I Am More Raw Umber Than Your Burnt Sienna...

I bet Crayola stock used to go up
everytime some dummy used the term 'colored people'.

Doombot...



Starting tomorrow/today - when I wake up I will do everything differently than I normally do. I haven't yet, fully thought this through. I am going to act like me in the future coming back into my body now in 2005. I will also treat everyday like it's Opposites Day - that game that we used to play when we were kids. So that means everything that I say should be the complete opposite of something that I would normally say. Also, if I hate doing something, than I will do it more. And if I really love something, I'm going to do my best to ignore it. I'm going to stop this now, because normally I would explain in detail a bunch of crazy ideas that I've dredged up on the fly. But I won't. I need to warm myself up to this...tomorrow's going to be an interesting day. I should just quit my job. I might do some drugs. I never do drugs. I need to start huffing paint. Okay, this is going to be haredr than I thought because already I'm back to my old ways and just typing in things that pop into my brain. I'm confusing myself. As step number one in my FUTURE SELF STEPPING BACK IN TIME - I am going to wake up early and cook breakfast for the girlfriend. I don't do breakfast much, I'm more of a lunch and dinner type. I don't know if I'll recap the differences in the days events or post on progress - I'll just have to see. Curious I be. Hmmm. I'm insane. Experiment starts now. I'm going to bed.

Dr. Banner Says That There Are Greener Days Ahead...

When you see me out in public and I don't say hi to you, it means that: I was deep in thought, not looking at you, didn't care, was avoiding you, not feeling social, was late to get somewhere, don't remember your name, had sex with you and am embarassed, not wearing my glasses or too angry to talk.

Not One Of Independence, But Of Dependent Service...

What used to be the buzz of a million Krynn dragons in my mind, is now a housefly. What used to be an enormous fire, is now an smoky ember. What used to be the rebounding echo of a preying bats squeak, is now the gnat flitting around in the same dark cave. What used to be Voltron is now, just Pidge making Anime faces.

I move in slow motion. You still move slower. The air is electric, but I am stagnant. The doses of pain administered to me are nothing - one can't take more out of the frontal lobe after the initial operation. It's hard to make a lame horse run faster, no matter how hard you crack the whip.

Steve Rogers was trapped in time. He awoke to a different age and adapted quickly because circumstances demanded it. The Vision has been resurrected as many times as Ultron. Comic book characters make Jesus jealous. Jason Todd tried to make a comeback, but couldn't find all of his parts. It's hard to walk, when bits of your flesh deck the hall like boughs of holly. ttralalalalalalalalaaaahhh

Reading Bushido: The Soul Of Japan and Replay by Ken Grimwood.

One deals with the outdated codes and ethics of historical samurai culture and one deals with a guy who gets the chance to relive his life after he's died. This might tell me something. This might tell me that all of the answers to my questions are obvious. That everything that you think you know - you do. That nothing is easy, and anything is only hard - if you care. This might tell me that if I'm so tired, that I need to either give up and have fun, roll with the punches, throw a thematical party now and then and sleep as long as possible, or to train myself not to RE remember how I used to be. Because who the hell wants to be like they were? Especially if we're apparently alive enough to lament about the passing of youth, time, love, money, Thundercats, etc.?

No, what we need is either a slow awakening or our skulls crushed whilst dreaming. There is no in-between. That only leads to more wasted time. I am Luke Skywalker's cut off arm. I am Daniel Ketch on fire. I am the hunger pangs of Gandhi. I am Phillip Morris' pocketbook. Why can't I have the persistence of my pulse? Why shouldn't I fight as hard as my asthmatic lungs? Why fight?

Don't know.

bitches...

I walk the same strip of Lemon Ave.
Everyday on my way
To work
friends of mine
Will drive by and
Honk their horns
Waving
From their windows,
“Hey, Tom,” they yell,
and keep going.
Now, what I want to know is,
If you see me walking
The same damn street
Every goddamn day,
Why won’t you
Pick me up?

I want to strangle their
Skinny little turkey necks.
Bitches…

The Orange County Register...

Just got off of the phone with them - and I figured out a way to make the conversation as nice as possible, besides just hanging up on them...make them laugh. I was telling her how cheap her offer was, and what an amazing deal it was that she was offering me. I told her that I hated her newspaper, and that I have a fear of mulch. I told her that there was no way, ever and what-so-ever that I would ever get another newspaper delivered to my door unless she told me that she was going to kill me if I didn't accept her offer. She said that she wouldn't ever say that. I told her, good. I asked her how the Oscars were and she said that she liked them but eventually fell asleep. I told her that Hilary Swank's dress looked like crap, didn't it? And she said that she liked Million Dollar Baby. I said that she definitely didn't spend a million dollars on her outfit - but I was glad that Charlie Kaufman won for best original screenplay. She said, who? And I asked her if she really watched the awards and she said, No - that she didn't - that she never watches them. I told her that I'll buy her paper when I'm famous and to call me back in 74 years when I am. She said that she would.

