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.

The Hills Are Alive...

I'm a little bit worried. Today, I gave the bored security guy outside of my bank the only source of reading material that I had in my car - an US magazine with J-lo on the cover, AND last night I rented The Sound Of Music and was singing like Julie Andrews all day at work.

A little bit worried?

More like a little bit gay, I think.

Kissing Chaos...

Dude. You go ahead and post for me.

( make it interesting, damnit. )

And...

if you were The Elephant Man - I'd still come over to your house or your hospital room, and I'd bring enough beers for both you and me, and then I'd make fun of you a lot because that's what friends do. I wouldn't try to get you to go out because I would understand. I'd smuggle you stuff. Porn. Olson Twin dvds. National Geographic. Justin Timberlake's album. I'd punch the hell out of you when I was drunk. Even in your misshapen head, because that's what friends do - they beat the shit out of each other when they're bored. I'd talk Star Wars with you. I'd make sure that you slept right, so that you didn't die.

That's what I would do.

Mortons Salt...

It's colder. Rain seems like a possibilty now instead of a distant wish. My car window is still broken. Who wants to take bets on the impending precipatation vs. my inabilty to get my window fixed so that it can go up? I picture a soggy ride in my future. What do I do if it starts to rain when I drive? I either have to get this fixed or buy some galoshes.

Yes, I did just say galoshes.

Galoshes.

Dude...

Totally came home drunk last night and wrote the bitchinestestest post ever.

Dude, and I like, totally erased it or sumthin' cuz it's not here, bro.

Dude, that like, sucks, dude.

Lucy?...

Please stop pulling away that football before I kick it, you bitch...

Carbonite...

San Diego. Hotel. Getting drunk. Jumping from one bed to the other with my butt in the air. The slowest taxi cab drive ever to downtown. Dancing. Taxi cab drive back. Standing in the drive thru lane of the only open food place in Chula Vista. Taking pictures with the girls in the car behind us. J peed on her leg. Regretting eating the Mexican food. Downtown again. Visiting a friend. Getting drunk. I hate football. I hate football fans. I love Irish bars with Irish bands and dancers clapping and clogging away. I love Radiohead. I love being escorted in the back of a cart to the concert from the parking lot and my girlfriend almost falling off. I love driving home fast. I do not love being broke. I love you.

Henry And Beezus Have Been Replaced By Nick LeShay And Jessica Simpson...

I was at the library today to pay a $28.00 fine. I'm always paying those, and yes, I know that it's a lot of money, so shut it. I decided to get the latest Harry Potter book. I haven't been in much of a hurry to read it. He's my twin brother y' know. I went downstairs to the children's library. It's nice. Clean. Computers, couches, and the whole deal. The lucky bastards. So, I went up to the very, very short help desk and asked one of the ladies if they had a copy in. I was afraid that she was going to ask me if it was for my kid, but hey, it's a Harry Potter book, it's not like when I was checking out the Anne Of Green Gables books. That's embarrassing. While she was looking in the back for a copy of the book, I wanted to see what books that they had by Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume. There were a lot of Cleary, and a small selection of Blume stuff. I was happy that kids still must be reading those books. I loved those growing up. I opened a couple to see how the pages, the size of the print and the pictures looked to me now. It was weird. Yes, the words were larger than I remember, I remembered some of the interior art. Ramona wasn't as cool as I remember. I didn't know that there were three Runaway Ralph books, either. Hmmm...and I didn't know that the person who wrote Charlotte's Web also wrote the Stuart Little books.

I got my book, and headed for the stairs, feeling - I don't know. Not sad or nostalgic. Wistful? My head was full of kid thoughts and questions as I limped slowly up the stairs with my bad ankle and my bad knees, and I stopped myself as I approached the check out section. I just realized that I had been muttering to myself out loud. Something about where my car was parked outside, and I started to laugh. Because how old am I? Limping slowly up the stairs, and then talking to myself in a library? That was funny. Jesus Christ. What the hell was that all about?

Then I stopped laughing because that's not old - that's just insane.

I cleared my throat, smiled at the check out lady, gave her my two comic book graphic novels and one Harry Potter book, she gave them back to me, and I left.

Happy...and trying not to limp.

Jwaiswhfbfnsidsipdsij...

Never, ever let me fal asleep again, okay?

G.I. Joe vs. The Transformers...

What a revoltin' development. I've hard many hard assignments in the past. Horrible magazine shite due, Interviews to be transcribed, papers, high school assignments for beer money, etc. But this one takes the cake. I have to write about yo' mama's sex life. No. I am writing a paper on sexism for my sick girlfriend. I could've started it earlier, but I was too busy making Vox, Pineapple with a touch or cran drinks for Joe as we barbecued a bunch of meat. I wrote a bunch of brainstorming crap, then started and stopped a million times. I swear, I have probably writen more things fof other people's schoool assignments than my own. And I always get the crap subjects. Write a monologue based on Sherlock Holmes perspective. Write about a famous graphic designer. Interview AFI. Write about local concert promoters. Sexism. CRAP. CRAP. CRAP. Maybe this is why...why what? I don't know. All that I know is that I'm at least half way through on this sexism paper for my girlfriend and it's past three in the morning. This is no different, but at least when I'm up at this time usually, I'm playing Star Wars Galaxies or writing about crotch-kicking, beer, or comic books. Trust me, that's a lot more fun. Not as smart - but a lot more fun, folks. I would love it if I could combine all of those elements. Drinking beer and reading comics while kicking somebody in the Netherlands - I mean, nether regions.

Damn.
Does this mean I have to go now?
Sexism?
Crap.

Written In My Backyard. Now. Just A Cigarette Ago. Wheee!...

It seems that now, my time is measured more by the clock than it ever was before. I used to write in these notebooks everyday after work, before parties, during nothing, after....but usually alone. In a crowd. Always. These notebooks of mine are more of an appeasement of the nostalgia gods now, then for the appeasement of the mind-madness gods that used to rule my life. Some of it's still there. But the majority of the old-school craziness is gone. Some facets have been squashed. Some are still lurking. Cancerous, in the back of mind-cave, Gollum-like. Some have thrived, and the spores have created new homes, festering themselves through new sores. Only seeping out when the time allows.

