Friday, December 31, 2004
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Internet. Waste of time. Sometimes I don't like you. You look good, smell good, give to charity - but you're a filthy whore. Selfish. Loafing. Lazy good-for-nothing. Sucking up time and laughing at me. Distract me. Waste my life just like everybody else when I should really be visitng my friends Blue Pen and Notebook. I've dome nothing useful on you, you bitch - except for this thing. And it only seems like a semi-accomplishment because of it's enormity. Kind of like how a pile of trash isn't impressive - but a landfill is.
Leave me alone, Internet.
Go back to Al Gore.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Reason Why I'm A Bad Boyfriend No. 4764343...
Girlfriend was feeling depressed because of her period, tsunami coverage on TV, a special on The Holocaust and a program about mutant children growing up around Cherynobyl.
So I took the remote and started channel surfing, trying to find something better for her to watch. I eventually settled on a National Geographic program about Crocodiles. Good stuff.
Just in time to watch a baby bird fall in the water, try vainly to swim to shore, only to be eaten by a Crocodile.
I will now throw things at her head to improve her demeanor.
Saturday, December 25, 2004
My Best Christmas Ever...
Might of written about this before. I know that I have, but I think that it was in one of my notebooks. Maybe I wrote about it in a magazine or school paper. Somewhere.
Back in the day. When I was young. When the top of my head probably came to my fathers hip - my father and I went down the street to the Xmas tree lot. This was a REAL lot. One of the ones where you actually picked a tree and a bundled up gnarly neanderthalic man sawed it off for you and lugged it to your car. Not one of the drugstore parking lot lots. Something that you didn't do in combination with grocery shopping.
It was cold. But Southern California cold. So that means, like...60 degrees. My father and I had trudged deeper and deeper into this mini-forest looking for a nice, full tree to take home. I don't know where my older brother was. Probably playing Atari or watching football. Definitely not dating girls. My brother was a very late bloomer.
We found one. Not a girl or a late bloomer, but a great-looking tree off in the distance. Looked huge to me. Gigantic. As we approached it, I realized that my father wasn't around anymore. He was behind me, crouched down on one knee and had his hand placed on something by the ground. I crunched back to where my father was and heard him speaking in a strange voice. A tiny, soft voice. My father's eyes were misty. He had stepped on a baby rabbit. It was probably no bigger than my hand and was jerking spasmodiacally on a blanket of pine needles. My father was softly saying that he was sorry. I'm so sorry, so, so sorry...
I kept on looking back from the dying baby rabbit and to my father's now alien face. I couldn't figure out what was more of a shock to me - the little thing dying before me or the glimpse of actual emotion on my father's face.
My father eventually barked an order at me to KEEP ON GOING. I did, because he was my father. My father told me to not stop looking back. I did, because he was my father. I didn't ask any questions. I did, because he was my father.
We got our tree.
Do I remember how it looked that year in the livingroom?
Do I still remember that tiny, twitching rabbit?
Best Christmas ever?
Because I'll remember that one for the rest of my life.
That There. That's Not Me. I Go Where I Please...
Merry Pippin Astrid Lindgren Dolph Hitler Or Mistletoe Jam On It by Stephen King of all media mail female outlets Millers Outpost its a girl! power to the people are strangers in the night rider micheal jackson browne stone cafe press this button red skelton crew J-lo down dirty crooked finger masturbation.
Friday, December 24, 2004
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
In My Optimus Prime...
They say that it's good to take a different route to work every day. To help break the tedium. To ease the monotony and to quell the ever-impending sense of doom that usually accompanies your blurry-eyed early morning car journey.
So I took a different way this morning. No big deal, It was just a right turn later than the usual one I take. I usually don't take this one, though. On the left side of the street is a very cute, very Melrose-y Place-y looking apartment complex. Across from it is a convalescent home. It must be occupied with a lot of non-ambulatory guests because not once have I seen an old man or woman basking in the sun or one sneaking the occasional-not-encouraged cigarette under a dusty awning. I've seen a lot of ambulances and firetrucks in the past when I've gone down this street. It must be sad to live across from it - Melrose-y Place-y place or not.
This morning when I made my right turn, I immediately stopped because a firetruck partially blocked my path. I slowly squeezed by an oncoming car and saw another parked firetruck, and further down, an ambulance. I tried not to look, to see what the commotion was - expecting the worst. As I approached the ambulance I saw an Emergency Medical Tech guy wheeling a very old man in a bed towards the ambulance. The old man had tubes all around him and some stuck in his arms and some up his nose and the old man had no hair and his right arm was curled at the wrists and fingers joints almost straight up towards the sky. Kind of like an almost FUCK YOU gesture to the gods that really didn't pan out towards the end. I don't think he was dead because he wasn't covered up. I felt sad and turned my attention back towards the road.
Not a good way to start off a workday, I thought to myself.
So as my heart was trying not to feel sad, my eyes fell upon the chainlink fence from the Montessori Private School for young kids that borders the convalescent home. A small alley separates the two enormous buildings. Kids are always playing, throwing things around and probably hatching diabolical plans to technologically change the world as we know it.
But not this morning.
I saw five small children with their fingers curled and crooked in between the little diamonds of the chainlink fence. All silent with little gaping O mouths. They stared. I did too. My heart hurt again. I eventually passed. I hope he didn't. Maybe I do.
Just...those kids, man...seeing that at school...
How typical, Kev - Gee, you couldn't be anywhere else at this moment except here right now? My voice said...
But then I thought that it seemed somehow fitting that a man/boy such as myself happened to be cruising right by at that moment and happened to see the epitome of age followed by the innocence of youth. How I was just this ever-thinking voyeur floating between life and death. Always. Typical me situation. Caught between growing up and caught between going down.
For the rest of my car ride, I figured out all of the answers.
I did. Right there in the car.
Wait. No, I didn't.
I never will.
And that's what I figured out.
And that's the answer.
Both sides died a little that day.
Both sides moved on a little.
Only to grow a little bit more tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Nigella's Kind Of Big...But Sexy...
Best way to decorate for my girlfriend's berfday extravaganza this weekend - and considering that she's like, the best decorator and party planner EVER? Best way is to buy a crap load of the cheesiest and most NON-thematic party store poo ever. AND anything printed in a foreign language makes this even better.
Oh. And I've recruited help. Girl help. I will be drinking and trying to look like I'm in charge.
My version of decorating is...last time that we had people over, I passed out decks of cards to everybody and we spent the next hour throwing them at each other.
This is why I need a decorating show on tv. Right fucking now.
Monday, December 13, 2004
And you will find a fortune - though it will not be the fortune you seek......
...But first, first you must travel a long and difficult road - a road fraught with peril, uh-huh, and pregnant with adventure.
