Friday, October 11, 2002
Too much dramarama this morning. I don't know why I let myself get so worked up. You really should have read the Chuck Woolery version. Maybe next time someone fucks with me I will put up the chuck woolery version. I mean Chuck Woolery's been going with it for years, and look at him, he's fuckin famous. He is big time huge and hugely big-time. In fact, I think I saw that guy that I always confuse him with and Ben Stein doing game show bloopers the other day. Now THAT is fuckin big-time. When the guy that bites you and makes a career out of it is the idol of millions, well think about it, you must have a giant bathtub.
So. Well. Uh-huh. What are you trying to say alfred? I'm trying to say that time is running out on this day and I don't want visitors over the 3-day weekend to see on their first impression me going off like a fire hydrant. Fire hydrants are fun for summer play in the streets of brooklyn, but when they spit fire and brimstone and every other word is one that santa docks you toys for, then that kine is no good.
Shabba shabba shabba shabba. This is probably the worst day of blogging I have ever done. I'm almost thinking about revoking my own backstage blogger pass. If you're not from the blogosphere, don't come around the blogosphere, cuz you wouldn't understand the blogosphere. Stay the fuck out of the blogosphere. (swooshing sound of a baseball bat swinging)
I seriously had on my spiked collar and leather jacket this morning and I was ready to rumble like Frank Stallone. I mean, dang, there was a lot of hardcore, very serious elements, to my ensemble. I had thrown my patent leather gucci shoes up against the wall in a rage and my bowtie was crooked. If you hear, then you know. If you know then you tell. If you tell then you're dead. If you're dead then your bmw key chain is mine, all mine, all mine.
Some politico blogger, bill dennis, wrote some player-hatin entry about how he can't understand why dawn olsen was number whatever on blogdex. Basically he was pissing and moaning about why she is so popular. (even though he has her on his blogroll?) This guy couldn't understand Dawn's popularity, so he wanted to bitch about it. Maybe mommy didn't make his favorite flapjacks for breakfast or something.
So fine, piss and moan. So then in the comments section, this guy Ricky West explains his theory that it's all because of my little entry wherein I linked dawn like 10 times in one post. According to him I was "whoring to get a link" and I really "need to get a life." He then goes on to talk some more shit about Dawn, something about storylines on Monday nite Raw are more interesting than her writing.
OK fine, I'm a whore. But ya know whut? I wrote that post because that was what was on my mind at the moment. That's what I do here. I thought it would be funny and have the added bonus of getting the attention of one of my favorite bloggers. Did it? Yeah it did. Will I do something like that again? Probably not. I specifically did it for Dawn because based on her humor and her personality, I thought she'd get a kick out of it. I have NEVER before or since posted anything strictly to get someone's attention, or "whored" for links as this guy puts it.
Anyway, I tried, I really tried to read mr. Ricky West's site and dig up some dirt to say about him, but I was asleep after like the second paragraph. He's some politics guy and I didn't even get as far as figuring out what side of the fence he's on. I can see why he's bitter at people that are actually interesting. By the time I woke up I was kind of mellowing out over the whole thing, so whatever. I'll be sitting on the beach with a mai-tai while homey watches c-span reruns all weekend, so his punishment is complete as far as I'm concerned.
It all really comes down to two boring ass "topical" bloggers that are jealous of Dawn and I got caught in the middle of it. Whatever.
That's it, I'm over it.
BTW - this post was SERIOUSLY toned down from it's original form, which included the following words: bitch, gimp, men's room, fuckhead, Chuck Woolery, and Napoleon.
the very cool news is that meesh interviewed the hosemonster and you can check it out here. anyone who reads this blog more than just checking on certain high profile links i may have and making spot judgments will know that these are two of my favorite bloggers in the land and them coming together is like superman and wonder woman and a bed of roses with bowls of ambrosia overflowing left and right. or something like that.
ok the news that pisses me the fuk off. some fukn pile of fukn shit in the blogosphere is talking shit and calling me a hit-whore and saying i need to get a life. if you're really interested and can't wait for my official response then go explore through my recent referral logs (hint: yaccs). i've never heard or read or fukn knew this fuck existed but i'm gonna do a little research and roast the living fuck out of him later on.
but meantime as i DO have a fukn life you pile of shit, i've got work to do. fukn piece of goddamm fukn shit you don't know who you're fukin with you goddamm pile of shit. i am not some little fanboy and i have my dark side that has not come out in the blogosphere yet but you unleashed it mister high and mighty assfuck, whoever the fuck you are.
ok i've got work to do.