And then we hung up.

Then Turn The TV OFF...

It's hard enough to watch MTV when you're awake - but somehow in this last week the TV's been playing MTV all night while I've been sleeping AND LAST NIGHT WAS THE SECOND TIME THAT I'VE HAD A DREAM that involved me hanging out with my friend, NICK LACHEY. Not Jessica Simpson - not even Ashlee Simpson. Just Me and Nick hanging out. And YES, we both had our clothes on, you schmucks. There were also subplots involving a dead pig, jumping trucks over curbs, jet planes that looked like UFO's at first, and a tiny kitten that was bleeding that I eventually ended up naming FLEA.

I will now go back to sleeping to Empire Strikes Back.

Or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Both are better than MTV.

Barrow, Alaska...

First Hunter ST dies and now this. My comic book store is closing, going out of business, finito, no mas. Sucks for me, now where am I going to go to get my stupid comics? Waste time after work?

I walked in there today and there were a bunch of other nerds milling about with lost looks on their faces. Fatties were piling up Thor and Captain America statues in their enormous arms. Geeks were whispering to other geeks and telling them to hurry up and come down because action figures and shirts were 50% off.

I was just kind of sad. Nerdy hobbies should be easy and effortless – that’s why alcoholics have it easy because they have hobby shops conveniently located on every corner for their pleasures.

I was talking with a friend the other day about the demise of local arcades, and about how there aren’t any around anymore like there were when I was growing up, when I was young, that’s what you did – you rode your bike to the arcade and comic stores. THEN at night tried to get in trouble – but what do kids nowadays do? Stay at home. They have everything they need. Why go out?

It’s dangerous out there for kids now as it is, so is it better? I’m probably gonna keep my kids at home too. Swimming in public pools in the summer? Somebody might put acid or piranhas in the water. Fly a kite in the park? Might get electrocuted by terrorists who can wield the power of lightning. Kegger parties are okay though, the worst thing that could happen is that your kid gets laid.

Regardless, I’m sad. Tonight I will be tipping my 40oz. Of Old E to the million deaths of the written word and will give a big ol’ fuck you finger to the squashings of imagination and creativity.

Excelsior.

For Your Consideration...

To remember an important lesson that you had taught yourself before,
but forgotten along the way.

To get it back from wherever you lost it,
and then,
to now,
do more with it.

To give yourself another final try.

To succeed.

To create beauty.

And to beautify others creations.

To have others learn from what you teach them.

To not be forgotten.

To be a beacon for those trying to find their way.

To push everything, constantly.

To be beautiful.

Try to remember.

To do all this.

I Am The Face Underneath The Apple On Top Of Mrs. Burroughs' Head...



I just heard something break. At first I thought that it came from the kitchen. I've craned my neck to see where it came from. It wasn't from the kitchen. It couldn't have come from outside, because the crash was too loud. It couldn't have come from the next room. The cats are right by me. Nothing has fallen off of the shelves. There are no pictures on the floor.

What was it?

Should I get up and investigate?

What broke?

And where did it come from?

It sounded loud.

It sounded heavy.

It sounded valuable.

expensive.

One-of-a-kind.

I can't replace it.

Whatever it was...

It's GONE.

Forever.

I could hear it saying a million, tiny goodbyes.

Baraka...

I would rather swing through the trees of an Ewok village rather than a Wookie one, because as a guest of the Ewoks,I would probably be able to push myself around more.

Really Makes You...

feel like schmuck when you procrastinate on doing a couple of things and let it go for a loooooong time - and then it takes you ten minutes to do them.

Stark Enterprises Whiskey...

Where My Ideas Come From
Filed under: faq— warrenellis @ 2:08 am
I still get asked with appalling regularity “where my ideas come from.”

Here’s the deal. I flood my poor ageing head with information. Any information. Lots of it. And I let it all slosh around in the back of my brain, in the part normal people use for remembering bills, thinking about sex and making appointments to wash the dishes.

Eventually, you get a critical mass of information. Datum 1 plugs into Datum 3 which connects to Datum 3 and Data 4 and 5 stick to it and you’ve got a chain reaction. A bunch of stuff knits together and lights up and you’ve got what’s called “an idea".

And for that brief moment where it’s all flaring and welding together, you are Holy. You can’t be touched. Something impossible and brilliant has happened and suddenly you understand what it would be like if Einstein’s brain was placed into the body of a young tyrannosaur, stuffed full of amphetamines and suffused with Sex Radiation.

That is what has happened to me tonight. I am beaming Sex Rays across the world and my brain is all lit up with Holy Fire. If I felt like it, I could shag a million nuns and destroy their faith in Christ.

From my chair.

See, this is the good bit about writing. It’s what keeps you going. It’s the wild rush of “shit, did I think of that?” with all kinds of weird chemicals shunting around your brain and ideas and images and moments and storyforms all opening up snapsnapsnap in your mind, a mass of new and unrealised possibilities.

