Wednesday, September 24, 2003



Written In My Backyard. Now. Just A Cigarette Ago. Wheee!...

It seems that now, my time is measured more by the clock than it ever was before. I used to write in these notebooks everyday after work, before parties, during nothing, after....but usually alone. In a crowd. Always. These notebooks of mine are more of an appeasement of the nostalgia gods now, then for the appeasement of the mind-madness gods that used to rule my life. Some of it's still there. But the majority of the old-school craziness is gone. Some facets have been squashed. Some are still lurking. Cancerous, in the back of mind-cave, Gollum-like. Some have thrived, and the spores have created new homes, festering themselves through new sores. Only seeping out when the time allows.

I miss you, notebook. Even though my inability to accurately convey thoughts remains the same - I feel listful, and long for the days when I could glance down at the paper and be amazed by my devil hands. Pages flipped. Ink scrawled. Furious. Wonderful. Madness. Computers. Increasing responsibilities. Newfound love and age bodyslams the Hulk Hogan of the hands. Writing this is like watching the first four WrestleManias on 99 cent-rented VHS tapes. Was I ever so wide-eyed, energetic and innocent? Am I now growing so old that I'm asking imaginary Andre The Giant's, Haiti Kids', and Iron Sheik's questions?

Because when it all boils down to it - the fact that I'm still doing this, while the bombs fly overhead and the lichen grows underneath my soul/soles - it means that I'm still ready to defend my title, Mean Gene.

Still ready to piledrive your scrawny ass.

Let's wrestle.

Rawrrrr!







Theo Huxtable's Best Friend...

Tonight I saw a cockroach the size of a baby. Not here. Somewhere else.

When I was young, I saw a cockroach jump off of a roof.

In one of my first apartments, I threw off my jacket and hopped in the shower. I was in a hurry. As I was out the door, I put my jacket back on. I felt something like a long hair on the back of my neck and grabbed at it with my hand, and then it moved towards my chin.

Some fly.

Some drive.

Some crank call you.

Some dig in your trash for persoanl infornation to be used for identity crimes.

I hate them. They scare the crap out of me. Now I'm paranoid.

Thanks alot, baby-sized cockroach.





Tuesday, September 23, 2003



Digital Hardcore...

Yeah, like you care what I did today.
I'm writing like a seventeen yr. old...god I hate my brother, Blaine is cute.
Or should I say hez a qt bcz he iz da bst in da wrld brb.

Nothing against seventeen yr. olds. They're superduperubercool, aight?

See, I'm so old, that I don't even know how to do the whole internet lingo thing. Crap, I didn't even know what BFF meant, how am I supposed to know about all that other stuff?

Crap, now I don't want to write this anymore.

My back/neck is still all messed up from sneezing the other morning. No wonder Frankenstein killed that little girl - he got sick of having to turn his head all stiff-like to look at her. The girlfriend lost her keys on Saturday night. So, I spent time looking for them. Nothing turned up. I'm giving it two more days until I get a new lock for the front door. Her car is her deal, though. I don't know what to do about that. So, if you don't hear from me after Thursday, it means that somebody snuck in and chopped off our heads. Shit, I shouldn't laugh about that. That's not funny. Me with no head is funny. Her is not. What kind of sentence is that? Her is not. Do I write like Frankenstein now too? You're saying, now? You've always written like the living dead, Kev. Whatever. Pshaw.

I stopped by famous-rock-star-Tony's house and made him go to the library with me. Suprisingly I didn't get anything. Not even a comic book graphic novel. Maybe the fact that the stuff that I turned in will cost me about twenty bucks in overdue fees had something to do with it. Then I went to the hardware store for no reason what-so-ever. I already knew that I was going to give it a couple more days. So why was I there? Urmmm...don't know, I just was.

Then after that I found myself driving in the direction of the toy store. I hadn't planned on going in that direction, and had to turn around. Unconditioned responses people. Watch out for them. Then I went to stop by a pottery/plant place to get more pots. The damn new kitty, Spyder - keeps on breaking all of the pots in the house. Stopped by a fiend - I mean, friend's house. Nobody home. Had the urge to get some chicken. Had the urge to go in and ask them if they had any open positions.

- What position would you like to apply for?

Chicken choker, please.

Wound up at Tower Records/Books. I've been trying not to buy anything recently and have done extremely well. I have so much stuff to get to at home, I shouldn't really be adding more words to the home-mix til' I get through some of it. I rationalized that I could get a small paperback if it was cheap. I get frustrated at book/video rental/and music stores because I spend a lot of time at home thinking about things that I have to get, and then when I'm actually at a store my mind draws a blank and I end up wandering around aimlessly. Yeah, like an old man. Yeah, like Frankenstein. Yeah, like Boo-Berry. Yeah, like Count Chocula. Yeah, like the Groovy Goulies.

- Stop it, Kevynn.

Stop what?

- Stop rambling. Don't be an idiot.

What? Shut up. You're the idiot. Stop talking to me. Stupid-voice-in-my-head-always-man. Why're you always picking on me?

- Oh...I don't know. I guess I can't resist that big ol' target painted on your head.

Hey, voice...you hear that?

- huh? Hear what?

Nothing.

- Wait. What? I don't hear anything!

Exactly. ( sound of a door slamming. Locks being turned, dead bolts, etc. )

Then I had dinner with my girlfriend's mom.

Now I'm having a beer and finishing this story.

And maybe I'll read some of my new book.

I was going to tell you what it was, but I can't find it now. I lost it already.

Doh, said Homer.










Sunday, September 21, 2003



I Just Erased What I Wrote Here Before...

I spilled my Mimosa on my foot.
I sang Part Of Your World from The Little Mermaid at Karaoke last night.
I should be getting ready for work.
I should be shot.
I have to go now.
I love you.





Saturday, September 20, 2003



Danse Macabre...

I hate politics and hate writing about them more, so this is about as political as I get. I wish that all of this California Government crap would end. By now, I don't even care about who gets to be governor. Larry Flynt should just film a porno with all of the rest of the candidates. What would that accomplish? Nothing, I guess. But I've always had a thing for Gary Coleman.

I wish Stephen King could be governor. I know that he lives in Maine. But he'd be great. The governor's mansion would look like The Haunted Mansion from Disneyland. He would tell scary stories instead of giving boring speeches. His bodyguards would be two-hundred pound rabid dogs.

That would be cool.

He'd have my vote.






Shit...

I cuss too much, don't I?




Thursday, September 18, 2003



CSI Why?...

I'm not one to rag on television. It's like your sexual preference - it's a personal choice. But, the CSI crap? C'mon. How many are there? CSI. CSI Miami. CSI Brookylnn. CSI Gotham City. CSI Playboy Mansion. CSI Marilyn Mansion. CSI Pee Wee's Playhouse. CSI Green Acres. CSI Mayberry. CSI The O.C.

And are we sure that we should have a show on that teaches everybody what people did wrong when they commited murders? Is this like, a primer for people who don't want to fuck up killing somebody and get caught?

Actually, forget I said all of this, I may need to tuck this away for future reference...







Found On Boz's Site, Who Found It On Divine Trash's...

George Michael
Masturbation Personality: George Michael


What's Your Masturbation Personality?
brought to you by Masturbation Techniques





Wednesday, September 17, 2003



Fighting The Good Fight...

Many thanks to Prose of Prosemarket for the ultimate props.

Pretty damn cool.

Thank you.






Are You Mad At Me?

Because this is all I'm going to write? Because you're at work, or rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and expecting a masterpiece, or at least a kick-you-in-the crotch-post, and all you get is this? Are you mad at me, because after planning on telling you about The People On The Bus Story Part Two - about how my first interaction with one of the first people that I met on that trip went, all that I ended up doing tonight was kicking back with the neighbors over beers, and then the cops came because, ever since my friend Tom moved in with my friend Al next door - the neighbors hate them. Noise. So the coppers came, Mugsy. And then by the time I came back to my house, it was already getting late, and all I care about now is playing some Star Wars Galaxies and then trying to get some sleep. I even sound like Yoda now, yes?

Don't be mad.
Sometimes it's hard.
Sometimes it's easy.
If I really wanted to, I could, I guess.
But I'm not like I was before.
I had a hole in my heart.
A vacancy in my soul.
It was easier to fill up space.
Now the process is slower.
More laborious.
But, I think, a richer and more rewarding experience in the long run.
Quality.
Versus.
Quantity.
More of a process of sifting through all of the important details,
Than the expungence that ruled my life before.
Writing shouldn't be ruled by guilt.
Writing wants you to fuck it.
Writing doesn't want to be wined and dined.
Writing doesn't want you to hold it's hand.
Writing comes.
Then it's done with you.
Leaving you to wipe up after it.
Put your pants back on,
And get the fuck out, it says...

Sure, I'll call you...




Tuesday, September 16, 2003



134 Sexy, Simple Hair & Makeup Secrets...

I've reached the ultimate pinnacle of geekdom.
I've sneezed and sprained my neck.
I can't look to the left or right anymore.
What is this crap all about?
When did I get so "make-sure-grandpa-doesn't-fall-down-the-stairs?"

