Post From A Year Ago. Oh, How I Miss The Days...

What's A Penny Made Out Of?...

Yup. They impounded my car. It's my own fault really. I was going to finally pay my registration right before I threw myself out of a car. Hmmm... on my lunch breal, I'll have to go get new insurance, go to the DMV on Monday, then back to the police department, then to the impound. I'm calculating it to be about 600 bucks. Which I dont have. Well, I have money in the bank, but most of that's already owed to bills. I picked up another shift tomorrow night and one on Saturday night. I'll have to miss girls night out. All of the girls invited one boy out for girl's night out. Me. Oh well. And I work my bartending shift on Sunday night.

I'm telling you, I was really having a good day. There was a bounce to my step. I had a big smile on my face. I was paying bills and everything. Things always hit you when you're guard is down. Oh well, the sooner shit happens, the sooner that you can deal with it. I love you. Now I am going to drink beers and watch The MTV Movie Awards with friends. Fun.

Please send your donations to Lick My Butt, Sunny Southern California. The United States. Earth.

I, Imperial Probe Droid...

I'm Sorry...

But the best way for one to wake up is to a spelling bee on ESPN. To see a small, Asian kid get a word, ask for it again, and then faint dead on the floor. The audience gasped, commentators talked about how they had never seen anything like that before, nobody moved, the kid got back up, spelled the word right and sat back down. All of the other kids looked at him. Not in amazement or concern - but FEAR. I hadn't even pulled on my socks yet. Little kids in spelling bees is the best fucking way to wake up in the morning.

Everything after that is icing on the cake.

A Friend From New York..

Is here for the summer and trying to break into the stand-up/improv biz thing/scene.
He said that he's good with acting things out, but just not creating them...
I asked him how the trip to Cali. was.
He said that he had to bring his cat on the plane.
I asked how that was.
He explained.
I asked if he had to sit next to a Vietnamese couple.

Thats all I could come up with.

The donut shop was the only place in my suburban town that was open twenty-four hours. Sometimes Tony, Chris, and I would end up there anyway because we all had no cars and little money to do anything anyway. We could smoke, talk, laugh or end up bored with the boring boredom and leave to go sit bored at the boring park. It would suck whenever they had to go home because that would mean I’d have to entertain myself. Which is okay for the first couple of hours, but then you start to go crazy knowing that you wont be able to see anyone until at least eleven am or by noon. They had homes with parents. Warm beds. Showers. Music, TV, etc. I had a yellow-tinted 24-hour donut shop with distant Mexican music playing in the background.

All of the pictures were faded. Donuts and croissants. I used to laugh at the one that described their croissants as creamery and buttery. Creamery? I still don’t know if that’s really a word.

I would start reading the paper at about two or three in the morning. Making it last, reading every inch and every word of that newspaper except for the classifieds, sports, and opinion sections. I would write a lot in notebooks. Nobody would mistake me for a fledgling screenwriter or a young insomniac putting down The Great American Novel because they don’t have backpacks. I don’t know, maybe they do.

Occasionally people would come in. Usually to buy smokes. The guy who worked there and couldn’t speak much English was cool and never kicked me out because I’d been buying cigarettes there since I was fourteen and always bought a coke and a creamery ham and cheese croissant. It was the only item that they had that had actual food in it and not a bunch of sickeningly sweet shit. Donuts are like candy. If I want candy, I’ll eat it. Blagh. I needed to eat somehow. So when I die of a heart attack by the age of thirty – you know whom to blame.

One time a good friend of mine that I hadn’t seen since we graduated high school came in. She gave me a big old hug and asked me a bunch of questions about what I’d been doing since we graduated, what was I doing here, etc? I must’ve looked like I was on drugs because I felt uncomfortable and my eyes kept on darting around looking for an escape. I didn’t want her to know that I was homeless. Even though she was a friend, I didn’t want anybody to know that my father had kicked me out right after I graduated and by the time that my senior class was taking Tequila shots in Mexico, I was dodging cockroaches and sleeping in Elementary schools. I lied and told her that I was waiting for Tony to come home from a party and that I should leave. She offered me a ride but I didn’t take it because then I would have to let her drop me off in front Tony’s house and then have to pretend to go up to the door and then wait for her to leave. Fuck all of that. Last thing that I remember was her looking at me confused and concerned as she drove away.

I walked around the block, smoked a cigarette and then came back to the donut store. I had to buy another coke too because I had thrown out my last one to make it look like I was leaving.

