California Wildfire In My Pants...

News Update:

After working 60+hours this week, I am getting ready to go out and get drunk like a homo skunk.
And pleez check out my picture at Monique's site.
Oh. Wait. Is the picture blurred now? Haaa ha ha. I asked her kindly to do that, because I'm a punk. I felt uncomfortable having my picture around. I've got an image to uphold, you know. I can't let embarrasing material of me float around on the internet, can I? Paris Hilton has her sex tape. I have my Halloween party picture.

Karanji Seeds...

I really am serious about buying that island, you know. What island? C'mon. Shut up. Play along. Just me. Maybe you too. Maybe not. It depends on how cool and useful you are. Do you smell? Joo got skills? Would you bring cool stuff? Squeamish? Attractive? Because no ugly people are allowed on my island, sorry. No, seriously. No ugly people. You have to be beautiful on the inside AND beautiful on the outside also. Sorry, it's just the way my island works because I've got the rest of my life to live on it - you better be the prettiest wallpaper I've ever seen, and the most pleasant background noise. I would prefer that you wouldn't look better than me, though. It's my island. I don't want to be intimidated by you. I want you to just sit there and shut up and do what I say. It'd be cool if you had knives for hands too. And a book dispenser built into your forehead. I want Swiss Family Robinson without the family, and Robinson Crusoe without the religion. You would need to listen to me a lot, because I would be the master and you would have to follow everything that I said with a cultish fervor, fanaticism and fever. You would have to be able to ignore things like that last sentence that I wrote. You would, at least have to know, if not everything about The Empire Strikes Back - a little. And if you didn't - then you'd have to be able to be good at acting interested. Sounds good. It's a deal. Kevynn Island. Malone Beach. Something like that. I need a Paypal button...

Prince Caspian Or Hank Pym...

I'm hallucinating with more frequency now. I always see weird crap out of the corner of my eye, or imagine things that aren't there, but now I think I see ants all of the time. Are there any super fast mutant ants? Or do I have an invisible bird in my house that swoops down and eats them before I'm done turning my head? I'm glad that you can't hear ants. That would really suck if you could hear the pads of their tiny little monster feet or if they made those metallic screeches like in that old, giant ant movie. I think that an ant the size of a dog would be scary as hell, or, I don't know...maybe it'd be cool to have one to guard against burglars. Seriously, though. Haley Joel Osment sees dead people and I see ant ghosts.

Google search: Anteaters for sale.

Unbelievable...

That it's this late...and what have I gained from tonight?
I know that I suck at Trivial Pursuit.
And am the master of Connect Four.
And suck at card games.

This is what I did tonight?
Now it's time for bed?
I feel like the night's just begun.
I feel like this day was too weird.
I feel like Bill Pullman in Aliens...

Game over, man...game over...

The Average Joe...

Crazy. I just caught the last half of that show, and realized that I know one of the dudes. He works right by me. Now I have to scope out the place tomorrow and see if he has a hot chick hanging around him...

Damn reality shows.

Why Am I In Such A Good Mood Right Now?...

Oh please, god - make it stop.

halloween, kevynn says...

it's november first now. this is monique, by the way.

i'm at a kickass halloween party at the honorable kevynn's house. a fuckin' HOTASS skunk is looking over my shoulder. i've had a rad time and had my share of drinks. it rained, which it hasn't done in probably like a year now here in socal.

but it's november first. not only does this mean that i should already have (did i mention that there's a hot chick in a wedding dress with a kitty pillow stuffed in her abdomen laying on a waterbed not ten feet away?) six pages written for my novel, but my first twenty-ninth birthday is now officially a week away.

i just realized that i'm writing like this is my site and it's not.

okay....

people are crashing on the floor behind me. there are sleeping bags and comforters ABOUT. and then someone said, "dude, someone is typing right quick." the response: "someone's got spicy hands."

i love this party.

i better sign off and hit my own site soon. kevynn's gonna be mad in the morning.

p.s. i hate it that it's valuable to my job that i can type like this.

p.p.s. check it out, beeyatch.

Teenage Werewolf...

Yeah, take yr. sweet time everyone.
So far, we have a Skeleton, A pimp dogg, A pregnant bride, and a YO YO YO!

Oh...and we have rain.

Damn...

Where's a gold tooth when you need it?

Who You Callin' Spook, Peckerwood?...

Big day tomorrow.
Big party.
Big crowd?
God, I miss Bob's Big Boy.
No I don't.
You're invited, you know.

I can't tell you what I'm going as because it's supposed to be a surprise.

But I'll give you a big hint, yo...

My Resume...

