Hey Hey Hey...

Dwayne is crying on Raj's shoulder.
Even Shirley's sad too.
Dee isn't because she's a scheming, little bitch.

Where's The Secret Formula?...

Orson Scott Card. Jessica Simpson. Adam Langlois. Selina Kyle. George Little. Alfred Pennyworth. Warren Ellis. Charles Bukowski. Gladys Horn. Ash. Vox. Man Or Astroman. Wrist Action. Hannah The Cat. Fight Club. Sindy. Kerouac. Dean Martin. Gummy Worms. Hermione. Kit Fisto. Charlie Kaufman. The Dalai Lama. D.L.M. Shawdy. Wesley Crusher. Bruce Lee. The Trolley Car Family. Hunter S. Thompson. Elijah Snow. Victor Von Doom. The Kelly Affair. Elizabeth Hurley. Mallory Knox. Irvine Welsh. Stephen King. Rob Mullen. Large Mouth Bass. Precipitation. Egon Spangler. Willy Wonka. David Hammamoto. Shane Brooks. Theseus. Carl Sagan. Joe. Buddha. Gombe National Preserve. Clarence Whorley. Demi Moore. Beezus. Hokey Pokey Elmo. Las Vegas. Beer. Boz. Benjamin Grimm. Sonny Chiba. Bruce Campbell. Calvin And Hobbes. Socrates. Flintstones Vitamins. Marvin Gaye. Daffy Duck. Sundried Tomato Deviled Eggs. Werewolves. Blank Paper. Tomorrow. Sleep.

Enter The Dragon...

You would think -
by now...
I would've picked up some HTML, eh?

Five seconds Of Amusement...( NO. This Has Nothing To Do With My Sex Life. )

Kevynn Malone is a Human-Sized Dragon that can Fly, is Radioactive, carries a Samurai Sword, and has a Massively Swollen Skull. Strength: 3 Agility: 11 Intelligence: 13 To see if your Giant Battle Monster can defeat Kevynn Malone, enter your name and choose an attack: fights Kevynn Malone using Strength Agility Intelligence

Crab A Locker Fishwife Pornographic Priestess Boy You Been A Naughty Girl You Let Your Knickers Down....

Off to Home Depot to buy a new back door,
because I accidentally kicked a hole through mine on Saturday night.
Ummm...yeah. Goblin.

Space...

Thank you for giving me a bit of your time today. I realize that it's precious. I just wanted to blab on for a bit before bed. This is my little moment tucked away especially for myself before the dreams and nightmares start and before the birds outside get up. Before things to do and before Saturday sits on my head or either caresses me like a mother does a baby. Twenty-four hours ago I was asleep. Three hours later I would be driving through the fog on a dark street, following a line of red brake lights. They were going to their jobs and I was going to my new part time job. Aerospace parts for NASA, Boeing, The Air Force. Blargh. Yeah. They need a writer. Hmmm. I was puffing way at a rare early morning cigarette. I usually don't smoke during the day. The window was down. I was cold but it was pleasant in a punishingly vibrant way. Howard Stern was on, and so was my mind. Where the hell was I? Was I going to get lost again? What if I get in an accident? What am I doing? Why do I want another job? Why don't I have one, good one? 6-9:30 pm. Lost in an office. Working. Not comfortable being in the position of not-yet-comfortable. Learning new stuff on the computer or having to relearn stuff that I've done only once on the computer. I drive home tired. Get to rest with my girlfriend a half hour before I have to get up to iron a different shirt for the other job. I stood next to a senator as he was talking to Arnold Schwarzenegger. I didn't even know until afterwards. I would've loved to say something - but, like I could've.

I run around like crazy, and have small slices of conversations with people. A tiny amount that I actually like and care about and the others that I talk to on fake robot mode. The people that we've al been forced to serve or interact with that scare me. They scare me because I realize that we spend a major portion of our lives being not ourselves. That we craft answers based on or according to another's conversations, questions or responses. That even if our mind is elsewhere - thinking of the important stray thoughts - that we're nodding heads, and pretending to laughs because, either - we might not want to be rude or hurt the other person's feelings, or that we're in an environment in which our welfare depends on the illusions of communication even though the other person knows nothing really about you and that you wouldn't really be able to talk to them about any of the things that you find important.

