The Hydrant Was Going As Usual, And Paul Joined The Crowd. He Found Himself Soothed By The Cool Spray From The Water. He Waited With Eagerness For The Small Boy To Finish Fashioning His Paper Boat, And Enjoyed The Craft's Jolting Progress Toward Certain Destruction In The Dark, Gurgling Unknown Of The Storm Sewer...



Tonight, a 16 yr. old kid, sitting on a milk crate, told me that he was amazed at how much energy I had at work. I laughed. I don’t remember what I was doing. I think I screamed when a freezer kicked into wheezy submission or something like that. I catch the kid looking at me sometimes. Usually I’m doing something stupid or letting the shit fly out of my mouth because I have nothing else to do. Whatever flits from the lips, floats to the air and usually dies a dusty moth’s death. Stomp on all creatures my mind says, because there’s more aimless flight where that came from. This little kid has also told me that I’m funny. He’s asked me questions about myself. I’ve usually given him a bunch of responses best not repeated back to your mother and given more than many pearls of wisdom that even Jacque Cousteau wouldn’t even have the strength to dig up. No. He is not gay. He’s not even happy. Like I said…he sits. Gay guys don’t sit at work. They talk. They appreciate the background music. They move their hands around. He does not. Doesn’t matter. Gay or not. I think…that he thinks…THAT I’M COOL!?!?!?

Apparently this kid knows nothing. I’ve told him. I’m pretty honest. I’ve told him how, about, sometimes, the best of situations comes out of the worst of situations – like WORK. I tell him about how crappy things have always been and about how I don’t know how to do anything and can’t stop the THINKING. And how sometimes when you’re trapped and if you have the opportunity to give a little mishy mashy talky talk just to dull the silence of the air – you just do it, to quote NIKE. You’re half-insane anyway, you have no choice. Talk talk talk. Just don’t be annoying. My girlfriend doesn't really know how I exist outside of her world. She would both be amazed and pissed as to why I have that type of energy in the outside world and not at home. I suck at home. I'm boring. Mopey. Aching. Tired. sad. Frustrated. This is because I have a choice at home. I have many things to do. Little time. Many distractions. This frustrates me. It's like sticking a Cheetah in quicksand and then telling him you're chopping off his legs tomorrow. You go slowly go nuts. Don’t have the younger folk think that everything stupid that you did before is cool, either – it just IS. Not cool. Just...IS. It exists as fodder for stories and nothing else.

When that kid tells me that I don’t act my age and after you start telling him about how you always wanted to do a 21 Jumpstreet-type thing, but now you definitely can’t pass for a high-schooler, but how you would still hit on the little girls and the hot dance and P.E. teachers combined. The only I know is that this kid knows that there might be something different in the future for ones not yet in their twenties-there may be hope to age gracefully. This is the TRUE grace. To STILL be a sort of clever MORON. This is buying insurance when the dealer might hit Black jack. This is okay. This is not normal. This is okay. This is not normal. This is not the people that you will see at your high school reunions. This is it, said The Strokes. This is The End Of The World As We Know It, said REM. This is FILL In The BLANK. This is all I know. This is what I don't. Which is a little bit of everything. And whole lot of nothing.

But this is it. And it’s all you and me are going to get. We’ll spend the rest of our years learning, so why not break the damn dam and spew filthy beauty for the rest of your youthful years? Take your fingers out of the dike, you pervert, and just let what the hell you don’t know – flow.

Take pity on all of the young children who look up to you –

And then.........

Create a fucking army of them.

You Are My Density...

Watched most of the Back To The Future trilogy on cable today. I got my first real skateboard after seeing the first one in the theatres and used to watch it all of the time when it came out on video. I never really wanted to be Marty Mcfly, though. More Goerge than Marty. I could never be that short.

I wouldn't ever want to be around my parents when they were young either.

I just wouldn't.

They Would Want You To Enjoy What Is Before You...