Thursday, October 10, 2002
yeah, that's what she said. right after we got off the expressway. i was like, hello, my name is eduardo, not johnny, and your name is francine muthafukin constantine and who in the name of juan gonzalez' malfunctioning donger is wendy? and if you say she's down with up with people, you're gonna get a rocket pop where the sun don't shine.
so then what does my dog do? he takes a phat dump right on my overalls, which I had left in the corner by the washing machine. all ready to go play hee haw badminton and everything. goddamm lassie fuck. that dog is gonna be the green light special at k-mart's deli cart one of these days. just fukn watch.
and another thing, what's with those shoes? who are you trying to kid? i mean, new salsa rio doritos are one thing but an onion sack in a barnacle barn is another story ALL together. if that doesn't convince you to lose those earrings, I don't think anything will. and nothing won't. and it never ever does.
so then the old drunk wino, the last one on the bus, got down to the paragraph that no one else had had the patience or time to discover, lost in the jungle of words. with wild turkey fuming out of his nostrils, he read the sentence that the author had meant for no one to see. the sole expression that could not only save humanity as he'd known it, but possibly cure him of his nagging addictions and his reliance on uncle sam's teat lo all these many years.
before he could really process it, though, he drifted off into a drunken slumber, and with that it was lost in the wind. like a song, heard by no one yet undeniably there, a tree fallen in the woods with not a lumberjack or a granola girl in sight. gone but not forgotten. because every binge has an awakening, except for that final cut, and harry the hobo was NOT going out like that. no thank you.
ok enuff of that, check the show out i'm telling you i dug it. new business. i'm ALMOST done with a book that i was reading when i started this frikken blog, and that being the Malcolm X autobiography. damn, now that is a book. I finished the actual story itself, and i'm reading Alex Haley's epilogue now, which breaks down Malcolm from his perspective. Alex Haley was the guy that basically put together the book from Malcolm's dictations and editing, etcetera. Fukn Malcolm knew, he KNEW, he was gonna get killed, he KNEW he wasn't gonna see that book in print, and he was right. he didn't. he was killed by what may have been black muslim agents of Elijah Muhammed in February of 1965. Gunned down while giving a speech in NYC at a place called the Audobon ballroom.
a fucked up thing is that Malcolm X joined the Muslims when there were maybe 400 members nationwide. When he was booted out, there were something like a million (I'm making that number up off of memory, it was a SHITLOAD though) and Malcolm X was the primary responsiblity for that growth. and they FUCKED him. all out of pride and hate and jealousy and envy, etcetera. and they gunned him down and left his family penniless. Malcolm never had cash, he took a vow of poverty when he joined the nation, they put him up in his house and gave him only the necessary money. and then they tried to boot him out of his house later. and then some fucks firebombed it.
sometimes I wonder what Malcolm would have thought about the status of race relations in the good ol USA today. I mean, on the surface it seems he would have to be pleased at the stark contrast to what it was like in the 60's, but I don't know, there's still a shitload of work to do. and Malcolm had a good expression for the differences between the republicans and the democrats (which in MY view aren't so fukn different nowadays, but that's kind of beside the point), he said that he preferred the republican way of thinking that told him to his face, that he was a piece of shit and they hated him, cuz at least then he knew where he stood, compared to the democrats, the liberals, who smiled and made the black man think they were working for him but then just screwed him behind closed doors. Part of me thinks that Malcolm would see that both the parties do this nowadays, due to political correctness and the whole nine yards, and as much as there is so called equality and less racism, and etcetera, i mean look at the world, there are still a lot of majorly fucked up ghettoes with crime rates higher than probably back in Malcolm X's days as a street hustler. Crack was pumped into these ghettoes in the 80's and it's still wreaking havoc. and whether you like it or not, people are still fukn racists (not as many, I hope at least) but they just don't express their views in mixed company anymore.