I miss you, notebook. Even though my inability to accurately convey thoughts remains the same - I feel listful, and long for the days when I could glance down at the paper and be amazed by my devil hands. Pages flipped. Ink scrawled. Furious. Wonderful. Madness. Computers. Increasing responsibilities. Newfound love and age bodyslams the Hulk Hogan of the hands. Writing this is like watching the first four WrestleManias on 99 cent-rented VHS tapes. Was I ever so wide-eyed, energetic and innocent? Am I now growing so old that I'm asking imaginary Andre The Giant's, Haiti Kids', and Iron Sheik's questions?

Because when it all boils down to it - the fact that I'm still doing this, while the bombs fly overhead and the lichen grows underneath my soul/soles - it means that I'm still ready to defend my title, Mean Gene.

Still ready to piledrive your scrawny ass.

Let's wrestle.

Rawrrrr!

Theo Huxtable's Best Friend...

Tonight I saw a cockroach the size of a baby. Not here. Somewhere else.

When I was young, I saw a cockroach jump off of a roof.

In one of my first apartments, I threw off my jacket and hopped in the shower. I was in a hurry. As I was out the door, I put my jacket back on. I felt something like a long hair on the back of my neck and grabbed at it with my hand, and then it moved towards my chin.

Some fly.

Some drive.

Some crank call you.

Some dig in your trash for persoanl infornation to be used for identity crimes.

I hate them. They scare the crap out of me. Now I'm paranoid.

Thanks alot, baby-sized cockroach.

Digital Hardcore...

Yeah, like you care what I did today.
I'm writing like a seventeen yr. old...god I hate my brother, Blaine is cute.
Or should I say hez a qt bcz he iz da bst in da wrld brb.
Nothing against seventeen yr. olds. They're superduperubercool, aight?

See, I'm so old, that I don't even know how to do the whole internet lingo thing. Crap, I didn't even know what BFF meant, how am I supposed to know about all that other stuff?

Crap, now I don't want to write this anymore.

My back/neck is still all messed up from sneezing the other morning. No wonder Frankenstein killed that little girl - he got sick of having to turn his head all stiff-like to look at her. The girlfriend lost her keys on Saturday night. So, I spent time looking for them. Nothing turned up. I'm giving it two more days until I get a new lock for the front door. Her car is her deal, though. I don't know what to do about that. So, if you don't hear from me after Thursday, it means that somebody snuck in and chopped off our heads. Shit, I shouldn't laugh about that. That's not funny. Me with no head is funny. Her is not. What kind of sentence is that? Her is not. Do I write like Frankenstein now too? You're saying, now? You've always written like the living dead, Kev. Whatever. Pshaw.

I stopped by famous-rock-star-Tony's house and made him go to the library with me. Suprisingly I didn't get anything. Not even a comic book graphic novel. Maybe the fact that the stuff that I turned in will cost me about twenty bucks in overdue fees had something to do with it. Then I went to the hardware store for no reason what-so-ever. I already knew that I was going to give it a couple more days. So why was I there? Urmmm...don't know, I just was.

Then after that I found myself driving in the direction of the toy store. I hadn't planned on going in that direction, and had to turn around. Unconditioned responses people. Watch out for them. Then I went to stop by a pottery/plant place to get more pots. The damn new kitty, Spyder - keeps on breaking all of the pots in the house. Stopped by a fiend - I mean, friend's house. Nobody home. Had the urge to get some chicken. Had the urge to go in and ask them if they had any open positions.

- What position would you like to apply for?

Chicken choker, please.

Wound up at Tower Records/Books. I've been trying not to buy anything recently and have done extremely well. I have so much stuff to get to at home, I shouldn't really be adding more words to the home-mix til' I get through some of it. I rationalized that I could get a small paperback if it was cheap. I get frustrated at book/video rental/and music stores because I spend a lot of time at home thinking about things that I have to get, and then when I'm actually at a store my mind draws a blank and I end up wandering around aimlessly. Yeah, like an old man. Yeah, like Frankenstein. Yeah, like Boo-Berry. Yeah, like Count Chocula. Yeah, like the Groovy Goulies.

- Stop it, Kevynn.

Stop what?

- Stop rambling. Don't be an idiot.

What? Shut up. You're the idiot. Stop talking to me. Stupid-voice-in-my-head-always-man. Why're you always picking on me?

- Oh...I don't know. I guess I can't resist that big ol' target painted on your head.

Hey, voice...you hear that?

- huh? Hear what?

Nothing.

- Wait. What? I don't hear anything!

Exactly. ( sound of a door slamming. Locks being turned, dead bolts, etc. )

Then I had dinner with my girlfriend's mom.

Now I'm having a beer and finishing this story.

And maybe I'll read some of my new book.

I was going to tell you what it was, but I can't find it now. I lost it already.

Doh, said Homer.

I Just Erased What I Wrote Here Before...

I spilled my Mimosa on my foot.
I sang Part Of Your World from The Little Mermaid at Karaoke last night.
I should be getting ready for work.
I should be shot.
I have to go now.
I love you.

Danse Macabre...

I hate politics and hate writing about them more, so this is about as political as I get. I wish that all of this California Government crap would end. By now, I don't even care about who gets to be governor. Larry Flynt should just film a porno with all of the rest of the candidates. What would that accomplish? Nothing, I guess. But I've always had a thing for Gary Coleman.

I wish Stephen King could be governor. I know that he lives in Maine. But he'd be great. The governor's mansion would look like The Haunted Mansion from Disneyland. He would tell scary stories instead of giving boring speeches. His bodyguards would be two-hundred pound rabid dogs.

That would be cool.

He'd have my vote.

Shit...

I cuss too much, don't I?

CSI Why?...

I'm not one to rag on television. It's like your sexual preference - it's a personal choice. But, the CSI crap? C'mon. How many are there? CSI. CSI Miami. CSI Brookylnn. CSI Gotham City. CSI Playboy Mansion. CSI Marilyn Mansion. CSI Pee Wee's Playhouse. CSI Green Acres. CSI Mayberry. CSI The O.C.

And are we sure that we should have a show on that teaches everybody what people did wrong when they commited murders? Is this like, a primer for people who don't want to fuck up killing somebody and get caught?