There were only a small handful of homeless people in the town that I lived in. I knew them all by sight and some I used to give money to when I was in high school. After I got kicked out, I always used to see the Vietnam vet guy sleeping at one of the elementary schools that I did. He was nice. I used to buy him a coke and a small bag of chips every time I saw him outside of the Blockbuster Video. When I was sleeping at the school, he was always cool to me and I never thought that he’d try to fuck me up or steal my shit. That still didn’t keep me from wrapping the straps of my backpack around my arms though. I learned that trick on Greyhound bus trips. I had a wallet with a chain on it too. I used to shorten the length of it so that nobody could try to unlatch it without me feeling it.

The one that I saw the most was the big fat guy. He was fat fat. Really fat. He looked Hawaiian or something, maybe in his forties, and wore shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops all the time. I would always see him leaning against a shopping cart and strolling along like that. Like his weight was too heavy for him to bear and that he needed help. One time he asked me to buy him a bottle of cherry brandy. I told him how young I was. He said that it was only four bucks. I told him again how old I was. He acted disgusted at me. Whatever. Anyway he was fucking huge. Sometimes he would come into the donut shop too. He’d buy a coffee and would start to nod off. He snored. Sometimes I would have to wake him up because the cigarette in between his fingers would look like it was going to drop on the floor or burn his fingers. Sometimes he’d knock over his coffee and the donut guy would kick him out.

The fat homeless guy would talk to me sometimes. I tried not to speak to anybody because It’s hard to be in a place that’s your last resort and to engage in a conversation that you’re not interested in because you don’t really have an escape route if you have no where else to go.

I remember that he said that he grew up next to Hank Ketchum and used to play with him. He was the guy who created the Dennis The Menace comic strip. Hank Ketchum – not the fat guy. Maybe he was bullshitting. He used to tell me all kind of stories in between his bouts of narcoleptic sleep. I drew pictures of him sometimes in my notebook. One time I left early because he noticed that my shoes had silver duct tape wrapped around them. He started laughing hysterically and pointing at my shoes. My face burned red. I tried to explain to him that I usually did that to my shoes because of skateboarding, but he was too busy laughing/choking. Tears rolled down his big, red cheeks and he kept on pointing at my shoes. So I gathered my shit up and then slept in the park.

It all sucked. I hated that fucking place but was grateful for it’s existence. I hated my life. I hated when the sun came out and the occasional passing car became a constant drone because then more people started to come in before work. Then I would leave. Too crowded. Too loud. Too many people looking at me. Too many people going and doing things. Nobody knew or cared who the hell I was and that was how I liked to keep it. By that time I could maybe wait for Carls Jr. to open and then I could grab a burger or some fries. I stretched that out too. I had nothing to read because I didn’t want to read the paper. I would have to save that for the night. If I was lucky I could maybe watch a little TV. I wish that they’d had a TV in the donut shop - that would’ve made it easier. I’d waste an hour or two at Carls and then go to the park for a quick nap. Tony was in continuation school and would get home at noon, maybe at 1 p.m. if he was smoking pot with somebody. Then I would get to use his shower, maybe change my clothes. Try not to bug him or his parents too much because I might get to spend the night there on the weekends. I stayed there for a couple weeks once until his father asked me what my plans were – so I left. And I didn’t want to do that to Tony or Chris because it was hard enough for them to live with their parents, they didn’t need me to put a strain on all of that shit. Anyways, people’s parents like you a lot better the less they see you. Trust me on this.

And if there was a point to this story - I’ve forgotten it. I originally wanted to tell you about the fat man, but the retarded translation really doesn’t do it justice unless you get to see how huge he was. I wasn't trying to whine either – but if it sounds like it and you don’t like it – then you have my permission to leave, nerd/loser. Don’t ever come back. I wrote this story last week and then forgot about it. I have to fire up the barbecue now. Grilled Mahi Mahi is more important.

I hate donuts.

Thanks.

I Can't Help You...

To the person who came to this site looking for masturbation techniques?

You need to get out more.

Or...to stay in more.

or something like that.

I Need...

To remind myself to be happy
before I start to spend the rest of my life being unhappy
i know everything that i used to
but need to remind myself
how it and i was
i need to not feel as old as i make myself
i need to feel as old as i made myself
how it and i was
but to remind myself
that everything that i used to know
before i started to spend the rest of my life being unhappy

need not be remembered...

Do I Write Email Spam To Myself?...

