Does anybody know how to view what programs you have running on your computer at start up or whenever and then how to turn some of them off? I think that I used to remember how to get there before - but have now forgotten. My computer has been progressively running slower and slower as time has eked on. Combine the sluggishness of my computer with my inabilty to focus on anything for more than five minutes and you get an ABSOLUTE ZERO GOOGLEPLEX of everything and nothing. I have a PC and use XP. Thank you. TLA...

Yoda Was Smart To Stay On Dagobah...

"What the hell is she doing?" Kevynn asked. Taking another drag from his cigarette.

Dee squinted through the rain at the girl across the street. A white car had its emergency lights on and was parked off to the side of the busy street. The girl was pacing back and forth and mouthing into a cel phone.

"I don't know...maybe she's in trouble." Dee whispered.

I'M TOO LAZY TO GO ON AND TYPE THIS LIKE THIS. I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WAS THINKING ANYWAY, BECAUSE ITS A SUCKY IDEA...

So. We were in front of the house having a drink and waiting for Cartoon Pig and his girl to come over. We were going to grab some late-night appetizers and drinks at whatever place would still be doing dinner at 11pm.

I ran over to the girl in the rain and asked her if she needed help. She had hit a dog and was crying hysterically. I live across the street from a park, which is nice. There can sometimes be a lot of traffic, though - which is not. People need to slow the fuck down. This means YOU. Be good. Pay attention whilst driving. Put down your stupid-ass cel phone. Be careful.

I ran back to the house and grabbed some plastic bags, a blanket and a flashlight and then walked out into the street. I picked up the dog. He was tiny. Cute. Like a black and white-colored chihuahua mix, I think. Breath expunged from its mouth. I hoped that this was a good thing and not because of the last remnants of oxygen in its lungs. I placed the dog under a tree and checked it for injuries. The eyes looked like they were opening and I thought that I heard a couple of faint noises or whimpers as I talked to the now-apparent girl dog.

My girlfriend started crying.

The other girl started crying.

Time passed as we gave the girl support and condolences. As we were waiting for Animal Control to show up – we heard a crash from down the street. It was one of those dull, metallic, empty thuds that means a car accident.

Dee suggested that maybe I go down the street to check it out. I thought that it was farther down the street and I wanted to keep on petting the-now-I-thought-dead dog.

After the nice lady from Animal Control came and after we gave hugs to the crying girl who hit the dog and after we had warmed up and after Cartoon Pig and his girl came – we drove down the street to go eat. About a three minute jog where I had been standing shivering with my dead dog friend was one overturned SUV and two smashed cars. Glass everywhere. I didn’t look for bodybags. It started to rain harder.

Then I had a 10 oz. Filet mignon with Bleu Cheese and gravy, mashed potatoes, veggies, garlic bread, a Coke and six beers.

And then I went home.

After...

Before...

Flair And Trying To Fall Down The Stairs...

Whatever you do...if you aren't already mired in it...

Don't you ever.

EVER.

Work in a restaurant.

There are only two emotional options that working in this industry allow:

killing others
or
killing yourself

That's it.

Flo from Alice and Shirl from What's Happening don't really exist.

Bartenders and waiters are hummans on The Planet Of The Apes.

I'm done.

Thank you and enjoy your meal.

mememe...

So, out of all of the things that I wanted to write today - and after all of the hours that've passed - out of all of the things that I've been doing and not doing - out of having one great conversation while I was bartending last night with that one dude that pops up once every six months and looks sad and tired...

I forget it all.

Well, I actually started remembering things now that I started to write this - but I can save the good stuff and just leave the dregs here. Dregs are parts of uneaten eggs, I think. And if they aren't I think they should be called that - and I will start calling them that from now on. I can make these things happen just by saying it. That is how powerful I've become.

I write like Yoda. This is how lazy I am, yes?

I will not spellcheck because time is precious. Because idle time on the computer leads to hours of pointless perusals on Ebay. It leads to email checks that lead to sex sites. Leads to the anti-Oz.

