My Spirit...

Is a bag of tortilla chips in the backpack of a clumsy man with one leg, three toes and a horrible case of epilepsy.

I Hate Music.

All of it.

iF yOU tOOK...

wHATS HER NAME - THE BLONDE FROM lost AND THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WAS LOOKING FOR HER FATHER ON SEASON ONE OF deadwood AND PUT THEM IN A GLADIATOR PIT TO FIGHT TO THE DEATH...i HOPE THAT THEY'D JUST GIVE UP AND END UP HOLDING EACH OTHER IN THEIR UNDERWEAR INSTEAD.

Let Us...

rise up
and be thankful,
for if we didn't learn a lot today,
at least we learned a little,
and if we didn't learn a little,
at least we didn't get sick,
and if we got sick,
at least we didn't die;

so, let us all be thankful.


Buddha

47...

Q'Orianka Kilcher And The Vesica Piscis...

Never open the door to strange women wearing strange necklaces and you'll never see Rome fall. Crap, I think I'll pass on the movie today - maybe tomorrow. I am excited that Desolation Jones is coming to Fullerton, though. The fucker better call me when he's here and it better not be when I'm working a double shift, either.

If you're confused - email me for an explanation. And Paypal me 50 cents. I want to buy things out of tiny machines that you have to hunch over to use. Email me for an explanation for this also. Oh, and throw in a nother 50 cents. A bag of popcorn at Ace Hardware costs a quarter, but the bags are small so...

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...