September 1st - September 17th...



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hitler should've found better things to paint.

And Charles Manson only needed a girlfriend.

Dear Woody Allen...

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

Thank you.

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

Fortean Times...

Vegas, baby...

I tried posting a test audblog. Didn't work. Might try again when I'm gone. Might not. Might lose a lot of money. Might not.

Probably will.

H.P. Lovecraft's Mother...



A friend spent the night on my couch last night. She asked if I would take her home in the morning, I said that it wouldn't be a problem. In the morning she was gone. This kind of puzzled me because she said that her car was parked at Matt's house which is a good distance away.

I guess she decided to walk or maybe she tried to wake me up and I didn't, I don't know. Anyway, when she got to Matt's house, she thought that her car got towed. But she forgot that it was parked across the street from my house and had to walk all the way back.

Yup.

Jacquis...



So, the girlfriend's in London. I obviously didn't go. Long story. My work is also closed til maybe Thursday. Going to Vegas on Friday. That doesn't really help out in the money aspect, does it? I have to go though, my room was comped by a guy that I know that does business with the owner of the hotel that I'm staying at. I guess he owns two more of the big ones too. Must be nice. But, I have to go, and trust me - I'm grateful - I mean, how cool is that. A comped room for the whole weekend at 170 bucks a night. This includes whores too. No. Just kidding. No whores.

I think I'm going to do some manual labor 2morrow for some more extra cash.

I am now forgetting things.

Trying to construct a funny sentence about cruising the gay park by my house.

I am too lazy to explain this.

Feh...

Dr. Curt Connors' Missing Arm...

It's kind of unfair that all mirrors aren't made alike.

I think that mirrors should give back the same reflection as any other.
because, I mean, doesn't it suck to look okay in one mirror and then later go to a different mirror-only to look hideous? I hate those close-up mirrors that show everything too. I don't think some people should be looked at that close. There should be a law against that sort of thing. Like a restraining order that ugly people can file against others so that they don't get too close. I bet a lot of people would start shouting their conversations to each other on the street.

The only people without vanity problems are those that shatter every mirror that they look at.

Asiatic Anti-Venoms...



Man, you get so lazy - you don't really want to put the effort into telling imaginary people what you've been doing. If what I've been doing involved ninja swords, then I would definitely tell you. I get more enjoyment out of writing nonsense anyway. I only like reading journals of mass-murderers anyway, and they're usually so busy that they don't keep them.

I really need to get back to writing in notebooks.
All of this hi-tech Rosie The Robot stuff sucks more time and energy than the pen and good ol' paper. I'll let you read my books someday. They're all in the garage. I'll vomit them out in the publishing world someday.

Dr. Phil and The Da Vinci Code will stomp on my guts.

Doyle Brunson's Bad Knees...

Wish me luck today.

I Wear This Helmet To Protect My Head From When I Have My Epileptic Fits…

I slowed the car to a crawl in the middle of the street to see the fireworks from Disneyland. I looked to my right to see if the men playing softball were looking to, but they weren’t. Were the cars in front of me moving slow because of the fireworks too or did they normally drive that slow?

I didn’t get that movie soundtrack that I wanted. Tower was sold out of them. The Wherehouse had just closed and Target didn’t carry it. The pimply faced, tall teen told me that it was too INDY for them.

I want a lot of random things. Things like the 18 in. Spiderman figure with 67 points of articulation. A string for my bow and a bunch of arrows. I want woodworking tools. A pet crow. But it seems that when I actually do get something in my head, no matter how small – I can’t. Like I’m thinking about things too late. I know that nothing will kill me if I don’t get it, but the gods kind of scuttle me about like a Boll Weevil whenever they get the urge.

Fireworks. Carrots. Soundtracks.

Writing about important things that seem small.

Tonight, these dangle before me.

Snagglepuss...

Why write when I have eggrolls to eat? I stopped by the Vietnamese place to pick up some to go. I feel like I don't belong. I don't. I look like the only bastard Asian there. I'm an imposter. A spy sent by the Irish. Seriously, though. Nobody in there but Vietnamese. They could be Romans wearing Viet masks. Maybe. Maybe not. Do I care? No.

The host or hostess always looks at me like I might be a health inspector. Or lost.

I manage to mangle my garbled pronunciation of Chi goia or however the hell you say it. I also ask for the other stuff that I'm not even going to try to spell. Hey, my gook mother left when I was seven, so what do you expect?

Then a dog escaped from the kitchen.

And I went to the video store and rented that movie where Nicole Kidman hides in that town, the movie where the kid dates the porno star, and the documentary about the guy who tracks down the guy who wrote that book.

Seriously. A dog darted right by my legs.

By The Time You Read This...



I'll be at work serving drinks to drunks.

By the time that I'm done with this, hopefully I'll be asleep.

Last night at a bar, a drunk girl dropped a cigarette on my head, drank my beer and then hit on me. She was on pills. I asked her how she felt. She said that she felt nice and sleepy and that she felt like throwing up. Then she told me that she thought that I was hot. This is what I get.

