Post.

This is what I do when I sit down in this chair, right here, right by the light, on top of the desk, y' know that thing that holds all of the stuff that you do things on. Things like writing about things? It's full of a bunch of things too. There's, like little things in one of the little drawers and bigger things in some of the bigger drawers. Sometimes I've put things that don't really fit in the little drawer and I mutter curses as I try to open the little drawer

my girlfriend just asked me WHAT ARE YOU TYPING?

poof.

gone.

Like an arrow in a newborn baby's heart

this dies

now i'm going to watch MTV to see if Danny from The Real World will go back to Austin after burying his dead mom and start to schtup Melinda, the hot dummy-head that he lives with.

My 30 is equivalent to your 80...

I went through an old box of writing from jr. high to 94/95.

Strange indeeed.

I went through about half of it before I just gave up and decided that some things in dusty boxes are a pure joy to re-remember, but there's also an aspect of it that it sad. Sad in the sense that you've wasted a lot of time with your family and that you should've been a better corresponder. It's a kick though, to see some good, quality stuff that you wrote way back a million years ago.

Writing on a blog is not what that little boy from a long time ago would've expected to be doing in 05'. But, little boy would've been fucking floored that you could write something, and then have people instantly read it.

I can hear the trees sneezing tonight. Bless you.

I can hear nothing but Jack Kerouac reading something on my itunes and the hum of the air conditioner.

Spike Jones is on now, and I must end this. Nobody, and I mean, nobody can write while Spike Jones is on in the background.

Boy, man or sneezing tree...

My Swiss-Army Knife...

All I care about is going to the comic book store after work today.

That's it.

Oh, and calling my mother. I havent talked to her, in like, a year or two.

I have to, after seeing the Danny guy from The Real World crying after his mom kicked the bucket last night.

Yes, I watch bad television.

Yes, that gives me guilt.

Now, is it the quality of the television that I'm watching make me feel guilty or is the guilt inspired by the subject matter of the bad television that I'm watching?

What?

I don't know. Forget it.

comicbookstorecomicbookstorecomicbookstore

Brewed With The Finest Ingredients For A Smooth Refreshing Light Taste...

I think I'm waking up.

I feel like I've been asleep for a month

but without the reinvigorating benefits.

Yo, She Thinks She's Deeper Than C.S. Lewis' Wardrobe...

Carl Sagan Poos On Your Cheap Ice Chest Flying Thing...

I will personally fly alongside the space shuttle when it comes back to ensure its safe return. You would think that we'd be able to upgrade a space fleet so that they don't fall apart. The tiles on the space shuttle are like my teeth. Big gaping holes and wide, open spaces.

Forget the war. I'm going to further space exploration.

I'm getting off of this planet and starting my own colony somwehere else.

And Warren Ellis will be the Minister Of Defense And Alcohol.

The Only Thing...

Funny about my insomnia is...

nothing.

BUT

I AM

doing something

even if it's REALLY nothing

while you're doing nothing

and that's SOMETHING

isn't it?

Too stupid to be smarter.

Too smart to be stupid.

Too much. Too little.

Too lazy. Brain on fire.

One of these days - hopefully a great many days from now...

I'll be dead. Food for worms. Tattered burial clothing. Cracked bones.

I just forgot - I wont be all of those things above because I'm going to be cremated, even though I hate fire - but, I'll be cremated because it's the most unselfish thing to do when space is limited on planet Earth or planet California.

Just burn the shit.

I DO want my ashes to be chucked out into space, though. To someday be picked up by an advanced alien race and mick-mucked together in a petri dish like a Betty Crocker looks-like-poo-muffin. I want to be interrogated by pale blue, spindly, wide-eyed beings through thoughts. Why this? Why that? What were you...STUPID?, They'll press.

They'll also ask me about bad punctuation, my inabilty to take over the world and my lack of moral fiber.

