Tuesday, December 30, 2003
All My Friends Need Blue Star Ointment...
I'm kind of disappointed with their schedules. The rare times that I stop by their houses, they're either not home or are doing things that can't include me like laundry, dates, and masturbation. Sometimes all of those things combined. I hate it. I'm on strike. Today was my day off. I stopped by one friend's house to borrow that copy of Lost In Translation that she has because she's a SAG hag. She wasn't home. I stopped by two friend's houses, but one was going to go return things from Xmas and then go grab a hamburger. The other was waiting for a girl to come over. Nobody wanted to play poker with me. I mean, c'mon - it's like, free money I'm giving you because I suck at it!Two people I called didn't answer. Now, I know that everybody might potentially hate me. You all just let me know if that's the case. I'll go live on that leper island or that freak show town in Florida or in the Ewok Village on Endor.
Every single time that I want to do something - nobody's around. But guess what happens when I'm working a lot or busy as hell or trying to think about writing.? Hee. Think. Everybody sucks. I'm done with all of you. Yeah, you too. Everybody needs to work according to my schedule. Now. Work it out. You need to be available when I want you to. I'll buy you all Palm Pilots or support you when you quit your jobs. If I'm not in the mood to hang out - you all just need to crawl in your cryogenic tube and chill. I'll call you when I'm ready. Be ready to play poker and to listen to me talk about Fat Free Milk, Paris Hilton, and Comic Books.
Now go away.
I'm thinking about writing.
While My Pen Gently Weeps...
Headphones. Got some for Christmas. Now I need to crawl down underneath the table and plug them in...good. Done. I'm using a lot of periods lately. I must be on my period. Or this is my period period, maybe. Because this is all art now, isn't it? No. It's not. But that's good. Eees Okay, Seenyore.
You know, with these headphones on - I can't hear my girlfriend. She kind of wakes up sometimes in a panic and screams. She's like my retarded cancer patient. Ooohhh, maybe he shouldn't say that because that's cruel to the mentally disabled and maybe he's jinxing himself and now she'll get cancer. Suck it. I know what I'm doing - otherwise, Great-And-Powerful Jeebus would've struck me down with lightning or had a plague of locusts burst forth from my butt a long time ago.
I used to write to music a lot, a long time ago, but that was before shared living with another who studies hard. So I usually write when alone or during snippets of conversation. I can't blare the music like I used to, it disturbs the birds - so these headphones are cool with me. I asked for them. I got them. I will now enjoy fucked-up, loud music. I will now enter that zone again...now all that I need is a blindfold, and I'm set.
Monday, December 29, 2003
And it's cold. And My fingers are numb. And Tony and Tom just got done singing a song about pants when I was over at Tony's house after work and I can't get it out of my head. And Tony spilt beer all over his bed. And yes, it was a long night. And I am glad that all of my friends come to the bar because if they didn't - then I wouldn't make any money. And is it wrong to take money from them? No.
And it's time for bed.
And for you to go to work.
And that's all folks.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Dear Paris Hilton...
Iâ€™ve never written to you before â€“ but since Christmas is coming - I better get this letter in soon so that it can get to you in time. I hope Iâ€™m not too late, but even if this doesnâ€™t, I know that somehow, somebody will read this and put it into your hands. First, I just wanted to tell you that I think that your new show is great. I donâ€™t even watch TV shows on a regular basis. I didnâ€™t even see that second part of the new Battlestar Galactica thing that I thought was pretty good. Itâ€™s hard for me to remember to change my pants. Let alone set up a schedule for TV programs â€“ but I have for you, Paris. Oh god(s), yes, I have. I have watched every single episode of your TV show. I havenâ€™t done that since Saturday morning cartoons used to be sort of okay. I think right about when Batman Beyond and Freakazoid left â€“ that was the final nail in the coffin. I was holding on for a long time, Paris â€“ but the networks ruined it. I wish that your daddy was the king of cartoons instead of the king of hotels â€“ that would make me want to meet you even more.
Paris, donâ€™t listen to everybody else. Block them out. Youâ€™re great. Serious. I think you and me should hang out. If you ever came over to where I lived, Iâ€™d show you a good time. I donâ€™t like to golf, so youâ€™re safe â€“ but I do like comic books. I donâ€™t talk about them much in public because nobody else likes them anyway, and I learned early on not to talk too much about totally geeky stuff because that wonâ€™t get you laid. Talk about books and poetry and pain and paper cuts. That makes you mysterious. The chicks eat it up. Talk about poets and small kitties. I donâ€™t like sewing. I donâ€™t like football. Hey, isnâ€™t it funny, I just grabbed a couple of comic books to read while I smoked in the backyard and I thought that it wouldnâ€™t be enough, but I only got through the first couple of pages of the Robin comic before I started getting distracted, and by that time my cigarette was over. Funny, huh? Hee haw, said the chuckalicious donkey.
Paris, donâ€™t listen to me. Everything that you just read was crap. I think your show is the best show that Iâ€™ve ever seen because it strikes me funny and sad on a million different levels, I feel like a tool for watching it â€“ itâ€™s just like The Iraq War Coverage. Tool. Home Depot. Thatâ€™s what weâ€™ve become. So, now that itâ€™s late â€“ Iâ€™ve turned it off, but itâ€™s too late to â€œkick up the jamsâ€� because my gal needs her sleep for more finals tomorrow, so Iâ€™ll be the cucumber. Refrigerated cool. Hoth cool. Like a Wampa meal. Iâ€™m gonna listen to The Capricorns, NIN, Sonic Youth, The Beach Boys, and Atari Teenage Riot at a respectable volume. Iâ€™ll keep it down to a dull roar. All praise Aslan.
