Moon Patrol...

this is my primary blog. blog, meaning-not a novel.
i am too lazy to eat.
i need to remind myself to make that file with all of my compounded brain activity.
hey, put on some music, too - you boo radley.
might as well.
while you're wasting time.

(why doesn't my archive work??????)

Help??????

Mappy...

Our house smells like cat pee. I think I'm gonna go out and buy some firewood to cover it up. Word.

I got two early Christmas presents this year.

The cool, black shirt I ruined while using bleach.

The bottle of vodka didn't make it past midnight.

I rule.

erghhh...

Kelly Clarkson is in my head.

I Have Another Blog...

And I just wrote something much funnier than this on it.

Much funnier.

Boss #3 took me out to lunch today which happened to be right across the parking lot from a place that I worked at for about four years. This old job of mine had windows on pretty much one whole side of the building that the employees often used to look out of when they got bored (which was often).

Anyway, I was out in the parking lot for a bit and wondered if any of the old employees were still there. I wondered if they could see me and thought that maybe I should peek my head in and say hi?

Then I said FUCK ALL THAT and didn't.

The End.

M'i Afeerd fo brees....

Three seperate times today a bee was hovering outside my car window.

Why?

Johnny Blaze, Daniel Ketch And Truman Capote...

Seriously, I noticed it a long time ago and mentioned something but - what's the deal with 30 hits a day looking for Ghost Rider?

Is he really that popular?

The Spirit Of Vengeance. Really?

Mannnnn.....

When the boring job (not the cool one) now won't let me access You Tube due to their firewall?

That's when things get even more boring.

What am I supposed to do? Bring a book?

Horrible.

I Am Hunter S. Thompson Without The Drug Habit And Access To Firearms...

Maybe I'm more like the reclusive J.D. Salinger, but without the talent and the one good book. Am I'm totally not comparing myself to HST. Well, I do have access to arrows. I can't wait for the day that I get arrested for shooting drunk kids in the park with my bow. And no, I don't have a quiver or go to Renaissance Faires (sp?), but I am as pretty as Legolas if not prettier, that sissy-boy.

I'm thinking that I've got to keep up the blogging-things because I'm developing some serious gaps in my chronological documentation for my future sperm-spawn. I mean, I sure as hell am not going to talk to them, so how will they know what I was doing back in the day when we talked on cell phones and had polar ice caps?

Not that they'd be able to gleam anything useful from Fat Free Milk because unless they were looking for bad poetry and fart jokes, then they'd be better off asking one of the many Tijuana whores that I've traded comic books with.

This is why I don't write as much anymore.

Because I am even more distracted than I used to be, more of a drunk, super-sexy, totally Greg Louganis, getting paid for writing on a regular basis for an awesome company and pecking away at things, but not consuming them wholly as I should.

My brain gets so synaptically overloaded, I think that it just goes into Cherynobel-status. Meaning - whatever.

What? Huh? I can't concentrate. Air conditioning and planes and the setting sun and to-do-lists and have to drive to pick up my car

bzzt

This Is What My Life Has Become...

I was talking to my cell phone company's customer service gal today and she asked if I wanted to add 300 text messages a month for just five dollars more on my plan. My first reaction was one of holier-than-thou est ness ity ishness. Me? Need a text message plan? You must be joking.
Right?

Ummm...she told me that last month I had 90 sent and received text messages on record and have been consistent with that number in the last three months or so and at .15 cents a pop - I'd be actually saving money by adding on five more bucks a month. I'd be saving, what? $4.50 a month?

So, I figured that I could add the five bucks and laugh at myself for even having this conversation. Since when did I join the rest of the herd?

Or, I could maybe not text because I'm lazy and it's easier than actually talking to people and that maybe I should especially not text people clever, ha-ha crap when I've been drinking either?

So.

I added on the five bucks.

Moo.

Pork.

Molly, Isn't A Cockle A Mussel Too?

Seriously bored out of my mind at job #2. Not #1 because #1 is well, #1 stupid. No, #1 job is not stupid - you're stupid for thinking that job#1 is stupid and not #1.

Yeah, and the city chopped down all of the trees around my house and in my backyard so now the place looks like dog shit and people will be able to see me in the patio area. Dummies.

