Dia De Los Leche...

xxx

Going here in a couple of hours for a friend's Halloween party. My friend's old band, Longfellow is playing too. I will be drunk and dressed as a Slim Jim. Tomorrow night too. My girlfriend's going to help me out behind the bar, and I'm giving away bottles of wine for costume prizes.

Sounds good.

Bacchus would agree.

Salt And Pepa's Here...

They're filming a Christmas movie right across the street from my house. They've been there all week, it's going to be on ABC on Dec. 4th, I think - or that's what the flier that they gave me said, at least.

I will get discovered.

I am stripping down right now and am getting the lawn mower primed and ready to go.

My glistening chest will look all the more sexy in the current rainy weather.

Wish me luck.

Fat Free Milk...

I guess I’m going to have to give up real writing. It seems like all I can do now is this fake stuff or the off the top of my head or the kind of planned topical crappy crap. Even though I have somebody waiting on screenplays from me.

It sucks. I need to get back to writing in notebooks if I still have a chance.

It would be hard to make a fortune doing this type of crap. It’s a dime a dozen. Short stories might work considering that I find them easier to write than bigger projects but I generally don’t like reading short stories. I think, because short stories seem like a cheating investment. Usually by the time you’re involved, the story’s over – and that always sucks. It’s probably just me. You can’t knock Twain, King, Hem, Carver and others. Who IS best known for brilliant short stories? I’ll ask around sooner or later.

How did I get so fucking lazy? Not only in writing but also in my life? Didn’t I used to be a lot more motivated? Yes, I was younger – but maybe I was sicker, though. You tend to spin frantically when you’re sicker in the head. More comes out of you too when you’re not that balanced. I used to write major amounts and now I write practically nothing. What happened? Does this mean that I really wont ever write The Great American Novel? Does this mean that I better get a real job soon because I have nothing else going for me? I’ve tried to stop calling myself a writer because now I feel like I’m lying. I need to start hanging around creative people again. Maybe I’ll just call Joel out of the blue and write a play with him. That would be nice. He’s older too, and yes, I used to hang around creative, older people all of the time but they all moved away and got in horrible fights with each other in between their bouts of candle-lit, poetry-reading madness. They all ended up leaving each other, fucking each other, moving out of state or just getting plain old.

Yeah, maybe I will call Joel. I saw him tonight. He stopped by the bar when I was working tonight. He told me what books he was reading. I only have a couple friends who still talk to me about that – but they’re both insane. This guy writes for a good magazine and writes plays at the local theatre too. I might’ve mentioned that. He likes booze too. That’s always good. You better like booze if you like books. Just because. You just better.

Oh man. I’ve got this impending feeling of doom that’s been hanging over me lately. It’s making me nervous and paranoid. It’s making me scared. I don’t want to answer the phone or open mail. Does this mean that it’s all financially motivated then? I don’t look forward to the end of the year. All new parties or activities, trips, etc. piss me off because that just means that it’s another obligatory social event that will further prevent me from digging myself out of my hole.

What happened to walking? My car depresses me because I don’t take care of it. Weather isn’t the same either because of my car and it’s widow that doesn’t roll up.

Am I really depressed or am I just...what do they call it? What do they call it when you try to trade in a car but you end up owing more than it’s worth now or something like that? I’m kind of like that right now. In over my head in life and certain sense of value or worth had decreased.

Is it depreciation or my great depression?

Declination or a lack of direction?

Declension?

Disparity?

Da gooch beat me up Mr. Drummond.

I refuse to get up to tell the cat to be fucking quiet – but I will get up for a fucking cigarette because I feel like I really need one right now.

See? That’s what I need. I need to write with the quickness and ferocity of one that does right before getting up to go outside and smoke. Hummingbird fingertips. I think my brain is haunted. I don’t feel good right now. Sleep won’t do it. Nothing will. Nothing will, except sunlight coming over the horizon. Maybe Empire Strikes Back playing on the TV as I slowly and laboriously drift into my usual light and seldom interrupted sleep.

I need to do five responsible things tomorrow and five things that are good for me. Organizing comic books makes me feel good. I can walk to the bank. I came up with a new band name tonight thanks to Sarah Brown. I can open up the garage and pull out all of the old notebooks. Maybe not. I need to clean my room. I can start to paint pictures. I can make a bill list. I can sell comics on ebay. I can drink and write all day. I cannot turn on the computer. I can try not to turn on the TV or the computer. I can stop by every store in downtown. I can drink in every bar in downtown. I can play video games all day. I can search for jobs online. I can make something out of little pieces of junk and superglue. I can write a Christmas list. I can smoke and then will be back. I can.

