I just noticed...

That in my last two posts,
I misspelled one word in each.
Well, at least two that I noticed.
I'm not going to bother much with fixing my syntax, punctuation and spelling errors.
Feh! Bizarro Kevynn No Like Stupid Details! At least in this.

Anyway, in my last two posts there were two words that I noticed misspelling.

Post before last?
I wrote Bet. I meant But.
Last post?
I spelled Whole. I meant Hole.

So, ladies and gentlemen...
The last two words that I messed up were

BUT
and
HOLE

BUT(T)HOLE!

hee hee hee!

Thank you for your patience...

All I know is...

That I pushed the elevator button for the third floor and I wound up somewhere in the basement.
I wandered around, thinking to myself that for a City Hall, it looked kind of shitty and do I really need a new job this bad?
Finally, I asked a lady where personnel was and she told me that it was on the third. ( the building is three stories tall. )
She didn't even laugh, say goodbye or anything. She obviously thought I was a dumbass.
Screw her. Nice " Employee Lounge ", by the way.
She probably was the Head Patrol Of Sewage Tracking or something.

I got lost in a three story building and wound up in the basement.
I know, I suck. I'm one of those guys that have absolutely NO sense of direction but I swear this one wasn't my fault.
I pushed the damn button, heard a DING and then stepped outside. I wandered around. That's it. I also met a tall cop in the bathroom. I gave him a smile and he didn't return it. I think that's because I saw him checking himself out in the full-length mirror.

Carving pumpkins tonight. I'm going to lay mine on its side and pretend it's Dawne's fat-ass cat. What I'm really looking forward to is throwing the pumpkin in the backyard in a week or so. No. Maybe I should just chuck it down the street late at night. Then I'd get a more satisfying THUNK sound. Or I could carve a bigger whole on the bottom and then wear it on my head and let Chris punch me. That would be fun.

Happy Halloween, you bastards.

It'll never happen.

I don't think I'm gonna ever grow up. I suffer from Peter Pan Syndrome.
I'm like one of those kids that you see on the daytime talk shows
who have the brain of a five year old bet get old really fast physically.

I just want to be like the other kids...that's me.

I just got home from work and realized that my vintage E.T.
wind up action figure that's still in the package fell off of one of my walls.
Then I started to rearrange all of the others. My girlfriend accepts their presence
and the whole discombobulated state of decay and disarray that is my room,
like a new mother does the poop in her infant's diapers. A neccessary and very messy evil.

1) There's Tetsuo from Akira.
2) The Jesus action figure I mentioned before.
3) A Daredevil action figure that is dressed in his early black and yellow costume instead of the red one.
I read in a toy magazine that it was worth alot of money and found it by chance a couple of months later,
hoping to sell it on Ebay. I hate Daredevil. So, that's still on my wall.
4) A Wolverine figure that I got from someone on my birthday.
5) Ash and Evil Ash from Army Of Darkness.
6) Mr. Pink from Reservoir Dogs.
7) Jek Porkins, the fat X-Wing pilot from Star Wars.
8) Edward Scissorhands.
9) Homer Simpson in his underwear.
10) And a Viet Cong action figure that I got for cheap before WAR got popular again.

This is not including all of my crap that's out of the package.
The 18' Ash Doll in the living room.
All of the Star Wars toys from childhood.
The masks, wierd dolls, Spawn figures, skulls, Elvis crud and Pez dispensers.
I also have a trash bag full of junk that I had to put in the garage
for lack of space or in a desperate attempt of dignity.

See? I'm still a kid. The same little snot-nosed punk who used to fantasize about everything and nothing.
Well, that and being trapped in a dungeoun with naked Amazon women. Trapped?

Still the same kid.
Either that or I'm just a....geek.

Man. What the hell just happened?

This blog-schmog thing is cool and all.
Really. I mean it.

But what the hell just happened?

That was an internet-wierd.
A blog-Gremlin.
An internet-typist's nightmare.

I tried to post a religious quiz and it came with a fucked-up picture and I've been trying to make it work forever and then the thing went all wacky and i thought i ruined it and then i smoked for a bit and thought that this thing wouldn't ever work again and then i was okay with it and then i thought about how i don't write as much as i used to and how this shouldn't be my main concern, then Heather called late like i kneew she would and asked where i was, isaid that Dawne was at a kick-boxing class and that I would wait and im not going to fix any of the punctuation or grammer on this and im going to use AND and i as much as possibleleklelele until im done....which is now. today was a wierd day. eat it. thank you

this is my post....

I'm a horrible pot smoker...

Really.

Not that i'm an innocent or anything, but I've never been that bad.
I have vices.
Yeah, I like beer and cigarettes too much.
Comic books and reading the newspaper.
And I spend too much time on this damn computer.

I grew up with an older brother, so trust me...I've smoked my fair share of pot.
I'm down, yo. I've got my street cred. mutha.
Can you say, twelve years old?
I can't smoke pot.
I hate it.
Fine. Whatever.
I love it for my friends and all.
Everybody in the world, all my friends-everybody on Earth, it seems...likes to smoke pot-and that's cool, more power to ya'.
Whatever you like, just as long as it doesn't hurt me or anyone else.
But it has a shitty effect on me..........................

WORK IN PROGRESS....( there's a JANE GOODALL SPECIAL ON HBO RIGHT NOW>>>>>>>>>)

hold up, punk.....

Damn, I love that Jane Goodall.
Jane, The Dalai Lama, and Stephen Kingare tops in my 'Cool Book'.