Otherwise, I can't wait to get home and order the Bud-Light Combo, with a side of Vodka Redbulls and some extra cigarettes, please. And sure, why not super-size it?

Fucking brilliant weekend, this will be.

Maybe...

I should take Crispin Glovers trailer
to his new movie, "What Is It?"
off of my MySpace?

It's kind of hard to explain at work.

I woke up at 8 a.m. to beat the crowds at the DMV. When I've done this in the past, there's always been a line of about fifty people waiting for it to open anyway. So, I was expecting to wait a bit - but happy to wait the thirty minutes, as opposed to the obligatory two hours without an appointment. (I had actually scheduled an appointment for the day before - but forgot because I'm a douchbag.)

Lo-and-behold, it took me a grand total of five seconds to walk through the door and get help. When I received my number, I stood around, looking to see what number was up next...mine! Hmmmm....Interesting.

Now, no matter if the actual three employees that I came in contact with spoke to me like a judge does to a pedophile awaiting trial.

Forget that all of the previously mentioned employees looked like a constipated manatee, a sloth with a cleft lip and a roach with something in his teeth - forget all of this.

Forget why I was there - forget that I don't really know anything about rules, laws and about how society functions and that no matter what and no matter where I am - I'll always end up owing money to something because, once again - I'm a douchebag.

What's most important. What really matters about all of this - is that...

Something that's a given, the way that something always works - (at least in my world) didn't happen today.

It's kind of like, if you always forgot not to lean against the oven and then one day? Hey, no burning! Or maybe if you realized that now that you're home from a buffet-filled Vegas trip - you never took a dump once? Going out at a bar and no jock fights? Seriously? Having all of your monthly bills lower than you expected? Really?

Yeah, long-winded diatribe, I know.

BUT - listen to me. This kind of crap makes me nervous. The whole, something-cool-and-unexpected-and-actually-convenient-for-me-thing. Not used to it, don't like it, don't trust it. SO. I need to do something to counter-balance what happened to me this morning at the DMV. I need to do - what then?

Ahah! I've got it! I'm going to do something horrible to something nice that I usually encounter. Like, be rude to people that work at businesses that I frequent. I can save all of my dogs poop and then at night lay the piles out strategically all over the park for people to step in. I can overcharge people when I bartend and "short pour" their drinks. I will pinch little children's eyelids when their parents aren't looking.

It's all about balance. Never trust luck or fate. Random acts of pleasantness fortell impending doom. Beware.

jksjflvl;vfafd

Ghost Rider Versus Jack Sprat Versus The Haiti Kid...

I can't wait for a horrible tragedy to happen to me -

So, that I can truly appreciate how wonderful life is right now.

It said, "This product contains less fat than our regular sausage!" Is this kind of like somebody saying your current girlfriend is not as much of a whore as your last?

No, you say.

Yes, I say to you banging into something crotch-first.

His left hand is my brain...

Oh, I was writing something about me whispering filth into your mother's ears and about poisoning the sugar-plumb'ed dreams of your offspring - but then I stopped.

When one has to question or slow down when writing about nothing - then one has lost the game that could never've been won.

The distant sirens are now becoming louder. In seconds, they'll completely envelop me - I think that I'll catch my rhythm by the time they get here.

Loud. Abrasive. Distracting.

Now.

Here it comes.

I'm listening...and not writing.

And this is what we get tonight.

Me, writing about one moment right now - as opposed to all of the other stuff...

Holden, Scout, Kilgore or Klingon...

One could only wish to pull off a brilliant Harper Lee or J.D. Salinger reclusive entrance/exit. Journalism and writing small articles or books of short stories never cuts it, either. That's like passing gas against an enormous waft of expectant King Kong stink.

Somebody told me the other day that Van Gogh only cut off part of his ear.

I'd like to be known for writing an earlobe's worth of something lasting.

Something bloody.

And something that doesn't stink...too bad.

Big, Fat Sausage Fingers And Spaghetti Brain...

So, was all excited at the restaurant as I was waiting for my girlfriend. Had Fat Free Milk on my cell phone and was going to leave a comment on it for the very first time! By phone? Holy Jesus Snacks, you mean, like RIGHT THERE? Wow, huh?

