This Happened...

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Carmen Electra is now Linda Hamilton.  Weird.

These are the ones I hate...

The people with the sunglasses hooked on the back of their t-shirt.  It looks ridiculous.  I don't get it.  These people come into my store all the time, and they are usually middle-aged men, or just twenty-something aged men who are waaaay too ready to be middle-aged, and they are wearing cargo shorts, and they have their fucking wrap-around shades hooked on the back of their stupid t-shirt.  I don't understand...  This does not seem functional, it seems hard to do, makes you look silly while you reach up and over your own shoulder just to retrieve your dumb sunglasses (because they invariably have bad taste in sunglasses), and blah, blah, blah...  I just hate them, that's all.  

Helpful Hints Time.

Hey kids, here's how you kill yourself:

1)  Take, like, four aspirin.

2)  Wash them down with a couple of wine coolers that you stole from your stepdad.

3)  Call the emergency room and tell them what you just did.

4)  Wait patiently for the paramedics to arrive, then, when they do, start flopping the fuck around and act like you just can't stay awake, no matter what.  Also, it helps to spread a bunch of aspirins around on the floor like in the movies, because nothing is more scary and suicidal looking than an empty bottle of pills, with almost all those pills lying innocently on the floor.

5)  Don't actually die, but repeat this process every few months so that you can make sure to have everyone's attention.

6)  Wait a few years, then tell everyone how you used to be all suicidal and shit, and show them the scar from where you "cut yourself up" with a safety pin that one time.

7)  Fuck you.

Have a Great Weekend!!!

      Super Cooper

More.

He found beauty and peace in places overlooked:
Beer and cold air; cigarettes and mint tea;
High scores and stripper poles reflecting
light, spinning around a cock-eyed room.
He would sing and sing and wait for that
definite surge through his body to come, as it always did.

Inspiration keeps no schedules, he knew it.
No belief in muses, here.
He had, but not anymore. Too many feelings
involved. He had done away with sappy lines
scribbled in fear of losing a feeling, being 
left with nothing.

It was when the nothing came that 
the pen became a sword.

(And another one)

Scylla's Breath


I'm in France at this place
where the naked ladies dance, and
this man is telling me, Brother, the only way to win is to not turn it on at all.
I ask what he means by this, and, in way of response, he lifts a glass of fire and
drains it in one, consuming himself as he drinks.

I turn back to the Boom and the Swagger on the stage,and soon become 
hypnotized by hips and ankles, lost in a sea of beauty, gone slightly to seed.
I can smell their persistence and the smell is the taste is the smell, 
all menthols and talc and fear. I nod to the beat of the band in the
corner of the club, and as I do I begin to Nod in earnest, 
my own rhythm moving me to a ship, now, caught in some 
massive whirlpool, worthy of Homer and Odysseus.

Have I angered the Sea God? If so, what have I done to
set loose this wrath? But then I see a hand in the heart of the maelstrom,
one finger crooked and beckoning, and I steer the 
ship towards it, unafraid, because what lies at the bottom has to be safer 
than my choices up here: I can smell Scyllas' breath and 
on it I smell talc again, no chance there, no life at all.

Then, everything goes blank; I can't see or hear a thing.
It feels like 1998, in Albany, Oregon.
Yeah, boy, the end is certainly fucking nigh, and our collapse
is fueled by the sharp insanity of crushed Ritalin and vanilla.

For whatever reason...

The Worst of It

He said that the majority of the time, the

average day to day, was like civilian life, a regular

9 to 5.  Occasional guard duty, but mostly working

on trucks.  Inside on a good day, out of the dust and sand,

otherwise you couldn’t leave your tools laying out, unless

you wanted 3rd degree burns on your

hands.  That was the worst of it, he said, the heat.

Day in, day out; 110, 120, in the shade.  But,

every once in a while (and here’s where his eyes became shaded and looked away) 

sometimes you saw other shit.  Like the time 

he was driving with a crew to some little town outside Baghdad and 

they saw a group of people on a huge pile of rubble up this side street, and 

from where they were it kinda looked like they were carrying rifles, and 

one of them had something else, but 

they couldn’t really tell, they might’ve just been carrying shovels or lumber 

(and some of ‘em looked pretty little, like fuckin’ kids) and 

they didn’t have orders to get any closer, but they called it in anyways, and 

they got the response back...

Light ‘em up.

So they did.

Why Russia is Better.

When NASA first started sending up astronauts, they quickly discovered that ballpoint pens would not work in zero gravity. To combat the problem, NASA scientists spent a decade and $12 billion to develop a pen that writes in zero gravity, upside down, underwater, on almost any surface including glass and at temperatures ranging from below freezing to 300°C. 

The Russians used a pencil.

And...