Anyway, pot has a shitty effect on me. I'm cool for thirty minutes. Maybe an hour. I laugh, start to scream, or get insane urges like...TUNA.
I may want to open up a can but won't be able to do it. I may try to convince you that you're are a lesbian, whether or not you're a male or female.
I'll throw things at you. I'll raise a ruckus. You'll laugh...and then I'll be asleep. I can point out to you where I'll drop off.
See? Fun for you, but right when your stinky-ass pipe hits my lips-and the smell that reminds me of every horrible roommate ( Floyd ) that I've ever had, wafts into my lungs-
I remember why I don't smoke pot. It's not me. After twelve yrs. old, all of the times that I continued to try it-thinking that I would, maybe, get a different reaction....nothing. I always regret it. I hate the loss of self-control. The loss of ME. No matter the good and bad...I like my insides.
My Kevynn thoughts. There's some crud in there-but I don't know anything else and I like it.

I dealt pot for a bit.
I was a drug dealer.
Yes, I was. Really.
I did it because I had friends that sold it and they always bugged me to. Peer pressure.
I was perfect, they said. I didn't smoke it-so why didn't I sell it?
So finally, I said I would for a friend of mine that lived up in L.A. Let's call him ROB. ( Sorry, ROB. )

I had some conditions, though...

He would have to teach me the measurement thing, because I've never understood it.
All that I know is that JOEL once lost an eighth of pot from down his pants at a DANZIG concert.
I suck at all of that stuff. C'mon, I grew up with measurement tables from 'Pee-Chee' folders!
Barrels, hogsheads, bushels? What? Liters, grams, schwammy-whams, whatever....

I would never sell too much.

AND I would never have to leave my house.
None of this pager/secret-code-meet-you-in-the-bushes-at-Bradford-Park-type-shit.
That was shady ( before it was Slim ) and not worth my effort. Getting jumped by some bongo-playin hippy crew for...???

AND I would only sell it to my friends.

So it ended up that I sold pot to all of my friends in my apartment complex or I would just leave it in my hidey spot for my buddies, who I would trust with my life and had keys to my place anyway. It all worked out. It was cool. It was effortless. I'd come home from work and find new money and less pot in a drawer. I was a genius with an extra, small-time amount of about $100-$200 bucks every couple of months. Hey, it payed a couple of beer and utility bills.

Then it all got screwed up when my Mexican neighbors started to send their family members randomly to my door and when my friend/new roommate Chris, started to cut into my apartment-complex profits. I should've capped his ass. yo!

So. I quit.

And I only smoked some of my stash once...

I started to yell at my 'Trainspotting' poster


Which Trainspotting Character Are You?

and then fell asleep on my floor....

That's it...

Yo. Yo. Yo.

Baseball. Blah. Blah. Blah.

I did try to hear the fireworks from my house, though.
Wouldn't it be alot more fun if they played with canned hams or ripe fruit instead of a baseball?
Or if the infield and outfield players carried Uzi's instead of mitts?

Or if a team lost, then their bat boys got sold into slavery?
Or maybe the losing team's pets got killed?
Or if they played the game while riding on the back of Rhinos?
Or had to have a pet monkey chained to their leg?

Or if a team lost, they'd get taken over by a huge, money-hungry corporation?

And yes, I was a crappy baseball player...

I've never found it difficult to write...

Even if it was just nonsense for crappy magazine deadlines, school assigments or work-related stuff.

So what's happening, Rawg?

I don't know, Rerun.

I'm staring off into space and have the opportunity to write now that the house is empty and...

I've looked at the turtle a million times.
I thought about writing something pertaining to end-of-the-world scenarios and what I would do.
I was going to post a list of favorite books of mine and tell what I would do if I was the main character.
Relate a funny story about childhood, but my head fixated on images of me throwing a tennis ball at my old friend Adam's nuts.
I thought about Batman and what a psycho he is, and things that I picture him doing in private. Besides beating the crap out of criminals.

Now I'm listening to the Jeffersons theme song.
I'm trying to get all of the songs that I have downloaded in this computer to play as a playlist and it's not working.
Everything plays at once.
Three videos on one format will load up.
So I see Two Oasis videos and Janine and Brett Micheals doing it.
T.V. theme songs on one player.
Chewbacca, Mogwai, Thundercats outtakes and Weezer on another.

AH. This is what I'm going to do...
Nope.
That didn't work.
I was going to list all of the SHITE I have-but I can't lift the text.

Oh well.

Bride of Frankenstein is showing tonight.

It's raining, though.

What to do?

Things I Remember About Kidney-Garden...

Little strips of scotch tape on the carpet with black marker X's on them in front of the chalk board.
I sat somewhere in the back. To the right, I think.
Feeding Caterpillars.
Eating birdseed off of the ground and getting in trouble for it.
Going to speech therapy every Wednesday.
This was probably because I was still living with my fragmented-English mother and played with my babysitters son-who was retarded.
He was cool, though. We always had a crap-load of fun. Smashing our heads into Lego piles and spitting on each other.
My father would get furious with me though because I always came home speaking gibberish. He called it my "Idiot Language".
I guess It started to rub off on my older brother too, so i had to go to speech therapy.
It wasn't that bad. It just made you feel like you had toddler cooties. Everybody would look at me when the teacher announced Kevynn Had To Leave.
Oh well. Now, I love to speak. I can't shut up usually. And I'm an eloquent bastard in real life.
Really. I'm not as stupid as I am on the written page. I was a drama-fag for a bit in high school until all of the party people left. I got smart and went into Home Ed and Guitar. I've done voice-over work for advertisements and cartoons. So lick It...Mr. KINDERGARTEN! You sucked! Except for the part where I got in trouble for chasing around all of the girls with the dead mouse I found out in the field. And except for the part where I ripped off a bunch of Dristan from my fathers medicine cabinet and took it out on the bridge over the sandbox and poured it into the dirt, thinking that a Dristan tree would grow...Except for the parts when I used to cruise around during reccess on one of the three-wheelers like a pimp. Cruising for...what...solidarity? A lack of confusion? Damn, I was a wacky kid, but still cool. If I have a kid like I was back then-I'll be lucky. I wasn't that bad. At least back then.