I will speak of things. Strange things that will make no sense to them. I'll tell them about the pleasures of Bud Light that tastes like water but creeps up on you in a slow, progressive way. Much like a pleasurable anti-cancer. I will tell them about love. I will tell them about the joy of two-dimensional comic books. I will confuse them with tales of two-dimensional people, also.

I will regale them with Star Wars stories. They will scoff, snort, and sneer. I will end up publishing these stories and selling them to the alien youth market.

That last sentence was really dumb. Pretend I didn't write it.

They'll ask me tons of questions. I will answer honestly.

I will tell them about the voices in my head. I will tell them that I think that one is my grandmother, even though she died when I was 5 or 6, and seems to have developed an immense amount of patience, which is different than the grandmother that I barely knew, because as far as I remember and know, she was very set in her ways and wouldn't of ever of had a conversation deeply about anything that was geared outside of her beliefs. But I still love her because she was a badass and taught me to read at a great age, and she was nicknamed Bubba and she wasn't fat so how's that for fun?

I will tell the aliens who put me back together again about the voice in my head that is the sad and bemused future me. The one that knows that the young me is too headstrong to really listen, but every once in a while will sit down and have a serious and open-minded conversation with you.

Years from now, in a floating space station or by being interrogated via alien telepathy - I will start to remember things that I took for granted while I was in that funny, frail form on Earth. I will remember cats, poems, hugs and blood. I will remember mind-expanding conversations and youthful excursions. I will see stars. I will feel the dirt beneath my toes. I will remember what it was like to be alive.

I will think of disposable nights

like tonight

that last

forever.

Dude.

The other day I bought a bag of potatoes and it's totally smelling up the house. And now I don't know where to put the bag of potatoes. We have no room for a bag of potatoes.

Also, on the vegetable front...I have an avacado pit. As far as I remember...can't you stick some toothpicks in one, half-immerse it in water, and then a plant will start growing out of it? I made a bet with friends that this would happen years ago and all I ended up with was a cup of smelly water and I had to throw it away.

Did I just imagine that you could do this?

Or was it a potatoe?

I'm spelling potatoes wrong, huh?

potato?

potatoe.

tomatoe. tomato.

Whatever Song This Is, Playing - I Don't Like It...



But I'm too busy typing crap that you and I won't remember tomorrow.

By this time tomorrow, I will just be getting home from Hollywood from a horseback ride. I will probably've been very drunk before, but after the stupid freeway ride that always bores me to death the one in every six months that I go out to Hollywood...ummm what was I saying?. Ummm...I was saying that my buzz will be worn off and that I'll be tired.

Oh. I will not be drinking whilst atop the beast. I will be drinking at the Mexican restaurant that we're going to. Drinking whilst horseback riding WOULD be Friggin' A Awesome, though. I COULD bring my gals flask, eh?

I will not die on tomorrow nights horse. That will be up to my girlfriend. I grew up around horses and she's never touched one. How will I get home?

Please pick me up if you live in LALA/HOLYWEIRD.

Thank you.

"Groovy!"...

Everybody should write at least ONE horror film.

F U In The A, Kid...

That's what I should've said after my bartending shift when I was at the 24 grocery store inquiring to the pimply, half-asleep checker about the new Harry Potter book. I knew that they were carrying it, but couldn't find it. He just looked at me blankly and slooooooowly asked another clerk who ignored him. So I told him to forget it. He said nothing. I said nothing also. It was 3 in the morning. I will get it now. Right after I type this. Because I am old and weird.

Why...

Do old men smell like eggs?

When I'm old, I want to smell like pipe smoke and the cheap perfume of hookers...or maybe like the perfume of cheap hookers, instead. Yeah that sounds better, I think.

Whatever.

Dogs Of War...

I'm glad that I wear socks and shoes because if I didn't...

The I'd never appreciate how good it feels to take them off.

I Came Up With The Title Of Fat Free Milk Because I looked In The Fridge...



And now, folks...it's been awhile, but I just may - start to do some productive things. REAL things. I will try not to let my real imaginary world affect my imaginary real world.

