I...

I don't skateboard around town anymore. I limp to my dirty car. I have to remind myself to look up. I feel tired. I'm not as adventurous as before. My band is dead. Two cats are also. I talk to homeless men more than I do my sister. Did that sound incestuous or did that sound like I like to have sex with homeless men? I still pretend to listen to people. I want a letter in the mail. A real life letter, written on lined, college ruled notebook paper. I'm sick of all of my music, and all of the choices I make at the store suck ass. I'm glad that I started to read comic books again. I rarely go to the movies. I hate living on the first floor. I still drink and smoke, but still don't do drugs. I haven't had a black eye in three years. That's good. I have ten rolls of film that need developing. I still need a new job. I am lazier. I write less. All of the thousands of pages of stuff I've written are now in the garage and seem less important as time goes by. The Beastie Boys are old. I am not excited about the next Star Wars movie. I wish Bukowski would write a new novel. Oops, he's dead. When I make lists of things to do for the day, half of it is phone call bill bullshit. I still try not to kill ants. I still look exactly like I did five years ago. I never buy new shoes, although I think about it all of the time. Master Of Puppets is a great album. I want to own a house. I pulled a bad ass car move when I was going to the store tonight, but it would be too confusing to explain - but trust me...it was damn cool. Blah, Michael Knight. I still have no appetite. I am learning how to make some pretty fucked up drinks. Where I am, right now would've been perfect when I was twenty-one. I don't write poetry anymore. I am happy, just tired. I still have mistletoe hanging above the front doorway. I think I'll keep it there for another seven months. I may have jinxed myself about something important last night. Knock on wood for me right now, please. Screw the people around you...tell them you're practicing jokes.

I'm not whining - I'm just trying to write more like I used to and to not think that somebody else is reading this. The ha ha's should only come when the ha ha clause delivers the ha ha. You must be good to have Ha Ha Clause visit you. Otherwise, you get a lump of thermo nuclear detonator. I have a report I should be writing, but won't tonight. I can't concentrate. Frozen orange juice has no problem with this. That's why all of the best writers are found in the freezer section of your local grocery. No matter how much time passes, The Pixies still sound cool. I think that the opposite sex still finds me attractive even though I have girlfriend glazed over my eyes. I may be wrong. Maybe they only want a cigarette, or want diet secrets from me. Maybe they want to ask me if my father really did work for a secret, ultra cool branch of the government. Maybe they want to ask me why I don't look either Vietnamese or Irish. Maybe they want to ask me what they should look out for next time they're at the swapmeet, do I want anything besides comic books and skull rings?

Columbus was a fag. So is Strom Thurmond. I wish that Barbara Streisand, post-U-Turn-J-Lo, Celine Dion, Bette Midler, and every girl that cries on a reality show gets pummeled in the crotch by meteorites. Human beings need to get the hell off of this planet permanently. We're giving Earth indigestion. I need to get on the ball with the screenplays and the clothing company research. Joe, Dawne, and I need to be rich. Then I can hire Colobus monkeys to type my thoughts. I hate Columbus, but love the Colobus. I need to remember to ask Cheeks what the weather is like in London. In the 60's and partially cloudy? I can feel the beginning of summer. I hate the summer. I need to buy an ironing board. I can't iron worth a fig anyway, but doing it on the kitchen table is really destroying the miniscule abilities that I do have at it. Chewbacca looks lonesome standing there in the corner, he must've deactivated Threepio because his eyes aren't lit up. I wish that people could carry around Samurai swords. But then we'd have Cingular Swords, and Sony Swords, Ford Swords would suck and would cost more to make in America, the majority of swords would be made in Mexico or in Communist China by political prisoners. There would be designer swords. Donatella Versace would continue her brother's legacy...D&G Swords. Hot Topic swords. McSwords. Would you like to super size that for 65 cents more?

