Bamboo Plants...

My name is Kevynn Malone. I am 5' 11' and a half inches tall. I weigh 138 lbs. My hair is dark brown. I have one brown eye and one light brown eye. My hair is short. I have a scar on my eyebrow from Ian punching me in a drunken fight club night. I have a scar on my nose from throwing it through the glass on a front door. I broke my wrist playing football in fifth grade. I have bad knees. I play Bass guitar. I draw one picture every three months. I write everyday. I am horrible at paying bills. Children like me. I have too many friends. I have too many enemies. All of my friends are talented and insane. I barely drive. I hate freeways. I like to read. None of my family lives in California. I have a girlfriend and two cats. My father used to work for a secret branch of the government. My mother is very short and could drink you under the table. She's a fucking scrapper in a fight. My father is shy. I am not. I sing a lot out loud. I used to skateboard a lot. I like comic books again. I want to be a movie star. I want my screenplays publised. I did meet one of the studio heads from MGM yesterday, though. I want to be a Calvin Klein model. I like to buy action figures. Tonight I am going to Jen's house, then I am going to see Tony and Tom play at a bar. Tomorrow I am going to the library. Sunday? I don't know. I am looking forward to Kevynn Malone Day on March 5th. I encourage all to AIM me. We can all hook up that talky-to-talky option on it and drink together. I don't drink anything else but Bud Light. I'm a puss. I don't like to get in trouble anymore. I like to be awake when I drink. I should be getting ready right now, but I'm not. I'm talking to you and singing to Soul To Squeeze by Red hot Chili Peppers.........

I am happy. Mostly. I won't complain. I'm trying. Maybe not hard enough. I need to ignore you more and concentarte on all of the movie and book shit that I attribute 4% of my time to. I taught my girlfriend's niece all about Pez today. I gave her a really cool one today. We ate candy and filled all of mine up. I broke one. But it was a stupid one, so who cares. I need to hook up my photo scanner. I need to get business cards printed. I can dance, but don't. Much. I don't have a Play Station. I have a cool backyard. My neighbors are my friends. I buried my old cat in the backyard. I am friends with an eighty year old man. My youngest friend is four. I am twenty-seven. I believe aliens have visited Earth but don't believe in any of your gods. I don't like to watch wrestling. I like basketball and nothing else. I am unorganized. I think a lot. I wave to planes and helicopters. I don't like to kill ants, but will punch you in the face if you piss me off. I have to remind myself to breathe deep. I am more apt to look up or down than left/right or forward. I don't have a cell phone. I carry around a Moleskin in my back, left pocket. I hate coffee. I smoke. I have Buddy Holly-type glasses, but I need new ones. I paid three hundred glasses for these four years ago. I think I got my moneys worth....My vision isn't horrible. I am nearsighted. I eat a lot of salads. I hate sharks. I like monkeys.

I'll be back soon, nigga...

Important...

I like Pez.

Wow...

That's what I get for being distracted.
My drunken post about tonights drunkeness is now gone.
If I wasn't drinking, I guess my post about me being drunk wouldn't have been erased.
But then I wouldn't of posted.

Because I was drunk and I got distracted...

Will the madness never end? Yes it will, but not till sunday when ...The last installment of The Great Grand Ennui/Fat Free Milk Archive Exchange finally, FINALLY, hits the streets.