Dagnabbit.

Ouch.




Monday, September 15, 2003




I've Been Spotted...

Somebody from the virtual world actually saw me. Yes, I stripped off my rags and let a representative of the real world actually see what was underneath my Joseph Merrick mask. I hung out with The Hard Artist and MY New Best Friend. They both met each other through me, in a way. Hard and I go way back, and met My New Best Friend through Fat Free Milk. Kinda. We had a couple of drinks at the casa, then had dinner at the plaza, then met Mike Piaza. No, we didn't meet Mike Piaza. I couldn't care less unless he was giving me money or something, or the clap. But we had dinner, then sang some karoake. Hard and I sang two songs together. Love Me by Elvis, and Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. We kick ass. Sorry to disappoint you, but we do. We should sing on cruise ships. Seriously.

How nice it was to meet My New Best Friend, and how nice and weird was it to actually meet somebody who only knew me through my writing on this site? She didn't run away screaming from me. That's a good sign, I guess. Apparently she has a high tolerance for retarded circus freaks. I think that I could see her tripping out for a bit in the beginning, but that soon died down minutes later. Then she realized that I'm just like all of the people that you see downtown. Except that I smell a little better, dress a little better, speak just as much schitzophrenic nonsense, and sleep in a cardboard box. God, that made no sense. See, that's what she got when she met me. Goobledygook. GoobledyASIAN. I bet that she was disappointed that I didn't look at all like the Charlie Chan, Ghenghis Khan, or Irish bastard that I make myself out to be.

I had a lot of fun. Is this what it's like to hang out with internet people? Are all of you actually real people? With hands and feet and hair and with no visible flesh wounds? What? I don't know. And no, we didn't take any pictures because they forgot the camera, and maybe that's good, because I want to sell my horrible portrait along with some personal knick knacks on eBay as soon as I sign up on it. I want to make a whole dollar. Free money from the curious. I want to start selling things off from around my house and hype up the objects on Fat Free Milk. Everybody likes empty beer bottles, right?

Anyway, it was nice. But I don't plan on meeting anybody from The Internet anytime soon, because I know all of you are a bunch of sick perverts...




Sunday, September 14, 2003




There Were Monsters On That Ship, And Truly...We Were Them...

Tige Flandre Tige prie. Il prie en tout début de matinée et la dernière chose avant lit. Il prie pour que Dieu observe au-dessus de lui et de son petit frère, Todd. Il prie pour le succès des affaires de son père. Il prie également pour tous les petits garçons et filles vilains, comme son Bart voisin Simpson, il est trop mauvaise prier que pour elles-mêmes. Hormis la prière, Tige a plaisir à jouer wholesomely avec son frère et à manger un bon nombre de nachos, le Flandre-modèle ("qui est des concombres avec le fromage blanc!"). Son un regret est qu'il ne peut pas prier à l'école.




Saturday, September 13, 2003



Why? I Don't Know...

What Is Your Battle Cry?

Prowling across the tundra, brandishing a bladed baseball bat, cometh Kevynn Malone! And he gives a vengeful howl:

"I'm going to clobber you into a new dimension of pain!!!"

Find out!
Enter username:
Are you a girl, or a guy ?

created by beatings : powered by monkeys






Thursday, September 11, 2003



I Never Write About Searches I've Found That Brought People To Fat Free Milk...

But this is seriously
one of the best things
that I've ever seen
and just about sums up
the majority of my writing, I think.







The Next Post Is Better...
I hit every single yellow light on my way home from work today. Hitting all greens is cool and all, but nothing like cruising through all of the yellows. How exciting. It sends thrilling little shivers down my pants just thinking about it.





Wednesday, September 10, 2003



The People On The Bus part one...

Me.

I was eighteen. That was a long time ago, I think. Maybe not that long. 365 days pass, and then we allocate another point to the internal and external atrophy system. I was on a bus. The rest of my high school class that I recently graduated with was slinging down tequila shots in Mexican resorts while I was trying to not take poops on Greyhound busses. My graduation present was getting kicked out of my house. My father and I had actually been getting along pretty well for the last couple of weeks. For us, at least. I was eating some chicken or something when he came out of his dark room into the dark living room and then walked into the dark kitchen. He plopped down an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a card with his signature scrawled on it, along with a check for three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars? Wow! He didn't get me anything for graduation, not that I expected anything, and for birthdays, I might get twenty-five or fifty bucks if I was lucky. I expressed my gratitude, thinking that maybe this was a combo-graduation-birthday-present-thingy. He told me that it was for moving expenses. I asked when was I moving? I had twenty-four hours to leave. Oh. He walked back into his dark room, and I sat in the dark kitchen, not really feeling particularly hungry anymore. I threw the rest away and went into my room. Looking over a lifetime's-worth of accumulative teenage crap. Where the hell was I supposed to go? What the hell was I going to do? Did I really have to leave?

I did. By noon the next day, I'd thrown away mountains of stuff that really didn't seem as important to me as they did the day before when I had a place to keep it, and the rest that I deemed essential enough to keep, got stored in a friend's parent's attic. I floated around in the next couple of weeks at a couple of buddy's houses. Tried to stay out of everybody's hair. I didn't try to figure out what to do, because I had absolutely nothing to do. Where the hell would I go? I'd always told my father that I was going to get the hell out as soon as I possibly could, but never really thought about what that meant. It meant money. A place to stay. A steady income. I ended up homeless and would sleep in parks or stay up at the only twenty-four hour donut shop in town. I'd smoke, write, and wait until dawn. Wander around maybe, until a buddy got home.

After a couple months of this crap, I finally decided to get the hell out of Dodge. I was losing sanity points. I bought a round trip ticket that was good for one year from Montclair, California to New York City. This was great because this meant that even though I didn't know what the hell I was doing, I could stay in one place for a short time if it suited me, go back to a bus station and get a new series of tickets printed out, and everything would be cool. My father, of all people, dropped me off. He was really the only one who could take me. He seemed sad, and this perplexed me. If he was so sad, why didn't he just let me stay for a few months, stop being the ass that he was, I would stop being the ass that I was - and then I'd get out as soon as I could when I was better prepared. I waved to him as the bus pulled away. He had his hands in his pocket and looked very old. I didn't know what feeling old was, yet. I just felt scared. Confused. Unreal. Like a character in a movie or some cardboard cut out in a poorly written story. We were heading to Arizona, it would take all night, so I tried to make myself comfortable and quiet all of the voices in my head. I turned to my left and smiled timidly at the man next to me. We eventually introduced ourselves…





Tuesday, September 09, 2003




The Cupboard Under The Stairs...

I have a lot of things to write about,
but considering that I'm having to use toothpicks to keep my eyes open -
I'll just have you write a post in the comments section today instead.
Profanity and sexual themes are encouraged.

Thank you.




Sunday, September 07, 2003



Bruce Campbell...

I guess I'm going to write this before I smoke a cigarette. Yes, I do smoke the vile things, and I always have, probably more than your mom and her cancer too, so shut it. Okay. Anyway. It was Tony's birthday tonight. I guess that it's officially tomorrow, but we celebrated it tonight and it was pretty lame. Tomorrow night, when it is actually his birtday, I'll be behind the bar serving his fucking rockstar arse. Speaking of rockstar arse's, I went to The Key Club down in Hollywood last night to see a friend's band play at a fashion show. Stuff Magazine and Vanity Fair were supposed to be there, but I didn't see shite. All I was doing was buying $5.50 Bud Lights. I forgot all about Hollywood beers. Oops. Expensive. Then on the way back home I peed in the back of a movie theatre and found a bunch of vinyl movie posters. Kill Bill. The new George Clooney and Catherine Zeta Jones, Jack Black, or Vin Diesel movie anyone? So, Ebay, c'mon...buy the stuff of me. My girlfriend called me from Bourbon Street in New Orleans tonight. After all of tonight, I can't even compare with all of the fun she had. Tony got complimentad on his uncanny agilty when it came to his puking abilties. Good man, that Tony. Fortunatley I'm never quite in the situation in which I need to be complimented on that. Unfortunately, when I am in that rare type of situation? There's nothing cool about it.

This is not at all how this post was supposed to be...

But moneys isn't floating down from the sky like volcano ash...

So it's okay if the masterpieces aren't either tonight...right?

Saturday, September 06, 2003



Chilly Willy...

Yes, I am typing naked.
Now, where'd my hat go?




Thursday, September 04, 2003



Karate Chops...

Are beautiful. Anyway, I saw Elvis the other night. At a bar in Garden Grove. Right when I arrived, he walked into the kitchen. He was hungry, I guess. I wasn't. I don't feed much. My tribe is prosperous. We're resourceful. We pluck fruit from the trees. Shoot an arrow. Climb a mountain. We're fed. Spoiled and loving it. Hooting. Panting. Fucking. No need for fighting. Everythings good in the monkey hood. The drivers side window of my car doesn't go up anymore. Good for me.