So, I typed in this really funny-clever-me-so-witty crap...and then fucked it all up. And then gave up. And will probably never try to again.

That's how it works, folks.

Once and only once for the impatiently pea-brained.

(meaning me)

Reed Richards And Tony Stark Cloned Thor...

And I thought that I've been busy lately.

A Cicada's Life For Me Every Twenty Four Hours...

Me - "I just had the weirdest dream. I dreamt that I was in an old apartment with some other people and that it was haunted. I saw things move around constantly and there were, like, doors opening all of the time by themselves and it was totally scary and awesome because we knew that what we were seeing was actually happening and it was because it was really haunted, like the things were all totally happening, like all of the time and shit, but then towards the end, Joel told us that he slipped us some drugs and told us that was why we were seeing what we were seeing but that it actually did happen because if I and everybody else saw something happen - no matter if it was because of what he slipped us - then it was true, because in a way, we experienced a reality that, no matter how it was, like..instigated or created - WAS real because it was a lived and...shared experience. So if we did think that the apartment was haunted and saw what we saw, then it was true....isn't that crazy?"

Her - "I dreamt that I met Jake Gyllenhall."

If All Of Our Browsers Didn't Enable Cookies...

Than The Cookie Monster would drop-kick you in the weakest spot of your body.

He'd be pissed.

Nobody should ever deny a being his addictive sustenance or his monstrous posturing and/or identity. What particular spot of your glorious body would a monster decide to feed upon? If you had one, maybe the only - but most likely one-of-many, vulnerable, atrophied or already weak parts of yourself -which part would your imaginary monster choose to feed upon?

Vampires and necks.
Zombies and your brains.
Chupacabras and livestock.
Primate feces and face.
Fingers and nose.
Great White Shark and topless 70's screaming actress.
Red Lightsaber and poorly-acted Jedi death.
Werewolf and poor peasant.
RAID and cockroach.
Kryptonite and Kal-El.
World and Boy In Bubble.
Zeus and mortal women.
Life's societal, obligatory demands and personal/artistic freedoms.
Confrontation and resolution.
China and everything.
Forgiveness and forgetfulness.
Patience and TIME.

Writing drunk and SLEEP.

POWAQQATSI...

Frustrating not to be able to share my simple joys with complicated people.

Frankenstein's monster ended up confusing flower petals with brittle, little girl necks.

Lenny wanted to share the soft and soothing experience of petting cute bunny rabbits with hard, callused ranch hands.

The satisfaction that you get with filling a house full of new furniture does nothing to quell the vast emptiness of my soul.

Your fast food gives you ths satisfaction equivalent to my frustrated headache.

What noisy gardners give me before waking dreams is your extra hour to get a cup of coffee before work.

Nintendo to your Wii.

My Mad Libs to your Blackberry.

I breathe lung cancer.

You live.

I am too far-sighted and not hungry enough to follow a fucking carrot.

I see six million blind and beautiful shuffling mules.

Not even aware of the shit that they're leaving behind.

I see me forever mulling over the potential beauty of six million animals blinding me with their unstoppable momentum.

Frustrating

confusing

hard

nothing

headache

noisy

I breathe

You live

I am too far-sighted

and not hungry enough

blind

and beautiful

shuffling

behind

forever mulling over
the potential beauty of
six million animals
blinding me with
their unstoppable momentum

Frustrating not to be able to share my simple joys with complicated people.

Me So Hanso...

Note to self:

Self, Hello!
Hope your day went well!
Remember to check who you're emailing Dharma Initiative logos to next time.
Your boss was a little puzzled this morning when you came in.

There are leftovers in the fridge and please remember to take out the trash. Thanks!

Love,

Self XOXOXO

And The Slow Days Do Nothing To Erase The Constant Changes In Your Face...and he asked himselfquietlyand politelyto Stop for a second.whatwhat's wrong?don't bother meI'm busyy' see?No. I don't see.I see what you don't - and more.This is the reason of my being. I am the outerworldy essence that exists within you. The outsides of your insides that we all hope that you may, one day, spread to others in your outside world.I'm not really getting what you're saying, man. You seem like a nice guy and all - but...I'm, kinda like, really doin' a lot of things right now, y' know? Maybe I'll have some time later or sumthin'...No. You won't. I know this, have seen it...lived it. That is why I speak to you now. I see you. Know you. Am you. I am THE OLDER you. The FUTURE YOU.......really? Wow. Cool. Huh. Ummm...so, are you, like - rich yet?(sigh).........