You shall see things wonderful to tell. You shall see a cow on the roof of a cottonhouse, uh-huh, and oh, so many startlements...
...I cannot say how long this road shall be.
But fear not the obstacles in your path, for Fate has vouchsafed your reward.
And though the road may wind, and yea, your hearts grow weary, still shall ye foller the way, even unto your salvation.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
The Figures And Measurements Offered In Figure 16 Are Compilations Of Several Tables Showing "Ideal" Weights; They Are Not Meant To Be Absolute, Since There Is At This Time No General Agreement As To What Normal Weight Should Be. If Your Weight - According To Your Age, Body Build (See Figure 17), Height And Sex - Lies Within The Range Of 20 Percent More Or Less Than The Suggested Figure, It Can Be Considered Usual. For Example, The Ideal Weight Of A 45-Year Old, 68-Inch-High, Medium-Body-Framed Man Is Listed At 150 pounds, But Any Weight Between 120 pounds And 180 Pounds Could Still Be Listed Within Normal Limits...
To have fingers that smell like chimney smoke and can't be washed fully of its odor, I guess is much better than many other smells that can replace it.
And now, the refugee cat is trying so hard to get that plastic water bottle cap behind me. He's trying so hard. If I could, somehow, tap into its reservoir of diligence and somehow transfer it into my human body - The wonders I could do for myself! But cats are cuter anyway. And all of the pretty-looking folk usually get all of the breaks.
I used to conduct imaginary interviews with myself in the bathtub when I was a kid.
Now that I'm an adult, I perform self examinations on my various, cancerous bodyparts instead.
No more praise.
Lacuna, Inc. could make me forget the past, but I would only end up repeating it.
Traveling back in time wouldn't help either. It'd only make Doc Brown exclaim, "Great Scott!" more often.
Girlfriend just interrupted my train of thought with her slippered feet and a question about Christmas decorations. She was holding up two things made out of that...what do you call them? That fuzzy little wire that we used in grade school for art projects? Looks like little pipe cleaners? Kinda like tiny caterpillar antennae?
Do you know what these are?
(Me, stopping typing. Trying to stifle an exasperated sigh)
Yeah. A Christmas tree and an ornament.
(Me, looking back at the computer screen and realizing that the one sentence answer to all of life's questions that I was about to type - has now left me and flown to warmer climates.)
Or it could be a sideways angry mouth and a sperm. Or it could be a fat lightning bolt and an escaping balloon.
She frowns and leaves the room.
Whish Whish Whish go her slippered feet.
Wish Wish Wish goes my slippery mind.
Days and opportunities escaping through my hands like Salmon.
Zebulon With A Peak Named After Him...
Post-work nights filled with shopping for sun-dried tomato deviled eggs for the gal's sis's b-day tomorrow. That sentence was horrible. Why write about that? whwywhwywhwy. Why misspell three why's in a row? Y to the 3rd. Word to your mom. I came to drop bombs. Waste-of-time-bombs.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Friday, December 03, 2004
Cobra Commander Loves Destro...
If I was a supervillian - I definitely would not be wearing a scary-looking leather outfit...
I would be wearing...sweats.
Hell yeah, you think I'm kidding?
Ruling the world in sweats.
Not that I ever wear sweats.
But then, I'm not a supervillian either.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
My New Best Hernia...
Silence is golden.
And makes me very nervous.
I want to yell into the still air.
Turn pindrops into demolished buildings.
Blast your hearing aids with dynamite.
Tread with robot feet.
Incredible hulk-type pounding.
I want this.
To make me feel better.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
The Hydrant Was Going As Usual, And Paul Joined The Crowd. He Found Himself Soothed By The Cool Spray From The Water. He Waited With Eagerness For The Small Boy To Finish Fashioning His Paper Boat, And Enjoyed The Craft's Jolting Progress Toward Certain Destruction In The Dark, Gurgling Unknown Of The Storm Sewer...
Tonight, a 16 yr. old kid, sitting on a milk crate, told me that he was amazed at how much energy I had at work. I laughed. I don’t remember what I was doing. I think I screamed when a freezer kicked into wheezy submission or something like that. I catch the kid looking at me sometimes. Usually I’m doing something stupid or letting the shit fly out of my mouth because I have nothing else to do. Whatever flits from the lips, floats to the air and usually dies a dusty moth’s death. Stomp on all creatures my mind says, because there’s more aimless flight where that came from. This little kid has also told me that I’m funny. He’s asked me questions about myself. I’ve usually given him a bunch of responses best not repeated back to your mother and given more than many pearls of wisdom that even Jacque Cousteau wouldn’t even have the strength to dig up. No. He is not gay. He’s not even happy. Like I said…he sits. Gay guys don’t sit at work. They talk. They appreciate the background music. They move their hands around. He does not. Doesn’t matter. Gay or not. I think…that he thinks…THAT I’M COOL!?!?!?
Apparently this kid knows nothing. I’ve told him. I’m pretty honest. I’ve told him how, about, sometimes, the best of situations comes out of the worst of situations – like WORK. I tell him about how crappy things have always been and about how I don’t know how to do anything and can’t stop the THINKING. And how sometimes when you’re trapped and if you have the opportunity to give a little mishy mashy talky talk just to dull the silence of the air – you just do it, to quote NIKE. You’re half-insane anyway, you have no choice. Talk talk talk. Just don’t be annoying. My girlfriend doesn't really know how I exist outside of her world. She would both be amazed and pissed as to why I have that type of energy in the outside world and not at home. I suck at home. I'm boring. Mopey. Aching. Tired. sad. Frustrated. This is because I have a choice at home. I have many things to do. Little time. Many distractions. This frustrates me. It's like sticking a Cheetah in quicksand and then telling him you're chopping off his legs tomorrow. You go slowly go nuts. Don’t have the younger folk think that everything stupid that you did before is cool, either – it just IS. Not cool. Just...IS. It exists as fodder for stories and nothing else.
When that kid tells me that I don’t act my age and after you start telling him about how you always wanted to do a 21 Jumpstreet-type thing, but now you definitely can’t pass for a high-schooler, but how you would still hit on the little girls and the hot dance and P.E. teachers combined. The only I know is that this kid knows that there might be something different in the future for ones not yet in their twenties-there may be hope to age gracefully. This is the TRUE grace. To STILL be a sort of clever MORON. This is buying insurance when the dealer might hit Black jack. This is okay. This is not normal. This is okay. This is not normal. This is not the people that you will see at your high school reunions. This is it, said The Strokes. This is The End Of The World As We Know It, said REM. This is FILL In The BLANK. This is all I know. This is what I don't. Which is a little bit of everything. And whole lot of nothing.