Tonight I went to a friends birthday party at an ARTIST'S COLONY in L.A. The ARTSIST'S COLONY was right by a big mountain of dirt. I was expecting ants to be at the party...but none came.

Now, I've got a couple of sleeping pills and a crudload of beers in my system to help me sleep. This should kick in soon.

Cartoon Pig threw two baby tomatoes from the balcony and I caught them in my mouth. This is not gay. This is really cool. I swear.




This is Cartoon Pig, M.V. and AL G. of Damnation posing like super model people...





These bunnies guarded the bathroom...





Ian, of Wrist Action was drunk when I got there...





So we tried to stuff his ass in one of the coolers...because...it was ART.





My pretty girlfriend kept tabs on me all night because I wander and she loves me...





Ian went to sleep...





We had a fire going on in THE ARTIST'S COLONY...





And then we all ate SMORES. Which is like art, except just with graham crackers eaten from DURAFLAME LOG-fueled fires. Gross, indeed.

I had more fun talking to the gay guys tonight.

I need more gay friends.

And Duraflame SMORES.

Pills are kicking in...

Winkle...

I guess sleeping pills do have some uses, huh?

I actually got some sleep.

A little.

Benjamin Grimm...



and Mr. Fantastic now does porn. He and his family got kicked out of The Baxter Building and he had no choice. Sometimes even superheroes get the blues.

You know what sucks about comic books? Besides having to talk to other people that like comic books at the comic book store? See, I'm a fairly-kind-of-normal-looking guy. I just look like I need some food and look like I'll be balding in, about five years or so. But, otherwise - I would like to think that I don't fit the generalist mold. Yeah. Yes. I do like fucking reading comic books...BUT...CARTOON PIG saw somebody in the comic book store wearing a chain mail shirt the other day. This is what they wear in The Lord Of The Rings. I would wear this too, if people carried around swords. BUT. THEY. DONT. I don't live off of Florence and Normandy either - so, I don't wear a bulletproof vest. Only ODB, Little Baby Jesus, Dirt McGirt, etc. does. And then you get popped. Which kind of doesn't make any sense to me because...when in Rome? C'mon. If I were living in Ninja world - I'd sure as hell’d be wearing an Anti-Ninja-Force Field-Belt. You better bet your slanted eyes and your uncanny stealth, I would. Hell yeah.

Crap. Ummm...oh yeah. I get embarrassed at the comic book store. Because people talk to me. They ask me questions. They comment on my comics OUT LOUD REALLY LOUD WHEN THEY'RE RINGING THEM UP - HEY WOW, WHAT'D YOU THINK OF THIS? I THINK THAT THE SCARLET WITCH IS HOT, JIM LEE'S RUN ON SUPERMAN ISN'T THAT GOOD I LIKE HIS RUN ON BATMAN BETTER. HAVE YOU SEEN SHE HULK'S TITS IN THE NEW SERIES? WOW! YUK YUKSNARFSNARF!

The people who work there are nice, though - and aren't The Simpson's comic book guy type snobs. But. Sometimes, I get trapped there by somebody. And I don't care too much. Like I give a crap what anybody thinks about me. I just think it's funny, that's all. Like, I felt all-sad the other day because I walked by the room that they have where all of the role-playing, Yo-Gi-Yoh, and Magic The Gathering-type guys play. I walked by and saw two guys sitting there bored out of their skulls. One was looking through a deck of gaming cards and the other looked alone and miserable. Later I saw one of the guys talking to one of the comic book store employees. I guess the rest of his players never showed up. He looked sad and said that he would give them another thirty minutes. Thirty minutes. This kid might have been around, maybe...fifteen? All I really noticed was his Spiderman t-shirt. Okay. I love reading Spiderman comics. I would love a cool t-shirt, but - this kid wasn't wearing a T-SHIRT. It was a collared, short-sleeved shirt. Now, I'm not trying to be a big old snobby bastard here, because we have all had some moments and who knows? Maybe this kid'll be the next Don Juan, Bill Gates, Jesus Christ - whatever. But. Man...if you could've seen this shirt that this kid was wearing. I wanted to rip it off of him, to not chide him, but to give him some neutral clothes, to shave his upper lip and then chop off his mullet. I wanted to remind him that you could just be as nerdy talking to girls. That you could be just as nerdy hanging out in a park doing nothing. Everything is good - BUT! It just made me sad to see a kid waiting in a comic book shop on a weekday, for people to show up to play MAGIC. I used to role-play. Loved it. I loved telling stories and creating scenarios. Loved researching adventures, etc. BUT! I also loved girls, parties, hygiene and getting into trouble.

Too bad that I couldn’t have struck up a conversation with this kid and just shot the shit with him. Talked some nerd stuff, because I know a lot of it, maybe not the newer stuff that he likes - but enough nerd stuff to get by. I would just be cool. He maybe, might look at me and realize that one can still like great crap like comics, geek movies, etc. and still have a social life. Not that having a social life is all that great at times – but…yeah. It does.

I should be a Big Brother for geeks. I would take them to Comic Book Conventions and to Strip Clubs and to Public Places. I would make them meld all of these things together.

Geek is cool.