I don't know I'm just babbling. I dig these big philosophical and deep holes for myself, and here I am surrounded by a big pit of dirt and twigs and soil and I don't know how to dig my way out. what do you think dear blog readers, am I even making a point? probably not. I guess overall i'm just saying that it sucks that almost 40 years later so much has changed but really, if you claw your way through the bullshit and the smiles and the we are the world mentality that is good, but deceiving, that really, it's all pretty fukn similar to what it was back in the day. A very small number of rich white men still control a VERY high fuckn percentage of the wealth in this country, and many many of the minorities still are backed up into ghettoes that the system gives them very few means out of. and don't even get me started on the fukn prison system and the racial inequalites therein and the fact that a fukn inmate or convicted felon can't vote in a number of the states in this country. it is FUCKED still. in many ways they are still systematically disenfranchising a large portion of the population, and while it isn't stricly along racial lines, don't fool yourself into thinking that doesn't have anything to do with it.
but keep smiling, all is well. just work through your day, go home and turn on your idiot box, and let the cool calming ultraviolet rays relax your militant mind. let charles in charge help you chuckle away your worries and go through it all again tomorrow.
what now you're ragging on tv as a sedative for the political and revolutionary mind of this nation? but SHIT you fukn hypocrite Keith, you started this blog entry saying how fukn cool a tv show was you watched last night. what the FUCK? well yeah world, maybe i am a hypocrite. maybe i think one thing and do the other sometimes, maybe i just like to get through my day with as little drama as possible and enjoy the cool breezes and island style just like everyone else. doesn't mean I can't spit out what's in the deep caverns of my cranium does it? oh it does mean that? well kiss my ass and deal with it.
Wednesday, October 09, 2002
Mike, you wily dog. Sue that little Timberlake fuck. Sure you don't have a case, I mean I guess you can't copyright high pitched squeals and the moonwalk, but think of the publicity, you need it, man. Invincible was not the big seller you had hoped. Nothing breeds interest like high profile conflict. That and freakish overboard plastic surgery, but you've got that one down.
ok i got work to do. Isn't that surfing dog great on the post below? If the whole rest of the day sucks ass, if your landlord is stalking you for the rent, if your boss chewed you out and called you a worthless pile of inhuman rectal waste, if your orange juice is intensely sour, if your motorcyle won't start and is spitting out dark brown fluid all over your garage, if your hook shot has gone all to shit, just think about that surfing dog, and everything should turn out OK. promise.
Ya know? Fuk it. That isn't even true, and I'm not in the mood. I'm tired. I'm just a wee bit hung over. How fukn old am I? I can't even tank a few brewskies and go to bed at a decent hour and even try my cold shower trick in the morning without STILL feeling like a bucket of steer innards for the first half of the day. 10:43 AM. Almost a sensible hour to head out for my lunch break, voy a la casa which is thankfully very close, and crash out like a baby for a little while.
Wa da wadda wadda bing bang bong. I've decided that I can just write whatever the hell I want, it's my blog after all. Should I talk about how g-dog kicked my ass at basketball yesterday? No, cuz that did NOT happen. Damn I suck sometimes.
Should I talk about how I caught up on about two weeks worth of my Jeopardy desk calendar this morning? Yeah, I should probably do about 85 paragraphs on that, huh? Real interesting.
Should I tell you how I've been reading the wKenShow lately, and how it just might be one of my new favorite sites that I never read before, but thousands if not millions of others that aren't uninformed like me have probably been digging it for quite some time? Does a question mark go at the end of that sentence? Was that even a fukn sentence? Does it matter?