Anybody who reads this must leave a comment in the comment section. I know that you don’t have the time, you may be at work, this may interrupt your porn surfing. But, I'm telling you - EVERYBODY MUST DO THIS OR I WILL STOP PAYING YOUR MOM'S BILLS. It's nice to know that the plants appreciate your singing sometimes. It's nice to collect rent off of, even, Baltic Avenue. Sometimes, it's good to punch yourself in the arm, just to remember that it's still there. Even if you can only say HI.

DO IT.

Thank you, Nasty...

Anti Has The Coolest Link To Me On His Site...

So, I should be writing a report right now, but instead I'll tell you about the Mexican / Techno bar during that art show on Saturday. My girlfriend is one of those poopers that doesn't go for days, but then, when she needs to go - she needs to go. I accompanied her to the bathroom in the back of the art gallery, talked to, the owner, I think that's who he was, and found out they were out of toilet paper. I think that I ended up getting distracted by somebody and then I see my girlfriend again, she said that there was a bar down the street, but she had to buy a drink to use the bathroom, so she got me. Everybody knows I'm good for a few dozen...at least.

This place was a thug-fest. They had tons of security there who checked out ID's and told us where the line started even though there was nobody there. Serious. There were more employees and security outside than customers inside. The only customers inside the noisy place were a couple of Cholas holding hands and running somewhere. My girlfriend practically ran too, but to the bathroom. So, I ordered a beer from a very nice girl. She seemed out of place. I tipped her a couple of bucks and she acted like I gave her a couple hundred. I shouldn't of tipped her and just given her my cell phone number and told her that I was DJ'ing a quincieneda on the weekend, would she like to come? I didn't have a place to sit. I was the only guy in the main loud room. The security force was outside. Louder music was coming from the side room that my girlfriend ran off to. I wanted to be close to the bathroom just in case she needed my help anyway. The music was so loud that I could feel it up my nose. There wasn't anybody in this room except for two guys trying to fix an overhanging light. I tried to lean against a wall and look tough or interested. I felt like a narc or an FBI agent. I went outside to the patio with the security force. My gal finally came back and told me that there were shower curtains in the girl’s bathroom instead of doors?

Anyway she felt better and then I had to finish my beer. We were feeling out of place and making jokes to ourselves and wondering who the hell actually went there. Where were all the people? Of course that’s when more friends started to arrive for the art show. I could tell they were kind of surprised; it must of looked kind of weird. I'm in an art show down the street and I'm hanging outside of the Mexican / Techno bar on the patio with The Mexican Mafia. I wanted to tell them what the hell I was doing there, but my girlfriend would've been embarrassed. They had drinks at the art show, so there wasn't any reason why I'd be down the street. After that a couple of friends that I haven't seen in a while saw me at the scary bar too. Same thing. We finally came back. I drank more. That's about it. I want to call the Mexican /Techno bar right now and ask them if they have music, and ask them if they can accommodate a party of two hundred.

Lick It. Goodbye.

I'll Post ABout Pooing In The Mexican Techno Bar When I Get Back From Robbing/Going To The Bank...

Her Melly-ness over at Coffee For One will send you kitty pictures. You should send her some art or pictures or toys or something for her new desk at work. You better be nice to her too because she's, like, a nurse or something, and she'll spit in your drip bag / I.V. thing if you're rude and she meets up with you in a hospital. Her and Amy Choppa are also my internet fiancees. Yup, this summer we're gonna throw a Utah / Internet / three-way marriage party. Boz needs to register with the Universal Life Church and to start thinking up what he's going to say in the ceremony. Gifts will be nice. Yup.

Kevynn The Giant Has A Posse...

Damn tired. I may have to write more later today. I just plum tuckerd out. It is nice when friends stop by the bar and get loose. Buy drinks, buy drinks. Everybody should buy drinks. It's the law. I make it so. The art show was awesome. I might have sold a painting. I got really drunk. So did others. We gave a homeless man a bottle of wine and then he got arrested. My girlfriend had to poo and the art gallery ran out of toilet paper, so I accompanied her to a scary Mexican techno bar...