Actually, forget I said all of this, I may need to tuck this away for future reference...

Found On Boz's Site, Who Found It On Divine Trash's...


Masturbation Personality: George Michael


What's Your Masturbation Personality?
brought to you by Masturbation Techniques

Fighting The Good Fight...

Many thanks to Prose of Prosemarket for the ultimate props.

Pretty damn cool.

Thank you.

Are You Mad At Me?

Because this is all I'm going to write? Because you're at work, or rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and expecting a masterpiece, or at least a kick-you-in-the crotch-post, and all you get is this? Are you mad at me, because after planning on telling you about The People On The Bus Story Part Two - about how my first interaction with one of the first people that I met on that trip went, all that I ended up doing tonight was kicking back with the neighbors over beers, and then the cops came because, ever since my friend Tom moved in with my friend Al next door - the neighbors hate them. Noise. So the coppers came, Mugsy. And then by the time I came back to my house, it was already getting late, and all I care about now is playing some Star Wars Galaxies and then trying to get some sleep. I even sound like Yoda now, yes?

Don't be mad.
Sometimes it's hard.
Sometimes it's easy.
If I really wanted to, I could, I guess.
But I'm not like I was before.
I had a hole in my heart.
A vacancy in my soul.
It was easier to fill up space.
Now the process is slower.
More laborious.
But, I think, a richer and more rewarding experience in the long run.
Quality.
Versus.
Quantity.
More of a process of sifting through all of the important details,
Than the expungence that ruled my life before.
Writing shouldn't be ruled by guilt.
Writing wants you to fuck it.
Writing doesn't want to be wined and dined.
Writing doesn't want you to hold it's hand.
Writing comes.
Then it's done with you.
Leaving you to wipe up after it.
Put your pants back on,
And get the fuck out, it says...

Sure, I'll call you...

134 Sexy, Simple Hair & Makeup Secrets...

I've reached the ultimate pinnacle of geekdom.
I've sneezed and sprained my neck.
I can't look to the left or right anymore.
What is this crap all about?
When did I get so "make-sure-grandpa-doesn't-fall-down-the-stairs?"

Dagnabbit.

Ouch.

I've Been Spotted...

Somebody from the virtual world actually saw me. Yes, I stripped off my rags and let a representative of the real world actually see what was underneath my Joseph Merrick mask. I hung out with The Hard Artist and MY New Best Friend. They both met each other through me, in a way. Hard and I go way back, and met My New Best Friend through Fat Free Milk. Kinda. We had a couple of drinks at the casa, then had dinner at the plaza, then met Mike Piaza. No, we didn't meet Mike Piaza. I couldn't care less unless he was giving me money or something, or the clap. But we had dinner, then sang some karoake. Hard and I sang two songs together. Love Me by Elvis, and Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. We kick ass. Sorry to disappoint you, but we do. We should sing on cruise ships. Seriously.

How nice it was to meet My New Best Friend, and how nice and weird was it to actually meet somebody who only knew me through my writing on this site? She didn't run away screaming from me. That's a good sign, I guess. Apparently she has a high tolerance for retarded circus freaks. I think that I could see her tripping out for a bit in the beginning, but that soon died down minutes later. Then she realized that I'm just like all of the people that you see downtown. Except that I smell a little better, dress a little better, speak just as much schitzophrenic nonsense, and sleep in a cardboard box. God, that made no sense. See, that's what she got when she met me. Goobledygook. GoobledyASIAN. I bet that she was disappointed that I didn't look at all like the Charlie Chan, Ghenghis Khan, or Irish bastard that I make myself out to be.

I had a lot of fun. Is this what it's like to hang out with internet people? Are all of you actually real people? With hands and feet and hair and with no visible flesh wounds? What? I don't know. And no, we didn't take any pictures because they forgot the camera, and maybe that's good, because I want to sell my horrible portrait along with some personal knick knacks on eBay as soon as I sign up on it. I want to make a whole dollar. Free money from the curious. I want to start selling things off from around my house and hype up the objects on Fat Free Milk. Everybody likes empty beer bottles, right?

Anyway, it was nice. But I don't plan on meeting anybody from The Internet anytime soon, because I know all of you are a bunch of sick perverts...

There Were Monsters On That Ship, And Truly...We Were Them...

Tige Flandre Tige prie. Il prie en tout début de matinée et la dernière chose avant lit. Il prie pour que Dieu observe au-dessus de lui et de son petit frère, Todd. Il prie pour le succès des affaires de son père. Il prie également pour tous les petits garçons et filles vilains, comme son Bart voisin Simpson, il est trop mauvaise prier que pour elles-mêmes. Hormis la prière, Tige a plaisir à jouer wholesomely avec son frère et à manger un bon nombre de nachos, le Flandre-modèle ("qui est des concombres avec le fromage blanc!"). Son un regret est qu'il ne peut pas prier à l'école.

Why? I Don't Know...

What Is Your Battle Cry?

Prowling across the tundra, brandishing a bladed baseball bat, cometh Kevynn Malone! And he gives a vengeful howl: "I'm going to clobber you into a new dimension of pain!!!"

Find out! Enter username: Are you a girl, or a guy ?

created by beatings : powered by monkeys

I Never Write About Searches I've Found That Brought People To Fat Free Milk...

But this is seriously
one of the best things
that I've ever seen
and just about sums up
the majority of my writing, I think.

The Next Post Is Better...
I hit every single yellow light on my way home from work today. Hitting all greens is cool and all, but nothing like cruising through all of the yellows. How exciting. It sends thrilling little shivers down my pants just thinking about it.

The People On The Bus part one...

Me.

I was eighteen. That was a long time ago, I think. Maybe not that long. 365 days pass, and then we allocate another point to the internal and external atrophy system. I was on a bus. The rest of my high school class that I recently graduated with was slinging down tequila shots in Mexican resorts while I was trying to not take poops on Greyhound busses. My graduation present was getting kicked out of my house. My father and I had actually been getting along pretty well for the last couple of weeks. For us, at least. I was eating some chicken or something when he came out of his dark room into the dark living room and then walked into the dark kitchen. He plopped down an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a card with his signature scrawled on it, along with a check for three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars? Wow! He didn't get me anything for graduation, not that I expected anything, and for birthdays, I might get twenty-five or fifty bucks if I was lucky. I expressed my gratitude, thinking that maybe this was a combo-graduation-birthday-present-thingy. He told me that it was for moving expenses. I asked when was I moving? I had twenty-four hours to leave. Oh. He walked back into his dark room, and I sat in the dark kitchen, not really feeling particularly hungry anymore. I threw the rest away and went into my room. Looking over a lifetime's-worth of accumulative teenage crap. Where the hell was I supposed to go? What the hell was I going to do? Did I really have to leave?