Paris, listenâ€¦youâ€™re super hot in that waify, model way. Just like I am. People like brooms. Weâ€™re usefulâ€¦and kind of cute if you use us enough. Paris, itâ€™s okay if you canâ€™t hold a job and donâ€™t understand the concept of money. I canâ€™t. Nobody can. Itâ€™s all relative. I wonâ€™t clean my room for you, though. Deal with it. Iâ€™ve got other stuff to do. Oh, and please remind me that I have to make sure to collect my seventy bucks for writing for that Aerospace company and collect the fifty bucks for the real estate newsletter that I turned in on Monday. Thatâ€™ll help later on in the month when Iâ€™m trying to come up with rent. I have to get a move on and also do a considerable amount of work on that cartoony scripty thing because that guyâ€™s waiting for it and he said that the end of January would be fine. That gives me about a month to complete seven episodic scripts, running at about 23 minutes longâ€¦thatâ€™s more then a feature length film. Balance this with working, writing on Fat Free Milk, fighting off rats, friends and comic book reading, and Iâ€™m pooped. Oh, and by the way, Paris â€“ can you believe that Marvel Comics is still going through all of their submitted material? Wow, I was, like one of the first people to catch that they were accepting new writer submissions. Six months. They saidâ€¦that wasâ€¦likeâ€¦six months ago, I thinkâ€¦
Oh. And hey, Paris? Iâ€™d like to come for a visit. I can party like a rock star and wonâ€™t embarrass you. Iâ€™d fit in. I wouldnâ€™t hang all over you or anything, and I like to dance. If you want to go make out with somebody else on the dance floor â€“ Iâ€™d be cool with that because, I have a girlfriend and all. Iâ€™ll just talk to the cocktail lady about Fatfreemilk and about comic books. I can ask her questions about drinks, cuzâ€™ the more that I know â€“ the better Iâ€™ll be. Actually, like I could give a ratâ€™s ass. Iâ€™m a pretty damn good bartender. You should stop by. Just donâ€™t bring your friend, Nichole/Nicole. She seems okay, a little smarter than you â€“ but unless sheâ€™s gonna sing some of her fatherâ€™s songs - than I donâ€™t care.
Christmas is almost here, Ms. Paris Hiltonâ€¦what are you wishing for this year? Me? Really? Awwwâ€¦honey, thatâ€™s so nice of you to sayâ€¦but we wouldnâ€™t last. I have my crazy-ass moments, but Iâ€™m getting old. Iâ€™ll out-drink and out-fight you one half of the week â€“ but the other half, I need quiet. I need to write The Great American Novel. I need to conjure up a new generationâ€™s-worth of Holdens. This type of crap takes time. This is anti-social stuff. Just ask Salinger. Ask The Dust, said John Fante. Iâ€™m totally okay with you going off and doing whatever you want â€“ just remember thatâ€¦Iâ€™m always invitedâ€¦
For Christmas this year, I wantâ€¦
A bow and arrow set.
A big barrel of toothpicks and glue. Serious. When I was in first grade, we did a project like this and we were all encouraged to build as big of a tower as we wanted. I loved it, and have wanted to do it again ever since â€“ but toothpicks are too expensive and I donâ€™t understand how we got to have so many, but this was the eighties and everything was different then anyway.
More comic books â€“ but only the good shite. Anything Spiderman is fine with me.
A Cuisinart thing to help me cook.
Porno by Irvine Welsh.
A New Laptop so that I can write this drivel from bars.
One of those huge carpeted tower things for my kitties to sleep in, but then terrorists might knock emâ€™ down â€“ so fogetit.
A travel ticket to New Zealand, Amsterdam, Japan, Australia, Alta Loma, Cincinnati, Austin, Narnia, Naboo, Krynn, and Enderâ€™s Battle Schoolâ€¦
Thank you, Paris.
I love you.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
For you. For Christmas...
I am giving out email presents.
Presents made of nonsense, but better than nothing, right?
This means that I will write a bunch of gibberish to you on, or close to XMAS.
Give me your email address, NOW - before I erase this post later.
Or forget about it when I wake up.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Sunday, December 14, 2003
This Is What It Feels Like To Finally Get To A Writing Assignment That's Due On Monday That You Wont Be Able To Spend Time On On Sunday Because You'll Be Serving Drinks To Drunks But Hell What'ya Going To Do You're Starting A Vodka Redbull And That's Okay Because You Need To Get The Crap Done And To Make Yourself Feel Like The Freak That You Are Because When You're At Your Highest Peak Of Insanity The Rest Of The Robots Are In Hibernation But It Doesn't Matter Because There's Anti-Matter And That's As Cool As Magma And It All Boils Down To My Tendency To Put Of Deadlines And My Inabilty To Actually Put My Nose To The Writng Whore Grindstone But It's Better To Have A Nose Than No Nose Micheal Jackson Said And Right About Now Me And Skeletor Feel Like This...
Shake it like a Polaroid picture, sleepy...
Saturday, December 13, 2003
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Monday, December 08, 2003
It Makes Me Sad To See The Last Post On The Bottom Of This Page Go Away To The Archives...
Because then maybe nobody will read it, you all know what a chore it is to actually get in somebody's archives and start reading things...yeah...so hard. Don't answer that phone, man...don't because you had things to say...oh yeah...I've realized what's been missing in my life lately...FUCK THE GoDDAMN PHONE...okay and now I'm back and my girlfriend got all offended because I was pretty curt with her and told her that she interrupted my writing and my horrible spelling but I only answered the phone because I thought that it might be an emergency or something, which it never is, and that's the reason why I don't answer the phone, and all of my friends know this, and look at what you get now - a piece of crap, but that's okay because there's a lot of crap out there, and sometimes it's okay to do your part and contribute, y' know? So, anyway, I was going to say something like, Oh yeah, I miss READING. Like I used to. Like, all the time. Like, totally, fer sure...I got three new books at the library even though, I have tons to get to at home, but I got them anyway, one is the new Nick Hornby book, which I can't wait to read, and I've liked all that I've read of his, but didn't really like that one about the guy who was into soccer or something like that but High Fidelity and About A Boy kicked my ass and I just realized that they made both of those into movies, and now you're probably thinking about your opinions on both of those movies and I don't really care about your opinions on movies or Hugh Grant or other actors, it's like how when I say that I liked Stephen King's IT, and then you tell me how the TV movie sucked. Well, you suck for giving me your opinion on a TV movie based on a work by Stephen King and I suck for telling that you suck and I suck for leaving out commas and hyphens. I dont know why I stopped. Oh, yeah I do - it's because I'm lazy, that's why. The other book that I was reading before I started writing this was A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. I read most of this before, and liked it, and almost finished it - but for some reason stopped. Maybe I was too busy or too young to really appreciate it, and I've already started to like it better than before. Books and people are like that sometimes. And I picked up The Grapes Of Wrath by Steinbeck - which I've never read. Surprising, because I've liked and read a lot of his shite, but was, once again, too lazy to tackle it...If it was titiled The Grapes Of Khan and was written by the guy who played Mr. Rourke on Fantasy Island, I bet even more people would read the book - especially nerdy, overweight, white guys in their early 40's...Oh, and I was going to say that I wasn't going to write here until I have reread the first 100 pages of Egger's book AND finished the Real Estate group newsletter that I'm getting paid to write. That's due on Thursday. It's going to suck. Hackhackhack says the coughing real estate newsletter writing whore. Christmas is coming, though and everybody spreads their legs a little farther in December...