Yes.
They would want you to realize the importance of your family gathering.
Yes.
They would want you to appreciate what you have to be thankful for.
Yes.
They would want you to help provide what is on the table before you.
Yes.
They would want you to pray to your god(s).
Yes.
They would want to be left alone.
Yes.
They know what works.
Yes.
They know what doesn't.
Yes.
They have a version of
Right
Yes.
and wrong
Yes.
They forgive us?
Maybe.

I wouldn't.

No way.

The only thing that you can do when you're ashamed about something that happened long ago that you didn't have anything to do with is to tell people that it SUCKED. HARD. Say SORRY. Let them know that other things went down besides Squanto/pilgrim/happy/no disease/no genocide crap...and make it better by talking about it. Hey Jude. Live the holidaze, but still realize that the only thing that makes these HALLMARKED occasions worth anything is YOUR OWN memories of good times. DON'T let some sappy ass or significant other tell you how IMPORTANT the holidays are and how you HAVE to DO THIS and how you HAVE to do THAT. Smile like a tourist. Don't be a party pooper. Roll with the flow. yeah. Say Hi. Deal with your own different family or NON family holiday obligatory craziness. BUT...man...if you get the opportunity to make it special? Great. BUT...Why now? What the hell have you been doing the rest of the year? Yes, T-Day is not as gift-giving and time-intensive as Christmas is, but - who cares? Both require too much effort. Whether your life is hard or a cake walk, you shouldn't appreciate the roadblock of prog or re gress ion. It's hard enough trying to be the saint of saints of the jack of asses without poopy doopyness cramping your style.

Take this from the guy that used to write holiday cards...

Be good.
Think like E.T.
Think like Julius from Pulp Fiction.
Be the Indians.
Be the White Man.
Be Ebeneezer Scrooge.
Be Bob What's-His-Name.
Be Luke.
Be Vader.
Be calm.

Be mindful.
Be safe.
Be sorry.
Be thankful.

Dylan and Dry Cedar...

Both the soft pop and crackles of the LP on the record player and of the burning logs in the fireplace are worthy of mentions in my cool book tonight.

Dean Martin 2008...



Kicked everybody out early because I felt like hell. Most people stayed home because it was too cold anyway. I actually got home early but then stayed up til an ungodly hour/almost daylight. Woke up early, felt horrible. Thoght about getting up and doing something, but mustv'e voted against it because I woke up at 4 pm! I hate vampires. When did I become a vampire? werewolves are much cooler. Then I raced like the rest of the lemmings in my car to pay the cable bill. O was too late for the bank. They closed at four. What kind of fucking bank closes at four? What if you have a normal fucking job. Soon, the only way you'll be able to bank is by phone. It is easier anyway. No lines. No dipfucks on cellphones in front of you. No paper.

I returned some things at the library. Looked for new comic books, but didn't feel like it. I did pick up some new scripts, though. Stopped by a friends house - but they never answer their door. I have a key and always let myself in. All they do is stay in their rooms. I just leave them messages on their chalkboards because it pisses me off that I have to be a ninja with a boombox just to get their attention. Ninja with a boombox?

I went to the liqour store. Bought a sixpack, peanuts, cornuts and thats it. If they had something else that ended with nuts, I probably would've bought it too. Some kids threw something at the window of the Iranian man's store. I came close to chasing them down, but I didn't. Coulda. Shoulda. Usually woulda. I get in enough trouble anyway.

The cats are both asleep.
Their day was good.

George R. Stewart...

You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.

When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.

You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of porno-type things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.

When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. I like vegetables. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally. How did Thanksgiving come so quickly? You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.

When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. I think I'm going out tomorrow. I have no idea what we're going to do. You arrive at work. I need to wrire REAL stuff. This is horrible crap. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.

When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. This is a hidden sentence. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. I think Renee Zellwegger looks like she got stung in the face by a bee. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.

When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. Poo. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally. Pee. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.

When you get home. Activities are road-blocked, slow, or just make the clock go at a spasmodic rate. Then it too late and you should probably be in bed. You accomplish nothing. You wake up tired, fuzzy-headed and with no focus except for getting to your car. You arrive at work. You spend most of the day doing things that you don't want to do. Still here? Be good. In between bouts of busy madness, you keep yourself sane by thinking of all of the things that make you happy and that you'll do when you get home finally.