Does anyone know what the hell is going on with blogger/blogspot or whoever is responsible for my archives not coming up since 9/14? I've checked a few other sites and it seems to be a little blogosphere phenomenon. I tried what blogger tells you in their help department but it didn't do jack shit, and I'm sure there's people out there crying right now cuz they can't read whatever bullshit I posted last week. Could someone that actually knows something or anything about computers besides how to type on the keyboard and watch magic words show up on the screen please look into this for me and the community at large? There's a fred flinstone vitamin in it for you.
Yeah now that's real fukn interesting for the reader at large. good job, Alfred, you frikken moron. Why don't you blog about your grocery list while you're at it. Putz.
Yes indeed. Weighty matters going on here at ultrablognetic today. Weighty, weighty, weighty and very fukn important and fascinating stuff that if you had somehow missed and not read you probably would have spontaneously combusted from the anticipation and ignorance.
Ya know? I feel better now. i think blogging is good for the body and the soul. and it'll kick that dandruff right the fuck off of your scalp there bucko. I used to be a pimple faced greasy haired loser, but ever since I started this blog, it's like I'm Thor Heyerdahl and my computer is the kon-tiki and the internet is like, the ocean. damn that's deep.
Tuesday, October 08, 2002
Each time I kind of backed off because I thought I'd be biting two of my favorite bloggers too hard. The first being the "reverend" Tony Pierce, my blogging inspiration and spiritual papa of this here blog, and the second being Dawn Olsen, aka June Cleaver on three tabs of acid and a sudafed IV. They put up song lyrics every once in a while, and I knew they didn't like have it copyrighted or anything, but I don't know, I didn't know if I was, how do I put this? Down enough. Like when you're down with OPP, I didn't know if I was down with LOB (lyrics on blog). I knew I was down with the LBC, the GPC, the ABC, and even the DOT, but as for the LOB, I felt insecure, unsure of myself. If you backed me into a corner with a jar of mayonnaise and a butter knife, I might have even admitted I was scared.
Anyway, why the change of heart, Berkeley Joe? Well today, as some of you, (ok a shitload of you) may be aware, I got two PHAT links from those same two dignified blogging luminaries. I am speechless and flattered and more than a little constipated by the whole thing, so I'm going to let the late great Brad Nowell kick it off for me, with the lyrics to the song that has been "that song that I always want to hear and blast as loud as humanly fucking possible" for roughly the last week and a half. Maybe if you guys start thinking about Brad, he'll stop keeping me up during those nights that Randy Rhoads is busy with his bingo club.
Oh, and as promised, once I confirmed that I actually was truly linked on Up Yours, I stripped naked and painted myself golden and blue and impaled my head with the bears skull that hangs over my boss's desk and ran up and down the gravel hill that sits right outside my office. The secretaries, the foreman, the jugglers, and even the forklift drivers did the wave as I mooned the assembled crowd with the initials D and O on my respective cheeks. The Dogpound showed up with a shockstick and a choke chain and I was duly taken into custody and charged with indecent exposure and food spoilage but ya know? It was worth it.
Okey dokey? Okey dokey.
Same In The End
Down in Mississippi where the sun beats down from the sky
They give it up but they never ask why
Daddy was a rolling, rolling stone he rolled away one day
and he never came home
It ain't hard to understand this ain't hitler's master plan
What it takes to be a man in my mind and in my brain
I roll it over like a steamin' freight train
It ain't hard to ascertain
You only see what you want to believe
When you light in the back with those tricks up your sleeve
That don't mean I can't hang
But the day that I die will be the day I shut my mouth
And put down my guitar
Sunday morning hold church down at the bar
Get down on my knees and start to pray
Pray my itchy rash will go away
Back up y'all it ain't me
Kentucky Fried Chicken is all that I see
It's a hellified way to start your day
If I make you cry all night
Me and daddy are gonna have a fist fight
It ain't personal it ain't me
I only hear what you told me to be
I'm a backward ass hillbilly
I'm dick butkiss
You know I lie
I get me an I'm a thief in the dark
I'm a rain machine I'm a triple rectified ass s.o.b
Rec-tite(tm) on my ass
And it makes me itch
I can see for miles and miles and miles
My broken heart makes me smile
In my mind in my brain I go back and go completely insane
It ain't personal
It ain't me
If I make you cry I might be your daddy at the end of the night
Take a load from my big gun
You only see what you want to believe
When you creep from the back
You got tricks up my sleeve
24/7 the devils my best friend
Makes no difference it's all the same in the end
my evidence involves three factors. one is that randy rhoads was a very little known but quite passionate and outspoken california golden bear fan. he wanted to paint his signature guitar golden with paw prints all over, but it kept kicking in ozzy's flashbacks for some reasons, so they had to axe that idea. apparently ozzy had a serious trip involving bears and molasses and depends undergarments a few years before randy's joining the band and anything involving any combination was highly hallucinogenic.