I did. By noon the next day, I'd thrown away mountains of stuff that really didn't seem as important to me as they did the day before when I had a place to keep it, and the rest that I deemed essential enough to keep, got stored in a friend's parent's attic. I floated around in the next couple of weeks at a couple of buddy's houses. Tried to stay out of everybody's hair. I didn't try to figure out what to do, because I had absolutely nothing to do. Where the hell would I go? I'd always told my father that I was going to get the hell out as soon as I possibly could, but never really thought about what that meant. It meant money. A place to stay. A steady income. I ended up homeless and would sleep in parks or stay up at the only twenty-four hour donut shop in town. I'd smoke, write, and wait until dawn. Wander around maybe, until a buddy got home.

After a couple months of this crap, I finally decided to get the hell out of Dodge. I was losing sanity points. I bought a round trip ticket that was good for one year from Montclair, California to New York City. This was great because this meant that even though I didn't know what the hell I was doing, I could stay in one place for a short time if it suited me, go back to a bus station and get a new series of tickets printed out, and everything would be cool. My father, of all people, dropped me off. He was really the only one who could take me. He seemed sad, and this perplexed me. If he was so sad, why didn't he just let me stay for a few months, stop being the ass that he was, I would stop being the ass that I was - and then I'd get out as soon as I could when I was better prepared. I waved to him as the bus pulled away. He had his hands in his pocket and looked very old. I didn't know what feeling old was, yet. I just felt scared. Confused. Unreal. Like a character in a movie or some cardboard cut out in a poorly written story. We were heading to Arizona, it would take all night, so I tried to make myself comfortable and quiet all of the voices in my head. I turned to my left and smiled timidly at the man next to me. We eventually introduced ourselves…

The Cupboard Under The Stairs...

I have a lot of things to write about,
but considering that I'm having to use toothpicks to keep my eyes open -
I'll just have you write a post in the comments section today instead.
Profanity and sexual themes are encouraged.

Thank you.

Bruce Campbell...

I guess I'm going to write this before I smoke a cigarette. Yes, I do smoke the vile things, and I always have, probably more than your mom and her cancer too, so shut it. Okay. Anyway. It was Tony's birthday tonight. I guess that it's officially tomorrow, but we celebrated it tonight and it was pretty lame. Tomorrow night, when it is actually his birtday, I'll be behind the bar serving his fucking rockstar arse. Speaking of rockstar arse's, I went to The Key Club down in Hollywood last night to see a friend's band play at a fashion show. Stuff Magazine and Vanity Fair were supposed to be there, but I didn't see shite. All I was doing was buying $5.50 Bud Lights. I forgot all about Hollywood beers. Oops. Expensive. Then on the way back home I peed in the back of a movie theatre and found a bunch of vinyl movie posters. Kill Bill. The new George Clooney and Catherine Zeta Jones, Jack Black, or Vin Diesel movie anyone? So, Ebay, c'mon...buy the stuff of me. My girlfriend called me from Bourbon Street in New Orleans tonight. After all of tonight, I can't even compare with all of the fun she had. Tony got complimentad on his uncanny agilty when it came to his puking abilties. Good man, that Tony. Fortunatley I'm never quite in the situation in which I need to be complimented on that. Unfortunately, when I am in that rare type of situation? There's nothing cool about it.

This is not at all how this post was supposed to be...

But moneys isn't floating down from the sky like volcano ash...

So it's okay if the masterpieces aren't either tonight...right?

Chilly Willy...

Yes, I am typing naked.
Now, where'd my hat go?

Karate Chops...

Are beautiful. Anyway, I saw Elvis the other night. At a bar in Garden Grove. Right when I arrived, he walked into the kitchen. He was hungry, I guess. I wasn't. I don't feed much. My tribe is prosperous. We're resourceful. We pluck fruit from the trees. Shoot an arrow. Climb a mountain. We're fed. Spoiled and loving it. Hooting. Panting. Fucking. No need for fighting. Everythings good in the monkey hood. The drivers side window of my car doesn't go up anymore. Good for me.

Only Because I let The Night Slip Through My Fingers Like Mustard...

I can't write about the three things that I wanted to tonight. I lagged, and now it's too late. But I will tell you that, before bed tonight, I whipped up a twenty second sandwich masterpiece involving Peperonni, Salami, Cheddar, Mayonnaise, and pickles, yo. Perfection. Darth Vader never needed Luke to rule the universe. All he needed was one of my sandwiches.

Don Rickles...

A friend of mine is dating a girl who reads my site. They are both normal and happy. Really. Yowzers, huh? She asked him what I looked like. My friend asked her what she thought I looked like. She said, based on the writing on my website, that she thought that I was old, bald, and fat. What the hell? I mean...she really hit the nail on the head, didn't she? I am happy for my friend, and happy that he's dating a psychic.

Show Of Hands, Kidney-Gardners...

And what did you do last night, anyway?
All that I'll tell you is that somebody
stole my beers when the hour started getting late.
Isn't that a kick in the liver?
I did beat the friggin' pants off of my friends tonight in poker,
and that's all that matters, in the long run because my luck has been lacking, as of late.
I had the worst luck when it came to everything else tonight.
I had some pleasant conversations tonight.
That was it.

Laborius day?

Yes.

Pleasant?

Sort of.

What did you do yesterday, Bubba?

My friend Mark, Snuck Into My Site And Posted On It. This Is After Helping Him And Twenty Other Idiot Friends At The Bar Tonight. Actually, He Didn't Even Pay For His Coke, Either. Yeah, He Drank A Coke. I'm Glad That He Has Nothing Better To Do Except Write On My Site At 1 In The Morning When I'm Still At Work. Why Am I Smiling? Because This Means That I Don't Have To Write Anything Tonight. This Is What The Little Fucker Wrote...