Now? I don't know...

I still like Lego's, spitting and...gibberish.

Oi Doi Dooey Dooey Ooo....!!!

There's Something Creepy About

me reading comic books online...

Oh, did I say 'creepy?'

I meant nerdy.

(Yes. A dork. I am.)

HOW CAN I NOT WRITE 2NIGHT?

KNOWING THAT IF I DON’T, YOU’LL FEEL A PANG OF DISAPOINTMENT AND HAVE TO START OFF YR. DAY W/OUT A SMILE OR UNDERGARMENTS FULL OF POO. I HAVE AN OBLIGATION AS NICE GUY/Kevynn/ INSOMNIATIC/writer…I THINK. IT’S MY DUTY. I’M SWORN TO A LIFE OF VERBOSE SERVITUDE. Really!

THIS WEEK, I NEED TO WRITE…AND BAD.
TO DO
WHAT I’D DO
WHAT
I THINK
I’M SUPPOSED 2 DO
IF I IGNORED FRIENDS AND THE OBLIGATORY DISTRACTIONS.

I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ANYTHING ANYMORE. I'ts late. I THINK THAT….

OH, I DON’T KNOW…

MY LITTLE SISTER USED TO KEEP SNAILS AND SHE MADE A LITTLE HOUSE FOR THEM. IT HAD SEPERATE ROOMS. A MINIATURE T.V. THE WORKS. SHE’D CRY IN THE MORNINGS THOUGH, WHEN WE WERE GETTING READY FOR SCHOOL. I COULD SEE THE DEWEY, PHOSPHOURESCENT TRAILS SHIMMERING ON THE WALKWAY. OVER THE WALLS AND OUT INTO THE BUSHES…SHE’D CRY. I WOULDN’T SAY ANYTHING. REALIZING HOW STUPID AND BEAUTIFUL IT WAS ALL IN THE SAME MOMENT…

LIKE THIS MOMENT.

HAPPY
FEELING everything
AND
nothing
TIRED
AND
RESTLESS

READY TO PULL THE WORLDS EARS OFF
TO WRESTLE IT
TO STAND ON TOP OF ITS COMATOSE BODY
VICTORIOUS
SCREAMING triumphantly
AND
BEATING MY CHEST
LIKE
A Monkey Thomas Malone

Its time to go to sleep… now...
Though you’re probably already slumbering…


time to go to bed
and
hopefully dream of

me closing my eyes…

and dreaming of …

writing better things than this...

P.S. I forgot to include something...

Damn, Today Went By Fast...

I tried to sleep as much as possible.
Had breakfast in the backyard with friends at 3 p.m.
Watched a couple of crappy cable movies with Dawne.
Went grocery shopping.
Fed my cat.
Wrote.

That's it.

I tried to salvage my reciept out of the trash-but couldn't find it.

I love grocery lists...

Maybe Tomorrow?

Never Sing Yellow Submarine

It incites violence.

I had to cocktail. It sucked. I hate doing that and usually don't have to. I haven't in a long time. I don't care about what my customers eat, let alone what type of cocktail they want to ingest after midnight. I've grown up and don't hate the general populace like I once did, but still like to avoid speaking with people that I normally wouldn't want to speak with. I got fuckered not suckered into the deal because the usual late-night bartender that we have on Saturday night-his wife just had a baby. So that meant I was the Obi-Wan of their Princess Leia plea, and they needed me to cocktail. I was their only hope. Fuckers. Like I said, I hate it. I'm the guy drinking-not serving the damn things. Anyway. Long dinner rush. Long and boring cocktail rush. The stupid World Series game was on earlier and it was pretty dead. Ten or so of my friends made it worse by filtering in and setting up a big table. I knew it would happen. I probably made the most money that I did off of them so I should be grateful-but I'm not. I'd burn the extra money I made if it meant that I didn't have to be there busy while they were in " Happy-World " and I was in " Concerned-About-Obligatory-Shit-I-Hate-To-Be-Concerned-With-Shit " Eventually time started to do its job and pass. I sang the last song of karaoke for the night. I spent some time passing out everybody's final bills and happened to turn my head and see a tall guy in a white shirt headbutt a guy. Uh. Wow. I remember Dawne yelling at me from across the room that there was a fight and before I knew it I was across the room and leapt up on table full of drinks and put myself in between them. I don't even remember what I said. I remember trying to push the white shirt and his buddy out of the place. White shirt guy was English and kicked the guy. Anyway...blood is really bright, isn't it? I've noticed that before. I don't know what the deal was-and I didn't care. I just wanted to get my girlfriend and my slave wages home. The cops came. Good. We closed. Dawne and Chris stayed after hours. We had a couple of drinks. That's it. Cool thing though. Some lady who is always at my work and talks too much told Chris that I was like Fonzie jumping up on the table not spilling a drink and helping with the fight. I like the Fonzie thing. And some other guy mentioned a "Shaolin" grace. I can dig the Wu-Tang style...

I'm glad it's over with...
I will never do it again.

AND---

Next time they ask me?...

What do you say, Kevynn Malone?

Things I have learned recently:

I am the undisputed master of "Connect Four,
the game with the red and black checkers
and those yellow slots that they slide down.
Y'know what I'm talkin' about.

That dried out crickets seasoned with
lime and pepper given to you
from the Mexican chefs at work aren't bad.

That I must be a real big dork. I got a job offer to host karoake.
The girl said that I had it in me and that she's never asked anybody before,
she said I would be good. To let her know. Oh man.

Don't ever tell anybody you're going to the bathroom at your place of employment.
Especially ill-humored co-workers. They turn out the lights on you and you
end up in a dark and stinky stall pooping out digested Mexican snack crickets
with an HTML book in your lap that you cant read anymore.