factor # 2 is that if you listen to randy rhoads guitar solo on "suicide solution" on the ozzy/randy tribute album, you've got to have the vinyl, mind you, unless you've got some pretty fukn sophisticated CD equipment, well anyway, run it backwards just at where the solo peaks out and slowly, back and forth, you can make out a "grrrowwlll, grrroowwwlll," which any cal fan will know is the signature rally cry that ucla bit off of us back in the day and still propagate as their own. we're cool with it though cuz satellite schools will do that on occasion.
factor # 3 in the randy rhoads/washington victory connection is the one that really pushed it over the edge for me and had me doing backflips up and down my driveway even more than usual. if you look back on the whole grunge movement that was centered around seattle, you will find a conspicuous absence of randy rhoads whatsoever. some may think that the fact that he was dead had something to do with this, but c'mon, it can't be that simple. how can a whole movement of rock music as important as the one kurt cobain spawned on the muddy banks of the wishkah not have at least been partially inspired by and definitely should have included at least ONE post mortem guitar solo overdub by the legendary master of the original quiet riot? i mean, it was there for the taking. just for one song, how hard would it have been for say, soundgarden, to tell their guitarist to go bang groupies for a couple hours and have the engineer lay over a screaming randy rhoads track over any one of those songs? it would have been the monster hit of the year if not the decade. yet no one did it. think about it. they were blatantly dissing.
so randy was pissed. he was like, ya know, fuck seattle. fuck them and fuck their university and its football team and all it represents. fuck starbucks. fuck microsoft. fuck ichiro and the mariners. fuck the space needle. fuck frasier. fuck sir mix-a-lot. and the perfect way to make them pay was to take away their annual pleasure of bending over what they had come to consider their perennial bitch, the california golden bears. so mr. rhoads used his ghostly powers and transformed his incredible guitar skill into gridiron glory and spread the waves of otherworldy angel dust across the whole cal squad. with randy on their side, they went out and stomped like a bear should. randy knew, that for seattle, there could be no greater punishment, and rectification was sweet and complete and a wonder to behold.
Monday, October 07, 2002
It might have slipped my mind. Or yours. And ya know, it might not happen for another fukn TWENTY-SIX YEARS, so I thought I'd, um, bring it up. And I might, just might, bring it up about twenty thousand more times this week. So I'm sorry to say you will have to deal with it. Or not. It is a fact that cannot be altered, check the scoreboard.
There was other good fun this weekend. For example, Mrs. P and I saw Red Dragon on Saturday afternoon, seeing as living out here on this island I was denied the opportunity to watch the game on television. Before the movie, we went out for a super good brunch at a little pancake joint called the Koa House in Kaneohe. Mrs. P had strawberry Crepes Suzette, I had a Portuguese sausage, green onion, and cheddar cheese omelette and home fries. Maybe I'm getting old but one of life's simple pleasures is sipping on some hot coffee after a good meal. It always reminds me of how my parents and grandparents used to do it. Plus it makes the booze taste subside a little bit in case you get pulled over on the way home. Not that I was tanking drinks at breakfast mind you, not that I'm adverse to the idea.