Amos Moses

Here's this:

                     

Here's why:

Lord, he was perfect.  And he was Snowman.  He's the reason I own this: 

I'm just gonna prolly stay up all night and watch me some more of him.

Fuck it.

Extreme.

Since when and why the fuck does Myspace do Amber alerts?!!?!!?  Seriously, I don't like that for some reason.  That's all.

The Mothman Prophecies II: Moth Jack City

So, after I was in Plaid Pantry tonight, I saw something...  Two people in exercise-y gear, running down the street.  One was a man, one was a woman; the man was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and running shorts, and he seemed to be in fine shape, muscular legs and the like; the woman was wearing tiny shorts and a tank top, rolled up high, and she appeared to have an attractive body, a Wii-fit body, toned and muscular, but still feminine.  Now, why does any of this matter?  It wouldn't if I had left the parking lot, and not sat parked, watching these two, hoping for something to happen, because I felt, deep in the cockles of my pants heart that something sexy was about to happen.  And happen it did!!  After a minute or so of standing on the corner they had reached after slowing down from a jog, they started screaming in each other's faces!!!  Loudly!!  And it sounded like just screaming, not any real words!!!!  Fantastic!!  Then, the girl turned, and as she did so, she pushed off from the gentleman's body and began sprinting down the middle of the street!!!  Then the boy followed her!!!  It was magic!!!!!!  Who knows what they were up to?  I don't, and I don't care!!  It's a mystery, a sexy, exercise mystery!!!  Oooh de-lally!!!!

In other news, Chickenfoot.  Best.  Band.  Ever.  You'll see, just keep watching the skies!

Odd Bills

Odd Bills

I’d become somewhat of a regular there. Once, maybe twice a week I’d go, sit at the same booth and write. Always at happy hour, cheap drinks and pretty much no crowds. No one bothered me, and I liked that. I could tune out the boom and the swagger of the place, and focus on smoking, and my pencil. At night, the lights hurt my eyes; there was too much glitter, too much sparkle. Strobe lights and disco balls refracted anything I tried to focus on, and it was impossible to get any work done. Plus, at night, that’s when the real hustlers came out. During the day it was nice. There would be entire days where I would hardly notice the distractions so readily available around me, because some little sentence or something would preoccupy me. It was my dirty little version of Flaubert's rotten apples, only instead of a desk drawer full of spoiled fruit, I had bourbon, Pall Malls, vinyl seats and brass poles. These days, most of the people, and especially the employees, didn’t talk to me. They had, at one point, but had apparently given that up. Sure, there were some there that never quite gave up on me, always offering to take me for a talk in the back, but it had become fairly lighthearted; they knew I was a cheap, that I never even went in there with enough cash for that. Then, one week, it was audition time. I was in my regular spot when it happened, sipping my bourbon and ginger. I had been caught up in some stupid little story for days, struggling with ideas of truth and pathos and shit. Today, I decided, would be the day it all came through. Then the new girl stepped on stage. She wasn’t overly beautiful, didn’t have that certain whatever that makes a stripper instantly identifiable. I glanced up once, just once, and had not really intended to do even that, and suddenly I knew that I wasn’t going to write anymore that day. What I saw up there crushed me, and I stared, transfixed by this girl. She was stiff and awkward, and looked almost pained as she gyrated against the pole, as she ground her way towards the rail. I realized the difference: She couldn’t take herself out of it. She had no thousand yard stare like the vets did. This was still very much a personal battle for her. Once, years ago in Canada, I hit a deer in my old Cadillac. I had been doing around 80 on some back road at night. The thing bounced off my grill like a fleshy pinball; it must have gone 60, 70 yards. My CD player didn’t even skip. That’s what I was seeing in this girl’s future. She’d end up broken and bloodied, and some back woods tow-truck driver would come along and pull her out of the ditch, asking whoever it was that put her there, “You sure you don’t want this? I’ll use it!” and toss her in the back of his truck. Maybe that’s how she got here in the first place... I don’t know. I felt myself moving to the rail, pulling money out of my pocket as I went. Strange scenes kept popping into my head as I walked: I couldn’t stop seeing this girl’s past, present, and future. The music all but stopped. The red bulbs overhead seemed like floodlights, like a fucking x-ray machine. I laid a dollar on the rail and she approached. Her eyes locked onto mine, huge and terrified, but hellishly determined to be alluring. Panic rose in my chest and started to choke me. She leaned in and whispered, “Be nice, it’s only my second day.” I laid another dollar on the rack, forcing myself to break the eye contact. She shimmied her way over to a pair of middle-management types at the other end, almost falling in her heels, a little girl playing dress-up, and a hammer struck me, someone jabbed me with a hat pin, my heart shattered. The smoke from my cigarette drifted up into my eyes, and I had to start blinking. Then, all of a sudden, the music stopped... It was over. I wanted to say something, comfort her or convince her that everything could and would move up from there. I wanted to say that no matter what it looked like, things would get better. She smiled timidly at me as she collected the odd bills off the stage floor. She locked onto my eyes again and said, “Thanks, and just let me know when you’re ready for a dance in back.” Those words, the slight (had I imagined it?) cock of an eyebrow, shook me out of my trance. I nodded, then shook my head, then stopped trying and moved to the bar to order another drink. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar; I looked like a deer caught in a pair of headlights. My mistake, she would be just fine

Tiger stripes and Ghost Dancing!!!!!