Yup. That's all of the knowledge that I've absorbed in the last twenty-four hours.

Oh, and one other thing that I've learned......

That I should've stayed in college.

If I ever met God I would ask him:

What music he likes.

If he was taller than me.

I’d tell him to cut his hair. He looks like John Frusciante. Yeah, it helps you get chicks-
but, c’mon. It helps you sleep better when it’s short. You don’t have to do that girly ‘flip’ thing.

I’d ask him where Hannah my cat was…

If I could borrow some money.

I’d tell him he needed to get some new clothes.

And would ask him if he works out. Is there a gym in heaven,
and what would the membership commitments be in the after-life?

Does he want to go skating tomorrow?

Can he pull some strings and help me get out of work this Saturday night?

Will he help me with the final drafts of my screenplays?

Has he ever seen True Romance?

Would it be okay if he could kill all bad poets?

How could God create light before he created the sun?

How could God create me in his own image?
Does he have bad eyesight, asthma, and two different-colored eyes?

How could he create the Olson Twins? Knowing the evil that lurks in the heart of men?

I’d ask him if he liked beer, and what kind. He strikes me as a Guinness drinker.

Do his ears ring every time someone says, ‘Oh my god?’

Wanna play ‘UNO?’

Wanna wrestle?

Wanna play chess?
I don’t think I’d want to play him though, his mind would always wander elsewhere,
and he’d be impatient, whine and accuse you of cheating and throw the game across the room and call you a ‘bitch’ if you beat him.

Why are some of your followers so 'you' damn stupid and SO fucking mean?

AND…if he really existed-How come lightsabers aren't around yet?

Jesus Christ!

My apologies for excluding Allah, Buddha, Zeus, Satan, that stupid sniper in Maryland, and David Koresh…

My mother is Vietnamese.

Even She wouldn't eat this cat.

I'm undecided how I feel about this...

Is it possible for a young woman to be so beautiful that she ties up traffic?

Evidently.

A 19th-century London confectioner known as Mr. Very put his daughter to work in his shop.

So stunning was she that people stood around outside the shops windows to watch her.

Not just a few people.

Crowds.

Historical footnotes say the police eventually got Mr. Very to send the young lady out of the city.

She was stalling both horse and foot traffic, they said, just because she was so strikingly beautiful.

We were at a strip club.

Tony and Melissa were in a corner somewhere making out. Was she dancing before? I don't know, but a girl who looked just like Penelope Cruz-and I mean pretty damn close to her started talking to me and...one of my friends. Yes. She was pretty. Really. Which was a surprise cuz' this place was one of those joints that heavily utilize the wonders of the black light. The light that pot-smoking hippies still use to listen to shitty Grateful Dead songs by. The light that also makes all of the fat, dimples, and post child-bearing stretch marks of strippers disappear. Well, sometimes. Here's the kicker folks...her body was to die for...but, unfortunately her voice made you want to die. It was that bad. That high. That shrill. She was nice. And talked alot. About tonight. Where she was from. Her kid ( Surprise Surprise ) . She had energy. The gift of stripper gab. She was pretty. And pretty awful. She sat and talked to the whole group of us for a long, long time because......we kept on paying her to. Over and over. Engaging her in conversation. Tipping an annoying voice? Yeah. Y'know-I think It was the best money I've ever spent at a strip club.

Ha.

Sad?

Yes.

Funny?

Also, Yes.

I better drink up...










I'm going to go see The Creature From The Black Lagoon tonight.
3-D!!! It's right next to the beer garden and outside at the Fullerton Museum.
This city has its moments at times. Hopefully I don't hurt myself.

I don't want to work.

Really.

I don't ever want to do anything for the rest of my life. Is that so bad? Even if it's a piece-of-cake job and something that I enjoy-who cares? I want to spend the whole day watching T.V. and regretting it. Spending the day filming movies that I'll watch over and over and only make sense to me. I want to see how long I can sleep. Or stay up writing or reading on the computer. I want to spend all of my time retyping Bukowski poems and to show them to my friends, telling them that I wrote them. To hand write a copy of Enders Game in pencil and ask them what they think. I don't want to do anything except drink and sit in the shade while my dogs, cats and my one Chimpanzee fetch beers for me, attack intruders and take my messages. Sounds good doesn't it? Of course it does. I know I'm A sick, spoiled American brat. Yeah. Okay. So. Whatever.

My father was a Chore-Nazi. Anytime I ever wanted money for something, it always involved dirt. Want some candy? There's weeds to pulled. A movie you're dying to see? Help me dig this ditch. Prom? Let's get rid of that palm tree. Yes. Of course. I learned good values from my ex Boy Scout/YMCA Counsler/Army/C.I.A./ U.S. Customs/ Father. I learned that you never get anything for nothing. Treats are expensive. And personal enjoyment's dirty. That we spend half of our lives working hard so that we can comfortably do nothing. That's why I'm giving up. No more. After my father kicked me out on my Eighteenth birthday, ( you saw that coming, didn't you? ) and after the year of fucked up travel, I've had some pretty strange jobs...

Before being kicked out-

I worked at a comic book store.
At Pizza Hut making...pizzas!

Wait a minute? That was it before being kicked out? No wonder I got booted.

After being kicked out-

I worked at a pizza buffet restaurant.
At a music/video store.
A drycleaners.
As a puppeteer.
Interviewed bands for one magazine.
Wrote fiction and poems for another.
Scripting/acquisition/voice-over work for cartoons and other various stuff for a company.
And was/am a waiter.

That's it?

Oh man...

That's it.