I'll explain more later...too tired.

But, I do have a question though. If you had to drink one alcoholic drink for the rest of your life, what would it be? Human blood doesn't count, either. It has no alcohol content. Well, unless it's my blood...

Today Is Lucy's Birthday. She is One Year Old. She Is A Dog. I Shook Her Paw Today And Told Her That She Looked Pretty...

Her Raymi-ness, needs some money. You should send it to her. She tells me that she'll give me a cut if you do, or at least we can smoke some cigarettes together. I should go to one of her parties someday, but only if she pays attention to me and hooks me up with drinks. She spelled my name, wrong - but that's okay, because she's Raymi.

Hey, Bubbas. My art show is comin' up and I'm gonna get loose as a goddamn goose. I hope somebody wants to buy something. That would be nice, wouldn't it? Ice cream for everybody then. The doorbell just rang and I yanked open the door and gave a hail Satan sign. It was a girl selling newspaper subscriptions. I apologized and I told her that I thought that she was one of my friends. She kept on looking at my blue nail polish. I think I freaked her out. I'm really friendly to door-to-door people. I think that freaks them out also. Like the two old men who wore Amish-style hats the other day. When they gave me their stupid pamphlet, I thanked them and told them that I would read it. And I would if I could dig it out of the trash without getting dirty. I just gave the girl a donation that I know that she'll pocket. I also gave the guy playing the guitar in front of my work some money for some booze/food. I also tipped the guy who filled up our propane tank at the gas station last night for our barbeque. When he was filling it up, he asked Joe and I something, but we both couldn't understand him. I heard the word finals and started talking to him about the Lakers. He looked sad and said in his Engrish that he was talking about finals for school. Oops. No. Joe and I. We did. My girlfriend does, so I talked to him about Long Beach State. I know absolutely nothing about L.B.S.U. But I still talked about how nice the weather is on campus. Like I know. Tipped him though, cuz' he was a bad ass. He was like the ninja of propane tank refueling. I wanted to smoke and blow everybody up, but there was meat waiting at home - so I didn't.

Say hi to me at the show tonight at Urban Eclectic. Four doors down from The Glass House concert venue. Starts at 8 p.m. Goes til midnight? I'll be looking drunk and bewildered...

Rhubarb Madness By Tom Schmitt...

Atop a small hill, sun sinking behind the hills, carbon dioxide choking the quiet twilight, Beaker was speaking to Prof. Honeydew, wearing nothing but his wiley charms, and Bunson became enraged. That vein, (yes, that one) bulged from Bunson's felt, pale melon, as his eyes reddened, his fingers gripped themselves, creating the fist-phenomena. A cricket sang softly. A fly buzzed, unabashed.
I ask you this, I put forth this motion....
Beaker, unaware of his strange affectations, continued on, high-pitched "Meeps" cascading out in flush, harsh sound waves. See them, watch them, in wonder, wandering through the air. They float, ever-falling as gravity takes them, and crushes them in it's grip. Changing as the air infuses itself within their very core. They collide with Bunsons ear, annihilating the anvil, harrassing the hammer, eating the equilibrium, until the Professor is near hysterics, we watch as he's about to speak, to push forth spiteful syntax, belittling Beaker for his unknowing actions. Restraint prevails, however, at least for now....
"...As time stands still, the soul continues... " speaketh Beaker beautifically.
"...er...."
"...like descending through space, only easier, open-minded, merging with ions and eros, eclipsing the earth, breathtaking and bungling, a baby aware of the womb and rejecting it for a pentohouse overlooking the New York skyline as city lights wink out rousing the wake to slumber...."
"...eh...."
"...nature rejecting the moment for fear of acceptance, for tears of reluctance, for jeers of soaring crowds ripe with disease and putrifaction, stinking like a three-day-old cold, shining oil-like atop the surface of water..."
"...en...."
Beaker relinquishes, the subtle lisp fading.... Bunson stammers on.... and on.. and... on. ......

Kicking Picasso In The Nuts...