I tried to wake up early today. I woke up earlier than usual. That's better than nothing. I remember waking up at four and eating pizza, chips, candy and drinking a coke. Yes. I did. Watched something that I forgot, but I think that it was good. I went back to sleep when the sun started pekking out through the recently ever-present rain clouds. Couldn't go to breakfast with my girl because I was gorging while she was dreaming. Sucks, huh? I sound like a closet bulimic.

What the hell did I do today? Was on the computer sporadically through the day - accomplishing nothing. I read way too much useless crap. Watched some Star Wars nerdy stuff with Tom. Went to Target and bought a bunch of crud for the house. Looked at pictures from New Years - remembered taking about half of them.

Cleaned a bit. Did odd jobs around the house. That sounded weird. Sounds like I get paid for doing chores. I don't. Maybe that's why I don't do much around the house usually. Called my father because it was his 70th birthday. He said that he didn't feel old until today. I told him that I felt old. He told me that I wasn't. I told him that I was. Sort of.

I listened to new cds. I am bored of them already. I watched all of the extras from the Garden State dvd and I think that I ruined my potential home-viewing of it because now I remember everything about the movie that I saw when it was in the theatres.

I think I will post a picture now. Tell mom not to worry. Don't forget to write. Be good. KIT. TLA. BFF. MLF. Signing out. Vote Kerry.

Thank You, Chris...



I didn't want to go to a strip club tonight.

Thank you for paying for the cover charge.

Thank you for the money for the lap dances.

Me and my girlfriend thank you.

Really.

She was hot.

Thank you.

No. Really.

Thank you.

Govinda...

Internet. Waste of time. Sometimes I don't like you. You look good, smell good, give to charity - but you're a filthy whore. Selfish. Loafing. Lazy good-for-nothing. Sucking up time and laughing at me. Distract me. Waste my life just like everybody else when I should really be visitng my friends Blue Pen and Notebook. I've dome nothing useful on you, you bitch - except for this thing. And it only seems like a semi-accomplishment because of it's enormity. Kind of like how a pile of trash isn't impressive - but a landfill is.

Leave me alone, Internet.

Go back to Al Gore.

Reason Why I'm A Bad Boyfriend No. 4764343...

Girlfriend was feeling depressed because of her period, tsunami coverage on TV, a special on The Holocaust and a program about mutant children growing up around Cherynobyl.

So I took the remote and started channel surfing, trying to find something better for her to watch. I eventually settled on a National Geographic program about Crocodiles. Good stuff.

Just in time to watch a baby bird fall in the water, try vainly to swim to shore, only to be eaten by a Crocodile.

I will now throw things at her head to improve her demeanor.

My Best Christmas Ever...



Might of written about this before. I know that I have, but I think that it was in one of my notebooks. Maybe I wrote about it in a magazine or school paper. Somewhere.

Back in the day. When I was young. When the top of my head probably came to my fathers hip - my father and I went down the street to the Xmas tree lot. This was a REAL lot. One of the ones where you actually picked a tree and a bundled up gnarly neanderthalic man sawed it off for you and lugged it to your car. Not one of the drugstore parking lot lots. Something that you didn't do in combination with grocery shopping.

It was cold. But Southern California cold. So that means, like...60 degrees. My father and I had trudged deeper and deeper into this mini-forest looking for a nice, full tree to take home. I don't know where my older brother was. Probably playing Atari or watching football. Definitely not dating girls. My brother was a very late bloomer.

We found one. Not a girl or a late bloomer, but a great-looking tree off in the distance. Looked huge to me. Gigantic. As we approached it, I realized that my father wasn't around anymore. He was behind me, crouched down on one knee and had his hand placed on something by the ground. I crunched back to where my father was and heard him speaking in a strange voice. A tiny, soft voice. My father's eyes were misty. He had stepped on a baby rabbit. It was probably no bigger than my hand and was jerking spasmodiacally on a blanket of pine needles. My father was softly saying that he was sorry. I'm so sorry, so, so sorry...

I kept on looking back from the dying baby rabbit and to my father's now alien face. I couldn't figure out what was more of a shock to me - the little thing dying before me or the glimpse of actual emotion on my father's face.

