Monday Night In Monterey

I’ve been clearing out a ton of shit from the house and garage lately and I found an old notebook that was mostly filled with class notes from college but it had one page of desperate rambling dating back to a shitty night in a shitty motel room in Monterey from…I can’t even remember now…a long time ago:

Too tired to sleep. Only thing on TV is a movie called “The Craft” so TV’s out. Earlier I ate dinner at a restaurant across the street called Margie’s Diner. The menu had a lot of “comical” quotes on it from Margie herself. From what I can tell, Margie is an ill-tempered slut who took over an old Dennys. That said, she ought to be the CEO for the Dennys Corporation, the food was pretty damn good. But boy did I pay for it. A club sandwich, salad and a drink ran $15.00. Still, it beat the shit out of Dennys. I’m gonna try sleeping again as soon as Fairuza Balk finishes invoking the spirit. God, that chick is loud. More later…

I’m sharing this here not because it’s terribly funny but mostly to point out that this is how people used to tweet way back before Twitter existed.  Only we didn’t call it that, we called it…well, we called it desperate rambling.  And we didn’t share it with the world.  Better that way?  Better now?  Whatever, just pointing out that things have changed.  Which, if you think about it, didn’t really need pointing out.  Maybe I should tweet that…


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.