First Rule About Enlightenment...Is That It's Refreshing To Beat On People...

I want to somehow combine Fight Club with Buddhism.

Help me, Tyler Lamas.

Best And Only Cool Thing To Happen To Me On MySpace...

Warren Ellis putting me on his top friends. Awesome. But, it's not because he admires mie comeck boook writng prowess...I think it's because my profile picture is of one of the children from God's Army. Remember them? Where are they now? You know they're going to all die of lung cancer before it gets me, eh? Little children with heavy artillery. I see that here. 16 year old kids driving Hummers.

The Mall On Haunted Hill...

The absolute wondrous horror of what was a rare Orange County mall experience for myself is today, losing its luster - so I might as well try to jot down what I can remember -

In Southern California, there are people. A lot of them. All attached to some type of device that transmits IMPORTANT relayed messages to their brain. Sometimes these PEOPLE fill up their tiny seconds with their IMPORTANT blabby-crap and sometimes forget to do things like say, HELLO, THANK YOU, EXCUSE ME, YOU'RE WELCOME, YES, NO, JUNIOR-DON'T-RUN-OUT-INTO TRAFFIC, etc. They also forget to drive faster, slower, at all and usually with any consideration towards the other millions of other dumb-dumby, spinning people driving out on the streets also. Sometimes their cars mirror the slow, congealing drips of mollasses inside their driver's skulls. Sometimes I point at these people while they go about their very important coffee retrieval and goods-purchasing daily sprees. Sometimes I don't point because there are a lot of bigger dinosaurs in this Pangeaic park of mine and I plan on settling into a nice, bubbly tar pit someday. I don't want anybody to fuck with that. I have plans. Rawrrr.

This is getting too long...

I only went to the mall after dinner to make my girlfriend happy. Her mall is my comic book store, but without the fast food smell, pimply teenagers and fat, sweaty men. Actually, both the mall and comic book stores have these type of people, but at least the mall is more spread out.

At the mall:

Clothing and accessories, when I rarely want them - are very easy for me to find. Not because I'm easy to please, but because my actual size in clothing never, ever actually gets bought by real humans beings because nobody is my size. My sizes are everywhere and always knocked down from a high price to a very, very LOW price. I don't know why they make these sizes. Why make clothes that fit drug-addict or tall Ethiopian builds? Or Ethiopian drug-addict builds?

I get bored easily if I'm in a store that doesn't interest me. I can't sit down and be patient. I whine a lot and walk and walk around the perimeter of the usually-a-women's-clothing-store and pretend not to be a gay guy looking at clothes.

I went to an Apple Store for my first time and was completely horrified and amazed at existence of the whole poopy thing. Welcome to the future, Gramps.

The bathrooms looked better than some L.A. clubs than I've been in. Actually, DUH. Nicer than ANY L.A./Hollywood clubs. (this is the part where friends who don't read this snicker because how often do I go to Hollywood or LA LA?)

2b continued after i read this incredible hulk comic...

Ummm..there were security guards on Segways.

Boring now. The End.

My Little, Itty-Bitty, Sister Wrote This...

identity crisis

So, anyone been through an identity crisis? Not like, "am I cool enough" crisis, or "I'm gonna dye my hair blue and move to San Francisco" crisis, but the "what the fuck am I gonna do with my life" crisis. Cuz, man, let me tell you, I feel OLD. There's nothing wrong with working, granted I have been a tad lazy lately, and I hafta work to be sane, but WORK SUCKS. After being in school and working since freakin 9 years ago, I am tired of all this. The community college wears me down.Don't get me wrong, I gotta learnded what them smart folk know too. But not only does it suck to go to school after a nine hour day or going into a bazillion hour day, you hafta deal with the "oh, you graduated from westwood? So did I! I graduated in 2005, when did you?" A fuckin billion years ago. And people say to me, "oh sindy, you are still so young" and , "you have all the time in the world and at least you are going". SCREW that. I need MONEY man. So , that's my first bloggy type gripe. I am sick of the back and forth, the whining and the procrastination, I am gonna get my shit done. Cuz god knows I can't be slingin the dog poo and vomit and whoring the chihuahua clothes line the rest of my life. amen.

Fields And Streams Of Unconsciousness…

Regardless of how much one whines and complains about the lack of things that make you happy – sometimes absence does make the heart grow fonder. Sometimes one grows fonder of having one less responsibility. Sometimes one is glad to not throw out withered word-petals at a funeral procession that’s already passed you by.

Your grief hangs over my head like Louisiana humidity.

My concern for you swaddles my heart.

Me?

I wade through the fields and streams of unconsciousness

Not knowing if I should turn back
or continue to plod forward

Me?

My concern for you
replaces my usual unspoken words
with the ones
I say out loud to you
everyday

I Am Robert Downey Jr. On Robert Downey Jr.