My Spirit...

Is a bag of tortilla chips in the backpack of a clumsy man with one leg, three toes and a horrible case of epilepsy.

I Hate Music.

All of it.

iF yOU tOOK...

wHATS HER NAME - THE BLONDE FROM lost AND THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WAS LOOKING FOR HER FATHER ON SEASON ONE OF deadwood AND PUT THEM IN A GLADIATOR PIT TO FIGHT TO THE DEATH...i HOPE THAT THEY'D JUST GIVE UP AND END UP HOLDING EACH OTHER IN THEIR UNDERWEAR INSTEAD.

Let Us...

rise up
and be thankful,
for if we didn't learn a lot today,
at least we learned a little,
and if we didn't learn a little,
at least we didn't get sick,
and if we got sick,
at least we didn't die;

so, let us all be thankful.


Buddha

47...

Q'Orianka Kilcher And The Vesica Piscis...

Never open the door to strange women wearing strange necklaces and you'll never see Rome fall. Crap, I think I'll pass on the movie today - maybe tomorrow. I am excited that Desolation Jones is coming to Fullerton, though. The fucker better call me when he's here and it better not be when I'm working a double shift, either.

If you're confused - email me for an explanation. And Paypal me 50 cents. I want to buy things out of tiny machines that you have to hunch over to use. Email me for an explanation for this also. Oh, and throw in a nother 50 cents. A bag of popcorn at Ace Hardware costs a quarter, but the bags are small so...

First Rule About Enlightenment...Is That It's Refreshing To Beat On People...

I want to somehow combine Fight Club with Buddhism.

Help me, Tyler Lamas.

Best And Only Cool Thing To Happen To Me On MySpace...

Warren Ellis putting me on his top friends. Awesome. But, it's not because he admires mie comeck boook writng prowess...I think it's because my profile picture is of one of the children from God's Army. Remember them? Where are they now? You know they're going to all die of lung cancer before it gets me, eh? Little children with heavy artillery. I see that here. 16 year old kids driving Hummers.

The Mall On Haunted Hill...

The absolute wondrous horror of what was a rare Orange County mall experience for myself is today, losing its luster - so I might as well try to jot down what I can remember -

In Southern California, there are people. A lot of them. All attached to some type of device that transmits IMPORTANT relayed messages to their brain. Sometimes these PEOPLE fill up their tiny seconds with their IMPORTANT blabby-crap and sometimes forget to do things like say, HELLO, THANK YOU, EXCUSE ME, YOU'RE WELCOME, YES, NO, JUNIOR-DON'T-RUN-OUT-INTO TRAFFIC, etc. They also forget to drive faster, slower, at all and usually with any consideration towards the other millions of other dumb-dumby, spinning people driving out on the streets also. Sometimes their cars mirror the slow, congealing drips of mollasses inside their driver's skulls. Sometimes I point at these people while they go about their very important coffee retrieval and goods-purchasing daily sprees. Sometimes I don't point because there are a lot of bigger dinosaurs in this Pangeaic park of mine and I plan on settling into a nice, bubbly tar pit someday. I don't want anybody to fuck with that. I have plans. Rawrrr.

This is getting too long...

I only went to the mall after dinner to make my girlfriend happy. Her mall is my comic book store, but without the fast food smell, pimply teenagers and fat, sweaty men. Actually, both the mall and comic book stores have these type of people, but at least the mall is more spread out.

At the mall:

Clothing and accessories, when I rarely want them - are very easy for me to find. Not because I'm easy to please, but because my actual size in clothing never, ever actually gets bought by real humans beings because nobody is my size. My sizes are everywhere and always knocked down from a high price to a very, very LOW price. I don't know why they make these sizes. Why make clothes that fit drug-addict or tall Ethiopian builds? Or Ethiopian drug-addict builds?

I get bored easily if I'm in a store that doesn't interest me. I can't sit down and be patient. I whine a lot and walk and walk around the perimeter of the usually-a-women's-clothing-store and pretend not to be a gay guy looking at clothes.