But this is it. And it’s all you and me are going to get. We’ll spend the rest of our years learning, so why not break the damn dam and spew filthy beauty for the rest of your youthful years? Take your fingers out of the dike, you pervert, and just let what the hell you don’t know – flow.
Take pity on all of the young children who look up to you –
Create a fucking army of them.
Monday, November 29, 2004
You Are My Density...
Watched most of the Back To The Future trilogy on cable today. I got my first real skateboard after seeing the first one in the theatres and used to watch it all of the time when it came out on video. I never really wanted to be Marty Mcfly, though. More Goerge than Marty. I could never be that short.
I wouldn't ever want to be around my parents when they were young either.
I just wouldn't.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
They Would Want You To Enjoy What Is Before You...
They would want you to realize the importance of your family gathering.
They would want you to appreciate what you have to be thankful for.
They would want you to help provide what is on the table before you.
They would want you to pray to your god(s).
They would want to be left alone.
They know what works.
They know what doesn't.
They have a version of
They forgive us?
The only thing that you can do when you're ashamed about something that happened long ago that you didn't have anything to do with is to tell people that it SUCKED. HARD. Say SORRY. Let them know that other things went down besides Squanto/pilgrim/happy/no disease/no genocide crap...and make it better by talking about it. Hey Jude. Live the holidaze, but still realize that the only thing that makes these HALLMARKED occasions worth anything is YOUR OWN memories of good times. DON'T let some sappy ass or significant other tell you how IMPORTANT the holidays are and how you HAVE to DO THIS and how you HAVE to do THAT. Smile like a tourist. Don't be a party pooper. Roll with the flow. yeah. Say Hi. Deal with your own different family or NON family holiday obligatory craziness. BUT...man...if you get the opportunity to make it special? Great. BUT...Why now? What the hell have you been doing the rest of the year? Yes, T-Day is not as gift-giving and time-intensive as Christmas is, but - who cares? Both require too much effort. Whether your life is hard or a cake walk, you shouldn't appreciate the roadblock of prog or re gress ion. It's hard enough trying to be the saint of saints of the jack of asses without poopy doopyness cramping your style.
Take this from the guy that used to write holiday cards...
Think like E.T.
Think like Julius from Pulp Fiction.
Be the Indians.
Be the White Man.
Be Ebeneezer Scrooge.
Be Bob What's-His-Name.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Monday, November 22, 2004
Dean Martin 2008...
Kicked everybody out early because I felt like hell. Most people stayed home because it was too cold anyway. I actually got home early but then stayed up til an ungodly hour/almost daylight. Woke up early, felt horrible. Thoght about getting up and doing something, but mustv'e voted against it because I woke up at 4 pm! I hate vampires. When did I become a vampire? werewolves are much cooler. Then I raced like the rest of the lemmings in my car to pay the cable bill. O was too late for the bank. They closed at four. What kind of fucking bank closes at four? What if you have a normal fucking job. Soon, the only way you'll be able to bank is by phone. It is easier anyway. No lines. No dipfucks on cellphones in front of you. No paper.
I returned some things at the library. Looked for new comic books, but didn't feel like it. I did pick up some new scripts, though. Stopped by a friends house - but they never answer their door. I have a key and always let myself in. All they do is stay in their rooms. I just leave them messages on their chalkboards because it pisses me off that I have to be a ninja with a boombox just to get their attention. Ninja with a boombox?
I went to the liqour store. Bought a sixpack, peanuts, cornuts and thats it. If they had something else that ended with nuts, I probably would've bought it too. Some kids threw something at the window of the Iranian man's store. I came close to chasing them down, but I didn't. Coulda. Shoulda. Usually woulda. I get in enough trouble anyway.
The cats are both asleep.
Their day was good.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
George R. Stewart...
You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.
When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.
You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of porno-type things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.
When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. I like vegetables. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally. How did Thanksgiving come so quickly? You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.
When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. I think I'm going out tomorrow. I have no idea what we're going to do. You arrive at work. I need to wrire REAL stuff. This is horrible crap. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.
When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. This is a hidden sentence. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. I think Renee Zellwegger looks like she got stung in the face by a bee. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.
When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. Poo. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally. Pee. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.
When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. Still here? Be good. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Self, Remember To Go To The Bank And To Return Your Library Books Tomorrow...
The only thing worse than bartending one night a week is to bartend two nights a week. I just got done watching Y Tu Mama Tambien and all I want to do right now is to sleep with your mom. Or write nonsense. Okay. I'll cross that off. Done.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
And The Whole Time I Was Standing In My Cat's Throw-Up...
I was just on the phone with a friend and he told me that while cleaning out his closet, he found about 1200 dollars worth of silver given to him in his last marriage. Pirate booty, indeed.
Anyway, this is very supercoolawesome because that means that when the Werewolves come - I have a place to go for ammunition.
Now all I need is for another friend to call me up and to tell me that he found some smelting equipment and then we're all set for the coming Werewolf Apocalypse.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Monday, November 08, 2004
Friday, November 05, 2004
I'd like to go to sleep for a year. One straight year - uninterrupted - comfortable - waking up fully refreshed. It'd be interesting to see what's changed, what hasn't, and to throw one big party. I could speculate right now on what I think might be different - but I won't because I'm tired and I'm going to sleep...
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Oh, Show Me The Way To The Next Wonka Bar...
I feel a little guilty about how easy my voting experience was yesterday. The place was about a five minute walk from my house, it was a beautiful day, no lines. I worked a double, so tried to get out of my day shift as early as I could - I made it with enough time to doze while Johnny Depp and Kate Winslet drank wine with Oprah. I have a friend who's working on Charlie And The Chocolate Factory right now out in London, or wherever the hell she is. Why am I not there too? Oh. Because I'm wasting my life - but I DID vote for the first time in my life today - that's excellent. Really. It is. I DO feel very happy about it. Too bad the The Dumb Little Son will win. If he doesn't, I'm going to throw a party.
I also lost a crapload of money playing poker last night. Luck hates me. I have a stack of comic books to my right ready to be sold on EBAY. This won't save me. Only Satan can.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Dia De Los Leche...
Going here in a couple of hours for a friend's Halloween party. My friend's old band, Longfellow is playing too. I will be drunk and dressed as a Slim Jim. Tomorrow night too. My girlfriend's going to help me out behind the bar, and I'm giving away bottles of wine for costume prizes.
Bacchus would agree.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Salt And Pepa's Here...
They're filming a Christmas movie right across the street from my house. They've been there all week, it's going to be on ABC on Dec. 4th, I think - or that's what the flier that they gave me said, at least.
I will get discovered.
I am stripping down right now and am getting the lawn mower primed and ready to go.
My glistening chest will look all the more sexy in the current rainy weather.
Wish me luck.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Fat Free Milk...