Self, Remember To Go To The Bank And To Return Your Library Books Tomorrow...

The only thing worse than bartending one night a week is to bartend two nights a week. I just got done watching Y Tu Mama Tambien and all I want to do right now is to sleep with your mom. Or write nonsense. Okay. I'll cross that off. Done.

And The Whole Time I Was Standing In My Cat's Throw-Up...



I was just on the phone with a friend and he told me that while cleaning out his closet, he found about 1200 dollars worth of silver given to him in his last marriage. Pirate booty, indeed.

Anyway, this is very supercoolawesome because that means that when the Werewolves come - I have a place to go for ammunition.

Now all I need is for another friend to call me up and to tell me that he found some smelting equipment and then we're all set for the coming Werewolf Apocalypse.

This Is The House That Jack Built...

This is the guy you voted for last week.

It Smells In Here...

Really. It does. Bad. It can't be me - can it?

My god. Something's wrong...

This isn't right.

Please smell me and tell me if it's me.

Truman Burbank...

I'd like to go to sleep for a year. One straight year - uninterrupted - comfortable - waking up fully refreshed. It'd be interesting to see what's changed, what hasn't, and to throw one big party. I could speculate right now on what I think might be different - but I won't because I'm tired and I'm going to sleep...

Oh, Show Me The Way To The Next Wonka Bar...



I feel a little guilty about how easy my voting experience was yesterday. The place was about a five minute walk from my house, it was a beautiful day, no lines. I worked a double, so tried to get out of my day shift as early as I could - I made it with enough time to doze while Johnny Depp and Kate Winslet drank wine with Oprah. I have a friend who's working on Charlie And The Chocolate Factory right now out in London, or wherever the hell she is. Why am I not there too? Oh. Because I'm wasting my life - but I DID vote for the first time in my life today - that's excellent. Really. It is. I DO feel very happy about it. Too bad the The Dumb Little Son will win. If he doesn't, I'm going to throw a party.

I also lost a crapload of money playing poker last night. Luck hates me. I have a stack of comic books to my right ready to be sold on EBAY. This won't save me. Only Satan can.

Goodbye.

Dia De Los Leche...

xxx

Going here in a couple of hours for a friend's Halloween party. My friend's old band, Longfellow is playing too. I will be drunk and dressed as a Slim Jim. Tomorrow night too. My girlfriend's going to help me out behind the bar, and I'm giving away bottles of wine for costume prizes.

Sounds good.

Bacchus would agree.

Salt And Pepa's Here...

They're filming a Christmas movie right across the street from my house. They've been there all week, it's going to be on ABC on Dec. 4th, I think - or that's what the flier that they gave me said, at least.

I will get discovered.

I am stripping down right now and am getting the lawn mower primed and ready to go.

My glistening chest will look all the more sexy in the current rainy weather.

Wish me luck.

Fat Free Milk...

I guess I’m going to have to give up real writing. It seems like all I can do now is this fake stuff or the off the top of my head or the kind of planned topical crappy crap. Even though I have somebody waiting on screenplays from me.

It sucks. I need to get back to writing in notebooks if I still have a chance.

It would be hard to make a fortune doing this type of crap. It’s a dime a dozen. Short stories might work considering that I find them easier to write than bigger projects but I generally don’t like reading short stories. I think, because short stories seem like a cheating investment. Usually by the time you’re involved, the story’s over – and that always sucks. It’s probably just me. You can’t knock Twain, King, Hem, Carver and others. Who IS best known for brilliant short stories? I’ll ask around sooner or later.