I went to an Apple Store for my first time and was completely horrified and amazed at existence of the whole poopy thing. Welcome to the future, Gramps.

The bathrooms looked better than some L.A. clubs than I've been in. Actually, DUH. Nicer than ANY L.A./Hollywood clubs. (this is the part where friends who don't read this snicker because how often do I go to Hollywood or LA LA?)

2b continued after i read this incredible hulk comic...

Ummm..there were security guards on Segways.

Boring now. The End.

My Little, Itty-Bitty, Sister Wrote This...

identity crisis

So, anyone been through an identity crisis? Not like, "am I cool enough" crisis, or "I'm gonna dye my hair blue and move to San Francisco" crisis, but the "what the fuck am I gonna do with my life" crisis. Cuz, man, let me tell you, I feel OLD. There's nothing wrong with working, granted I have been a tad lazy lately, and I hafta work to be sane, but WORK SUCKS. After being in school and working since freakin 9 years ago, I am tired of all this. The community college wears me down.Don't get me wrong, I gotta learnded what them smart folk know too. But not only does it suck to go to school after a nine hour day or going into a bazillion hour day, you hafta deal with the "oh, you graduated from westwood? So did I! I graduated in 2005, when did you?" A fuckin billion years ago. And people say to me, "oh sindy, you are still so young" and , "you have all the time in the world and at least you are going". SCREW that. I need MONEY man. So , that's my first bloggy type gripe. I am sick of the back and forth, the whining and the procrastination, I am gonna get my shit done. Cuz god knows I can't be slingin the dog poo and vomit and whoring the chihuahua clothes line the rest of my life. amen.

Fields And Streams Of Unconsciousness…

Regardless of how much one whines and complains about the lack of things that make you happy – sometimes absence does make the heart grow fonder. Sometimes one grows fonder of having one less responsibility. Sometimes one is glad to not throw out withered word-petals at a funeral procession that’s already passed you by.

Your grief hangs over my head like Louisiana humidity.

My concern for you swaddles my heart.

Me?

I wade through the fields and streams of unconsciousness

Not knowing if I should turn back
or continue to plod forward

Me?

My concern for you
replaces my usual unspoken words
with the ones
I say out loud to you
everyday

I Am Robert Downey Jr. On Robert Downey Jr.

Dear Courtney,

I abhor The Market. I HEART fresh produce. I HATE The Beer Garden. I like seeing random pig-fuckers meandering about. I HATE that somebody scratched the holy fuck out of the birthday CD that you gave me. I lubby wubby wub the fact that Huey Lewis And The News is playing on my iTunes right now. I'm sheepish of the fact that sometimes I get so drunk that I buy thirty dollars worth of songs off of The iTunes music store and don't remember it the next morning. I DO like avacadoes(sp?), though - I'll stop by on Thursday then, Yesh?

If I was a character on LOST, I'd be the skinny-getting-fatter, Asian/Irish guy writing about being stuck on an island with a bunch of retards, and wishing that he could rape Kate, Claire and Locke.

P.S. You forgot your sunglasses at my house and I drank them.

k

If Somebody Tells You That You Seem A Lot Younger Than You Are...

They're really calling you immature.

I am backwards/infantile/H.G. Wells' Time Machine-style -

I am the vanishing dot on old black and white tv screens.

I am an inoperable CANCER, drunk on Vodka/Redbulls.

Me See You Later...Me Thinks...Me Go Write On Projects. Me No Pay Attention To Distracting Blog.

Me No Pay Attention To Distracting Blog. Me Go Write On Projects. Me See You Later...Me Thinks...

Go see Joel Beers' new play at Stages Theater in The O.C.

An excerpt from The Don Juan Project
(used with no permission)

ELVIRA
No--I’ll grant you, that’s foul: well played lad. But, no, this rank bouquet is far more pungent. Smells like sweat, tears, blood and longing, accented by strangled desperation and stunted ambition laced with a sticky film of broken, useless dreams.

SGANARELLE
Oh, that! That’s poetry!