I guess I’m going to have to give up real writing. It seems like all I can do now is this fake stuff or the off the top of my head or the kind of planned topical crappy crap. Even though I have somebody waiting on screenplays from me.
It sucks. I need to get back to writing in notebooks if I still have a chance.
It would be hard to make a fortune doing this type of crap. It’s a dime a dozen. Short stories might work considering that I find them easier to write than bigger projects but I generally don’t like reading short stories. I think, because short stories seem like a cheating investment. Usually by the time you’re involved, the story’s over – and that always sucks. It’s probably just me. You can’t knock Twain, King, Hem, Carver and others. Who IS best known for brilliant short stories? I’ll ask around sooner or later.
How did I get so fucking lazy? Not only in writing but also in my life? Didn’t I used to be a lot more motivated? Yes, I was younger – but maybe I was sicker, though. You tend to spin frantically when you’re sicker in the head. More comes out of you too when you’re not that balanced. I used to write major amounts and now I write practically nothing. What happened? Does this mean that I really wont ever write The Great American Novel? Does this mean that I better get a real job soon because I have nothing else going for me? I’ve tried to stop calling myself a writer because now I feel like I’m lying. I need to start hanging around creative people again. Maybe I’ll just call Joel out of the blue and write a play with him. That would be nice. He’s older too, and yes, I used to hang around creative, older people all of the time but they all moved away and got in horrible fights with each other in between their bouts of candle-lit, poetry-reading madness. They all ended up leaving each other, fucking each other, moving out of state or just getting plain old.
Yeah, maybe I will call Joel. I saw him tonight. He stopped by the bar when I was working tonight. He told me what books he was reading. I only have a couple friends who still talk to me about that – but they’re both insane. This guy writes for a good magazine and writes plays at the local theatre too. I might’ve mentioned that. He likes booze too. That’s always good. You better like booze if you like books. Just because. You just better.
Oh man. I’ve got this impending feeling of doom that’s been hanging over me lately. It’s making me nervous and paranoid. It’s making me scared. I don’t want to answer the phone or open mail. Does this mean that it’s all financially motivated then? I don’t look forward to the end of the year. All new parties or activities, trips, etc. piss me off because that just means that it’s another obligatory social event that will further prevent me from digging myself out of my hole.
What happened to walking? My car depresses me because I don’t take care of it. Weather isn’t the same either because of my car and it’s widow that doesn’t roll up.
Am I really depressed or am I just...what do they call it? What do they call it when you try to trade in a car but you end up owing more than it’s worth now or something like that? I’m kind of like that right now. In over my head in life and certain sense of value or worth had decreased.
Is it depreciation or my great depression?
Declination or a lack of direction?
Da gooch beat me up Mr. Drummond.
I refuse to get up to tell the cat to be fucking quiet – but I will get up for a fucking cigarette because I feel like I really need one right now.
See? That’s what I need. I need to write with the quickness and ferocity of one that does right before getting up to go outside and smoke. Hummingbird fingertips. I think my brain is haunted. I don’t feel good right now. Sleep won’t do it. Nothing will. Nothing will, except sunlight coming over the horizon. Maybe Empire Strikes Back playing on the TV as I slowly and laboriously drift into my usual light and seldom interrupted sleep.
I need to do five responsible things tomorrow and five things that are good for me. Organizing comic books makes me feel good. I can walk to the bank. I came up with a new band name tonight thanks to Sarah Brown. I can open up the garage and pull out all of the old notebooks. Maybe not. I need to clean my room. I can start to paint pictures. I can make a bill list. I can sell comics on ebay. I can drink and write all day. I cannot turn on the computer. I can try not to turn on the TV or the computer. I can stop by every store in downtown. I can drink in every bar in downtown. I can play video games all day. I can search for jobs online. I can make something out of little pieces of junk and superglue. I can write a Christmas list. I can smoke and then will be back. I can.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Mr. Cogswell, Mr. Tate, and Mr. Slate...
Never let your boss see the inside of your home. They will either think that you're a child, insane, a slob, or make too much money. No boss will ever take pity on you and give you a raise after seeing your slum.
The only reason why you should invite your boss inside is if they're of the opposite sex, very attractive, have no vocal cords and like paying off employees not to squeal like the blackmailing piggies that they are.
I did work for an attractive lady once. We were very close. It was hard working for somebody and trying not to look at their boobs. Some of you might have this problem too, even if your boss is a man. This is even worse. Men like this usually sweat a lot and breathe heavy. They usually have a five-o-clock shadow by noon and always have food on their shirt or face. These are the type of men that drop farts like atom bombs and yell at the FUCKING YANKEES almost as much as they do their wife and children.
Okay. I got a little off track. I need a cigarette and I need to take a nap. I just realized that I've never seen one episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. It's over now. I wonder if I was missing something. Sarah Michelle Gellar's nose looks like she's been punched by a vampire one-too-many times. Like I should talk. Go Daphne. Go FUCKING RED SOX. Go to sleep, self.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Monday, October 11, 2004
I was Reading About What I Was Doing Last Year And The Realized That I've Been Writing On fat Free Milk For Two Years And Eleven days Now...
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.
I'm The Green Lion...
I hate getting home this late. Thank god for friends, though. If I didn't have any friends, then my bar would be empty and I would be broker than the usual broke. Some of my friends drink a lot, and then they look heller than their usual helly hell. I find bartending boring. I find posts about bartending even boring-ER-EST-ES-Y...
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Hank's Overblown Sense Of Entitlement Remains As Big As His Stature...
I’d never been to this particular skate park before. It’s close to where I live, but I don’t have knee pads and a helmet, so I’ve never gone. But, today I went with a couple of kids from my work. One of them lent me his brother’s ratty-ass equipment. We’d been talking about it forever, so it was good to finally go.
I did feel weird, though. There were kids that measured up to my belly button popping ollies behind me as I paid my twelve bucks. I’ve never paid to skateboard anywhere. But I chalked it all up to experience and I knew that it would be interesting, or, at least be a cheap way of committing suicide. I haven’t skated much since I broke my ankle in a drunken fight with my girlfriend. Besides getting older, you tend to rethink certain types of physical activity when one spends months not being able to walk naturally. It makes the already too-fast aging process progress faster, I think.
One of the teenagers behind the counter asked me if I’d ever skated there before. I lied and told him, yes, that I had. I didn’t want to hear a bunch of legal jargon, and I think that he was only telling me because he had to. That type of stuff was for the little kids. Not for old men in their-twenty-something’s like me. I figured that I started skating before this kid was even born. If I told him that, he would’ve looked at me like I look at old people when they tell me things similar to that.
I was dancing before you were born!
I’ve been eating here longer than you’ve been around!