My father eventually barked an order at me to KEEP ON GOING. I did, because he was my father. My father told me to not stop looking back. I did, because he was my father. I didn't ask any questions. I did, because he was my father.

We got our tree.

Do I remember how it looked that year in the livingroom?

No.

Do I still remember that tiny, twitching rabbit?

Yes. Perfectly.

Best Christmas ever?

Yes.

Why?

Because I'll remember that one for the rest of my life.

I Was Excited...

When I heard that a show called ANIMAL COPS was going to be on Animal Planet. But...alas, the show didn't feature Bears or Kangaroos arresting other animals - it was about humans arresting Vietnamese families for eating their pets or something.

That There. That's Not Me. I Go Where I Please...

Merry Pippin Astrid Lindgren Dolph Hitler Or Mistletoe Jam On It by Stephen King of all media mail female outlets Millers Outpost its a girl! power to the people are strangers in the night rider micheal jackson browne stone cafe press this button red skelton crew J-lo down dirty crooked finger masturbation.

Or Like When I Leave The Grocery Store Without My Groceries...

Or like right now. Getting to my front door and realizing that I left my keys in my parked and still-running car.

In My Optimus Prime...



They say that it's good to take a different route to work every day. To help break the tedium. To ease the monotony and to quell the ever-impending sense of doom that usually accompanies your blurry-eyed early morning car journey.

So I took a different way this morning. No big deal, It was just a right turn later than the usual one I take. I usually don't take this one, though. On the left side of the street is a very cute, very Melrose-y Place-y looking apartment complex. Across from it is a convalescent home. It must be occupied with a lot of non-ambulatory guests because not once have I seen an old man or woman basking in the sun or one sneaking the occasional-not-encouraged cigarette under a dusty awning. I've seen a lot of ambulances and firetrucks in the past when I've gone down this street. It must be sad to live across from it - Melrose-y Place-y place or not.

This morning when I made my right turn, I immediately stopped because a firetruck partially blocked my path. I slowly squeezed by an oncoming car and saw another parked firetruck, and further down, an ambulance. I tried not to look, to see what the commotion was - expecting the worst. As I approached the ambulance I saw an Emergency Medical Tech guy wheeling a very old man in a bed towards the ambulance. The old man had tubes all around him and some stuck in his arms and some up his nose and the old man had no hair and his right arm was curled at the wrists and fingers joints almost straight up towards the sky. Kind of like an almost FUCK YOU gesture to the gods that really didn't pan out towards the end. I don't think he was dead because he wasn't covered up. I felt sad and turned my attention back towards the road.

Not a good way to start off a workday, I thought to myself.

So as my heart was trying not to feel sad, my eyes fell upon the chainlink fence from the Montessori Private School for young kids that borders the convalescent home. A small alley separates the two enormous buildings. Kids are always playing, throwing things around and probably hatching diabolical plans to technologically change the world as we know it.

But not this morning.

I saw five small children with their fingers curled and crooked in between the little diamonds of the chainlink fence. All silent with little gaping O mouths. They stared. I did too. My heart hurt again. I eventually passed. I hope he didn't. Maybe I do.

Just...those kids, man...seeing that at school...

How typical, Kev - Gee, you couldn't be anywhere else at this moment except here right now? My voice said...

But then I thought that it seemed somehow fitting that a man/boy such as myself happened to be cruising right by at that moment and happened to see the epitome of age followed by the innocence of youth. How I was just this ever-thinking voyeur floating between life and death. Always. Typical me situation. Caught between growing up and caught between going down.

For the rest of my car ride, I figured out all of the answers.

I did. Right there in the car.

Wait. No, I didn't.

I never will.

And that's what I figured out.

And that's the answer.

Both sides died a little that day.

Both sides moved on a little.

Only to grow a little bit more tomorrow.

Nigella's Kind Of Big...But Sexy...

Best way to decorate for my girlfriend's berfday extravaganza this weekend - and considering that she's like, the best decorator and party planner EVER? Best way is to buy a crap load of the cheesiest and most NON-thematic party store poo ever. AND anything printed in a foreign language makes this even better.

Oh. And I've recruited help. Girl help. I will be drinking and trying to look like I'm in charge.