POET MODERATOR
Ok, Roger, thank’s for kicking off our monthly drunken poet symposium with that wonderfully concise, reading. I want to welcome everyone tonight to our monthly poetry clambake where we all have the opportunity to share, through words, the joy and tribulations of what, our dear late founder Kevynn Malone, once described as our lifelong relationship...with alcohol. Though friends hurt you, lovers betray you, leaders lie to you and your pets die, there’s always one relationship we can count on in this world.

Snapping of fingers.

The Don Juan Project

Nick Nolte Vs. Dracula...

Today looks weird. Everything’s all whited-out and pasty-looking.
And it just feels weird. Like how airport lobbys or auto mechanic shops feel. I need to go somewhere after work and hopefully whatever’s following me will lose my scent. But where should I go?

The movies? Fuck the movies. I never go to the movies.
I just went to the mall right before Easter, and it made me remember why I hadn’t been there in like, two years.
I could go for a walk but I walk all the time, so screw it. I walk like Phil Jackson anyway. No. I walk like Tiny Tim but with two gimpy legs. The cute Tiny Tim who blesses Mr. Scrooge. Not the gay, dead one that got married on The Tonight Show.
There are no real comic book stores, no arcades, no toy stores, and beers are too expensive at strip clubs. No fun.
I’m afraid to take my car too far away from home – she’s a very fragile girl and is made of balsa wood and her insides are put together with magic beans.

Seriously, I can’t tell what’s happening, but it’s happening – I might just wake up all of the sudden and have to repeat this day over again, so I guess I might as well enjoy the weirdness for now and not be such a creep creeped out by creepiness. I should go home and read a book. Good, old-fashioned words on paper by one’s self.

Yes.

Please Don't Ever Let Me Publish...

Was just at a big, corporate bookstore getting a birthday present for a friend. There was a very bored-looking man sitting behind a table full of books written by himself. He wrote a book on The Angels. Not the kind with wings, but the team that hit a ball with a bat. He checked the time on his cell phone. I felt sorry for him. I kind of wanted to talk to him out of pity, but his fucking book was about baseball - what the hell am I supposed to do? I couldn't even properly feign interest in the subject matter. Nothing for me to ask, nothing for me to roll with, so I bought my book and left the store. I was thinking about how crappy the guy must've felt - I mean, nobody was paying attention to him. When I got home I realized that the friend of mine that I had just spent thirty dollars on, on an Orson Scott Card book was a HUGE Angels fan and probably would've LOVED a signed book by the author. I'll tell my friend this later. He'll ask me whom the author was. I'll tell him I don't remember. I kind of suck. There's a moral in here somewhere. Oh, wait - maybe that was it...

I Would Look A Lot Cooler If John Cassaday Drew Me...

God, fucking somebody stop this phone from ringing...

Bubba-Ho-Tep...

I work next door to a plastic surgery center and have not seen one person come in or out of there. Either the plastic surgeon sucks really bad or they kill everybody who sneaks in. Maybe I'll go snooping around their trash and then I can make soap out of human fat like Tyler Durden did in Fight Club.

I'm Too Lazy To Kill You...

I ordered a pizza.
Got home.
It looked and smelled great.
Like arcades or Chucky Cheese.
but it tasted a little...off.

They forgot to put cheese on a fucking pizza!

And then who was too lazy to go back because they were on break and didn't want to wait for another thirty minutes?

And who thought that it was pointless to go back because nobody there spoke english and maybe I might've said something that was translated to "please, don't give any of that horrible cheese."

And who now thinks that's probably why the pizza was only $7.99 with three toppings.

I ended up shredding cheese on it myself. This helped. No, it didn't.

This whole experience was obviously painful enough to warrant writing about it.

My head hurts.

Her Name Was Paulie - She Lived In A Tree...

Jesus Chocolate...

The body of Christ.
The body of Bunny.

Same thing.

JLA Boom Tube...

Today I'd been feeling a little bit under the weather so after getting home from work I bought a bag of oranges and a 3 month-old South Korean baby. So far, I've finished two of the oranges and am almost completely done drinking the blood of the baby.

This, combined with my uncanny recuperative powers, should put me in tip-top shape by tomorrow morning.

Fat Free Judas...

Sometimes days just start out totally sucky.
There is no guarantee that the day will get any better.
There is only the guarantee that drinking will make all of this go away by midnight.