Aslan Hates Pedro...

Yeah. I've been taking a break. It's good to do, because THE INTERNET is a time sucker and I already have enough of those suckers, sucka.

My cat plays fetch with water bottle caps, too.

That's very nice.

Isn't it, you filthy bitch?

Mr. Cogswell, Mr. Tate, and Mr. Slate...

Never let your boss see the inside of your home. They will either think that you're a child, insane, a slob, or make too much money. No boss will ever take pity on you and give you a raise after seeing your slum.

The only reason why you should invite your boss inside is if they're of the opposite sex, very attractive, have no vocal cords and like paying off employees not to squeal like the blackmailing piggies that they are.

I did work for an attractive lady once. We were very close. It was hard working for somebody and trying not to look at their boobs. Some of you might have this problem too, even if your boss is a man. This is even worse. Men like this usually sweat a lot and breathe heavy. They usually have a five-o-clock shadow by noon and always have food on their shirt or face. These are the type of men that drop farts like atom bombs and yell at the FUCKING YANKEES almost as much as they do their wife and children.

Okay. I got a little off track. I need a cigarette and I need to take a nap. I just realized that I've never seen one episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. It's over now. I wonder if I was missing something. Sarah Michelle Gellar's nose looks like she's been punched by a vampire one-too-many times. Like I should talk. Go Daphne. Go FUCKING RED SOX. Go to sleep, self.

This Is All I Have...

When it comes to my uncanny sandwich and salad-making abilities - I'm a genius.

When it comes to everything else - I am not.

Ender, Valentine, Peter and Bean...

Today, It's All About...

impatient fat ladies with short hair.

Oh, and buy this thing from me now.

Fatties.

I was Reading About What I Was Doing Last Year And The Realized That I've Been Writing On fat Free Milk For Two Years And Eleven days Now...

Man Or Astroman?...

It's funny. When I was younger, I thought that a lot of things would've been sorted out by the time that I got older. That's not the case, I guess. Well, some of that's true - I mean, I'm not as angst-ridden as I was before. Not by a long shot. I've still got the fire burnin' inside of me, but I'm more than likely to warm my own hands by it, than to get all pyromaniac on you and burn down your house and stuff. I don't know what's going on. What is going on? I can hear all of the hubbub in the background. I assume they're extras and crew runnin' around making the sets look realistic. They're making the water hit the ground when a rain effect is called for, the sun shines brightly when necessary, and mutants crawl out of the sewers on cue. What do I usually do? Say my lines. Rub my broken ankle. Work on my dialogue. Was that realistic enough? Was I in character? Should I do it again? No? That was okay? Cool. What's the next scene? Oh, we jump forward years from now? Oh. Okay.

Action. I have to remind myself to notice the weeds growing in the cracks of the sidewalks. I forget that the sky is there. Planes, insects, and birds remind me to look up- and I thank them for it. What was effortless before, is now an exercise. Need to stretch those muscles, cuz' I'm gettin' fat, Ma. I'm gonna run a couple laps around the track, no, make that four. I'll be back before supper. The clocks tickin', but it's only loud when I'm on it. I never used to notice the days/daze. I only noticed it when I had to go asleep to go to work. Life was crazy that way. I still stay up, but now, I don't know why. I used to accomplish so much before. Now, all that I get is a gossameric glimpse of the Gproductivity, Gdrive, and Gsick Gconfusion that used to make me Ghappy in the morning. Back then, I used to wake up and be amazed at the 2-90 pages that I wrote before. Now I'm amazed that I wrote anything more than a page.

You know, I don't want to go back and spell check what I wrote above this. I've kinda already forgotten about it. Would that be okay if I just didn't' care? Because when it boils down to it, all of this, all of the stuff that I do that doesn't pay the bills, all of the atrophying screenplays and stories, all of the folders full of ideas, all of the hand-written crap, the thousands worth of pages of stuff in my garage, doesn't really matter much today - because what the hell am I going to really do with all of this if Thor doesn't come down from Asgard and whisk away all of my shit with his mighty hammer and send it to the big, god-like publishers? All of that stuff is mortal fodder. Bah! Peasants. Die puny humans!