I want a ranch in Montana. Cattle, horses, and lemon trees to make fresh lemonade out of. Rabid dogs with bionic eyes. A lucrative script-writing contract. Comic books. Sindy And Chet as my next door neighbors. A pet crow. Stephen King and The Olson Twins on my speed-dial. Adolph Coors and Phillip Morris' mother's skulls. I want a real, working...lightsaber. I want to own stock in Blue Star Ointment, and to be able to help the world as I see fit. I want to eat elementary school cafeteria food again, my dear Watson. To play with Atari Teenage Riot, Man Or AstroMan and Dean Martin.

I want. To read. Think. Watch.

To watch Porky's movies constantly.

And to watch that porno that I saw when I was young, about the guy who-

infiltrated that middle-eastern embassy and had missles that shot out of his......................


Bye. You Bastards. I'm Tired.

If you need a self-confidence booster, then click on this.

Check it: a link.

This is good shite...

Y'know...It's kinda sad when the longest post that I have is something that I swiped from someone else's website.

I'm trying to figure all of this html stuff out, I swear. See? Instead of playing hooky from school-I should've been studying computer code. Damn. In getting kind of old. We didn't have any of this crap available. We had typing classes on computers though. I lost a weeks worth of work and was seriously tempted to throw the damn thing through the window. I came close. I'm glad I didn't. I was always getting in trouble. Not for big things usually. Just stupid stuff like tardies, arguments with teachers, water balloons, and ' Kick Me! ' signs on my math teachers back. I had a computer at my fathers house in high school. It had Word Perfect on it. I never typed a word at his house. It wasn't conducive to creativity or privacy. It's all about fat, fuckin' notebooks and old 60's era Smith Corona typewriters!

By The Way...Southern Californian Chinese egg rolls suck. Thank you. Search for some Vietnamese ones.

At least they don't try to CHEAT YOU AND STUFF THE DAMN THINGS WITH COST-EFFICIENT CABBAGE.

I didn't mean to do all of that in CAPS---

but I'm too lazy to erase it all.

SUFFER.

Reading ' Roots ' again. Its been awhile.
I just picked it up with Mark at the Fullerton Library used book sale last Saturday.
What else did I get?
Well, I'm glad you asked...

1) A King Tut book.
2) Three science Fiction novels from some guy named John Taine.
3) A Margarat Atwood book?
4) Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth.

and a beer cap. I found that in the bag. All for the amazingly low price of a dolla-fiddy.

I took all of these books out of the bag for you, you know. You better appreciate it.

I've never seen the show ' Alias '

But I respect it.

It's automatically in my ' Cool Book '.

aka: Images to touch yourself by.

Dude! Where's My Link?

Where's my dignity? Talking about an actress? Damn, I'm sad.

Printed with No Permission.

Email me at Kevynn75@hotmail.com for the link. And you better say hi to me and tell me something wacky or complimentary, or I might not tell ya' where I swiped this from.

I've always loved this article!

Friggin'

Fargin'

Shite!

---------

My Generations Timeless Classics: Oregon Trail

posted by B

It must've been really hard to have a little house on the prairie.



The winters were hard, your children would randomly go blind, and a big tree fell on the guy with the Oakland A's hat from "Highway to Heaven" once. Not to mention that your best daughter (at least the one the camera was on most of the time) was always off fishing with the town banker Mr. Sprague in some weird pond/prostitution ring to get him to buy school books for her. Now I know why Michael Landon always had that look on his face, somewhere between Dirty Harry, squinting to see an eye chart, and pooping out a two-footer. And the worst part about living on the prairie is that you can't even have normal dogs. All the dogs on the prairie look like hamsters standing on their hind legs. Thanks a lot, Darwin!

But as hard as it was to live on the prairie, it must've been even more difficult to pack up your bags and head off to a better place out west. I recall the story of the Donner Party, who left their homes in Illinois for the bright lights and hardly talented basketball teams of Sacramento, California. They ended up eating each other. And just recently, Richard Donner directed "Lethal Weapon 4," which showed us that Jet Li's years of dedicated training and natural ability are no match for Mel Gibson's feathery hair and Danny Glover's belly full of twinkies. It is an American tragedy we're still feeling almost 4 years later.

Since roughly 1985, public school children (known as "the ones God hates," as I understand) have been conditioned to fear and respect the journey made by those brave, ass-meat craving Midwesterners with no sense of direction. It was the year the Nintendo Entertainment System hit it big, but games that were actually FUN...like Super Mario Bros. or Duck Hunt...were just hitting the outer shell of importance in our lives. Sure, they were fun...but they weren't being dangled in front of us as the only alternative to middle school typing class like Minnesota Educational Computing Corporation's "Oregon Trail" was. Oregon Trail is neither very fun nor especially challenging, but the quest to GET the game early enough in class to finish it before the period was over became akin to the quest a man lost in the desert undertakes to keep vultures from pecking out his eyeballs. Oregon Trail was our oasis, our relief from the most useless and brain retarding lessons our early 90's computer tech teachers could muster up.

Am I the only one who got fed up with the goofy sentences we were forced to type? Most people really got into the class in sixth or seventh grade so it was a giant Delorian ride back to kindergarten in the grammar and syntax department. Some of the classics include:

a sad lass
she had a green jade
he had a jak sale

What in God's green name is a fucking "jak sale??" I can't remember the name of the rapidly developing and (subsequently) rapidly undressing redhead that sat next to me in class or the color of my teacher's hair, but I can still type "he had a jak sale" thirty-thousand times a minute. If I ever come across a jak sale, or a sale of green jade from some sad lass I'm going to buy them all, and burn them.

I remember the first day we were introduced to the game distinctly. I thought our teacher said "Organ Trail," since we all come from Virginia and can barely even walk upright, much less speak coherently. So I was expecting something completely different from a trailblazing game, something along the lines of Splatterhouse (which was HUGE for about 20 seconds) or possibly a computerized attempt at sex education. I remember playing "Kings Quest" and commanding him to "fuck" everything in sight. He just kept saying "I cannot understand." And you wonder why so many of us are getting pregnant nowadays.