I have worked at a comic book store. Worked at Pizza Hut. A telemarketers place for two days. A buffet place. A music store. I have been a puppeteer. A music journalist. Blah. Worked at a drycleaners. Copy writer. Technical writer. Ghost writer. Advertising and promotions writer. Done voice work for cartoons. Wrote for cartoons. A waiter. A bartender. Oh, I also used to read stories to small chillun's in an amusement park. I was Smokey The Bear for a week. I was a clown waving a sign for a new condo complex. Actually, that's a lie. I never did that, even though I wrote that I did. I took that from Mike, but he's lifted some stuff that I've said too - so eeesss cooo. I've been in a couple bands that you've probably never heard of. I worked a movie premiere on The Sony Pictures lot. I've washed dishes. Been a whore. Been a dumbass. Been a prince. Been caught stealin'. Professionally lost. Made a career out of everything and nothing. This is my calling - this miasmic mess that is my life. This thing that's just begun. This thing that's been going on too long. Being. A bean. A stalk. New chalk. Dust. Been crazy lately. Been waiting for something. What? I don't know, but I wont try to drive myself ape dooky waiting for whatever's going to eventually happen to happen. Cuz' it'll drive you fucking nuts, my friends. Better to roll with the flow and be cooler than cool. No point anymore in crying over spilled planet ME. Been there. Done that. It's a drag. And if you drag too deep - you end up coughing. And tonight feels too fucking vacantly pleasant to create more " been's ". Tonight - I'm into " being ".

Alien, human, myself, or otherwise....

WTF...

I found this in a comment of Chezpink's...
left on The American Undershirt.
Wait-what? Did that make sense? doh!

Arnold's Inferno...

So, I thought about the fires reaching the town of Crestline, and I thought about an ex-girlfriend's family who had two houses there. Tonight, my neighbor, who was my friend before being my neighbor, but is also the ex-boyfriend of the same girl who is an ex-girlfriend of mine ( long story ), anyway, her parents, and her sister's house burned down in the fires. I asked about the dogs. They were saved - and that was about it. Man, how must that feel? I know that they put a lot of effort into that house too. They were good people. It wasn't their fault that their daughter was Satan. And now they're all staying at a friend's house. They left with nothing but their dogs. Man...I was going to say, better to lose it all in a fire than in an earthquake, but that doesn't really make that much sense now that I think about it, because, at least in an earthquake, you might have a slight chance at recovering something. In a fire, it's all ashes or melted mush, right? But then, I'm thinking that they got the most important things out. The dogs, and their own lives, right?

Tonight, at the bar, I asked my girlfriend -if she had thirty minutes - what would she grab out of our soon-to-be-burned-down house? She said the cats, pictures, money, and clothes. Clothes? Okay. But everything else made sense. I said the readers of Fat Free Milk's moms. Because I would be sad if I lost them, but they're usually kept in a heat-proof safety deposit box anyway, so it wouldn't be a big deal. After that, I said that I would try to save my car if I could. Everything else would be a regret. Nothing more.

Also, the city of Rancho Cucamonga is burning. I grew up there, I think. The big ol' house up the hill that I grew up in might be gone. How do I feel about this?

I don't know.

Maybe the gods are trying to cover up their tracks?

Planet Mustafar...

And read this...from Cartoon Pig Spits Miller Beer.

You're Killin' Me, Larry...

Man, I need to write something, but I don't know what. Maybe I can write on the cartoony thing considering I have somebody to pass it on to who will pass it on to somebody, and then, maybe they'll pass it on to somebody. But stupid SNL is making noise to my right, the cats are just as annoying to my left, and the smoke from the friggin' fires are making my nose and eyes run like Jesse Owens in the negro Nazi Hitler Olympics.

The sink smells too.

No Drug Testing...

Applications for guest posters now being accepted...
Leave a comment or email me...now we have something to look forward to next week.
And it leaves me time to get a good lawyer, you sick bastards...

Will You Still Love Me When I'm Big?...

(Distracted.) What?

Will you still love me when I'm big?

Famous?

No. BIG. I've been eating sweets all week.

Don't be an ass. I love you.

I'd love a Twix.

If I Were To Rate How My Day Is Going So Far...

On a scale of one to ten...I'd say that today blows goats.

Thank you.

Hey Hey Hey...

Dwayne is crying on Raj's shoulder.
Even Shirley's sad too.
Dee isn't because she's a scheming, little bitch.

Where's The Secret Formula?...

