Sloan Valve Company...

Last night I was driving home after work and stopped at a light, ready to turn left. A guy in his early twenties rode by on a bike and screamed out, "AAARRRRR Mateys!!!"

I jumped a little because, of course, that was the last thing that I expected. There was nobody else around. I had to ask myself if I really heard what I heard but there was no doubt in my mind that he said it. He wasn't dressed abnormally. He didn't have an eyepatch, pegleg or a parrot hanging onto his shoulder for dear life.

Hey just fucking yelled out "AAARRRRR Mateys!!!"

I do not drive a pirate ship. I drive a car. Maybe I had played Pirates with this guy when I was a kid but he was in a hurry and couldn't stop to say hello? I started to smile a little bit and by the time my light turned green, I was convinced that that was one of the weirdest things that has ever happened to me. That whole five seconds. And I think that the guy is brilliant...or insane - or both. Doesn't matter really. Undercover fucking pirates on bikes?

I am now on the lookout for Ninjas.

I Somehow Always Arrive Beneath Your Window When You're Dreaming...

And I cant help myself. I tell myself that I'm just going for a walk. I tell myself that it's cold outside and that I should be home doing all of the things that I need to be doing.

It's always the same window. Not always the same night's chill, it's sometimes warm. Sometimes the sweat miasmically mingles in with the just-as-warm tears from my rubbed-raw eyes.

There's no shuffling of my feet because I stand perfectly still. I picture you curled up like a puppy. Sometimes like a dragon. Sometimes I picture you not actually asleep upstairs in that room and in that bed. Sometimes I think that you may be somewhere else.

Sometimes I regret what I'm doing, but don't live in fear of you finding out because I know that even if I was standing in front of you and not beneath your window-

You'd still never even know that I was there.

And how could I care?

I can't help myself.

An unusual pause, just staring at
The table, but not really,
More like seeing through it.

In the last two days I have written something and then erased it because it seemed like I was just writing something topical because of an inability to produce anything at the moment. If that's ever the case, then I guess I'd rather write nothing then. If you're getting paid for it or going to school for it - great. Otherwise, I'd rather just write off of the top of my head than pretend to care about something that comes very slowly. I don't know if that made sense. I'm listening to Crispin Glover sing These Boots Are Made For Walking and it's kind of distracting.

Running around and doing errands today was nice. It was sunny, I had things to do. I was young, everybody else was old and making weird maneuvers in their cars. I floated past them. Nobody pays attention to me anyway. I had a conversation about time with an auto mechanic who washed my windows for free. I saw a small dog with a cell phone attached to his back. I am still puzzled by this. So, does this mean that if your dog runs away - you lose your phone too? Or maybe you're afraid of losing your dog and pack another phone in your pocket and then use that to track him down?
I should've asked, but didn't because the lady looked hairier than her dog.

I think that I can feel myself waking up now. It takes that long. I'm basically asleep until the sun starts to go down. After that I'm fine and friendly. But I DO feel good running around during the day. I am a bit strange for a Southern Californian - I can only take the sun in small increments. I love the water but hate the heat. If I could just combine winter weather and sporadic rainfalls with inner body warmth than I'd be set. I live where I live and I haven't been to the beach in...four to five years or something like that. I've been to the ocean - but that was on boats and yacht thingys - beaches are annoying unless you're by yourself and I keep on meaning to buy a surfboard but...maybe I should stay home and write more instead. The beach can be for later...later, when I'm all big and fat, not recognizable like the Parisian Morrison and a fat Brando combined.

Nice, fat, drunk and insane.

Thanks to Guile for the comment he or she left me and there's your graffiti, dude.

Sharon Carter And Red Skull Return...

Everybody asks me to go out after I'm done at the bar and I usually shrug them off and politely decline. Then I get home and want to go. But then I would never go back out once I'm comfortable. And then tomorrow, when I call everybody - they'll all be working. And I'll do nothing. The end.

As Promised In My Last Comment...A Guest Post By---

The University Of Phoenix ---

Is your new year's resolution to finish that degree? Find out how to get started!

The cost of tuition is a barrier to earning a degree for many adults, but there are a number of ways to make it affordable. Learn How .


People on campus
This Month, meet online graduate Donna Doyon. Take a moment to meet her. Also, we introduce University of Phoenix Online instructor Steve Boylan, who somehow manages to teach while serving in the Army from Iraq! Read his incredible story here.