But they need to remember how eagerly cup behind girl scout procrastinates.Furthermore, tripod beyond cheese wheel flies into a rage, and squid inside prime minister reach an understanding with inferiority complex inside customer.around rattlesnake bur oil filter for, or rattlesnake inside make a truce with around parking lot.mirror behind fundraiser figure out inside trombone, because photon near prefer stovepipe near.Furthermore, insurance agent behind ruminates, and living with clock write a love letter to cloud formation behind maestro.Furthermore, judge toward rejoices, and cloud formation from mirror confess senator beyond satellite.

lifetime committal barberry schoolroom smolder

Bunny Mcintosh Rollerskates On Your Face And Makes You Cry...

I broke my digital camera today.
No focus anymore.
The camera - not me.

Now I am sad.

Beautiful Stories For Ugly Children...

A Message For You From The Guy That Screams In The Middle Of The Street And Pretends To Hold A Rifle...

I just gave him a couple of bucks as I left the store and he said," Tell you're friend to be safe, okay? Be safe! Be safe!"

I said that I would even though he didn't specify exactly whom he was talking about.

So...ummm...BE SAFE. Yeah you.

And then five minutes later while I was in my car at a red light, I saw a teacher herding about twenty little kids across the street in a crosswalk. A little girl did a cartwheel. I smiled.

That will probably be the coolest thing I'll see all day.

More Important Than Me Getting Drunk...

Go visit The Island Of Misfit Toys.
Come back.
Don't.

Bring gum and a sleeping bag.

Some Other Day Than Today...

I can't write. The story I just started...ended. Hiccup will forever wonder why people are stealing his trash I guess. And why is this easier to write than what i was writing earlier? When I don't care, I can write. I don't obsess over grammatical syntax even though I rewrote this sentence. Those things can be corrected. Who cares anyway? It's not like there's a book deal hanging over my head. I'm not getting paid. I have no deadlines. Well, actually i do for a couple of things - but reading 128 pages of a book before I started writing tonight doesn't help because if im reading - im not writing. The music playing on this stupid-ass computer isn't helping either. I must remember to write like Hemingway. I must remember to write like a baby. I can't wait to go to Paris and write like a baby Hemingway. Actually, like I'd give a shit about writing about famous cities. I'm all for writing about famous situations within the cities. Not the boring, everyday march of the morons in places with history. It's already been done. Blow up a bomb in a cow field. Kill a cat on a dirty rooftop - but not on a famous rooftop. Throw a famous cow off of cat-infested rooftop with a bomb inside the building.

Morale of the story: Somebody else was picking through Hiccup's trash and slowly recreating his apartment because he or she or it wanted to be like Hiccup.

p.s. Hiccup got his nickname because he always does when he smokes pot. Which is awesome. I only named him Hiccup because my Muse CD was skipping.

No spell check.

Samuel Clemens' Right Eye...

Since nobody reads this site anymore - maybe I'll just let it die and do more productive things.
Nah. Fuck that. The writing'll probably get better now.
Like I care what the rest of the Munchkins in Munchkin Land think...

I hate you so much - I want to twist off your head.

Oliver Queen...



Whenever my girlfriend talks about going shopping, I ask her to look at the toys for me. Even if she's going to a fabric store, IKEA/HELL, or looking for fake purses in L.A. She'll tell me that they don't have toys there. I always think she's lying to me. Everybody's against me. If I ask you to get me toys, a monkey, comic books, or beer - you better try real hard to make it possible. I'm serious. You can make this happen. I don't joke about stuff like that. I have constantly asked everybody for a bow and arrow set. My conservative, secret branch-of-the-government father of mine only gave me presents that he was interested in. So, my older brother and I got bow and arrow sets when we were young. We had fun, actually. We had more fun when my father was inside the house because he would’ve beaten the crap out of us seeing us shooting arrows at each other's heads. So, I've always wanted to do that again. Not shoot an arrow at my brother's head. Been there. Done that. No. I want to stand out in my backyard with twenty-four arrows, a twelve pack of beer, andjust shoot a bunch of arrows at targets, bales of hay, and fat people. I dream of this. From you, I get smiles. This is not cool. Do I look like I'm being cute? I mean it. Nobody listens to me. I was talking about this to a co-worker the other day and he told me that his younger brother was an archer. Seriously. An ARCHER. Legolas in training. What? Wow. I did a double take. Yes, he was serious. So he gave me one of his younger brother's bows.

