Wondering...

What if Tim Burton directed a remake of To Kill A Mockingbird?
Who would he cast as Boo Radley?
Besides Johnny Depp, I mean...

Super Nein...

Sometimes I don't feel like doing anything,
and then I have days like today in which I don't -
and it makes me wish that I did...

Sometimes I wake up, and I'm falling asleep, And I think that maybe the curtains are closing on me, But I wake up, Yes I wake up, Smiling. Sometimes I feel that the chance is surprising, Surprisingly good to be moving around, So I wake up, Yes I wake up, Smiling. So what? I feel fine, I'm OK, I've seen the lighter side of life, I'm alright, I feel good, So I'll do, I'll try to stop moving, Sometimes I wake up, and I'm falling asleep, And I've got to get going so much that I wanted to do, Yes I wake up, Smiling. And this could be my last chance, This may be my only chance, Yeah this could be my last chance, No more keeping my feet on the ground. Sometimes I feel that the chance is surprising, Surprisingly good to be moving around, And I move, And I wake up, Smiling. So what? I feel fine, I'm OK, I've seen the lighter side of life, I'm alright, I feel good, So I'll do, well it's time to stop moving. And this could be my last chance, This may be my only chance, Yeah this could be my last chance, No more keeping my feet on the ground. There's nothing to keep me, Nothing to keep me.



I am convinced that someday, a team of historians will spend years going through every single toy, drawing, scrap of writing, piece of junk, etc. to somehow dissect my grand life. They'll categorize everything, hoping, someday, to put it all on display. "Kevynn Malone's Pez Collection", "Nudie Drawings", "Nail Polish"...things like that.

They'll read through those forty notebooks that I have molding away in the garage, they'll unearth every file on my computer. My clothing will be purchased by a young, snotty actor and worn to holo-movie premieres. Gothic teens will scribble away Malone verses on their holo-Pee Chee folders during Economics. My great, granddaughter will be an old woman and refuse to speak to historians, fans, and the press. She'll never leave her mansion and silently curse my existence for the burdens that my brilliance bestowed upon her.

My house will be declared a historical landmark, and through photographs - it will be painstakingly recreated to look like it does today. Maybe they'll even make a movie about me, but they'll get all of the facts wrong. They'll jumble things together and kind of throw in a galactic predicament to heighten the drama. Paper cuts, break ups, and fuck ups aren't enough, I guess. They'll throw in Satan and a gay interior decorator too. Just because.

My image will be on t-shirts sold on the internet, people will dress like I do now, the glasses that I wear will finally come back in style. Poverty will be too. Fans will want to stay true to my works and live like a deaf, Chinese immigrant.

Somebody will write a book on Star Wars - but will write it based on what I thought about it. There will be Essays on Malone's Essays on Chewbacca's homosexuality. What'll happen to my comic book collection? Where will it end up? Why, at Leroy's Boy Home, that's where. Poor, beaten, disadvantaged children will be able to check out my issues only if they've been good and remember to not smear dirt on the pages of my old Amazing Spidermans.

They'll wonder, they'll write, ponder, theorize, oh, yes they will, as to what went on in my head, and how beautiful and adventurous it must've been to live my life - oh, what was it like to live his life? I wish my life was that exciting, they'll say...

Why did he have to die?, kids will cry! Young girls will do secret things to themselves after the lights have gone out and the parents are asleep. My face will lull their aching bodies into peaceful dreams. High school jocks will tell anybody with one of my books about how I was a necrophiliac, homo, and a pussy, and that only dorks read Malone. After practice, they'll read me quietly in their room and get the same feeling in their crotch that the young girls above this sentence did.

Bob Dylan will write a song about me - he'll still be alive. It won't reach the top of the charts, though... just because. People will drink my beer of choice just because I did, and because they're idiots. They'll pretend to like it too, even if it tastes just like water. People will unmotivate themselves on purpose and lie back and fantasize about some of the same things that I do. Simians, solitude, and secret passageways. They'll start losing their hair and starve themselves, they'll take up skateboarding and then break their ankles jumping out of cars when drunk so that they can't skate anymore. They'll also look up my sister Sindy, and read all of the stories that she published, they'll get tidbits about me here and there when reading her stuff and wonder what it must have been like to be the sibling of one so sad and mad all at the same time? What must of it of been like to share the same genes? To have all of that fire burning through your veins? His blood and thoughts were like the best heroin, his limbs were like silly putty. His grammatical syntax was shite.

I heard that he always longed for a dog, but ended up with countless homeless cats, I heard that he always wanted a bow and arrow set like he had when he was a kid, he always wanted a big, ol' box of toothpicks and a ton of wood glue too! That's just what I heard. I don't know why. He could never find enough time to do all of the things that he wanted, I read somewhere. Half of his time was spent daydreaming and being a kid while the other half accomplished smatterings of productivity sporadically. Sometimes he wrote weird sentences too!