"I am at the stage of my cold where every time I fall asleep I wake up, and it's a bitch. It's a bitch is a very sexist term isn't it. I imagine you could substitute, it's a bastard, if your genderosity is easily offended. Genderosity, what a hoot. Either way, it wrecks havoc on my already fragile sleep pattern. Stuffy nose, sniffles, sore throat, sneezing, coughing, these have become the norm for my night. If that isn't bad enough, I like to sleep in boxer shorts, but because of a slight chill that goes hand in glove with my cold, I have taken to wearing an old pair of pajama bottoms that I found stuffed in the back of one of my drawers. That is all well and good, but as I mentioned they are an old pair of pajama bottoms, old in the sense that the elastic in the waistband is a thing of the past, and whenever I get up to go to the bathroom, which is a very frequent occurence due to the cold, the pajama bottoms usually end up around my ankles by the time I make it to the bathroom door, and this is not a good thing, because .... are you still with me? When I was a small child they had the last of the big polio scares and one morning I woke up to, you guessed it, go to the bathroom, and I couldn't walk. I was in extreme agony, dragging myself, bawling, and screaming across the floor. You have to realize that this was about five in the morning. so of course my parents were both sound asleep, sound asleep that is until they heard my anguished cries. I was able to babble out that I couldn't walk, and my mother totally freaked. She had POLIO in her eyes. My dad, being the more practical of the two, decided to give me a cursory physical. He pulled down my pajama bottoms and found that my underpants had slipped down around my knees, and yes in our family my father was at least as important as Dr. Jonas Salk in finding a cure for polio, he deftly pulled my underpants back up, and PRAISE THE LORD, I could walk again.
As a brief footnote to this story, I had the same problem a few weeks later, but neither of my parents bothered getting up to help their youngest child as he literally dragged his crippled body across the floor towards the bathroom. The heartless beasts, where was child welfare when I needed them?
This story goes nowhere, and proves nothing except that it is four o'clock in the morning, and my cold is at the stage where every time I fall asleep, I wake up."

Keep Your Calender Open, And Your Legs Closed. ( Kevynn Malone Day Update )...

Well, here we are.
Everything working?
Can we all be the dorks again and start commenting?
Like I said previously, I officially declare Wednesday, March 5th, "Kevynn Malone Day" in the United States, Canada, and most of the free world. I ripped some of that off of Boz. Ha.

I will have the entire day off on Kevynn Malone Day. Kevynn Malone Day is a holiday about me, for me, and created entirely by me. You also have no choice but to participate. So step to it, you pieces of fuck! I will wake up early and write in between bouts of celebratory drinking. I will try not to invite friends, because that would distract me from your festivities.


So, what does one do in recognition of this national holiday?

I'm glad you asked, Bubba.

· You must drink at least one alcoholic beverage.
· Poop at least once during that day.
· You can’t take off your shoes unless they’re work shoes.
· No sleep until midnight. ( I’m being generous to you here )
· You have to eat a salad. Any salad.
· Buy and/or read one Spiderman comic. I've included a link for the lazy bastards.
· Go to a toy store or at least think about it.
· Take out the trash.
· And make a comment on all these websites if they work:

And most importantly, say hi to me...

First person that accomplishes all of these and shows me proof somehow might get a personalized prize from me. I might have mo’ to add later…

You know the drill by now, so let's just get it over with ...
The Great Grand Ennui/Fat Free Milk Archive Exchange!

"I hate it when someone I think is older than I am turns out to be younger than I am, much younger. Does that make sense? Does life make sense? Do dollars make sense, or cents, or doughnuts?

My niece is thinking about getting a new car. She wants to lease a Chevy Malibu. I think she wanted my advice ... like that would help. Whenever anyone asks me what kind of car I have I tell them I have a red one.

I've spent the last half hour clicking on my website in a weak effort to run up the hit count. Live much? No, thanks I have cable modem.

When I was in college, back in the 70's, after the Air Force, my roommate and I wrote a song about Mr. Hockey, Gordie Howe. I wrote the lyrics and my roommate wrote the music. I don't remember much of the song, but I do remember the chorus, and it went something like this ...

a-one, and a-two,
Gordie-eeeeeeee,
Gordie-eeeeeeee,
Gordie-eeeeeeee Howe,
Gordie, how do you score all those gosh darn goals, Gordie
When you have to be forty-eight, or fifty-nine, or even seventy-six years old?

Gosh darn wasn't my original choice, but my roommate was a christian boy, so I compromised. You have to pick your fights."

Fucktards Everywhere...

Damn, everything is bugging the hell out of me. The fucking time-wasting dentist today. Not enough time to myself. Too much talk. Sometimes I don't like to talk. I want to be left alone. Avctually, I like to be left alone most of the time. All the fucking dumbasses everywhere. On my block, in my city, in California, all politics, and polticians, and in the world. Fucking TV. Fucking idiotic TV. Stupid-ass fucking Haloscan. Click refresh now. It might work one out of four times. YACCS accepting people for what two days? All of the other ones that I checked out, that seem promising in the beginning until you start to read more and either have to pay, It's in it's test stages and liable to pull a Haloscan on you when too many people join, or you have to actually understand all of the shite that they're talking aboot.