Dear Courtney,

I abhor The Market. I HEART fresh produce. I HATE The Beer Garden. I like seeing random pig-fuckers meandering about. I HATE that somebody scratched the holy fuck out of the birthday CD that you gave me. I lubby wubby wub the fact that Huey Lewis And The News is playing on my iTunes right now. I'm sheepish of the fact that sometimes I get so drunk that I buy thirty dollars worth of songs off of The iTunes music store and don't remember it the next morning. I DO like avacadoes(sp?), though - I'll stop by on Thursday then, Yesh?

If I was a character on LOST, I'd be the skinny-getting-fatter, Asian/Irish guy writing about being stuck on an island with a bunch of retards, and wishing that he could rape Kate, Claire and Locke.

P.S. You forgot your sunglasses at my house and I drank them.

k

If Somebody Tells You That You Seem A Lot Younger Than You Are...

They're really calling you immature.

I am backwards/infantile/H.G. Wells' Time Machine-style -

I am the vanishing dot on old black and white tv screens.

I am an inoperable CANCER, drunk on Vodka/Redbulls.

Me See You Later...Me Thinks...Me Go Write On Projects. Me No Pay Attention To Distracting Blog.

Me No Pay Attention To Distracting Blog. Me Go Write On Projects. Me See You Later...Me Thinks...

Go see Joel Beers' new play at Stages Theater in The O.C.

An excerpt from The Don Juan Project
(used with no permission)

ELVIRA
No--I’ll grant you, that’s foul: well played lad. But, no, this rank bouquet is far more pungent. Smells like sweat, tears, blood and longing, accented by strangled desperation and stunted ambition laced with a sticky film of broken, useless dreams.

SGANARELLE
Oh, that! That’s poetry!

POET MODERATOR
Ok, Roger, thank’s for kicking off our monthly drunken poet symposium with that wonderfully concise, reading. I want to welcome everyone tonight to our monthly poetry clambake where we all have the opportunity to share, through words, the joy and tribulations of what, our dear late founder Kevynn Malone, once described as our lifelong relationship...with alcohol. Though friends hurt you, lovers betray you, leaders lie to you and your pets die, there’s always one relationship we can count on in this world.

Snapping of fingers.

The Don Juan Project

Nick Nolte Vs. Dracula...

Today looks weird. Everything’s all whited-out and pasty-looking.
And it just feels weird. Like how airport lobbys or auto mechanic shops feel. I need to go somewhere after work and hopefully whatever’s following me will lose my scent. But where should I go?

The movies? Fuck the movies. I never go to the movies.
I just went to the mall right before Easter, and it made me remember why I hadn’t been there in like, two years.
I could go for a walk but I walk all the time, so screw it. I walk like Phil Jackson anyway. No. I walk like Tiny Tim but with two gimpy legs. The cute Tiny Tim who blesses Mr. Scrooge. Not the gay, dead one that got married on The Tonight Show.
There are no real comic book stores, no arcades, no toy stores, and beers are too expensive at strip clubs. No fun.
I’m afraid to take my car too far away from home – she’s a very fragile girl and is made of balsa wood and her insides are put together with magic beans.

Seriously, I can’t tell what’s happening, but it’s happening – I might just wake up all of the sudden and have to repeat this day over again, so I guess I might as well enjoy the weirdness for now and not be such a creep creeped out by creepiness. I should go home and read a book. Good, old-fashioned words on paper by one’s self.

Yes.

Please Don't Ever Let Me Publish...

Was just at a big, corporate bookstore getting a birthday present for a friend. There was a very bored-looking man sitting behind a table full of books written by himself. He wrote a book on The Angels. Not the kind with wings, but the team that hit a ball with a bat. He checked the time on his cell phone. I felt sorry for him. I kind of wanted to talk to him out of pity, but his fucking book was about baseball - what the hell am I supposed to do? I couldn't even properly feign interest in the subject matter. Nothing for me to ask, nothing for me to roll with, so I bought my book and left the store. I was thinking about how crappy the guy must've felt - I mean, nobody was paying attention to him. When I got home I realized that the friend of mine that I had just spent thirty dollars on, on an Orson Scott Card book was a HUGE Angels fan and probably would've LOVED a signed book by the author. I'll tell my friend this later. He'll ask me whom the author was. I'll tell him I don't remember. I kind of suck. There's a moral in here somewhere. Oh, wait - maybe that was it...

I Would Look A Lot Cooler If John Cassaday Drew Me...

God, fucking somebody stop this phone from ringing...

Bubba-Ho-Tep...

I work next door to a plastic surgery center and have not seen one person come in or out of there. Either the plastic surgeon sucks really bad or they kill everybody who sneaks in. Maybe I'll go snooping around their trash and then I can make soap out of human fat like Tyler Durden did in Fight Club.

I'm Too Lazy To Kill You...

I ordered a pizza.
Got home.
It looked and smelled great.
Like arcades or Chucky Cheese.
but it tasted a little...off.

They forgot to put cheese on a fucking pizza!

And then who was too lazy to go back because they were on break and didn't want to wait for another thirty minutes?

And who thought that it was pointless to go back because nobody there spoke english and maybe I might've said something that was translated to "please, don't give any of that horrible cheese."