No Spell Check...
Never Leave The Fireplace Flue Open...
That's all I have to say.
Many thanks to my friend, Ijaz, my two cats, and my girlfriend for their assistance.
Yes, the fucking critter was spared.
Yes, it creeped me out.
Yes we had fun.
Yes, it's late.
Yes, I will have nightmares.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Y' know - it's great that I have the friends that I do. They're all weirdos - but I am too, and that's why it works so well. I have, like, a million and five of the best people in my exclusive little club. That's enough. So, don't apply - you won't get in. We don't want to exhaust the resources that we have. We have spent years diggin up, stockpiling, and hoarding all of precious ha ha's and good times. Go find your own, Bub.
I like that I can call Tony in a second while he's at work and tell him that my washer's broken and maybe can I do laundry - even though, I already got a roll of quarters and knew that he'd say yes. It's nice that I already have a key and could let myself in there any ol' time I felt like it, but if you have the opportunity, one should ask anyway, there's always the possible naked girl doing naked things to my naked friends in their house factor. Most of my friends are single. How did I become the GUY IN A RELATIONSHIP anyway? Last time I checked I was the single guy doing whatever and whomever I wanted? Now I'm buying dish soap and bedsheets? But I love it. The relationship - not buying a bunch of crap.
But, see...maybe I should explain...my friends are great...they're my support system, like an endoskeleton of sorts. I exist on this symbiosis-type thing that we've always had going...and have been for awhile. Everything is sweet, slimy jelly. They understand me as much as they can and vice-versa. It's like having a dog.
What am I saying? Oh yeah, I have a key because Tony AND Chris, both friends - live together. We used to theorize who would be the first two to be roommates when we were in high school. But I guess I ruined that whole deal by getting kicked out nine days after I graduated...so they live together. That meant that when I was done traveling around like the homeless lout that I was, that I had one of the only places we could kick back at. It sure beat wandering around grocery stores, public parks, and sitting for hours at McDonald's sharing one extra large coke arguing over who had to get the refill. So, when I wasn't home they could use their key. This applied to the five other places that I would live in until they finally did move out and get their own places. Having a key to their place was a given, even though I rarely use it. Sometimes when I'm running around, doing errands and stuff, important stuff like going to the toy store or buying comic books - I'll stop by their house, and will have to use my key because they're still asleep. I'll sit down and read a magazine, wake them up, or just write an obscene message on their chalkboard and just leave.
One time I came home from a three day camping trip and found a Koosh Ball on my coffee table. This wasn't mine. I was sure of it. One remembers if they own a silly toy made of rubberbands or not. They were there the night before doing ecstasy. Oh. I was only angry because there was a gay-ass toy in my house. That was it. I remember another time that I came back from a trip in San Jose and found four of them kicking back smoking pot on my porch. Okay. No problem, Hippies. I've had about six friends stay at my place too. For free, when they needed to or got in fights with their parents. Cool. I was poor. Still am, but was poorER.
What's the point of this whole diatribe? No point. I'm doing laundry tonight. Drive me home when I call, okay? Cuz' I'll be drunk as a skunk. Hopefully I'll have puked on their couch or broken something...
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Ichabod Crane, Nearly Headless Nick, And Victims Of Vlad...
Usually I'm just filling in space here, I know that a lot of it might not make sense. It's like Blog roadkill, or verbal poopy in a baby's diaper. Sometimes I might write something that'll grab you. Sometimes I think that this is the ultimate time sucker. Yeah, and that's true - why wasn't Tom Cruise's name in the credits for his cameo in Young Guns? And does it make me even lamer than before that I'm working my night around The Paris Hilton show thing again? By the way, she has no butt. Not that I think having a big ass is great. I hate when people say that about me, maybe I shouldn't say that about Paris. I mean, like what?...do you want me to have a fat ass then? Yeah, that'd look great. A thin guy with a really fat ass. But Paris' behind looked like a tent stake shoved into a pair of thousand dollar jeans. Not cool. She should stick to wearing skirts, homie.
Meet me at The Batcave, Robin...
So, does it make me super duper gay if I rushed home after work to watch The Simple Life with Paris Hilton and that other girl? Maybe it just makes me a complete tool. Then I watched Celebrity Poker on Bravo which was okay, I guess, and then I watched The Real World Reunion thing on MTV. This means no writing, but as far as horrible TV goes - this was it. I feel guilty. But you can eat your chocolate, and I can eat my brain away...
Monday, December 01, 2003
I Feel Like One Million Hugo Weavings...All Sneezing At The Same Time...
Next person that doesn't cover up their mouth when they cough will get punched in the face by me. It's hard to wrestle people to the ground over the last 40 dollar DVD player with a 20 dollar mail-in rebate when you're down with the flu. No, I haven't been bargain shopping. I'm just kidding. The last thing that I want to do is to go bargain hunting with the rest of the slow-marching, fat lemmings. You can have all of that stuff. I don't want it. I'll stay at home and watch my Netflix movies instead.
This morning when I was in my post-bartending midday zombie state, I tried to watch Blues Clues so that I could maybe catch a glimpse of Mr. Salt, Mrs. Pepper, and Paprika - but Dora The Explorer was on before. It's got to be the worst cartoon I've ever seen/heard. Yeah, I get it - she's probably great for bilingual kids or hispanic kids trying to pick up English, vice-versa or whatever - but this was some annoying shit. Even more annoying when one is falling back asleep. It was like listening to a high-pitched exorcism. Not cute. It was televised death. It was like a picture of cartoon poo on the screen that shoots out painful lightning bolts to your temples.
So, I didn't make it to Blues Clues and switched it to infomercials instead.
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Saturday, November 29, 2003
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Monday, November 24, 2003
The Postal Service Nothing Better Lyrics...
Will someone please call a surgeon who can crack my ribs
and repair this broken heart that you're deserting for better company?
I can't accept that it's over: I will block the door
like a goalie tending the net in the third quarter
of a tied-game of rivalry
So just say how to make it right
and I swear I'll do my best to comply
Tell me am I right to think that there could be nothing better
than making you my bride and slowly growing old together
I feel I must interject here, you're getting carried away,
feeling sorry for youself with these revisions and gaps in history.
So let me help you remember. I've made charts
and graphs that should finally make it clear.