Just don’t sit in a comic book shop waiting for other geeks to show up.

Beats sports, I guess.

But, then…Sports Bars have booze.

Excelsior!

FUCK...

Too much talky talk.
Too many distractions.
Forget trying to write.
I don't see how married people do it if they don't have a door to close.
Though I'm not married.
Blahhh...
Write in vacuums.
Don't write.
ddsvcdsv
vdsvdsv
dsvdsvdsv
dsv

1000x...

I have that condition where your legs get all antsy and achey when you're in bed. So, even when I'm tired sometimes, I can't sleep and I have to get up and move my legs around like a drunk Von Trapp, or sometimes I'll eat because there's nothing else to do. Then, right about when the sun starts to come up - then, the mad ant crawls in my legs subside and I can go to sleep, usually giving me about two hours before I have to get up for work.

My eyes are red and scratchy and I always look like a raccoon because I'm an insomniac. People have asked me before I was wearing makeup because of how dark the smudges around my eyes get. If they're a boy, I usually run and try to kiss them.

Anyway. I now encourage not sleeping. Anytime that I try to sleep and it's not happening? As a rule, I now have to go to the computer and start writing until the fidgeting or insomnia stops. That means no internet, no stupid blog things, no news. Only WORD.

And there you have it.

And now I have to go buy catfood and hairspray at Target.

And to look at the toys.

Jawa Sand Crawlers...



I think that The Olympics would be a lot more interesting if they unleashed baby sharks in the pools while people were swimming and gave all of the gymnasts ninja swords or two 9mm's.

Broke My Promise...

Two bruised ribs from a waterslide.
A skinned spine, knee and left arm to compliment the right.

I realize that I have a problem with swimming.

Admitting that I have a problem is the first step to curing myself of this horrible addiction that I carry.

From this day forth, I am...water-free.

Gwen Stacey's Broken Neck...

I promise to not hurt myself at the pool party tomorrow.
I've had a pretty decent gouge in my right arm from the last one a couple of weeks ago. It has looked nasty and I'm glad it's almost fully healed. With my luck, I'll probably mess up the other one.

Never get drunk and do anything that involves water, people.

Not with Water People. I mean, in the water.

Definitely DO get drunk with Water People if you ever encounter any.

Mermaids and Mermen might be cool to party with.

Especially Mermaids.

Just hope that they don't smell like fish.

Ashlee Simpson...

So, was totally bored out of my mind for a good portion of the day. Needed to sleep because this is something that I never do and it was one of the first Saturday's that I didn't have to attend a birthday party, funeral or celebration of a funeral. I slept a lot, but unfortunately, it was not the sleep of the dead that i very, rarely attain - it was the sleep granted by The Great Demon Of sporadicticity. Yeah, Scrabble judges. You go.

I watched Attack Of The Clones, for the poopeenth time, watched Bubba-Ho-Tep and watched myself slowly go insane. I was supposed to go out to Long Beach for a rockstar friend's party but didn't go because I wasn't going to go with my car and Cartoon Pig didn't want to drive.

I farted around forever at the house and then finally went out after midnight. SO L.A. time. It would be a lot cooler and a lot more entertaining if I actually lived there. Maybe not.

Went to a couple o places. Saw some friends. I guess the theme of the night was Girls Hit On My Girlfriend And Tell Me How Much I Have To Appreciate Her Night. Which is cool and all but also makes me want to kick them in the bi-sexual crotch because, yes, I know, okay - so - shut your vagina...unless you want to come home with us...which could've happened, but - who cares. Maybe. Can happen. Need it to? Nope? Sooner or later, there'll be a crazy post in my future. Maybe.

Anyways...I like Gnomes.

And I've been typing this in-between bouts of my girlfriend puking.

The Gnomes are taking over.

Goodnight.

Why I'm A Horrible Boyfriend Reason No. 643832...

her - Honey, I dreamt that you died!
Me - That sucks. Really? How?
her - I don't remember. It was horrible.
Me - Well, maybe I AM dead and this is just a dream, and then when you wake up, I'll really be dead.

She starts to cry.

This Is My 777th Post...

Diebold Voting Machines...



So, since I'm a yellow, lazy bastard, totally tired and just plain out of trinkets - I'd rather post a list about what I could be writing. (again)

Why I hate the computer
My old notebooks
Me and kids
My version of a room
Why I cant write
Why I cook and why I don’t eat
Why I drink so many liquids
Insomnia history
Latch key kid
Write a series of books like THE GREAT BRAIN
Write your own version or The Brothers Lionheart but use your old medieval trilogy idea

But, I did write a little on these two cool-ass places.

Word up.

gee funk money playa hayta dolla dolla bills y'all yoyoyo

Hammurabi's Code Of Underwear...

You should come visit me over here.
I really think you should.
I'll be happy.
And trust me - you want to make me happy.
You really do, I know it.
Focus today on making me squeal like Ned Beatty.
You don't even have to touch me in the place where my bathing suit covers.
Which is France. My bathing suit covers France.
That was stupid.
But made me laugh.

Goodbye, Toadface.

That was stupid too.

And didn't make me laugh.