Then, tonight - my girlfriend told me
that sometimes I smell like her father. What?
No, we weren't in bed. Ha.

Thank god Kevynn Malone Day ( March 5th ) is coming up...

Wacky Iraqi...

Wow, that Saddam Hussein is fucking hilarious! I was watching the Dan Rather interview with him on CBS, and I've gotta say, I didn't know he had a sense of humor! There was that one part where Saddam gave Dan an exploding cigar, or when Saddam slipped a piece of phony dog poo on the desk when Dan was shuffling papers around? Holy fucktards! Or when Saddam called Dan a "Crazy Ass Nigga!", gave him a blunt and told him to "Smoke This Shit, Yo!" and then pulled a 40 oz. of Old English out of the pocket of his baggy, saggin' pants and took a big ol' swig. Phony dog poo...

Nuts, I tell ya.

Nuts.

I'm Funny...

My girlfriend was just sitting here beside me, and we were disgusting - Ooops! I meant we we're discussing commenting systems and the upcoming Kevynn Malone Day (March 5th). I had a pen in my hand and I made a mark on her foot. She didn't like that and wanted a pen so she could make a mark on me. So I told her that I would get rid of it…and scribbled it out with the pen.

Now she’s gone.

I’m funny.
Not funny queer.
Funny Ha Ha.

One Hour Scrotum...

Sorry. Before I go to bed, I have to tell you that I dread the dentist tomorrow. I might actually be going to sleep before two a.m. I was at the store tonight and finishing up my consumeristic naughtiness, girlfriend was looking at a Vogue magazine and contemplating on whether or not to buy that filth. I kind of know everybody at the store, and was making small talk with the-not-too-bright-but-friendly-bagger-boy.

He said, "See you later, Kevynn!".
I was thinking that my girlfriend and I had to "Take Off".
I was thinking about saying, "Take It Easy" to the bagger boy.

So, I looked at the-not-too-bright-but-friendly-bagger-boy
and accidently said..."Take It Off!".

And then hurried away.

Very, very fast.

The Great Grand Ennui/Fat Free Milk Archive Exchange
Part the French word for three:
Boz's blog post, thingie, archive post...

"I woke up this morning and looked at the big number digital alarm clock and it read 802. Now if you aren't wearing your glasses, your eyes are still covered over with sleep and you squint, 802 will look like BOZ. I was so astounded by the realization that I rolled over and went back to sleep."

Before I Forget...

I officially declare Wednesday, March 5th, "Kevynn Malone Day".

What does one do in recognition of this national holiday?

More details later...when I think up of something(s).

So Close...

Friggin' Haloscan. Right when I'm looking
through other commenting system sites,
they go back online.This is their second strike.
Third? They're outta here, doody-fresh.

I am so tough. Uhhh...nope.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, it is almost time for the next installment of
The Great Grand Ennui/Fat Free Milk Archive Exchange
and from your feedback I can tell you are almost as excited as I am...

"I have to change the water in my goldfish, Fetish Doll's, bowl today, and I am a little worried. I have a bad habit, that goes back a couple of years, of killing goldfish when I change their water. When I changed the water ten days ago I killed Fetish Doll's mate Steph the Geek, and I had just bought both of them a week earlier. Gold fish aren't cheap! I think they cost about $1.29 each. Heck, you can buy three cans of tuna fish for that price. It must have something to do with the water temperature, I think I make it too cold. Or maybe I make it too warm. Or maybe there is too much chlroine in the water. Or maybe someone sneaks in and strangles them in their sleep.

Vanity update: My weight is going down faster than a priest on an altar boy. I have lost 24 lbs since the first of the year. That's a lot of avoirdupois. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful."


I like the new background texture on my homepage it looks like what Linda Blair puked up in the Exorcist.

Red Hot Chili Peppers Doing A Ramones Cover Aint Half Bad...