Three things to work on.

The second Marvel Comics submission.
The Mad Magazine Freelance thing.
Have to work on the totally simple thing that the library girl was going to give to Cartoon Network.
Dig out the old notebooks and re-type.
And talk to the already twice-over-published loyd about his literary agent so that maybe he can get me a meeting.

Fuck the screenplays. They're like ex-girlfriends to me now. Best left forgotten unless you have to deal with them out of necessity.

Maybe there's a Cafepress.com for fun book in there once I find out the costs, tech specifics, idiot-friendly factor and copyright-so-that-I-can-reprint issues.

Any help? Coo.

Not? Coo too.

Runaway Ralph And April's 30th Birthday...



Once again, the outside cat left me a present in the form of a splayed out, large, dead rat. So, I got some newspapers and shuffled over to the back yard and swung it by its tail over the chainlink fence but it hit the top and bounced back and hit my sandaled right foot. Then I picked it up by its body and hucked it over hand and now it's gone.

I love cats.

I love coming home.

I love rat blood and brains on my big toe.

Kind Of Funny...

Drunk friends call tonight while I write this. I was originally going to write about phobias. I talk to them, tell them to hold on, and drop the phone by the computer speakers. I think that they're now listening to MUSE. After I am done typing this senten - oh wait....they hung up.

This was funny. A little bit.

Rivers Cuomo...

I will only allow myself to play Texas Hold Em' once a month from now on.

I can only afford to suck horribly at things every so often as oppossed to my regular routine.

But even typing this makes me want to play even more.

Yet, poor people shouldn't gamble. Apparently I haven't learned this yet.

I suck at a lot of things.

But, yet, writing about things that I suck at...seems to be my forte.

Would I rather have words in the place place of good luck, winnings and sense of luck-dodging accomplishment?

No.

I am the best WORST poker player ever.

Greatest Hits...

I really don't know anything about my grandparents. I have no sense of family history beyond my mother and father, and even then, it's sketchy. It's sad to think that 30 years from now, when I have children, that they'll ask questions that I won't be able to answer. Yet, the only sick comfort that I have about this is that someday there'll be a great grand ME that'll be writing this same sentence, frustratingly, years and years from now......

I Am The Jedi Master Of Potential Stomach Aches...

So, If I pulled some steak out of the freezer that was left over from The Fourth Of July, then blended some onions, garlic, pepper, beer and A1 Sauce together and am now marinating it to BBQ later - is this how I'm going to go out? Will my actions today be an ulcer later?

Wish my butt luck.

I Fart Just As Much As You Breathe...

I feel old, fat, slow and stupid more often than before, but then my friends and I all crank call each other's offices on a daily basis, so we can't be that old yet.

Or maybe we just never grew up in the first place. I don't know.

The Beginning Of Tommorows Headache Starts Tonight...

But I did promise my neighbors that I wouldn't tape fireworks on top of one of my motorcycle helmets and run up and down their stairs like I did last year.

So that's good.

Today Is My Birthday. All Of You Need To Eat A Piece Of My Flesh...



AN SOISGEUL AIR REIR NAOMH MARC

1. CAIBIDEIL

Teagasg Eoin Baistidh: Criosda air a bhaisteadh leis: Criosda a gairm a dheisciopul, 'sa deanamh moran mhiarailtean.

T OISEACHD soisgeul Iosa Criosda, Mac Dhe.

2 Air reir 's mar tha e sgriobhte san fhaidh Isaias: seall, cuiridh mi m' aingeal roimh do ghnuis, a reiticheas do shlighe romhad.

3 Guth neach ag eigheach san fhasach: Reitichibh slighe an Tighearna, agus dianaibh a rathadain direach.

4 Bha Eoin anns an fhasach a baisteadh, 'sa searmonachadh baisteadh an aithreachais gu mathanas pheacannan.

5 Agus chaidh duthaich Iudea uile mach ga ionnsuidh, agus muinntir Ierusalem gu leir, is bhaisteadh iad leis ann an abhuinn Iordain ag aideachadh am peacannan.