Only Because I let The Night Slip Through My Fingers Like Mustard...

I can't write about the three things that I wanted to tonight. I lagged, and now it's too late. But I will tell you that, before bed tonight, I whipped up a twenty second sandwich masterpiece involving Peperonni, Salami, Cheddar, Mayonnaise, and pickles, yo. Perfection. Darth Vader never needed Luke to rule the universe. All he needed was one of my sandwiches.





Wednesday, September 03, 2003



Don Rickles...

A friend of mine is dating a girl who reads my site. They are both normal and happy. Really. Yowzers, huh? She asked him what I looked like. My friend asked her what she thought I looked like. She said, based on the writing on my website, that she thought that I was old, bald, and fat. What the hell? I mean...she really hit the nail on the head, didn't she? I am happy for my friend, and happy that he's dating a psychic.




Tuesday, September 02, 2003



Show Of Hands, Kidney-Gardners...

And what did you do last night, anyway?
All that I'll tell you is that somebody
stole my beers when the hour started getting late.
Isn't that a kick in the liver?
I did beat the friggin' pants off of my friends tonight in poker,
and that's all that matters, in the long run because my luck has been lacking, as of late.
I had the worst luck when it came to everything else tonight.
I had some pleasant conversations tonight.
That was it.

Laborius day?

Yes.

Pleasant?

Sort of.

What did you do yesterday, Bubba?





Monday, September 01, 2003



My friend Mark, Snuck Into My Site And Posted On It. This Is After Helping Him And Twenty Other Idiot Friends At The Bar Tonight. Actually, He Didn't Even Pay For His Coke, Either. Yeah, He Drank A Coke. I'm Glad That He Has Nothing Better To Do Except Write On My Site At 1 In The Morning When I'm Still At Work. Why Am I Smiling? Because This Means That I Don't Have To Write Anything Tonight. This Is What The Little Fucker Wrote...

This is not Kevynn. This is Mark. I did not ask Kevynn if I could post on his site. I am bascially writing without permission. I am firm believer in getting permission to do things and here I go ruining my own philosophy. I just wanted to be a part of something, so write crazy things on the "comments" thing and I'll write even crazier things in response. For example, you might say, "Who's this Mark guy? Pchaw, he's retarded! I hate him sooo much. Will he just go away and never come back. Oooh, I hate him!!!" And I will respond, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" See, I am great and full of fun little surprises like that. Can you just imagine what I'm like at home. That's right! I suck at home. I'm usually ignored when I talk and told to shut up when I am not ignored. Kind of a Catch 22 if you don't know how to use the phrase "Catch 22." Has anyone seen Bruce Almighty? If you haven't seen it, go see it at your local second-run movie house. When you buy the ticket, say, "Alllllmighty then!!!!" The tickettaker should be impressed that you have seen a previous Jim Carey movie and know how to tie things together like that. I did it and was ignored. I'm all out of stuff to say. Seriously, I'm all out of time. You guys have been...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..z..z.z...............z.....................z




Saturday, August 30, 2003



Madonna Kissing Britney Spears...

TheBookoftheDeadAfterallthedeedsaredone
AnddownGoesthesunItsonlythendoIrealize
ThatallunfinishedbusinessCreatedandranted
aboutduringThehotand messydayIsNothingmore
thanthat……Justbusiness…MyheartProblemsneardreams
deathsandpremonitionsnightlikethosealwaysrememberitmay
bethedayslikethesethatweforgetFORGETTINGTHEHALFFULLCUPOF
LIFEASOPPOSEDTOTHEEVAPORATINGEMPTYDAYSHERETODAYTALKINGTO
APARTMENTFRIENDSFROMWINDOWSVISITORSCOMPUTERCONVERSATIONS
WITHFRIENDSYOUWORKWITHCOMINGHOMETOAFRIENDALREADYINYOUR APT.
BEFOREYOUWEREEVENTHEREHERMOTHERANDCHILDRENPLAYINGWITHYOURSIX
SMALLKITTIESFRIENDSCOMINGANDGOINGCARSJOKESANDCONVERSATIONSABOUT
JCPENNYTWENTYDOLLARFAMI PHOTOALBUMSWITHEVERYBODYWHOLIVESHEREALLTENOFUS

( I erased the majority of this post. Sorry. Thanks to those who commented. That was really nice of you. I don't know, I don't really care about putting super-duper personal stuff on here. It doesn't bug me. I'll write whatever I want, but it kept on nagging at me in the back of my mind - so there. Yup. )






Thursday, August 28, 2003



Five Dollar Boom Boom...

My mom's from Vietnam. Yup, I'm first-generation-born-somewhere-other-than-that-place-guy. My older brother was born there too. Why don't we have the obligatory X-Men-Cyclops eyes? Don't know. Don't care. I always look tired anyways, so it doesn't make much of a difference in the long run. I had a bad mother. She's nice and all, but sucks in a lot of departments when it comes down to the final inventory. No big deal. No bad feelings. No skin off of the Irish-Vietnamese back. Tonight at the bar, I was engaging in some type of conversation that I thought was important, when I heard my name being called...There was a small, smiling lady selling something. With my bad vision, I thought that it was roses. But it wasn't. She was lugging around a wooden display case full of bracelets. That was probably why the lady was brought to my attention. I'm one of the only guys left with a girlfriend. So everybody was directing the lady towards me. Nobody wanted anything. The bracelets were okay. Nothing special. What was special was that I bought one. That she was smiling, even though that she had to try to sell cheap trinkets of homemade beauty to a bunch or worthless kids. What was special was that she always had a smile on her face. What was special was that I could hear people making racist comments behind her back, even though two of them were black. What was special was that she danced to the live band that was playing as she left the bar. The only money that she had was what I gave her. She danced away with a smile on her face as people made fun of her. These are the same people who probably made fun of my mother years ago when she came to this country. The only reason that she was here, and the only reason that I exist is because she met a handsome white guy. A guy that gave up the job that he loved to shack up and do the nasty with a beautiful girl. Nothing mattered. All that my father wanted was what was best for the both of them. They asked why I bought the cheap bracelet. I half-joked that I was watching out for my own. I told them that that was my mother who just left. They said, why, because she was Vietnamese?

I said no...because she was a person, you fucking idiots.






Wednesday, August 27, 2003



Ya' Flea Bittin' Varmit!...

Watching Bugs Bunny cartoons.
Wondering why Yosemite Sam was always such a dick.
Bugs Bunny could drive you nuts, though.
He's funny and all, but an ultimate smart ass.
The smug, buck-toothed bastard.

In a real street fight, Daffy'd kick his fluffy ass.





Monday, August 25, 2003



Roller City...

How come I'm not winding down with a movie and eating that pizza in the fridge? Why am I not getting some much-needed sleep after a long, boring night serving drinks to drunks? I've got a big day tomorrow/today involving fixing up cars, tow trucks, money, getting tattoos, more late-night bartending, and Star Wars figure trades. Yeah, you heard me, Bubba. What am I doing?

I don't know, Pa. I don't know why I have trouble sleeping. I don't know why I can't graze like the rest of the herd. Life is strange. Always has been. Getting older, my movie audience is getting younger, though. It's kind of...creepy. Sometimes I feel like I'm still at a roller skating birthday party, with all of the flashing, fucked-up lights going around and around, as I, myself, go round and around, making myself feel even dizzier. The skates on my feet are metal, heavy, and clumsy. I lost one of them somewhere, and I have to keep one of my legs up very high, and sway from side to side, so that I don't fall. It's kind of tiring. I don't even know how I got invited, anyway. Nobody's paying attention to me. I always feel like I'm tagging along, and when everybody else stops to take a break, and maybe get something to eat - I'm too poor to buy anything.

When I slow skate with the girls, they don't look at me. I feel that they secretly wanted to be with someone else. Before the last note of the song, they're already gone, rolling away on brand new, un-rented pink and purple skates. Before I know it, the DJ's already called the last dance, and it's all over. I end up waiting alone in a dirty parking lot for my father. Everybody else piles into mini vans piloted by young-looking mothers. Sometimes there are five or six kids leaving together in the same car. Nobody asks me where I'm going. Finally, about an hour later, my angry father pulls up. I'm the last kid in the parking lot. My feet hurt on the ride back home. My father doesn't ask me how it was. He doesn't ask if I had fun. He doesn't ask anything. He just guns his creaking van back to our oil-stained driveway. He's already in the house by the time I get out of the car. I walk past my older brothers room. He slams the door. I'm back in my room. There's nothing much in there. No posters on the walls to look at. One shelf for toys. Two windows. The night. And silence...






I Hear Pat Benetar...

It's getting harder and harder to finish books.
It's getting harder to write important stuff.
Maybe I've been reading and writing crap, urm?






Sunday, August 24, 2003

Saturday, August 23, 2003



Give Me The Crotch, Piggy...