I am convinced that someday, they will know me a little.

I am convinced that someday, I will too.

Hand Grenades...

You remember that movie, Pay It Forward? Yeah, I barely do either. I remember that Kevin Spacey looked like Mel Gibson in that one movie where he looked like hell, and that kind of reminds me of Vanilla Sky when Tom Cruise also looked like hell.

So, does that mean that I was just given The Looks Like Hell Award by Cheeks? No, actually it was nice of Cheeks to nominate me and he had some really cool things to say about my writing, and I'm touched all the way down to my crotch about it. Serious, doody. He's one of my daily reads and I'm honored. Thank you.

So, this means that I have to and tell you about somebody that I like or think that deserves praise. Zeus is out. Professor X? No. Jenna Jameson? Well, yeah - but she can't count. And by that I mean that she really can't count. That was stupid. I apologize.

Ummm...okay. I like IA's blog. I think he's keen. Read him. He's funny. And when he rags on fat people, everybody gets mad at him. The end.

Cheers.

The Name's ASH...Housewares...Hee-Yah!...

I was a zombie bartender tonight. Zombies make better bartenders than ninjas because ninjas steal all of your cool stuff and slice you up with their swords. Zombies are slow, sure - but you can always trust them for a stiff drink - it'll just come twenty minutes after you ordered it.

I saw a couple break up at the bar too. A guy and a girl in a relationship - NOT zombies. Zombies disintegrating is so 2003. Anyway, that was a first. The guy left, and then the girl started crying, so I started giving her a back rub and peppering the back of her neck with baby kisses. No, I didn't do that. I gave her some tissues. Not cool. Whatever it was all about - I'm on the girl's side. But not if she's insane - then, otherwise - I'm on the guy's side. No. Actually, I'm not, because guys are hairy and smell real bad. Or so I've heard.

Gwen Stacey's Broken Neck...

End of a day.
Beginning of a weekend again.
Yoda senses much poker in your future, hrmmm?
I think that I should go to sleep.
I meant to go earlier, but that never happens.
Maybe I'll pop in that Wild West documentary, sip orange juice, and see what happens.
Maybe I'll just pop in The Empire Strikes Back like I always do, and picture all of the scenes in my head until I drift off.
I used to think about all of the arcade games that I would have in my room if I was rich when I was a little kid.
Or when I was a little older I would picture myself with superpowers.
Or I would imagine that I was famous.
Or I would imagine that I was trapped in a dungeon and had to crawl through a passage way...and found a roomfull of tall, Amazonian, sex-starved naked women who picked me up and took me to their leader...then she commanded them all to............

Supplement Facts...

After work I saw the homeless guy that I always talk to. The one with the silver briefcase that yells out loud sometimes in the street. He's a very nice guy the times that he remembers me. I just got a newspaper from the liquor store when he saw me...

Hey, man - how's it hanging? Got some change? Haven't seen you around for a while!

I told him that I'd been around, maybe we'd just been missing each other.

Hey, man - you lost some weight!

I told him, me? No way. I never lose weight. Really?

Yeah, hey - you look like you're thinner. You gotta eat more. Get yo'self a lady!

Ha! I've already gotta lady, though...

Hey, you can get yo'self another!

Sure. Okay. Well, here you go. Take it easy man.

Yeah, okay - you still bartending at that...

Uh huh. Right down the street. Waiting tables too.

Cool, man. Cool.

Okay, bye.

Yeah. You too.

And then as I walked away he yelled...

Yeah, oh yeah, you should take a nap too!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, New Game...



Say something to the person that commented before you.

Rancor...



I Hate Bartending...but I like the money.
I'm so hungry...but can't find anything to eat.
I'm so tired...but can't go to sleep.
I like cheese...and cheese likes me.

Don't Splash The Pot...

Ummm...too much poker last night. Texas Hold Em' til the sun came out, and I lost the hundred bucks that I had earlier won off of friends to another friend who showed up at 2 a.m. No fair. The bastard. It's like spending a long time making the perfect ice cream sundae and letting somebody else eat it while you sit and watch. Oh well, Bubbas - I still came up 29 dollars, and Chris owes me 40. Last time we played, Chris managed to break the cover off of my air conditioner, get sick, drop a full roll of toilet paper in the toilet, get punched repeatedly by me, and chip his front tooth. Poor guy. He's like me sometimes - he's got the luck of a street mutt. That was a stupid sentence. Now it's off to eat and drink a lot. And maybe play some poker. Watch. We will. I know it. I'll bet you a million dollars. Poo.