Lucy?...

Please stop pulling away that football before I kick it, you bitch...

Carbonite...

San Diego. Hotel. Getting drunk. Jumping from one bed to the other with my butt in the air. The slowest taxi cab drive ever to downtown. Dancing. Taxi cab drive back. Standing in the drive thru lane of the only open food place in Chula Vista. Taking pictures with the girls in the car behind us. J peed on her leg. Regretting eating the Mexican food. Downtown again. Visiting a friend. Getting drunk. I hate football. I hate football fans. I love Irish bars with Irish bands and dancers clapping and clogging away. I love Radiohead. I love being escorted in the back of a cart to the concert from the parking lot and my girlfriend almost falling off. I love driving home fast. I do not love being broke. I love you.

Henry And Beezus Have Been Replaced By Nick LeShay And Jessica Simpson...

I was at the library today to pay a $28.00 fine. I'm always paying those, and yes, I know that it's a lot of money, so shut it. I decided to get the latest Harry Potter book. I haven't been in much of a hurry to read it. He's my twin brother y' know. I went downstairs to the children's library. It's nice. Clean. Computers, couches, and the whole deal. The lucky bastards. So, I went up to the very, very short help desk and asked one of the ladies if they had a copy in. I was afraid that she was going to ask me if it was for my kid, but hey, it's a Harry Potter book, it's not like when I was checking out the Anne Of Green Gables books. That's embarrassing. While she was looking in the back for a copy of the book, I wanted to see what books that they had by Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume. There were a lot of Cleary, and a small selection of Blume stuff. I was happy that kids still must be reading those books. I loved those growing up. I opened a couple to see how the pages, the size of the print and the pictures looked to me now. It was weird. Yes, the words were larger than I remember, I remembered some of the interior art. Ramona wasn't as cool as I remember. I didn't know that there were three Runaway Ralph books, either. Hmmm...and I didn't know that the person who wrote Charlotte's Web also wrote the Stuart Little books.

I got my book, and headed for the stairs, feeling - I don't know. Not sad or nostalgic. Wistful? My head was full of kid thoughts and questions as I limped slowly up the stairs with my bad ankle and my bad knees, and I stopped myself as I approached the check out section. I just realized that I had been muttering to myself out loud. Something about where my car was parked outside, and I started to laugh. Because how old am I? Limping slowly up the stairs, and then talking to myself in a library? That was funny. Jesus Christ. What the hell was that all about?

Then I stopped laughing because that's not old - that's just insane.

I cleared my throat, smiled at the check out lady, gave her my two comic book graphic novels and one Harry Potter book, she gave them back to me, and I left.

Happy...and trying not to limp.

Jwaiswhfbfnsidsipdsij...

Never, ever let me fal asleep again, okay?

G.I. Joe vs. The Transformers...

What a revoltin' development. I've hard many hard assignments in the past. Horrible magazine shite due, Interviews to be transcribed, papers, high school assignments for beer money, etc. But this one takes the cake. I have to write about yo' mama's sex life. No. I am writing a paper on sexism for my sick girlfriend. I could've started it earlier, but I was too busy making Vox, Pineapple with a touch or cran drinks for Joe as we barbecued a bunch of meat. I wrote a bunch of brainstorming crap, then started and stopped a million times. I swear, I have probably writen more things fof other people's schoool assignments than my own. And I always get the crap subjects. Write a monologue based on Sherlock Holmes perspective. Write about a famous graphic designer. Interview AFI. Write about local concert promoters. Sexism. CRAP. CRAP. CRAP. Maybe this is why...why what? I don't know. All that I know is that I'm at least half way through on this sexism paper for my girlfriend and it's past three in the morning. This is no different, but at least when I'm up at this time usually, I'm playing Star Wars Galaxies or writing about crotch-kicking, beer, or comic books. Trust me, that's a lot more fun. Not as smart - but a lot more fun, folks. I would love it if I could combine all of those elements. Drinking beer and reading comics while kicking somebody in the Netherlands - I mean, nether regions.

Damn.
Does this mean I have to go now?
Sexism?
Crap.

Written In My Backyard. Now. Just A Cigarette Ago. Wheee!...

It seems that now, my time is measured more by the clock than it ever was before. I used to write in these notebooks everyday after work, before parties, during nothing, after....but usually alone. In a crowd. Always. These notebooks of mine are more of an appeasement of the nostalgia gods now, then for the appeasement of the mind-madness gods that used to rule my life. Some of it's still there. But the majority of the old-school craziness is gone. Some facets have been squashed. Some are still lurking. Cancerous, in the back of mind-cave, Gollum-like. Some have thrived, and the spores have created new homes, festering themselves through new sores. Only seeping out when the time allows.

I miss you, notebook. Even though my inability to accurately convey thoughts remains the same - I feel listful, and long for the days when I could glance down at the paper and be amazed by my devil hands. Pages flipped. Ink scrawled. Furious. Wonderful. Madness. Computers. Increasing responsibilities. Newfound love and age bodyslams the Hulk Hogan of the hands. Writing this is like watching the first four WrestleManias on 99 cent-rented VHS tapes. Was I ever so wide-eyed, energetic and innocent? Am I now growing so old that I'm asking imaginary Andre The Giant's, Haiti Kids', and Iron Sheik's questions?