I love my girlfriend. She's really sweet. Heart of gold. Fort Knox in a kick ass body. I lucked out. Did she luck out? Only Chuck Woolery could tell. I'm proud of myself. I think that I turned out to be an okay bloke considering my circumstances and with my STD's and all. The Clap's a hard thing to deal with, yo. Yeah, I said YO,yo. Wanna wrestle? No, I don't want to, Andre The Giant, cuz' I've heard that you've got a posse...

I didn't even realize until tonight that I've been writing on this thing for a year. Just like me to forget. I'd been aware of it and all, but just like me to constantly remind myself of something and then forget it when it matters. So, whatever. It's not that important, no big deal. I'm not going to make a big hooby jooby about writing shit on a webpage for a year because...you know...it's just okay. There's babies to be feed, things to do, nipples to tweak and crotches to kick. This is cool to me and I love it, anybody else who read(s) this is along for the ride. I really appreciate it. There are a small amount of people who pop up on this Fatty Free Milky thingy that have been commenting since the beginning. BOZ. Saara. Chez. That's pretty damn cool. I love seeing new names in the commenty thingy. I love feedback. Cool. All of you. Even the sickos who came here by accident either looking for some porn thing that contained the words FAT, Free, or MILK in them. I'm a genius. I am. The name of this site gets me a lot of futile Google hits. Actually, who cares about Google hits? Who cares to type in FUTILE again? Not me. The word looks weird, and makes me nervous. Have it stand over there. No, not there - over THERE.

Remind me to tell more real stories in the future. Those are fun. Does this sound like a negative post? Cuz' it's not, or wasn't supposed to be. Anyway. One year of writing on nothing, about nothing, for nothing, except for the need to write SOMETHING.

And that's all folks.

Action!

I'm The Green Lion...

I hate getting home this late. Thank god for friends, though. If I didn't have any friends, then my bar would be empty and I would be broker than the usual broke. Some of my friends drink a lot, and then they look heller than their usual helly hell. I find bartending boring. I find posts about bartending even boring-ER-EST-ES-Y...

Hank's Overblown Sense Of Entitlement Remains As Big As His Stature...

I’d never been to this particular skate park before. It’s close to where I live, but I don’t have knee pads and a helmet, so I’ve never gone. But, today I went with a couple of kids from my work. One of them lent me his brother’s ratty-ass equipment. We’d been talking about it forever, so it was good to finally go.

I did feel weird, though. There were kids that measured up to my belly button popping ollies behind me as I paid my twelve bucks. I’ve never paid to skateboard anywhere. But I chalked it all up to experience and I knew that it would be interesting, or, at least be a cheap way of committing suicide. I haven’t skated much since I broke my ankle in a drunken fight with my girlfriend. Besides getting older, you tend to rethink certain types of physical activity when one spends months not being able to walk naturally. It makes the already too-fast aging process progress faster, I think.

One of the teenagers behind the counter asked me if I’d ever skated there before. I lied and told him, yes, that I had. I didn’t want to hear a bunch of legal jargon, and I think that he was only telling me because he had to. That type of stuff was for the little kids. Not for old men in their-twenty-something’s like me. I figured that I started skating before this kid was even born. If I told him that, he would’ve looked at me like I look at old people when they tell me things similar to that.

I was dancing before you were born!

I’ve been eating here longer than you’ve been around!

Blah, blah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s the natural order of life. 365 days allocated in a bracket.

I get it.

I’m not down with all of that. Usually.

Sad to say, but I told both of the kids that I worked with, that I was going to go smoke before I went in. They said okay. Maybe I shouldn’t call them kids. One’s nineteen and one’s twenty. Those aren’t kids, I guess. I’m fucking dorkier than them. And they both act more adult than I do at work. I have more toys than them, though.

So, I smoked. And stretched some. Or, at least tried to without looking like a freak. I used to stretch all of the time before skating, but have never seen anybody else do it. And it looks kind of stupid when you’re smoking too. Smoking cigarettes and skating is like fat people super-sizing their orders while ordering a Diet Coke. What’s the point? Stupid balancing acts make no sense when you’ll inevitably fall down.

Speaking of balance…

I must’ve slipped something spine-wise trying to grind on the lip of their mini-ramp.

Even typing this hurts.

But I did fit in some good, old-fashioned pop shove-its and pulled off some backside rail slides that nobody ever really pays attention to anymore.

Oh.

And my ankle hurts again.

