Thank You, Chris...



I didn't want to go to a strip club tonight.

Thank you for paying for the cover charge.

Thank you for the money for the lap dances.

Me and my girlfriend thank you.

Really.

She was hot.

Thank you.

No. Really.

Thank you.

Govinda...

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.

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.

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?

No.

Do I still remember that tiny, twitching rabbit?

Yes. Perfectly.

Best Christmas ever?

Yes.

Why?

Because I'll remember that one for the rest of my life.

I Was Excited...

When I heard that a show called ANIMAL COPS was going to be on Animal Planet. But...alas, the show didn't feature Bears or Kangaroos arresting other animals - it was about humans arresting Vietnamese families for eating their pets or something.

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.

Or Like When I Leave The Grocery Store Without My Groceries...

Or like right now. Getting to my front door and realizing that I left my keys in my parked and still-running car.

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.

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.

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.

Bucho...

One of these days, work will be fun.

I hope, soon.

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.

Only prognosis'.

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.

(Her. Pleased)

Oh. Good.

(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.

Today.

Tonight.

Forever.

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.

Boom.

How Rude of Me...

I forgot to ask you if you wanted any of this.

I know you do.

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.

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.