After all of this, I go back home. In my car with the broken window I think about one of the girls that works at the comic book store and how when I walked in yesterday - she looked like she was either sick or crying. She was sad. A friend with health problems. Other friends were experiencing bad luck also. I talked to her about. It was a nice, meaningful, and pleasant moment. Both came out of it...not with their heads higher, but maybe just a little bit better. Don't know. But right about when she rang up one of the comics and then we talked about it and how she bought it too and about how one couldn't go wrong with a little Alan Moore writing about Cthulhu stuff. I thought that wouldn't it be cool to be friends with her? I mean, I'm not attracted to her or anything. Don't get me wrong. I have a girlfriend that I love and who's asleep on the couch behind me thinking happy bunny thoughts, college nightmares, and about taking road trips with me. But the comic book girl would be really cool to have around. She's not even a scary comic book girl. She doesn't weigh three hundred pounds and have a pink mohawk. Just a bunch of tattoos and a high tolerance for really nerdy, heavy-breathing, bad-hygiene, balding bastards. It was nice to think that there are sometimes, still interesting people around. I think that you just have to search for them a little bit more than we used to. Back in the day, I know, they used to fall from the sky. A long time ago.

I have to go back at 4:30. Two new young guys are waiting for me to train them. First thing I said was that I didn’t know that they were new employees, that I thought that they were a bunch of Mormons. This is what happens when you meet me folks. All of that type of shit just comes vomiting out of my mouth. But I don't care, I'm not rude - just really bad sitcom-ish. All of the things and all of the wasted time. All of the things that I could've been doing. Walking back and forth to pass the time. Not invigorated. Not excited. Being polite. Blah Blah. Not real stuff. No discussions about nature, space, dolphins, books. No random thought conversations. Just a bunch of waiting-for-the-clock type of drivel.

Time to go to the store, and then home. Have a nice time with the Israeli student that works at the corner store from my work. Drive home. Remembering this morning’s fog. Will the world allow me to continue on? To shoot questions at crumbling skeet from passing ships? The day was filled, even when hectic, even when frenzied - with ?'s and !'s. With love and hate. With helplessness and ferocity. I had a good shower. I played with a kitty. I talked to friends about what I missed out on in my day. What they did. What I did. What I did that they didn't do. The money and the hours accumulated are always an afterthought with me. It's never an issue or a necessity until I need it or it's needed of me. I read. I watched a movie sluggishly. A movie that nobody liked eventually started to get some focus when I realized that this was a thoughtful movie. No wonder nobody got it. I still didn't know what I was getting. It just made me think. Every once in a while, we find these by accident. Sometimes, they're no masterpieces - but define a masterpiece, Jackson Pollack? What makes sense to you, Mr. Hawking? What's funny, Mr. Izzard? I don't know. I just know what I feel. Sometimes, that don't even cut the cheese, Hoss.

And now, about in an hour, twenty-four hours ago. My alarm would start to go off. And I'd be thinking about the day ahead of me...and how I wished that I could just get more sleep, stay home, and try to write things like this...

I hope this makes sense tomorrow.

Senorita, I Fell For You...

Second time listening to the new Justin Timberlake album today, and I've barely been home. That means I listened to it this morning, and am listening to it now. Ummm...What do you think about that? Huh? I can take it, c'mon...this from the guy who listens to Atari Teenage Riot a lot. And that's all I have to say about that...

Tootie...