Anyway, I was just looking through the paper and thought you might want to know that Sav-On's is having a big blowout. EPT pregnancy tests are on sale for $8.99. So now you don't have to wait to see if you're pregnant or not. Aren't you glad you bargain shop? Gee, I was waiting all of this time for a coupon!

Oh, mouthwash is on sale too. Two for three dollars.

Goodbye, poop mouth.

Damn. What Was The Title Of My Post Before?...

Something happened. Everything's gone. Sucks, doesn't it? It wasn't that important anyway.

I said that I didn't want to clean the bathroom.
I want to continue reading Spiderman comics and drinking beer.
I want to be on a beach.
And then when I go to sleep.
Gnomes will come get me a blanket, clean up my mess, and leave me new comics and beer in the morning.

That's all that I said. Was that so bad? It wasn't even a good post.

But I liked it.

Okay, here it goes...

Take two.

Check Yo'self, Foo'...

Me. Boz. Fat Free Milk. The Grand Ennui. I'm gonna post one favorite post from Boz's website for the next seven days. Enjoy, punk....

"I am posting a lot of pics. I wonder if you can tell anything about me from the pics I post? I tried for an hour to find a good pic of Lori Petty to post, but wasn't able to find one that met my, ahem, strict standards. I think I'll see if I can find any nice ones of Tuesday Weld. Did you know she was fired from the cast of the television show The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, because she was thought to be too sexy?

I think I'd like to be a cult figure, not in an evil way like Charles Manson or Jim Jones, but more like where 99.9999999999% of the world has never heard of me, but where the .0000000001% who has heard of me is feverent in their devotion of me. I'd like if they had conventions, not unlike Star Trek conventions, where vendors would sell locks of my hair and toe nail clippings, and there would be symposiums discussing the hidden meanings behind the pic just beneath the main title of my blog. There would also be debates on my two pairs of eyeglasses: The gold metal framed computer specs, or the black metal framed everyday specs, which are cooler, you decide. They would dress like me, no, on second thought they wouldn't dress like me, I wouldn't wish that on anyone. There would be webrings and cliques with titles like, The Middle of the Movie, and Not Just For Breakfast Anymore. Fans would make pilgrimages to my house and camp outside my door, hoping for a glimpse of me, and sometimes I would go outside and talk with them, and other times I would call the cops and have them arrested. Then of course there would be that one fan who went over the edge. Preferably a female fan so taken in by me that she would want to have my baby, but rebuffed she would stalk me. She would follow me around, there would be restraining orders, court dates, confrontations, jail time, and finally one night while I tossed and turned in bed there would be a sound, I would open my eyes and look up, and she would be there, with a knife with a 12 inch blade over her head about to come down ........ On second thought, I don't think I want to be a cult figure. I like it better being unknown to 100% of the world. The end."

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses over the Hills...

I didn't want to wake up, but I had to. Last night was one of those nights where everybody drinks too much and makes plans for the next day. What we don't realize is that most won't remember, and the ones that do won't find anybody to go to breakfast, lunch, or dinner with because the other person is probably sleeping. Don't exchange phone numbers with a newfound friend because it'll just be cleaned out of the wallet in a month. Realize that you'll be eating fast food before you go to bed. You won't even remember it until you see the empty wrappers in the trash. I laughed a lot last night. Ha Ha Ha. I did. Really.

I didn't want to wake up, but I did. I went to the batting cages. Everybody else flaked out except for Joe. Not Joe Mama. My back is sore. When I hit em? Great. When I don't? My back gets all twisted like spaghetti. I have bad knees, okay? They've been bugging me bad for the last coupla years. You should see me walk up steps when nobody's looking. That's what skateboarding will do to ya' kids, look out. So, one ball I hit, smacked me in the knee. My left knee, thankfully. My right knee's the worst. I didn't want to hit anymore because I was in so much pain. Later, I did the same exact fucking thing. Instead of quitting, we logically went to the fast pitch cages.