After a night of poker playing. Poker-NOT-playing, I should say. After a night of poker playing, more sleep and a movie sounds good. LIfe IS Beautiful with the Italian Pinnochio idiot, The Hours with hot Nicole Kidman with Robert Deniro's nose on, and Pi by that Darren Aronofsky guy. My head is fuzzy, I can't concentrate. One day, I'll have something brilliant to say. One day...






Wanna Bet?

That I suck at poker?
Really?

You win.





Friday, August 22, 2003




Social Roulette...

You ever have one of those days or nights where everything that everybody says is wrong? Or have you ever felt so fucking alienated once the words start falling out of people's mouths? I'm sorry for ranting. I'm tired and am ignoring conversations behind me. Sometimes staying home isn't so bad. Just make sure that If you go out, that nobody follows you home. Don't pick up hitchhikers. Don't talk to strangers. Candy is a no-no. I feel dead sometimes., and part of it may be your fault. Maybe I need to book a flight and crash it, so that I can wake up on a desolate island. I spend half of my time nodding my head to conversations that bore the hell out of me or that sound like a fucking prescooler uttered them. Catch me in a better mood, and I'll be able to explain. But seriously, there was nothing tonight that interested me. I was on the red carpet all night. Some nights are good. Some are bad. Tonight was crap. The older I get, the quieter I become, because this means the less I'll have to say in response to all of the shit that you're slinging to me. Le Sigh. Le Who Cares. At least for now anyway. Who needs sleeping pills when you have conversation? I'm an idiot surrounded in a world by bigger idiots. Le idiotic. Le sigh again. Sorry to bum you out. This weekend we should all cut out our tongues, but then more people would write, and if they did - it'd probably be exactly like this. Le boring. Le done.

No Spellcheck.







Wednesday, August 20, 2003



Title...

I drove by a horrible car accident in front of the local college today. Traffic was reduced to a crawl as a team of cops directed all of the cars. As I was waiting in line, I stole glances at the crash scene. The front end of a Dark Green Mercedes was crumpled and smashed up. It looked like a discarded snot rag. There was a blue black rubbery sheet thing draped over what looked like a body to me. I couldn't tell if I saw blood, and I might've seen a couple of pink fingers not totally covered by the tarp thing, and then I was past it.

Five seconds after that,
as I was making my way up the street,
I saw a girl waiting to use a crosswalk,
who had the biggest pair of breasts that I've ever seen,
and I slowly whispered to myself...

" Oh My God! "




Tuesday, August 19, 2003



Id, Ego, Han Solo, And Greedo...

I talked to my younger self today. He wanted to go outside and play. I told him that I was too tired. He asked me why. I said that I didn't know, maybe we could do something later. He's too smart for that; he could tell that I was lying. Shit, he's me - we can spot that shit a mile away. We grew up together, c'mon. Later, after I had rested a bit, he sat down next to me while I was at the computer. He asked me what I was doing. I told myself that I didn't know, just cruisin' around, I guess. Reading some things, checking my site, and others. He told me that it didn't sound like much fun, why don't I play a video game or something? I told him that I might later. He slumped back in his chair, bored. I felt kind of bad, I mean - maybe I should've entertained him. We haven't seen each other in a while, we don't talk as much as we used to. I asked if he wanted anything to drink, a soda, or some Kool-Aid, or something. He said that a beer would be nice. I told him to fuck off, that he was too young to drink. He told me that I was too, and that I should fuck off too. I told him, fine then, you fucker - why don't you go in the fridge and get one, and then grab me one while you're at it - He got up, came back and gave me a Bud. He had a water. I asked him why didn't he grab a beer? He said that he liked his brain cells vibrant, thank you very much and that water was better for him. He was aiming to live to a ripe old age. I told him that he was a smart ass. He said...smart? Yes. An ass? Sometimes. But that I was a dumbass. I said, okay, then you little fucker. You little fucking know-it-all, why the attitude? You're supposed to be on my side. You're the younger me.

He said because you never call me, you asshole.

And then he kicked me in the nose and left...





Monday, August 18, 2003



Oh, And I'm Totally Not Kidding...

A little kid just rang my doorbell and asked if a Mr. Ohm lived here. I said no. Then he asked if I'd lost any hamsters. What the hell? This is by far the weirdest and funniest thing ever. Hamsters? What the hell is that? I'm serious, he actually asked if I'd lost any hamsters? Does he know something about me that I'm not telling? Hamsters? That would of been great if I answered the door naked and with a greased up tube in my hand. Wow, it would've been my lucky day...

Hamsters. I'm serious.






Forget All That Action...

Somebody please kill today, because it sucked serious monkey goolies.






Attack Of The Clones...

Somebody kill all MTV pop stars, please...oh and tone-deaf hip-hop artists too.





Thursday, August 14, 2003



Who's That Trip-Trappin' Across My Bridge?...

I want those back East to know that I'm down for the cause, so I'm typing in the dark right now. I know that I'm using electricity, but it beats writing this, bathed in the soft, illuminating glow of a pig fat candle and sending this to Blogger by carrier pigeon. After I'm done typing this, I'm going to cook up some food on the barbecue while humming Led Zeppelin. Why Led Zeppelin? Don't know, Bugsy. See? Yeah, see? You're not gettin' me alive you lousy coppers! Here, have a lead sandwich! Bratta tatta bratta tat tat tat! Ugh. You dead.

Friends are coming over and I'm gonna tell some ghost stories, Frank's bringing over some Night Train and his new girlfriend who can spit fire and eat glass. She's very cool, I guess her parents were part of a commune, freak show thing back in the day, and taught her some tricks - but only after she was sixteen, Babies eatin' glass ain't too kosher. It would've been for me, if I was one of the parents. Less trash to take out. Hee. From what Frank's told me, she does more than eat glass and spit fire, IfyouknowwhatImean. Hee again.

What this world needs, in these dark times, is an army of as million Atticus Finchs. Fighting for justice. Bein' bad arse. Everybody's all...Boo Radley-ish. Go outside. Let's go surfing now, everybody's learning how. Your parents suck, flip em' the bird, and get the hell out of there as fast as you can. Just make sure to swipe as much money as you can before you go, otherwise, get used to wrapping your backpack straps around your arm so that the homeless guy next to you doesn't swipe your half bag of Cheetos and Mead notebooks full of late night rat scratchings. I remember being stranded in a bus stop out in Montclair, California and meeting a girl with the blondest hair and reddest lips in the world. I think that she invited me in the bathroom with her, but I was so young that I couldn't spot a sexual invitation from a road-travelling prostitute if it hit me in the crotch. She eventually stole my Soda, cigarettes, and lighter shaped like a girls breasts. The flame would come out of the left boob. I miss those boobies.

Frank just called. He said that he's running behind because his gal has to pick up her friend. I don't know her friend. Maybe she's a lion tamer. Then what? I should, maybe turn on the front porch light so that they don't think that I went somewhere. But they all know that we're gonna get drunk by the light of the moon and the glow of whatever the hell Frank's gal uses when she breathes her dragon stuff. Shit, when that Night Train comes, I'll be breathing fire too. I haven't had that stuff since I was in high school. Last time, I tried to rip a tree out of the ground. I failed. Me and my back. Hee once again.

I want those back East to know that I'm down with them in spirit. Don't hurt anybody, be nice, make babies. You have nothing else to do. Your TV's busted. You have to do something, right. Plug the significant other because the tube's unplugged. It's our own damn fault, lightning or not. We take things for granted, and are way too dependant on modern magics. Lets get back down to the stone age, baby. I wanna carve my initials with a spear tip on the hide of a Bison. I don't know. I want everything back to basics, but want beer involved. That's all. That's all I'll take with me. Bison and Bud Light. Yup.

Oh, and Night Train.

Protect your trees tonight, people...

Goodnight, static.

Hello, moon.






Poo...

I mean it.




Tuesday, August 12, 2003



Twat's That? I Cunt Hear You. I Have An Ear Infucktion...

Comments will be back up soon.
Haloscan is working on some issues.


Yeah, Haloscan - me too.






The Olson Twinge...

This damn kitty is going to jump on the keyboard - I know it. After I get back from bartending, I feel nothing. I barely drink - that's how out of it I feel. I come in, get out of my crappy tie, and check on the galfriend. I say hi to the cats. Look around the house for psychos, murderers, and hiding mormons, and usually look for something to eat - even though I'm not in the mood for anything. I turn on the computer and usually go through a quick version of my routine. I check my email, bloggy thingy, and maybe some other sites. Then I realize that it's later than it even was when I came in, and curse myself for even turning on The Beast in the first place if I wasn't going to write anything Hollywood-wise. All of these ideas floating behind my eyeballs. All day. And all I do when I get home is check my site and yours. And porn. Don't forget the porn. But I don't feel guilty about that.




Monday, August 11, 2003



Good Morning, Baby...

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The Cure...

This is not about Robert Smith.
Anyway, sometimes when I start to tell my friends a story -
they stop me and say that they already read it on my website.
This bums me out and makes me feel a bit strange,
so I've come up with an answer......
......to get rid of my friends...