Blah, blah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s the natural order of life. 365 days allocated in a bracket.
I get it.
I’m not down with all of that. Usually.
Sad to say, but I told both of the kids that I worked with, that I was going to go smoke before I went in. They said okay. Maybe I shouldn’t call them kids. One’s nineteen and one’s twenty. Those aren’t kids, I guess. I’m fucking dorkier than them. And they both act more adult than I do at work. I have more toys than them, though.
So, I smoked. And stretched some. Or, at least tried to without looking like a freak. I used to stretch all of the time before skating, but have never seen anybody else do it. And it looks kind of stupid when you’re smoking too. Smoking cigarettes and skating is like fat people super-sizing their orders while ordering a Diet Coke. What’s the point? Stupid balancing acts make no sense when you’ll inevitably fall down.
Speaking of balance…
I must’ve slipped something spine-wise trying to grind on the lip of their mini-ramp.
Even typing this hurts.
But I did fit in some good, old-fashioned pop shove-its and pulled off some backside rail slides that nobody ever really pays attention to anymore.
And my ankle hurts again.
But not my pride.
Because I was the actual, oldest person skating there.
29 years old, baby.
Skate or die.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
If I was invited to Operation Coalition Desert The Debates Cobra Watch 2004 Or Die Thingy, I know that I wouldn't end up getting elected - but with my involvement...NOBODY would. And part of me feels really good about this. Let's get big, ol' fatty Howard Taft back in office and watch him stuff sausages in his mouth. Coolidge/Quayle 2004. I like Jimmy Carter because he writes poetry and builds houses. I like Martin Sheen because he looks like that guy from Apocalypse Now.
Dangerfield 2004, baby.
Let's bring back the respect.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Thursday, September 30, 2004
What its like to go outside for a smoke and to be reading player piano and think what a genius vonnegut is and then to see your initials written in a line and then to go inside and pee and grab the calender section of the la times and look at the movie reviews on the ad of garden state and to see the first review written by a guy who shares your first two names and then to go inside and want to write on the computer and you say to yourself that this was pretty cool and that it meant something then to turn up the volume on all of the songs that have been playing on your old computer with the volume down and it was one of your favorite songs by marilyn mansom but it took a long time and now you’ll have to tackle all of those divine intervention and moments of clarity moments later because youre getting tired drunk and thirty.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Pack It Up, Pack It In, Let Me Begin...
Yeah. Backed up my friend's truck into a lightpole on Saturday.
Nice as it gets...my life.
Sweeter and sweeter.
I think that I'm due for an accidental skydiving accident in which I kill a bunch of RED CROSS, NUNS, NATO, MADD, NNACP, GREENPEACE, KKK, ATF, CIA, VC, WKORP, NAFTA, X-MEN, FF, AVENGERS and helpless retarded children.
This is how my luck goes.
Hooked on Impulse Phonics.
This Is How My Luck Goes.
Sweeter and sweeter.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Oh, and speaking of Anna Kournikova -
my girlfriend and I were watching TV
and a commercial came on having to do
with some charity tennis thingy with Anna K.,
that one guy, and that other guy,
so I turned to my girlfriend and said,
"Hey! We should go see Anna Kournikova!"
She looked shocked and gave me a look.
"Are you serious?" She said.
I said, "No" and gave her a big smile and then slowly turned back towards the TV.
Monday, September 20, 2004
Saturday, September 18, 2004
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Monday, September 13, 2004
September 1st - September 17th...
I'm such a dummy that I didn't pay attention and thought that my girlfriend was coming back from her Europe trip this Wednesday, but she's not - she's coming back this Friday night. I'm a bad boyfriend with poor eyesight and Attention Deficit Disorder.
I find it very interesting that I'm always lamenting about my life full of distractions and my inability to write, about how hard it is to write while engaged in my most beautiful relationship. I write about my situation like a new owner does about his cute, peeing puppy. It's all about coping with getting used to this pretty little thing that I have. Frustrating at times and time-consuming.
But like all pet owners, I don't know what to do now that she's gone. Yes, I've compared my girlfriend to a dog - but it was the only thing that came to my mind right now. AND my girlfriend does not poo or pee anywhere but in the bathroom. Well...at least as far as I know.
Anyway, I'm always lamenting about how my life is full of distractions and about my inabilities to write and about how hard it is to write while engaged in my most beautiful relationship, and guess what? Now that she's been gone close to fifteen days, I have written practically nothing and haunted our house like an old ghost. Not even a cool ghost. More like a Disneyland Haunted Mansion ghost. Not any of the funny ones, more like the ones that look lonely in the graveyard. Probably like the old grave digger or maybe like an old hollow-faced butler holding a candlestick. A beer, more likely.
The point was...that...not that I thought that this whole experience was going to be cool or anything, but I didn't know that I would be this lonely, lost and heart-stricken. I obviously have changed and can't function normally without my better half.
I definitely am messier when she's not here. I don't remember being this careless. I tend to watch TV now - which I hate, because that's one of the worst things that one can do by themselves, I think. To sit in front of a glowing box full of stupid images and noisy, dull words. This never helps a person. This never gets one excited to be alive. This only depresses the already deflated.
I drink less. This I don't understand. Or maybe I'm just drinking less anyway, but I kind of pictured like, I would play music really loud and scribble away madly in my notebooks - but none of this has happened. I tend to stare at things a lot more than usual and after I finished my Harry Potter book I've found it hard to get into anything else. I have two Vonnegut books floating around me always, but all I do is pick at them like I do my dinner.
I have found myself cooking for no one and wrapping it all up in the fridge and eventually throwing most of it away.
Not as many friends called me as I thought they would. Maybe they think that since I always liked being alone before - I will want to now.
I haven't had a party or bedded any loose-legged supermodels. I have bedded with one of our cats continuously and all he's managed to do is piss me off, gnaw on my toes and knock over things in the dead of night.
I stay up even later than before. This is deadly, folks. I think that I may only live to forty if all of this stuff kepps up. Yes, I just said KEPPS.
So. I could go on. Why go on? Things'll get back to normal eventually when she comes back - IF she comes back. I wouldn't. HELL no. What do you think I am, CRAZY? Screw this place - I'd never come home. I love adventures and new places, I love to look at people that don't look like all of the pretty freaks over here, I like new freaks, especially freaks that can't speak English. I think I'm getting older and a little stir-crazy. Change is coming soon, doody-fresh, and I'm glad I can feel it crawling over the horizon. The air is erratic, it's full of static, and I'm glad because everybody needs a series of shocks to the system. One cannot sit in front of a computer all day. The INTERNET is a muddy reflection in a pool of stagnancy. It's fizzling fireworks and old socks. The INTERNET is like a very conversational cop who gives you a ticket for driving too slow. The INTERNET is like Spanish lessons for one who already knows how to speak it. The INTERNET is like taking speed whilst quadriplegic.