I've prepared a lecture on why I have to leave
So please back away and let me go
I can't my darling I love you so. oh ohhhh
Tell me am I right to think that there could be nothing better
than making you my bride and slowly growing old together
don't you feed me lines about some idealistic future
your heart won't heal right if you keep tearing out the sutures
I admit that I have made mistakes
and I swear I'll never wrong you again
you've got a lure I can't deny,
but you've had your chance so say goodbye,
Saturday, November 22, 2003
Friday, November 21, 2003
Ape Drape, The Great Escape, And The Master Race...
The Cartoon Pig and I went out tonight to make fun of people. We were that bored - but I forgot a notebook, and it was too dark in the bar to see anybody anyway. So we ended up leaving. Ended up at a couple of friend's houses. Got horrible late night food. Put in a movie. Now I am typing this. Work tomorrow. Then after that...maybe we'll go out and make fun of people. Get bored. Maybe I'll forgot my notebook and end up leaving. And after a couple of friend's houses, we'll get horrible late night food. Then we'll put in a movie and I'll type something like this. Then have to work the next day.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Hi. I'm An Idiot...
Not because I mentioned sperm in my last post and said a stupid joke which wasn't really much of a joke anyway, but because back in the day - way back in 2002, I learned how to post images on Fat Free Milk through the help of a friend. I thought that it was pretty cool. I posted a couple of lame ass pictures. I wrote some more posts after that, but put off putting in more pics because I was lazy. Then I forgot how to do it. Typical me.
So now. Me. Mr. Dumbass, was just sitting here ready to waste more time, I forget what I was about to do, maybe it was because I read about this on Blogger.com earlier. But, that couldn't have been it because they specifically had a section on how to upload images, but I thought that I wouldn't understand it or that it didn't apply to me. I've had the option to upload images the whole time. Built into this little taskbar thingy right over there. Yeah, over there. I've clicked on it by accident, even a couple of times.
So. Get ready for a crapload of pictures that I've had saved or that I swiped from your site.
So. I'm dumb.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
When Butterfly Flutters Become Hurricanes...
Getting older. Time is doing it's job, and working a lot of overtime. Saw my old high school principal at the bank. Back then, he was the Lex Luthor to my Superman. Now he looked...really small, and just like any other older guy. What hatred we had for each other, was now reduced to a couple of curious glances. Recognition? I don't know. Really doesn't matter much anymore anyhow. I could give a crap, it's been so long.
Saw an old friend today who came into my work. She was the whole girl next door/Winnie Cooper thing to my Kevin Arnold Wonder Years. She came in with her mother and her new baby. I started telling her about other friends of ours that we knew from high school that have had kids too. I was kind of shocked by just how many names started to spill out of me when we started to talk about who was having what. Geez, it seems like I'm in the minority when it comes to marriage and being a parent. It's strange to see somebody, that for you, represented a whole period of your life. I'm not saying I was all googly-boogly eyes over her when we were talking, it was very nice - but what I meant was that looking now at somebody that you used to see almost all of the time so long ago makes you feel strange. Like a ghost just wisped up to you and tousled your hair. Afterward, you end up trying to fix it back like it was before, but your increasing bald spots make it harder.
Everything is moving too fast. It always has. Back then - I was aware enough to notice it, but somewhere down the line, I stopped recording how fast it was actually traveling. Am I being left behind? Am I putting it off? Or does time exist for everyone else...but just not for me?
Somebody needs a nap.
Monday, November 17, 2003
Crawling King Snake...
Plumbers here. But he's waiting for another plumber. This sucks. Who should I blame? Whose fault is this? Professor Plum did it. In the lavatory. With a lead pipe. Speaking of filth, I saw the Paris Hilton Sex Tape. She had glow in the dark eyes because the thing was shot with some kind of night camera. There were no midgets in the movie. She's an excellent actress. I give her an A-. The musical score sucked. Ummm...that's about it. Think of all of the hits I'll get now because of mentioning plumber so many times. Links will be provided for the Paris Hilton Video for $8.61. Thank you.
Friday, November 14, 2003
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
These Ain't Bullets. Yo...
It's hailing deep in Watts and Compton tonight. People are stuck up to their waists in water at Jay-Z, DMX, 50 Cent - I mean, LAX. I just got back from the hardware store to get stuff for the leaky sink that I didn't fix last night because I was playing hooky from responsibilities, and would rather fall asleep in front of the keyboard. As I was driving to the hardware store, I saw lightning storms in front of me. As I was driving back, there was lightning in front of me too. I felt stuck in the middle. Maybe I'd get hit? Maybe not. Maybe it would be cool, though. I think that I'd survive. I don't know why. I just feel like I'm freaky enough to survive something like that. Shark attack? No. Panda? No. People attack? Done that. But with my luck, yes, I'd survive getting hit by lightning, but I'd need thousands of dollars-worth of more dental work because of my fried fillings. Maybe the heat would melt my Zippo to my thigh, and then I'd have to crawl to the emergency room at the hospital, and then I'd be stuck with more bills.
That'd be my luck.
Southern California may be leaking tonight, but at least my sink isn't anymore...and that's all good.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Bees Are Not Toys...
No, I'm not going to write a post, cartoon script, screenplay or novel. I will not feed the homeless or shelter the hungry. I will not read a comic or a book. I will not give my girlfriend a foot message. I will not watch a movie. I will not watch Viva La Bam. I will not put up those shelves or fix the leaky bathroom faucet. I will not water the cats or feed the plants. I will not change around my links or fix my blog to make it look better. I am going to do nothing but play my Star Wars Video game. I will drink some beers. I am wasting my life. I like that. Thank you.
Randy Macho Man Idiot Savant...
I love it when that Mensa group comes into my work. I can spot one a mile away. Bad taste in clothes, disoriented looking, dorky, etc. I love the guy that was looking at the bathroom sign and then asked me where the bathroom was, but the one that made my day was the Mensa lady who came in wearing a full Star Trek costume. That was one of the best things that I've ever seen. I'm hoping for a Klingon next.
I love you Mensa Star Trek lady.
Monday, November 10, 2003
Deserve to die. Finance charges have no rights. We should stick them in convalescent homes. Tag them. Not let them vote. I want to castrate finance charges. I want to lynch finance charges. Fuck you, finance charges. I hate you. Rot in heck.
Oh, and you too, Overdraft fees...
Neverland, Narnia, And Naboo...
Today. I watched too much tv. Was recovering from a weekend of debauchery. I couldn't move. Couldn't help it. Sunday tv is my equivalent to your gulity chocolate pleasure or kiddie porn. Did absolutely nothing at work. I thought that full moons meant that people went crazy and drank a lot. Apparently not. I had, like, ten people the whole night. Absolutely no Werewolves too. Bastards. I read the paper. I left. Am home now. Fini.