Red Dragon was pretty damn good I thought. A nice little spine-tingling freak-out. Spooky and disturbing. I caught myself reflecting on what a part of our pop culture the whole Hannibal Lecter dillio is now. The inevitable scene where Edward Norton has to walk down that hall to face Anthony Hopkins. It's such an established lexicon, is that the right word? Whatever. Good flick, check it out. Ok that's all I'm gonna say - don't want to ruin it for you.
Yesterday morning I dragged myself out of bed around 9 AM to watch the second half of the Raider game. Good, good stuff. The Raiders, as Tony Pierce already mentioned today, look like they need to shore the D up a bit, but other than that, they're looking solid and shouldn't have a tough time against the neutered Rams next weekend. 0-5 teams are fukn dangerous as hell, though, so Raiders, get your practice on this week por favor. Practice makes perfect. Hot water burn baby. All's well that ends well. Too many chefs spoil the soup. Ad nauseam etcetera plethora plexiglass plebeian and all that um stuff.
Also got to check out the Scorpion King last night at the Kailua Windward outdoor festival dillio. Booths of island food, island fun, and island funk. Babies crying, teenagers talking story, old timers chattering about auntie rosie and uncle kimo. Sun, fun, and aquabuns. The Rock even got on stage to introduce the movie with Jeremy "I'm a big fukn goofball" Harris. The Rock said something like, "ok you candyasses" or some shit like that. I was hoping he'd say "Can you smell what the Rock is cooking?" but he didn't. The Rock is here doing some movie called "Helldorado." He just loves to say how he's from Hawaii, even though I think he only lived here for like 3 or 4 years. Oh well, I don't hate the game, so I shouldn't hate the player. Rock on Rock. Scorpion King was pretty good, popcorn flick, cheeseball lines, good fun, if you haven't seen it yet, I'd pop $2 for the rental. Reach in the pocket big spender, it'll be two hours of your life that you don't have to think about how all your stocks are worth about as much as a fukn ant farm now.
Doesn't that cheer you up?
Well my rambling is done and the kettle is whistling so I bid you adieu for now.
This Saturday, I woke up and monkeys were flying out of my asshole. This made me have to urinate so I headed for the bathroom and who should be sitting on my throne but the king himself, Elvis Presley. I was like shit Elvis, you're alive!! And playing ker-plunk in my john, what the fuck? So anyway, we sat down to breakfast, me, Elvis, and Mrs. P. Surprisingly Elvis was not the fat bastard you'd expect, but lean and mean and ready to bust out some tunes, which he did. As soon as he hit the high note on "Hound Dog" though, he crumbled into dust, which was kind of a bitch to clean up, but shit what can you do.
Now all these events of the day had gotten me pretty much prepared for any eventuality, but something happened later that made all that look like a walk in the park with a french poodle named zazu. What would occur would shake my very fiber, make me heartily question the fabric of the universe and the order of the planets' alignment all at once.
Cal beat Washington.
Consider the following. Washington had beaten my beloved Golden Bears in football 19 times in a row, a streak of 26 years. 26 years. 26 years of anger, futility, despair, depression, angst, hatred, rage, alcoholism and dementia. 26 years and 26,000 tears. All eviscerated and evaporated in the most complete and excellent game ever played by Kyle Boller, QB for the more golden than ever bears of Berkeley, CA and former high school classmate of the Hosemonster. And even more insanely beautiful, the deed was done in Seattle, home of evil coffee and computer warlords who think they fukn run everything and suck ass even though I'm secretly jealous and thirsty.
The curse has been lifted. Not only that, but we also busted Washington's 17 game home winning streak up like a Tuscaloosa Alabama homecoming queen's cherry on prom night. That thing was obliterated. History.
Oh yeah and the Raiders won too. Only undefeated team left. Raider Nation 2002. Kiss the ring.
After I heard the news, I thought what a shame it was that the king had missed it. I did a jig all through the house and hummed "Don't be Cruel" and offered up a silent prayer that the dead might rest and that everyone in Seattle could be just as depressed if only for one day as I was happy because ding dong the king IS dead, and long may he reign. FUK YEAH GO BEARS. Ok now if you could go back to your shearing sheds, we've gotta get 68 sheeps shorn by lunch time you lazy bastards.