This is not Kevynn. This is Mark. I did not ask Kevynn if I could post on his site. I am bascially writing without permission. I am firm believer in getting permission to do things and here I go ruining my own philosophy. I just wanted to be a part of something, so write crazy things on the "comments" thing and I'll write even crazier things in response. For example, you might say, "Who's this Mark guy? Pchaw, he's retarded! I hate him sooo much. Will he just go away and never come back. Oooh, I hate him!!!" And I will respond, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" See, I am great and full of fun little surprises like that. Can you just imagine what I'm like at home. That's right! I suck at home. I'm usually ignored when I talk and told to shut up when I am not ignored. Kind of a Catch 22 if you don't know how to use the phrase "Catch 22." Has anyone seen Bruce Almighty? If you haven't seen it, go see it at your local second-run movie house. When you buy the ticket, say, "Alllllmighty then!!!!" The tickettaker should be impressed that you have seen a previous Jim Carey movie and know how to tie things together like that. I did it and was ignored. I'm all out of stuff to say. Seriously, I'm all out of time. You guys have been...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..z..z.z...............z.....................z

Madonna Kissing Britney Spears...

TheBookoftheDeadAfterallthedeedsaredone
AnddownGoesthesunItsonlythendoIrealize
ThatallunfinishedbusinessCreatedandranted
aboutduringThehotand messydayIsNothingmore
thanthat……Justbusiness…MyheartProblemsneardreams
deathsandpremonitionsnightlikethosealwaysrememberitmay
bethedayslikethesethatweforgetFORGETTINGTHEHALFFULLCUPOF
LIFEASOPPOSEDTOTHEEVAPORATINGEMPTYDAYSHERETODAYTALKINGTO
APARTMENTFRIENDSFROMWINDOWSVISITORSCOMPUTERCONVERSATIONS
WITHFRIENDSYOUWORKWITHCOMINGHOMETOAFRIENDALREADYINYOUR APT.
BEFOREYOUWEREEVENTHEREHERMOTHERANDCHILDRENPLAYINGWITHYOURSIX
SMALLKITTIESFRIENDSCOMINGANDGOINGCARSJOKESANDCONVERSATIONSABOUT
JCPENNYTWENTYDOLLARFAMI PHOTOALBUMSWITHEVERYBODYWHOLIVESHEREALLTENOFUS

( I erased the majority of this post. Sorry. Thanks to those who commented. That was really nice of you. I don't know, I don't really care about putting super-duper personal stuff on here. It doesn't bug me. I'll write whatever I want, but it kept on nagging at me in the back of my mind - so there. Yup. )

Five Dollar Boom Boom...

My mom's from Vietnam. Yup, I'm first-generation-born-somewhere-other-than-that-place-guy. My older brother was born there too. Why don't we have the obligatory X-Men-Cyclops eyes? Don't know. Don't care. I always look tired anyways, so it doesn't make much of a difference in the long run. I had a bad mother. She's nice and all, but sucks in a lot of departments when it comes down to the final inventory. No big deal. No bad feelings. No skin off of the Irish-Vietnamese back. Tonight at the bar, I was engaging in some type of conversation that I thought was important, when I heard my name being called...There was a small, smiling lady selling something. With my bad vision, I thought that it was roses. But it wasn't. She was lugging around a wooden display case full of bracelets. That was probably why the lady was brought to my attention. I'm one of the only guys left with a girlfriend. So everybody was directing the lady towards me. Nobody wanted anything. The bracelets were okay. Nothing special. What was special was that I bought one. That she was smiling, even though that she had to try to sell cheap trinkets of homemade beauty to a bunch or worthless kids. What was special was that she always had a smile on her face. What was special was that I could hear people making racist comments behind her back, even though two of them were black. What was special was that she danced to the live band that was playing as she left the bar. The only money that she had was what I gave her. She danced away with a smile on her face as people made fun of her. These are the same people who probably made fun of my mother years ago when she came to this country. The only reason that she was here, and the only reason that I exist is because she met a handsome white guy. A guy that gave up the job that he loved to shack up and do the nasty with a beautiful girl. Nothing mattered. All that my father wanted was what was best for the both of them. They asked why I bought the cheap bracelet. I half-joked that I was watching out for my own. I told them that that was my mother who just left. They said, why, because she was Vietnamese?

I said no...because she was a person, you fucking idiots.

Ya' Flea Bittin' Varmit!...

Watching Bugs Bunny cartoons.
Wondering why Yosemite Sam was always such a dick.
Bugs Bunny could drive you nuts, though.
He's funny and all, but an ultimate smart ass.
The smug, buck-toothed bastard.

In a real street fight, Daffy'd kick his fluffy ass.

Roller City...

How come I'm not winding down with a movie and eating that pizza in the fridge? Why am I not getting some much-needed sleep after a long, boring night serving drinks to drunks? I've got a big day tomorrow/today involving fixing up cars, tow trucks, money, getting tattoos, more late-night bartending, and Star Wars figure trades. Yeah, you heard me, Bubba. What am I doing?

I don't know, Pa. I don't know why I have trouble sleeping. I don't know why I can't graze like the rest of the herd. Life is strange. Always has been. Getting older, my movie audience is getting younger, though. It's kind of...creepy. Sometimes I feel like I'm still at a roller skating birthday party, with all of the flashing, fucked-up lights going around and around, as I, myself, go round and around, making myself feel even dizzier. The skates on my feet are metal, heavy, and clumsy. I lost one of them somewhere, and I have to keep one of my legs up very high, and sway from side to side, so that I don't fall. It's kind of tiring. I don't even know how I got invited, anyway. Nobody's paying attention to me. I always feel like I'm tagging along, and when everybody else stops to take a break, and maybe get something to eat - I'm too poor to buy anything.