Saturday, August 09, 2003



Beezelbub And Romona...

Thinking furiously,
And with a head full of flies.
Trying to get buzzed,
Before the whole world dies...







Max Headroom...

This a better day than yesterday.
It's sticky hot, though.
Peanut butter madness.
Do you feel like writing reviews or rants???
Go talk to Hard over at The Hard Artist...
Thanks, Bubba.






Ah, hell...Today/tonight wasn't so bad, was it?...

I played Star Wars Galaxies with Joe, and taught my wookie how to dance.
I just got done bbq'in' at five in tha' mornin'.
And got bitten by a spider on my forearm that I hope/pray was radioactive.

Dude.




Friday, August 08, 2003



God, That Was Stupid...

I apologize for my last two posts.
It's one of those nights.

Dude.






Leaving Las Scissorhands...

Watched Leaving Las Vegas. Haven't seen that in a long time. It makes me not want to drink...Vodka and Tequila! Ha!
Anyway, it was pretty good, and what ever happened to everybody's favorite babysitter, Elizabeth Shue? Who cares about that Melrose Place brother of hers. So, it made me think about all of the cool roles that Nic has played, and then it made me think about Johnny Depps career.

Who do you like better?

Nic?

Johnny?




Thursday, August 07, 2003



Lady, I'm Gonna Have To Ask You To Leave The Store...

Who would you want to win in a fight between Brittney Murphy and Britney Spears?
Tom Green or Alan Greenspan?
Would you rather live in Iraq or Afghanistan?
Matrix Trilogy, so far, or Lord Of The Rings?
Do you come in peace or go in pieces?
Spiderman or Batman?
Kirsten Dunst or Keira Knightley?
Movies or books?
Favorite book?
Favorite movie?
Favorite website?
Would you rather have a super nice car or a super nice wardrobe?
Ever shoot a gun?
Been in a fight?
Why am I writing this? What happened to what I was supposed to put down?
Do people like you?
Who do you hate today, besides me?
Drink much?
Smoke much?
Nervous habit?
Masturbate much?
What was the last website that you were on before this?
Do you want to ask me something? Anything?
Am I sorry for doing this to you?

Lick it now, please.





Wednesday, August 06, 2003



Kobe Bryant Day...

A couple of my friends had a kid. This is not something friends of mine do for fun when bored. We don't all just sit around and fuck each other, placing bets on who's gonna be the one that gets the bigger belly first. Well, I guess that would be fun - all of it except for the actual birthing, responsibilty, and financial burdens. But these two friends of mine happened to be married. I visited the hospital and saw their baby. Samuel was little. He had little toes that looked like champagne grapes. I was acting out a story to both of them earlier and almost knocked over the baby's bed - so when they asked if I wanted to hold him, I said Hell No, because, if I'm knocking around things, then I sure as hell am not going to hold a kid. I did smell his head a couple of times, though. Why do we eventually lose that? I brought her a Snapple and an In Style magazine, and I brought him his favorite soda. I should've brought beer instead. I asked the father if he wanted to play poker, and he said that he did. Maybe he would've bet the little dude. Maybe not.

Anyway, I found out that the baby had a little ankle bracelet on that sounded an alarm if he was taken past a certain point without it being deactivated first. It looked like a miniature version of one of those parole anklet thingys. Babys now come with anti-theft devices? Do they have versions like the ones that they have in certain clothing stores that explode when you take them outside?

I was still staggering from the weight of this, by the time I got home.

Then I had sex and forgot all about it.




Tuesday, August 05, 2003



Things I Hate About Summer...

Bugs
and
warm beer.

And bugs in my warm beer.




Monday, August 04, 2003



The Naked Ape...

I don't like to generalize, but I think that all people are inherently evil. Overall, the majority of us have selfish, monkey thoughts hardwired into our brains. Not much has changed in the minds of man in the last 1000, million, bajillion years. I think that we still want exactly the same things that we wanted way back then, except that there are now a lot more useless things that we acquire that disguise our real wants. Men and women want to fuck each other, and they don't care who gets in the way. We hate people that impede out progress. We're very hungry. We want various versions of security, and we want it now. Heaven help those who get in our way. We'll grab it, and all of it, if we get the chance. I think that the only reason that humans domesticate animals is because we get disgusted with ourselves and need something else around to keep us company. I think that the majority of humans get sick of other humans, that we may be able to blindly justify our behavior by surrounding ourselves with animals that we feel a superiority over. But does it make sense to laugh at another animals unconditioned responses, when we do the same type of shit all the time?

Hoot Hoot! Pant! Pant!

I just don't understand us.
My own fault for trying.

All monkeys look beautiful when looking up at them from the ground.
But when you get up really close to one,
and you have to start dodging the shit that they're slinging...

It's just fucking gross.






Saturday, August 02, 2003



What I Did On My Summer Vacation...

Last night involved, yet again, more stripper madness. My girlfriend earned a dollar dancing for me at the club. Some very mean-looking girl with breasts bigger than my total body weight put a dollar in her pants. I was a pimp for one whole second. Some pimp. Anyway, this morning I was about to go to the bathroom when Hard arrived at the door...

I'll let him tell you...

Hi kiddies! Its' your old pal, The Hard Artist! Kev and I auditioned for a play today! Then we went antiquing... it was delightful! Actually, we did audition today. But Kev might not get to do the show because he has to go see those whiny bitches, Radiohead, on one of the performance nights. Then we went back to his pad to watch some horrible movies. Boy, this is starting to sound like one of those blogs that I hate: "Sorry I haven't updated in six months but school has been really tough!" Kev has Metallica playing right now. It makes it hard for me to string any coherent thoughts together. Here, take over homie...
This is like blog freestylin'!...

Yeah, I auditioned for a play. I was talking to a guy outside of the theatre. I asked him if he'd done any shows there. He said that he had, but not in a coupla years. I told him that I haven't done any theatre in...ten. Am I just old, or not a card-carrying member of the drama fag society? Maybe both. The other day when I was re-applying for school, the guy at the admissions window said, " So, you graduated this year? ". I was puzzled. I told him no. He showed me my admission form. Yup, it said year of high school graduation, 2003. I had to tell him that it was a mistake. He asked me when did I really graduate then? I looked around and whispered...1993. He was kind enough not to arch his eyebrows. I started to snicker, cuz' I'm getting fucking old. Hee Hee.

Hey, Hard! What movies did we watch over here after our auditions?

Hard here! Well, Kev... It shames me to admit this, but we had the pleasure of watching Final Destination 2 (don't worry if you didn't catch the first one, all your crap needs can be met with this purile sequel), something called The Wash (a movie where, seemingly, the director just turned his camera on and walked away - leaving Dr. Dre and Snoop Dog to get up to all manner of pointless jackassery), and Evil God (a short film by the one and only Kevynn, which wasn't too shabby once he explained what the fuck it was about). Hey y’all here's a little quiz for ya; who wrote the following?:

O Pointy Birds,
Pointy Pointy.
Anoint My Head,
Anointy nointy.

No fair you answering, Kev.

My god, what the hell was that? I refuse to speculate. I want one of you to tell me what the frag he's gussying on about. I'm very proud of myself for actually waking my hung over body up to go stand in a theatre with a bunch of balding, white men. Maybe I won't get a call back. Maybe I will. Actually, there were a couple of black kids at the auditions too, but they kind of freaked me out. The one without the afro kept on talking to me excitedly, and was later told by the director to stop dancing while he was on stage. The afro-less black kid had a lot of pent up energy in him. I blame it on Motown. Oops. I didn't say that. Anyway, the guy with the afro was weird too. Fuck, everybody was weird. White, black, plaid. One guy that I auditioned with smacked the fuck out of my chest when he was all caught up in the moment. It was so loud that Hard said that everybody outside asked what the hell was happening inside. So. Uhmm. I would like a part. A big part. I would like to part the Red Sea.

H.A: Do you all see what's happening here? Kevynn threw in a little cleverness at the end of that paragraph in order to draw you away from his earlier racist comments. Let me be the first to break the news in this Hard Artist Exclusive: Kevynn is the Grand Wizard of the KKK. I know, it's shocking. But true. I swear... [choking noise as Hard is throttled by Kev] He's never gonna let my write on his site again.

Dude, I don't care what anybody says - I'm allowed to get away with whatever I want. My mother was born in a Vietnamese jungle and she fed me bugs and dogs as a child. What that has do what I said earlier? I have no idea. But I'm excused, thank you. And I was serious about wanting to part the Red Sea, but that fucking Moses got to it first, the bitch.

Lick us. Goodbye.

Hard and Malone, out...





Friday, August 01, 2003



At A Friend's House...

Theres a lot of crud going on right now. People fighting with swords. I'm not kidding. there's two people actually fighting with swords behind me as I write this. The ability to see is way over rated. Dueling is so last year. As I type this, chunks of my ear are getting hacked off. This is not a pleasurable experience. I like how there's only two girls to the eight present. Poor guys. It's sad to see the monkeys fight for their scant resources. But, then they just all left...and guess what? I'm already hearing about strippers. I have no problem with that. I have no need for the poo-na-nee search. Yeah, take that Google. How do you spell that, anyway?