It needs to get re-strung. I don't care. When I first got it. I took it out with me. In my drunken glee, I thought that, maybe a bow-stringer would see me pretending to shoot things and would take pity on me. Nothing happened. I am not lucky. I write like Frankenstein tonight too, I guess. Errr.

So, the other day, I went looking for the local archery shop. We do have one. I swear. I didn't just imagine this. I saw the sign, said Ace Of Base. I did, really. I saw a sign...but couldn't find it this time. I felt like a nerd and eventually gave up. Yesterday I looked up the place in the phone book...

- Blah Blah Archery. How can I help you?

Yeah, Umm…Where are you guys located? I tried to find you the other day, but didn't see you.

- Well, we're not in out old location anymore.

Like I'm a regular. Got any new stuff? Dorkdorkdork.

Oh. You're not on Commonwealth?

- Yes. That's where we are.

Really? Okay. Well, are you by anything, like a landmark or something?

Yeah, I said LANDMARK. Like they were right by Mt. Vesuvius, The Death Star or the statue of Jebediah Springfield or something.

- We're between POO and BLARGH street.

Like I have a sense of direction and like I know the streets of the city that I live in. I don't. I'm fucking retarded.

Oh. Yeah, and do you string bows too?

- (pause) Ummm……yes.

Okay. I guess that's like asking a mechanic if they do car work, but - c'mon, man, like I'm supposed to know. Maybe they'd all start laughing at me or something. I'm just making sure, okay. When you assume…you make ass-meat out of U and ME. Something like that…

Oh. Great. Thankyouverymuch. Cool. Thank you.

...Click!...

So. The moral of my story is that I'm drunk and that it's hard to be a nerd when the nerds...think you're a fucking nerd.

The End.

Watch. Now even the comic book guys will start pretending that they don't even know me.

Jai Guru De Va Om...

I just tried to take one of those little quiz thingys that you find on somebody else’s website – but the questions and all of my answers seemed dumb. It was kind of like I was trying to make myself look more clever or interesting to spice up the whole waste of time that it was. SO. I erased it. SO. I am now going to create my own. Which will suck and waste my time even further. I hate you, Internet.

Worst childhood memory?
Beatings, arguments, abuse. All of that happy crap.
Since nobody really knows you, what’s the no. 1 sexually perverted act that you like?
Human contact.
Best lie ever.
I love you.
Last time watched porn?
A week ago?
On a diet?
I look like I took a diet WAY too far.
Kerouac?
Loved the early guy. Sad for the fat version. Like Elvis.
Americans?
Fat. Lazy. Nice. Mean. Stupid question.
Bukowski?
NICE.
Stephen King?
Brilliant at times.
My authors suck. Name one of your favorites.
I just did.
Forget it. No more authors. That was stupid.
Yes.
Jawas? Filthy or just plain misunderstood?
Filthy.
Coolest part of your day?
Time with the girl before work.
What didn’t you do that you totally wanted to?
Write.
Why didn’t you do it?
Work.
Is that any excuse?
No.
What actor/actress would you most like to crotch-punch?
Fuck…ummm…today?
What actor/actress would you most like to crotch-massage?
Kate Beckinsale?
Give me an idea for a movie.
I crotch punch Hollywood.
Last favor you did for someone.
Crotch-punched Hollywood.
Most annoying website – besides mine, of course.
AOL.COM
Drink of choice?
Bud Light. Seriously.
Deserted island. One book. One item. One author, dead or alive. One companion animal. One thing that you could take to the island that’s in your car right now. One bathroom item.
Boy Scout Handbook Of America. Rambo knife. I wouldn't want to be stuck on an island with a writer unless it was a she, and she was hot..and MUTE. I'd like a Peurto Rican boy as a companion animal. I'd take my road flares so that I could burn my Puerto Rican when he was really bad. Bathroom item would be a gun.
What’s going on tomorrow?
Chaos. Order. Pizza. Porn. Oasis.
Favorite 5 cd’s right now.
That one Bjork CD that I got. AND SO ON by Longfellow. YOUR ENEMIES FRIENDS. THE ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND soundtrack. KNUCKLE SHUFFLE ON THE PISS PUMP by WRIST ACTION.
Site you were on before this?
Fat Free Milk.
Any comic books you want to send me?
Yes, I would love to, Kev...
Last time you got really pissed and why?
Today. I'll keep it to myself. Bottle it up.
If you could kill somebody right now – who would it be, why, and with what?
Ms. Scarlett, cuz' she's a whore and with the lead pipe in the study.
If you could bring a dead person back to life – who would it be? Religious figures don’t count.
Andre The Giant and The Haiti Kid. I cheated.
Weirdest thing that’s ever been inside your body?
Energy.
This was lame, huh? Oh well. YOU took it. I was bored. I’m the bigger dork, but YOU took it. Dork.
Piss off, you wanker. Yeah, you.