Evel Knievel must've gone out and taken a walk every once in a while.
Hitler should've found better things to paint.
And Charles Manson only needed a girlfriend.
Friday, September 10, 2004
As the critic and novelist Umberto Eco once observed, any text "always constitutes a bet on the way it will be received." It should not surprise us, therefore, that some of Bukowski’s most trenchant remarks on the art of writing refer us back to the track; indeed, he commends it to us. In his story "Goodbye Watson" (appropriately a tale about placing a wrong bet, this time on a boxer), the author avows that "if I ever taught a class in creative writing, one of my prerequisites would be that each student must attend a racetrack once a week and place at least a 2 dollar win wager on each race." Horseracing offers the writer an invaluable mental discipline, for "a man who can beat the horses can do almost anything he makes up his mind to do." Its bottom line, its existential limit, is the "death-wish"—"old stuff," but with "still some basis in it yet." We can recognize this in ourselves and in others and in the crowd around us, since "the reason most people are at the racetrack is that they are in agony, ey yeh, and they are so desperate that they will take a chance on further agony rather than face their present position." The danger lies in forgetting that gambling (and, we might add, writing) is a difficult craft to master and needs careful handling—"just another job, finally, and a hard one too"—and without respecting this we merely left with a recipe for "bad bets" and "sucker bets." But correctly understand, says Bukowski, "the racetrack tells me where I am weak and where I am strong." It is a source of great intuitive insight, freeing the writer from what is fake and routine, and Bukowski approvingly cites Hemingway’s attendance at bullfights, claiming that they helped "old ratbeard" to write. Nevertheless, there is an essential difference between the two writers that goes unnoticed here. Bukowski’s own writing lacks that sustained fatalism that pervades Hemingway’s work, that obsession with our failure to recognize when our luck has run out. In Bukowski’s narratives we repeatedly straddle the fine divide between winning and losing, between self-possession and the illusion of control, and it is this that underlies the bitter comedy of novels like Factotum and Post Office, for in that narrowest of gaps a whole world emerges. Like his days at the races, Bukowski’s fictions remind us "how much we keep changing, changing all the time, and how little we know of this."...
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
H.P. Lovecraft's Mother...
A friend spent the night on my couch last night. She asked if I would take her home in the morning, I said that it wouldn't be a problem. In the morning she was gone. This kind of puzzled me because she said that her car was parked at Matt's house which is a good distance away.
I guess she decided to walk or maybe she tried to wake me up and I didn't, I don't know. Anyway, when she got to Matt's house, she thought that her car got towed. But she forgot that it was parked across the street from my house and had to walk all the way back.
Monday, September 06, 2004
So, the girlfriend's in London. I obviously didn't go. Long story. My work is also closed til maybe Thursday. Going to Vegas on Friday. That doesn't really help out in the money aspect, does it? I have to go though, my room was comped by a guy that I know that does business with the owner of the hotel that I'm staying at. I guess he owns two more of the big ones too. Must be nice. But, I have to go, and trust me - I'm grateful - I mean, how cool is that. A comped room for the whole weekend at 170 bucks a night. This includes whores too. No. Just kidding. No whores.
I think I'm going to do some manual labor 2morrow for some more extra cash.
I am now forgetting things.
Trying to construct a funny sentence about cruising the gay park by my house.
I am too lazy to explain this.
Friday, September 03, 2004
Dr. Curt Connors' Missing Arm...
It's kind of unfair that all mirrors aren't made alike.
I think that mirrors should give back the same reflection as any other.
because, I mean, doesn't it suck to look okay in one mirror and then later go to a different mirror-only to look hideous? I hate those close-up mirrors that show everything too. I don't think some people should be looked at that close. There should be a law against that sort of thing. Like a restraining order that ugly people can file against others so that they don't get too close. I bet a lot of people would start shouting their conversations to each other on the street.
The only people without vanity problems are those that shatter every mirror that they look at.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Man, you get so lazy - you don't really want to put the effort into telling imaginary people what you've been doing. If what I've been doing involved ninja swords, then I would definitely tell you. I get more enjoyment out of writing nonsense anyway. I only like reading journals of mass-murderers anyway, and they're usually so busy that they don't keep them.
I really need to get back to writing in notebooks.
All of this hi-tech Rosie The Robot stuff sucks more time and energy than the pen and good ol' paper. I'll let you read my books someday. They're all in the garage. I'll vomit them out in the publishing world someday.
Dr. Phil and The Da Vinci Code will stomp on my guts.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Thursday, August 26, 2004
I Wear This Helmet To Protect My Head From When I Have My Epileptic Fits…
I slowed the car to a crawl in the middle of the street to see the fireworks from Disneyland. I looked to my right to see if the men playing softball were looking to, but they weren’t. Were the cars in front of me moving slow because of the fireworks too or did they normally drive that slow?
I didn’t get that movie soundtrack that I wanted. Tower was sold out of them. The Wherehouse had just closed and Target didn’t carry it. The pimply faced, tall teen told me that it was too INDY for them.
I want a lot of random things. Things like the 18 in. Spiderman figure with 67 points of articulation. A string for my bow and a bunch of arrows. I want woodworking tools. A pet crow. But it seems that when I actually do get something in my head, no matter how small – I can’t. Like I’m thinking about things too late. I know that nothing will kill me if I don’t get it, but the gods kind of scuttle me about like a Boll Weevil whenever they get the urge.
Fireworks. Carrots. Soundtracks.
Writing about important things that seem small.
Tonight, these dangle before me.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Why write when I have eggrolls to eat? I stopped by the Vietnamese place to pick up some to go. I feel like I don't belong. I don't. I look like the only bastard Asian there. I'm an imposter. A spy sent by the Irish. Seriously, though. Nobody in there but Vietnamese. They could be Romans wearing Viet masks. Maybe. Maybe not. Do I care? No.
The host or hostess always looks at me like I might be a health inspector. Or lost.
I manage to mangle my garbled pronunciation of Chi goia or however the hell you say it. I also ask for the other stuff that I'm not even going to try to spell. Hey, my gook mother left when I was seven, so what do you expect?
Then a dog escaped from the kitchen.
And I went to the video store and rented that movie where Nicole Kidman hides in that town, the movie where the kid dates the porno star, and the documentary about the guy who tracks down the guy who wrote that book.
Seriously. A dog darted right by my legs.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
By The Time You Read This...
I'll be at work serving drinks to drunks.
By the time that I'm done with this, hopefully I'll be asleep.
Last night at a bar, a drunk girl dropped a cigarette on my head, drank my beer and then hit on me. She was on pills. I asked her how she felt. She said that she felt nice and sleepy and that she felt like throwing up. Then she told me that she thought that I was hot. This is what I get.