When I slow skate with the girls, they don't look at me. I feel that they secretly wanted to be with someone else. Before the last note of the song, they're already gone, rolling away on brand new, un-rented pink and purple skates. Before I know it, the DJ's already called the last dance, and it's all over. I end up waiting alone in a dirty parking lot for my father. Everybody else piles into mini vans piloted by young-looking mothers. Sometimes there are five or six kids leaving together in the same car. Nobody asks me where I'm going. Finally, about an hour later, my angry father pulls up. I'm the last kid in the parking lot. My feet hurt on the ride back home. My father doesn't ask me how it was. He doesn't ask if I had fun. He doesn't ask anything. He just guns his creaking van back to our oil-stained driveway. He's already in the house by the time I get out of the car. I walk past my older brothers room. He slams the door. I'm back in my room. There's nothing much in there. No posters on the walls to look at. One shelf for toys. Two windows. The night. And silence...

I Hear Pat Benetar...

It's getting harder and harder to finish books.
It's getting harder to write important stuff.
Maybe I've been reading and writing crap, urm?

This Is What I Sang All Night...

We Like The Moon.

Give Me The Crotch, Piggy...

After a night of poker playing. Poker-NOT-playing, I should say. After a night of poker playing, more sleep and a movie sounds good. LIfe IS Beautiful with the Italian Pinnochio idiot, The Hours with hot Nicole Kidman with Robert Deniro's nose on, and Pi by that Darren Aronofsky guy. My head is fuzzy, I can't concentrate. One day, I'll have something brilliant to say. One day...

Wanna Bet?

That I suck at poker?
Really?

You win.

Social Roulette...

You ever have one of those days or nights where everything that everybody says is wrong? Or have you ever felt so fucking alienated once the words start falling out of people's mouths? I'm sorry for ranting. I'm tired and am ignoring conversations behind me. Sometimes staying home isn't so bad. Just make sure that If you go out, that nobody follows you home. Don't pick up hitchhikers. Don't talk to strangers. Candy is a no-no. I feel dead sometimes., and part of it may be your fault. Maybe I need to book a flight and crash it, so that I can wake up on a desolate island. I spend half of my time nodding my head to conversations that bore the hell out of me or that sound like a fucking prescooler uttered them. Catch me in a better mood, and I'll be able to explain. But seriously, there was nothing tonight that interested me. I was on the red carpet all night. Some nights are good. Some are bad. Tonight was crap. The older I get, the quieter I become, because this means the less I'll have to say in response to all of the shit that you're slinging to me. Le Sigh. Le Who Cares. At least for now anyway. Who needs sleeping pills when you have conversation? I'm an idiot surrounded in a world by bigger idiots. Le idiotic. Le sigh again. Sorry to bum you out. This weekend we should all cut out our tongues, but then more people would write, and if they did - it'd probably be exactly like this. Le boring. Le done.

No Spellcheck.

Title...

I drove by a horrible car accident in front of the local college today. Traffic was reduced to a crawl as a team of cops directed all of the cars. As I was waiting in line, I stole glances at the crash scene. The front end of a Dark Green Mercedes was crumpled and smashed up. It looked like a discarded snot rag. There was a blue black rubbery sheet thing draped over what looked like a body to me. I couldn't tell if I saw blood, and I might've seen a couple of pink fingers not totally covered by the tarp thing, and then I was past it.

Five seconds after that,
as I was making my way up the street,
I saw a girl waiting to use a crosswalk,
who had the biggest pair of breasts that I've ever seen,
and I slowly whispered to myself...

" Oh My God! "

Id, Ego, Han Solo, And Greedo...

I talked to my younger self today. He wanted to go outside and play. I told him that I was too tired. He asked me why. I said that I didn't know, maybe we could do something later. He's too smart for that; he could tell that I was lying. Shit, he's me - we can spot that shit a mile away. We grew up together, c'mon. Later, after I had rested a bit, he sat down next to me while I was at the computer. He asked me what I was doing. I told myself that I didn't know, just cruisin' around, I guess. Reading some things, checking my site, and others. He told me that it didn't sound like much fun, why don't I play a video game or something? I told him that I might later. He slumped back in his chair, bored. I felt kind of bad, I mean - maybe I should've entertained him. We haven't seen each other in a while, we don't talk as much as we used to. I asked if he wanted anything to drink, a soda, or some Kool-Aid, or something. He said that a beer would be nice. I told him to fuck off, that he was too young to drink. He told me that I was too, and that I should fuck off too. I told him, fine then, you fucker - why don't you go in the fridge and get one, and then grab me one while you're at it - He got up, came back and gave me a Bud. He had a water. I asked him why didn't he grab a beer? He said that he liked his brain cells vibrant, thank you very much and that water was better for him. He was aiming to live to a ripe old age. I told him that he was a smart ass. He said...smart? Yes. An ass? Sometimes. But that I was a dumbass. I said, okay, then you little fucker. You little fucking know-it-all, why the attitude? You're supposed to be on my side. You're the younger me.

He said because you never call me, you asshole.

And then he kicked me in the nose and left...

Oh, And I'm Totally Not Kidding...

A little kid just rang my doorbell and asked if a Mr. Ohm lived here. I said no. Then he asked if I'd lost any hamsters. What the hell? This is by far the weirdest and funniest thing ever. Hamsters? What the hell is that? I'm serious, he actually asked if I'd lost any hamsters? Does he know something about me that I'm not telling? Hamsters? That would of been great if I answered the door naked and with a greased up tube in my hand. Wow, it would've been my lucky day...

Hamsters. I'm serious.

Forget All That Action...

Somebody please kill today, because it sucked serious monkey goolies.

Attack Of The Clones...

Somebody kill all MTV pop stars, please...oh and tone-deaf hip-hop artists too.

Who's That Trip-Trappin' Across My Bridge?...

I want those back East to know that I'm down for the cause, so I'm typing in the dark right now. I know that I'm using electricity, but it beats writing this, bathed in the soft, illuminating glow of a pig fat candle and sending this to Blogger by carrier pigeon. After I'm done typing this, I'm going to cook up some food on the barbecue while humming Led Zeppelin. Why Led Zeppelin? Don't know, Bugsy. See? Yeah, see? You're not gettin' me alive you lousy coppers! Here, have a lead sandwich! Bratta tatta bratta tat tat tat! Ugh. You dead.

Friends are coming over and I'm gonna tell some ghost stories, Frank's bringing over some Night Train and his new girlfriend who can spit fire and eat glass. She's very cool, I guess her parents were part of a commune, freak show thing back in the day, and taught her some tricks - but only after she was sixteen, Babies eatin' glass ain't too kosher. It would've been for me, if I was one of the parents. Less trash to take out. Hee. From what Frank's told me, she does more than eat glass and spit fire, IfyouknowwhatImean. Hee again.