How did I get so fucking lazy? Not only in writing but also in my life? Didn’t I used to be a lot more motivated? Yes, I was younger – but maybe I was sicker, though. You tend to spin frantically when you’re sicker in the head. More comes out of you too when you’re not that balanced. I used to write major amounts and now I write practically nothing. What happened? Does this mean that I really wont ever write The Great American Novel? Does this mean that I better get a real job soon because I have nothing else going for me? I’ve tried to stop calling myself a writer because now I feel like I’m lying. I need to start hanging around creative people again. Maybe I’ll just call Joel out of the blue and write a play with him. That would be nice. He’s older too, and yes, I used to hang around creative, older people all of the time but they all moved away and got in horrible fights with each other in between their bouts of candle-lit, poetry-reading madness. They all ended up leaving each other, fucking each other, moving out of state or just getting plain old.

Yeah, maybe I will call Joel. I saw him tonight. He stopped by the bar when I was working tonight. He told me what books he was reading. I only have a couple friends who still talk to me about that – but they’re both insane. This guy writes for a good magazine and writes plays at the local theatre too. I might’ve mentioned that. He likes booze too. That’s always good. You better like booze if you like books. Just because. You just better.

Oh man. I’ve got this impending feeling of doom that’s been hanging over me lately. It’s making me nervous and paranoid. It’s making me scared. I don’t want to answer the phone or open mail. Does this mean that it’s all financially motivated then? I don’t look forward to the end of the year. All new parties or activities, trips, etc. piss me off because that just means that it’s another obligatory social event that will further prevent me from digging myself out of my hole.

What happened to walking? My car depresses me because I don’t take care of it. Weather isn’t the same either because of my car and it’s widow that doesn’t roll up.

Am I really depressed or am I just...what do they call it? What do they call it when you try to trade in a car but you end up owing more than it’s worth now or something like that? I’m kind of like that right now. In over my head in life and certain sense of value or worth had decreased.

Is it depreciation or my great depression?

Declination or a lack of direction?

Declension?

Disparity?

Da gooch beat me up Mr. Drummond.

I refuse to get up to tell the cat to be fucking quiet – but I will get up for a fucking cigarette because I feel like I really need one right now.

See? That’s what I need. I need to write with the quickness and ferocity of one that does right before getting up to go outside and smoke. Hummingbird fingertips. I think my brain is haunted. I don’t feel good right now. Sleep won’t do it. Nothing will. Nothing will, except sunlight coming over the horizon. Maybe Empire Strikes Back playing on the TV as I slowly and laboriously drift into my usual light and seldom interrupted sleep.

I need to do five responsible things tomorrow and five things that are good for me. Organizing comic books makes me feel good. I can walk to the bank. I came up with a new band name tonight thanks to Sarah Brown. I can open up the garage and pull out all of the old notebooks. Maybe not. I need to clean my room. I can start to paint pictures. I can make a bill list. I can sell comics on ebay. I can drink and write all day. I cannot turn on the computer. I can try not to turn on the TV or the computer. I can stop by every store in downtown. I can drink in every bar in downtown. I can play video games all day. I can search for jobs online. I can make something out of little pieces of junk and superglue. I can write a Christmas list. I can smoke and then will be back. I can.

Aslan Hates Pedro...

Yeah. I've been taking a break. It's good to do, because THE INTERNET is a time sucker and I already have enough of those suckers, sucka.

My cat plays fetch with water bottle caps, too.

That's very nice.

Isn't it, you filthy bitch?

Mr. Cogswell, Mr. Tate, and Mr. Slate...

Never let your boss see the inside of your home. They will either think that you're a child, insane, a slob, or make too much money. No boss will ever take pity on you and give you a raise after seeing your slum.

The only reason why you should invite your boss inside is if they're of the opposite sex, very attractive, have no vocal cords and like paying off employees not to squeal like the blackmailing piggies that they are.

I did work for an attractive lady once. We were very close. It was hard working for somebody and trying not to look at their boobs. Some of you might have this problem too, even if your boss is a man. This is even worse. Men like this usually sweat a lot and breathe heavy. They usually have a five-o-clock shadow by noon and always have food on their shirt or face. These are the type of men that drop farts like atom bombs and yell at the FUCKING YANKEES almost as much as they do their wife and children.

Okay. I got a little off track. I need a cigarette and I need to take a nap. I just realized that I've never seen one episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. It's over now. I wonder if I was missing something. Sarah Michelle Gellar's nose looks like she's been punched by a vampire one-too-many times. Like I should talk. Go Daphne. Go FUCKING RED SOX. Go to sleep, self.