But not my pride.

Because I was the actual, oldest person skating there.

29 years old, baby.

Skate or die.

Die probably.

Diet Pills...



If I was invited to Operation Coalition Desert The Debates Cobra Watch 2004 Or Die Thingy, I know that I wouldn't end up getting elected - but with my involvement...NOBODY would. And part of me feels really good about this. Let's get big, ol' fatty Howard Taft back in office and watch him stuff sausages in his mouth. Coolidge/Quayle 2004. I like Jimmy Carter because he writes poetry and builds houses. I like Martin Sheen because he looks like that guy from Apocalypse Now.

Dangerfield 2004, baby.

Let's bring back the respect.

Dry Your Eyes...

I may truly be grown-up now because when people ask me what I want to do with my life, I can honestly tell them that I have NO IDEA.

Microsoft Word(s)...



What its like to go outside for a smoke and to be reading player piano and think what a genius vonnegut is and then to see your initials written in a line and then to go inside and pee and grab the calender section of the la times and look at the movie reviews on the ad of garden state and to see the first review written by a guy who shares your first two names and then to go inside and want to write on the computer and you say to yourself that this was pretty cool and that it meant something then to turn up the volume on all of the songs that have been playing on your old computer with the volume down and it was one of your favorite songs by marilyn mansom but it took a long time and now you’ll have to tackle all of those divine intervention and moments of clarity moments later because youre getting tired drunk and thirty.

I meant…thirsty.

Pack It Up, Pack It In, Let Me Begin...

Yeah. Backed up my friend's truck into a lightpole on Saturday.

Nice as it gets...my life.

Sweeter and sweeter.

I think that I'm due for an accidental skydiving accident in which I kill a bunch of RED CROSS, NUNS, NATO, MADD, NNACP, GREENPEACE, KKK, ATF, CIA, VC, WKORP, NAFTA, X-MEN, FF, AVENGERS and helpless retarded children.

This is how my luck goes.

So.
It.
Goes.
And.
I.
Smile.
Rictus-like.
Angelic.
Demonic.
Hooked on Impulse Phonics.

This Is How My Luck Goes.

Sweeter and sweeter.

Monkey Grabs The Peaches...



..........

A Very Important Message From Kevynn Malone...

Yogurt.

Tolstoy...



Oh, and speaking of Anna Kournikova -
my girlfriend and I were watching TV
and a commercial came on having to do
with some charity tennis thingy with Anna K.,
that one guy, and that other guy,
so I turned to my girlfriend and said,

"Hey! We should go see Anna Kournikova!"

She looked shocked and gave me a look.

"Are you serious?" She said.

I said, "No" and gave her a big smile and then slowly turned back towards the TV.

Z Channel...

I am at my nerdiest when it comes to anything Star Wars.

I will burn in some kind of hell for this.

Mother Night...

My cat just phased through my window screen.

You're Just Like An Angel...

One of these days, you'll buy something.

Then I will pee my pants.

And then...sell the pants.

George W. Bush...

Told me to put this thing here.

September 1st - September 17th...



I'm such a dummy that I didn't pay attention and thought that my girlfriend was coming back from her Europe trip this Wednesday, but she's not - she's coming back this Friday night. I'm a bad boyfriend with poor eyesight and Attention Deficit Disorder.

I find it very interesting that I'm always lamenting about my life full of distractions and my inability to write, about how hard it is to write while engaged in my most beautiful relationship. I write about my situation like a new owner does about his cute, peeing puppy. It's all about coping with getting used to this pretty little thing that I have. Frustrating at times and time-consuming.

But like all pet owners, I don't know what to do now that she's gone. Yes, I've compared my girlfriend to a dog - but it was the only thing that came to my mind right now. AND my girlfriend does not poo or pee anywhere but in the bathroom. Well...at least as far as I know.

Anyway, I'm always lamenting about how my life is full of distractions and about my inabilities to write and about how hard it is to write while engaged in my most beautiful relationship, and guess what? Now that she's been gone close to fifteen days, I have written practically nothing and haunted our house like an old ghost. Not even a cool ghost. More like a Disneyland Haunted Mansion ghost. Not any of the funny ones, more like the ones that look lonely in the graveyard. Probably like the old grave digger or maybe like an old hollow-faced butler holding a candlestick. A beer, more likely.

The point was...that...not that I thought that this whole experience was going to be cool or anything, but I didn't know that I would be this lonely, lost and heart-stricken. I obviously have changed and can't function normally without my better half.