Remind me to not stress. To just calm down. To not worry so much. To buck up. To get my ass in gear. To focus. To rekindle the ferocity of smoldering fires. To not take my girlfriend for granted. To work harder. To write even more. To paint a picture at least once a month. To eat better. Floss daily. To not pay attention to celebrity gossip. To answer the phone. To be strong. To not live in fear. To kick ass. To take names. Remember phone numbers. To not waste water. Aim high. Pat myself on the back. To stay original. To be kind. To shake hands firmly. To establish eye contact. To carry a pocket knife. Learn new recipes. Drink light beer. To give the benefit of the doubt. To be financially responsible. To buy more toys. To take care of my car. To think forward. To remember the past. To be mindful of the present. To Free Tibet. To paint my toenails. To be or not to be. To pay more attention to my footwear. To pick up that tuxedo on Saturday early. To have a good time. To not keep out movies so late. To read like I used to. To skateboard again. To not break my ankle again. To get health insurance. To pitch my screenplays. To publish a book. To not rescue anymore cats. To watch Jeopardy tonight. To the moon, Alice.

Toodeloo...

As Of Today...

If I was any book title, I'd probably be this one...

Is It Such A Good Idea To Remake Some Things?...

The newfangled version of the Time Machine with Guy Pearce is playing in the background. Last night I watched Willard with Crispin Glover. Starring Crispin Glover. I have a tape of his poetry, you know. He makes me look normal. I also rented Solaris starring George Clooney, which is a remake also. And now I think that I'm going to go smoke, maybe get another beer, end this thing, maybe write another thing, and not accomplish any of the real writing that I wanted to do today.

I've seen this before, I think.

Best Phone Messages Of The Day...

Hi Kevynn, this is Courtney. I was wondering if you've seen Jen - we seem to have lost her tonight and don't have any idea where she is. We can't find her at any of the bars. She got away from us somehow. If you see her...ummm, tell her to call us or you call us or something. Thanks. Goodbye.

and...

Hey, Kev - It's Joe. I just wanted to let you know that I got the guns for you and I want to drop them by your house...oh, shit - maybe I shouldn't say this on a cell phone. This sounds bad. TOY guns. Ummm...okay. Later.

Hit Points...

So, It's Friday again. What am I going to do besides help build water wells for third world countries? That's on Friday, then I have to fly back on Saturday to meet with the Dalai Lama and see what we can do about the decimation of the Tibetan culture. Sunday morning, I'm organizing another homeless shelter in downtown L.A., and then later that night, I bartend.

What are your plans this weekend?

I've got nothing better to do...can I come along?

What are you doing?

Dude...

...

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.

Action!

Your Mission...

Should you choose to accept it,
is to write to Cartoon Pig.
Not for encouragement.
I think that it'll just make him crazier.

And that's good enough.

The Hills Are Alive...

I'm a little bit worried. Today, I gave the bored security guy outside of my bank the only source of reading material that I had in my car - an US magazine with J-lo on the cover, AND last night I rented The Sound Of Music and was singing like Julie Andrews all day at work.

A little bit worried?

More like a little bit gay, I think.

Kissing Chaos...

Dude. You go ahead and post for me.

( make it interesting, damnit. )

And...

if you were The Elephant Man - I'd still come over to your house or your hospital room, and I'd bring enough beers for both you and me, and then I'd make fun of you a lot because that's what friends do. I wouldn't try to get you to go out because I would understand. I'd smuggle you stuff. Porn. Olson Twin dvds. National Geographic. Justin Timberlake's album. I'd punch the hell out of you when I was drunk. Even in your misshapen head, because that's what friends do - they beat the shit out of each other when they're bored. I'd talk Star Wars with you. I'd make sure that you slept right, so that you didn't die.

That's what I would do.

Mortons Salt...

It's colder. Rain seems like a possibilty now instead of a distant wish. My car window is still broken. Who wants to take bets on the impending precipatation vs. my inabilty to get my window fixed so that it can go up? I picture a soggy ride in my future. What do I do if it starts to rain when I drive? I either have to get this fixed or buy some galoshes.

Yes, I did just say galoshes.

Galoshes.

Dude...

Totally came home drunk last night and wrote the bitchinestestest post ever.

Dude, and I like, totally erased it or sumthin' cuz it's not here, bro.

Dude, that like, sucks, dude.

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.