6 Agus bha Eoin air eideadh le fionnadh chamhal, is crios leathair mu mheadhon; agus dh' ith e locuist is mil fhiadhaich. Agus shearmonaich e ag radh:

7 Tha fear nas cumhachdaiche na mise tighinn as mo dheigh: neach nach airidh mise air cromadh sios is barail a bhrogan fhuasgladh.

8 Bhaist mise sibh le uisge; ach baistidh esan sibh leis an Spiorad Naomh.

9 Is thachair, gun tainig Iosa anns na laithean sin bho Nasareth Ghalile; agus bhaisteadh e le Eoin ann an abhuinn Iordan.

10 'S air ball a direadh as an uisge, chunnaic e neamh fosgailte, 's an Spiorad mar chalman a tearnadh 'sa fantuinn air.

11 Agus thainig guth bho neamh : Is tusa mo Mhac gaolach, is mor mo thlachd dhiot.

12 Agus ghrad-ghreas an Spiorad e dhan fhasach.

13 Agus bha e san fhasach da-fhichead latha, agus da-fhichead oidhche; is bhuaireadh le Satan e; 's bha e comhla ris na h-ainmhidhean, agus bha na h-ainglean a frithealadh dha.

14 'S an deigh do dh' Eoin a bhith air a chuir an greim, thainig Iosa do Ghalile, a searmonachadh soisgeul rioghachd Dhe,

15 'S ag radh: Tha 'n t-am air a choimhlionadh, 's tha rioghachd Dhe aig laimh; deanaibh aithreachas, agus creidibh san t-soisgeul.

16 'Sa gabhail ri taobh muir Ghalile, chunnaic e Simon,agus Anndra a bhrathair, a cur lion sa mhuir (oir b' iasgairean iad.),

17 Agus thuirt Iosa riutha: Thigibh leanaibh mise, agus ni mi iasgairean dhaoine dhibh.

18 Agus ghrad dh' fhag iad na lin, is lean iad e.

19 'Sa gabhail as a sin ceum beag air adhart, chunnaic e Seumas mac Shebede agus Eoin a bhrathair, 's iad a caradh nan lion sa bhata:

20 Agus ghairm e iad san uair. 'Sa fagail an athar Sebede maille ris an luchd thuarasdail sa bhata, lean iad e.

21 Agus chaidh iad a stigh do Chapharnaum; agus air dha a dhol a stigh gun dail air na laithean sabaid dhan t-sinagog, theagaisg e iad.

22 Agus ghabh iad ioghnadh ri theagasg: oir bha e gan teagasg mar neach aig an robh cumhachd, 's chan ann mar na Sgriobhaich.

23 Agus bha san t-sinagag aca duine anns an robh spiorad neoghlan, is dh' eigh e

24 Ag radh: Ciod an comunn eadar sinn agus thusa, Iosa bho Nasareth? An tainig thu gus ar sgrios? Is aithne dhomh co thu, Aon Naomh Dhe.

25 Is mhaoith Iosa air, ag radh: Bi samhach, agus gabh a-mach as an duine.

26 'S an spiorad neoghlan ga reubadh, 's ag eigheach le guth ard, chaidh e mach as.

27 Agus ghabh iad uile ioghnadh, ionnus gun d' fharraid iad 'nam measg fhein, ag radh: De tha so? De an teagasg ur so? oir tha e toirt orduigh le cumhachd do na spioraid neoghlan fhein, agus tha iad umhail dha.

28 'Agus sgaoil iomradh air gun dail feadh duthaich Ghalile uile.

29 'Sa dol a mach air ball as an t-sinagog, thainig iad maille ri Seumas is Eoin gu tigh Shimoin is Anndra.