It’s ten past two in the morning, and I’m completely wired, caught up in the new thing, shivering and laughing and glowing in the dark. Just as well it’s the middle of the night. No-one would be safe from me right now. I could read their minds and take over their heartbeats with a glare.

Faster than the speed of anyone.

That’s how it works.

(Written in 2003 for the Bad Signal mailing list.)

Count Katsu...

Things are starting to slow down now.
I can finally get back to my normal non-productive self.
I love this, and want to spend the rest of my life doing absoultely NOTHING.

I will make this so.

I will try my hardest to accomplish this.

I Would Swap Bodies With You, Stephen Hawking...In The Name Of Science.



But we're both, probably just as skinny as the other - so maybe this isn't as cool for you. You won't get laid more because I know, from what I've read - that you have horrible taste and self-destructive, bad judgement when it comes to the opposite sex. Who woulda thunk it, Steve? You - one of the most brilliant minds since Albert Einstein? Bah! C'mon Steve! This is like me flunking a Spiderman test.

What gives? You can talk to me. My speech, at times, is just as fragmented as yours. We're all the same grains of sand in the cosmic beach, right?

You can talk about Konstantin Tsiolkovsky and I can talk about Jack Kirby.

Let's sip some beers through straws. I can sneak you puffs off of my cigarettes when the scholars aren't looking. We'll take a gander at all of the pretty ladies strolling by us. We'll slowly nod our big heads up and down to the beat of distant music. Nothing can stop us, Steve. NOTHING AT ALL.

WE HAVE JUST BARELY BEGUN TO TAP INTO OUR RESERVOIRS. We've only reached a fine, top-layer of film - It's like scratching the faces off of the first picture of the world's tallest stack of wet Polaroids.

I know that you and me, Steve have a lot of years to live - we're practically babies -and you and me both know that in the grand scheme of things, that nothing exists for any allotted amount of time, except for hot, fiery suns and drying laundry in coin-operated machines. Nobody can tell me when to stop, nobody can tell me when to go, Steven. NOBODY.

Our minds, hearts and souls are our own miasmic and dichotomous beautiful combinations of Big Bangs Theories and Black Holes. Our lives are the only time that small, soft creatures get the chance to play GOD. If dyslexic dogs get to aim high - then I do too.

We have so much potential. Let's show all of the sidewalk worms some rain.

I want what I've had since birth, Steven -

A chance to die GLORIOUSLY.

Inazo Nitobe…



I was watching Freaks And Geeks via Netflix and decided to have a cigarette in the front yard and brought the newspaper with me. I’m like this when I eat also. I can’t just sit there if I’m by myself. I need to look at something or else I feel like I’m wasting my time. My health? Blah. Time? Ooohhh, so precious…

Anyway. Was sitting on a step and reading about ABC and the NEW Mighty Morphin Power Rangers from the calender section of The Los Angeles Times when a car from down the street made a really stupid turn. The car stopped in the middle of my street. I just sat there and stared at them. Then people yelled out my name, so I didn’t have to kill anybody. It was two guys that I work with and a couple of their girls. I walked into the middle of the street and said hey. They either saw me sitting there while driving by and saw me looking like a dork at two o clock in the morning or were going to cruise by my house to see what I was doing anyway – I wouldn’t know and didn't get time to ask because a car started coming in my direction from the opposite end of the street and I needed to stop standing in the middle of it. So, I said later and told the guys that I worked with to remember about poker tomorrow day. They drove away. I walked back inside my house.

The funny thing is that the guys that I work with are 20 years old. 20. I’m far away from that. It’s no big deal. Trust me, I don’t age. When I look in the mirror I look at a guy who looks like he’s in his mid-twenties but fell down a cliff full of heroin needles and baseball bats sticking out of it. I am Peter Pan. I am trapped in time. This is because my mind is always in a constant state of retardation or it must’ve atrophied way beyond all hope of re-growth years ago. I usually forget how old I am – I don’t ever think about it except when I move my legs, bend or stretch. Funny to think though, that I have friends that I hang out with that aren’t even of legal drinking age and my oldest friend that I hang out with is in his eighties.

This means something cool, I think – but doesn’t make you feel too cool when it’s Friday night/Saturday morning at 2 AM and the young one's are out getting back from partying and you’re in the front of your house reading the newspaper OR maybe this means that I was always doing this kind of thing in combination with going out at all hours of the morning. I do still go crazy - just not as much.

Maybe this just means that I felt like a schmuck because I had the bad timing of being out by myself in the front yard when a carload of giggling Unicorns drove by.

Maybe this means that I am the bridge between all generations. Yeah! Maybe I’m like Mr. Rogers. Appealing to the awe-struck young and nostalgiac old.

Or maybe this means that I am very, very GAY.

Goodnight, self.

Goodnight non-spellcheck.

And also, goodnight to my friend that is in his eighties, because I know for a fact that he went to sleep at least six hours ago.

Time for another cigarette.

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.