Hold on...








Wednesday, July 30, 2003



If You Were To Die Right Now, How Would You Feel About Your Life?

Tyler Durden just said that. I asked Tyler what he was doing in my living room and he punched me in the face and told me to stop asking sissy questions. I spit out a tooth and said that I wished that he’d blow up all of the credit card company buildings in real life like he did in Fight Club, I could benefit from a little Project Mayhem to eradicate my credit history. Then he kicked me in the eye with his boot heel and said, Kevynn, you have a class of young strong men and women, and they want to give their lives to something. Advertising has these people chasing cars and clothes they don’t need. Generations have been working in jobs they hate, just so they can buy what they don’t really need. We don’t have a great war in our generation, or a great depression, but we do, we have a great war of the spirit. We have a great revolution against the culture. The great depression is our lives. We have a spiritual depression. We have to show these men and women freedom by enslaving them, and show them courage by frightening them. I told him that he was scaring me, and then he grabbed me by the balls and dragged me into a corner of the room.

Right about that time – Charles Bukowski came into the room. He just walked on in, downed a can of Schlitz, crumpled it, and threw it towards the corner that Tyler and I were in. It bounced off of Tyler’s shaven head, and I thought that Tyler was going to beat him up, but Tyler just smiled, swatted Buk on the back as he walked on by, told him that he was a big fan, and that he loved Post Office, and then left.

I could hear noise coming from the fridge, and groaningly got up. Buk was already polishing off one of my beers. He stripped down to his boxers and asked me where all the goddamn real booze was. I told him that was all I had, and that did he really believe in a god? He grabbed another one of my beers, kicked off his shoes, and said, I have more faith in my plumber than I do the eternal being. Plumbers do a good job. They keep the shit flowing…and then he disappeared into my bathroom.

I shuffled over to the phone and was about to call 911, when there was a knock at the door. I didn’t want to answer it, so I peeped through the peephole. It was Frank Sinatra. Shit, it was Frank – so I opened the door. He looked great. Sharp. His pinky rings twinkled in the moonlight. I invited him in. He grabbed a seat by my fireplace and asked me how my bird was. I told him that I didn’t have any pets, except for a bunch of cats. He rolled his eyes and said, no, man – how’s your bird and pointed to my crotch. That confused the hell out of me. Why was Frank Sinatra asking about my dick? So, I just told him that my bird was flying around. That seemed to please him immensely. I relaxed a little. Frank was pleased. I was pleased. Maybe Frank could swing me a room in Vegas? Bukowski came out and stank up the whole place. He grabbed another one of my beers and then sat down at my computer. All of my cats instantly congregated around his feet and purred. He asked if I had any decent classical music in the place. I looked at Frank. He nodded slightly, and I tuned the radio to a station that Buk seemed to not mind. Frank asked me how everything else was goin’. I said that I guess that everything else was okay, nothing that exciting. He said that it was good to not be one of those complicated, mixed-up cats looking for the secret to life… just to go on from day to day, and to take what comes…

That seemed to make sense to me. I politely excused myself and told Frank that I thought that I needed to spit out a couple more teeth; did he want me to pick him up some stuff for martinis, or get him some whisky? He told me that he was okay for now, he was waiting for Ava . I got the feeling that he’d be there for a long time, and I left out through the front door to wiggle my loose teeth around. Tyler was in the parking lot of the park across the street, fighting somebody. I didn’t want to attract his attention because I was afraid he’d tell me to duke it out with a Puerto Rican busboy. But I ended up walking over to him. Something was bugging me. I needed to tell him something.

He just got finished, and was wiping blood out of his eyes with the heel of his palms.

What do you want, Malone?
You want me to take you shopping or something?
Do you want me to politely ask the world to get off your back?
Are you finally sick of your life;
are you ready to sacrifice everything
to become the type of person that you’re supposed to be?


No, not really, Tyler. I just wanted to answer your question.

What fucking question, Malone?

"If you were to die right now, how would you feel about your life?"

Yeah…and...?

I’d feel fine.








Excelsior!...

Check out Hard's post about Boomp! Brpppttt! Bomp! Bomp! at The Hard Life.

Yup.





Tuesday, July 29, 2003



Nerd Support...

How the hell does one increase their virtual memory on Windows XP, damnit?
If the little boy can't play his game properly, then little boy ain't happy.
Then you ain't happy.
Then I get bored and write stuff like this,
or start throwing heavy objects at your crotch.

Tell me now, you cow...






Aunt Beru, Uncle Owen, And Carnie Wilson Nude Pics...

Real quick. Sunday night I got out of the bar early. Wow. Met friends at another bar for drinks, kept one friend out too late who shoulda been home to wake up early for work. I buy him a shot when he starts to look tired because I'm evil. Bartender poured himself a shot when I ordered it and was waiting for me to take mine. I told him that I wouldn't drink the crap, it wasn't for me. He gave me the finger and walked away. Then at my friend's house I watched all of the other friends drunkenly taking running jumps into a huge pile of those big orange road construction pole thingies. They started to throw them around into the street like the responsible twenty-somethings that they are. I thought that it was really funny, then thought that it was only a matter of time before they got hauled away by the coppers considering my friend lives down the street from the P.D. Yeah, right down the street. So I ran downstairs to clean up their mess. My friends ran upstairs when I ran downstairs. I was thinking that with my luck - I'd end up getting blamed for the whole deal. Surprisingly, nothing happened to me. Weird.

One friend poured a bunch of water on me - the ho bag. I opened up my friend's desk in the apartment and threw all of his pens, pencils and matchbooks all over the apartment. It was fun. Next time, I'll buy some more pens of my own, so that I have more to throw. I watched the water throwing ho bag hump one of those construction sandwich board blinking like doo dads that another friend took upstairs with him. I eventually went home when the drunks got tired.

I got in an argument with the gal friend. That lasted until daylight, so I slept through a lot of the morning, which meant that I missed my counseling - I mean, counselors appt. at the college. Cat peed on the bed. Did laundry. Went to the video store. Toys R Us. Bought crayons at Target. Went to comic book store and asked the comic book owner guy about a copy of Fantastic Four #49 that I saw in a pawn shop the other day. He got really excited about it and told me to buy it. I felt like a nerd. I don't think I'll buy it; the one that's worth a lot of money is the one before it. Super dork, yup. Called gal friend on payphone (Yup, pay phone) and asked her to a movie. Saw the piratey movie. Liked the piratey movie. Am going to trade my gal friend for Keira Knightley. Sorry, gal friend. I hated the three. Yes, three baby-toting couples that were in the theater at the time. I will tell you this - if I ever see another baby in a theater, I will pluck em' from your arms and chuck it out the emergency exit door. I'm sorry - but fuck off. Parents should not be allowed to ever try to have fun when I'm around. Especially when I'm trying to figure out what the hell Johnny Depp is mumbling.

I came home and relaxed, did nothing productive, went out in the backyard and thought about watering the backyard. Twenty minutes later - it started to rain hard. I should've thought about a million bucks. The gods answering water-based wishes only works in the favor of drought-stricken farmers and Indians. Huh?

I forgot what else I did today, and now I'm pissed because it's getting late and I'm getting hungry again. Didn't I just eat? I hate eating. Blah. Nutrients, my arse. Have a good day today. I'll be working...bringing food to people's tables, thinking about comic books, writing the great American novel, and cat pee.

Good night, Keira.
Good night, folks.
Good night, Bob Hope.





Monday, July 28, 2003



Lava Soap...

Watching Taxicab Confessions on TV makes me feel dirty.
You dont ever emerge from a viewing with an elevated sense of respect for humanity, either.
Yes, exactly like the mall.
Yes, exactly like going to the fair.
Yes, exactly like going to Toy's R' Us in the bad section of town.
Yes, exactly like reading this site...







Sorry...

Man, Oh man - I just did something that smelled really bad...


Saturday, July 26, 2003



It's Just Wrong...

To have to go to a friend's birthday dinner in Seal Beach.
Especially when it's expensive.
Especially when it's far away.
Especially when there's no actual seals at that beach.




Friday, July 25, 2003



I Do Not Like Computers Anymore. Nope...

Yes, I am staying up to watch Angela Jolie on Carson Daly.
Carson Daly is hot, isn't he?




Wednesday, July 23, 2003



George Jefferson And Wheezy...