Friday, November 07, 2003
California Wildfire In My Pants...
After working 60+hours this week, I am getting ready to go out and get drunk like a homo skunk.
And pleez check out my picture at Monique's site.
Oh. Wait. Is the picture blurred now? Haaa ha ha. I asked her kindly to do that, because I'm a punk. I felt uncomfortable having my picture around. I've got an image to uphold, you know. I can't let embarrasing material of me float around on the internet, can I? Paris Hilton has her sex tape. I have my Halloween party picture.
Thursday, November 06, 2003
I really am serious about buying that island, you know. What island? C'mon. Shut up. Play along. Just me. Maybe you too. Maybe not. It depends on how cool and useful you are. Do you smell? Joo got skills? Would you bring cool stuff? Squeamish? Attractive? Because no ugly people are allowed on my island, sorry. No, seriously. No ugly people. You have to be beautiful on the inside AND beautiful on the outside also. Sorry, it's just the way my island works because I've got the rest of my life to live on it - you better be the prettiest wallpaper I've ever seen, and the most pleasant background noise. I would prefer that you wouldn't look better than me, though. It's my island. I don't want to be intimidated by you. I want you to just sit there and shut up and do what I say. It'd be cool if you had knives for hands too. And a book dispenser built into your forehead. I want Swiss Family Robinson without the family, and Robinson Crusoe without the religion. You would need to listen to me a lot, because I would be the master and you would have to follow everything that I said with a cultish fervor, fanaticism and fever. You would have to be able to ignore things like that last sentence that I wrote. You would, at least have to know, if not everything about The Empire Strikes Back - a little. And if you didn't - then you'd have to be able to be good at acting interested. Sounds good. It's a deal. Kevynn Island. Malone Beach. Something like that. I need a Paypal button...
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Prince Caspian Or Hank Pym...
I'm hallucinating with more frequency now. I always see weird crap out of the corner of my eye, or imagine things that aren't there, but now I think I see ants all of the time. Are there any super fast mutant ants? Or do I have an invisible bird in my house that swoops down and eats them before I'm done turning my head? I'm glad that you can't hear ants. That would really suck if you could hear the pads of their tiny little monster feet or if they made those metallic screeches like in that old, giant ant movie. I think that an ant the size of a dog would be scary as hell, or, I don't know...maybe it'd be cool to have one to guard against burglars. Seriously, though. Haley Joel Osment sees dead people and I see ant ghosts.
Google search: Anteaters for sale.
That it's this late...and what have I gained from tonight?
I know that I suck at Trivial Pursuit.
And am the master of Connect Four.
And suck at card games.
This is what I did tonight?
Now it's time for bed?
I feel like the night's just begun.
I feel like this day was too weird.
I feel like Bill Pullman in Aliens...
Game over, man...game over...
Monday, November 03, 2003
Saturday, November 01, 2003
halloween, kevynn says...
it's november first now. this is monique, by the way.
i'm at a kickass halloween party at the honorable kevynn's house. a fuckin' HOTASS skunk is looking over my shoulder. i've had a rad time and had my share of drinks. it rained, which it hasn't done in probably like a year now here in socal.
but it's november first. not only does this mean that i should already have (did i mention that there's a hot chick in a wedding dress with a kitty pillow stuffed in her abdomen laying on a waterbed not ten feet away?) six pages written for my novel, but my first twenty-ninth birthday is now officially a week away.
i just realized that i'm writing like this is my site and it's not.
people are crashing on the floor behind me. there are sleeping bags and comforters ABOUT. and then someone said, "dude, someone is typing right quick." the response: "someone's got spicy hands."
i love this party.
i better sign off and hit my own site soon. kevynn's gonna be mad in the morning.
p.s. i hate it that it's valuable to my job that i can type like this.
p.p.s. check it out, beeyatch.
Friday, October 31, 2003
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
I have worked at a comic book store. Worked at Pizza Hut. A telemarketers place for two days. A buffet place. A music store. I have been a puppeteer. A music journalist. Blah. Worked at a drycleaners. Copy writer. Technical writer. Ghost writer. Advertising and promotions writer. Done voice work for cartoons. Wrote for cartoons. A waiter. A bartender. Oh, I also used to read stories to small chillun's in an amusement park. I was Smokey The Bear for a week. I was a clown waving a sign for a new condo complex. Actually, that's a lie. I never did that, even though I wrote that I did. I took that from Mike, but he's lifted some stuff that I've said too - so eeesss cooo. I've been in a couple bands that you've probably never heard of. I worked a movie premiere on The Sony Pictures lot. I've washed dishes. Been a whore. Been a dumbass. Been a prince. Been caught stealin'. Professionally lost. Made a career out of everything and nothing. This is my calling - this miasmic mess that is my life. This thing that's just begun. This thing that's been going on too long. Being. A bean. A stalk. New chalk. Dust. Been crazy lately. Been waiting for something. What? I don't know, but I wont try to drive myself ape dooky waiting for whatever's going to eventually happen to happen. Cuz' it'll drive you fucking nuts, my friends. Better to roll with the flow and be cooler than cool. No point anymore in crying over spilled planet ME. Been there. Done that. It's a drag. And if you drag too deep - you end up coughing. And tonight feels too fucking vacantly pleasant to create more " been's ". Tonight - I'm into " being ".
Alien, human, myself, or otherwise....
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Monday, October 27, 2003
So, I thought about the fires reaching the town of Crestline, and I thought about an ex-girlfriend's family who had two houses there. Tonight, my neighbor, who was my friend before being my neighbor, but is also the ex-boyfriend of the same girl who is an ex-girlfriend of mine ( long story ), anyway, her parents, and her sister's house burned down in the fires. I asked about the dogs. They were saved - and that was about it. Man, how must that feel? I know that they put a lot of effort into that house too. They were good people. It wasn't their fault that their daughter was Satan. And now they're all staying at a friend's house. They left with nothing but their dogs. Man...I was going to say, better to lose it all in a fire than in an earthquake, but that doesn't really make that much sense now that I think about it, because, at least in an earthquake, you might have a slight chance at recovering something. In a fire, it's all ashes or melted mush, right? But then, I'm thinking that they got the most important things out. The dogs, and their own lives, right?