What this world needs, in these dark times, is an army of as million Atticus Finchs. Fighting for justice. Bein' bad arse. Everybody's all...Boo Radley-ish. Go outside. Let's go surfing now, everybody's learning how. Your parents suck, flip em' the bird, and get the hell out of there as fast as you can. Just make sure to swipe as much money as you can before you go, otherwise, get used to wrapping your backpack straps around your arm so that the homeless guy next to you doesn't swipe your half bag of Cheetos and Mead notebooks full of late night rat scratchings. I remember being stranded in a bus stop out in Montclair, California and meeting a girl with the blondest hair and reddest lips in the world. I think that she invited me in the bathroom with her, but I was so young that I couldn't spot a sexual invitation from a road-travelling prostitute if it hit me in the crotch. She eventually stole my Soda, cigarettes, and lighter shaped like a girls breasts. The flame would come out of the left boob. I miss those boobies.

Frank just called. He said that he's running behind because his gal has to pick up her friend. I don't know her friend. Maybe she's a lion tamer. Then what? I should, maybe turn on the front porch light so that they don't think that I went somewhere. But they all know that we're gonna get drunk by the light of the moon and the glow of whatever the hell Frank's gal uses when she breathes her dragon stuff. Shit, when that Night Train comes, I'll be breathing fire too. I haven't had that stuff since I was in high school. Last time, I tried to rip a tree out of the ground. I failed. Me and my back. Hee once again.

I want those back East to know that I'm down with them in spirit. Don't hurt anybody, be nice, make babies. You have nothing else to do. Your TV's busted. You have to do something, right. Plug the significant other because the tube's unplugged. It's our own damn fault, lightning or not. We take things for granted, and are way too dependant on modern magics. Lets get back down to the stone age, baby. I wanna carve my initials with a spear tip on the hide of a Bison. I don't know. I want everything back to basics, but want beer involved. That's all. That's all I'll take with me. Bison and Bud Light. Yup.

Oh, and Night Train.

Protect your trees tonight, people...

Goodnight, static.

Hello, moon.

Poo...

I mean it.

Twat's That? I Cunt Hear You. I Have An Ear Infucktion...

Comments will be back up soon.
Haloscan is working on some issues.

Yeah, Haloscan - me too.

The Olson Twinge...

This damn kitty is going to jump on the keyboard - I know it. After I get back from bartending, I feel nothing. I barely drink - that's how out of it I feel. I come in, get out of my crappy tie, and check on the galfriend. I say hi to the cats. Look around the house for psychos, murderers, and hiding mormons, and usually look for something to eat - even though I'm not in the mood for anything. I turn on the computer and usually go through a quick version of my routine. I check my email, bloggy thingy, and maybe some other sites. Then I realize that it's later than it even was when I came in, and curse myself for even turning on The Beast in the first place if I wasn't going to write anything Hollywood-wise. All of these ideas floating behind my eyeballs. All day. And all I do when I get home is check my site and yours. And porn. Don't forget the porn. But I don't feel guilty about that.

Good Morning, Baby...

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The Cure...

This is not about Robert Smith.
Anyway, sometimes when I start to tell my friends a story -
they stop me and say that they already read it on my website.
This bums me out and makes me feel a bit strange,
so I've come up with an answer......
......to get rid of my friends...

Beezelbub And Romona...

Thinking furiously,
And with a head full of flies.
Trying to get buzzed,
Before the whole world dies...

Max Headroom...

This a better day than yesterday.
It's sticky hot, though.
Peanut butter madness.
Do you feel like writing reviews or rants???
Go talk to Hard over at The Hard Artist...
Thanks, Bubba.

Ah, hell...Today/tonight wasn't so bad, was it?...

I played Star Wars Galaxies with Joe, and taught my wookie how to dance.
I just got done bbq'in' at five in tha' mornin'.
And got bitten by a spider on my forearm that I hope/pray was radioactive.

Dude.

God, That Was Stupid...

I apologize for my last two posts.
It's one of those nights.

Dude.

Leaving Las Scissorhands...

Watched Leaving Las Vegas. Haven't seen that in a long time. It makes me not want to drink...Vodka and Tequila! Ha!
Anyway, it was pretty good, and what ever happened to everybody's favorite babysitter, Elizabeth Shue? Who cares about that Melrose Place brother of hers. So, it made me think about all of the cool roles that Nic has played, and then it made me think about Johnny Depps career.

Who do you like better?

Nic?

Johnny?

Lady, I'm Gonna Have To Ask You To Leave The Store...

Who would you want to win in a fight between Brittney Murphy and Britney Spears?
Tom Green or Alan Greenspan?
Would you rather live in Iraq or Afghanistan?
Matrix Trilogy, so far, or Lord Of The Rings?
Do you come in peace or go in pieces?
Spiderman or Batman?
Kirsten Dunst or Keira Knightley?
Movies or books?
Favorite book?
Favorite movie?
Favorite website?
Would you rather have a super nice car or a super nice wardrobe?
Ever shoot a gun?
Been in a fight?
Why am I writing this? What happened to what I was supposed to put down?
Do people like you?
Who do you hate today, besides me?
Drink much?
Smoke much?
Nervous habit?
Masturbate much?
What was the last website that you were on before this?
Do you want to ask me something? Anything?
Am I sorry for doing this to you?

Lick it now, please.

Kobe Bryant Day...

A couple of my friends had a kid. This is not something friends of mine do for fun when bored. We don't all just sit around and fuck each other, placing bets on who's gonna be the one that gets the bigger belly first. Well, I guess that would be fun - all of it except for the actual birthing, responsibilty, and financial burdens. But these two friends of mine happened to be married. I visited the hospital and saw their baby. Samuel was little. He had little toes that looked like champagne grapes. I was acting out a story to both of them earlier and almost knocked over the baby's bed - so when they asked if I wanted to hold him, I said Hell No, because, if I'm knocking around things, then I sure as hell am not going to hold a kid. I did smell his head a couple of times, though. Why do we eventually lose that? I brought her a Snapple and an In Style magazine, and I brought him his favorite soda. I should've brought beer instead. I asked the father if he wanted to play poker, and he said that he did. Maybe he would've bet the little dude. Maybe not.