Orson Scott Card. Jessica Simpson. Adam Langlois. Selina Kyle. George Little. Alfred Pennyworth. Warren Ellis. Charles Bukowski. Gladys Horn. Ash. Vox. Man Or Astroman. Wrist Action. Hannah The Cat. Fight Club. Sindy. Kerouac. Dean Martin. Gummy Worms. Hermione. Kit Fisto. Charlie Kaufman. The Dalai Lama. D.L.M. Shawdy. Wesley Crusher. Bruce Lee. The Trolley Car Family. Hunter S. Thompson. Elijah Snow. Victor Von Doom. The Kelly Affair. Elizabeth Hurley. Mallory Knox. Irvine Welsh. Stephen King. Rob Mullen. Large Mouth Bass. Precipitation. Egon Spangler. Willy Wonka. David Hammamoto. Shane Brooks. Theseus. Carl Sagan. Joe. Buddha. Gombe National Preserve. Clarence Whorley. Demi Moore. Beezus. Hokey Pokey Elmo. Las Vegas. Beer. Boz. Benjamin Grimm. Sonny Chiba. Bruce Campbell. Calvin And Hobbes. Socrates. Flintstones Vitamins. Marvin Gaye. Daffy Duck. Sundried Tomato Deviled Eggs. Werewolves. Blank Paper. Tomorrow. Sleep.

Enter The Dragon...

You would think -
by now...
I would've picked up some HTML, eh?

Five seconds Of Amusement...( NO. This Has Nothing To Do With My Sex Life. )

Kevynn Malone is a Human-Sized Dragon that can Fly, is Radioactive, carries a Samurai Sword, and has a Massively Swollen Skull. Strength: 3 Agility: 11 Intelligence: 13 To see if your Giant Battle Monster can defeat Kevynn Malone, enter your name and choose an attack: fights Kevynn Malone using Strength Agility Intelligence

Crab A Locker Fishwife Pornographic Priestess Boy You Been A Naughty Girl You Let Your Knickers Down....

Off to Home Depot to buy a new back door,
because I accidentally kicked a hole through mine on Saturday night.
Ummm...yeah. Goblin.

Space...

Thank you for giving me a bit of your time today. I realize that it's precious. I just wanted to blab on for a bit before bed. This is my little moment tucked away especially for myself before the dreams and nightmares start and before the birds outside get up. Before things to do and before Saturday sits on my head or either caresses me like a mother does a baby. Twenty-four hours ago I was asleep. Three hours later I would be driving through the fog on a dark street, following a line of red brake lights. They were going to their jobs and I was going to my new part time job. Aerospace parts for NASA, Boeing, The Air Force. Blargh. Yeah. They need a writer. Hmmm. I was puffing way at a rare early morning cigarette. I usually don't smoke during the day. The window was down. I was cold but it was pleasant in a punishingly vibrant way. Howard Stern was on, and so was my mind. Where the hell was I? Was I going to get lost again? What if I get in an accident? What am I doing? Why do I want another job? Why don't I have one, good one? 6-9:30 pm. Lost in an office. Working. Not comfortable being in the position of not-yet-comfortable. Learning new stuff on the computer or having to relearn stuff that I've done only once on the computer. I drive home tired. Get to rest with my girlfriend a half hour before I have to get up to iron a different shirt for the other job. I stood next to a senator as he was talking to Arnold Schwarzenegger. I didn't even know until afterwards. I would've loved to say something - but, like I could've.

I run around like crazy, and have small slices of conversations with people. A tiny amount that I actually like and care about and the others that I talk to on fake robot mode. The people that we've al been forced to serve or interact with that scare me. They scare me because I realize that we spend a major portion of our lives being not ourselves. That we craft answers based on or according to another's conversations, questions or responses. That even if our mind is elsewhere - thinking of the important stray thoughts - that we're nodding heads, and pretending to laughs because, either - we might not want to be rude or hurt the other person's feelings, or that we're in an environment in which our welfare depends on the illusions of communication even though the other person knows nothing really about you and that you wouldn't really be able to talk to them about any of the things that you find important.

After all of this, I go back home. In my car with the broken window I think about one of the girls that works at the comic book store and how when I walked in yesterday - she looked like she was either sick or crying. She was sad. A friend with health problems. Other friends were experiencing bad luck also. I talked to her about. It was a nice, meaningful, and pleasant moment. Both came out of it...not with their heads higher, but maybe just a little bit better. Don't know. But right about when she rang up one of the comics and then we talked about it and how she bought it too and about how one couldn't go wrong with a little Alan Moore writing about Cthulhu stuff. I thought that wouldn't it be cool to be friends with her? I mean, I'm not attracted to her or anything. Don't get me wrong. I have a girlfriend that I love and who's asleep on the couch behind me thinking happy bunny thoughts, college nightmares, and about taking road trips with me. But the comic book girl would be really cool to have around. She's not even a scary comic book girl. She doesn't weigh three hundred pounds and have a pink mohawk. Just a bunch of tattoos and a high tolerance for really nerdy, heavy-breathing, bad-hygiene, balding bastards. It was nice to think that there are sometimes, still interesting people around. I think that you just have to search for them a little bit more than we used to. Back in the day, I know, they used to fall from the sky. A long time ago.