Yoda's Bland Food...



First thing I see
when I twist off
the cap of a beer
is Dagobah fog.

And a lifetime of solitude...

Seriously...

Have I missed the bus or was I not supposed to be able to buy a ticket anyway? I just don't get it. I'm either the biggest waste in the universe or I'm grasping at the coats of demonic millionaires a coupla seconds too late. I'm like a stray dog weaving in-between lanes of highway traffic. Maybe I should stop and take a breather? Maybe I rested too long that last time. Everytime I stop, I put myself in more danger...but maybe if I pull my leg over my head and lick myself, one of those cars might notice me, stop...and take me home. To a place of warm fireplaces, food, comfort and heavy petting...

Yes. I said heavy petting...

To Get To The Other Side...



If you combined the whole Blogger thing with the old Atari video game FROGGER - then maybe there'd be a point to this.

The Taskmaster Knows All of Your Moves Even Before You Do Them Because He Studies Them On Videotape Before You Fight…



And the beat goes on even for those suffering from heart attacks. Black markers on black souls and the color black is used in too much writing. Work is a bitch, and don’t you just fucking hate that bitch from work? I make food for my girlfriend and never eat it. I’ve become my mother. She’s very short. I’ve seen her twice in the last eleven years. That either makes me old or her - not too attentive. Maybe both. My friend’s mom told me the other day that she thought that I was 22. I said thank the gods I’m not anymore. I feel sorry for Ernest Hemingway because he pussed out and because he was a jock and couldn’t survive being a tough guy today. Kerouac did not become a roman candle – he became a fat dud firework. His last wife looked exactly like his mother. I couldn’t marry my mother because she’s too short...and I need lots of attention.

And the beat goes on even for those suffering from heart attacks. Black markers on black souls and the color black is used in too much writing. Work is a bitch, and don’t you just fucking hate that bitch from work? I make food for my girlfriend and never eat it. I’ve become my mother. She’s very short. I’ve seen her twice in the last eleven years. That either makes me old or her - not too attentive. Maybe both. My friend’s mom told me the other day that she thought that I was 22. I said thank the gods I’m not anymore. I feel sorry for Ernest Hemingway because he pussed out and because he was a jock and couldn’t survive being a tough guy today. Kerouac did not become a roman candle – he became a fat dud firework. His last wife looked exactly like his mother. I couldn’t marry my mother because she’s too short...and I need lots of attention.

Fat Man And Throbbin'...

I just saw one of those two person bikes. The guy in the front was dressed up as Robin The Boy Wonder. The guy on back wasn't dressed as Batman, which made it even weirder.

I waited for The Joker to follow on a unicycle - but it never happened - so I got in my car and drove home.

Melatonin...



Lost a paper that had about five story ideas and a list of things to do.

So now I'm here, just kind of twiddling my thumbs on this keyboard. I gathered up all of my movies to return to the video store. I have Netflix but still go to the video store occasionally, because, you know - it's just so hard to mail those Netflix envelopes back, y' know? I also have my bow propped by the door. I'm going to take it to that archery store place thingy to get it strung. Then I can start shooting arrows at people and chirping birds. I also took off the back of the huge tv that we have. We broke the connector thing off of the back. When I popped of the back panel, I made something else come loose too. It's brains and nervous system were all too complicated and web-like - so, I guess I have to find somebody to help me lug that thing to a TV repair shop. Then I will go back home and work on my screenplay about demon conjuring, binding spells, Hell and The Necronomicon...

Malone On Babies...

What sucks about baby pictures is that time passes and then you look at the picture afterwards and then realize that the kid looks nothing like the baby picture anymore and it’s not as fun. Then, maybe, like, twenty years go by, and then you get all astounded by how young the baby was.

Yeah.

Dork...

I just got done making my car payment over the phone. I always talk to the same girl. She's nice. We shoot the shit and fill each other in on what's been happening lately. After we were done talking, I told her goodbye and then said, "Be good".

Be good?

What the hell is that all about?

Oh. Now I remember...I'm retarded.

Shrtst. pst. evr.

.