3 12 2013
There was this guy who was always sitting on our front stoop with his laptop on his lap stealing the free internet of the cafe next door.
dirty laundry, interwebs
It bothered me.
“You can’t even buy a damn cuppa coffee from them?” I asked him. “They have chairs and shit in there too, you know.”
But he always had an excuse.
“I look too grubby to go in there.”
“I misplaced my wallet somewhere I don’t know where.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
So the next time I saw him I told him to get the fuck off my stairs and if I ever saw him on them again I’d stick his computer up his ass.
Now, I see him at the laundromat around the corner, using their free wifi but never doing any laundry.
I don’t say anything about it, though. The laundromat is kind of a shithole and the machines eat your quarters.
2 12 2013
There’s a liquor store on Larkin that doesn’t sell liquor. Doesn’t sell beer, cigarettes, rolling papers, Swisher Sweets, Lotto scratchers or condoms.
How do they stay in business since they don’t sell anything that poor ghetto folks want?
city livin', drinking, san francisco, smoke 'em if ya got 'em
2 12 2013
These fucks in the wall, they won’t shut up. They just jam the tomatoes into the french fry cutter, like chambering a thirty-ought round, pull down on the lever and BANG.
absurdist, i'll cut you, illegals
24 11 2013
Hi there friends,
Don’t be alarmed, this is still the slouch magazine you love. I’ve just performed some much needed upgrades that were put off for too long. In addition to changing the look and feel of the site, I’ve also included easy social sharing (at the bottom of each post) and made the site’s weight and styles more mobile friendly. All the content from the last seven years is still here and still accessible.
As we move forward into the future, I’m planning on posting a lot more prose-poetry and additional “Diary of the Bastard Messiah.” New book reviews will also be coming fast and furious.
If you have a question, comment or concern about slouchmag, please, as always, keep it to yourself.
Thanks for reading!
20 11 2013
He blamed all of his ailments on his job — no matter how trivial or severe — they could only be caused by the same thing that was in fact, killing his soul.
diary of the bastard messiah, suicide, work
18 11 2013
Hey, two tables over there’s a girl who’s pretty cute.
Not my type; brown, straight for hair and a dent in her chin, but cute with an orthodontist’s smile and most days that’ll do just fine, thanks.
I use old techniques. Pretend to read “The Street of Crocodiles” while using the spine to shield the overtness of my gaze. Or in case I get caught, there’s less of me show embarrassment. I’d really feel like an ass — even though it’s so meaningless I don’t care to help it — if I got caught staring at this girl who right now is doing what everyone does nowadays when they’re alone: looking endlessly at her phone as if she’s waiting for it to kiss her or at least change her life completely for a second or two.
I just want to look, ok? Jeezus.
Every once and awhile I glance down at the same book page. Take a bite of something on the plate.
I’ve looked long enough to know there’s no way in hell I could date this girl much less love her. I can see all her faults and like most people, my god, they’re too much to overlook. But she does wear capri-cut yoga pants. There’s something to say about women who can rock those pants outside the gym. Show off. She’ll make someone happy, probably.
But all of the sudden, the couple to my left stands up to leave.
This girl leaps into action. Like this is her purpose. She doesn’t even try to hide it as she scoops all her belongings on the table up with both arms and hurriedly follows after them.
fake it til ya make it, reading, women
12 11 2013
There’s a couple of guys sitting on the sidewalk out front of the liquor store, probably wandered over from Haight Street just to mix things up a bit. One of them has a guitar and plunks out of tune, sings some words and nods as they tumble down from his mouth. The other guy has a cup and a cardboard sign:
“Why lie? I need beer.”
I wonder about them. About their lives and if everything in them is just a little out of focus like how after a few swings from a 40 everything starts to get a little out of focus.
When you can’t tell the difference any more what’s the point of scrutinizing?
But still, they’re here. They adjust. They narrow their track. Concentrate on the things they can see.
Like, man, so fuckin what you can’t remember what month your baby sister’s birthday is in or what flavor of sugarless gum grandma always kept at the bottom of her purse?
You remember the important shit. Like, the chord changes to “Touch of Grey” and which parts of the park are safe to sleep in.
These are the things that matter now.
drinking, fuck ups, fucking off, lost at sea, san francisco