I have to go back at 4:30. Two new young guys are waiting for me to train them. First thing I said was that I didn’t know that they were new employees, that I thought that they were a bunch of Mormons. This is what happens when you meet me folks. All of that type of shit just comes vomiting out of my mouth. But I don't care, I'm not rude - just really bad sitcom-ish. All of the things and all of the wasted time. All of the things that I could've been doing. Walking back and forth to pass the time. Not invigorated. Not excited. Being polite. Blah Blah. Not real stuff. No discussions about nature, space, dolphins, books. No random thought conversations. Just a bunch of waiting-for-the-clock type of drivel.

Time to go to the store, and then home. Have a nice time with the Israeli student that works at the corner store from my work. Drive home. Remembering this morning’s fog. Will the world allow me to continue on? To shoot questions at crumbling skeet from passing ships? The day was filled, even when hectic, even when frenzied - with ?'s and !'s. With love and hate. With helplessness and ferocity. I had a good shower. I played with a kitty. I talked to friends about what I missed out on in my day. What they did. What I did. What I did that they didn't do. The money and the hours accumulated are always an afterthought with me. It's never an issue or a necessity until I need it or it's needed of me. I read. I watched a movie sluggishly. A movie that nobody liked eventually started to get some focus when I realized that this was a thoughtful movie. No wonder nobody got it. I still didn't know what I was getting. It just made me think. Every once in a while, we find these by accident. Sometimes, they're no masterpieces - but define a masterpiece, Jackson Pollack? What makes sense to you, Mr. Hawking? What's funny, Mr. Izzard? I don't know. I just know what I feel. Sometimes, that don't even cut the cheese, Hoss.

And now, about in an hour, twenty-four hours ago. My alarm would start to go off. And I'd be thinking about the day ahead of me...and how I wished that I could just get more sleep, stay home, and try to write things like this...

I hope this makes sense tomorrow.

Senorita, I Fell For You...

Second time listening to the new Justin Timberlake album today, and I've barely been home. That means I listened to it this morning, and am listening to it now. Ummm...What do you think about that? Huh? I can take it, c'mon...this from the guy who listens to Atari Teenage Riot a lot. And that's all I have to say about that...

Tootie...

Remind me to not stress. To just calm down. To not worry so much. To buck up. To get my ass in gear. To focus. To rekindle the ferocity of smoldering fires. To not take my girlfriend for granted. To work harder. To write even more. To paint a picture at least once a month. To eat better. Floss daily. To not pay attention to celebrity gossip. To answer the phone. To be strong. To not live in fear. To kick ass. To take names. Remember phone numbers. To not waste water. Aim high. Pat myself on the back. To stay original. To be kind. To shake hands firmly. To establish eye contact. To carry a pocket knife. Learn new recipes. Drink light beer. To give the benefit of the doubt. To be financially responsible. To buy more toys. To take care of my car. To think forward. To remember the past. To be mindful of the present. To Free Tibet. To paint my toenails. To be or not to be. To pay more attention to my footwear. To pick up that tuxedo on Saturday early. To have a good time. To not keep out movies so late. To read like I used to. To skateboard again. To not break my ankle again. To get health insurance. To pitch my screenplays. To publish a book. To not rescue anymore cats. To watch Jeopardy tonight. To the moon, Alice.

Toodeloo...

As Of Today...

If I was any book title, I'd probably be this one...

Is It Such A Good Idea To Remake Some Things?...

The newfangled version of the Time Machine with Guy Pearce is playing in the background. Last night I watched Willard with Crispin Glover. Starring Crispin Glover. I have a tape of his poetry, you know. He makes me look normal. I also rented Solaris starring George Clooney, which is a remake also. And now I think that I'm going to go smoke, maybe get another beer, end this thing, maybe write another thing, and not accomplish any of the real writing that I wanted to do today.

I've seen this before, I think.

Best Phone Messages Of The Day...

Hi Kevynn, this is Courtney. I was wondering if you've seen Jen - we seem to have lost her tonight and don't have any idea where she is. We can't find her at any of the bars. She got away from us somehow. If you see her...ummm, tell her to call us or you call us or something. Thanks. Goodbye.

and...

Hey, Kev - It's Joe. I just wanted to let you know that I got the guns for you and I want to drop them by your house...oh, shit - maybe I shouldn't say this on a cell phone. This sounds bad. TOY guns. Ummm...okay. Later.

Hit Points...

So, It's Friday again. What am I going to do besides help build water wells for third world countries? That's on Friday, then I have to fly back on Saturday to meet with the Dalai Lama and see what we can do about the decimation of the Tibetan culture. Sunday morning, I'm organizing another homeless shelter in downtown L.A., and then later that night, I bartend.

What are your plans this weekend?

I've got nothing better to do...can I come along?

What are you doing?

Dude...

...

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!

Your Mission...

Should you choose to accept it,
is to write to Cartoon Pig.
Not for encouragement.
I think that it'll just make him crazier.

And that's good enough.