Tonight, at the bar, I asked my girlfriend -if she had thirty minutes - what would she grab out of our soon-to-be-burned-down house? She said the cats, pictures, money, and clothes. Clothes? Okay. But everything else made sense. I said the readers of Fat Free Milk's moms. Because I would be sad if I lost them, but they're usually kept in a heat-proof safety deposit box anyway, so it wouldn't be a big deal. After that, I said that I would try to save my car if I could. Everything else would be a regret. Nothing more.
Also, the city of Rancho Cucamonga is burning. I grew up there, I think. The big ol' house up the hill that I grew up in might be gone. How do I feel about this?
I don't know.
Maybe the gods are trying to cover up their tracks?
Sunday, October 26, 2003
You're Killin' Me, Larry...
Man, I need to write something, but I don't know what. Maybe I can write on the cartoony thing considering I have somebody to pass it on to who will pass it on to somebody, and then, maybe they'll pass it on to somebody. But stupid SNL is making noise to my right, the cats are just as annoying to my left, and the smoke from the friggin' fires are making my nose and eyes run like Jesse Owens in the negro Nazi Hitler Olympics.
The sink smells too.
Friday, October 24, 2003
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Where's The Secret Formula?...
Orson Scott Card. Jessica Simpson. Adam Langlois. Selina Kyle. George Little. Alfred Pennyworth. Warren Ellis. Charles Bukowski. Gladys Horn. Ash. Vox. Man Or Astroman. Wrist Action. Hannah The Cat. Fight Club. Sindy. Kerouac. Dean Martin. Gummy Worms. Hermione. Kit Fisto. Charlie Kaufman. The Dalai Lama. D.L.M. Shawdy. Wesley Crusher. Bruce Lee. The Trolley Car Family. Hunter S. Thompson. Elijah Snow. Victor Von Doom. The Kelly Affair. Elizabeth Hurley. Mallory Knox. Irvine Welsh. Stephen King. Rob Mullen. Large Mouth Bass. Precipitation. Egon Spangler. Willy Wonka. David Hammamoto. Shane Brooks. Theseus. Carl Sagan. Joe. Buddha. Gombe National Preserve. Clarence Whorley. Demi Moore. Beezus. Hokey Pokey Elmo. Las Vegas. Beer. Boz. Benjamin Grimm. Sonny Chiba. Bruce Campbell. Calvin And Hobbes. Socrates. Flintstones Vitamins. Marvin Gaye. Daffy Duck. Sundried Tomato Deviled Eggs. Werewolves. Blank Paper. Tomorrow. Sleep.
Monday, October 20, 2003
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Thank you for giving me a bit of your time today. I realize that it's precious. I just wanted to blab on for a bit before bed. This is my little moment tucked away especially for myself before the dreams and nightmares start and before the birds outside get up. Before things to do and before Saturday sits on my head or either caresses me like a mother does a baby. Twenty-four hours ago I was asleep. Three hours later I would be driving through the fog on a dark street, following a line of red brake lights. They were going to their jobs and I was going to my new part time job. Aerospace parts for NASA, Boeing, The Air Force. Blargh. Yeah. They need a writer. Hmmm. I was puffing way at a rare early morning cigarette. I usually don't smoke during the day. The window was down. I was cold but it was pleasant in a punishingly vibrant way. Howard Stern was on, and so was my mind. Where the hell was I? Was I going to get lost again? What if I get in an accident? What am I doing? Why do I want another job? Why don't I have one, good one? 6-9:30 pm. Lost in an office. Working. Not comfortable being in the position of not-yet-comfortable. Learning new stuff on the computer or having to relearn stuff that I've done only once on the computer. I drive home tired. Get to rest with my girlfriend a half hour before I have to get up to iron a different shirt for the other job. I stood next to a senator as he was talking to Arnold Schwarzenegger. I didn't even know until afterwards. I would've loved to say something - but, like I could've.
I run around like crazy, and have small slices of conversations with people. A tiny amount that I actually like and care about and the others that I talk to on fake robot mode. The people that we've al been forced to serve or interact with that scare me. They scare me because I realize that we spend a major portion of our lives being not ourselves. That we craft answers based on or according to another's conversations, questions or responses. That even if our mind is elsewhere - thinking of the important stray thoughts - that we're nodding heads, and pretending to laughs because, either - we might not want to be rude or hurt the other person's feelings, or that we're in an environment in which our welfare depends on the illusions of communication even though the other person knows nothing really about you and that you wouldn't really be able to talk to them about any of the things that you find important.
After all of this, I go back home. In my car with the broken window I think about one of the girls that works at the comic book store and how when I walked in yesterday - she looked like she was either sick or crying. She was sad. A friend with health problems. Other friends were experiencing bad luck also. I talked to her about. It was a nice, meaningful, and pleasant moment. Both came out of it...not with their heads higher, but maybe just a little bit better. Don't know. But right about when she rang up one of the comics and then we talked about it and how she bought it too and about how one couldn't go wrong with a little Alan Moore writing about Cthulhu stuff. I thought that wouldn't it be cool to be friends with her? I mean, I'm not attracted to her or anything. Don't get me wrong. I have a girlfriend that I love and who's asleep on the couch behind me thinking happy bunny thoughts, college nightmares, and about taking road trips with me. But the comic book girl would be really cool to have around. She's not even a scary comic book girl. She doesn't weigh three hundred pounds and have a pink mohawk. Just a bunch of tattoos and a high tolerance for really nerdy, heavy-breathing, bad-hygiene, balding bastards. It was nice to think that there are sometimes, still interesting people around. I think that you just have to search for them a little bit more than we used to. Back in the day, I know, they used to fall from the sky. A long time ago.
I have to go back at 4:30. Two new young guys are waiting for me to train them. First thing I said was that I didn’t know that they were new employees, that I thought that they were a bunch of Mormons. This is what happens when you meet me folks. All of that type of shit just comes vomiting out of my mouth. But I don't care, I'm not rude - just really bad sitcom-ish. All of the things and all of the wasted time. All of the things that I could've been doing. Walking back and forth to pass the time. Not invigorated. Not excited. Being polite. Blah Blah. Not real stuff. No discussions about nature, space, dolphins, books. No random thought conversations. Just a bunch of waiting-for-the-clock type of drivel.