Today's Sexual Education:

"Today, Snowhite was turning 18. The 7 Dwarfs always where very educated and
polite with Snowhite. When they go out work at mornign, they promissed a
*huge* surprise. Snowhite was anxious. Suddlently, the door open, and the Seven
Dwarfs enter..."



Though completely devoid of lesbian fairy tale double entendre or (debatably) action of any kind, Oregon Trail became such a fantastic diversion from school work and jak sales that it instantly turned into a classic, and an electronic cornerstone for many of our lives. Some of the dorkier kids would always choose Math Muncher, or Kings Quest ("What shall I do now?" FUCK the tree), but on any given day the hallway would be filled with the goofy DOS music pumping from our computers like a pimply raver trying to ease his last dollar of gas into a car without spinning glow sticks around and passing out. It was a painful procedure all the way around, but it was worth it, dammit.



Oregon Trail starts off with a 20 minute anime cut scene...no...actually it starts off with a white screen that says "Oregon Trail." The blood boils with excitement! Around this point, the dumber kids in class (the ones who sat in the corner during gym class drawing the Grim Reaper on their Trapper Keepers and the cheerleaders...not that I didn't love the cheerleaders, because I did, but even oncoming puberty can't defend a chick who can't understand that typing "Y" means "yes" and "N" means "no") would give up. The choices come a mile a minute, and before you know it you're choosing your own destiny -- picking whether you want to be a banker, a carpenter, or a farmer.

Picking "banker" means - you start off with so much money that you can buy food for the entire trip, never have any problems, and keep your family from getting typhoid. And trust me...your family is gonna get typhoid a LOT. No matter how well off you are or how well you play the game, the Minnesota Educational Wrecking Crew Corporation has programmed the game to give you outlandish diseases and make you die. It's a lot like your Mom! OOOOOH BUUUUURNN



The new look of Zelda disappoints fans.
Picking "farmer" means - you start off with very little money, but if you win the game as farmer you get the most points. Getting the most points means...absolutely nothing. Games where you earned respect based on how many points you get died long before I can remember, and is only survived by games like "Dance Dance Revolution." Personally I would like all people who get off on Dance Dance Revolution to get typhoid and be buried with a humorously obscene tombstone along the Oregon Trail. This brings up two of the best parts of Oregon Trail:

The diseases - You name it, this game has it. As you progress down the trail, pressing the space bar every two seconds to remove the "bad water" and "insufficient grass" messages that pop up after every step your oxen take, the game plays God and decides to give you, say, "dysentery." So your character takes a dump until they die. You never get shot in the neck by Indians, or punched humorously by John Wayne like all the trail goers I've ever heard about, you get the shits and croak. You also get cholera in the game, so I'm guessing Minnesota's Educational Computing involved a lot of uncomfortable bathroom time.



Pick yourself up and try again. You can reset and try again!
The tombstones - When your party dies off, the leader of the group gets buried where you stopped. That way, when you play next, you can pass by and look at your past failures. As emasculating as this may sound to the bad Oregon Trail player, it's one of the best parts of playing the game at school...the kids (no matter how old they are, they maintain the 2nd grader sexual maturity) give their party leaders names like "CUNTBUTT" and "ASSFUCK" and "COCKEATER," a far cry from names like "Jeb" and "Mary" that the game suggests. The tombstones also come with an epitaph feature, which allows the educated player to leave a fond farewell to the dearly departed...most of these read like "BETSY IS A WHORE SHE EATS THE MOST DICK" or, if there isn't a personal vendetta to attain during the period, "shit shit shit shit shit fuck fuck fuck." Finding an Oregon Trail tombstone without profanity on it is like finding a good episode of "Primetime Glick."



What is the first name of the wagon leader? I'm a name her Bonnie.
Anyway, back on the subject...

Picking "carpenter" means - you get an average amount of money, you're good at fixing any wheels or axles that may break along the way, and you have the satisfaction of pretending that you're Jesus on your way to heal some lepers or smote some Pharisees in Oregon.

Game strategies involve choosing which month to leave in (if you leave too early the Spring weather and cold can be detrimental...if you leave too late you chance getting caught up in December snows), budgeting your cash so you have enough supplies (like clothing to trade the Indians, food to give to the Indians, and bullets to shoot Indians and take your clothes and food back), and, most importantly of all, the BEST part of the game:

HUNTING~!!!1



Have you come here to play Jesus to the lepers in your head?
Don't expect those flashy Commodore 64 graphics you've been hearing so much about, Oregon Trail makes you feel lucky to get a few trees, bushes, or rocks in your hunting grounds. Your naked little albino man travels out into the black wilderness (there's some subtext I'm missing there) to slaughter the wildlife for your own survival. No matter where you stop, the little critters zip around the screen, like squirrels, rabbits, and deer. The real satisfaction comes when the bears and buffalo show up. What's more educational than causing some extinction? Wasting what you kill! Yes, Oregon Trail allows you to slaughter thousands of pounds of meat per stop, but only lets you carry 100 pounds back. Leaving a trail of rotting buffalo guts at least gives you vindication when Oregon Trail gives you Hershey squirts and you die.



Another anal retentive part of the game is crossing the various rivers you come by...they range from a foot deep to 20 feet deep, and the options get better. You can caulk your wagon and float it across, which works 99% of the time. If you've got the urge to lose the game for some reason you can attempt to ford the river, which involves just basically driving your wagon right through the center of it. If there's anything deeper than a thimble full of water you bet Oregon Trail's gonna over-exaggerate two feet of water enough to drown all your oxen and family with. There's nothing sadder than a river full of dead bodies, with little spurts of diarrhea popping up every few seconds to mark the tragedy.