This Is All I Have...

When it comes to my uncanny sandwich and salad-making abilities - I'm a genius.

When it comes to everything else - I am not.

Ender, Valentine, Peter and Bean...

Today, It's All About...

impatient fat ladies with short hair.

Oh, and buy this thing from me now.

Fatties.

I was Reading About What I Was Doing Last Year And The Realized That I've Been Writing On fat Free Milk For Two Years And Eleven days Now...

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!

I'm The Green Lion...

I hate getting home this late. Thank god for friends, though. If I didn't have any friends, then my bar would be empty and I would be broker than the usual broke. Some of my friends drink a lot, and then they look heller than their usual helly hell. I find bartending boring. I find posts about bartending even boring-ER-EST-ES-Y...

Hank's Overblown Sense Of Entitlement Remains As Big As His Stature...

I’d never been to this particular skate park before. It’s close to where I live, but I don’t have knee pads and a helmet, so I’ve never gone. But, today I went with a couple of kids from my work. One of them lent me his brother’s ratty-ass equipment. We’d been talking about it forever, so it was good to finally go.

I did feel weird, though. There were kids that measured up to my belly button popping ollies behind me as I paid my twelve bucks. I’ve never paid to skateboard anywhere. But I chalked it all up to experience and I knew that it would be interesting, or, at least be a cheap way of committing suicide. I haven’t skated much since I broke my ankle in a drunken fight with my girlfriend. Besides getting older, you tend to rethink certain types of physical activity when one spends months not being able to walk naturally. It makes the already too-fast aging process progress faster, I think.

One of the teenagers behind the counter asked me if I’d ever skated there before. I lied and told him, yes, that I had. I didn’t want to hear a bunch of legal jargon, and I think that he was only telling me because he had to. That type of stuff was for the little kids. Not for old men in their-twenty-something’s like me. I figured that I started skating before this kid was even born. If I told him that, he would’ve looked at me like I look at old people when they tell me things similar to that.

I was dancing before you were born!

I’ve been eating here longer than you’ve been around!

Blah, blah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s the natural order of life. 365 days allocated in a bracket.

I get it.

I’m not down with all of that. Usually.

Sad to say, but I told both of the kids that I worked with, that I was going to go smoke before I went in. They said okay. Maybe I shouldn’t call them kids. One’s nineteen and one’s twenty. Those aren’t kids, I guess. I’m fucking dorkier than them. And they both act more adult than I do at work. I have more toys than them, though.

So, I smoked. And stretched some. Or, at least tried to without looking like a freak. I used to stretch all of the time before skating, but have never seen anybody else do it. And it looks kind of stupid when you’re smoking too. Smoking cigarettes and skating is like fat people super-sizing their orders while ordering a Diet Coke. What’s the point? Stupid balancing acts make no sense when you’ll inevitably fall down.

Speaking of balance…

I must’ve slipped something spine-wise trying to grind on the lip of their mini-ramp.

Even typing this hurts.

But I did fit in some good, old-fashioned pop shove-its and pulled off some backside rail slides that nobody ever really pays attention to anymore.

Oh.

And my ankle hurts again.

But not my pride.

Because I was the actual, oldest person skating there.

29 years old, baby.

Skate or die.

Die probably.

Diet Pills...



If I was invited to Operation Coalition Desert The Debates Cobra Watch 2004 Or Die Thingy, I know that I wouldn't end up getting elected - but with my involvement...NOBODY would. And part of me feels really good about this. Let's get big, ol' fatty Howard Taft back in office and watch him stuff sausages in his mouth. Coolidge/Quayle 2004. I like Jimmy Carter because he writes poetry and builds houses. I like Martin Sheen because he looks like that guy from Apocalypse Now.

Dangerfield 2004, baby.

Let's bring back the respect.

Dry Your Eyes...

I may truly be grown-up now because when people ask me what I want to do with my life, I can honestly tell them that I have NO IDEA.