When I was much younger than I am today, I used to think that if I concentrated hard enough - my latent telekinetic powers would emerge. I thought that the problem was that I just wasn't concentrating. If I could just focus, then that fucking thing on the desk would move like I wanted it to. I hoped that I wasn't really a madman, that all of the crazy thoughts that I had in my head were normal. But how could they be? I thought of some really sick stuff. I was scared that somebody would be able to read my mind. Sometimes, I'd look around the room and see if anybody was looking at me with a look of abject terror on their face. I lived in fear of somebody finding out all of my deep, dark secrets. I had my head in the clouds more than on planet Crap-Earth. I would catch myself talking out loud based on whatever day dreaming scenario I had cooked up in my tiny, little brain. Sometimes whatever I was thinking showed up on my face. People would ask me what was wrong - I usually wouldn't know what to say because I wasn't even aware what I was thinking was evident. Fantasy worlds know no boundaries. I never wanted certain books to end. I would conduct interviews with myself. I could imagine the cameras, and how I would look on the TV. I humped things a lot when I was younger. Bed posts, basketball poles, anything taller than me. Try to pass off that shit to your older brother after they walk into the room. I used to spend hours playing with my Star Wars figures, and if I was feeling particularly ambitious - I'd try to set em' all up on a big ol' chalkboard that I had. It takes a long time to make all of your limber figures stand up at the same time without falling over. My nerves sucked even back then. It was hard. These sessions usually ended whenever my brother came in, because he'd pretend to accidentally knock them over. What's worse? Him coming into the room when I was humping my bedpost, or when setting up my Star Wars figures? Then, I'd say the figures. Now, I say the Star Wars. Cuz' that's just plain wrong. It's not like dominoes, the games over once they're all knocked over. Young boys can always find something else to hump. Wait; am I talking about my early years, or the nineties? Shhh...shut up, myself. Yeah, you heard me, me.

I'm getting older. Yeah, I know - you're older than me. Blah. Lick it. You have your life, and I have mine. I'm finally hearing the ticks of the clock that I've noticed in the background - but now, they're getting louder. It's hard enough to appreciate something that you just saw a second ago, let alone trying to keep up with the pace of your day. I don't know what that meant, but that's okay. I think I lost track of where this was going, but it wasn't supposed to go anywhere in the first place. It doesn't matter. I gave up a long time ago trying to solve things through verbose definitions, I gave up trying to make marks, I gave up trying to get it all down. I haven't developed a sense of apathy - I just got tired of running in circles. It's all been said before anyway, and better.

Now that I'm older - I'm more apt to save my breath...







Young Kid To Me In The Comic Book Section At The Library Today...

You like comic books?

Yeah. I've read a lot of these, though.

How old are you?

( I concentrated harder on the titles of the comic books in front of me, because I didn't want to see the look of astonishment on his face when i said... )

Twenty-Eight...

...Yeah, I like comic books too. You wanna see what I got already? I just checked it out.

Sure...wow, that's cool. I like Spider-Man. He's probably my favorite.

Really? That's funny cuz' you look like Peter Parker...just taller.





Tuesday, July 22, 2003



Looks Like Lex Luthor. Writes Like Gandhi. Or Was It The Other Way Around?...

Everyone visit The Hard Artist. Tell him that you love him.
And, no...his site has nothing to do with guys that paint
with their penises instead of brushes...






One Word...

The mall is a poor substitute for the movies. By the time that I recovered from my bartending madness, it was too late for me to seriously consider anything that required effort. Yes, going to the movies was too much for me when I woke up. By the time that I got it all together, and the girlfriend was so sweet to make me a sandwich, and by the time that I got distracted by the Woody Allen movie, and I watched it even though that he's a pervert, and fucked over Diane Keaton, no, wait-that was Mia Farrow, right? And he used to take naked pictures of his adopted daughter and then he married her right? Anyway, it was a good movie. I didn't mean to watch the whole thing, but even though he's a freak - it was very clever, and I like how he writes himself into movies, and he's always the romantic interest even though that, sometimes his wife / gal is hot - but I guess that I would do the same thing too. I fogot what I was going to say, but I need to disconnect this computre because it's going to the doctoe tomorrow. I'm not really that priveliged. I can't write on this anywhere else. I wish that i could write again on the notebooks with blue ink. Ny stuff was better than, and it made a lot more sense. But I used to write for a couple of magazines and al i got was hate mail anyway. No, not really. Actually, some people sent me action figures and money. that was nice.

So. I went to the mall instead of the movies. I fucking hate the mall. I haven't been there in awhile. there were a bunch of new restaurants. Wow. Young girls. No comment. I was only there to get a new battery in my punk rock watch and to have them take three links out of my grown-up watch. My wrists are little boy wrists, so the grown-up watch never fit. Mission acconplished. Then I bought a shirt that I shouldnt've bought. No spell check.

End of story.







Monday, July 21, 2003



But Everytime I Pin Down What I Think I Want, It Slips Away - The Ghost Slips Away...

So many things to do today.
Write and call people.
Fix the damn computer thingy.
Pay bills.
Mail in rebates.
Finsh the cartoon script.
Finish something.

But, I don't know...going to the air-conditioned movies,
and enjoying all of the candy and cokes that you hid in your pockets sounds great to me.

" F " all of that other stuff.




Sunday, July 20, 2003



Fitter. Happier. More Productive...

Mrs. Computer, I was very disappointed in you today. Why won't you do what I want? All I want to do is play a videogame. Is that so wrong? I don't have to be married to you for 45 years to know your wants, do I? If you're hungry, shouldn't it be simple for me to feed you? Why can't I be your pusher-man? Why won't you tell me what you need? I'll get it for you. I love you. All I want to do is take care of you. Can we make this work? Tonight, when I was installing new RAM and a new video card - I saw a part of you that I've never seen before. You showed me your soul. It was like I could see through you. I'm sorry. We'll talk about it tomorrow after we've had some sleep and can approach this problem with a clear head.

I love you.

(Coughs and mutters under breath)

Bitch.




Friday, July 18, 2003

Thursday, July 17, 2003



WARNING: People Who Have Had Photosensitive Seizures, ( A Seizure Reportedly Induced By Flashing Lights Or Patterns ) , Or other Symptoms From Being Photosensitive, Should Not Play This Game Without First Seeing A Doctor...

Okay, enough of that crud. I was really going to take a week off and focus on the cartoony scripty thingy, but progress has been slow kiddies. I need to clean the dirt out of my ears. I can't help it. This isn't even real writing. This is like kind of like writing, but it doesn't entirely qualify. It's like being a professional dancer at Disneyland. Yeah, you get a paycheck and all, and maybe you throw your heart into it - but it isn't really like you're dancing on Broadway, is it? What the hell did that mean? Broadway? Paid? I don't get paid for this claptrap. Blaargh, maybe I really should stick to taking a week off. I’m all frustrated too, because I got the new Star Wars Galaxies Geek game, and after all of the initial excitement, downloading, and whatnot, I found out the fucking thing won't work on my computer. I need to get a new video card and to increase my RAM. I was up till three trying to figure out a bunch of crap that I really don't know much about - and by the time I was ready to go to bed - I was ready to ram the game up George Lucas' arse.

It's not too hot right now, and I'm on beer number three. Money crud is getting so burdensome, that I'm probably going to have to ditch a couple of shifts at work and work for my friend who does contracting. Two to three hundred bucks for a couple of day’s worth of manual labor? Sold. I'd rather shovel a bunch of concrete around in the hot sun with my weak-ass body than have to talk to people anyway. And I might get to eat off of a Roach Coach, smoke a lot of cigarettes, ruin my back to compliment my fucked up knees and still-recovering gimpy broken ankle, and I'll get to whistle at women that walk by.

Sounds good to me, Bubba.





Sunday, July 13, 2003



He Will Bring Balance To The Force...

Ummm...sometimes I get drunk and write things on here that make no sense.
Well, they make no sense more than usual. Huh?
So, sometimes I read them in the morning and have to erase them.
Cuz' sometimes, the writing blows Hardy Boys hard.
What?
Take a nap, boy.
Okay, pop.




Saturday, July 12, 2003



The Spice Mines Of Kessel...

Fucking shit balls.
Joe just got Star Wars Galaxies.
I'm jealous. I want that game.
I know that it sounds all super nerdy, but I don't care.
It's cool, so lick it. I just may have to go over to his house.
Than I'll chop off his head and take the game.
That, and his beatles CD's.




Friday, July 11, 2003



Chris Is Queer - I Mean, Here...

I don't really have much to say. I've been itching my right eye. Now it's all red. Combine that with my sick-ass light brown eye on the left and I look like I've been shot in the head. We have to go to Courtney's house at 9:30. My friends start everything late. I think I'll show up later than everybody else. I'm tired. I watched Punch Drunk Love. I liked it. I'm drinking a beer. I like it also. I drink a lot of beer. I feel no guilt. The new Spider-Man cartoon is going to be on MTV tonight. I feel a tingle in my crotch area.






Damn Harpies Keep On Stealing My Food...

Now this is just getting ridiculous.
Time? What the hell?
Why you frontin?
Being all gangsta' and shit,
robbin' me?
I'm gonna bust a cap in yo' ass.
Leave me alone.
Why the hell is it so late?

Give it up, bitch.




Wednesday, July 09, 2003



Arf! Arf!...