We played Laser Tag. Me, Joe, two moms, and 23 kids. I got in a fight with one who was bugging the hell out of me. I took his wallet. I played video games. I ate pizza. I went outside to smoke. I sat on a rock. Little blackbirds were pecking at the lawn in front of me. Maybe forty of them. They got closer. And closer. And closer, until they were about five feet away from me. I sat still. My cigarette was developing a grandma ash of mass proportions. A young girl started to look at me. Was it the close proximity of the birds or my natural, boyish charm? Was I a Bird Whisperer? I played more video games. I saw god. No. I went to the video store. I got nothing. I think that is sad. I went home to take a shower. I didn't. I talked to one of my older brothers. I need to go to Baltimore when his baby is born next month. I'm the Marlon Brando of his kid. Wait, I'm the fat-once-brilliant-actor of his kid?

Joe and I were waiting for Chris so that we could go to dinner. I was smoking in the backyard. No birds. Too cold. No worms? I don't know. I heard a crunch. I could tell it was a car against car crunch. Let's stop this "car on car" crime. I heard glass tinkling. I ran to where I heard the noise originate from. It was coming from where my car was parked. The hit and run, drunken-or-just-plain-stupid driver hit the car parked behind mine. Joe and I talked to the irate owner who told us that he fargin felt like cussing, and the cop. I hoped he didn't see my expired registration. I thanked the god(s). We ate food.

I came home. Watched smatterings of the Grammys. Why aren't they giving out awards to grandmothers? Read. Tried to type. Waited. Watched the end of ALI. Uhhh...fine, I guess. It's no When We Were Kings, though. There is a fat cat asleep by me. She is on her back. She is disgusting. One arm is in the air. One is curled down like she's saying, "Aww Shucks!". I think she ate all of the birds that I hung out with today.

I'm glad I woke up.
Now I need to go to sleep...

Smells Like Teen Spirit...

First concert. I was sixteen, I think. Kyuss, White Zombie, Danzig. Why? I was into Danzig. That's it. Halloween night. Lied to my father. Told him I was staying at Tony's house. Costumes. Freaks. Joel lost a whole eighth of pot and we spent the first half hour looking for it. Why? I don't know. I never liked it. I had an older brother, so I know what I'm talking about. We started a mosh pit. We floated Mike across the crowd, and then lost him. We didn't see him until the last part of the concert. I lost my earring and my mask in the space of the first mosh-minute. There were bonfires. I saw long-haired freak's hair go up in flames. A big guy that was standing and watching right by me nudged me and gave me his pipe. I smoked it. Why? I don't know. I got stoned. I hated getting stoned. I lost track of time. I saw a guy with a bloody eye in the bathroom yell what a great time he was having. There were zombies, witches, vampires, and idiots. It was fun.

My next concert was at the Orange County Fair.

I saw The Everley Brothers.

Even scarier.

The Wheels On The Bus...

Time is passing, things are changing. After work I played with my girlfriend's sister's daughter in the park. Does that make sense? If my girlfriend and I were married, which we will be when I'm 87, Rosie would be my neice. She'll start to hate me later on, but she thinks I'm pretty cool now. We point out animals in my books. I pay attention to her. She's the only girl I hug and kiss besides my girlfriend, and I don't have to figure out bills with her, so it's a perfect arrangement. After I got off of work today, my girlfriend asked if I would take Rosie to the " P.A.R.K?". I agreed so that my girlfriend and her sister could talk about family/girl stuff in peace. We went to the park by my house. I had to carry her in my arms all the way there. That was the agreement. If I had it my way, I probably would've let Rosie drive me there. Not my kid. Not my rules. If I had it my way, I'd instruct Rosie to act like she was a midget and ask adult questions to the adults. I'd give her a cel phone and dress her up in a jogging suit. I'd tell her to scream into the phone and ask people, "What the fuck you lookin' at?" when they were staring. I'd tell her to say, " Haven't you ever seen a midget with sloooow speech before?"

The park was empty when we got there. We climbed on everything. We slid down the slides. I made the mistake of teaching her how to play, "Store" in one of the play houses. I would give her wood chips as money and she would give me hamburgers. Consumerism, anyone? I'm glad I didn't call the play house, "McDonalds". Then I would've had to pretend to puke all over the place. Rosie never grew tired of the game, I was sick of putting my hands in all of the woodchips. I kept on thinking about what drunk teenagers do at parks late at night. I tried to tell her that we should go on the slides again. See? Kids aren't bored doing the same thing over and over again. I am. That makes me the kid, I think. Then I thought that if I told her that I was going to play on the slide instead of asking her, I'd get my way. It worked.