My version of decorating is...last time that we had people over, I passed out decks of cards to everybody and we spent the next hour throwing them at each other.

This is why I need a decorating show on tv. Right fucking now.

And you will find a fortune - though it will not be the fortune you seek......




...But first, first you must travel a long and difficult road - a road fraught with peril, uh-huh, and pregnant with adventure.




You shall see things wonderful to tell. You shall see a cow on the roof of a cottonhouse, uh-huh, and oh, so many startlements...





...I cannot say how long this road shall be.






But fear not the obstacles in your path, for Fate has vouchsafed your reward.





And though the road may wind, and yea, your hearts grow weary, still shall ye foller the way, even unto your salvation.

Bucho...

One of these days, work will be fun.

I hope, soon.

The Figures And Measurements Offered In Figure 16 Are Compilations Of Several Tables Showing "Ideal" Weights; They Are Not Meant To Be Absolute, Since There Is At This Time No General Agreement As To What Normal Weight Should Be. If Your Weight - According To Your Age, Body Build (See Figure 17), Height And Sex - Lies Within The Range Of 20 Percent More Or Less Than The Suggested Figure, It Can Be Considered Usual. For Example, The Ideal Weight Of A 45-Year Old, 68-Inch-High, Medium-Body-Framed Man Is Listed At 150 pounds, But Any Weight Between 120 pounds And 180 Pounds Could Still Be Listed Within Normal Limits...

To have fingers that smell like chimney smoke and can't be washed fully of its odor, I guess is much better than many other smells that can replace it.

And now, the refugee cat is trying so hard to get that plastic water bottle cap behind me. He's trying so hard. If I could, somehow, tap into its reservoir of diligence and somehow transfer it into my human body - The wonders I could do for myself! But cats are cuter anyway. And all of the pretty-looking folk usually get all of the breaks.

I used to conduct imaginary interviews with myself in the bathtub when I was a kid.

Now that I'm an adult, I perform self examinations on my various, cancerous bodyparts instead.

No more praise.

Only prognosis'.

Lacuna, Inc. could make me forget the past, but I would only end up repeating it.

Traveling back in time wouldn't help either. It'd only make Doc Brown exclaim, "Great Scott!" more often.

Girlfriend just interrupted my train of thought with her slippered feet and a question about Christmas decorations. She was holding up two things made out of that...what do you call them? That fuzzy little wire that we used in grade school for art projects? Looks like little pipe cleaners? Kinda like tiny caterpillar antennae?

Do you know what these are?

(Me, stopping typing. Trying to stifle an exasperated sigh)

Yeah. A Christmas tree and an ornament.

(Her. Pleased)

Oh. Good.

(Me, looking back at the computer screen and realizing that the one sentence answer to all of life's questions that I was about to type - has now left me and flown to warmer climates.)

Or it could be a sideways angry mouth and a sperm. Or it could be a fat lightning bolt and an escaping balloon.

She frowns and leaves the room.

Whish Whish Whish go her slippered feet.

Wish Wish Wish goes my slippery mind.

Days and opportunities escaping through my hands like Salmon.

Today.

Tonight.

Forever.

Zebulon With A Peak Named After Him...

Post-work nights filled with shopping for sun-dried tomato deviled eggs for the gal's sis's b-day tomorrow. That sentence was horrible. Why write about that? whwywhwywhwy. Why misspell three why's in a row? Y to the 3rd. Word to your mom. I came to drop bombs. Waste-of-time-bombs.

Boom.

How Rude of Me...

I forgot to ask you if you wanted any of this.

I know you do.

Cobra Commander Loves Destro...



If I was a supervillian - I definitely would not be wearing a scary-looking leather outfit...

I would be wearing...sweats.

Hell yeah, you think I'm kidding?

Ruling the world in sweats.

Not that I ever wear sweats.

But then, I'm not a supervillian either.

My New Best Hernia...

Silence is golden.

And makes me very nervous.

I want to yell into the still air.

Turn pindrops into demolished buildings.

Blast your hearing aids with dynamite.

Tread with robot feet.

Incredible hulk-type pounding.

I want this.

To make me feel better.

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.