Time to go to the store, and then home. Have a nice time with the Israeli student that works at the corner store from my work. Drive home. Remembering this morning’s fog. Will the world allow me to continue on? To shoot questions at crumbling skeet from passing ships? The day was filled, even when hectic, even when frenzied - with ?'s and !'s. With love and hate. With helplessness and ferocity. I had a good shower. I played with a kitty. I talked to friends about what I missed out on in my day. What they did. What I did. What I did that they didn't do. The money and the hours accumulated are always an afterthought with me. It's never an issue or a necessity until I need it or it's needed of me. I read. I watched a movie sluggishly. A movie that nobody liked eventually started to get some focus when I realized that this was a thoughtful movie. No wonder nobody got it. I still didn't know what I was getting. It just made me think. Every once in a while, we find these by accident. Sometimes, they're no masterpieces - but define a masterpiece, Jackson Pollack? What makes sense to you, Mr. Hawking? What's funny, Mr. Izzard? I don't know. I just know what I feel. Sometimes, that don't even cut the cheese, Hoss.
And now, about in an hour, twenty-four hours ago. My alarm would start to go off. And I'd be thinking about the day ahead of me...and how I wished that I could just get more sleep, stay home, and try to write things like this...
I hope this makes sense tomorrow.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Senorita, I Fell For You...
Second time listening to the new Justin Timberlake album today, and I've barely been home. That means I listened to it this morning, and am listening to it now. Ummm...What do you think about that? Huh? I can take it, c'mon...this from the guy who listens to Atari Teenage Riot a lot. And that's all I have to say about that...
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Remind me to not stress. To just calm down. To not worry so much. To buck up. To get my ass in gear. To focus. To rekindle the ferocity of smoldering fires. To not take my girlfriend for granted. To work harder. To write even more. To paint a picture at least once a month. To eat better. Floss daily. To not pay attention to celebrity gossip. To answer the phone. To be strong. To not live in fear. To kick ass. To take names. Remember phone numbers. To not waste water. Aim high. Pat myself on the back. To stay original. To be kind. To shake hands firmly. To establish eye contact. To carry a pocket knife. Learn new recipes. Drink light beer. To give the benefit of the doubt. To be financially responsible. To buy more toys. To take care of my car. To think forward. To remember the past. To be mindful of the present. To Free Tibet. To paint my toenails. To be or not to be. To pay more attention to my footwear. To pick up that tuxedo on Saturday early. To have a good time. To not keep out movies so late. To read like I used to. To skateboard again. To not break my ankle again. To get health insurance. To pitch my screenplays. To publish a book. To not rescue anymore cats. To watch Jeopardy tonight. To the moon, Alice.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Is It Such A Good Idea To Remake Some Things?...
The newfangled version of the Time Machine with Guy Pearce is playing in the background. Last night I watched Willard with Crispin Glover. Starring Crispin Glover. I have a tape of his poetry, you know. He makes me look normal. I also rented Solaris starring George Clooney, which is a remake also. And now I think that I'm going to go smoke, maybe get another beer, end this thing, maybe write another thing, and not accomplish any of the real writing that I wanted to do today.
I've seen this before, I think.
Monday, October 13, 2003
Best Phone Messages Of The Day...
Hi Kevynn, this is Courtney. I was wondering if you've seen Jen - we seem to have lost her tonight and don't have any idea where she is. We can't find her at any of the bars. She got away from us somehow. If you see her...ummm, tell her to call us or you call us or something. Thanks. Goodbye.
Hey, Kev - It's Joe. I just wanted to let you know that I got the guns for you and I want to drop them by your house...oh, shit - maybe I shouldn't say this on a cell phone. This sounds bad. TOY guns. Ummm...okay. Later.
Friday, October 10, 2003
So, It's Friday again. What am I going to do besides help build water wells for third world countries? That's on Friday, then I have to fly back on Saturday to meet with the Dalai Lama and see what we can do about the decimation of the Tibetan culture. Sunday morning, I'm organizing another homeless shelter in downtown L.A., and then later that night, I bartend.
What are your plans this weekend?
I've got nothing better to do...can I come along?
What are you doing?
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Man Or Astroman?...
It's funny. When I was younger, I thought that a lot of things would've been sorted out by the time that I got older. That's not the case, I guess. Well, some of that's true - I mean, I'm not as angst-ridden as I was before. Not by a long shot. I've still got the fire burnin' inside of me, but I'm more than likely to warm my own hands by it, than to get all pyromaniac on you and burn down your house and stuff. I don't know what's going on. What is going on? I can hear all of the hubbub in the background. I assume they're extras and crew runnin' around making the sets look realistic. They're making the water hit the ground when a rain effect is called for, the sun shines brightly when necessary, and mutants crawl out of the sewers on cue. What do I usually do? Say my lines. Rub my broken ankle. Work on my dialogue. Was that realistic enough? Was I in character? Should I do it again? No? That was okay? Cool. What's the next scene? Oh, we jump forward years from now? Oh. Okay.
Action. I have to remind myself to notice the weeds growing in the cracks of the sidewalks. I forget that the sky is there. Planes, insects, and birds remind me to look up- and I thank them for it. What was effortless before, is now an exercise. Need to stretch those muscles, cuz' I'm gettin' fat, Ma. I'm gonna run a couple laps around the track, no, make that four. I'll be back before supper. The clocks tickin', but it's only loud when I'm on it. I never used to notice the days/daze. I only noticed it when I had to go asleep to go to work. Life was crazy that way. I still stay up, but now, I don't know why. I used to accomplish so much before. Now, all that I get is a gossameric glimpse of the Gproductivity, Gdrive, and Gsick Gconfusion that used to make me Ghappy in the morning. Back then, I used to wake up and be amazed at the 2-90 pages that I wrote before. Now I'm amazed that I wrote anything more than a page.
You know, I don't want to go back and spell check what I wrote above this. I've kinda already forgotten about it. Would that be okay if I just didn't' care? Because when it boils down to it, all of this, all of the stuff that I do that doesn't pay the bills, all of the atrophying screenplays and stories, all of the folders full of ideas, all of the hand-written crap, the thousands worth of pages of stuff in my garage, doesn't really matter much today - because what the hell am I going to really do with all of this if Thor doesn't come down from Asgard and whisk away all of my shit with his mighty hammer and send it to the big, god-like publishers? All of that stuff is mortal fodder. Bah! Peasants. Die puny humans!
I love my girlfriend. She's really sweet. Heart of gold. Fort Knox in a kick ass body. I lucked out. Did she luck out? Only Chuck Woolery could tell. I'm proud of myself. I think that I turned out to be an okay bloke considering my circumstances and with my STD's and all. The Clap's a hard thing to deal with, yo. Yeah, I said YO,yo. Wanna wrestle? No, I don't want to, Andre The Giant, cuz' I've heard that you've got a posse...