The playground started to get filled with small little kids. About eight little things and four mothers that I knew for a fact were younger than me. I live close to a home for troubled, young, pregnant mothers. That explains the kids. One little dude with dreadlocks started to follow me around and wanted to do all of the things that I was doing. Nobody seemed to be watching him. He'd just squeek at me, but I was afraid of lifting him up on things and getting funny looks from the mamas. I had my kid, though. That was my defense. Little dreadlock boy started to follow us everywhere and so I helped lift him on a platform and tried to not make Rosie jealous and make it seem that it was perfectly natural that I was devoting half my time to her and a complete stranger. Little dreadlock boy started to eat the woodchips after sticking his mouth down into the ground. I was afraid of him choking, so I looked around and saw nobody paying attention once again. So, I did the only thing that I could. I stuck my fingers in somebody's baby's mouth and started to pull out the wood chip slivers. I was waiting for the scream from a mother. " What the hell are you doing with my baby?". I was picking fucking wood out of saliva, okay? I shouldv'e thrown some chips in his diapers for fun. That would've really tripped them out later.

Babies were everywhere. When I was helping Rosie climb up a rope ladder. A little thing about the size from my foot to my knee came running up to me as I was climbing. She had a big smile on her face. I had an abject look of terror on mine. I blocked her to stop her from falling about four feet to the ground. I saw some of the mother's start to pay more attention then.

I felt like a father, a little bit. I was standing around watching Rosie with eagle eyes. One of the teenage girls/sitters was shadowing one of the munchkins around. I had a smile on my face and my eyes were darting around, looking for any potential obstacle or danger. Isn't it funny that parents in parks never really look at each other? They can't. One glance away means a busted kid head. I don't know who said what, it was something about one of the slides. I said some thing like, " Yeah, she really likes those." The mom said, "Oh yeah, mine too!" Ummmm....I'm standin' here in my bluejeans, scary black skull t-shirt, wristbands, and scary hair. I don't really fit, okay?

But I guess I do. Because I could be a father now. And I've always dressed however I wanted to at the moment. My uniform is pretty basic. Black shirts when warm. Collared long sleeves when cold. Hair always dumb. Me father now? No. You taking care of mine when I have em'? Oh yeah.

I'll teach my kid how to spellcheck too.


Poop head.

Another Reason Why I'm A Bad Boyfriend...

Watching the last episode of The Bachelorette.
My girlfriend turns to me, teary-eyed, and says, "Are you crying too?"

"Uh, no. I was picking my nose."

Richie Rich And Almost Famous...