Anyway, I found out that the baby had a little ankle bracelet on that sounded an alarm if he was taken past a certain point without it being deactivated first. It looked like a miniature version of one of those parole anklet thingys. Babys now come with anti-theft devices? Do they have versions like the ones that they have in certain clothing stores that explode when you take them outside?

I was still staggering from the weight of this, by the time I got home.

Then I had sex and forgot all about it.

Things I Hate About Summer...

Bugs
and
warm beer.

And bugs in my warm beer.

The Naked Ape...

I don't like to generalize, but I think that all people are inherently evil. Overall, the majority of us have selfish, monkey thoughts hardwired into our brains. Not much has changed in the minds of man in the last 1000, million, bajillion years. I think that we still want exactly the same things that we wanted way back then, except that there are now a lot more useless things that we acquire that disguise our real wants. Men and women want to fuck each other, and they don't care who gets in the way. We hate people that impede out progress. We're very hungry. We want various versions of security, and we want it now. Heaven help those who get in our way. We'll grab it, and all of it, if we get the chance. I think that the only reason that humans domesticate animals is because we get disgusted with ourselves and need something else around to keep us company. I think that the majority of humans get sick of other humans, that we may be able to blindly justify our behavior by surrounding ourselves with animals that we feel a superiority over. But does it make sense to laugh at another animals unconditioned responses, when we do the same type of shit all the time?

Hoot Hoot! Pant! Pant!

I just don't understand us.
My own fault for trying.

All monkeys look beautiful when looking up at them from the ground.
But when you get up really close to one,
and you have to start dodging the shit that they're slinging...

It's just fucking gross.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation...

Last night involved, yet again, more stripper madness. My girlfriend earned a dollar dancing for me at the club. Some very mean-looking girl with breasts bigger than my total body weight put a dollar in her pants. I was a pimp for one whole second. Some pimp. Anyway, this morning I was about to go to the bathroom when Hard arrived at the door...

I'll let him tell you...

Hi kiddies! Its' your old pal, The Hard Artist! Kev and I auditioned for a play today! Then we went antiquing... it was delightful! Actually, we did audition today. But Kev might not get to do the show because he has to go see those whiny bitches, Radiohead, on one of the performance nights. Then we went back to his pad to watch some horrible movies. Boy, this is starting to sound like one of those blogs that I hate: "Sorry I haven't updated in six months but school has been really tough!" Kev has Metallica playing right now. It makes it hard for me to string any coherent thoughts together. Here, take over homie...
This is like blog freestylin'!...

Yeah, I auditioned for a play. I was talking to a guy outside of the theatre. I asked him if he'd done any shows there. He said that he had, but not in a coupla years. I told him that I haven't done any theatre in...ten. Am I just old, or not a card-carrying member of the drama fag society? Maybe both. The other day when I was re-applying for school, the guy at the admissions window said, " So, you graduated this year? ". I was puzzled. I told him no. He showed me my admission form. Yup, it said year of high school graduation, 2003. I had to tell him that it was a mistake. He asked me when did I really graduate then? I looked around and whispered...1993. He was kind enough not to arch his eyebrows. I started to snicker, cuz' I'm getting fucking old. Hee Hee.

Hey, Hard! What movies did we watch over here after our auditions?

Hard here! Well, Kev... It shames me to admit this, but we had the pleasure of watching Final Destination 2 (don't worry if you didn't catch the first one, all your crap needs can be met with this purile sequel), something called The Wash (a movie where, seemingly, the director just turned his camera on and walked away - leaving Dr. Dre and Snoop Dog to get up to all manner of pointless jackassery), and Evil God (a short film by the one and only Kevynn, which wasn't too shabby once he explained what the fuck it was about). Hey y’all here's a little quiz for ya; who wrote the following?:

O Pointy Birds,
Pointy Pointy.
Anoint My Head,
Anointy nointy.

No fair you answering, Kev.

My god, what the hell was that? I refuse to speculate. I want one of you to tell me what the frag he's gussying on about. I'm very proud of myself for actually waking my hung over body up to go stand in a theatre with a bunch of balding, white men. Maybe I won't get a call back. Maybe I will. Actually, there were a couple of black kids at the auditions too, but they kind of freaked me out. The one without the afro kept on talking to me excitedly, and was later told by the director to stop dancing while he was on stage. The afro-less black kid had a lot of pent up energy in him. I blame it on Motown. Oops. I didn't say that. Anyway, the guy with the afro was weird too. Fuck, everybody was weird. White, black, plaid. One guy that I auditioned with smacked the fuck out of my chest when he was all caught up in the moment. It was so loud that Hard said that everybody outside asked what the hell was happening inside. So. Uhmm. I would like a part. A big part. I would like to part the Red Sea.

H.A: Do you all see what's happening here? Kevynn threw in a little cleverness at the end of that paragraph in order to draw you away from his earlier racist comments. Let me be the first to break the news in this Hard Artist Exclusive: Kevynn is the Grand Wizard of the KKK. I know, it's shocking. But true. I swear... [choking noise as Hard is throttled by Kev] He's never gonna let my write on his site again.

Dude, I don't care what anybody says - I'm allowed to get away with whatever I want. My mother was born in a Vietnamese jungle and she fed me bugs and dogs as a child. What that has do what I said earlier? I have no idea. But I'm excused, thank you. And I was serious about wanting to part the Red Sea, but that fucking Moses got to it first, the bitch.

Lick us. Goodbye.

Hard and Malone, out...

At A Friend's House...

Theres a lot of crud going on right now. People fighting with swords. I'm not kidding. there's two people actually fighting with swords behind me as I write this. The ability to see is way over rated. Dueling is so last year. As I type this, chunks of my ear are getting hacked off. This is not a pleasurable experience. I like how there's only two girls to the eight present. Poor guys. It's sad to see the monkeys fight for their scant resources. But, then they just all left...and guess what? I'm already hearing about strippers. I have no problem with that. I have no need for the poo-na-nee search. Yeah, take that Google. How do you spell that, anyway?

Hold on...