All Comic Book And Music Nerds Must Make Themselves Happy With All Of This Stuff...



I now have twenty minutes to get ready to go out I've been told.

But what I really want to do is to continue sitting here in front of this stupid machine and to sell nerds my stuff. This means you. And what's sad about the whole affair is that if I was a nerd sitting in front of a different stupid machine - I would probably buy some of my own shit. This is the cyclical snake butt biting eternal problem, boys and girls.

Cassady VS. Bukowski...

I wish that people still found poetry readings interesting. Or poetry and poets for that matter. But nobody does anymore. I would like to be a professional poet. I would like to list that as my occupation. POET. Nobody would snicker. Nobody would think of Langston Hughes, Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman. They'd equate me to the young Kerouac, to Michael Madsen, to Ender Wiggin.

I wish that they would give gift bags full of poetry at The Oscars. Tsunami victims don't need poetry, but Hollywood does. I wish that the United States recruited poets as diligently as they do young, poor males to enlist in the armed forces.

I wish that Marvel published monthly poetry comics about super heroes.

I wish that delis wrapped their sandwiches in wax paper with poetry printed on it.

I wish that MTV actually talked about lyrics.

I wish for TV reality shows based on drunken poets.

I wish that Gary Coleman wrote a book of poetry called Whatchoo Writin' Bout Willis?

I wish that every New York Times Bestselling Author was required to include a mini book of poetry in their novels, because I want to read The Da Vinci Code in Haiku.

I wish we could all sit around and read to each other by candlelight like we used to back in the day, coming home at the end of the night buzzed with beers and words and sleeping the good sleep. Dreaming the dreamy dreams.

I wish that nobody ever invented the term SLAM poetry, unless it involved a reading with Michael Jordan or that old rap group ONYX.

I wish that somebody would publish the thousands of pages of the poetry that I now have rotting away in boxes in the garage.

I wish poets and teachers made as much money as J-LO or somebody equally as undeserving as that.

I wish that Microsoft would include MICROSOFT POETRY to OFFICE.

I wish that you write something tonight and cry while you do it, either because it's really, really beautiful or really, really bad.

Same thing, I think.

Snap your fingers you smelly beatniks.

coo coo

Oak Mot...

Today is my friend Baxter's birthday. This means that he's really old. This means that I got up early to go to brunch. I don't do this too often anymore because I have absoultely no appetite and because I'm such a lush - I end up drinking way too much champagne and end up all sleepy-headed pooey by evening. I'm a night owl, don't try to feed me mice whilst sleeping, dig?

I have to get ready to bartend now. Which makes no sense. I am buzzed and tired. I should be watching a movie in bed. I miss my old Sundays. Why do I write like a kid at summer camp does to his parents? Miss you lots. XXX

SO.

In honor of Baxter's berfday I give you this thing right here.

Goodnight.

Just Say No To Skateboarding Recklessly For Years...



And to broken ankles that never mended and to tiring employment that requires you to walk around for thirteen hours non-stop. Because when you're as young as I am and you shuffle around like an 80 yr-old man, when you wince as you slowly limp up stairs - when you have that peg-legged pirate strut - you feel like a joke.

hahahahahaha?

Not funny.

The Hammer Of Ishmael Versus The Skull Of Randall Flagg...

I have about 348 things that I want to get done tonight. It's 11:38. Close to midnight, and now I can finally relax. And therein lies the problems, my sweet children...because that means that I probably won't accomplish SHITE.

But I did type something. That's one thing, at least. And I showered. Read three comic books. Smoked twice. Have had two beers. Something? No. Not really. But that's fine with me because Hemingway wrote like a horse and ended up shooting himself down like one eventually.

That was mean.

I'm sorry, Ernest.

Wait - no, I'm not. Ernest, you fucking dumbass.

When I'm Famous...

I still will have this BLOG. But I'll just be totally high while I'm writing it. That totally makes no sense - so...yeah. I guess I should've said something like...oh forget it. I'm not famous...and I said...BLOG. And I totally said TOATALLY like, a lot.

Oh. And if they like, gave out bombs instead of golden statuettes at the Golden Globes - then, I bet the acceptance speeches would be a lot shorter, huh?

We'd Like To Help You Learn To Help Yourself...

last nights brilliant dreams and ideas
still unforgotten today
but all it will take
is a little more time
or a good nights rest
to forget how smart you were

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.