I am now working on becoming rich and famous. Rich in what? Famous for what? No, you ass - I just wan't to be rich and famous. Not J-Lo rich and famous. Not F. Scott rich and famous. Not George C. Scott rich and famous. Not Scotland Yard. Not The Yardbirds. Not Charlie Parker. Not Trey Parker. Not Parker Bros. Not The Brothers McMullen. Not a mullet. Not Macauley Culkin. Not Coldplay. Not At Play In The Fields Of The Lord. Not Traci Lords. Not Lord Vader. Not Vapo Rub. Not, " Ay, there's the rub!". Not The Three Men In The Tub. Not Crockett. Not Davey Jones. Not Grace Jones. Not George Burns. Not cigar Burns. Not Smithers. Not Alan Smithee. Not Morrisey. Not The Lizard King. Not John Densmore's tinitus. Not Titus, The Faithful Padlock. Not Paddington Bear. Not Aslan. Not Pennywise. Not He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named. Not Admiral Thrawn. Not Elijah Snow. Not The Fourth Man. Not Aimee Mann. Not a man. Not a woman. Not Peter Parker. Not Johnathan Harker. Not Parker Posey. Not a fat head named Rosie. Not Zoloft. Not Phillip Morris. Not Kerouac. Not Palahniuk. Not Orson Scott Card. Not Harry Osborn. Not Warren Ellis. Not a crook. Not tired yet. Not smart, eh? Not enough time in the day. Not too html savvy. Not responsible. Not normal. Not a bad guy to know. Not taking anything for granted. Not a healthy liver. Not a good guy to stick in Vegas. Not into TV. Not taking out the trash. Not done with the screenplays. Not sure what that noise was coming from the turtle tank. Not sure why I think gothic girls are attractive. Not at all gothic myself. Not to touch the earth, not to touch the sun. I had the day off today but I had to cover for a guy whose brother died. I'm not kidding. I am not the god of hellfire. I once met a person who was attacked by a Vampire. I like Werewolves. I hate all Werewolf movies. I like all Spiderman comics. Please send me some. Not Werewolves. I need to go smoke now, can you hold on a sec? Why, thank you. You're the greatest, Bubba....I attract ghosts in almost every house that I live in. I once wrote a drunk email to Sarah B. and don't remember what I said. I recently wrote a letter of complaint to AT&T. I like action figures. I like Gary Oldman. I like the Dalai Lama. I hate China. I like Radiohead. I like Beer and nothing else. I am romantic. I am agoraphobic. I like the beach but hate open water. I like dogs but only have cats. My hair is growing back. I like to poo. I tried to get tickets to see Coldplay at The Hollywood Bowl but they sold out in the first seven minutes. I'd like to tell everybody that got them to suck it. I am listening to Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. I like to sing, and do almost always. I play bass guitar but not as much as I should. Good times never seemed so good. I like Bruce Campbell. I'd like to link to everything that I've talked about. I like eggrolls. I hate mexican food. I hate mexicans and love eggs. Not really. I need to get new car insurance. Larry stopped by tonight. He looks like Snoop Doggy Dog. I once saw Charlie Sheen and Anthony Keidis in the same hour. I have one brown eye and one light brown eye. I am afraid. I've got a bad feeling about this. I want to see Popeye, the movie. I don't miss Shelly Duvall one bit. I think Jennifer Garner is cute but shouldn't work out anymore. I don't watch wrestling. I lke to read. I don't like to read about wrestling. Ernest Hemingway blew his head off with a shotgun. I had a good Valentine's Day. There is still mistletoe hanging above the front door. I am not going to spellcheck this. I like you. I need a digital camera. I need to be adopted please. I live in California. I need to drop off my eight rolls of film tomorrow. I need to pay the cable bill. I need to go to the comic book store. I need to go now.

I need to be rich and famous.

Hop to it, punk.

Jesus Worked Out...

My friend Baxter says that Jesus had a swimmer's body. Then did he play water polo? I don't think that there's a chance in hell that Jesus swam. He obviously didn't like water. Have you seen him? Not lately, I meant in pictures. He looks kind of dirty. Some of that weird soap that I just bought would've done him good. Jesus needed a good razor and a gay hairdresser friend.

See, now look at Buddha. Nice. Clean.

I bet Buddha smelled good.

Who Put The Boop In The Boop-Dee-Boop-Dee-Boop?...

And who put the Jesus in my soap? Okay, get ready...I bought some steaks and green beans for dinner, right? I also needed some more soap to wash my stinky butt with. So I went to the healthy hippie section where I get my Toms Of Maine toothpaste from and picked up "Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps All-One Hemp Vera Baby-Mild Pure-Castille Soap. serious. That's what it's called. Figured it was worth a shot and better than all the usual perfumey crud I usually buy that drives my skin nuts. I opened it up in the shower and started to read the label...

Cruelty free, not animal tested, post-consumer recycled paper, blah blah.

And then I started to read the inside of the wrapper. Notable quotes from the Moral ABC? What the hell? Edison? Booker T. Washington? Mohammed? Confucius? And Bronner? Who the hell is that? And how come most of them were god-ish quotes? That sucked! And of course, the soap sucked. It felt like I was rubbing somebodys heel against my arm. What did I just say?

Screw the Jesus soap. I've been had. I feel dirty now.

*Update* Well, maybe not. I don't know.
You've got to read this article. It's crazy.

Apathetic Nnyvek...

Oh. I get it.
Once, I stop caring about the comments section -
it starts to work again. I see now.
Well, I also don't care about money

...eh?

Nothing happened.