I didn't even realize until tonight that I've been writing on this thing for a year. Just like me to forget. I'd been aware of it and all, but just like me to constantly remind myself of something and then forget it when it matters. So, whatever. It's not that important, no big deal. I'm not going to make a big hooby jooby about writing shit on a webpage for a year because...you know...it's just okay. There's babies to be feed, things to do, nipples to tweak and crotches to kick. This is cool to me and I love it, anybody else who read(s) this is along for the ride. I really appreciate it. There are a small amount of people who pop up on this Fatty Free Milky thingy that have been commenting since the beginning. BOZ. Saara. Chez. That's pretty damn cool. I love seeing new names in the commenty thingy. I love feedback. Cool. All of you. Even the sickos who came here by accident either looking for some porn thing that contained the words FAT, Free, or MILK in them. I'm a genius. I am. The name of this site gets me a lot of futile Google hits. Actually, who cares about Google hits? Who cares to type in FUTILE again? Not me. The word looks weird, and makes me nervous. Have it stand over there. No, not there - over THERE.
Remind me to tell more real stories in the future. Those are fun. Does this sound like a negative post? Cuz' it's not, or wasn't supposed to be. Anyway. One year of writing on nothing, about nothing, for nothing, except for the need to write SOMETHING.
And that's all folks.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
The Hills Are Alive...
I'm a little bit worried. Today, I gave the bored security guy outside of my bank the only source of reading material that I had in my car - an US magazine with J-lo on the cover, AND last night I rented The Sound Of Music and was singing like Julie Andrews all day at work.
A little bit worried?
More like a little bit gay, I think.
Monday, October 06, 2003
Saturday, October 04, 2003
if you were The Elephant Man - I'd still come over to your house or your hospital room, and I'd bring enough beers for both you and me, and then I'd make fun of you a lot because that's what friends do. I wouldn't try to get you to go out because I would understand. I'd smuggle you stuff. Porn. Olson Twin dvds. National Geographic. Justin Timberlake's album. I'd punch the hell out of you when I was drunk. Even in your misshapen head, because that's what friends do - they beat the shit out of each other when they're bored. I'd talk Star Wars with you. I'd make sure that you slept right, so that you didn't die.
That's what I would do.
It's colder. Rain seems like a possibilty now instead of a distant wish. My car window is still broken. Who wants to take bets on the impending precipatation vs. my inabilty to get my window fixed so that it can go up? I picture a soggy ride in my future. What do I do if it starts to rain when I drive? I either have to get this fixed or buy some galoshes.
Yes, I did just say galoshes.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Monday, September 29, 2003
San Diego. Hotel. Getting drunk. Jumping from one bed to the other with my butt in the air. The slowest taxi cab drive ever to downtown. Dancing. Taxi cab drive back. Standing in the drive thru lane of the only open food place in Chula Vista. Taking pictures with the girls in the car behind us. J peed on her leg. Regretting eating the Mexican food. Downtown again. Visiting a friend. Getting drunk. I hate football. I hate football fans. I love Irish bars with Irish bands and dancers clapping and clogging away. I love Radiohead. I love being escorted in the back of a cart to the concert from the parking lot and my girlfriend almost falling off. I love driving home fast. I do not love being broke. I love you.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
Henry And Beezus Have Been Replaced By Nick LeShay And Jessica Simpson...
I was at the library today to pay a $28.00 fine. I'm always paying those, and yes, I know that it's a lot of money, so shut it. I decided to get the latest Harry Potter book. I haven't been in much of a hurry to read it. He's my twin brother y' know. I went downstairs to the children's library. It's nice. Clean. Computers, couches, and the whole deal. The lucky bastards. So, I went up to the very, very short help desk and asked one of the ladies if they had a copy in. I was afraid that she was going to ask me if it was for my kid, but hey, it's a Harry Potter book, it's not like when I was checking out the Anne Of Green Gables books. That's embarrassing. While she was looking in the back for a copy of the book, I wanted to see what books that they had by Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume. There were a lot of Cleary, and a small selection of Blume stuff. I was happy that kids still must be reading those books. I loved those growing up. I opened a couple to see how the pages, the size of the print and the pictures looked to me now. It was weird. Yes, the words were larger than I remember, I remembered some of the interior art. Ramona wasn't as cool as I remember. I didn't know that there were three Runaway Ralph books, either. Hmmm...and I didn't know that the person who wrote Charlotte's Web also wrote the Stuart Little books.
I got my book, and headed for the stairs, feeling - I don't know. Not sad or nostalgic. Wistful? My head was full of kid thoughts and questions as I limped slowly up the stairs with my bad ankle and my bad knees, and I stopped myself as I approached the check out section. I just realized that I had been muttering to myself out loud. Something about where my car was parked outside, and I started to laugh. Because how old am I? Limping slowly up the stairs, and then talking to myself in a library? That was funny. Jesus Christ. What the hell was that all about?
Then I stopped laughing because that's not old - that's just insane.
I cleared my throat, smiled at the check out lady, gave her my two comic book graphic novels and one Harry Potter book, she gave them back to me, and I left.
Happy...and trying not to limp.
Friday, September 26, 2003
Thursday, September 25, 2003
G.I. Joe vs. The Transformers...
What a revoltin' development. I've hard many hard assignments in the past. Horrible magazine shite due, Interviews to be transcribed, papers, high school assignments for beer money, etc. But this one takes the cake. I have to write about yo' mama's sex life. No. I am writing a paper on sexism for my sick girlfriend. I could've started it earlier, but I was too busy making Vox, Pineapple with a touch or cran drinks for Joe as we barbecued a bunch of meat. I wrote a bunch of brainstorming crap, then started and stopped a million times. I swear, I have probably writen more things fof other people's schoool assignments than my own. And I always get the crap subjects. Write a monologue based on Sherlock Holmes perspective. Write about a famous graphic designer. Interview AFI. Write about local concert promoters. Sexism. CRAP. CRAP. CRAP. Maybe this is why...why what? I don't know. All that I know is that I'm at least half way through on this sexism paper for my girlfriend and it's past three in the morning. This is no different, but at least when I'm up at this time usually, I'm playing Star Wars Galaxies or writing about crotch-kicking, beer, or comic books. Trust me, that's a lot more fun. Not as smart - but a lot more fun, folks. I would love it if I could combine all of those elements. Drinking beer and reading comics while kicking somebody in the Netherlands - I mean, nether regions.
Does this mean I have to go now?
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.
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 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
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 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?
- 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
Saturday, September 20, 2003
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.
Thursday, September 18, 2003
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...
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
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.
But, I think, a richer and more rewarding experience in the long run.
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.
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?"
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.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
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...
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…