Damn, how does one relax in the heat?
I know it's hotter in other places, so I'm not going to whine.
A beer, a breeze, mellow music,
and some comics in the backyard sound good to me right now.
And I'm not talking about David Cross and Carrot Top.
I meant, COMIC BOOKS.






She Wasn’t That Hot – But Had Nice Titles…

Ashing out my smoke, outside - I spit on the table by accident. That kinda sucks, but these things happen. 60, the outside, sometimes inside cat, jumps on my thigh. Claws. Fucking ouch. Don't hate the player, hate the game. Me OW!, indeed. One of the things that sucks about these summer nights has nothing to do with Danny or Sandy, it has everything to do with how quickly one's beer goes warm. For those of us who are wusses, and can't stomach the likes of Guinness, various stouts, and lagers, etc...it don't make fo' no fast beer drinkin'.

Today will be shuffled off and filed away, never to be seen for years. Uncovered by historians, librarians, heads of estates, or aliens studying what the hell happened years and years from now. The editors will glance it over, and chuck it - thinking that it slows down the narrative pace. I'm cool with that. I understand. No hard feelings - just make sure that you don't let them use my image in a Coors Light or Vacuum cleaner commercial. That's just plain wrong.

Kitty on my back right now. Not a monkey, thank god. I guess I do have some monkeys; they must be invisible, though. And I guess that they're not too heavy, and I guess that they don't smell too bad, because usually I can't tell that they're even there. I can deal with invisible monkeys on my back, little kitties are the coolest - I just wish that they’d remain small. But, then...our parents probably said the same of us when we were small, didn't they? And where would we be if we were still five years old?

Taking dumps in sand boxes, eating kibble, and meowing too loudly, ergh?

Oh, wait...some of us still do that...





Tuesday, July 08, 2003



What's Wrong?...

I’m just tired…is one of the biggest, lying statements ever used.
Pay attention next time that somebody busts that out as a response,
and realize that it’s quick and easy, used a lot, and means absolutely nothing, right?
They're just tired. Nothing's wrong, yeah? Bullshit. It means something.
It means that you’re not really telling the truth. Pay attention. I do it all the time……





Monday, July 07, 2003



Pussy...

Was under the car in the driveway. My girlfriend found him. Now he is in the bathroom. Little pussy is meowing loudly once every two seconds. Pussy is cute, but pussy is driving me nuts. Pussy will have to be bathed and picked of fleas tomorrow. Then pussy can roam about the house freely. Does anybody want some cute, furry, young pussy?




Saturday, July 05, 2003



Texas Hold Em'...

So, I'm getting ready to bet the farm. Lose it all. Get drunk. Get poor-er.
I only have twenty bucks to lose, though, So, I guess it can't be that bad.
Wire me some money or something, yo. I'll buy you a steak dinner.





Friday, July 04, 2003



Protocol Droid...

Don't you hate listening to music that reminds you of old stuff, and memories best left to be tossed away or forgotten? There are certain data tapes in our robot minds that should've been permanently wiped clean. Ugh. Beep Dee Doop Doop!




Thursday, July 03, 2003



Avengers Assemble!...

" This is the plan, guys! we're going to party like crazy on a limited budget. We're going to rip the throats out of this town this weekend. I want all of you to remember nothing. Who's with me? "

- But, Captain America - why would we want to do that? We're a super hero team. None of us even drink - well, except for The Wasp, but she's just a ho anyway.

" Shut it, Ant-Man. You've got the short man complex, obviously. It must be hard variating between penis sizes. Everybody else? Ignore Ant-Man. What about you, Hulk? Any problems with our plans for the weekend? "

- HULK SMASHED!!!

" Very good, Hulk. "






The Fish Of The Day Is Copper River Salmon. That's Broiled, With A Lemon And Butter Sauce, It Comes With Fettuccini Alfredo, And Sautéed Vegetables On The Side...

Man, Ummm...all day, I told myself to think up of something to write and was really serious about it. After work I replaced all of the locks on the back door. Everything was wrong. Nothing fit, so I had to make it fit. There were a lot of wood chips left on the floor.

What are you doing for the weekend? I might be on a yacht. If that doesn't work, I'll be at my gal's sister's house having fun, lighting off little kids fireworks, and thinking about partying on a yacht. If I'm not at her sister’s house, I'll be at my house, thinking about partying on a yacht. I have a perfect place to watch the local fireworks. You can drink beers from my neighbor’s balcony and climb on my roof, too. You can fall off if you want, also. That's free.

What's weird, though - is that I live across from a park and that people start staking out spots in the morning to see the show. So, if you're a friend of mine then you're shit out of luck for a parking spot and you'll be carrying your beers a long-ass way to my house, because on July 4th you got two things going for you when trying to find a spot...JACK and SHIT - and JACK left town. Anyway, it gets kind of freaky when you realize that there are a couple of hundred people across the street, basically staring at your house until the fireworks start. I made sure to shut the blinds last year. Nobody wants to see me hitting on your wife while wearing a lampshade on my head. What I just said was so fucking stupid, it was really, rally stupid. And I just said, " rally ". Oh, and I'm not really smitten with Reese Witherspoon - I think she's cool and all, and I thought that she kicked ass in " Freeway " the movie, but...I really want to do bad things to her. She seems like such a genuinely nice person that I want to ruin her and make her an evil person. Sorry.

So, the people under the stairs - I mean, across from my street on July 4th are cool to look at when you're on my roof. I usually turn around and look at their faces. It's scary. I should charge them to use my bathroom. I should sell cans of crappy beer wrapped in paper sacks. I wish I had a dog that fetched. I'd chuck a stick right in the middle of the crowd and laugh. I could be like William Wallace and soak the grass in oil the night before, and then when everybody's all settled - I'd shoot flaming arrows into the ground. Yes.

Damn, I still have nothing to write about...

Lick my butt, please...





Tuesday, July 01, 2003



From Warren Ellis' Wonderful 'Die Puny Humans'...


To Be In England, In The Summertime


Even in summer, the English sky's the colour of a dead body left out in the cold. Grey light, grey buildings, grey people, grey lives.

The expensive new car on the corner was supposed to be silver, but it's just grey. The man in the grey suit writhes against the grey fabric of the driver's seat and pounds the wheel with little grey fists. Human fingers lay between his feet, leaking over the little grey plastic mat under the pedals. He starts to cry, lips twisting back from little grey teeth with fingermeat stuck between them.

There's a girl who's almost beautiful, standing by the roadsign watching, wreathed in grey cigarette smoke. She leaves cheap lipstick on the filter, watches the man in the car with dead eyes. When she inclines her head to get a better look, her chin disappears and she looks like a child's painting. Her kid's about three feet away, eating dogshit.

The girl's mother is in the pub, taking a call on a stolen mobile phone. No, this is 'is mum. I took 'is mobile off 'im. No, I ain't seen 'im in three month, since 'e came round my 'ouse with that bitch. I punched 'er in the face and 'it 'im with a frying pan, and they don't come round no more. You got DVD players? I'll 'ave eight. I said I'll 'ave fukkin eight. You come round with 'em.

The bloke with the DVD players needs the money. His car was stolen and the police won't give it back, because it was found with a junkie driving it and a crack pipe and soiled baby clothes in the back seat. It's material evidence in the mimed "fight" against the thousand crack addicts in town, forcing Yale locks and kicking out cat doors in the search for goods to feed two-hundred-pound-a-day habits. Everyone says they should be in hospital, but everyone knows they're safer on the street, because the hospital is rotting in its foundations. The plasterboard the new wing was put up with is festering on its hinges, and disease breeds in the wall cavities. The nurses ruthlessly jerk off the old men in the cancer wards to make them sleep through the night, and palm bottles of Vicodin on the way out the door in the morning. A little soma-holiday for people who reasonably expected to be working in medicine and helping people.

Blank stares at the ground as they walk home down blank streets, past the mothers doing the school run in the grey morning light. Remembering how they used to walk to school with their friends, laughing and joking and inventing whole new ways to look at their bright little worlds. Despising themselves and everything around them for being afraid to let their children walk anywhere alone. Any one of these people could be a paedophile, a child killer, some kind of sex monster that will steal their baby off the streets and do something unimaginable to them. She remembers walking home from school through the woods, making magic out of strange tree stumps and odd rocks and ancient clearings, dark copses and paths never taken, and wants to cry, because her child will never have that in this grey world she stupidly birthed them into.

These are all true stories.

To be in England, in the summertime.

-- Warren Ellis
warrene@aol.com







Frank Castle, Tony Stark, And Jubilee...

My girlfriend almost gave away a bag full of my toys to the retard truck - I mean, the truck that comes by and picks up things for the retarded home. It was a big plastic bag full of extra and old toys that I keep in the garage that I have no room for. Nerd. It wasn't her fault, but it still scared the shit out of me. Wives and mothers who clean out garages and attics are the enemy of childhood keepsakes and nostalgia. I still miss my Garbage Pail Kids, Muscle Wrestler Things, and Transformers, bastards.