Today there were about thirty cheerleaders taking pictures in the park across the street from my house. Maybe I shoud've invited them to barbeque tomight. I'm going to be featured in art exhibit tomorrow night. I was a talking to a girl at a bar last night while she was ordering her drinks and looked ahead and saw a flyer with my name on it. That was kinda freaky, the girl didn't believe that it was me, she said that it was a girl's name, so I started to dig around in my wallet for proof. I don't have breasts. It is not a girl's name. I should've asked her to show me her penis.

Samson...

I got a haircut today.
I always hated haircuts when I was a little kid.
My father would get pissed at me and demand that I got a crew cut because my hair grows at an alarming rate.
If I was a member of the X-Men, my mutant power would be uncanny hair growth.

I'd be known as bushy crotch boy.

Fist Full Of Boom Stick...

I have an art gallery showing on Saturday night. How that I happened, I don't know. I don't paint much. One painting every six months, maybe. And I give them all away. But my friends are all talented, and Ryan asked if I had anything, so, I'll have four things at the show. If you're around Pomona, email me and let me know. Keep your knives at home. Thermo nuclear detonators are okay. I’ll be the drunk guy shrugging my shoulders.

I need to call my brother back. I really lag at calling people back. It's remarkable that people still talk to me. You might as well put a message in a bottle and throw it into the sea. You'd get a quicker response that way, mate.

I met a guy who works on a cable show too. I need to call him. Maybe I can write skits or act in his productions. I washed my car today. I went to the comic book store and picked up some free X-Men and Batman stuff for the Mexican worker's kids at my job. I found nothing for myself, fuckers. I rented Catch Me If You Can, The Ring, and The Legend Of Ron Jeremy. I had a lot of fines at the video store, but the guy knocked off sixteen dollars. Why, I don't know. People do stuff like that for me sometimes. Even the kids at the library knock off my fines. Maybe I have a slight mutant power? Maybe people pity me? Last week when I saw X-Men, one of the kids carried my cokes all of the way to my seat. Maybe I'm a good talker. Shit, I would hope that I had a better way with words than with writing. Otherwise? Mr. Hemingway? Please pass the shotgun.

Oh. About my brother. He's 32 and lives in Kentucky, but is going to move soon this summer to Phoenix. He's like a bigger version of me, but with bushy eyebrows. I don't think that you could ever have a brother more different than you. But we both appreciate fart humor and like beer. I forgive him for being the ultimate asshole that he was when I was growing up. He's cool now. You mellow out when you're balding. So, if my brother moves closer to California, this means that I'll at least be able to see one member of my family, right?

My younger sister wants me to visit Austin in early July. I hope that I can, I miss her a lot. In times past, we were inseparable. But she had to move to Texas with my father when she was still in high school. I think that we both suffered for not being around each other. I raised her and she's always been the only girl who I kept in the back of my mind while doing something wacky and crazy. While she was here, she was the only person that kept me from dangling off of a cliff or racing down some freeway. I've had to learn to be a more responsible person without the benefit of her being here, and she has too. I feel that we've missed out on a lot, but the core connection is still around. We still have a horrible sense of humor, and appreciate a good fart joke here and there. Do you see what my family was like growing up, folks?

Damn, I can't concentrate. I think that we're all going to watch the Laker game at my house tomorrow. Maybe I can give you a play by play. Not of the game, but of my freaky friends fiendish actions. Maybe there will be a couple of guest posts. Maybe not. Maybe they'll all get me drunk and take me to the comic book store instead. Maybe? Maybe I'll get a call on that new job? And then I'll be a semi-wealthy guy and get back on track and then I can pay for all of you to come to a BBQ at my house.

I hope you like strippers.

I Want You To Curse Me As Hard As You Can...

Curse club, baby.
Tell me off.
Because, we all deserve to be put down sometimes, I think.

And if your imagination fails you, try to work through the alphabet, or just see how many words this commenting system will take.

P.S. I humped your mom. Yes, I did.