Tonight I went to a friends birthday party at an ARTIST'S COLONY in L.A. The ARTSIST'S COLONY was right by a big mountain of dirt. I was expecting ants to be at the party...but none came.
Now, I've got a couple of sleeping pills and a crudload of beers in my system to help me sleep. This should kick in soon.
Cartoon Pig threw two baby tomatoes from the balcony and I caught them in my mouth. This is not gay. This is really cool. I swear.
This is Cartoon Pig, M.V. and AL G. of Damnation posing like super model people...
These bunnies guarded the bathroom...
Ian, of Wrist Action was drunk when I got there...
So we tried to stuff his ass in one of the coolers...because...it was ART.
My pretty girlfriend kept tabs on me all night because I wander and she loves me...
Ian went to sleep...
We had a fire going on in THE ARTIST'S COLONY...
And then we all ate SMORES. Which is like art, except just with graham crackers eaten from DURAFLAME LOG-fueled fires. Gross, indeed.
I had more fun talking to the gay guys tonight.
I need more gay friends.
And Duraflame SMORES.
Pills are kicking in...
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
and Mr. Fantastic now does porn. He and his family got kicked out of The Baxter Building and he had no choice. Sometimes even superheroes get the blues.
You know what sucks about comic books? Besides having to talk to other people that like comic books at the comic book store? See, I'm a fairly-kind-of-normal-looking guy. I just look like I need some food and look like I'll be balding in, about five years or so. But, otherwise - I would like to think that I don't fit the generalist mold. Yeah. Yes. I do like fucking reading comic books...BUT...CARTOON PIG saw somebody in the comic book store wearing a chain mail shirt the other day. This is what they wear in The Lord Of The Rings. I would wear this too, if people carried around swords. BUT. THEY. DONT. I don't live off of Florence and Normandy either - so, I don't wear a bulletproof vest. Only ODB, Little Baby Jesus, Dirt McGirt, etc. does. And then you get popped. Which kind of doesn't make any sense to me because...when in Rome? C'mon. If I were living in Ninja world - I'd sure as hell’d be wearing an Anti-Ninja-Force Field-Belt. You better bet your slanted eyes and your uncanny stealth, I would. Hell yeah.
Crap. Ummm...oh yeah. I get embarrassed at the comic book store. Because people talk to me. They ask me questions. They comment on my comics OUT LOUD REALLY LOUD WHEN THEY'RE RINGING THEM UP - HEY WOW, WHAT'D YOU THINK OF THIS? I THINK THAT THE SCARLET WITCH IS HOT, JIM LEE'S RUN ON SUPERMAN ISN'T THAT GOOD I LIKE HIS RUN ON BATMAN BETTER. HAVE YOU SEEN SHE HULK'S TITS IN THE NEW SERIES? WOW! YUK YUKSNARFSNARF!
The people who work there are nice, though - and aren't The Simpson's comic book guy type snobs. But. Sometimes, I get trapped there by somebody. And I don't care too much. Like I give a crap what anybody thinks about me. I just think it's funny, that's all. Like, I felt all-sad the other day because I walked by the room that they have where all of the role-playing, Yo-Gi-Yoh, and Magic The Gathering-type guys play. I walked by and saw two guys sitting there bored out of their skulls. One was looking through a deck of gaming cards and the other looked alone and miserable. Later I saw one of the guys talking to one of the comic book store employees. I guess the rest of his players never showed up. He looked sad and said that he would give them another thirty minutes. Thirty minutes. This kid might have been around, maybe...fifteen? All I really noticed was his Spiderman t-shirt. Okay. I love reading Spiderman comics. I would love a cool t-shirt, but - this kid wasn't wearing a T-SHIRT. It was a collared, short-sleeved shirt. Now, I'm not trying to be a big old snobby bastard here, because we have all had some moments and who knows? Maybe this kid'll be the next Don Juan, Bill Gates, Jesus Christ - whatever. But. Man...if you could've seen this shirt that this kid was wearing. I wanted to rip it off of him, to not chide him, but to give him some neutral clothes, to shave his upper lip and then chop off his mullet. I wanted to remind him that you could just be as nerdy talking to girls. That you could be just as nerdy hanging out in a park doing nothing. Everything is good - BUT! It just made me sad to see a kid waiting in a comic book shop on a weekday, for people to show up to play MAGIC. I used to role-play. Loved it. I loved telling stories and creating scenarios. Loved researching adventures, etc. BUT! I also loved girls, parties, hygiene and getting into trouble.
Too bad that I couldn’t have struck up a conversation with this kid and just shot the shit with him. Talked some nerd stuff, because I know a lot of it, maybe not the newer stuff that he likes - but enough nerd stuff to get by. I would just be cool. He maybe, might look at me and realize that one can still like great crap like comics, geek movies, etc. and still have a social life. Not that having a social life is all that great at times – but…yeah. It does.
I should be a Big Brother for geeks. I would take them to Comic Book Conventions and to Strip Clubs and to Public Places. I would make them meld all of these things together.
Geek is cool.
Just don’t sit in a comic book shop waiting for other geeks to show up.
Beats sports, I guess.
But, then…Sports Bars have booze.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Monday, August 16, 2004
I have that condition where your legs get all antsy and achey when you're in bed. So, even when I'm tired sometimes, I can't sleep and I have to get up and move my legs around like a drunk Von Trapp, or sometimes I'll eat because there's nothing else to do. Then, right about when the sun starts to come up - then, the mad ant crawls in my legs subside and I can go to sleep, usually giving me about two hours before I have to get up for work.
My eyes are red and scratchy and I always look like a raccoon because I'm an insomniac. People have asked me before I was wearing makeup because of how dark the smudges around my eyes get. If they're a boy, I usually run and try to kiss them.
Anyway. I now encourage not sleeping. Anytime that I try to sleep and it's not happening? As a rule, I now have to go to the computer and start writing until the fidgeting or insomnia stops. That means no internet, no stupid blog things, no news. Only WORD.
And there you have it.
And now I have to go buy catfood and hairspray at Target.
And to look at the toys.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Broke My Promise...
Two bruised ribs from a waterslide.
A skinned spine, knee and left arm to compliment the right.
I realize that I have a problem with swimming.
Admitting that I have a problem is the first step to curing myself of this horrible addiction that I carry.
From this day forth, I am...water-free.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Gwen Stacey's Broken Neck...
I promise to not hurt myself at the pool party tomorrow.
I've had a pretty decent gouge in my right arm from the last one a couple of weeks ago. It has looked nasty and I'm glad it's almost fully healed. With my luck, I'll probably mess up the other one.
Never get drunk and do anything that involves water, people.