This is my dog, Finn...

He's cuter than you.  He's also extremely loud, like, he hurts my ears a lot.  Fucker, he's lucky he didn't get his ass culled like the AKC told me to.

Sandwiches are better grilled, much better.

More later.

The News of the Day...

So, this is a picture of a Grizzly Bear...

This is a picture of a Koala Bear...

And, last, a picture of a Panda Bear...

Now, which one is not a bear?  Correct, the fucking Koala, because the other ones are bears, I don't care what anyone says.  I grew up hearing, "Well, the panda is actually more closely related to the raccoon than the bear, so blah, blah, blah, science, fart, junk, crap."  Well, I always thought that that was claptrap, pardon my French, because IT LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE A FUCKING BEAR!!!!!!!  Well, check this crap out:

"Giant pandas are classified in the Ursidae family as bears by most scientists.  In the past, they had been grouped in the Procyonidae family along with raccoons and lesser pandas.  However, DNA testing in the 1980's determined that giant pandas were true bears, belonging in the Ursidae more so than the Procyonidae family.  Fossils have been found showing that giant panda bears evolved somewhere between 2 and 3 million years ago.  Yet, they were unknown to the western world until 1869.  The bear's scientific name, Ailuropus melanoleucus, means "black and white bear."  Its Chinese name, Da xiong mao, means great bear cat."

I fuckin' knew it, man, all along.  Now, this article was found on a website titled "www.bearsoftheworld.net," so I would assume that they might know what the hell they're talking about when it comes to the subject of FUCKING BEARS, LIKE THE PANDA BEAR!!!  I added the bold in the text above, by the way.  My only question now is why this isn't extremely common knowledge, and who's pulling the strings to keep the public in the dark.  I assume it's Red China, but I can't be sure.  Either way, I was right.

Done.

Warm beer and cold women.

So, I've been drinking more lately, and sleep feels weird.  Go figure.  So, what with my new lifestyle, I thought people might want an updated look at me.  Here ya go.

Blog.

In the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey.

So, I finally got some sleep, which is good, because I haven't been sleeping much lately.  Like, to the tune of eleven hours worth.  I feel better, much better.  I watched "Milk" last night, and it was surprisingly good.  I knew a lot about the end of Harvey milk's career, and the murder and subsequent trial, but I didn't know too much about his earlier life, etc.  The acting was top-notch, the cast was amazing, I'm just pleasantly surprised by the whole bit, except for not seeing James Franco's huge prosthetic penis, which disappointed me greatly...  Director's Cut!!!!!

The only problem I really had with the movie, not one superhero.  Every movie should have a superhero, because they make movies better.  I would have made "Milk and Guy Gardner."

'Nother one...

Here's what I learned today......

VH1 is bringing back "Behind the Music," and the first confirmed artist is Scott Weiland.  This makes me happy.  Seriously, it is a good show, a really good one.  They should probably do a Behind the Music of Mudhoney, I would watch that.  Or one about Cheap Trick, a really good one with interviews with Bun, yeah.

Also, my car is trying to kill itself in a variety of ways, and I hate it.  I gave it a name and everything!!!  Fuck Honda.

Here we go...

OK, there's nothing greater in this world than a good blog, and I mean nothing.  I am so excited to be here to share things with an internet audience.  We get to talk about all sorts of awesome things, like these, they are metal shoes...

Now, Aris wanted to buy these, but he didn't, because he wasn't sure if he would wear blue shoes enough to warrant the purchase.  That's fucking stupid, and I told him as much.  He didn't buy these because, deep down, he knew that if a company makes Iron Maiden shoes, then eventually they will make Judas Priest shoes, and then the people that paid all that money for Iron Maiden shoes will see the Judas Priest shoes and go, "Ohhh, man, I feel stupid for buying these now.  Judas Priest is sooooooooooo much better than Iron Maiden!!!!!"  End of story.

Now, on a similar note, I am happy to report that me and Tristan have realized that the four greatest songs of all time are as follows:

1)  Feed my Frankenstein- Alice Cooper

2)  Unskinny Bop- Poison

3)  Hotdog and a Shake- David Lee Roth

4)  The entire catalog of REM.

End of blog...  FOR NOW!!!!!!