Because when it all boils down to it - the fact that I'm still doing this, while the bombs fly overhead and the lichen grows underneath my soul/soles - it means that I'm still ready to defend my title, Mean Gene.

Still ready to piledrive your scrawny ass.

Let's wrestle.

Rawrrrr!

Theo Huxtable's Best Friend...

Tonight I saw a cockroach the size of a baby. Not here. Somewhere else.

When I was young, I saw a cockroach jump off of a roof.

In one of my first apartments, I threw off my jacket and hopped in the shower. I was in a hurry. As I was out the door, I put my jacket back on. I felt something like a long hair on the back of my neck and grabbed at it with my hand, and then it moved towards my chin.

Some fly.

Some drive.

Some crank call you.

Some dig in your trash for persoanl infornation to be used for identity crimes.

I hate them. They scare the crap out of me. Now I'm paranoid.

Thanks alot, baby-sized cockroach.

Digital Hardcore...

Yeah, like you care what I did today.
I'm writing like a seventeen yr. old...god I hate my brother, Blaine is cute.
Or should I say hez a qt bcz he iz da bst in da wrld brb.
Nothing against seventeen yr. olds. They're superduperubercool, aight?

See, I'm so old, that I don't even know how to do the whole internet lingo thing. Crap, I didn't even know what BFF meant, how am I supposed to know about all that other stuff?

Crap, now I don't want to write this anymore.

My back/neck is still all messed up from sneezing the other morning. No wonder Frankenstein killed that little girl - he got sick of having to turn his head all stiff-like to look at her. The girlfriend lost her keys on Saturday night. So, I spent time looking for them. Nothing turned up. I'm giving it two more days until I get a new lock for the front door. Her car is her deal, though. I don't know what to do about that. So, if you don't hear from me after Thursday, it means that somebody snuck in and chopped off our heads. Shit, I shouldn't laugh about that. That's not funny. Me with no head is funny. Her is not. What kind of sentence is that? Her is not. Do I write like Frankenstein now too? You're saying, now? You've always written like the living dead, Kev. Whatever. Pshaw.

I stopped by famous-rock-star-Tony's house and made him go to the library with me. Suprisingly I didn't get anything. Not even a comic book graphic novel. Maybe the fact that the stuff that I turned in will cost me about twenty bucks in overdue fees had something to do with it. Then I went to the hardware store for no reason what-so-ever. I already knew that I was going to give it a couple more days. So why was I there? Urmmm...don't know, I just was.

Then after that I found myself driving in the direction of the toy store. I hadn't planned on going in that direction, and had to turn around. Unconditioned responses people. Watch out for them. Then I went to stop by a pottery/plant place to get more pots. The damn new kitty, Spyder - keeps on breaking all of the pots in the house. Stopped by a fiend - I mean, friend's house. Nobody home. Had the urge to get some chicken. Had the urge to go in and ask them if they had any open positions.

- What position would you like to apply for?

Chicken choker, please.

Wound up at Tower Records/Books. I've been trying not to buy anything recently and have done extremely well. I have so much stuff to get to at home, I shouldn't really be adding more words to the home-mix til' I get through some of it. I rationalized that I could get a small paperback if it was cheap. I get frustrated at book/video rental/and music stores because I spend a lot of time at home thinking about things that I have to get, and then when I'm actually at a store my mind draws a blank and I end up wandering around aimlessly. Yeah, like an old man. Yeah, like Frankenstein. Yeah, like Boo-Berry. Yeah, like Count Chocula. Yeah, like the Groovy Goulies.

- Stop it, Kevynn.

Stop what?

- Stop rambling. Don't be an idiot.

What? Shut up. You're the idiot. Stop talking to me. Stupid-voice-in-my-head-always-man. Why're you always picking on me?

- Oh...I don't know. I guess I can't resist that big ol' target painted on your head.

Hey, voice...you hear that?

- huh? Hear what?

Nothing.

- Wait. What? I don't hear anything!

Exactly. ( sound of a door slamming. Locks being turned, dead bolts, etc. )

Then I had dinner with my girlfriend's mom.

Now I'm having a beer and finishing this story.

And maybe I'll read some of my new book.

I was going to tell you what it was, but I can't find it now. I lost it already.

Doh, said Homer.

I Just Erased What I Wrote Here Before...

I spilled my Mimosa on my foot.
I sang Part Of Your World from The Little Mermaid at Karaoke last night.
I should be getting ready for work.
I should be shot.
I have to go now.
I love you.

Danse Macabre...

I hate politics and hate writing about them more, so this is about as political as I get. I wish that all of this California Government crap would end. By now, I don't even care about who gets to be governor. Larry Flynt should just film a porno with all of the rest of the candidates. What would that accomplish? Nothing, I guess. But I've always had a thing for Gary Coleman.

I wish Stephen King could be governor. I know that he lives in Maine. But he'd be great. The governor's mansion would look like The Haunted Mansion from Disneyland. He would tell scary stories instead of giving boring speeches. His bodyguards would be two-hundred pound rabid dogs.

That would be cool.

He'd have my vote.