And who now thinks that's probably why the pizza was only $7.99 with three toppings.

I ended up shredding cheese on it myself. This helped. No, it didn't.

This whole experience was obviously painful enough to warrant writing about it.

My head hurts.

Her Name Was Paulie - She Lived In A Tree...

Jesus Chocolate...

The body of Christ.
The body of Bunny.

Same thing.

JLA Boom Tube...

Today I'd been feeling a little bit under the weather so after getting home from work I bought a bag of oranges and a 3 month-old South Korean baby. So far, I've finished two of the oranges and am almost completely done drinking the blood of the baby.

This, combined with my uncanny recuperative powers, should put me in tip-top shape by tomorrow morning.

Fat Free Judas...

Sometimes days just start out totally sucky.
There is no guarantee that the day will get any better.
There is only the guarantee that drinking will make all of this go away by midnight.

My Flag On A Forgotten Moon...

One of these days, Earth will be a dried-out husk.

Human beings, if not totally extinct - will be the galactic equivalent of the Coelacanth.

Regardless, even if The Internet is a dichotomous tool of information and withering brain cells, I hope that someday, somewhere, there'll be a faraway alien offspring steeped with freshly-learned Homo sapien Language/History/Culture/Sociology 101, that will get a big fucking kick out of the myriad nothings that I've pooped out on Fat Free Milk.

You know, after we've all died off and stuff in like, 71 more years or so...

Cylons, The Tin Man, And Toasters...

The Internet is a waste of my time.

Keyboard Shortcuts: press Ctrl with: B = Bold, I = Italic, S = Publish, D = Draft

I can never fall asleep when I want to
I sometimes fall asleep by accident and then end up staying up even later than I would've normally
I miss my dead cat more than I miss my early twenties
I spend more time reading about comic books online than reading them in real life
Today, I understand more, which means that I speak in public less
In 2006, so far, I groan 3/4ths of the time when I have to bend and grab something
In 206, I groaned a lot less
I am drinking a Bud Light and a Vodka/Redbull/Pomegranete
I am the best bartender ever
I hate bartending
In the twenty years that my work has existed, they've never made as much money or had as many young, crazy fuckers as they do on my Sunday nights
I make beautiful things happen for everybody else, but all of the beauty that I get ends up drowning inside my own head
I'm glad to be alive and still here
It's 2:05 and I finally feel awake
Taxes are like Herpes but don't involve a pretty face
The Arcade Fire reminds me of me living in my first three apartments - this is a wonderful, fucking horrible thing because who wants to be reminded of how amazing it was to be so energetic, Naive and completely fucked-up?
My girlfriend is asleep right now all wrapped up in blankets on the living room floor, she made me watch a horrible movie, she earlier was organizing a bunch of closet stuff and was transferring a box of pictures to a new and smaller box - this didn't necessarily make me feel any way in particular - this just made me not want to look through or talk about the pictures
Sometimes I sway in front of the keyboard
I very rarely write anything worthy of the imagery that this projects
one should attribute these things to Carl Orff, Jerry Lee Lewis, Ray Charles, Bill Gates, Hitler, Jack Kirby, Jesse and Gary Owens, Chris Ansari, Adam Langlois, David Hamamotto, Lee Adama and Tom from MYSPACE
Last night I saw groups of cars threatening to shoot each other in the park across the street from my house, and tonight I watched rain fall in the same place
Right now
I'm exactly where you are today...
thinking
these
thoughts

I Never Lie.

Well, no - not really...

Sometimes not when writing, anyway.

When visiting my girlfriend's work today, I was getting out of my car when an Amish couple asked me for directions to McDonalds.

I am not kidding.

I was of course, completely polite and cordial, but even as I was giving them the directions my mind was working in overdrive and totally excited but absolutely dumbstruck...

Amish people in Orange County?

And McDonalds?

I just don't get it.

This is my life.

Ha Ha Ha's

followed by many

?'s ?'s and ?'s

Mean.

Instead of bartending for eleven hours, why can't one be writing for the same amount of time?

We Fought For Lincoln...And The Ford Won...

Funny thing about
the lack of parental love
is that
as time passes
and the more that
you actually
get a hold
of what happened
or didn't
and when
you actually
get the ability to
put yourself outside of the box
and forgive
time has passed
and you've usually
just learned to forget to remember

by the time that you realize that what really mattered back then
when things were huge
when things were earth-shaking
when your parental Pearl Harbor was constantly being bombed
and you were just fleeing the constant fire from the sky

now
so much time has passed
you've lived the majority
of your life now without this person
how does this make you feel?
trying to place blame is like Brazil 2006 Nazi-hunting
like saying light on Earth from a galactic star
was cooler way before everybody knew about it
like loving a writers work posthumously
and telling others that he was a lot better
when he was alive

If Comic Books Were Beers - Then I'd Sell My Liver On eBay...

Right now my house smells like the mall.

Earlier today, TARGET sounded exactly like being on a cruise ship.

Also, I see a horrible piece of writing in my future.

See? Here it is. The post, not the picture, you penis.