Ike Turner beat his wife for singing about this stuff.
Making it past the Gamecube-quality illustrated towns and monuments allows for ANOTHER River adventure...one of the most exciting moments in the game, when the player is called upon to use motor skills unsurpassed in modern sports and entertainment. As your wagon floats down the river at about a frame every 10 seconds, you see these rocks up ahead...so you have to push the right or left arrow keys on your keyboard to MOVE THE WAGON. OMFG it's so much fun, we would gather around the comp of whoever had made it to this part, because it's like the victory lap. And just like how Oregon Trail looked like Resident Evil next to SHES A SAD LASS SED A JAKED LAD, the river rafting looks like Wipeout XL compared to plodding journey between anal leakage warnings.

What's the big payoff, you ask? Do you get a big celebration, a lengthy tribute to the hardships you had to face, or even a big pack of toilet paper? None of these things.



A mere congrats and instant judgment based on how many points you earned. Is this a macabre message to middle school miscreants that running away from your problems won't get you anywhere, or that overachieving and braving new worlds isn't going to get you anything but a half-assed pat on the back and indifference? The worst part is that Oregon looks like every other landmark you cruised by on your way here. They could've at least put some gold or some payoff in there. This was Oregon to me in 1985, confound it, I wanted a big digitized picture of Clyde Drexler dunking for my efforts. Instead, the bell would ring, and I'd go to art class.

The message learned here is that we are doomed to forget the very men who paved the way for our freedoms and enterprise. If we've gotten anything from the people of Minnesota outside of a football team that can't win the big game and Mr. Perfect Curt Hennig, it's the computer education in social and achievement irrelevance. It's almost as bad as Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!!!, where Mike rewards your efforts with a lame compliment ("I've never seen such finger speed!").

But Oregon Trail has a place in our hearts, regardless. Whenever we're tired of good graphics, interesting gameplay, or anything that involves productively spending ones time, Oregon Trail's bouncing music rings in our ears as a fond remembrance of a time when school wasn't about getting pregnant and shooting the popular kids. It was about she having a green jade for her jak sale and gathering around the computer to celebrate innocence, perseverance, and accomplishment.

And poop.

Lots and lots of poop.

Everything was FINE.

I showed Dawne some stuff I'd written. Chris called and said that he wanted to go out to the bars. Dawne had to study so didn't go out and dropped me off at his house. Had a coupla beers at his and Tony's place, shot the shit, Courtney joined us. She just got back from seeing a show about 'Mr. Show' at UCLA. with Mark. He didn't go with us cuz' he was supposed to take his C-Best test the next morning. "Hi. My name is Mr. Vermillion and I'll be your substitute teacher for today." Mark just graduated and now to make money while living at his parent's house, works for LAWRYS. Yeah, the spice people. Except, get this-he doesn't STOCK spices, he just sets up displays and bugs the busy supermarket managers to reorder. What? No spice hook-ups? What the hell is the point then? He can't get me anything. No California blend, salad herbs, not even a measly can of garlic salt. Help me out a little. Damn.

So. Like I said.

Everything was FINE.

We met up with Tony and his girlfriend Melissa at the Continental. They were hanging out with some guy that I think I've met before who Tony's toured with. Tony and some of my other friends are in a band called Longfellow. His tattoed friend is in Bullets and Octane. It's a rockabilly/punk band, I guess. The bouncer guy told us that we would have to wait, "too many people, blah blah, I look bored sitting on this stool in Fullerton, California." The last place that needs a bouncer who thinks he's really working in L.A. Some guy though, told the bouncer that we were "cool' and that some people just left and to let us in. So the bouncer did. I said thanks to the Fullerton bouncer guy. He didn't answer back, of course. Fucker. Not to excuse his typical rudeness and lack of cordiality but I can understand his lack of social enthusiasm. Because if I was in his position that would piss me off. You just told a group that they can't get in to your work for whatever reason and then some friggin' snot-nose tells you different and then you look like an ass. Hee-haw. Lick It. There were alot of people inside. Really crowded. Annoying? Maybe. Girls who look like they're sixteen and have huge breasts wrapped in tiny, stretchy tops? Yes. Guys who wear T-shirts and baseball caps? Yes. Say BRO alot? Oh yeah. Drank a couple of beers. Socialized. Whatever. Court, while waiting to pay her tab, stuffed bar napkins down her bra. Waste of paper but amusing. Some guys at the end of the bar noticed. Court started to mop her brow and act embarassed. Went to Back Alley Bar. Boring. Met a girl named Mary that Courtney met through a friend. Crazy. This girl cracked me and chris up. I guess she just moved from...shoot...where was it? Wisconsin? NO...DETROIT. I know nothing about it. Cars come from there, Clarence and Alabama Wohrley do too. Eminem and D-12, right. Yo Yo Yo. I'm sorry Momma. BTW. Random. Method man and Redman are the SHITE but after them appearing in that MTV show that only lasted for a little bit and the underarm deodarant commercial. Wow. Loss of points in my cool book for the both of them. So this Mary gal was funny. Stupid funny. Makes fun of stuff that she just said a couple of seconds ago. Thats good. Laughs alot. Chris and I got a kick out of her. We all went to Mulberry Street Restaurant. Karoake again. I only had a couple of minutes to pick a song because they were winding down, so I sang 'Thats Amore' by Dean Martin. I've done that before but I had to find something quick. Climbed up on one of the tables and sang. Eusebio, the main cocktail guy, let us stay after they closed. We walked back to Chris and Tony's. Shot it. Played guitar with Tony on his four-track for a bit. Kept on trying to get Chris to drop me off back home but he said that he needed more time to sober up. I wanted to call a taxi a million times but he just told me to wait. So, as the clock was ticking away, I was getting in more troblksdkasjdjkdssssssssssssss

ssssssssssssssss

IM TIRED

NOBODY IS READING THIS ANYWAY SO IM GONNA CONTINUE TOMORROW

2MORROW IS:

SLEEP.