I definitely am messier when she's not here. I don't remember being this careless. I tend to watch TV now - which I hate, because that's one of the worst things that one can do by themselves, I think. To sit in front of a glowing box full of stupid images and noisy, dull words. This never helps a person. This never gets one excited to be alive. This only depresses the already deflated.

I drink less. This I don't understand. Or maybe I'm just drinking less anyway, but I kind of pictured like, I would play music really loud and scribble away madly in my notebooks - but none of this has happened. I tend to stare at things a lot more than usual and after I finished my Harry Potter book I've found it hard to get into anything else. I have two Vonnegut books floating around me always, but all I do is pick at them like I do my dinner.

I have found myself cooking for no one and wrapping it all up in the fridge and eventually throwing most of it away.

Not as many friends called me as I thought they would. Maybe they think that since I always liked being alone before - I will want to now.

I haven't had a party or bedded any loose-legged supermodels. I have bedded with one of our cats continuously and all he's managed to do is piss me off, gnaw on my toes and knock over things in the dead of night.

I stay up even later than before. This is deadly, folks. I think that I may only live to forty if all of this stuff kepps up. Yes, I just said KEPPS.

So. I could go on. Why go on? Things'll get back to normal eventually when she comes back - IF she comes back. I wouldn't. HELL no. What do you think I am, CRAZY? Screw this place - I'd never come home. I love adventures and new places, I love to look at people that don't look like all of the pretty freaks over here, I like new freaks, especially freaks that can't speak English. I think I'm getting older and a little stir-crazy. Change is coming soon, doody-fresh, and I'm glad I can feel it crawling over the horizon. The air is erratic, it's full of static, and I'm glad because everybody needs a series of shocks to the system. One cannot sit in front of a computer all day. The INTERNET is a muddy reflection in a pool of stagnancy. It's fizzling fireworks and old socks. The INTERNET is like a very conversational cop who gives you a ticket for driving too slow. The INTERNET is like Spanish lessons for one who already knows how to speak it. The INTERNET is like taking speed whilst quadriplegic.

Evel Knievel must've gone out and taken a walk every once in a while.

Hitler should've found better things to paint.

And Charles Manson only needed a girlfriend.

Dear Woody Allen...

That movie sucked. Not that I was expecting much. I was lying helpless in bed and unable to move. I feel like I've been taken advantage of. I am not your adopted daughter.

Thank you.

As the critic and novelist Umberto Eco once observed, any text "always constitutes a bet on the way it will be received." It should not surprise us, therefore, that some of Bukowski’s most trenchant remarks on the art of writing refer us back to the track; indeed, he commends it to us. In his story "Goodbye Watson" (appropriately a tale about placing a wrong bet, this time on a boxer), the author avows that "if I ever taught a class in creative writing, one of my prerequisites would be that each student must attend a racetrack once a week and place at least a 2 dollar win wager on each race." Horseracing offers the writer an invaluable mental discipline, for "a man who can beat the horses can do almost anything he makes up his mind to do." Its bottom line, its existential limit, is the "death-wish"—"old stuff," but with "still some basis in it yet." We can recognize this in ourselves and in others and in the crowd around us, since "the reason most people are at the racetrack is that they are in agony, ey yeh, and they are so desperate that they will take a chance on further agony rather than face their present position." The danger lies in forgetting that gambling (and, we might add, writing) is a difficult craft to master and needs careful handling—"just another job, finally, and a hard one too"—and without respecting this we merely left with a recipe for "bad bets" and "sucker bets." But correctly understand, says Bukowski, "the racetrack tells me where I am weak and where I am strong." It is a source of great intuitive insight, freeing the writer from what is fake and routine, and Bukowski approvingly cites Hemingway’s attendance at bullfights, claiming that they helped "old ratbeard" to write. Nevertheless, there is an essential difference between the two writers that goes unnoticed here. Bukowski’s own writing lacks that sustained fatalism that pervades Hemingway’s work, that obsession with our failure to recognize when our luck has run out. In Bukowski’s narratives we repeatedly straddle the fine divide between winning and losing, between self-possession and the illusion of control, and it is this that underlies the bitter comedy of novels like Factotum and Post Office, for in that narrowest of gaps a whole world emerges. Like his days at the races, Bukowski’s fictions remind us "how much we keep changing, changing all the time, and how little we know of this."...