legend-type things about the internet and I'm sure there are already or will be shortly. What I mean is, there'll be things that people do with it that no one has thought of, and people will have their secret, personal little things that they do. And I don't mean Farmlove.com. Although hey, better to have loved and eaten than to never have eaten at all.

My stupid thing is I like to enter my full name into a search and look at all the people with my exact name.

Better yet, I like to type in an interesting name, like "Imogene" or "Bartholomew" or something and just flip through pictures of faces and lives.

Sometimes someone has a really cute or funny dog, and you want to email them and tell them their dog fucking smokes. But that would be weird. Actually, they probably wouldn't mind but you'd feel sort of wet, wouldn't you?

"Hey, I'm some random fuck and I like your Rat Terrier."

"Hey, cool dog- see you never."

There's all these people out there who's paths you're never, ever going to cross.

You probably walked by someone today who'll be dead within a year.

I like looking at all the pictures of the people who occupy my era. It's like a big ball game and you're checking out your teammates.

And there are so many people and their lives are every bit as complex and conflicting and involving as yours and maybe that person you walked by on the street today was me.

Or maybe I walked by you.

Whistled by your grave.

Six degrees of Bobby Lightfoot- it's like Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon except you have to trace the line from one person to the other by people fucking each other over. "So, Kevin slept with this girl and never called her, and she jumped her lease on this landlord who fired this guy who ran into this other guy's car when he was parking and drove off, and the guy with the dented car cheated on his wife who then stole Bobby Lightfoot's Goliath III bass cabinets."

That happened. In California. Fuck. 2 grand worth of gear. I've never spent that much on a car.

Now, when my car got stolen that was fucked up. Although it wasn't worth as much as the bass cabs.

And then they got my fucking Visa gold. Back when I was in that shit.

And then they stole all of my illusions. Stole them and sold them for hip hop cds.

California. You're making a bittersweet post go bitter.

when i came to california i thanked my lucky stars and i dug in for ADVENTURE.

when I left i spray painted my name onto a blank star off hollywood blvd. There's side streets, man, where they have stars like, i don't know, wild man fischer and the guy with the walk-on on Gomer Pyle. 3 AM? Can of spray paint? It was a half block up from Sunset, actually. The first street east after SIR. They have like a farmer's market there on weekends. I never told anyone that. About the paint, not the farmer's market. I distinctly remember telling someone about the market. An old farmer in Illinois. I told him about the farmer's market in Hollywood and he told me about bayoneting Nazis. Not really. He told me about how Rislone is good when you have sticky lifters. In your engine.

I had to go there once and get some incense for Janes Addiction. Those guys. It has to be Nag Champa, man. One finger of soy milk in Perry's latte. Glad I never got that detail. That guy Perry used to ask me what my favorite records where and when I named one or the other he'd be like that's what the bass should sound like. That's what you should make the bass sound like.

Dude. You need to talk to the bass player? Not the guy who rolls his joints and changes his strings yo? I was never sure if I was supposed to tell Martyne about what Perry wanted from him. I didn't know if it would help the guy's career or whatever. If it was me, I'd be all over giving Perry what he wanted. Then I'd be the hired gun that Perry Ferrell is all into and I'd be working a lot.

LA is wack because it isn't really the sort of sincere, hardworking guys that get the gig. It's the guys like Vincent on Entourage that just sort of stumble around and shit falls in their lap and they act like it's their due. I love that show. Great show. Well, actually it's not that great a show but it really appeals to me because I know those fucking guys. Just surfing on this magical wave, the provenance of which they'll never have to question.

LA's funny. You tech for some band and you go to guitar center and you think they'll be all impressed because you're there to buy drum heads for Steve Perkins but then you're in the back of the line with Seal's monitor guy and the guy who plays bass on Leno.

I walked to guitar center a couple of times with the bass player from Smashmouth. He was a few years older than me, 38 or so. Paul de- something or other. I was impressed with that. A lot of those guys are old, like that, like a couple of those Sugar Ray guys. Stephan Jenkins from Third Eye Blind? Guy is ancient. Whatsisname from Everclear? Older than dirt.

This guy loved to walk down Sunset because he'd get recognized and shit and cars would pull over. Can you imagine? You're 38 and you've rented surfboards and played bars your whole life and suddenly people pull over in their cars to gawk at you. That is the Golden Motherfucking Ticket, my friend. The Golden Ticket. I've watched it happen. It's gotta be fun for the second-stringers in a band because they just cruise along without the writing pressure and the being charismatic pressure. Nice. Tour and record for 4 years? Maybe get a writing credit on a hit? Residuals and royalties on millions sold? Clear a couple mil clean worst case? Get a place in Palos Verdes or OC, bank it and waaaaatch it grow?

Oh- this is a picture of Cleo, by the way.

I don't know who Cleo is. The entirety of my knowledge on this being consists of knowing her name is Cleo.

"Hey, cool dog- see you never."