Not with Water People. I mean, in the water.
Definitely DO get drunk with Water People if you ever encounter any.
Mermaids and Mermen might be cool to party with.
Just hope that they don't smell like fish.
Sunday, August 08, 2004
So, was totally bored out of my mind for a good portion of the day. Needed to sleep because this is something that I never do and it was one of the first Saturday's that I didn't have to attend a birthday party, funeral or celebration of a funeral. I slept a lot, but unfortunately, it was not the sleep of the dead that i very, rarely attain - it was the sleep granted by The Great Demon Of sporadicticity. Yeah, Scrabble judges. You go.
I watched Attack Of The Clones, for the poopeenth time, watched Bubba-Ho-Tep and watched myself slowly go insane. I was supposed to go out to Long Beach for a rockstar friend's party but didn't go because I wasn't going to go with my car and Cartoon Pig didn't want to drive.
I farted around forever at the house and then finally went out after midnight. SO L.A. time. It would be a lot cooler and a lot more entertaining if I actually lived there. Maybe not.
Went to a couple o places. Saw some friends. I guess the theme of the night was Girls Hit On My Girlfriend And Tell Me How Much I Have To Appreciate Her Night. Which is cool and all but also makes me want to kick them in the bi-sexual crotch because, yes, I know, okay - so - shut your vagina...unless you want to come home with us...which could've happened, but - who cares. Maybe. Can happen. Need it to? Nope? Sooner or later, there'll be a crazy post in my future. Maybe.
Anyways...I like Gnomes.
And I've been typing this in-between bouts of my girlfriend puking.
The Gnomes are taking over.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Why I'm A Horrible Boyfriend Reason No. 643832...
her - Honey, I dreamt that you died!
Me - That sucks. Really? How?
her - I don't remember. It was horrible.
Me - Well, maybe I AM dead and this is just a dream, and then when you wake up, I'll really be dead.
She starts to cry.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Diebold Voting Machines...
So, since I'm a yellow, lazy bastard, totally tired and just plain out of trinkets - I'd rather post a list about what I could be writing. (again)
Why I hate the computer
My old notebooks
Me and kids
My version of a room
Why I cant write
Why I cook and why I don’t eat
Why I drink so many liquids
Latch key kid
Write a series of books like THE GREAT BRAIN
Write your own version or The Brothers Lionheart but use your old medieval trilogy idea
But, I did write a little on these two cool-ass places.
gee funk money playa hayta dolla dolla bills y'all yoyoyo
Monday, August 02, 2004
Hammurabi's Code Of Underwear...
You should come visit me over here.
I really think you should.
I'll be happy.
And trust me - you want to make me happy.
You really do, I know it.
Focus today on making me squeal like Ned Beatty.
You don't even have to touch me in the place where my bathing suit covers.
Which is France. My bathing suit covers France.
That was stupid.
But made me laugh.
That was stupid too.
And didn't make me laugh.
Friday, July 30, 2004
Woke up early and went to see over 200 human bodies dissected in various states and put on artistic and medical display. A pregnant corpse with an eight month old fetus in her belly, a horse skinned, brains, intestines, nerves, muscles...I saw a man made of tissue holding up his body's skin.
I climbed a rock wall.
I pedaled a bike across a wire on the second story of a building. I tried to tip the bike so that I would fall in the net below me, but I had counterbalancing and science against me.
I ate Ethiopian food in downtown L.A.
I slept through traffic.
I heard John Kerry speak.
I read comics.
Played Star Wars Galaxies.
Hung out with friends.
Now I will play Poker.
Then I will sleep.
And dream of demons eating my flesh.
Viva Las Ras A Ghul...
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
i FEEL AS OLD AS i THOUGHT THAT i DID WHEN i WAS YOUNGER, EXCEPT THAT NOW - i'M ACTUALLY THAT OLD.
eVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED WAY BACK WHEN SERVED IT'S PURPOSE.
nOW THAT I LOOK BACK, NOTHING SURPRISES ME, EXCEPT THE THINGS THAT i DIDN'T EXPECT TO HAPPEN. aLL OF THE THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED MAKE SENSE.
tHE FUTURE LOOKS GREY.
mY SKIES HAVE NEVER BEEN THAT BLUE, AND EVEN AT MY DARKEST - THERE WAS STILL AN AMPLE AMOUNT OF LIGHT PEEKING THROUGH THE BLINDS.
i CAN'T QUANTIFY TIME THROUGH MY FEET BECAUSE i'M LAME IN ONE.
mY ARMS AND HANDS ARE SCARRED.
mY EYES ARE oSIRIS'.
mY FINGER AND TOENAILS GROW AT A RAPID RATE.
i HAVE BAD KNEES DUE TO SKATEBOARDING INJURIES.
mY LUNGS NEED A NEW WHEELCHAIR.
tHE OLD WRITING HAND THAT i BARELY USE ANYMORE DUE TO COMPUTERED CONTRAPTIONS SCREAMS EVERYTIME THAT i WRITE DUE TO OLD FIGHTS WITH CLOSET DOORS AND WALLS.
tHE BRAIN AND THE HEART COME TO VISIT ONCE A WEEK.
tHE LIVER HATES AND HATES AND HATES.
i WANT TO BE THE BEST-LOOKING VAMPIRE EVER.
hAPPY TO BE ALIVE.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Monday, July 26, 2004
Nelson Riddle Me This, Batman...
I just erased my post.
It was about how people trap you and talk your ear off when you're a bartender.
I said something about sleeping the sleepy sleep of all sleepdom.
Then, I uh...said something about how my girlfriend will start talking to me while I'm asleep. And then I did something else. And everything went away. Now I must go.
Blogs make me go to sleep now too.
My writing = narcolepsy.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Victor Von Doom And Reed Richards...
Sometimes I rhyme slow, sometimes I rhyme quick...
Sometimes, I hate THE INTERNET. Waste of damn time.
Sometimes, I'm really glad I did it, and sometimes - not.
and sometimes, you realize that half of the stuff you say is meaningless and stupid, but the other half just might be a mark of genius to the retarded.
Al Gore may have created it - but I'm intent on destroying it.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Monday, July 19, 2004
Saturday, July 17, 2004
Suggested By Isaac Asimov...
Should not be going out to see a couple bands and to sing Karoake.
Should be asleep fighting off this small flu-like-thingy.
Should be smarter.
Should save more money.
Should not of played with all of those little kids at my girlfriend's nieces birthday party
because now I have red hand prints, dirt and food all over the shirt that I was going to wear tonight.
Should blow my nose.
Should not be meeting The Hard Artist and Cartoon Pig.
Should not feed Gremlins after midnight.
Should see a man about a horse.
Should see your mom.
Should stop now.