$2.75 steak breakfast

Library used booksale

Writing stuff with Mr. Spicy Vermillion

Drunk

And then eating Fondue at Rutabagorez'

MO' LATER...

LATER.

After The Girlfriend isn't mad at me anymore.

Hey Babies-I've gotta a little secret to tell ya'...

I'm SO glad it's cold.

Yes.

I am.

So Much To Learn...
So Little Time...

http://kurellian.tripod.com/lostcv1.html

Ed Norton was just on Letterman. His goatee looked like hell-but funny guy-that Edward. My sympathies, though-to him...He once dated Courtney Love. I like her and all but she seems like she would be a handful to date. Baggage. He's always been cool in my book though, since Primal Fear. Fight Club, though? Whew. Good book/movie. One of those rare instances in which the film adaptation of a novel is equally as good-just in a different realm. Remind me to tell you when me and Ian punched each other in the face at Back Alley (bar). It's a funny, stupid story involving his broken nose and my black eye.

Today sucked. Bad. Not too horrible compared to everything you saw on TV tonight. But still a miasmic mess of major mundane shit packed together in the last twelve hours. Hmmmmm...can I do this? I'll try to give you a quick, non-boring version...

Need smoke first...

KNOCK KNOCK

-who's there?

NOT SELF CONTROL.

That was probably the stupidest thing I've ever written. Fuck. A ' knock knock ' joke?

I'm getting old and stupid. Duh. Listen to me. Oldandstupid. I'm slobbering...

God(s). I'm such a fucking distraction. I can't even smoke-which is a distractionary measure in itself-but-I always plan to SMOKE when my sick insides give me the nudge to do so and end up doing a couple of things ON THE WAY to the back or front yard, read while smoking, keep on reading the book, comic or whatever-nibble on something in the fridge, wash my hands or face, maybe brush my teeth, wake up the girlfriend,either accidentally or purposely-whatever. On and on and on. That's my life. Trying to do a bunch of things or really doing nothing at all.

2day? Woke up. Waited tables because I don't have a real job anymore. I am Jack's spoiled corporate brat gone wrong. It was slow. I made shit. Left. Bought my two newspapers. Comic book store. (sigh) I don't know how that happened. I used to collect them years ago and have started to buy them again sporadically. I haven't though in the last three weeks because I shouldn't and can't financially. I don't buy much anyway, cuz' I find most of it boring or a waste of money. I spent twenty bucks. I read too fast, though. Five minutes for every comic book=two or three bucks. Buy A beer, I say. Yet comic books ARE stories AND writing. So, maybe it's good for me. My screenplays are all ripped off from comic books anyway. HOME=Dawne ( My Girlfriend ) and trying to make the filter on the new turtle tank work. Not enough time for a nap. WORK=switching stations with Brandon so that I could stay later to make more money. All of the tables I would have gotten if I didn't decide to be 'Good"-Brandon had. He made a shit-load. All of the tables I had. All Six of them were old people and pissed off rich couples who gave me nothing. His Forty dollar tips compared to my Two dollar ones. I left. Bought a six-pack. Hung out with Dawne. Called back a couple of friends. Fucked around on this computer. Watched Ed Norton on Dave Letterman.

YUP.

Orgazmo's on...never seen it all, much to the astonishment of my friends. Just missed it, that's all.

The soundtrack has a song with SLAYER and ATARI TEENAGE RIOT, though.

And the Trey Parker and Matt Stone song too...

Enough. Goodbye.

I’ve got mechanical legs
And
A will made of silly putty tonight

An 8 yr. Olds yearnings
And
An 800 yr. Old soul

A happy/old soul
Or
That same old happy soul, I don’t know…

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,


You know what, i'm sitting here
and my mind is blanker than this computer screen…

I could tell you about anything.
The possibilities and areas of potential discussion are endless…
But I might cheese out on ya’
My…strength is dwindling…(gasp!)

I could tell you about how tired and fed up with my stupid job I was today,
And then went on my lunch break, read the paper, read a story about Russian fisherman who walk for two hours in the snow, carving small holes in the ice to catch maybe if their lucky five or more of a certain type of small fish.
Thousands of these fishermen need to be rescued each year because the ice sometimes cracks and separates from the mainland and they float out to sea, only for their ice rafts to get progressively smaller and smaller. Some drown. Some are found in the morning dead of hypothermia. All for something to do. All for maybe a couple extra bucks a month. More food for the family.

And we complain?

Well, yeah. It’s our nature; it’s been programmed into us to focus on what we DON’T have as opposed to what we DO. Mongrels of mankind licking out of half-filled water dishes.

But…

A little part of me was envious of those Russian fishermen,
I was jealous of the raw simplicity of their needs and lifestyle.
We were unwillingly born into this social contract and I understand that, and since I don’t know of any other existence, I’ll lick this lollipop life of mine clean…

But…
To have your resources and availabilities determined by the natural order of life, your success determined by the whims of Mother Nature? You can’t fight it. You accept it. So it goes. The grass is never green on the other side of the fence. No fence! No grass! Y’dig?

Ahhhh! Such sweet and utter simplicity. Geez, the way I’m talking I probably herded Muskrats in the Tundra in my past life.

No. I was a monkey.
A lazy monkey lying on my back
On my bed made of leaves atop the tallest tree in the jungle. Staring at the sky.
Making bananas out of the rushing cloud formations. Reaching out a wrinkly hand, trying to touch them, thinking them real. I want to catch them and stuff them in my mouth.

Are they good to eat? I think to myself in monkey thoughts…

In that life I never catch those clouds…but somehow,

I know that they are.

Yum.

MonkeyThomas Malone

This is my first entry and already I have to pee, get another beer and smoke. Get used to it.

My name is Kevynn.

Damn. Now what?