30 Agus bha mathair-cheile Shimoin 'na laidhe ann am fiabhras; agus dh 'innis iad dha gun dail mu deidhinn.

31 Agus thainig e, 'sa breith air laimh oirre thog e i is ghrad-dh' fhag am fiabhras i, agus fhreasdail i dhaibh.

32 'S nuair thainig am feasgar, 'sa chaidh a ghrian fodha, thug iad ga ionnsuidh iadsan uile a bha easlainteach, agus anns an robh deomhain.

33 'S bha am baile uile air cruinneachadh aig an dorus.

34 Agus leighis e moran, a bha air an leireadh le iomadh gne ghalar, agus thilg e mach moran dheomhan, 's cha do leig e leo labhairt, a chionn 's gum b' aithne dhaibh e.

35 'S ag eirigh ro-mhoch, 'sa dol a mach, chaidh e gu aite fas; is rinn e urnaigh an sin.

36 Agus lean Simon e, agus iadsan a bha comhla ris.

37 'S nuair a fhuair iad e, thuirt iad ris: Tha iad uile gad shireadh.

38 Is thuirt e riutha: rachamaid dha na bailtean sa choimhearsnachd, gus an searmonaich mi an sin cuideachd: 's gur ann air son so a thainig mi.

39 'S bha e teagasg 'nan sinagogan, 's feadh Ghalile uile, 'sa tilgeadh a-mach dheomhan.

40 Agus thainig lobhar ga ionnsuidh, a guidhe air; 'sa tuiteam air a ghluinean,thuirt e ris: Ma 's aill leat, is urrainn dhut mo ghlanadh.

41 'Sa gabhail truais ris, shin Iosa a lamh, 'sa beantuinn dha, thuirt e ris : Is aill leam: bi glan.

42 'S nuair thuirt e so, ghrad-dh' fhag an luibhre e, agus bha e air a ghlanadh.

43 'S thug e sparradh cruaidh dha, agus leig e air falbh e gun dail;

44 'S thuirt e ris: Fiach nach innis thu do neach sam bith : ach falbh, fiach thu fhein don ard-shagart, agus tairg air son do ghlanaidh na nithean a dh' orduich Maois, mar theisteanas dhaibh.

45 Ach air dhasan a dhol a mach, thoisich e ri innse, 's ri sgaoileadh an sgeoil; air chor 's nach b' urrainn dha a nis a dhol a stigh don bhaile gu follaiseach, ach dh' fhuirich e a mach ann an aiteachan fas, agus chrunnaich iad as gach aite ga ionnsuidh.

And The Meek Shall Inherit Meek Genes...

Like Ender Wiggin, I am too tired to play like I used to, but will still win, even though I groan loudly whenever I move.

That was one of the worst sentences that I've ever typed, I think.

And because this is already so bad, it makes me want to stop. But I don't think that I will for now. I am waking up, even though it's past midnight, even though the gosssamer goading of things that I should be doing cling to my head and make me flail around my hands like some kind of epileptic/tourettic voodoo doctor.

If I could cast spells on people, I would first, uncast the many spells that have been cast upon me. I would first start with the physical ones and then move on down the list. It would be an honor for me to roll bones made of your fingertips. To spit on them and then to mingle them with the fresh blood of a sacrificed chicken.

Because I'm cheap and lazy - I'd probably just throw some KFC in the dirt and then spit on that. That made absoultely no sense. I think.

My father met Col. Sanders once. Emperor Hirohito of Japan. George Lucas. Eartha Kitt. And a descendant of Adolph Coors.

The first two are true. The rest are lies.

Typing tonight is my Battle School. Like Ender Wiggin, I am too tired to play like I used to, but will still win, even though I groan loudly whenever I move. Use this piece of writing as proof.

Like Lightning - Except Only Slower - And More Like A Buzz, Instead Of A JOLT...

Sorry. I was talking about my mother's vagina.

No. I was talking about the state of my my mind.

But, yet, when one says a comment like the one that I previously stated - there's no amount of anything that can amount to something even close to the thing that I was going to tell you that really wasn't about anything anyway.